approaching middle age and who wore a spotted bow tie and a tweed jacket slightly too large for him, was staring at his stubby fingers as if they might somehow count against him. The other man, who couldn't have been more than thirty, was gripping his portfolio with his bony knees and folded hands as though he was either praying or restraining himself. Ellen listened to the awkward silence and the sounds it amplified, the creak of the tweedy man's new shoes as he flexed his toes nervously, a faint heartbeat which was the younger man's left heel drumming on the carpet, the receptionist proclaiming 'Ballyhoo Unlimited' to callers in exactly the tone of a game show hostess enthusing about a prize. Presumably that constant repetition was inaudible wherever Ellen would be working if she got the job. 'That would be our Mr Rutter,' the receptionist was saying now. 'He's in London unexpectedly. Can our Mr Hipkiss help you? What was it concerning? I'm going to ask you to hold for a moment
…' Ellen was still waiting for her to do so when she resumed: 'I'm afraid Mr Hipkiss is tied up just now. Shall I get him to ring you? I'm afraid Mr Fuge and Mr Peacock are in a meeting. I'll tell Mr Hipkiss you rang just as soon as he's free.'
She switched off the call and ducked her head as if challenging her audience to prove that her blonde hair was dyed, and Ellen had to begin her question twice before the receptionist would look up. 'Who did you say – who did you say were in a meeting?'
'The partners except for Mr Rutter. They'll be ready for you any moment now,' the receptionist said with a briskness that suggested faint reproof.
'Mr Fuge and Mr…'
'Peacock. He used to work locally, then he went away until Mr Rutter tempted him back. Why, do you know him?'
Ellen was taking a deep breath when the switchboard buzzed and addressed the receptionist in a small sharp voice. 'They want you now,' the receptionist said. 'I'll take you in.'
Ellen stood up. She could walk straight out of the building and leave Sid Peacock wondering – but she wouldn't let him off that easily; she wanted to see how he would conduct himself. She followed the receptionist down an inner corridor, past a large office where several men in shirt-sleeves were working at drawing-boards, to a conference room.
Two men were seated midway along the extensive heavy table which took up much of the room. One of them, a ruddy man whose waistcoat buttons appeared to be in danger of snapping their threads, came to meet Ellen. 'Mrs Sterling,' he said in a voice thick as a cigar. 'Sorry we kept you waiting. I'm Gordon Fuge, and this is Sidney Peacock.'
So he was Sidney now, Ellen thought, growing tense as Peacock put aside the papers he was scanning and extended a hand to her. His wide face looked worn, his tan was turning purplish with veins. When she gave his hand a single hard shake he peered at her as if confused by her brusqueness and then let his gaze drift over her breasts. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said.
For as long as it took her to sit down she thought he was pretending not to know her. He watched her sit as though that was included in the appraisal to which she was submitting herself. 'Well, Mrs Sterling, can you sell yourself to us?'
Ellen stared at him until he glanced away, at the papers in front of him. She was enjoying his apparent discomfiture when he said 'Don't be afraid to repeat whatever you said in your letter. I haven't had a chance to read it. I'm sitting in for Max Rutter at short notice.'
Unexpectedly and infuriatingly, she couldn't help feeling offended. How dare he forget her after the trouble he'd caused her? He deserved the shock he was going to suffer when he recognised the work in her portfolio. 'Where would you like me to start?' she said with a sweetness she could almost taste.
'Give us some idea of your experience.'
Both he and his colleague were gazing expectantly at her portfolio. She was about to pass it across the table and sit back to watch Sid Peacock's face when Fuge said 'What brought you into this game?'
'Advertising? At art college they were always telling us it was the place to aim for. And it paid decent money, which came in handy when I got married.'
'That's what I like to hear.'
Ellen counted three slowly and silently. 'What do you like to hear, Mr Peacock?'
'A designer who doesn't try to impress us with how much of an artist she is.'
'Oh, I'm only sublime when I'm working on a book.'
'Mrs Sterling illustrates her husband's books,' Fuge explained.
'Should I have heard of him?'
'That depends on the kind of company he'd find himself in,' Ellen said.
'They're children's books, Sidney.'
'Won't mean anything to me, then. It was my wife who wanted kids, so she gets to deal with anything connected with the little treasures. If you and your lord and master produce books instead of children, Mrs Sterling, I reckon you've the right idea.'
'We've produced both.'
'So let's see what you've got to offer us,' Peacock said.
Ellen handed him the portfolio. She didn't feel as detached as she expected; she was uncomfortably aware of her heartbeat and of her suddenly dry mouth. Peacock turned over the first sheets, making a sound in his throat as if he was clearing the way for a comment he then decided not to utter, and she remembered how he would do that when he was milking her and Nathan of ideas. She started, heart thumping, when Fuge said 'Your letter didn't mention where you've worked.'
'No -' Ellen swallowed so as to be able to speak up. 'Noble Publicity.'
'You were there for a while, weren't you, Sidney?'
'I learned the basics there, yes.' Peacock frowned at Ellen and continued leafing through her work. 'When were you there, Mrs Sterling?'
Ellen paused enough to let him turn over two more sheets. 'When you were.'
He didn't look up. He had just uncovered the first of the Broads Best sheets, and she saw the studiedly neutral expression drain from his face. His partner glanced at the picture to see why Peacock was lingering over it, and gave a surprised laugh. 'Why, weren't you involved in that campaign, Sidney? Don't tell me you never met the artist. What are the two of you up to, eh? What's our Sidney been promising you, Mrs Sterling?'
'I'm sure Mr Peacock knows I expect nothing from him,' Ellen said, feeling her cheeks redden, gazing at Peacock to force him to look at her.
But he only spoke to her. 'This is embarrassing. I'm sorry I didn't know you at first, Mrs Sterling. A lot of lunches have flowed under the bridge in what must it be, nearly eleven years?' To his partner he murmured 'I'll bet if all the folk you've worked with in your life walked in here right now there'd be a few you couldn't put a name to.'
'Just the same, I think I'd be insulted if I were Mrs Sterling.'
Peacock met her gaze then. If he dared to say he was sure she wasn't, Ellen thought, she wouldn't be responsible for her reply. 'If I may say so, Mrs Sterling, I think having children has turned you into quite a handsome lady. I hope you'll accept that as my excuse for not recognising you to begin with.'
'It's thoughtful of you to say so.'
'And I hope you'll agree with me that we can both be proud of the Broads Best campaign.'
Ever hopeful, aren't you, Sidney? Not as crude asyou used to be, or at least not in front of witnesses. I don't mean to exclude you from the conversation, Mr Fuge. Let me explain… But now that the moment had come, taking her revenge seemed petty and demeaning, not worth the risk of regretting it later. All she said was 'I won't argue with you.'
'Take a look at these, Gordon,' he said, and passed his colleague the portfolio. 'So have you been keeping your hand in since you left Noble's, Mrs Sterling?'
He was going through the motions of interviewing her, she thought, in case his colleague suspected that something was wrong. She responded automatically, wanting only to be finished with the pretence and outside in the open air. 'Thank you for your time, Mrs Sterling,' he said as Fuge closed the portfolio and folded his hands over his stomach as if he'd just enjoyed a meal. Peacock slid the portfolio across to her and stood up when she did. As Fuge heaved himself to his feet and told her it had been a pleasure, Peacock met her eyes, not quite
