Dancing in the Dark Read Online Free PDF

me about George’s plans.
    “Has he ever talked to you about it?” she asked, over the Italian meal. There were red and white gingham cloths on the tables and candles in green bottles dripping wax.
    The walls were hung with plastic vines.
    “Hardly ever,” I replied truthfully.
    “I bet you anything he gives the job to Oliver.” She pouted. Oliver Brett, solid and dependable, was the assistant manager, in charge when George was away, which was rare.
    “I doubt it. Oliver’s nice, but he’s proved more than once he couldn’t handle the responsibility.” I sipped my wine. On nights like this, Kirkby seemed a million miles away. “Remember last Christmas when he rang George in the Seychelles to ask his advice?”
    “Hmm!” Diana looked dubious. “Yes, but he’s a man.
    The world is prejudiced in favour of men. I shall be very cross if it’s Tweedledum or Tweedledee.”
    “That’s most unlikely.” I laughed. Apart from June, who’d taken my old job as receptionist, the only other permanent members of staff were two young men in their mid-twenties, Darren and Elliot, startlingly alike in looks and manner, which accounted for their nicknames.
    Both were too immature for promotion. “George has never struck me as being prejudiced against women,” I added.
    “I might do a survey of Woolton, see how the land lies.”
    Diana’s rather heavy eyebrows drew together in a frown and the discontented lines between her eyes deepened further. “I’ll type up some notes for George.”
    “What a good idea,” I murmured. I hadn’t added to my own report since last week.
    It was late on Wednesday when I returned to the office in Castle Street. I’d taken a couple, the Naughtons, to see a property in Lydiate. It was the sixth house they’d viewed. As usual, they walked round several times, wondering aloud whether their present furniture would fit, asking if I would measure the windows so they could check if the curtains they had now would do. George insisted that keys were returned, no matter how late, and it was almost eight when I hung them on the rack.
    George was still working in his glass-partitioned office and Oliver was about to go home. His good-natured face creased into a smile as he said, “Goodnight.”
    I was wondering if there was time to drive to Blundellsands, collect the cardboard boxes I’d acquired from a supermarket, return to town and start on Auntie Flo’s flat. I couldn’t bring the car to work with boxes on the back seat when I had to take clients to view.
    Before I’d made up my mind George came out of his cubicle. “Millie! Please say you’re not doing anything special tonight. I’m longing for a drink and desperately in need of company.”
    “I’m not, doing anything special that is.” I would have said the same whatever the case. At the moment it was essential to keep in George’s good books.
    We went to a wine bar, the one where I’d met James.
    George ordered a roast-beef sandwich and a bottle of Chablis. I refused anything to eat. “You should get some food down you.” He patted my hand in a fatherly way.
    “You look pale.”
    “That’s what everyone keeps telling me. I’ll wear blusher tomorrow.”
    “You mean rouge. My old mother used to go to town with the rouge.” His mother had died only a year ago and he missed her badly, just as he missed the children his ex-wife and her new husband had taken to live in France. He was alone, hated it, and buried himself in work to compensate. George Masterton was fifty, tall and thin to the point of emaciation although he ate like a horse. He wore expensive suits that hung badly from his narrow, stooped shoulders. Despite this, he had an air of drooping elegance, enhanced by his deceptively laid-back, languid manner. Only those who knew him well were aware that behind the lazy charm George was an irascible, unpredictable man, who suffered from severe bouts of depression and panic attacks.
    “Why the desperate need for