Yancie drove into the vast garages of the Addison Kirk Group and exchanged her uniform jacket and neat shoes for a pair of Wellingtons and an over-large over-all.
The men she worked with were getting more and more used to seeing her about the place. But even though-as she unreeled the water hose prior to tackling the wheel arches on yesterday's Mercedes-she knew she must look a sketch in her present outfit it still didn't prevent one courageous colleague from commenting, `You still look terrific even in that get-up!'
She had no wish to be thought stand-offish. `You reckon?' she answered.
'There's no substitute for style-and you've got it, plus,' he stated, and looked so serious, she had to laugh-which caused him to ask her for a date.
Her laugh faded. `I never mix business with pleasure,' she replied, and turned away to concentrate on turning the water on.
She was happily absorbed in her task when Wilf Fisher, one of the mechanics and a family man, came over to thank her for going out of her way to drop a spare electric kettle off to his mother yesterday.
'It was a pleasure,' she assured him, though it had been a fifty-mile round trip on which she headed as soon as she'd seen Mr Clements safely to his destination.
'I couldn't have got it to her before tomorrow otherwise,' he explained again. `And, well, quite honestly, the wife does get a little bit fed up with me having to drive up there to sort the old dear out all the time.'
Yancie sympathised; she knew all about mothers and their urgent summonses. `Think nothing of it,' she smiled. `Any time.'
Wilf went on his way, clearly feeling better for her offer of `Any time', and Yancie, her smile fading, fell to thinking how, if she hadn't been where she shouldn't yesterday, then she wouldn't have had that run-in-very nearly literally-with Mr Aston Martin.
She owned that the near calamity had truly unnerved her. For all she had made light of it to Fennia, and to Astra too when she had come home, Yancie had not been able to get to sleep last night for thinking about it. She had so nearly caused a very serious accident. And, to make matters worse, when the driver of the other car had followed her to remonstrate with her, what had she done but called him a grumpy old devil and accused him, totally falsely, of being in the wrong lane?
She had been in the wrong, Yancie knew that. Apart from the fact the `grumpy old devil' wasn't old at all-why couldn't she get the memory of his face out of her head? She knew she'd know him again anywhere-not that she would see him again. She must have been in a panic yesterday when she had thought that he'd find out more about her from the car registration number. Records of that nature were difficult to access, weren't they? And, in any case, everything about him had spoken of him being some kind of executive. This morning she doubted he'd have time to bother contacting the police about an accident that had never happened.
Yancie usually had quite a few driving jobs on a Friday. But this Friday, although she caught Kevin Veasey looking over to her several times, he didn't have even one task for her.
She kept busy, however, washing cars, going for sandwiches or running any other errand anyone wanted doing. Then at three o' clock, to her delight, she got the plummiest job of them all. Word had come down, from the head of the whole outfit, no less, that her presence was requested on the top floor at four o'clock.
She had never driven Thomson Wakefield before. Indeed, she had never so much as clapped eyes on him. In fact, having worked for Addison's for three weeks now, she had been beginning to suspect-to the blazes with any sex discrimination law-that old Mr Wakefield would die rather than let some female drive him.
But, not so! Why she thought Thomson Wakefield must be old, she couldn't have said. Probably because it didn't seem likely that someone still wet behind the ears would have the honour of holding his exalted position.
But what was she bothering her head with such thoughts for? He wanted her to drive him-her! Inwardly beaming, Yancie, after her car-washing activities, would have loved to have taken a shower before she presented hersclf on the top floor.
Not to worry, though; she had a fresh shirt in her locker, and a quick freshen-up of her make-up and a comb run through her shoulder length ash-blonde hair, and she'd be as good as new.
It puzzled her when, at half past three, hair combed, fresh lipstick applied, she went and asked Kevin what car she would be driving and he replied he'd had no instructions yet about where she was going. His instructions were that she present herself at four.
'I'll sort a vehicle out when I come back,' she decided. Given the choice, she fancied the Jaguar, but, of course, Mr Wakefield might have his own preference.
Yancie made her way to the top floor with her head filled with speculations on how far afield the chief man might want to be driven. Working overtime never bothered her, so if he had it in mind to be driven up to Scotland that was all right by her-though she'd have to ring either Astra or Fennia to tell them not to expect her home.
All of which was just so much flight of fancy, she smiled to herself as, finding the door she was looking for, she knocked lightly and went in.
'Yancie Dawkins?' enquired the woman in her mid-forties Kevin had told her was Thomas Wakefield's PA.
'That's right,' Yancie answered easily, her upbringing and education making her feel perfectly at ease in any company. `Mr Wakefield is expecting me.'
'If you'd like to take a seat,' Veronica Taylor suggested pleasantly.
Yancie took the seat indicated, and waited. And waited. Four-fifteen came and went-and still she waited. `Does Mr Wakefield know I'm here?' she asked his PA.
'Oh, yes,' his PA answered, her tone as pleasant as ever.
Four-thirty came-and went. Wishing she'd brought a book to read, Yancie wondered if perhaps the great man had been held up on a phone call. For thirty minutes!
Another ten minutes passed, by which time Yancie had gone from feeling completely at ease to feeling just a shade uncomfortable. Okay, so he was a busy man, but Be patient, he's paying you, and you need this job. Hang it all, she loved her job. It wasn't taxing on the brain-but who needed taxing? The freedom the job allowed was limitless. Indeed, it didn't seem like a job of work at all.
Even so, having cautioned herself to be patient, when another few minutes of her having absolutely nothing to do went by, Yancie was considering telling Veronica Taylor to ring down to the garage and let her know when the old man surfaced. Then Yancie heard sounds on the other side of the door she'd assumed connected the two offices-and that reassured her that the old boy hadn't expired while she waited.
She pinned a `Yes, sir' look on her faceit cost nothing-and the door opened. So too did her mouth. More-her jaw dropped. Oh, no! It couldn't be! She didn't believe it! She just didn't believe it.
Horrified, Yancie saw at once that `old' Mr Thomson Wakefield, for this surely must be he, was not old at all! He was tall, dark-haired, had hard grey eyes-and was somewhere in his mid-thirties. She had thought she had never clapped eyes on him before-but she had! Even minus his Aston Martin-she recognised him.
Oh, mother! Yancie stared, wanting to die, at the grim, unsmiling countenance of the man standing there coldly surveying her-a man who clearly had no intention of making things easy for her. She tried hard to sort her brain patterns out, to think up some kind of defence. But what defence was there?
So much for her hiding the firm's logo on her shirt yesterday-a fact he hadn't missed, she was suddenly positive. This man-this man, who'd made it to the top of his treewas, she all at once knew, a man from which little escaped. What he didn't know, she just knew, he troubled to find out.
This man knew, as he'd known yesterday, exactly what her brooch had concealed. Though he hadn't needed to see the Addison Kirk logo; he'd probably recognised the car she had been driving. In all probability he had only very recently-perhaps even the day before-been a passenger in it!
'Mr Wakefield?' she enquired, hoping there was some wonderful mistake and that this man-this man who yesterday, by his swift and skilful reactions, had managed to avoid what would have been an almighty collisionand earned a load of lip from her for his trouble was not, by some miracle, the head of the Addison Kirk Group.
He didn't bother to confirm but, ignoring her completely, instructed his PA, `Hold my calls for five minutes, please.' She had called him a grumpy old devil-it was going to take that long?
He held his office door open for her to go through. Yancie stood up, uncertain whether or not to walk to the other door, and keep on walking. `I'll attend to you later', this man had yesterday threatened-he must have pegged her as employed by the company before he'd even said it. 'Later', Yancie knew, had just arrived-but she wasn't the sort to run away.
CHAPTER TWO
YANCIE crossed into Thomson Wakefield's office. It was large and, as well as having the usual office furnishings, also housed a comfortable-looking sofa, and a couple of easy chairs grouped around a low coffee table.
She had thought his dismissal of her from the company he headed would take seconds; she would have preferred it. But, no. Not the most talkative of men she had ever known, he pointed to a chair on the other side of his large desk.
She took the seat and while he sat facing her so she began to gather her scattered wits.Without question she was to be well and truly carpeted-she guessed few had called the head man a grumpy old devil-apart from all the rest that had gone with it and got away with it. It surprised her that he hadn't just instructed Kevin Veasey to sack her and be done with it.That he hadn't instructed Kevin gave her a ray of hope. She hung onto it. She loved her job. `I suppose you aren't very interested in an apology,' she opened politely when Thomson Wakefield, saying not one word, continued to study her as if she were some strange object on the end of a pin.