Avalon (21 page)

“That opportunity has passed,” Embries replied firmly. He sat James down in one of the chairs. “Listen to me,” he said, growing solemn. “In two days we must return to London where you will announce your kingship. You will not get an easy ride. To speak plainly, this will be the most difficult and demanding thing you have ever done. The turmoil will be appalling, the outcry horrendous.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“I am serious,” he snapped. “This announcement will set in motion a train of events that cannot be stopped once it has begun. You will need companionship, and you will need understanding; you will need the comfort of a woman. In short, you will need a wife and helpmate to share the burden.”

“You old romantic,” James quipped.

Embries pursed his lips. “I appreciate the fairer sex as much as any man alive,” he replied, “but the marriage I contemplate is a union of far greater essence than you comprehend. Listen” — he pulled out a chair and sat facing James — “once you assume the throne your life will no longer be your own. Everything you do, every move you make, every word you speak will be endlessly debated by the watching world.

“Now, suppose that in a few years’ time you were to announce your intention to marry. That would make headlines on several continents. The whole nation would become embroiled in the decision. Who is this woman? Is she fit to be queen? Why should we accept her? Is she pretty enough? Has she got what it takes? Do we like her?”

“It would still be my decision,” James maintained.

“Of course,” granted Embries, “but think of it from the woman’s point of view. The media would inevitably get involved, and if, for whatever reason, they didn’t approve of your choice, they would propose alternatives. And the people would begin choosing between the candidates on offer. Should you ignore their nominee, your poor queen would forever be reviled and maligned. Her life would become a nightmare.”

The way he said it made James think he was speaking from personal, not to say painful, experience. “You have seen this happen before,” he said.

“I have indeed seen it happen before,” Embries confirmed. “And I do not want it to happen to you. Therefore, I strongly suggest that if you have any thoughts or inclination towards marriage, you must act without delay.” He regarded James hopefully. “Would I be wrong in thinking there was a young woman in your life at the moment?”

It was Cal who answered. “There is,” he said. “Her name is Jenny — Jennifer Evans-Jones.”

James glared at Cal with keen displeasure.

“It’s true,” Cal insisted. “Everyone says you were made for each other, but you’re both too stubborn to admit it.”

“I think I know my own —” James began, faltering to a stop as a miraculous change swept over Embries’ features.

“Jennifer,” he whispered to himself. His serious expression was transformed into one of delight and rapture. He sank back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Of course… of course.”

Both Calum and James stared at him. After a moment, James asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes! Yes, it must be,” he murmured, and James realized he was talking about something else. Then Embries opened his eyes, leaned forward eagerly, and said, “Will Jennifer marry you?”

James frowned, recalling Sunday’s disaster.

“Unfortunately,” Embries continued without waiting for an answer, “there will not be time for a gala wedding. We have but two days, remember. Do you think you can talk her into something, shall we say, a little less grand than she might have imagined?”

“At the moment, I’m not sure I could even talk her into going to lunch with me,” replied James, and suddenly felt very tired. He stood abruptly. “But I’ll give it my undivided attention as soon as I’ve had some sleep.”

“I’ll leave it to you,” said Embries. “Don’t put it off too long.”

Wilfred Collins arrived at the office a good twenty minutes earlier than usual, and was surprised to find the receptionist already at her desk. What is more, she was the wrong one.

“Good morning,” he said genially. “I don’t think I know you.”

“Good morning to you, Mr. Collins,” she replied in a low, dusky voice. He could not help noticing that her voice perfectly matched her radiant auburn hair. “My name is Moira. I’m afraid Emerald is ill today. So I’m filling in for her. The agency sent me.” She smiled, showing a generous mouth and fine white teeth.

“Emerald sick? Oh, dear…” Unaccountably, Collins found himself staring at the young woman, and growing more disconcerted by the moment. “I, um, well… I mean, it isn’t like her at all. Nothing serious, I hope — with Emerald, I mean.”

“I shouldn’t think so — probably just the flu. There’s a lot of it about just now.”

She picked up a pencil and tapped it on the blotter. Her fingernails were long, and her nail polish was dark purple — the color of violets, or a bruise.

He swallowed hard, but found it difficult to take his eyes off the young woman. He felt his hands growing sweaty, and smiled weakly. Aware that he should say something, his mind went blank as his entire stock of weather observations suddenly evaporated.

“Was there something I could do for you, Mr. Collins?” she asked in her smoke-tinged voice, and he instantly felt himself go weak in the knees with desire. Color rushed to his face and he averted his eyes.

He was on the point of panic when the phone on her desk rang. “Ah, yes… indeed, well,” he stammered, “duty calls… duty calls.”

Collins hurried on past the desk to a door at the end of the reception area. He paused to look back at the guest receptionist, and then made his way up the long staircase to his office on the upper floor. As a senior member of the firm, Collins enjoyed a corner room with large sash windows on two sides and a small coal-burning fireplace which he sometimes used.

Owing to his special commission, he had begun taking the precaution of locking his door when he left his office, so he unlocked it now and pushed it open. He then stood on the threshold for a moment, observing his desk and furniture. Only when he had satisfied himself that, yes, everything was exactly as he had left it, did he go in. He closed the door quietly behind him, hung up his coat and hat, and set about unpacking his Gladstone bag.

He worked happily through the morning, nailing down the last remaining details of his special project. From time to time, his colleagues stuck their heads through the door to say good morning or inquire about some arcane detail for articles they were working on, and at 11:30 he attended the monthly editorial meeting. Otherwise, he kept to himself and worked on through to lunch.

At 1:00 precisely, he tidied his desktop, put away the folder containing the official documents he was preparing for his special client, and locked the desk. Picking up the phone, he dialed the number he had been given, spoke briefly to the man who answered, and then hung up. He was reaching into his bag for the small plastic box containing a bacon and cheese sandwich when Philip Hamilton, the sales director, hailed him from his doorway. “I say, Wilfred, fancy a pint and ploughman’s?”

“Well, I don’t know… I brought a sandwich. I thought I might just—”

“Come on, Wilf,” Philip urged, “don’t tell me you’re going to work through lunch again. This special commission of yours is becoming an obsession. Anyway, I need to pick your brain.”

“I suppose—”

“I’ll buy, how’s that?” Philip, a stocky man of middle age, with thick wavy hair and a short brush mustache, approached and took his arm. “The Angel,” he said, steering Collins towards the stairs, “or the Frog and Flagon? The choice is yours.”

“The Angel’s fine,” replied Collins.

“The Angel it is.”

As they descended the stairs Collins straightened his tie in the mirror on the landing. He pressed a hand to his hair and smoothed it down as best he could, wishing he’d thought to bring a comb. Upon reaching the reception area, he looked for Moira, but she was nowhere to be seen. One of the junior assistants was manning the desk instead, and Collins felt a distinct pang of disappointment as he passed by.

They walked down the street and turned the corner onto a busy street; halfway along was the Angel, a sturdy old local with good ale and a decent lunch. While the pub was not trendy enough to be crowded, the loyal attentions of the neighborhood’s secretaries and businessmen kept the kitchen up to scratch.

The two men took the last available table, and Philip went to place their orders, leaving Collins to hold the table. He was idly twirling a pub mat when he saw a pair of long legs in dark stockings emerge from the crowd at the bar. He looked up to see the generous smile and seductive green eyes.

“Moira!” he said, a little too enthusiastically.

“Fancy that,” she said, her tone inviting. “We have the same taste in pubs.”

Remembering his manners, he jumped up. “Sit down, please. We seem to have taken the last table. Won’t you join us?”

“Maybe for a minute,” she replied, pulling out a chair.

She folded one splendid leg over the other and Collins felt his heart leap into his throat. “Ho — how are you getting on, then?” he croaked.

“Splendidly. I must say everyone has been very helpful, and I find the work fascinating.”

“Do you?” he wondered. “My word, how extraordinary!” He laughed aloud. “Most people think it’s boring.”

“Not at all!” she replied vigorously. “Royalty, nobility, all that pomp and circumstance… the stuff of fantasy, really.” She leaned her chin in her palm as she spoke and gazed at him with her deep green eyes as she said, “I’d love to hear more about
your
work on the monarchy.”

“
My
work?” He gulped audibly. “I’m not sure you’d find it very interesting. History and what all,” he said vaguely.

“Don’t be modest,” she cooed. “I find history utterly fascinating. Maybe that isn’t a fashionable thing to say these days, but I’ve always been something of an old-fashioned girl.” Moira smiled again, knowingly. “Life’s too short to be chasing every fad.”

Her tone suggested to Collins a woman who had lived a little, who knew her own mind, and was not shy about asking for what she wanted. “Don’t you think?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Sorry?” said Collins, tearing his eyes from her breasts. “Oh, yes. Life’s too short. I couldn’t agree more.”

“What are we agreeing about then?” asked Philip as he returned to the table clasping two overflowing pint glasses. “Hello, I’m Philip Hamilton. I think I remember you from this morning.”

“Yes, of course,” said Collins, speaking up. “This is Moira. She’s replacing Emerald for a few days.”

“So I hear,” said Philip smoothly. “Can I get you anything? We’ve only just put our order in; I can add to it. What would you like?”

Collins felt a clammy desperation sweep over him. So few truly worthwhile women like Moira in the world, so many Philip Hamiltons on the make… what hope was there for a man like himself?

“Thanks,” answered Moira, getting up, “but I’ve already had my lunch, and I have to dash.” She slid the chair back into place, looking at Collins as she spoke. “I guess I’ll see you back at the office.”

“Yes,” he replied, watching her full red lips, “back at the office.”

The two men watched her walk away, her short black coat allowing them a good look at her long, shapely legs.

“God,” sighed Philip when she had gone, “she’s a stunner, and no mistake. What I couldn’t do with a bit of that.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Hamilton,” snapped Collins.

“Temper, Wilfred?” wondered Philip, raising his glass to his friend. “You do surprise me.”

Feeling he had overstepped himself somewhat, Collins apologized and took a long drink of his ale. “Now then, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

After lunch, Collins once more secluded himself in his office, where he spent several hours correcting copy for the upcoming issue which was due to go to press shortly. Another meeting intervened, and then it was teatime. Consequently, the workday was almost over before he was able to get back to his special project.

Never mind, he told himself, another hour or two would be all he would need to put the project to bed. He worked away happily, putting the final touches on the official report he was preparing. When he finished, he slid the papers into a large cream-colored envelope, sealed it, and walked it down to the mailroom on the first floor; he stayed to watch while the envelope was weighed and stamped and placed in the outgoing bag.

Returning to his office, he gathered up his source materials and placed them in the wall safe where he kept especially valuable papers: client dossiers, the odd priceless document, and precious old books on loan. Next, he turned to tidying his desk, scraping all the loose papers into a heap, which he began to sort for filing.

He heard his colleagues in the corridor as they locked their offices and headed home; one or two of them put their heads through to wish him a good night. Yes, he thought, it
was
a good night.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, he decided to celebrate with a nice hot curry from his neighborhood take-away. He’d pick it up on the way home. That decided, he pulled a large manila file folder from the drawer, and bunged a stack of archive papers into it. He had just begun to fill out the label when he heard someone in the corridor outside his office.

Glancing up, he saw a shape in the frosted glass door. The figure hesitated. “Come in,” he called.

The visitor opened the door and stepped into the room. “I
thought
I didn’t see you leave with the others.”

“Moira,” he said, rising. “I — um, should have thought you’d gone ages ago.”

“I like to put in a full day,” she replied, looking around the office. “What a lovely room. You must have the best office in the building.”

“The managing director might disagree with you,” he replied, “but this suits me.”

“Your view is nice,” she said, walking to the window. She looked out for a moment, and then turned her back to the lights of the city. “They told me you were working on something very hush-hush.”

“Me?” asked Collins. “Why, no. Not at all — that is, not very. Who told you?”