His
Competent Woman
By
Ellen Whyte
Release Date: April 18, 2017
In desperate need for money, Emma
applies for a job with handsome billionaire Curtis West. She's not really
qualified for the job and to make matters worse, she loses her temper during
the interview and fudges her credentials. Can she pull it off or will this end
in tears?
Chapter One Emma: Bad News And
Billionaires
“Ben's a lovely boy,” Miss Maddy
said brightly. “We're so happy to have him.”
“Thank you so much!”
Oh, tell her to quit the chitchat and cut
to the chase!
That’s my inner devil. I’m patient and
cool on the outside, but inside me there’s this little voice that pipes up and
says it how it is. She’s blunt, difficult, and honestly, a bit of a slut. Maybe
it’s the real me, I don’t know. But whoever that little voice really belongs
to, she’s certainly impatient.
While my devil was right, I resisted an
impulse to hurry Miss Maddy along. Ben's schoolteacher was dedicated and
likeable, although somewhat longwinded. Being a teacher is a tough job, and
Miss Maddy prefaced every conversation with endless compliments, as if parents
weren’t capable of tackling reality without a spoonful of sugar.
“Ben’s kind, generous, and very popular.”
“But Ben isn't doing well,” I prompted
her. “Is he naughty in class? Not listening, maybe?”
“He's in my bad books for being too chatty
at least twice a week!” Miss Maddy laughed indulgently. “But that's normal for
a seven-year-old, isn't it?”
Come ooooooooooooooooon!
“You asked me to come and see you,” I
reminded her. “You said it was important?”
When she’d called me, I’d immediately
envisioned broken bones or at the very least gushing blood. Once assured on
both counts, my mind had flown to some hideous disciplinary problem.
Thankfully, Ben didn't seem to be in any trouble.
“Ben's not doing well on his reading.”
Miss Maddy was finally getting to the point. “His writing is poor, too.”
Okay, so my stomach plummeted at that.
“He's young. I thought boys are slower to develop than girls?”
“I think he may be dyslexic,” Miss Maddy
confided. “I'm not a psychologist, Mrs Reed, but he does seem confused about
certain words and letters. I think we should have him tested.”
Now I could barely breathe, either.
“Dyslexic? But that's serious, isn't it?”
“Well, it makes school a bit more of a
challenge, but with support most children cope very well.”
“I’ll make an appointment with the
doctor.”
“I’m afraid that won’t work,” Miss Maddy
said carefully. “Dyslexia isn’t covered.”
Hell, hell, hell!
If it wasn’t covered by the National
Health Service, it meant private doctors. That meant money, and I didn’t have a
bean. “Can you test him?” My voice was totally Minnie Mouse, squeakily hoping
against hope.
“I’m afraid not.” Miss Maddy handed over a
leaflet. “It takes a qualified psychologist. There’s a list here to help you
out.”
“They’re going to be expensive, and I'm
broke!”
“I'm so sorry.” Miss Maddy looked away,
knowing it was bad news. “You're a widow, isn't that so?”
“Yes.” Dear Graham. Gone seven years now.
“He died in Iraq?” Miss Maddy asked
delicately. “Erm, during the war?”
“Actually, he was run over.” It still made
me sad just thinking of it. “It was an accident.”
A stupid, stupid accident. A young man, a
car thief, had made off with an army jeep parked at the Baghdad market. He'd
jumped in, taken off and rocketed into Graham just twenty feet later. Killed
instantly, Graham’s friends assured me afterwards. Graham hadn’t suffered at
all, thank heaven.
The driver had joined him shortly after.
The mob had beaten him so badly that he'd died on the spot. It was no
consolation. I didn't find it a comfort that two families had grieved instead
of one. Still don’t, actually.
“Very tragic,” Miss Maddy said
sympathetically. “Look, there are some charities that help out. It’s all in the
leaflet.”
“Oh, thank god!”
“But it can take months to make an
appointment,” Miss Maddy cautioned me. “And it may not be in Oxford, so you may
want to save for the trip.”
Oh lord, it’s going to take us months, my
inner devil moaned.
Miss Maddy cleared her throat, piling on
bad news, “I'm afraid that if Ben is dyslexic, he will need some support.”
Support. Crap, crap, crap. That meant
specialist training, extra classes, and that meant more bills. My stomach
pitched and rolled with fright. As if I weren’t already struggling to make ends
meet.
Parenting Ben on my own made working a
regular job extremely challenging. Few businesses tolerate staff starting at
nine a.m. and dashing off at three p.m.—never mind sick days and school
holidays.
I hadn’t been able to find a decent job,
full time or part time, either. After applying to hundreds of companies, I’d
turned to the gig economy. To my horror, I discovered that meant forking out
for massively expensive babysitters at unreasonable hours. A zero-hours contract
at Tesco had actually cost me money at the end of the month, with all my salary
and some of my last remaining savings going to sitters.
Now I was just shattered at the thought of
the months ahead. A psychologist would cost a bomb, but there was nothing left
to sell. The car had gone first, then the antique clock that had been my
grandmother's, and finally the 78s, the vintage records that had been Graham's
treasures from his grandfather.
All I had left of value was my wedding
ring, an antique Cartier that I’d taken off and shoved into my pants drawer
because two of the diamond chips had fallen out.
Oh god, do we have to part with it? It’s
all we have left of him!
Just the thought made me feel like
weeping, but I had to pull myself together. Ben’s future was more important.
“What will testing cost?” I asked Miss
Maddy fearfully.
“Well, there's the assessment. Last year
we had little Siti Menon tested, and I think her mum said it set her back—”
Miss Maddy mentioned a figure that made me reel.
“If he is, will he need special lessons?”
I was praying she’d say not. “Or a special school?”
“We can help,” Miss Maddy assured me.
For a second I breathed again. If the
school could pitch in, maybe we’d be okay. I was uncomfortably aware of being a
burden, a scrounger on state benefits.
Maybe I could help, volunteer for something.
My spirits rose a little, but then Miss
Maddy whacked me right back down. “But if Ben’s diagnosed, there may be extras
like a laptop and special software. Tutoring in coping techniques can sometimes
help, too.”
She rummaged in her desk. “Let me see
about prices. I had a list here from a chat group the other day. I think
tutoring classes are charged by the half hour and that they tend to charge
about—”
By the time she was done, I felt sick.
Even selling my ring wouldn’t raise enough cash.
“But it's all worth it,” Miss Maddy
finished. “It really does work.” Then she put the boot in. “Without
intervention, he'll fall more and more behind.”
“Can the school help with a grant for
testing?” I would crawl through broken glass if they’d help. Sackcloth, ashes,
the lot.
Miss Maddy just shrugged helplessly. “I’m
so sorry.”
“Or maybe if he needs it, with tutoring?”
That got me another helpless shrug.
I sat in my chair, shell-shocked. I knew
that Ben would not get any more attention. It wasn't Miss Maddy’s fault. She
simply had too many kids to cope with. The school was already under tremendous
strain, with classrooms holding thirty children and sometimes more. Frankly, it
was a miracle she'd not just dismissed Ben as lazy.
“I'll see to it,” I tried to sound totally
cool. “Thank you, Miss Maddy. It's very kind of you to alert me.”
Miss Maddy blushed. “It's a pleasure. We
all love Ben. He's such a pleasant boy.”
She’s a pain in the bum sometimes, Miss
Maddy, but her heart is in the right place.
Walking out onto the sunny street, I
prayed for a miracle. Maybe the job centre had something new.
“Oh, Mrs Reed…” The counter staff knew me
by name, I'd been in so often. “There's an opening in Tesco, but it's shift
work. Mostly nights and weekends.”
“They pay so little that it won't cover
the babysitting,” I couldn’t help but moan. “Is there anything that isn't
zero-hour contract or minimum wage?”
“Nothing that matches your
qualifications,” the woman said sympathetically.
“A degree in English literature and a year
as a glorified intern in a publishing house have prepared me for nothing but
benefits.” Yes, I was on a total self-pitying grumble fest. “Why didn't I study
something lucrative like accounting?”
“Accounting?” One of the office staff
popped up, holding a newly printed vacancy notice. “There's a job in Weston Enterprises. It says
office manager, but they said to give priority to people with bookkeeping or
financial management experience.”
Weston Enterprises, a top-of-the-line
green architecture construction company. I took the posting and read through it
quickly. It looked like simple enough work, a girl Friday job that covered
office record-keeping. It was nine to five, a proper contract, and the salary
was decent. It was a miracle.
Run! My inner devil screamed. Get there
right now! We’ll snaffle this job before some other desperate cow even gets
wind of it!
“I'll go straight away!” Then I ran out
the door before anyone could stop me.
It wasn't difficult to find Weston
Enterprises. Not only are they one of the richest construction companies in the
country, but their headquarters consists of a silvered glass tower. Soaring
straight up from a small park, the locals had nicknamed it Minas Ithil after
the moon-inspired spire from Lord of the Rings.
I managed to catch a bus that took me
straight to the front gate. I blasted through the little park and arrived at
reception pink-faced and panting. “I've come about the office manager job,” I
announced.
The receptionist, a pretty little bubble
blonde in a blue-flowered summer dress, glanced over the job vacancy sheet.
“That will be Sam,” she chirped brightly. “Top floor. Speak to Caitie. Her desk
is in Reception.”
The executive lift was opulent and made
entirely out of glass. As it whisked me into the air, I was treated to a
dazzling view of Oxford. The doors
opened on an equally stunning vision: Caitie, who was working the executive
floor reception desk, looked more like a fashion model than an office worker.
She was perfect for Minas Ithil. Arwen
Evenstar to the life, the girl could be an Elven Ring-bearer, no problem.
Caitie was tall, slender, and dressed in a
silky, emerald shift that looked straight off a Tokyo catwalk. Her glossy black
hair fell down her back. It was so long that it almost reached her waist.
Everything about the woman screamed style. Even her nails were perfect, a
classic French manicure with white glitter tips.
I took in all the gloss, feeling my toes
curl in shame. I would never, ever get a job here. It was amazing they’d even
let me in the door.
Her eyes are too close together, and she’s
probably got hammertoes. Inner me can be a bitch.
“You’re here to see Sam?” The model was
abrupt, and her voice was rough. She was emptying out her desk, clearly intent
on leaving. But she smiled nicely enough and waved me to a plush leather sofa.
“Do take a seat.”
“Erm, can you point me to the ladies’?”
I bolted into the loo, took one look at my
reflection and squealed with horror. I’d wanted to look smart for Miss Maddy,
so I’d worn plain black trousers and a navy blue blouse. It was suitably
severe, corporate, and nobody would guess that my black court shoes were so
worn that the left one had a hole in the sole. But compared to Miss Evenstar
out in reception, it looked hideously dull.
As for my hair! It’s naturally curly and a
dark chestnut that goes well with any strong colour from turquoise to wine. But
with me raking my hands through it all morning, it was standing up on end.
Sadly, it wasn’t a romantic, wild cloud, either.
I’d say porcupine, but it has a flavour of
pufferfish, too—you know, that super poisonous one. Devil me can be mercilessly
self-critical, too.
To add a final, horrible touch, my face
was scarlet from running. As well as my looking like a freak, it had made my
eyeliner run. Instead of sultry, I was looking at racoon eyes.
“You look like Cher—after she’s put her
fingers in a socket,” I grumbled at mirror-me. “And without the sexy vulpine
glamour.”
Repairing the damage, I hastily combed my
hair, pulling it back into a well-tamed bun. Running my hands under the cold
tap and pressing them against my face, I toned down some of the hideous flush.
Waiting for the last of the red to cool
away, I stared my reflection. My hair
was okay, but I’ve got very ordinary brown eyes, too boring for beauty, a nice
straight nose, but it’s too big for my taste, and my mouth is too thin. Still,
with the black-and-navy look, I was presentable. I reminded myself that this
was a job interview, not a beauty competition.
Just as well, really, because my blouse
looked as if I’d been poured into it, and my trousers were disgustingly tight.
I'd eaten been eating too much cheap stodge recently and had failed to lose my
winter pounds.
Real women have curves!
It was not a comfort. “Well,” I smiled at
mirror-me, “at least giving up chocolate means no spots.”
Digging in my bag, I realised I was out of
eyeliner. My mascara was almost dead, but a drop of water from the tap eked it
out. I was almost out of lipstick, too, but by digging in the bottom of the
tube, I made do.
“There,” I talked myself up for courage.
“Understated, serious, and dependable. Totally employable.”
There was no way I could compare to the
gorgeous PA, but seeing this was an admin job, I hoped looks wouldn’t matter.
“You’ll be behind closed doors. Probably
in the basement,” I assured myself.
I looked at the job description again.
Must have good organisational skills,
communicate well, and handle many details and challenging situations at once.
Well, I could handle that. Having once
invited Ben’s kindergarten group over to the house for his birthday, there was
nothing a company could throw at me that would scare me. Twenty screaming kids
had made me immune to chaos and yelling, and it was unlikely the executives
would mimic little Kevin and vomit into my handbag or hang onto me so hard that
my knickers slid down to my knees like they had with that minx, Seema.
Must be conversant with Microsoft Office
packages including Word, Excel, and PowerPoint.
Proofing manuscripts had made me an ace at
editing, and I’d taken a course in PowerPoint at the Job Centre, just to
improve my CV. My Excel skills were basic, but I’d be fine after a bit of quick
extra tutoring. All jobs have a learning curve. I could get up to speed in the
evenings in the first week or so.
Includes responsibility for liaisons with
vendors to ensure that orders are fulfilled as requested, invoices are paid,
and refunds or exchanges are processed.
That sounded like it took common sense.
Also, fighting with the plumber, the electrician and three roof contractors had
made me an expert in negotiation. And with the plumber being a foul-mouthed
Geordie, I’d not be knocked sideways by construction worker swearing either.
Must hold a degree in business
administration and have at least two years’ relevant corporate experience.
Ouch. Now that was a stumbling block. I
knew full well that a degree in English Lit would not be an acceptable
substitute. But perhaps they were flexible on that.
Human Resources were always trying to
filter applicants by box ticking, I told myself firmly. And anyway, figuring
out our finances and living on the edge for seven years had to count for
something.
I took one last look in the mirror,
straightened my shoulders and walked out, straight into a firestorm.
“Caitie, my own bloody PA, is cleaning out
her desk right now! No notice!” The roar
blasted out of the carpeted executive offices, ringing around the building. I
flattened myself against the wall instinctively. “Family issues, she says! Her
bloody sister had a kid, and Caitie feels she has to run off and play nanny!”
“Can we offer some leave instead?” a much
more reasonable voice asked. “Negotiate?”
“Seeing she’s been late every morning this
week, and skiving off early, I told her to get out and not come back!” the
angry voice fumed.
“Oh, dear. And I came to tell you that
Suze has given notice, too.”
“Whaaaaaat?” The loud angry voice echoed
down the corridor, practically shattering the delicately tinted windows.
“She has a baby, Curtis. She decided being
a mum was more important than a career.”
“She told us when she applied for the job
that she was a career woman!”
“Yes, but she changed her mind. It’s not a
total disaster, we can replace her.”
“Can we? We're still looking for a press
relations exec, too!” The voice was fuming. “One who won't give zero notice
after falling in love with a bloody tourist and emigrating to Australia!”
“Right. Anya,” the unfortunate Sam said.
“Well, it was unusual, and rather romantic, I thought.”
“Romantic? It's disruptive, and it costs a
fortune to interview and recruit!” The anger was running freely, his voice
ringing around the hall. “Babies, family issues, and bloody husband-hunting!
They preach bloody equality, but it’s all take and no give!”
“Oh, come on. We’re just hitting a bad
patch.”
“I've had it, Sam! From now on, no more
women!”
“Curtis, I appreciate that you're angry,
but you know you can't do that. Discrimination is illegal.”
“Illegal? What about quitting with no
notice? Three of them in one week!”
“It’s unprincipled, but we can’t exactly
chain them to their desks.”
“Unprincipled? It’s bloody robbery! Look
at Suze! At the interview, she went on and on about how she wanted a career,
yet she married some banker a month later.”
“Well, it’s not a crime.”
“Isn’t it?
She had a worthless bloody degree that qualified her for nothing when
she started. I spent six months training her up, then she fell pregnant. She
took her sick leave and her holiday, both of which I paid for. Then she
vanished for the best part of a year on maternity leave, which I also paid for,
and now she goddamn quits!”
The roar reverberated through the hall. I
shivered, frozen by the rage.
“Yes, it's unfortunate—”
“Unfortunate? It bloody well cost me a
fortune!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Two years and I’ve not had an ounce of
work out of her!”
“Yes, but—”
“You said I can’t fire her, but now she
can just leave?”
“Yes.”
“Can I sue her for compensation?”
“No. It doesn’t work that way.”
“Can I sue Caitie for walking out with no
notice?”
“Actually, no.”
“Fine. In that case, no more women.”
“But Curtis—”
I snuck down the hall, back into the
waiting room, now empty, and then sat trembling. Curtis, the voice had said.
That roar had been Curtis Weston, CEO of Weston Enterprises. I’d read about him
often.
Curtis was one of our local lions. An
inspirational architect, the creator of the glass Minas Ithil tower and winner
of several awards, including a coveted RIBA for innovation in architecture. He
was a local boy who had built up a billion-pound fortune, and everyone in
Oxford was proud of him.
In interviews, he'd seemed pleasant if
rather driven. Now I was changing my mind. Curtis Weston cared only about his
business. He didn't have a clue that life, love, and family can change lives
and priorities.
It was unfortunate that he was losing
three of his staff at the same time, but being stinking rich, he could just
replace them. Curtis Weston’s reaction was completely over the top.
“Mrs Reed?” A tall, friendly-looking man
with sandy hair and a slightly rumpled brown suit stood before me. “I'm Sam
Jefferson, Human Resources Director.” He had a warm smile and a firm handshake.
“You're awfully quick! I only sent the job spec an hour ago.”
I smiled, “I like to be efficient.” Game
on, right?
“Right,” Sam was looking me over. With a
sinking heart, I could see he was noting the lack of jewellery, well-worn
shoes, and probably my worried eyes, too. Oh crap. The Job Centre probably sent
him my CV.
“Penguin Publishing! Well, that’s
impressive!” Yes, Sam was checking out my past. My heart was plummeting into my
gut again.
Smile and flash our boobs; my horrible
self is shameless. Think of Ben! If it helps get us the job, it’s worth it!
God, to be reduced to this! I did have a
promising start in Penguin, but then there was a telltale, year-long gap, and
then the dratted thing was littered with zero-hour jobs. The whole thing reeked
of loser.
“Cashier at Tesco, driving for Uber, and
part-time cleaner for the Royal Bank,” Sam said warmly. “You're versatile and
not afraid of hard work. You’ve been taking short courses, too. Excellent!”
He was going to turn me down. The despair
just blasted through me. He wanted a competent professional with years of experience,
not a rundown single parent. Especially with Curtis Weston ripping into him
just minutes before.
I’m a lame-duck mum, I thought.
The money I needed was receding before my
eyes. In a flash, I could see Ben being left further and further behind, with
me standing uselessly on the sidelines, unable to help him.
Fight, you stupid cow!
“I'm organised and used to coping with
problems,” I said quickly. “I enjoy challenges, and I'm a fast learner.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Sam said gently. I
could tell he hated this part of his work, telling desperate job seekers they
were out of luck. Sam seemed a kind man, one of the best. He was probably
thinking that Curtis Weston would kill him if he hired me. I wasn't even
remotely a fit for the job, either, or any job they had, probably.
“Mrs Reed, I'm very sorry but—”
“The Royal Bank were very pleased with
me,” I interjected desperately. It wasn't a lie. The manager had complimented
me on my sparkling clean corners and floor waxing.
“Sam, can I borrow Jenny?” Curtis put his
head around the door. “I've got a pile of correspondence, and I’m busy with
that presentation for Fitzsimmons—” he stopped abruptly and stared at me. “Oh,”
he said crisply. “Hello.”
He was much taller than I’d imagined.
Curtis Weston was easily six feet, with narrow hips and long legs contributing
to an overall impression of lean grace. He moved swiftly, every move economical
and purposeful. It was sexy as hell; panthers had nothing on this man.
The strong, regular features were good,
too. Short brown hair, brown eyes, and a light tan from working outside set off
sparkling white teeth, small nose, and slanting cheekbones.
Oh, sweet mother of god, YUM! He’s
stunning. Want! Want! Want!
I ignored my suddenly thumping heart.
Okay, what am I lying for? The thumping was way lower down in my body.
Good looks and ohmilord, just look at the
window dressing!
The expensive suit was definitely more
than an off-the-rack at some high-end fashion house like Armani or Cardin. No,
this was pure Savile Row. It was hand made and beautifully tailored to
highlight the sinewy physique, and the expensive black material screamed money.
So did the crisp blue shirt and the navy and red tie.
My knees were going liquid just looking at
him. He was damn gorgeous.
Lean, dark, and sexy, just like we like
them, inner me moaned. And seeing he built this business up from nothing, he's
also bright and hard-working.
I had to agree. If we’d met at a party,
I'd have made the most horrendous pass.
The thing about all that beauty and grace
is that I suddenly became aware of less-than-glorious me. I was horribly aware
of my clothes, too worn to impress and definitely straining at the seams. I
sucked in my tummy. I really had to lose some weight.
Like chop off three inches all the way
round. Or industrial liposuction.
I was also cursing myself for my haste.
Instead of rushing over, hoping that being first would snag me the job, I
should have made an appointment, done my hair properly, dressed better, and
looked the part.
Investing in some new shoes might have
been a good move, too. I could feel the unseen hole in the sole burning into my
foot.
“You're applying?” Curtis spoke swiftly,
with a light, clipped tone.
Say something!
But I was tongue-tied, suddenly shy of all
that gorgeousness right in front of me.
“This is Emma Reed,” Sam said quickly. “She’s here for the office
manager job.”
Curtis stepped forward, and I caught a
whiff of his aftershave: leather and orange. It promised warmth and excitement.
I could feel myself flush.
He’ll have a lean body with long, ropey
muscles. Those arms will curl around us, sexy and hard. Totally delicious.
I mentally shook myself and told myself to
focus. Curtis Weston was clearly out of my league, just like the job, but oh my
god, if only I could take him home as a consolation prize!
You still haven’t spoken, moron!
“Hello!” It was supposed to come out cool
and competent but I sounded like Minnie Mouse. I cleared my throat, adding,
“Nice to meet you.” Hell! Now I was
Billy Goat Gruff.
Curtis Weston nodded briefly. “How do you
do.” His voice was cool to the point of cold.
He was looking me over. I suddenly had the
impression that I was standing under a searchlight. Every inch of me felt hot
and exposed. The hazel eyes ran over me swiftly. This was a man who was quick
in everything, from mood to decisions. And by the pursed mouth I could feel him
judging my worn shoes and lack of gloss.
The image of Caitie, the supermodel in the
emerald sheath, rushed back into mind. Yes, the slightly contemptuous gaze told
me Curtis Weston thought I wasn't up to par.
He wasn't gorgeous; he was a judgemental
arse.
Suddenly furious, I turned to Sam. “As I
was saying, Mr Jefferson, the Royal Bank was pleased with my work. They did say
they might have another opening, so if you've other candidates—”
“The Royal Bank?” Curtis interjected. “You
worked there?”
“Yes, and for Tesco, and Penguin
Publishing.” I decided I'd lay it on thick. I'd never get the job—Sam Jefferson
would know I was misrepresenting myself—but at least I could walk out with my
pride intact.
“Are you married?” Curtis asked abruptly.
“Or intending to get pregnant soon?”
“Curtis!” Sam was red with annoyance. “For
god's sake!”
“Oh, I don't mind,” I said sweet as honey.
“Let me tell you, Mr Weston, that I am not married and do not intend to marry.
Frankly, I have no interest in men.”
“Excellent!” Curtis said promptly. “You're
hired.”
I live in
Malaysia with Tom, my best friend for 25 years and married for almost as long.
Aside from writing fiction, I write columns and features for newspapers and
magazines.
You're welcome
to follow or stalk but be warned - I love cats so my feed is full of pussy...
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