Judicial Whispers Read Online Free PDF Page B

if you managed to make yourself rather more presentable for the office.’ Felicity’s ample bosom heaved slightly with indignation, and she thought she caught Mr Lamb’s eye flicker to it. ‘Since this position as Miss Dean’s secretary is by way of being something of a second chance for you, I’m surprised that you haven’t tried to smarten yourself up a bit.’ There was a pause, in which Felicity sat glaring at her keyboard. ‘As I say, not the best start to your week. Fortunately for you, Miss Dean is with Mr Rothwell at the moment, so you’ve got time to hang your coat up and make yourself look a bit tidier. Comb your hair, I’d suggest.’ He turned on his heel and strode off up the open-plan office.
    ‘Yes, Mr Lamb, no, Mr Lamb, sod off, Mr Lamb,’ murmured Felicity, and pulled her coat from beneath her desk and went to hang it in the cupboard.
    Felicity was aware, as she walked back to her desk, of the watchful eyes of the other typists focused on her. She was not popular with them. They were all middle-aged, moralistic, and spent much time discussing knitting patterns, diets, and their grown-up children. Felicity was very much an outsider. They were not overtly unfriendly to her, treating her with a sort of caustic tolerance, but her very obvious sensual attractions had an almost animal effect upon them, so that their voices wouldfall and their glances slide away when she arrived. Her blowsy cheerfulness and rude banter made them uneasy. They did not approve of her clothes and had suspicions about her lifestyle. They took satisfaction in the fact that Mr Lamb did not approve of Felicity either, but they knew that his disapproval masked an aggressive fascination with the swing of her hips and the curve of her breasts.
    The Menopausals, Felicity called them.
    Only one of them, Doris, ever went out of her way to be friendly to Felicity, but it was a friendliness that Felicity mistrusted. Doris was a plump, soft woman in her fifties, the oldest of the secretaries, with a sweet voice and a permanently sympathetic expression, which was somewhat marred by the bright watchfulness of her small eyes. They were eyes that would fasten confidingly on those of her listener, and all Doris’s communications seemed to have a confidential, secretive quality. She would show little acts of kindness to Felicity, bringing her the occasional coffee, consulting her on the choice of wool for a matinee jacket for one of her beloved grandchildren, showing her photographs of herself and her husband on holiday in Spain. But in spite of these little displays of affection, Felicity mistrusted Doris. She suspected her of talebearing, of gossiping, of spreading rumours about what Felicity did out of office hours. Give her Louise any day. A bit sharp-tongued, but at least she was straight up and down with it.
    As Felicity sat back down at her desk, Doris smiled across at her. ‘Ooh, Felicity,’ she said in a voice like Dralon, ‘have you seen this new lady partner yet, the one you’re working for?’
    ‘No,’ said Felicity, ‘I haven’t.’
    ‘Oh, no, you wouldn’t have, would you? You were just a tiny bit late again, wasn’t you? Well, she’s ever so lovely, Felicity. Really elegant – beautiful suit she has on.’ Doris’s voice was humbly rapturous.
    Felicity took all this in with interest. ‘Does she seem nice, then?’
    ‘Well, I wouldn’t know, Felicity. I haven’t spoken to her yet. But she’s got one of those looks – you know—’
    ‘Stuck-up,’ interjected Louise, in a tart voice, not looking up from her word processor.
    ‘Ooh, no!’ said Doris gently. ‘No. She did look very proper. But I wouldn’t call her stuck-up. No.’
    ‘You’ll have to watch yourself round her,’ remarked Louise to Felicity. ‘That’s all I’d say.’
    God, thought Felicity, this didn’t sound too promising. When Doris had gone back to her word processor, she got up and went into Miss Dean’s empty room. She surveyed