Tomorrow's ghost

what she was thinking: that anything in trousers was as much Target for Tonight to Marilyn Francis as Marilyn Francis was for anything in trousers.

Well, that was the trick - since there was no time for a more unobtrusive approach, in order not to be seen she had to be obvious. And there was nothing more unimaginably obvious that the pink, red, blonde, brazen and bra- less Marilyn, with her eyes on all men from sixteen to sixty.

'It's all very well for you - ' Mrs Simmonds began bitterly, and then brightened ' - you won't be here very long...'

'Oh, I don't know about that...' Frances toyed with the idea of touching up Marilyn's lipstick. The trouble was, it would mean looking at her face, and that was not something she particularly enjoyed. '... I quite like it here.'

Mrs Simmonds bristled. 'Mr Cavendish's proper secretary - ' there was a heavy emphasis on the adjective ' - will be back from hospital in a fortnight.'

'There are other jobs that come up. Girls are always leaving, as I should know ... I'm a bit cheesed off with this temping - I think it's time to dig in somewhere comfy, like here.'

The time was just about right to plant the shape of things to come, anyway. 'I hear there's a secretary leaving in Research and Development - ' she winked at Mrs Simmonds ' - where all those groovy scientists are.'

Mrs Simmonds regarded her incredulously. 'You're joking - ?'

Marilyn gazed into space. 'Some of them are quite young. There's one that's got a smashing sports car - I've seen him in the canteen. And he's seen me, too - '

That was true. She'd made sure of that. And groovy Dr Garfield also worked right alongside ungroovy Dr Harrison, who just might be selling out British-American's research and development to the Other Side, what was more.

'Hmm...' Mrs Simmonds' lips were compressed so tightly that she found it hard to speak. 'Well ... you may not find that so easy. They don't take just anyone in R and D, you know. You have to have a security clearance, for a start.'

Marilyn giggled. 'No problem, dearie. I'm absolutely secure.'

And that was also true. With the Security Officer already primed by the Special Branch, Marilyn's translation to the rich pastures of R and D was a fait accompli, whatever the opposition.

'No problem.' But that wasn't the reason which Gary would put into circulation.

'With my qualifications I can push 'em over any time - no problem.' Marilyn fluttered her false eyelashes and decided to examine her lipstick.

'Hmm...' What drove Mrs Simmonds beyond words was the knowledge that Marilyn's shorthand and typing speeds, not to mention her actual secretarial qualifications and efficiency, were as far above reproach as her morals were beneath it.

And it was nettling her more than somewhat, thought Frances, that she also suspected the unspeakable Marilyn was relying on her almost-see-through blouse and three undone buttons as much as 140 words a minute.

'Hmm...' Mrs Simmonds drew a shuddering breath. 'Well, if that's what you want, you won't help yourself by making up to young Gary, I can tell you. He's a proper little chatterbox, that one - and what he says doesn't lose in the telling, either. You know he's already going round, telling everyone that you are - ' Mrs Simmonds clenched her jaws '

- 'hot stuff - do you know that?'

When it was all over, decided Frances, she would pad her expenses and buy Gary a copy of Jack Schaefer's The Canyon, and maybe Howard Fast's The Last Frontier too. Not even the KGB's disinformation experts could have done better.

'He can say what he likes, I don't care.' She rummaged in her bag for the tawdry compact and the Glory Rose lipstick.

'Well, you ought to.' The phone buzzed at Mrs Simmonds' elbow. 'He fancies you.

And you can't possibly fancy him.'

'That'll be the day! He should be so lucky...' Marilyn opened the compact, and Frances examined the ghastly little painted doll's face. There was no accounting for male taste, as she knew by bitter experience. She could only hope that the thing wouldn't drag on so long that Marilyn took over completely, because then she would only let her down in bed, as always.

The phone was still buzzing, unanswered. Which only went to prove that the prospect of a temporary Marilyn converted into a permanent one was as unnerving for Mrs Simmonds as it was for her.

Because it wasn't like Mrs Simmonds to ignore the phone.

'Hadn't you better see who it is?' said Frances without turning from Marilyn's reflection. The eerie fact about that little face was that it no longer belonged to a stranger, it was her face now. A week ago it had been an awful might-have-been; now it was a real face, on the way to becoming a should-have-been.

'The way he looks at you - and not just him, either. I think you're asking for trouble, young lady.'

'I can look after myself.' It's looking at myself that frightens me, thought Frances.

'I've heard that before.' Mrs Simmonds reached for the phone. 'All right, all right!'

She lifted the receiver. 'British-American Computers - ' she began with uncharacteristic abruptness, then caught her breath and shifted into her secretarial purr ' - Mr Henderson's personal assistant, can-I-help-you?'

Frances put the compact back into her bag and picked up her desk diary.

'No - ' said Mrs Simmonds in her severest voice, dropping the 'sir', ' - no, it isn't. I'm afraid you've been put through to the wrong extension.'