My back is prickling with embarrassment. I can’t bring myself to turn round. Shall I pretend to be so engrossed in work that I haven’t noticed he’s here? Yes. Good plan.
I pick up the phone and dial a random number.
‘Hello?’ I say stagily. ‘It’s Sylvie from Willoughby House calling to talk about our event. Can you call me back? Thanks.’
I put down the phone, turn round and do an exaggerated double take at the sight of Robert standing there in his monolithic dark suit, holding a briefcase.
‘Oh, hi!’ I exclaim gushingly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’
His face remains impassive, but his eyes flicker to my computer screen, to the phone and back to me. They’re so dark and impenetrable I can’t read them. In fact, his whole face has a kind of off-putting, closed-up air. As though what you see is the tip of the iceberg.
Not like Dan. Dan is open. His eyes are clear and true. If he frowns, I can usually guess why. If he smiles, I know what the joke is. This guy looks as if the joke might be that no one will ever guess it was him who severed all those heads and hid them in the coal pit.
Then, instantly, I chide myself. Stop exaggerating. He’s not that bad.
‘Most telephone numbers begin with a zero,’ he says matter-of-factly.
Damn.
And bloody hell. He was watching my fingers deliberately, to catch me out. That shows how sneaky he is. I need to be on my guard.
‘Some don’t,’ I say vaguely, and call up a random document on my screen. It’s a budget for a harpsichord concert we did last year, I belatedly realize, but if he queries it I’ll say I’m doing an audit exercise. Yes.
I feel all fake and self-conscious, sitting here under his gaze – and it’s his fault, I decide. He shouldn’t have such a forbidding air. It’s not conducive to … anything. At that moment, I hear Clarissa on the stairs – and as she enters she actually gives a little squeak of dismay at the sight of him.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he says to her. ‘I want a meeting with both of you. I want a few answers about a few things.’
That’s exactly what I mean. How aggressive does that sound?
‘Fine,’ I say coolly. ‘Clarissa, why don’t you make some coffee? I’ll just finish up here.’
I’m not going to jump when he says jump. We have busy lives. We have agendas. What does he think we do all day? I close down the harpsichord concert budget, file a couple of stray documents which are littering the screen (Clarissa leaves everything on the desktop) and then thoughtlessly click on some JPEG which has been minimized.
At once the screen is filled with the image of a woman with a massive trout pout and a see-through bra, her fingers splayed over her breasts (excellent hand placement). My stomach heaves in horror. Shit. I’m an IDIOT. Close down, close down … My face is puce as I dementedly click my mouse, trying to get rid of the picture for good. At last it disappears, and I swivel round in my chair with a shrill laugh.
‘Ha ha! You’re probably wondering why I had that picture up on the screen! It was actually …’ My mind casts around desperately. ‘… research. For a possible exhibition of … erotica.’
Now my face is flaming even harder. I should never have attempted to say ‘erotica’ out loud. It’s a bad word, ‘erotica’, almost as bad as ‘moist’.
‘Erotica?’ Robert sounds a bit stunned.
‘Historical. Through the ages. Victorian, Edwardian, compared to modern … er … It’s only at the early planning stages,’ I finish lamely.
There’s a bit of a silence.
‘Does Willoughby House contain any erotica?’ says Robert at last, frowning. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was my aunt’s thing.’
Of course it isn’t her bloody thing! But I have to say something, and from the depths of my memory I pluck an image.
‘There’s a picture of a girl on a swing in one of the archived print collections,’ I tell him.
‘A girl on a swing?’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t sound very …’
‘She’s naked,’ I elaborate. ‘And fairly … you know. Fulsome. I guess for a Victorian man, she’d be quite alluring.’
‘What about for a modern man?’ His dark eyes gleam at me.
Is that appropriate, for his eyes to gleam? I’m going to pretend I didn’t notice. Or hear the question. Or start this conversation.