His Pretend Mistress - Jessica Steele

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at them both but addressed Keith when she said, ‘I thought you’d like to know I didn’t get into trouble when I got in last night.’

      Mallon stared at her, and then smiled. What was more natural? She had let Keith down and Natasha was an old chum. ‘You were out with Keith last night?’ she commented, still feeling a touch uncomfortable, but glad that Keith hadn’t had a totally dull weekend. Though…Suddenly some instinct in Mallon started to quiver. She knew she was feeling uncomfortable, but what the Dickens was Keith looking so uncomfortable about? ‘You’ve been out with Keith on a Sunday before,’ Mallon commented slowly. ‘What was so different about last night?’

      Keith found his shoes worthy of inspection, while Natasha answered, ‘Only the fact that I didn’t go home at all on Saturday night.’

      Something inside Mallon froze. ‘Now that is different.’ Somehow she managed to make her tone light. ‘You went away with Keith?’ she asked, a very personal question she knew, but she needed some answers here.

      Natasha’s eyes sparkled. ‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it, Keith?’ He didn’t answer.

      There was only one other question which, in normal times, Mallon would not have dreamed of asking. ‘Did you sleep together?’ she asked, her light tone gone.

      Natasha looked a shade put out but, possibly because of their past friendship, answered honestly, if a shade coolly, ‘We did. That was rather the whole point of going.’

      Mallon looked at Keith. He did not deny it. ‘We’d better get on with some work.’ She left them and went to her desk. She was deaf to Keith Morgan’s entreaties when he explained he had been so very angry with her for letting him down, but that it was her, Mallon, that he loved.

      Mallon knew then that she was at a crossroads in her life. She no longer wanted to work in the same department with Keith and Natasha. She felt deeply, instinctively, that she should not live with her mother and John Frost when they married, but knew if she insisted on staying on in the flat alone that her mother would be upset. And she had endured more than enough upset already.

      Over the next few days Mallon figured it out. She still wasn’t any happier working with Natasha and Keith—but no one was going to know it. What she needed, Mallon decided, was a clean break, a new job, a…

      Suddenly she had it. The only excuse her mother was likely to accept for her not moving in with her and John would be if she said she had applied for a job in another area.

      Mallon looked at the state of her finances. She wanted to treat her mother to a really lovely outfit to be married in. More genius arrived. How about if she found a live-in job? Brilliant! She could then spend her final month’s salary on something really gorgeous for her mother. And living in, board and lodgings obviously taken care of, she could limp along quite well on any money left over until pay day.

      Mallon got out of Harris Quillian’s bed, musing how she had thought everything through. Then, opting for the job advertised for housekeeper, clerical background an advantage, in preference to one for a hotel receptionist because of her lack of training in that area, she had acted. Had she made a mistake! She had still been feeling very much let down by Keith Morgan’s behaviour when, on top of it, she had met that reptile Roland Phillips. Grief, was she ever off men—permanently!

      Mallon went to one of the bedroom windows and stared out. The rain had stopped, thank goodness. If it stayed dry perhaps the roofers could come and take a look at…Harris Quillian had been kind, she suddenly found herself thinking. When she came to think about it, more than kind. Her mother would have been overwrought had Harris given her a lift to her mother’s new home.

      She had a lot to thank him for, Mallon knew. Not least his generosity in giving her all that money. Salary, he’d called it. But he had trusted her not to do a flit at the first opportunity. Though, from his point of view, he could afford to trust her not to run off with the family silver. She turned to look back into the uncarpeted room, and found she was smiling—there was hardly anything worth pinching.

      Mallon decided to investigate the water heating system. She had been weary enough last night and had endured sufficient water on her body from her drenching to think it wouldn’t matter if she went to bed without first showering. But it wouldn’t surprise her to find that brand-new shower in the bathroom was not yet functional.

      It was functional, she discovered, and she had a lovely time standing under the warm-to-hot spray. Harris Quillian thought she had a beautiful face and a superb figure, she found herself idly musing—and abruptly stepped out from the shower. For goodness’ sake—as if she cared!

      Not that there had been anything ‘personal’ in his remarks. She put his comments from her—she was sure he’d had a heavy date last night. No doubt with some luscious sophisticate. He certainly wasn’t the least bit personally interested in the likes of one Mallon Braithwaite. He couldn’t have made it plainer that he wanted the place to himself at weekends. Which, she sighed, unsmiling, couldn’t suit her better.

      She had unlocked the front and rear doors and was investigating the refrigerator, glad to see that Faye Phillips had stocked her brother up with cartons and cartons of the sort of milk that kept for months, when Mallon heard the first of the builders arrive.

      Shortly afterwards there was a knock at the kitchen door. ‘Miss Braithwaite? It’s my firm that’s doing the rebuilding. I’m Bob Miller,’ he introduced himself. ‘Mr Quillian’s been on to us. We had a bit of rain yesterday, didn’t we?’ he understated.

      She took to Bob Miller, a muscly sort of man of about fifty. He didn’t seem to question who she was or why she was there, but just accepted it. ‘You could say that,’ she agreed.

      ‘All right if I come in and take a look at the ceiling that came down yesterday?’

      ‘Of course. Er…’ She remembered Harris’s remark yesterday about keeping an army of builders supplied with tea and coffee. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

      Bob gave her a wide grin. ‘Now that’s the way to start the week,’ he accepted.

      It was a busy week too. Had she at any time wondered what she would do all day, then she had no difficulty in filling those hours. Throughout the week she met Cyril, the carpenter, who as well as doing his other work fitted locks on two bedroom doors and put security catches on all bedroom windows. She also met Charlie, Dean, Baz and Ron, who were excellent with plumbing stonework, and electrics. And Ken, who was something of an intellectual, and who liked working out in the open air. There was Del too, who had a lovely tenor voice, and who sang throughout most of the day. And lastly Kevin, the ‘gofer’.

      It was Kevin who gave her a lift in ‘the van’ when he had to visit the building suppliers in town. ‘Take as long as you like,’ he offered cheerfully as he dropped her off at the supermarket. ‘I’ll be ages.’

      Mallon purchased fresh fruit and vegetables and other provisions, and also bought a newspaper, plus stationery and postage stamps. She studied the situations vacant column when she got back, but there was little there of interest to her. Still, Harris had suggested that the builders would be there for three months, so there was no particular hurry. And anyway, this time, she didn’t want to rush into the first likely job she saw.

      Apart from the bed Harris had promised, several other items of furniture arrived that week. Mallon directed the sofa and one of the padded chairs to the drawing room, which was, as yet, like the bedrooms uncurtained and uncarpeted. The wardrobe, desk and another padded chair were carried up to her room, and, since she more or less lived in the kitchen, she had another easy chair put in there.

      She found that as well as thinking frequently of her mother and John Frost, and trying not to think of the likes of Keith Morgan and Roland Phillips, she thought a good deal of Harris Quillian too.

      Contrary to his comment about her incubating pneumonia, she had not so much as sneezed. In fact, given that she was still having the most ghastly dreams, and had once or twice had to leave her bed to go and sit in the safe haven of the kitchen until she was more at peace, she had never felt

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