Surprise Me(52)

Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.

Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.

‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.

Damn.

And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.

‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.

I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’

That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?

‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’

I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.

At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.

‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of … erotica.’

Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.

‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.

‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.

There’s a bit of a silence.

‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’

Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.

‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.

‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’

‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’

‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.

Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.

‘Shall we begin the meeting?’ I say instead. ‘What exactly do you want to know?’

‘I want to know what the hell you do all day,’ he says pleasantly, and at once I bristle.

‘We run Willoughby House’s administration and fundraising,’ I say with a slight glare.

‘Good. Then you’ll be able to tell me what that is.’

He’s pointing to the Ladder. It’s a wooden library ladder, set against the wall, with boxes of cards on the three steps. As I follow his gaze, I gulp inwardly. I have to admit, the Ladder is idiosyncratic, even by our standards.

‘It’s our Christmas card system,’ I explain. ‘Christmas cards are a big deal for Mrs Kendrick. The top step is for the cards we received last year. The middle step is for this year’s cards, unsigned. The bottom step is for this year’s cards, signed. We each sign five a day.’

‘This is what you spend your days doing?’ He turns from me to Clarissa, who has brought over three cups of coffee and almost jumps in alarm. ‘Signing Christmas cards? In May?’

‘It’s not all we do!’ I say, nettled, as I take my coffee.

‘What about social media, marketing strategy, positioning?’ he suddenly fires at me.

‘Oh,’ I say, caught off-guard. ‘Well. Our social media presence is … subtle.’

‘Subtle?’ he echoes incredulously. ‘That’s what you call it?’

‘Discreet,’ puts in Clarissa.

‘I’ve looked at the website,’ he says flatly. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

‘Ah.’ I try to think of a comeback to this. I was rather hoping he wouldn’t look at the website.