Daddys precious gift, p.8
Daddy's Precious Gift, page 8
“Mr Roberts Senior was a brilliant lawyer and the current Mr Roberts is a brilliant producer, if that is what you mean.”
Missy stood up, suddenly feeling at a disadvantage with Mrs Chisholm standing, and walked over to the small table, refilling her cup to give her standing a purpose.
“So, have you always been a secretary… personal assistant?”
“I have. From the time I left school.”
“I guess you must love it. I think people like us who, kind of instinctively, know what they want to do are very lucky.”
“Oh no, Miss Simpson. You are mistaken. I didn’t start out wanting to be a… secretary.”
Missy almost spilled the milk she was pouring, so surprised was she by the venom with which Mrs Chisholm spat the word ‘secretary’.
“Did you want to do something else?”
When Mrs Chisholm answered, her voice had returned to its usual silky smoothness.
“All children have their silly little dreams, don’t they? Mine was to be an entomologist.”
“Bugs?” Missy asked to make sure she hadn’t misheard.
“Yes, dear, bugs, as you so elegantly put it. They fascinated me as a child. In fact, they still do—I keep some as pets—but my father was very old-fashioned and didn’t believe in girls going to university. He made it clear I would go to secretarial school and work in an office until I married.”
“And that’s how you came to work for Mr Roberts?”
Mrs Chisholm sighed deeply, then straightened her back and held her head up.
“Mr John Roberts was a saint. I was young and on my own and, frankly, not a very good secretary. I was deeply disappointed and very unhappy. Mr Roberts gave me a job and treated me more kindly than anyone ever had before in my life. I decided I would repay him by being the best secretary he could ever have, and I was… I looked after him until he passed away.” Missy thought she caught the merest trembling of Mrs Chisholm’s lip before it was snapped back under control. “Now I do the same thing for Mr Charlie Roberts. I look after him.”
Her eyes bored into Missy who was left in no doubt that last was a warning that Mrs Chisholm was keeping an eye on her.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to it. Mr Roberts should be here any minute. Please, help yourself to some afternoon tea.”
Alone in the room, Missy sat at the table and idly munched on a piece of fruit cake while considering Mrs Chisholm’s revelation. The rather dowdy middle-aged lady, famous for being Charlie Roberts’ gatekeeper, had dreamed of being a scientist—an entomologist, no less—but had been forced into secretarial work by a patriarchal father.
“Ah, Miss Simpson.” Her reverie was interrupted by Charlie bursting through the door. “My apologies for having to delay our meeting. I hope Mrs Chisholm has looked after you.”
Missy leapt to her feet, noting the amused twinkle in Charlie’s warm, brown eyes as he took in the empty coffee mug, the cake in her hand and the crumb on her chin.
“Yes, thank you. That’s fine. Hello.” Missy was babbling and knew it. She put the cake down and held out her hand, then realised it was sticky and grabbed a serviette to wipe it.
“Sit down, Miss Simpson. I didn’t mean to startle you. And, please, finish your cake. I might get myself a coffee, too. Would you like another one?”
“No. No, thank you,” Missy stammered trying to recover herself and work out how she was supposed to behave. She hadn’t known what to expect, but Charlie’s complete lack of acknowledgement of what had occurred between them only a few days ago had thrown her. He had been adamant that their personal relationship would not impinge on their professional one, but Missy hadn’t been able to imagine how that would work. Charlie seemed to be having no such problem.
Setting his coffee on the table, he sat opposite. He stared at her coolly for no more than about five seconds, but it was enough time for Missy to start to squirm and feel her face heating.
“Can I ask you something?” she blurted out, unable to stand the silence.
“Sure. What would you like to know?”
“How did you come up with the name, Cops & Roberts SOUP?”
Charlie laughed. “Kids. They were about six or so when I set up this company. They overhead Maggie and I talking about names. Benny immediately suggested Cops & Roberts. I thought it was so cute and clever, so I agreed. Etty, bless her socks, would have been younger. Four probably. She got it into that delightful but strange head of hers that it should be called SOUP.”
“So you went with both.”
“Indeed, and if people insist on knowing what it stands for I tell them Some Odd and Unusual Productions.” He grinned, and Missy’s heart did a tiny somersault. “And that is a perfect segue into why I asked to meet with you today. I guess you’ve been wondering.”
Missy nodded, then corrected herself. “Yes, D… Ch… Mr Roberts.” She felt herself blush furiously, tried to eat her cake and dropped a piece in her lap. She sensed Charlie’s amusement as she scrabbled around trying to clean it up, but he maintained a straight face and continued.
“I believe I have already mentioned to you that I have seen some of your work and have been very impressed. SOUP has recently taken on a small but, I think, odd and unusual project. You will have heard about the new avant-garde theatre opening in Cathedral Square?”
Missy nodded. And left it at that.
“What about Petra Dalton, the playwright? Have you come across her work yet?”
Missy shook her head. “No. That’s a new name to me.”
“It’s not surprising, really. She’s only had a couple of small pieces staged so far, and they were in colleges. She sent me a copy of her latest work: The Many Moods of Mr Green. It’s quite brilliant, very original, and I think definitely worth taking a chance on. It will only be a short run, eight performances—Wednesday to Saturday, in the two weeks before Christmas. SOUP will back it and promote it, and we’ll see what happens from there. I’m hoping it will create something of a buzz. If I’m right, we will be looking at a longer run in a more prominent theatre in January. We’ve put out some feelers already. All round I’m pretty excited about this little project.”
Missy was staring at him open-mouthed. Her cake forgotten. Breathing all but forgotten. Was this it? The moment her life would change, as the cliché goes. She waited, not daring, not able, to speak.
He smiled, and even in her state of shock it was as though the sun had come out from behind the clouds.
“I thought you might be interested in doing the casting.”
There they were. The magic words. Missy gulped, realised her mouth was dry and licked her lips.
“I’m afraid it’s not the proverbial cast of thousands,” Charlie was continuing. “Only six speaking parts, and two non-speaking who will also double as understudies. I know it’s not a huge job but, if I’m right, and it takes off, it should be good publicity for you.”
Missy’s face was frozen in an idiotic grin.
“You look a bit stunned, Miss Simpson. Or may I call you Missy if we are to work together? Assuming you are interested in the job, that is.”
“Yes!” Missy was startled back into the present. She could not be more interested. “Oh yes, please. I’d love to do it. Thank you so much, Ch… Mr Roberts.”
“Charlie, please.” He grinned. “Except when Mrs Chisholm is around.”
Missy giggled. How could she have ever thought Charlie Roberts was conceited and aloof? Her heart flipped. He was so lovely. She smiled at him, thinking how nice it would be to give him a big hug.
“One thing before we get down to specifics,” he said seriously. “I want to make very clear that I have been planning on offering you this type of opportunity for some time. I have just been waiting for what I thought would be the right project. I think this one is it, and that it has arisen this week is completely coincidental to anything else. Okay?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Missy said, as heat inflamed her cheeks. She had to keep the personal and professional completely separate. Had he read her thoughts?
“Well, that settles it then.” Charlie stood up to signal the meeting was coming to an end. Missy collected her things and followed him to the door. He opened it to reveal Mrs Chisholm, holding a manila envelope, appearing mysteriously as though she’d known the precise time they would come through the door.
“Ah, Mrs Chisholm, you have the envelope for Miss Simpson. Thank you.” Charlie took it from her and handed it to Missy. “You’ll find a copy of the script in here and a contract to have a look at. I’ve organised a small pre-production get-together on Friday night at my house. I’d like you to join us. If you have any questions, we can go through them, and you’ll get a chance to meet some of the others involved, including Petra and Chrissy, the director.”
“Thank you. Yes. Yes, of course I’ll come.”
“Excellent. The details, address and time, are in there, aren’t they?” he asked Mrs Chisholm gesturing to the envelope Missy was now clutching.
“Yes, Mr Roberts.”
“That’s settled then.” Charlie held out his hand, and Missy shook it hoping hers wasn’t still sticky. “We’ll see you Friday night.”
“Yes, thank you.” Missy, wishing she hadn’t sounded so repetitive and had had something clever to say, turned and fled in as dignified a manner as she could.
“Open the champagne, Abby! And unpack your things.”
“What?” Abby Goldfinch, Missy’s twenty-two-year-old receptionist, jumped up, startled as Missy burst into her small dark two-room office thirty minutes later. “Did you win the lottery?”
Missy took hold of her and waltzed them around in small circles. “May as well have done. Charlie Roberts just hired me for a new play he’s producing. It’s not exactly Broadway, but it means we can pay the rent a bit longer. And I can pay you, of course.”
“Oh, Missy. That’s awesome. I’m so happy for you. And I’m glad I don’t have to look for another job. I like this one.”
“Let’s drink to that, shall we?”
Chapter 13
Stifling a yawn, Missy finished off her drink and put down her glass. She’d been sick with excitement about coming tonight for her first time as a bone fide member of a SOUP pre-production team. It was only a small group of seven: herself, Charlie and Audrey, Petra Dalton, Chrissy, the assistant producer, and a marketing manager. After two hours of drinking, nibbling and chatting, Missy was starting to feel quite exhausted. Schmoozing was best done like a drive-by, swoop in, bombard the target with praise and questions requiring very short answers, exchange phone numbers, hug and leave, but she couldn’t do that tonight. She’d had to work hard at sitting still and having proper conversations.
She’d wanted that with Petra, wanted to tell her how much she adored the script and see how closely her ideas of the characters matched their creators. If they were thinking along the same lines, there would be little resistance from Petra to her casting suggestions, otherwise, there could be a more bumpy road ahead. Most importantly, she needed to get some idea of whether Petra was likely to have any objections to Bobo being cast in the title role of Wilderhall Green. As soon as she’d started reading the script, Missy had imagined it was Bobo talking. It was a unique and complex role, unlike anything he’d done previously, but it was the perfect opportunity for him to fully display his talent. She came away from their conversation optimistic that Petra would consider Bobo with an open mind.
That warranted a small drink of private celebration, and she wasn’t worried when Charlie squinted his eyes at her from across the room. She had his permission to drink tonight, but now, two more glasses of champagne and another hour of trying to make small talk later, she was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes off Charlie, and was wishing everyone would go home and leave her alone with him.
Unable to face more socialising, she let herself out the back for some fresh air. It was a beautiful evening, the sky clear, the moon full, and her jacket warm enough to keep out the cool air. She crossed the paved patio and stood at the pool fence, leaning against it and looking up at the nearby dark silhouettes of a clump of large trees. An owl hooted and, no doubt, countless tiny rodent hearts raced as the bodies that housed them froze at the sound of potential death.
“Made your escape, have you? You’re Missy, aren’t you? I met you before, briefly.”
Missy turned, and smiled when she saw Benny. He looked serious but she was glad of the chance to talk with him.
“Oh, hey, Benny. Yes. I’m Missy. I didn’t realise you were home. You stayed well away.”
She bent to pat and fuss over the two dogs that accompanied him everywhere.
“God, yes. All those theatre people. Too boring for words. Oh, hold still,” he said, suddenly more urgently. “Don’t move. You have a spider on you. Don’t panic. I can get it. It won’t hurt you.”
“Keep an eye on it while I walk over to a bush,” Missy said calmly. “Then see if you can swish it off. Or get a leaf or something for it to crawl onto.”
“Can you keep still while I get a leaf?”
“Sure. So long as you keep an eye on it at the same time. I don’t actually want a spider disappearing into my clothing or hair.”
“It’s not moving. Here, I’ve got a big leaf. Hold still. There he is.” Benny showed her the spider now on the leaf before he carefully placed them both in a bush.
“Wow. I’m impressed,” he said when the rescue was completed. “I expected you to have a melt down when I said there was a spider on you.”
“Well, to be honest, I don’t like them walking on my skin, and I don’t like having them in the house. But I can put them outside. I’m not an arachnophobe.”
“My mum was.” Missy heard the catch in Benny’s voice. “She was terrible.” He chuckled softly. “She would have been absolutely hysterical if she’d been you then. Probably would have jumped straight over the fence into the pool.”
“I know how she felt. Believe me. I was exactly like that with praying mantises. Instant hysteria if I even caught a glimpse of one on TV.”
“Was? What happened?”
“I cured myself.”
“Wow. Really? How?”
“I got a book with a big coloured photo of one in it, and left the book lying around at home—closed. Even that was hard to start with, knowing it was there. But I got used to it, so I started picking the book up and holding it. When I was totally comfortable with that, I opened the book to the page the photo was on and left it open, but face down. Then turned it over. Then looked at the picture. Then touched the picture and so on. It took a while, but I don’t get hysterical if I see one any more. Thank goodness. It was awful. I’ve even put one outside when I found it in my house.”
“I’m impressed,” Benny said when she’d finished.
As they’d been talking, they’d walked back to the house.
“I suppose I’d better go in,” Missy said. “It’s probably time to go, and I should say ‘goodbye’ to the others. It was nice meeting you again, Benny, and thanks for saving me from the spider.”
“Oh, there you are.” Charlie came through the back door and stopped. “I thought I’d better come and look for you, but I see Benny is taking care of you.”
Benny had stiffened at the sight of his father and, from the light on the porch, Missy saw his lips curl and his brow lower. She felt a shiver rip through her as he said, “Never mind spiders. He’s the only real danger around here. I’d leave and never come back if I were you.”
He strode off, his dogs running after him, and disappeared around the side of the house.
“Wow,” Missy said through chattering teeth, wrapping her arms around herself as she began shivering.
“Take no notice,” Charlie replied, showing no surprise. “You’re cold.” He lightly brushed his finger across her cheek, causing another wave of shivering, but not from the cold. “I think you should come back inside.”
Missy staggered, the effects of her last glass of champagne reaching her legs and head at the same time. Closing her eyes, she slid her hand up Charlie’s jumper, savouring the hardness of his chest and the warmth of his body heat. Her heart leapt as she felt his arm encircle her waist, and tilted her head up for a kiss.
Smack! His free hand came down hard on her bottom. Clothed as she was, it didn’t hurt her so much as startle her into awareness.
“What was that for?” she demanded angrily.
“Two things,” he said, holding her shoulders and looking into her face. “One, you’re drunk and, two, I thought I had made it quite clear that our relationship—both our relationships—are strictly platonic.”
“You’re horrible, Charlie Roberts. No wonder even your own son doesn’t like you.” Missy’s ears heard her mouth take off but her brain couldn’t stop it. “I’m leaving.”
She tried to stalk off, but Charlie was still holding her. She struggled her shoulders free but he caught her hand.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he replied grimly. “You’re too drunk to drive. I’ll take you home. Have you got your things?”
“Oh, Mr Roberts.” Charlie and Missy both turned to the door as Audrey Chisholm came through. “There you are. I think people are leaving. Would you like me to see them out for you? Did you still want to go through those notes before I leave?” Her voice was pleasant, but not the side-eye she cast in Missy’s direction.
“Oh, thanks, Audrey. I’ll be right in. I have to organise Missy first. She’s had too much to drink and can’t drive. I’ll call her a car.”
“Very well.” Audrey sniffed. “I can’t say I’m surprised. She did seem to be drinking an awful lot, if you ask me. I never saw her without a glass all night.”
“Well, nobody asked you,” Missy snapped rudely. “And everyone can stop fussing. I can get myself home. I’ll be fine. I’ve only had three glasses of champagne, maybe four, all evening.”
Charlie tightened his grip on Missy’s wrist and his other arm closed around her waist holding her firmly against him.
