Butter Wouldn't Melt Read Free

hoped, it was a letter from a firm of lawyers, and not just any old lawyers, but a firm in the City of London with a very grand and old-fashioned sounding title – Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague – arranged beneath an elaborate gold crest and a foundation date in the mid-nineteenth century.
    â€˜How did you manage it?’ I asked.
    â€˜Contacts,’ he replied casually. ‘No, seriously, one of the Montagues is the lawyer for the firm who’re developing Thames Vista Estate, and they owe me a favour. You have to get through an interview as well, so it’s not a foregone conclusion.’
    â€˜Thanks anyway,’ I answered, already scanning the letter.
    They wanted me to come down the very next day, to an address in the Minories, EC3, which sounded very grand indeed. As I let my imagination run that evening I was imagining a stately old house nestled in among the smart office blocks and ancient institutions of the city, quiet and respectable, with only a polished brass plaque to announce their name – Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague – four words that were still going around and around in my head as I fell asleep.
    Next morning I was up early and through the shower while Jemima was still yawning anddishevelled in her nightie. I was determined to make a good impression, and had a clear idea of what Montague, Montague, Todmorden and Montague would expect. They were an old firm, and old-fashioned too, so would expect me not only to be smartly turned out, but in a style that reflected their values.
    I didn’t have to be there until the afternoon, so I badgered Mum into driving me into Henley to buy some new clothes. For once we were largely in agreement on the sort of thing I’d need, and we quickly purchased a set of white blouses, smart black shoes with just an inch of heel, three packs of black stockings and, at her insistence, three packs of plain white knickers and bras to match. I tried to point out that the people who interviewed me weren’t going to be seeing my knickers or bra, but got her lecture on dressing properly in return.
    That left my suit, and while we both agreed it had to be black I couldn’t resist a new style they were showing in Russell’s, which not only had a tapered knee-length skirt and a tight-waisted jacket, but also a neat little waistcoat which I felt gave it a daring touch as well as making me look as if I had hips and a bust. Mum said I looked like a boy who’d dressed up in his sister’s clothes.
    Back at home and inspecting myself in the mirror, I had to admit she was right, but if I looked like a boy then it was a very pretty one. AJ was going to love it, but I brushed my hair out and tied it back in a curly black ponytail instead of the tight bun I’d been planning, which softened the look a little. It was going to have to do anyway as time was getting on and I needed to be at the station in less than half an hour.
    I just made it, and spent the journey fidgeting with impatience and adjusting myself as I rehearsed whatI would say to either Todmorden or one of the Montagues. Only when I got to Paddington did I begin to lose a little enthusiasm. The tube was packed, and I found myself wedged in at armpit height among a group of German tourists who seemed to have spent the morning working out and not bothered to shower. The thought of having to repeat the same journey every morning in even thicker crowds was pretty depressing, until it occurred to me that I might be able to use the journey as an excuse to stay with AJ.
    She lived in Kingsbury, and came in early every morning to her bike couriers, so I would be able to catch a lift as far as the West End of London and get to work with just a short tube journey. I’d spent the night with her a few times, but actually living in her house would be rather different, and opened up all sorts of exciting possibilities, which kept me smiling as I finished my