A Cold North Wind

1

THE telephone played a gentle tune at Celia’s elbow, letting her know, rather politely, that somebody had dialled her number. She rolled over on the sofa and reached for the handset on the coffee table next to her.

‘Hello,’ she crooned.

‘Hi. Is that Mabel? Mabel Anstruther?’ asked a well modulated, rather sexy male voice.

‘No. You have the wrong number. There’s nobody by that name at this number.’

‘Is this 5556370?’

‘No. But close.’

‘How close?’

‘You hit only one wrong button.’

‘That means you’re not Mabel?’

‘I’m not Mabel.’ Celia laughed.

‘Gosh. I’m sorry to hear it,’ said Sexy Voice. ‘You sound so nice. Can’t you just be Mabel for a short while?’

‘Isn’t that being unfair to Mabel?’ Celia asked, and chuckled her deep, throaty chuckle.

‘Ah, yes. It probably is. Have a nice day.’

Sexy Voice hung up.

‘You, too,’ Celia told the dead line, and wondered why Sexy Voice had hung up so suddenly after she was sure he was beginning to flirt with her. And, dammit, she was beginning to enjoy the attention. It was just the sort of entertainment she needed to lighten yet another lazy, boring day. The afternoon was spent lying in the sun beside the sparkling pool adjoining the patio of her sumptuous two-storey home. Now, there was another long, boring evening of TV to kill the hours until she was tired enough for bed.

Celia reached for the margarita on the table next to the telephone. Condensation had formed diamond-like beads on the glass, and the drink looked good. She took a sip and grimaced.

‘I don’t know why you drink this stuff,’ she chided herself. ‘You don’t even like it.’ She tipped the drink into a flower pot, ignoring whatever it would do to the plant. Yes, she liked a glass of red wine – but it must be a very, very good red – when dining. For the rest of the alcohol range she not only disliked the taste, but also distrusted that fuzzy feeling she got with even a single drink. If she was not sharp, Celia believed, she was not on top of her game – and that could be dangerous.

The phone rang again.

‘Hello.’

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Sexy Voice was on the line. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s me. Wrong number again, I’m afraid...and you’re not Mabel, are you?’

Celia laughed: ‘No, not Mabel. Is that your name? Me?’

‘Ha! No. No, it’s Haldane.’

‘Is that your first name or your surname?’

‘My first name. And what do I call you.’

‘Try Mabel. I could be Mabel if you wanted me to be.’

‘No, that won’t do. There is only one Mabel.’

‘Is she special?’

‘You could say that. I’m trying to find her so I can kill her.’

Celia screamed and dropped the phone, which clattered on the table.

‘Hello. Hello?’ squawked from the phone.

Celia picked it up and placed it to her ear. ‘That was not very nice, Hal. You gave me an awful fright.’

‘And you nearly busted my right ear drum,’ Haldane laughed. ‘Sorry about the fright, but it was my reaction to you not telling me your name.’

‘It’s Veronica,’ Celia lied.

‘Does anyone call you Ronny?’ Hal asked.

‘Only my friends.’

‘Hey, nice talking to you Ronny. I have to go. Maybe I’ll get lucky and dial a wrong number again sometime.’

‘Please do that, Hal. Bye for now.’

Celia replaced the handset slowly. Yes, he did sound nice. And Haldane was a strong name. She tried to picture what he looked like, but her imagination could only recall a few good-looking men she had known over the past couple of years, none of whom she would like to meet again. She sighed and reached for the TV remote. There was nothing to watch that could take interest her.

***

PHILLIP Chisholm replaced the telephone handset in its cradle. He turned to face the two other men in the room who were huddled over recording equipment.

‘Well, did you get it this time?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Perfect. Sorry you had to do it again, but it was necessary,’ said Harry Bateman.

Phillip laughed. ‘Don’t apologise. I quite liked speaking to her. Lovely voice she’s got. Very sexy.’

‘Just like the rest of her.’ Ralph Martens added a wow to his voice and pursed his lips just thinking about Celia. ‘She’s a looker, all right is our Celia Blofield.’

‘B-l-o-w-f-i-e-l-d?’ Phillip spelled out the question.

‘Blofield, without the w,’ Ralph corrected. ‘That’s her real surname, according to all the certificates I was shown, but it’s not the name of the occupier of that house, according to the local directory.’

‘And a looker, I agree,’

‘Indeed.’

‘Well, actually meeting her may be a pleasure I will look forward to one day.’

‘Just stay away from her. We have work for you that doesn’t include you meeting up with Celia in that way,’ said Harry.

Phillip Chisholm threw himself down on the lounge sofa. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Force of habit, Old Man.’ He had given up smoking three months earlier, but he reckoned he would always be a smoker. ‘If I have one cig I will be back to smoking forty a day. I’m like the alcoholic who can’t have a single scotch,’ he would tell people.

It was true, of course, but he was happy he had finally been able to quit. He was particular about his health, and he realised that smoking was robbing him of his fitness. Slowing him down. Dulling the edge. Now he was no longer craving nicotine he had taken himself back to the gym and was working out regularly, putting some definition back into the muscles that rippled over his six-foot frame. His thick shock of black hair no longer smelled of stale smoke, and the ugly yellow stains on the fingers of his big hands had finally disappeared. He looked at his hands, held them steady in front of his eyes and was happy to see that the slight tremble that afflicted him when he was going through nicotine withdrawal had gone. Back to normal, he assured himself.

‘Well, what else do you want me to do?’ Chisholm asked. He looked at the two men. They were in their forties, well-dressed, hovering around their sell-by date, but not too bad looking.

Ralph Martens spoke: ‘You seem to have tracked her down, all right, But now we need to come up with a plan of what to do next.’

‘That would be good,’ Phillip said. ‘Always nice to have a plan.’

2

CELIA sat upright in the chair in front of the desk behind which were the two men and a woman who were to interview her.

‘Good morning, Miss Blofield. Let me introduce us,’ the tall man in the middle started.

I know who you all are, Skinny.

Celia adopted an expression which she hoped indicated that she was giving him her full attention.

‘This is Mrs Joyce Powell, our human resources manager,’ Skinny bowed his head in Powell’s direction. Celia looked at the little woman on whose sharp nose balanced a huge pair of heavy, black-rimmed spectacles. Powell’s thin lips were set in a tight, unsmiling line. Her grey hair was tightly permed.

It needs a blue rinse, Dearie.

Celia acknowledged the woman with a friendly smile.

Skinny turned to the man on his left.

‘And this is Ron Collingwood. Ron is the production manager in charge of all our factories. If you come to work for us you will have to liaise with Mr Collingwood a good deal.’

Ron carried a florid complexion which, when added to his extensive waistline, told of his after-work hobby in which he indulged every afternoon in the Scythe and Sheaf.

‘I am Harry Bateman. General Manager of Armstrong Kitchen Company.’

And a married man.

Celia nodded to him to acknowledge she understood how important he was – or thought he was.

We’ll see, Harry old love.

When Celia was invited for an interview she knew exactly who would be conducting the meeting and what sort of questions she would face. Celia had done her homework and was pleased to see she had been right. Her skirt was just the right length to show off her perfectly formed calves and ankles, but not short enough to anger the woman interviewer. Her blouse modestly covered her impressive 36DDs, and was not drawn too tightly across her chest. The fact of these assets would not be lost on the men interviewers, but the woman could not accuse Celia of flaunting them. She sat up, both feet, in good Italian high heels, together on the carpet. Her brown hair was a neat pageboy, shining but uncomplicated. Not a style that would see her swiping her hair out of her eyes through the working day.

Efficient.

Joyce Batts cleared her throat.

Here it comes. Celia knew the question before Batts opened her mouth.

‘Why do want to work for Armstrong?’

‘I have seen Armstrong’s website,’ Celia told the panel. ‘I know you have twenty-three showrooms and three factories in the United Kingdom. It’s a big company. I am ambitious for myself and for the company which I serve. I think Armstrong is going places and I want to grow with it. ’

‘Oh, there’s certainly room for growth,’ Harry told her enthusiastically. ‘I joined the company only ten years ago as a junior accountant and I am now the managing director.

‘You’re right. We are going places. We’ll have more than fifty showrooms by the end of next year,’ he continued.

Celia listed her qualifications and produced certificates to prove them. BSc Economics. MBA. Chartered Management Accountant.

Impressive.

‘Why did you leave your previous employment?’ It was a question Celia knew had to come and she was prepared for it.

‘I was the accountant but there was no room for the growth I was ambitious for,’ she said. ‘It was a successful company, and while with them I gave them my very best, and I am sure the CEO would be happy to give a reference. His name is Mr Martens. Ralph Martens. I can leave a number for him with the receptionist, if you like.’

‘Thank you, Miss Blofield,’ Skinny Bateman said.

It’s Harry! Stop thinking of him as Skinny! Celia cautioned herself.

The questions continued for another ten minutes, until Harry Bateman brought the interview to a close.

‘We have other candidates to interview, so we will be in touch within a day or two,’ he promised.

‘Thank you very much. You have all been very kind.’

Except you, you wizened old hag. Celia smiled warmly at Mrs Powell.

Celia stood up and turned and walked towards the door. The men watched appreciatively.

In the outer office Celia stopped and rattled off a phone number to the young blonde at the reception desk.

‘It’s the number for Ralph Martens... e-n-s, not i-n-s, at the end of the name. Give it to Mr Bateman, please.’

Over a café latte in a little coffee shop Celia reviewed the interview in her mind. It had gone well, she thought. Especially with Harry Bateman, and his opinion