Cold Heart Read Free

pristine desk. Rob nodded towards the paper, and said he had typed it himself. When she asked why he had no references from his last employer, he told her that he had refused to go down on him and, equally candidly, that he was homosexual. Then he had laughed and added that she probably knew that already, and probably he had not got this job either.
    ‘Yes, you have.’ Lorraine surprised even herself. She hadn’t given it as much thought as she should have.
    Decker’s handshake was strong and he assured her that he would not let her down.
    ‘I hope not, Rob. This is very important to me – I want the agency to succeed more than you will ever know. Maybe when you get to know me better you’ll find out why, but in the meantime, when can you start?’
    ‘Why not right now? We need some plants in here, and I have a contact in a nursery – I get the best, half-price.’
    Lorraine arranged salary and office keys, discussed hours, and then, almost as an afterthought, asked if he liked dogs. He told her another anecdote, about when he had worked in a poodle parlour, and she said that Tiger was not exactly a poodle and needed firm handling. Just before Decker left he seemed suddenly vulnerable, and Lorraine liked him for that too. She knew Rob Decker would become a good friend.
    The following morning, Lorraine looked over her office. As promised, Decker had bought two ficus trees in copper buckets, a mass of pink and white impatiens in a glazed terracotta planter, and a deep square plain glass vase, which he had filled with Casablanca lilies and placed on the little table in Reception. The whole place seemed to have come alive. He had left on her desk a note of the cost of each plant and a receipt, plus watering instructions. He had also bought coffee, tea, cookies and skimmed milk, and a new percolator, which he insisted was his own, so that not only was there a sweet fragrance from the blooms but a wonderful smell of fresh coffee.
    There were no calls and no work on offer, so at lunchtime Decker and Lorraine went off to buy some exhibition posters and prints from the Metropolitan Museum of Art shop, as the office walls were bare. He also talked Lorraine into stopping off to pick up an elegant up lighter to put in Reception, a swing-arm graphite lamp, a violet glass ashtray for her desk, and – having divined her sweet tooth as though by magic – a jar of jelly beans. By three o’clock their new purchases were on display. The advertising had, as yet, failed to generate any work, but she was not disheartened, she knew things would take time, and during the afternoon they had been able to get to know each other better.
    Lorraine never divulged everything about her background, but Decker knew she had been a cop, and knew she had had a drink problem. In fact, he was such a good listener she felt that she had told him more than she really should have, but he was equally forthcoming about his life and his partner, with whom he had lived for eight years – Adam Elliot, late forties, a writer for films, TV or washing-powder commercials, still hoping to crack the big time before he turned fifty.
    They left the office at six. Not one phone call had come in: it was Thursday, 26 October. Decker had asked Lorraine if she would like to have dinner over the weekend at his place, but despite the offer of masala chicken and chocolate pie, she had declined. She felt that perhaps she should keep a little distance between them.
    Friday was just as silent, telephone-wise and job-wise, and they had talked even more, had lunch together again and discussed how they should rethink the adverts. Decker suggested they use Adam to reword them in a way that might grab a potential client. Again Lorraine refused his offer of lunch or dinner over the weekend. The initial buzz of her getting her new life together began to dry up. She didn’t feel so confident any more and even her new face began to annoy her: she was so used to flicking her hair forward