Golden Girl

Golden Girl

By Sheila Claydon

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-0068-8

Kindle 978-0-2286-0069-5

PDF978-0-2286-0070-1

LSI Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0071-8

B&N Print 978-0-2286-0209-5

Amazon Print ISBN 978-0-2286-0072-5

3rd edition (revised)

Copyright 1986 by Sheila Claydon

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

* * *

Dedication

To all those secretaries who kept offices functioning in the 1960s

Chapter One

1964

Lisa paused by her bedroom door. The room looked empty despite its white furniture and the rose-sprigged curtains that exactly matched the dusky pink of the carpet. Without its usual scatter of bottles on the dressing table and a pile of books beside the bed, it proclaimed her imminent departure.

Closing the door gently behind her, she made her way downstairs. Leather suitcases stood by the front door, their newness accentuated by shiny brass buckles and fresh white labels in Perspex holders. Her mother was waiting beside them; a small, frail figure in a grey dress. Lisa repressed a surge of guilt as their eyes met. She knew her mother would miss her but this opportunity to work in London was too good to refuse.

When she had started work with Newton & May, a local company that manufactured and sold skin creams, she had been determined to carve a successful career for herself. As an eighteen-year-old shorthand typist fresh from secretarial college, she had worked hard, and seen her efforts rewarded. Now twenty-three, she was personal assistant to the technical director.

Several months previously Newton & May had been bought out by Genet Mathieu, a much larger company with factories in England and France. A household name on both sides of the Channel, it manufactured skin and hair-care products as well as a small range of cosmetics. Within weeks of the merger her boss had moved to Genet Matthieu’s London office to consolidate the whole manufacturing operation, and had delighted Lisa by asking her to join him.

Her mother had been less pleased. Widowed when Lisa was a teenager, she had come to rely on her daughter’s company and although she rarely interfered with Lisa’s social life, she took pleasure in still having her at home when many of her friends’ children were leaving the nest.

Are you sure you don’t want me to see you off, darling? Mrs. Morgan’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as she opened the door.

Yes Mother. Lisa’s voice was firm as they walked down the neatly bordered front path to the waiting taxi. It would only make you unhappy, so stay here and enjoy the sunshine and remember that I’ll be home to see you again in a few weeks.

Her luggage safely stowed in the trunk, she turned and put her arms around her mother’s thin shoulders and hugged her. Mrs. Morgan clung to her for a moment, her tiny frame fragile and pale beside Lisa’s tall, vivid beauty. Then, with a visible straightening of her back, she drew away and opened the car door. The driver revved the engine impatiently as Lisa climbed in.

You’ll miss the train, luv, he said, his hand pushing the gear lever into place. Realising that he was anxious to be at the station in plenty of time to meet travellers from the incoming train, she smiled apologetically as she blew her mother a final farewell kiss.

Goodbye, she called. I’ll telephone when I arrive.

Goodbye, darling. Take care, and say thank you to Paul. Mrs. Morgan waved a scrap of white handkerchief until the taxi turned the corner, speeding its way towards the station.

* * *

As they drove through the narrow country lanes that led to the centre of the small market town where she had lived all her life, her mother’s last words occupied Lisa’s thoughts. Paul! She hadn’t seen, or even thought about Paul for years.

She had met him when she was a gauche and scrawny schoolgirl, unhappily aware of a blossoming figure that teamed ill with her red ponytail and freckles. Sent to stay with Irene Bartholomew, a family friend, while her mother travelled to London to finalise her late husband’s estate, she had resigned herself to being on her best behaviour. Instead she had discovered that Irene’s son was on a duty visit and, already bored, ready for a diversion. Despite being eight years older than Lisa, he wasn’t at all fazed by having to host a shy teenager for three days, and he had turned her visit into an adventure.

She frowned, her wide amber eyes staring at the swiftly moving countryside. She had thought about Paul for many months after that short meeting, and eagerly relived her memories over and over again in the solitude of her bedroom. The firm pressure of his hand as they walked the country lanes together; the unfamiliarity of his masculine closeness as they sat side by side in a dark cinema; their shared laughter. And then there had been his farewell kiss. Although it had been no more than a mere brushing of his lips across the top of her head as they said goodbye, the memory had remained vivid for many months.

In the throes of a serious crush, she had cherished the postcard he sent her a few weeks later, sleeping with it beneath her pillow until it fell apart, tattered and worn. She had also treated his mother with more than usual cordiality when she called, until eventually other interests occupied her and her childish infatuation faded.

Now, thanks to Irene Bartholomew, she was about to meet him again. Her frown deepened as she remembered her mother’s horror when she first talked of sharing a flat in London.

You can’t just answer a newspaper advertisement, she had protested. You wouldn’t know a thing about the people you were sharing with. Her concern was genuine: a fastidious woman, she couldn’t imagine joining a household of strangers and she didn’t want Lisa to either.

Irene Bartholomew had arrived while they were arguing. Large and well-corseted, she removed gloves from her perfectly manicured hands and patted her hair into place before she offered a solution.

I’ll telephone Paul, she had cut across Lisa’s protestations with a shake of her head. It’s no trouble my dear. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to find you rooms or an apartment near his, and he will be a friendly face as well, until you’ve settled and begun to make your own friends.

Mrs. Morgan was delighted with the suggestion and when the offer of an apartment duly arrived she insisted on paying the first year’s rent. It will give you a chance to establish yourself comfortably, she said, sealing the check into an envelope before Lisa could stop her. Besides I’ll feel much happier knowing that you live close to someone familiar.

You can hardly call Paul familiar, Mother. Lisa laughed, her irritation at being treated like a child giving way to small curls of excitement as she remembered him. She pictured his smiling face with its straight nose and twinkling grey eyes with eager anticipation. That he would find her more interesting than the schoolgirl of several years ago she didn’t doubt.

Lisa knew she was attractive and, like most young woman, enjoyed being on the receiving end of admiring glances. What she wasn’t aware of, however, was the extraordinary magnetism of her vivid beauty. The startling redness of her curling hair had muted to a deep rich copper and her freckles had faded into a clear complexion that complemented the curves of a breathtaking hourglass figure that was completely at odds with her naivety. Still living in her childhood home and continuing to work locally while most of her friends either married or moved away, she remained largely ignorant of the life she was about to experience in the city. This, together with a natural reserve, added a mystique to her smile that was as tantalizing as it was innocent.

We’re here, luv. The taxi driver interrupted her thoughts as the car pulled to a halt outside the pretty redbrick station. Roses climbed over its walls in a riot of yellow and white, while the formal garden frontage, meticulously attended by the station master, gave a splash of color to the hot dusty road.

Other taxis were waiting to pick up the incoming passengers who were beginning to trickle through the iron gateway, and Lisa saw that the London train was already at the platform. She paid the driver with a smile of thanks and, picking up her two heavy suitcases, hurried into the station.

Within minutes she was comfortably settled in a corner seat, her bags hoisted into the overhead rack by a pleasant-faced man in his fifties. She thanked him gratefully, only slightly discomfited by the frankness of his appraisal as he beamed at her through his spectacles. It was a look she was used to because she was one of the very few women who worked in the almost exclusively male atmosphere of Newton & May. Indeed, the managing director, an elderly querulous man with a long unhappy face, positively disapproved of female assistants.

Too much distraction, she had heard him grumble. And they chat too much.

Well, things were going to be very different in London. There secretaries were in high demand and the pace of life far more dynamic. She thrilled with momentary anticipation and then settled herself more comfortably in her seat and opened the book she had brought with her. Although she was soon immersed in a story of romance and intrigue, every now and again she glanced at the scenes flashing past the window. Small houses crowded together beside hot, treeless roads; a playground baked brown by the sun; a group of laughing children waving at the train; and then she was travelling through a grey industrial estate, unrelieved in its grimness. Finally, tall buildings of glass and concrete corralled the train through a network of railway lines, past busy junctions, into the heart of London itself. It shuddered to a noisy halt and Lisa struggled with her luggage, her bespectacled Galahad having left the train several stops previously after a last appreciative glance at her long, slender legs.

Her suitcases finally on the platform, she stood still, unsure of her next move. Her carriage had stopped a long way from the exit and she was overwhelmed by the vastness of the great domed building with its surging crowds and echoing announcements.

She hoped that Paul would meet her. His mother had intimated as much when they last met. I’ve told him your train times so you don’t need to worry, she had said with a bright smile,

I’m not worried, Mrs. Bartholomew, Lisa had retorted, irritated at the implication of helplessness, but now, in the vastness of the busy station, she had to admit that Paul’s presence would be welcome. Then, realizing that even if he was waiting for her, she still had to make her way to the barrier before she could find him, she swung her leather bag across her shoulder and picked up both suitcases.

Long before she reached the exit her arms ached and she had to stop twice to rest her cramped fingers. When she finally stood in front of the ticket inspector he barely glanced at her because he was listening to a loud conversation between two teenage girls. They wore tight, shiny trousers, pointed shoes and too much make-up. Having decided that Paul wasn’t meeting her after all, Lisa spoke to them.

Can you tell me where I can find a porter? she asked, searching for someone like Billy, the man who looked after everyone’s luggage at home. Her words faltered a little as the girls gazed at her uncomprehendingly for a moment before bursting into derisive laughter. The ticket collector joined in as he answered her.

A porter, you’ll be lucky. They’ve all gone off to meet the boat train. Good tips, he added by way of an explanation.

Oh, I see. Thank you. Lisa nodded uncertainly and then set off across the crowded station, a suitcase hanging heavily from either hand. She heard one of the girls mimic her request for a porter in a cruel parody of refinement as she walked away, and for the briefest of moments she wondered if she was going to like city life. Then she squared her shoulders and made her way towards the station forecourt in search of a taxi rank.

Like black ants, they swarmed everywhere, collecting and disgorging passengers at great speed, their hire signs flashing yellow. It took Lisa several minutes to understand that unless she pushed herself forward the other passengers who kept spilling out onto the station steps would keep her permanently stranded.

Piling her suitcases one upon the other on the very edge of the curb, she finally managed to attract the attention of a youthful taxi driver. He ignored a stout executive whose surly frown indicated that he was in a great hurry, and drew to a halt beside Lisa. Pushing her suitcases into the luggage space beside his seat, she gave him the address Paul had sent her.

He leered at her, assessing the curves beneath her dress. Lisa blushed, unused to such