He looked at me, not a trace of humour in his face anymore. ‘First you stand around with your eyes closed, now your ears don't seem to be working? I must say, I am quite disappointed in you, Mr Linton.’
I straightened.
‘There is no call for that, I assure you, Sir. I shall have the book memorized by tomorrow, Sir.’ I don't think that anybody had ever managed to make the word 'Sir' sound so much like 'slug'. Mr Ambrose, though, didn’t seem to notice.
‘Then we can proceed immediately. Go to the current week.’
‘W-what?’
‘I am becoming tired of hearing that word, Mr Linton. Go to the current week in the book you are holding. It is an appointment book. It holds my appointments over the year, which is divided into months, which again are divided into weeks. You do know what a week is, Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir. I do, Sir.’
‘How fortunate. Go to the current week.’
Quickly, I flitted through the volume until I had found the appropriate page.
‘It is your task to enter and keep track of all appointments. If I forget, it is your duty to remind me in time.’
I looked up, raising an eyebrow.
‘You forget appointments?’
‘No. In fact I have never forgotten a single appointment in my life. However, better safe than sorry.’
‘Is that one of your principles, like the knowledge-power-money thing?’
‘You could say so.’
‘Maybe I should start a list to keep track of all the wisdom you impart to me.’
‘What you should keep track of, Mr Linton, are my appointments. Now, can we return to the matter at hand?’
‘Yes, Sir! Of course, Sir!’
He started rattling off dates at an incredible rate, detailing when and where he was to go exactly. The list went from various factories to places at the harbour, several banks, business associations and meetings. Whatever his business interests were, exactly, they were many and varied. I did my best to take all the dates down in a legible manner, and did pretty well, I think, until he dropped the bomb.
‘At three pm on Saturday, I shall be attending the opera.’
I left a blot of ink on the page.
‘What?’
He looked up at me with those cool, sea-blue eyes of his.
‘There is that word again. Are you particularly fond of it, Mr Linton?’
‘Don’t change the subject,’ I accused him. ‘You attend the opera?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do not consider such a frivolous activity to be a waste of your time and money?’
‘No.’
‘And why not, if I may ask?’
‘Because I own it.’
‘Oh.’
‘I like to keep the management on their toes. And the ballet dancers as well.’
I blinked. Had he just made a joke? His face told me otherwise. It was as stony as ever. But nobody could be that serious, could they?
The opera…
Suddenly, a thought shot through my mind. A very annoying thought in a green ball gown.
‘Will anybody be going with you?’ I enquired suspiciously.
Like Miss Hamilton, for instance? Or the writer of the pink letters? Or… both?
‘Is that any business of yours, Mr Linton?’
‘It is if you want me to procure tickets for you.’
‘I see.’
He thought for a moment, tapping with his fingers on the desk, looking away from me, out of the window and over the city of London. I waited with bated breath.
‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘I think somebody will be going with me. Procure two tickets for the opera.’
Somebody? Somebody? Was he torturing me on purpose? Did he know that I was dying to know? There wasn’t the slightest indication of it on his face. But then, when was there ever any indication of anything on his face? He was as easy to see through as a brick wall and just as friendly.
‘Anybody in particular?’ I asked, and immediately regretted it. After all, he shouldn’t be thinking I was… interested in him in any way, which I clearly was not.
He swivelled around and fixed me with his cool gaze again. ‘Why do you ask? Do opera tickets have to bear names nowadays?’ If it hadn’t been Mr Rikkard Ambrose, I could have sworn there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Blast it! Blast me! And blast the opera! Who needed Mozart and Meyerbeer anyway?
I hid my face behind the appointment book and wished it were larger. ‘Just curious.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘Any more appointments, Sir?’
Mercifully we moved on from the subject of opera, and he kept me busy enough writing down more appointments that I didn’t even think too much about Miss Hamilton. When I was finally finished with the thirty-sixth appointment, he nodded curtly.
‘Give me the book and let me see.’
Handing him the book, I waited for his judgement. I knew my handwriting wasn’t very good, and he had talked with the speed of a Spinning Jenny.[42] His face was, as ever, indecipherable as he studied the page, giving me no clue as to what he might be thinking. Finally, he closed the book with a snap.
‘Adequate,’ he said. ‘You managed to take it down without leaving anything out, which is more than I can say of my last five secretaries.’
It took me a moment to realize that this had actually been a compliment. When I did, a ridiculous grin spread over my face. What was wrong with me? Why did his approval give me this warm, fuzzy feeling inside, like drinking hot chocolate on a cold winter morning?
Except hot chocolate didn’t stare at me so disapprovingly. Not ever.
‘If you’re quite done exhausting your facial musculature needlessly, Mr Linton, then perhaps we can move on with work?’
‘Yes, Sir! Just as you say.’
‘Put this away again.’ He handed me the appointment book. ‘Remember, you’re responsible for it.’
Still exhausting my facial muscles in what I thought was a definitely not needless expression of satisfaction, I hurried back into my office. As I bent to open the drawer, the appointment book slipped out of my hand and fell to the floor, opening at the previous week. Picking it up, I saw that the week was covered with appointments: Mr Ambrose must have left his office without telling me. All the appointments were written down in a familiar neat and precise hand.
He had been keeping track of his own appointments! It had been silly of me not to think of this, really. After all, it was a secretary’s job to take care of appointments, so why had it not been part of mine?
