The Last Letter from Your Lover(59)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“And loose knicker elastic,” muttered someone behind her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing, Miss Parker. Shall we switch it on to Wartime Favorites? Will that make you happy? ‘We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line . . .’” There was another burst of laughter.

“I’ll put it in Mr. Stirling’s office. Perhaps you can ask him what he prefers.”

She heard the mutters of dislike as she crossed the office, and made herself deaf to them. As the company had grown, the standards of the staff had sunk commensurately. Nowadays nobody respected their superiors, the work ethic, or what Mr. Stirling had achieved. Quite frequently she found herself in such a poor humor on her way home that she was at Elephant and Castle before even her crocheting could distract her. Sometimes it felt as if only she and Mr. Stirling—and perhaps Mrs. Kingston from Accounts—understood how to behave.

And the clothes! Dolly birds they called themselves, and it was horribly apt. Primping and preening, vacuous and childish, the girls in the typing pool spent far more time thinking about how they looked, all short skirts and ridiculous eye makeup, than about the letters they were supposed to type. She had had to send back three yesterday afternoon. Misspellings, forgotten date lines, even a “Yours sincerely” where she had clearly stated “Yours faithfully.” When she pointed it out, Sandra had raised her eyes to the ceiling, not caring that Moira saw her.

Moira sighed, tucked the transistor under her arm, and, noting briefly that Mr. Stirling’s office door was rarely shut at lunchtime, pushed on the handle and walked in.

Marie Driscoll was sitting opposite him—and not on the chair that Moira used when she was taking dictation, but on his desk. It was such an astonishing sight that it took her a moment to register that he had stepped back suddenly as she entered.

“Ah, Moira.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stirling. I didn’t know anybody else was in here.” She shot the girl a pointed look. What on earth did she think she was doing? Had everyone gone mad? “I—I’ve brought in this wireless. The girls had it on ridiculously loudly. I thought if they had to explain themselves to you, it might give them pause for thought.”

“I see.” He sat down in his chair.

“I was concerned they might be disturbing you.”

There was a long silence. Marie made no effort to move, just picked at something on her skirt—which ended halfway up her thigh. Moira waited for her to leave.

But Mr. Stirling spoke. “I’m glad you came in. I wanted a private word. Miss Driscoll, could you give us a minute?”

With evident reluctance, the girl lowered her feet to the floor and stalked past Moira, eyeing her as she passed. She wore too much perfume, Moira thought. The door closed behind her, and then it was just the two of them. As she liked it.

Mr. Stirling had made love to her twice more in the months after that first time. Perhaps “made love” was a slight exaggeration: on both occasions he had been very drunk, it was briefer and more functional than it had been the first time, and the following day he had made no reference to it.

Despite her attempts to let him know he would not be rebuffed—the homemade sandwiches she had left on his desk, the especially nice way she had kept her hair—it had not happened again. Still, she had known she was special to him, had relished her private knowledge when her coworkers discussed the boss in the canteen. She understood the strain such duplicity would cause him, and even while she wished things were different, she respected his admirable restraint. On the rare occasions when Jennifer Stirling dropped in, she no longer felt cowed by the woman’s glamour. If you had been wife enough, he would never have needed to turn to me. Mrs. Stirling had never been able to see what she had in front of her.

“Sit down, Moira.”

She perched in a far more decorous manner than the Driscoll girl, arranging her legs carefully, suddenly regretting that she had not worn her red dress. He liked her in it, had said so several times. From outside the office she heard laughter and wondered absently if they’d got hold of another transistor somehow. “I’ll tell those girls to pull themselves together,” she murmured. “I’m sure they must make an awful racket for you.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He was shuffling papers on his desk. When he looked up, he didn’t quite meet her eye. “I’m moving Marie, with immediate effect—”

“Oh, I think that’s a very good—”

“—to be my personal assistant.”

There was a brief silence. Moira tried not to show how much she minded. The workload had gotten heavier, she told herself. It was understandable that he would think a second pair of hands was needed. “But where will she sit?” she asked. “There’s only room for one desk in the outer office.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I suppose you could move Maisie—”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve decided to lighten your workload a little. You’ll be . . . moving to the typing pool.”

She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “The typing pool?”

“I’ve told Payroll you’ll remain on the same salary, so it should be rather a good move for you, Moira. Perhaps give you a bit more of a life outside the office. A little more time to yourself.”

“But I don’t want time to myself.”

“Let’s not make a fuss, now. As I said, you’ll be on the same salary, and you’ll be the most senior of the girls in the pool. I’ll make that quite clear to the others. As you said, they need someone capable to take charge of them.”

“But I don’t understand. . . .” She stood up, her knuckles white on the transistor. Panic rose in her chest. “What have I done wrong? Why would you take my job away from me?”

He looked irritated. “You’ve done nothing wrong. Every organization moves people around once in a while. Times are changing, and I want to freshen things up a bit.”

“Freshen things up?”

“Marie is perfectly capable.”

“Marie Driscoll’s going to be doing my job? But she knows nothing of how the office runs. She doesn’t know the Rhodesian wage system, the telephone numbers, or how to book your air tickets. She doesn’t know the filing system. She spends half her time in the ladies’ room doing her makeup. And she’s late! All the time! Why, twice this week I’ve had to reprimand her. Have you seen the figures on the clocking-in cards?” The words tumbled out of her.