Lauren's laptop was one of the last things she had packed, and she reached out for it as she lay in bed, almost toppling over the side and onto the floor. With an effort she tugged it free and propped up her pillows so she could sit up in bed as the laptop booted up.
Into the google search bar she began typing phrase after phrase, 'Henry Banville', 'Banville Corporations', 'Banville Developments', soaking up as much information as she could.
Henry was thirty-three, and ten years ago he had started a residential development company with a friend called Edward Simpson. As far as Lauren could work out, they designed and developed exclusive residential apartments for high-net worth individuals in Central London. That seemed to be his main source of income, aside from the money brought in by the estate. But there were other business investments too, and Henry seemed to hold numerous non-executive directorships across various industries.
Then she caught sight of the button that said 'careers'. She slid the mouse over the screen, letting it hover over it. And then she clicked.
It brought up a long list of jobs, but at the very top was the PA role. She clicked again, bringing up the job specification. She ran her eyes over the list, nodding when she thought she fulfilled the criteria. Yes, she could do everything on the list with her eyes closed. She could screen phone calls, arrange office filing and data management, deal with incoming emails and post, take dictation, carry out background research and ensure that Henry was well-prepared for every meeting. Nothing here was going to cause her any trouble. But one entry caught her eye particularly:
"The private secretary will be expected to arrange international travel for Mr. Banville and any accompanying staff, securing visas and accommodation and will occasionally be expected to travel with him in order to take notes or provide general assistance during presentations or whilst liaising with clients."
She raised her hands from the keyboard and sat back, feeling the increase in her heartbeat with a peculiar satisfaction. She wanted that job. She wanted to work alongside Henry Banville; she wanted to prove to him that she was competent, capable. No, more than that. She wanted him to see that she was the best PA he would ever have; she wanted him to find her irreplaceable.
There was no way she was letting him dismiss her without a bit of a fight. Who did he think he was?
She picked up her mobile phone and called the number on the screen. Her palm was sticky against the phone and she moved her fingers as she let it ring.
"Good morning, Banville Developments, how can I help you?" The voice was clipped and upper-classy.
Lauren took a deep breath. "I wanted to ask whether the role of Personal Assistant is still open? Are you still accepting applications?" She blurted the words out. On the other end of the phone Lauren could hear the woman flipping through sheets of paper, before covering the handset and calling out to someone else. The sound was muffled but Lauren could still make out what was being said.
"Private Secretary. Has he appointed one yet?"
"No. He's being anal about it. I had to turn down two perfectly capable young women earlier. One of them went to Cambridge. I honestly didn't know what to tell her when she asked for feedback."
There was a brushing sound on the other end of the line, as though the woman was shifting the handset.
"Hello?"
"I'm here," answered Lauren.
"We are still recruiting for that role. Are you making the application for yourself?"
"I am."
"Send a CV and cover letter. Do you have the address?"
Lauren glanced at the screen on her laptop. "Yes. The one on the website?"
"Exactly. Good luck."
"Thank you."
*
Lauren spent all day perfecting her CV and covering letter. When she was sure she had everything perfect, and when she was certain she had left no doubt about her capability to fulfill the role, she traipsed to the local library to print it out and read it over.
In the stillness of the room she moved her eyes over the paper, wondering if Henry himself would ever see it. Probably not. Would he even hold the interviews himself?
She lifted a red pen, uncapped it and put a dash through her name, scoring it out. She popped the pen into her mouth and sucked on it for a second before removing it and writing 'Isobel Willoughby' in block capitals.
There was no way she would let him reject her before she had even got to the interview stage.
No. Because she was going to turn up as Isobel Willoughby.
*
Lauren walked to the small Indian restaurant on the corner, still floating on a cloud of self-satisfaction at having emailed her application to Banville Developments. She felt ready for the challenge, and it gave her a kind of hope that had been missing in her life since she had lost her job.
She pushed open the door and was immediately assaulted by warm air, thick with the scent of Indian spices. She stepped into the dark restaurant, spotting her mother over in the corner, already seated and tucking into some poppadoms. She waved and headed for the table, wrapping her arms about her mother when she got there before falling into her seat.
"Darling, how are you?" asked her mother. "Have you met anyone nice?"
Lauren rolled her eyes. Always the same question. Lauren's mother and father had married when they were only twenty years old, and in her mother's eyes Lauren was pretty much on the shelf.
"No mum, I haven't met anyone. And even if I had, I might choose not to tell you."
Her mother looked hurt. "But what about that wedding? That very grand friend of yours, doesn't she have any eligible men for you?"
"Emily?"
"That's the one."
"I'm not going to start asking my friends to set me up. It looks desperate."
"Aren't you desperate? You haven't had a boyfriend since that Gavin boy at school. Who, by the way, is doing very well by all accounts."
The excitement in her mother's eyes repulsed her. "I'm not going to go back out with Gavin, if that's what you're suggesting."
Her mother wiped the corner of her mouth with a yellow napkin, and opened her eyes wide in an impression of innocence.
"Well, there is this other boy. Sioban's son, Tony; he's a carpenter. A good one mind you. Thinking of starting his own business. I could arrange for you to meet him?"
Lauren slapped a hand down on the table. "Mum, stop it. I don't want to talk about boys with you. I'll find one when I find one, and that's it. Men aren't the be all and end all of life."
"But darling, you need to find a rich man. Then you can put your feet up and not have to worry about how to pay the bills or run a house and raise a family."
"Not everything's about money, mum. And I will work. I want to work. Earn my own money."
Her mother pursed her lips. "Doing what? What are you going to do?"
Lauren knew it was only a matter of time before her mother ticked off the second topic of conversation. Men, swiftly followed by work and career prospects. "I'm applying for a new job. As a personal assistant."
"A secretary? But you went to university - you have a degree!"
"It's hard to find work. There aren't that many jobs. And a secretary and PA are different roles." She shook her shoulders emphatically.
Her mother sighed. "You should have done a law degree. At least that would have led somewhere."
"I don't want to be a lawyer, mum. Can't you just let me do what I'm doing, and get on with my life without interfering?"
As soon as she said the words, Lauren regretted them.
"But you're moving home, aren't you? No money to pay the rent?" Lauren was sure there was a wicked smile creeping across her mother's face, but it was balanced by a pity that made Lauren want to cry.
"Yes please mum." She hung her head. "I'll pay you rent. I'll move out as soon as I get a job."
"Oh Lauren honey, you don't need to pay us rent. You can stay as long as you like."
Lauren felt the relief wash over her. "Thank you."
"Just promise me one thing, darling?" Her mother kneaded her hands together.
"What?"
"Go out with Tony. Just meet him. If you don't like him, I'll never mention it again."
Lauren snapped a poppadom and dipped it into the tiny bowl of mango chutney. "OK." After all, it was a small price to pay to keep her mother off her back. How bad could Tony be?
*
"Hello?"
"Miss Willoughby?"
Lauren looked up to the ceiling, momentarily confused. She pressed the phone closer to her ear, suddenly remembering who Miss Willoughby was. "This is Miss Willoughby." She tried to keep her voice level, authoritative.
"This is Banville Developments. We would like to invite you in for an interview. How is....tomorrow? Oh no, wait. This afternoon. Can you come in this afternoon? I know it's late notice, but we need to fill the position so we're seeing all the candidates as soon as possible -"
"I can come," she interrupted, trying to still the fluttering beats of her heart.
"Excellent. Five o'clock?" Lauren could hear the woman scribbling something down and shuffling pieces of paper.
"Yes."
"You know where we are? Berkeley Square?"
"I'll be there."
She threw the phone down on the bed and started rifling through the clothes that were still hanging in her cupboard, and the shirts she had packed away in the boxes. Her father was driving up at the weekend to collect all her belongings and to take her home.
At MegaSportBet she had worn whatever she wanted to work; jeans and t shirts, shorts and trainers if it were warm. There was no dress code. In fact, no job she worked had ever required a suit or anything smart. What did a private secretary wear? She was tempted to call Emily and ask, but Emily would want to know what she was doing and where she was applying, and she wasn't ready to tell yet. And if she didn't get the job, she would never tell, and would have to hope that it didn't somehow leak out from Banville Developments.
She sighed and sat back on her heels in amidst a pile of clothes. Well, it was official. She had nothing appropriate to wear. She pulled down the remaining clothes that were hanging up, the metal coat hangers clanging in objection, swinging on the rail and clattering to the bottom of the chipboard wardrobe. She crumpled the garments up and smashed them into boxes, not caring that they wouldn't' be wearable by the time she unpacked.
She pulled her door open and knocked on her flatmate's room across the hall and waited, strumming her fingers on the door.
"What?" asked Andrea as she pulled the door open, a pair of over-sized headphones round her neck.
"I need to borrow a suit," she said, stepping over the threshold. Andrea's room was larger, with a double bed and a window with a street view (Lauren's looked over the back alley and bin store). Everything was neat, from Andrea's perfect black hair, cut into a short bob, to the way her books were stacked on her desk and her perfumes arranged on the dresser. The place was a haven to OCD.
Andrea looked uncertain. "I don't know Lauren. My suits are expensive."
"If I ruin them I'll buy you a new one."
Andrea scoffed. "Yeh right. You can't even afford the rent anymore. You couldn't replace my suits."
"Please?"
"I do have an old Marks & Spencer one you can use. I don't wear it any more." She turned and pulled a black dress and matching jacket from the cupboard. "You can keep it if you want. I shouldn't really be wearing M&S now."
Lauren snatched it in case Andrea would change her mind. It would be tight, because Andrea was tiny, but it would be better than jeans and a t-shirt.
"I'm sure Jess will lend you shoes," said Andrea, jerking her head in the direction of the third flatmate's room. "Where are you applying?" she asked, just as Lauren had turned to leave the room.
"Banville Developments."
"Really? The Banville Developments?" Andrea's voice had taken on a new edge; a squeak of excitement. "What role?"
"Personal assistant."
"To whom?"
"Henry Banville."
"Woah" - Andrea bent over and picked up a copy of Tatler and began flicking through it - "this Henry Banville?" she asked, peeling open the magazine to expose an image of a man standing with his arms folded across his torso.
"Let me see that," she said, laying aside the suit and taking the magazine from Andrea's clutches.
Yes. There he was, in a perfect pinstriped suit and silk tie, his Cartier watch just poking out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket. He was gazing into the middle distance, alone, impenetrable, and so handsome that Lauren could feel the approach of a blush across her cheeks.
Underneath his formidable image, the caption read:
"Henry Banville: the man who has everything, and still wants more."
Lauren scanned the images: some internal shots of some of his high-end residential homes and an inset of the stately home that she recognised from the wedding. The article began:
"When I meet Henry Banville for the first time, I am late and he is waiting for me in the bar of the Connaught Hotel, a copy of the Financial Times and an espresso on the table in front of him -"
Andrea snatched it back. "I cannot believe you are applying to be his personal secretary. That's mad. Bonkers."
"Why?" Lauren picked up the suit again, and watched as Andrea stared at the picture of Henry.
"Well, you know." She shrugged. "He's Henry Banville. He's a big deal; a real somebody."
"And I'm not, you mean?"
Andrea pulled an apologetic face, but didn't contradict Lauren's inference.
*
"Henry, I've scheduled in a couple of interviews," said Mrs. Balfour, Banville Developments' ever-dependable receptionist. "For the PA position."
"Today?"
"Yes. This afternoon. Is that alright?"
"Do I have time?"
"Yes."
"Then I am in your capable hands Mrs. Balfour," he said, nodding as he stepped into his office.
He sank down into the chair behind the desk and noticed the neat pile of CVs that Mrs. Balfour had placed on his desk. He flicked through them:
"Catherine, Alice, Annabel, Isobel." He thrust the papers aside, reading no further. He suspected every society mother of dispatching her daughter for the job, with the aim of securing him as a husband. To Henry, it seemed all women wanted nothing but his money and his title. Of course, occasionally that didn't bother him and he was more than willing to have a little fun if the girl didn't object. But it almost always turned sour, and the girls would be dispatched back to their parents' home in deepest darkest Chelsea. If he was really unlucky, the girl's father might be a former associate of his father's or a business acquaintance of some sort, and then he would have to placate the man by taking him to lunch at White's and generally trying to ingratiate himself. But most of the time he didn't even care enough to do that. Let them and their silly daughters stew on it.
Perhaps he should recruit a male PA, he pondered. But then he shook his head and propped his feet up on his desk, laughing to himself.
*
Lauren was nervous, and not only because she had lied on her application form. She sat in the waiting area by the reception desk, ensconced in a deep velvet chair, leafing through a copy of Country Life. This wasn't like any office she had ever been in: it was plush, sleek and modern, no doubt replicating the type of lifestyle offered by Henry's apartments. The large windows looked out over Berkeley Square, and the woman behind the desk was wearing a double string of pearls and her hair was perfectly bouffant. She was, Lauren estimated, in her mid-forties; but despite her upper class voice, she was friendly and Lauren had warmed to her immediately.
Lauren tried to pull her jacket closed over the dress, but the fabric didn't reach far enough. The suit was tighter than she had anticipated, and it forced her breasts up so they sat right at the neck of the dress. There was definite cleavage, and she couldn't even button the jacket to hide it. She always went out of her way to cover up at work, with t-shirts and baggy jumpers, ever since she had overheard a boy at uni saying 'you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl" when observing her choice of evening attire: a low-cut dress and a push-up bra. Ever since her breasts had seemed almost an object of shame, and she kept them under wraps; but this situation today had been unavoidable, and it hadn't looked as bad in the mirror at home as it felt now, sitting in this respectable reception.
Lauren looked up as a door opened and a girl stepped out. "Thank you for your time Annabel. We'll be in touch." The girl, a well-presented blonde, smiled and held out her hand to the speaker, whom Lauren couldn't see from her seat, but felt fairly sure it was Henry himself.
"Thank you, Mr. Banville," said Annabel, and even from this distance Lauren could see her eyelashes fluttering up at him.
Lauren's stomach leapt and sank, as though she were on a roller coaster. She wondered if she had enough time to use the toilet again.
The other interviewee smirked at Lauren on her way out, evidently not thinking her competition at all. Henry's office door closed.
"He'll only be a moment Miss Willoughby," said Mrs. Balfour, smiling over her half-moon glasses.
Lauren tried to smile, but the somersaults occurring in her stomach were too much of a distraction.
"He won't bite you know." Mrs. Balfour was smiling wider now. "You look terrified. Relax; what's the worst that could happen?"
The phone on the desk rang and Mrs. Balfour picked it up. "Yes? Now? OK" - she put the receiver down - "he's ready for you." Her bangles jingled around her wrist as she pointed Lauren in the direction of the room Annabel had just exited.
Lauren's legs felt weak. Only a few steps. It wasn't far to the office. She knocked and waited for him to summon her in.
"Go on," said Mrs. Balfour, waving her into the room. Lauren blinked and promised herself not to act like a fool, and not, under any circumstances, to let him know how attractive she found him. She pressed open the door and stepped into the room.
"Miss Willoughby," he said, without raising his eyes from her CV, which he held before him. His voice was rich, soft and she wanted to hear him speak again.
She shut the door behind her and waited to be acknowledged. Placing her feet together and tucking her handbag under her arm, she observed him as he scrutinised the paper he held, sitting upright behind the huge antique desk. He was silhouetted in the afternoon sunlight that shone in the window behind him, and she could see streams of dust swirling in the air where the rays caught them.
Henry laid the paper down and looked up at the girl who still stood over by the door. She had barely moved into the room. The recognition stung him like the lash of a whip, and something inside tightened up, like the recoiling of a spring.
What was she doing here?
He frowned and stared at her, letting his upper body collapse slightly into his chair. He pressed both hands onto the desk, flattening them onto its hard surface. Then recollecting himself, he stood up. "To what do I owe this surprise?" he asked, moving round the desk and pacing towards her.
But something made him stop and wait, and he buttoned his jacket as he stood opposite her, just for something to do with his hands, his fingers. Still she didn't move, but looked right at him. There was, he thought, something defiant in the way she stared. Well, that was different at least. Normally by this point in the interview the girl had already begun to smile and laugh, and perhaps even flirt outright with him.
He half-turned back towards the desk and reached for her CV, snapping the paper flat as he held it up. "Miss Isobel Willoughby?" He raised an eyebrow.
The girl's lips quivered as though she were about to speak, but instead she gently bit the inside of her bottom lip and clasped her hands together before her. The movement pushed her breasts up further in her dress, their sensual curves spilling over the top of her otherwise demure black dress. His eyes flickered towards them, mesmerised momentarily, and she moved her arms away again and looked over his shoulder at something unseen, but compelling, in the corner of the room.
Henry felt that strange wave of desire wash through him, feeling his body beg him to step closer to her. Instead he waved her over to the chair on the other side of his desk and moved to sit down himself.
Damn Andrea and her tiny body, thought Lauren as she teetered across the carpeted floor to the seat that Henry had indicated she take. With relief she felt its solidity beneath her.
"Water?" he asked, pouring her a glass and pushing it across the desk before she had a chance to reply.
She picked it up and sipped, aware that her mouth was so dry that she felt her palate click against her tongue. She was acutely aware of her every movement, feeling his eyes upon her continuously, as though he was drinking her in, swallowing her very essence.
"It is very deceitful," - he shuffled the papers before him - "devious even, to pretend to be someone else in order to get an interview. I'm not in the habit of employing people who lie to me."
"I thought you might not see me if you knew who I was." Her voice was small and she coughed to clear her throat.
"I don't know many Laurens," he mumbled, almost to himself. "So, convince me why I should take you over any of the others."
Henry leaned back in his chair as though to watch how she would tackle his question. A smile curled across his lips; he looked like he were enjoying himself.
"I have an unimpeachable academic record. Straight As and a first class degree. I was head of the student union -"
"So the only thing on this CV that's untrue is the name?" he interrupted.
Lauren nodded. "The rest is genuine."
"Alright. Tell me something that's not on this sheet of paper then," he said, crumpling the papers up and tossing them into the bin. Lauren barely stifled a gasp, so unprepared was she for her application to be thrown away so early on in the interview.
Henry leant forwards, his elbows propped on his desk and Lauren struggled not to lean towards him, replicating his movement. Something about him tugged at her, and she found it difficult to focus on what he was actually asking her.
"I'm sorry-"
"Don't apologise. Just tell me about you. Lauren Taylor. Why do you want this job?"
Her heart began to bang against her ribs, racing as though she had just done half an hour's serious cardio workout. "Because I am hard-working and focussed and determined and I would dedicate myself to anything you wanted me to do -"
He held up his hand. "Stop."
Lauren inhaled sharply, and held her breath until he spoke again.
"I asked why you want it. Not why you would be good at it. As far as I can tell you're completely over-qualified for the role. And yet completely inexperienced."
"I worked as an office manager. I've worked with all kinds of different people-"
"Why do you want to be my PA?" he asked again, more irritation evident in his voice this time.
"I need the money." She hung her head. It was as good an answer she could come up with on the spot, and besides, it was true. She wasn't about to tell him that she wanted the job because she wanted to be near him, despite the fact he was arrogant and rude.
Henry almost felt sorry he had pushed her on the subject. Of course she needed the money; it was obvious. The girls who applied for the role never 'needed the money'. They always had the bank of daddy to fall back on, but this girl...she was different. She really needed a job. And why shouldn't it be this one? Even her little deceit to get herself into his office could be viewed as taking the initiative...bending the rules to her own advantage...working out how to succeed where she might otherwise have failed. Although, he admitted to himself, he would have interviewed her anyway. He hadn't been able to expunge her from his mind since they had met in his drawing room, and then again at the Dorchester. He had even dreamt of her last week, after the dinner, and it hadn't been an entirely platonic role she had played. He stirred uncomfortably at the memory, thankful that he had never been a man to blush.
Lauren's face was caught in the sunlight, her perfect skin looked as soft as cream and her dark hair had a healthy sheen that made him want to touch it, run his fingers through it.
"I do a lot of my work from the place in the country. Marbedon Manor. I would expect you to live there when I am there, and in London when I am in London. My Personal Assistant must be on hand at all times."
He noticed her swallow uneasily.
"Is that a problem?" he asked.
"No."
"Good. You will live in, unless you have somewhere else you would rather live?"
"No."
"Do you have any issues with foreign travel?"
"No" - Lauren frowned - "are you giving me the job?"
"Yes. I suppose I am." Henry was just as shocked as she was. He hadn't even realised that he had started speaking as though he had already offered her the role. But there was something he knew with an unmistakable certainty: that this woman could not be allowed to disappear from his life. He wanted to know her, to talk to her, to get to know her. She was like a puzzle he wanted to unlock and piece together again. And, he thought, she wouldn't have a father on the board that was ever likely to take him by the neck if he happened to mistreat her.
She looked as though he had knocked the wind out of her, and she inhaled deeply several times, forcing her chest to fill and her breasts to heave at the neckline of her dress. Her vulnerability, naivete, was appealing in itself.
God, he reprimanded himself as he felt the unmistakable desire raging within him, I cannot sleep with another employee. And certainly not this one. Emily and George would skin me alive. And there were plenty of other girls; prettier girls, more sophisticated girls. It didn't need to be this one. But still, he couldn't stop himself:
"What are you doing tonight?" he asked.
He saw her hesitate, weigh up his meaning, his intention. "I have no plans," she finally admitted, her cheeks colouring in the most delightful manner. He hoped he would always be able to make her blush just like that. It would give him great pleasure just to see it every day.
"Good. Come to dinner with me. We can discuss your role, your pay, living arrangements." He picked up the phone and dialled through to Mrs. Balfour, instructing her to reserve a table at Claridge's for an early supper before Lauren had a chance to object. "Yes, we'll go to the bar first. Absolutely. Yes, my usual table."
He replaced the receiver and smiled at her across the desk. "Ready?" he asked.
"Now?" Lauren's head was swimming; this was certainly not how she had imagined the interview would go; she hadn't even thought he would give her the time of day; not after the incident at the Dorchester. She wondered if he felt guilty about how he had spoken to her. He had certainly had a complete volte-face.
Henry was striding across the room, taking a coat from an old coat stand in the corner of the room and swinging his arms into it. As he moved she caught the scent of his expensive cologne; a smell of wealth, of masculinity, of power.
"Of course now," he said. "Are you sure you haven't somewhere better to be?"
He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and for some strange reason he was taking her to dinner. He was going to employ her; she was pretty much going to live with him. She wanted to pinch herself, and it was all she could do not to stand and gape at him in disbelief.
Never had she wanted someone with such intensity, such a deep irrevocable attraction. In fact, she wasn't sure she had believed such an attraction was genuinely possible in real life, having never experienced anything like it before. And to make matters worse, she was sure he must know; he must see it. He probably assumed everyone felt that way about him, and perhaps they did. She was probably just one of many of his admirers.
"I won't be back, Mrs. Balfour. Will you lock up?" he said, leaning over the desk and smiling at his receptionist.
Mrs. Balfour's eyes flickered between the two of them, and then narrowed suspiciously. Lauren shrugged helplessly at her and Mrs. Balfour raised a warning eyebrow that seemed to indicate she had seen this kind of behaviour before.
But Lauren didn't care. She was willing to throw caution to the wind just this once, if it meant she could spend longer with Henry Banville.
"Oh, Mrs. Balfour, meet my new PA. Miss. Lauren Taylor." Lauren felt his hands press down on her shoulders, warm and firm as he clasped her from behind and ushered her towards the exit. The physical contact made her gasp and she felt her shoulders burning long after he lifted his hands from her.
"Lauren? Taylor?" asked Mrs. Balfour in confusion, but neither Lauren nor Henry stopped to explain the misunderstanding.