Chapter 5: 05. Spiffing Statistics

Saturday arrived, and then Sunday. I awaited the start of the work week with trepidation. Last Friday, Mr Ambrose had thrown me out of his office before he could get around to a certain ritual of the business world involving 'fire' and the syllable 'ing'. A small oversight which, I was sure, he would remember to remedy today. He didn't seem overly pleased with my performance as an ad campaign director.

It's not fair! My sweets are great! Ella liked them, and so did Eve and the rest of my friends!

In fact, they seemed to like them a little bit too much. And one could also say that they behaved slightly, um...eccentric after tasting them. But surely that was just a coincidence.

Anyway, the people who should have liked them didn't. I spotted no long lines of hopeful mothers in front of apothecaries, waiting to buy my fabulous new product to soothe their child's cough. But then—maybe that was not surprising, considering that there didn't seem to be a single bloody sick child within a hundred miles. Damn! Once in a lifetime you actually need a plague, but does God oblige? Of course not! He keeps all the good stuff for the ancient Egyptians.

That night, I lay awake, staring at the moon shining in through the window, one question running through my mind, over and over:

What if he really does it? What if he fires me?

The mere thought sent a wave of fiery rage through me. I didn't deserve to be fired! I had done good work over the years! More than that! I had done things no normal secretary could be expected to do! I had travelled with him to the farthest corners of the earth, stood by him through thick and thin, risked my bloody neck for him over and over again—

I froze.

Something went click in my mind as the facts shifted to form a very simple picture. Of course. How stupid had I been to not see it before?

Risking my neck for him over and over again...

The silly, chauvinistic son of a bachelor! He really was in love with me, wasn't he?

The problem was that he was about as good at knowing what a woman truly needed as a rock was at dancing ballet. Well...worse, actually. A rock wouldn't be too stingy to buy proper ballet shoes.

He thought he knew what was best for me? He thought he could control my life?

Well, we'll just have to teach him a lesson, won't we?

After all, Mr Ambrose's company wasn't the only one that employed secretaries.

Rolling over, I snuggled into my pillow and fell asleep with a smile on my lips.

***

The next morning, I rose, slipped out into the back garden and, as usual, put on my male attire. Just to be on the safe side, I pocketed a bag of solid chocolate and a fully-loaded revolver. I would have girded my loins, too, but unfortunately I didn't own a gird and had no idea how to get one.

Placing my bowler on my head, I straightened and regarded myself in the small, dirty mirror I had hung on the wall a few weeks ago.

'Ready for battle?' I asked myself.

As ready as you're ever going to be, my mirror image silently replied.

Very well.

Or perhaps I should say—adequate.

Pushing open the door, I strode into the garden and slipped through the back door out onto the street. There wasn't much traffic yet. Employees of Mr Rikkard Ambrose never really had problems with traffic congestion, because they had the great honour of going to work at least an hour before anybody else did. For half the pay.

Are you quite sure you don't want to be fired after all?

One corner of my mouth curled up in a smile. Yes. I was.

It didn't take long for me to reach Empire House. The colossus of a building stood as tall, proud and austere as ever. It practically seemed to scream 'firing-time!'. When I pushed open the front door and stepped into the entry hall, I saw Sallow-Face's expression, and it didn't exactly improve my hopes.

'Hello, Mr Linton,' he said, in an unctuous tone that gave me fantasies of stuffing him head-first into the nearest waste-paper bin. 'A wonderful morning, isn't it?'

I raised an eyebrow. 'It is?'

'Oh yes. Wonderful prospects.' Reaching out, he polished a spot on his already immaculate desk with his sleeve. 'You had better be heading up. Mr Ambrose has informed me that he wants to speak to you when you arrive. Urgently.'

'Thank you.' Stepping towards him, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a certain colourful paper bag. 'Bonbon?'

'Well...I don't mind if I do. Thank you. It's nice to see someone accept defeat with grace.'

'Yes, it is, isn't it?'

I watched and waited until he had put the cough drop into his mouth, then smiled and tipped my hat. 'Have a sweet day, Mr Pearson.'

And, with a spring in my step, I proceeded to the stairs. If today was to be my last day here, I'd make the most of it!

Mr Ambrose was awaiting me in his office, standing at the window, with his back to the room. The curtains were almost drawn and, through the bright gap in the middle, he was gazing out over the city. I was abruptly reminded of the first day I had entered this office. That day, he had stood in exactly the same manner. That day, just as now, he had been intent on getting me out of here as fast as possible.

But he's no longer the same man as back then. And I'm no longer the same girl.

Because now, I was a woman.

'Just to make this clear from the outset,' Mr Ambrose said, his back still towards me, 'This changes nothing about how I feel about you. No matter what happens today, I still love you.'

I nodded. 'Good to know. And just so you know, no matter what happens today, if you fire me, I'll hate your guts forever.'

There was a moment of silence.

'Enough to call off the wedding?'

A wicked grin spread over my face. 'And rob myself of a chance at lifelong revenge? Not on your sweet life!'

He turned around, and his fierce, arctic eyes found mine. We stared at each other for a long, long moment.

'This is for the best, you know.'

'It is?'

'Yes. A woman's place is in the home. Not in an office. Not travelling around on ships, and marching through jungles, and risking—'

He abruptly cut off.

Risking her life.

I knew it. I just knew this was what it was all about. Sweet, stone-headed, chauvinistic idiot!

I nodded. 'I see.'

'But there is no need to worry. There will be plenty of work for you as head of my household. I have everything planned.'

'You do, do you?'

So you probably won't be very pleased if, right after you fire me, I use my disguise to get a job somewhere else?

I didn't say that out loud, though. No need to bring out the big guns yet. The battle had only just begun.

'Yes. You will get used to it soon enough. After all, work in the house is a woman's true vocation.'

'It is?'

Where should I try my luck? A lawyer's office? A bank? Hm...no. Working with Mr Ambrose had given me a taste for experiences that ranged slightly beyond the work of your average secretary. If I was to get another job, it had to be something different. Something exciting. I was quite handy with a gun. Maybe Karim could help me find work as a bodyguard, or—

'Mr Linton! Mr Linton, are you listening to me?'

'What? Oh, yes, yes. Women, vocation, whatsitsname.'

Mr Ambrose eyed me suspiciously. 'What's going through that mind of yours, Mr Linton?'

Hm...maybe Mr Ambrose had some competition somewhere? Of course the non-evil kind, without a power-hungry maniac named Dalgliesh involved. Wouldn't it be sweet to get the better of him in the business world?

'My mind?' I widened my eyes. 'Nothing. Nothing is going through there at all.'

'Hm.' He gave me another suspicious look—then stepped away from the window and glanced down at his desk. A document lay there, written in crisp, clear handwriting. At the very top I could read the pre-printed words Letter of Dismissal.

'Let's proceed, shall we?' Sitting down, he began to examine the document. 'Everything seems to be in order. But before I proceed to signing—'

'Before you proceed to signing, you should wait, Sir.'

Mr Ambrose's hand, half-outstretched towards his pen, froze in mid-air. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

'Pardon, Mr Linton? What did you say?'

'I said you should wait.' I raised my chin. 'At least a week or two.'

'And why, pray, should I do that?'

'You're making a judgement on my advertising campaign based solely on your personal assessment. You taught me that judgement in business should be based on one thing, and one thing only.'

I didn't say what. I didn't need to.

'Success.'

'Indeed, Sir.'

For a long moment, silence reigned in the room—then he withdrew his hand from the pen. I tried not to breathe a sigh of relief.

'And you think I should give you a whole week to see if your product becomes successful?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'My clocks tick faster than yours, Mr Linton. Knowledge is Power is Time is Money. However...' He stroked one long finger along his chiselled chin. 'However, no one can say that I am not fair.'

I blinked. 'They can't?'

He gave me a cool look. 'No. They can't.'

'Oh.'

One never ceases to learn.

'Which is why I have already called for someone from the sales department to bring me the latest sales figures on your...confectionaries before I dismiss you. Perhaps it will teach you a lesson.'

A knock came from the door

'Ah. That will be him. Enter!'

The door opened cautiously, and a young man stuck his head inside. 'Err...may I, Mr Ambrose?'

My dear fiancé's hand jerked once, waving the man in. 'Yes, yes, Ellis. Come in. Do you have the figures of how much money this atrocious scheme has cost me?'

Stepping in, Ellis cleared his throat. 'Well, yes...in a way, Sir. And no.'

'What do you mean, man? Speak clearly!'

The young man clutched the folder in his hand as if it were a protective shield. And, actually, it might not do a bad job as a shield. For a folder listing zero profit, it was astonishingly thick.

'Well, um, Sir...I have the numbers, but...' The young man clutched the folder even closer. 'But they may not be exactly what you...what you...'

'Give that here, man!' Reaching across the desk, Mr Ambrose snatched the folder out of the young man's grasp. Flipping it open, he began to peruse the first page. 'Now let's see how much this mania has... cost...me...'

His voice slowly drained away, and he stiffened. His eyes sped up, devouring line after line.

'Hrm.'

He flipped a page, reading even faster now.

'Hrm. Hmph.'

'Sir?' the young man enquired, cautiously. 'I...is everything all right?'

'Yes.' Slowly, a smile started to spread across my face, and I stepped towards Mr Ambrose. Could it be...? 'I'd like to know that too, Sir.'

Mr Ambrose slammed shut the folder. Slowly, a pair of arctic eyes rose to focus on the innocent young clerk. To judge by the way he looked, Mr Ambrose had never heard of the saying 'don't shoot the messenger.' Or maybe he just preferred it without the 'don't' at the beginning.

'What,' he demanded, enunciating each word coldly and clearly, 'is the meaning of this?'

'Err...' The young man took a step back. 'It's the profit report for the last two days' sales of Cocaine Cough Drops.'

'That's what I mean! Why are there profits? Why? And why so many?'

'Um...' The poor clerk looked as if his world was standing on its head. 'Because, um...they sell well? That's good, right? Profits are good?'

He didn't sound too certain.

'Yes, tell us your opinion,' I encouraged, fighting hard to keep from laughing out loud. 'Are profits good? I'd always believed so, but if your opinion on the matter has changed, by all means, educate me.'

Mr Ambrose's little finger twitched.

'My opinion on the matter remains the same.'

'How gratifying to hear that.' I inclined my head in the sombre manner befitting a private secretary who was about to choke on her giggles. 'Now, won't you tell us how successful your newest product has been? We're all dying to hear how much money your latest stroke of genius has made.'

Mr Ambrose gave me a look that told me if I didn't shut up someone would indeed be dying—violently and abruptly. Allowing myself the tiniest of smirks, I shut up—for now.

Mr Ambrose, meanwhile, turned his ice-cold eyes on the innocent clerk.

'Why?'

'Err...why what, Sir?' The young man retreated a few steps. 'Why wasn't it more successful? I'm sure we can do a better job next time! I'll get a painter up here straight away to improve the advertisements, and—'

'No, man! Why was it successful at all? It was supposed to be a disaster! A total and utter failure!'

'Err...it was? But wouldn't that have been rather costly?'

Mr Ambrose chose not to answer that question. Instead, he started flipping through the report, his eyes racing over page after page like searchlights. 'What was it? How did this happen? Was there a flu epidemic I have not heard of among small children? Have London's mothers suddenly gone mad? What?'

'Err...' Mr Ellis cleared his throat. 'It's not children who are buying the sweets, Mr Ambrose.'

'It's not?'

'No. And it's not their mothers, either. See here?' Cautiously stepping forward, the young man pointed a statistic. 'For some reason, all the candy appears to be purchased by young women between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one.'

'Young women?'

'Yes, Sir. The news about the new confectionary seems to have spread like wildfire among them. For some reason, the product appears to be extraordinarily popular in their age group. I can't imagine why.'

Raising his eyes, Mr Ambrose gave me a penetrating look that made me wish I'd worn woollen underwear. 'Oh, I have a feeling there is an explanation.'

'Err...Yes, Sir.'

'Ellis?'

'Yes, Sir?'

'Leave.'

'Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir! Do you wish to keep updated on the sales of Cocaine Cough Drops? I could assemble a few suggestions in regard to how to boost sales if—'

'Out! Out with you, now!'

'Yessirrightawaysir!'

He rushed towards the door, pulled it open—then suddenly hesitated.

'Um...I hate to bother you, Sir, but there's one more thing that—'

'What?'

'It, err, is Mr Pearson, Sir. He appears to be...dancing.'

'What do I care how that man wastes his spare time?'

'Ehem...you don't understand, Sir. He is dancing. Right now.'

'He...'

'Yes, Sir. On his desk.'

I did my best to keep my expression composed and innocent. To judge by the way Mr Ambrose's gaze bored into me, however, I don't think I was particularly successful.

'Ellis...how long has this been going on?'

'A few minutes, Sir. I was told he started acting, um...eccentrically shortly after Mr Linton arrived. When I passed on my way upstairs, he was just greeting the vice president of the Bank of England with an impromptu tango performance.'

'Was it a good performance?'

'He was quite, um...energetic, Sir.'

'I see. Then charge the vice president an admittance fee and tell him to wait for me in conference room three. I shall be there directly. As for Pearson...let Karim know. He shall take care of the situation.'

'Yes, Sir! As you wish, Sir!'

The door closed behind the poor clerk with a thud, and I listened to the hurried noise of his retreating footsteps. Ah, the sweet sound of victory...

Not quite as sweet as the sight of victory, however. Treasuring each and every moment, I turned my gaze on Mr Rikkard Ambrose. He was sitting in his arm chair, icy eyes fixed on the pile of documents in front of him. The documents that proved my success. The documents which meant that now he and I would be starting the last round of the game we had been playing ever since I first stepped into this office. Either way, by the day we spoke our vows, it would all be decided.

'Well?' Raising my chin, I stared at him, daring him to try and pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. Daring him to pretend he had forgotten his promise.

'Hm...' Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head until dark, unfathomably deep sea-coloured eyes met mine. 'It seems you have gotten your wish, Mr Linton. Very well. You have until the wedding to prove yourself. Game on!'

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Do you think we should congratulate Lilly on her successful business enterprise? Or do you think that could possibly be problems with her new business in the long term...? ;)

Yours Truly

Sir Rob