Tomorrow's ghost

Miss Francis relaxed. It was her contact, deliberately asking for Mrs Simmonds'

number in order to establish himself as one of the string of Marilyn Francis's boyfriends.

'Is this a business call?' Mrs Simmonds' voice was like a carving knife.

Frances concentrated on the schedule. Cavendish was actually interviewing two R & D men at 10.30, presumably to brief himself on the sales pitch for the Saudi Arabians at 11.15 tomorrow. It would be advisable to double-check the booking at the Royal County Hotel, and the menu there too -

Pink, red, blonde, brazen, bra-less, but also efficient.

The opportunity for demonstrating the last in front of the R & D men was not to be missed. Perhaps she might even purchase some real coffee out of the petty cash for that 11.15 meeting: the Saudis would not know much about advanced guidance systems, but they would certainly know their coffee . .. And after that it would be an easy day, with consequent opportunities for further voyages of discovery and Marilyn-flaunting within the British-American labyrinth.

Contact was taking rather a long time, but judging from the grave and serious expression on Mrs Simmonds' face he wasn't actually being offensive.

'Oh...' Mrs Simmonds gave her a strange look. 'Yes, of course I will ... It's for you, dear - that switchboard is hopeless... Yes, of course I will, don't worry. I'm putting you through now.' She punched the extension numbers and then turned again to Marilyn, still wearing the serious expression. 'It's your father, dear.'

'My father?' Miss Francis did not have to simulate surprise. It was contact's job to handle all routine communications up to and including Alerts. 'Father' himself would never intervene except in cases of emergency.

Emergency.

Frances grabbed her phone. 'Dad? Is that you?'

'Marilyn love?'

'It's me. Dad. What's the matter?'

'Marilyn love - '

The recognition sign was repetition.

'It's me, Dad. What's the matter? Are you all right?' For once the recognition jargon rang absolutely true.

Emergency.

'It's your mother, love - she's been taken very bad. You must come home at once.'

'What!' Frances piled shock on surprise.

'I'm sorry, love - springing this on you when you've just started your new job ... But she needs you, your mother does. We both need you. You must come home to look after her.'

Sod it! Sod it -

'Home - ?' Frances caught her anger just in time and transformed it into concern.

'Right now?'

'Yes, love. Right this minute. The doctor's coming again this afternoon, and you must be there for him.'

Frances looked at the clock. Home - right this minute was a categorical order which left no room for argument: after all the time and careful planning that had gone into Marilyn Francis, and just when things were shaping up nicely, they were pulling her out and aborting the operation.

'Yes, Dad - of course. I'll leave this minute.'

'There's a good girl. I knew you wouldn't let your old dad down.'

Sod it! thought Frances again. Something had gone wrong somewhere, but it couldn't be anything she'd done, or not done, because at this stage she'd done nothing except be Miss Marilyn Francis, and Miss Francis as yet hadn't gone anywhere near Research and Development.

'I'll get the bus to Morden, Dad. I can get a tube from there.'

'No need to, love. A friend of Tommy's is coming down to collect you - young Mitch.

You've met him, when he was in the army. He'll pick you up at that cafe where Tommy came that time, in about half an hour, say. Okay?'

'Okay, Dad. Don't worry. I'll be there.'

'Goodbye then, love.'

'Goodbye, Dad.'

She replaced the receiver automatically and sat staring at it for a moment. She had wasted a fortnight of her life as Marilyn, but now it was over and done with, and Marilyn was fading away, a gaudy little flower who had blushed unseen and wasted her April Violets and Faberge Babe on Gary's nose. It was enough to make her weep.

'Are you all right, dear?' asked Mrs Simmonds solicitously.

But there was no time for tears: Marilyn Francis could not die just yet. Or rather, she must die as she had lived.

'Yes ... I'm okay.'

Mrs Simmonds reached across and patted her arm. 'Of course you are, dear.'