Original Sin Read Free Page A

name were Amanda the CV would have said so.
    “Have you had any previous experience of working in a publishing house?”
    “Only about three times during the last two years. I’ve listed the names of the firms I’ve worked for on page three of my CV.”
    Miss Etienne read on, then looked up, the bright luminous eyes under the curved brows studying Mandy with more interest than she had previously shown.
    She said: “You seem to have done very well at school, but you’ve had an extraordinary variety of jobs since. You haven’t stuck to any of them for more than a few weeks.”
    In three years of temping Mandy had learned to recognize and circumvent most of the machinations of the male sex, but was less assured when it came to dealing with her own. Her instinct, sharp as a ferret’s tooth, told her that Miss Etienne might need careful handling. She thought, that’s what being a temp is, you silly old cow. Here today and gone tomorrow. What she said was: “That’s why I like temporary work. I want to get as wide a variety of experience as possible before I settle down to a permanent job. Once I do, I’d like to stay on and try to make a success of it.”
    Mandy was being less than candid. She had no intention of taking a permanent job. Temporary work, with its freedom from contracts and conditions of service, its variety, the knowledge that she wasn’t tied down, that even the worst job experience could end by the following Friday, suited her perfectly; her plans, however, lay elsewhere. Mandy was saving for the day when, with her friend Naomi, she could afford a smalllock-up shop in the Portobello Road. There Naomi would fashion her jewellery and Mandy would design and make her hats, both of them rising rapidly to fame and fortune.
    Miss Etienne looked again at the curriculum vitae. She said drily: “If your ambition is to find a permanent job then make a success of it, you are certainly unique in your generation.”
    She handed back the curriculum vitae with a quick impatient gesture, rose to her feet, and said: “All right, we’ll give you a typing test. Let’s see if you’re as good as you claim. There’s a second word processor in Miss Blackett’s office on the ground floor. That’s where you’ll be working so you may as well do the test there. Mr. Dauntsey, our poetry editor, has a tape he wants transcribed. It’s in the little archives office.” She got up and added, “We’ll fetch it together. You may as well get some idea of the layout of the house.”
    Mandy said: “Poetry?” This could be tricky, typing from tape. From her experience it was difficult with modern verse to know where the lines began and ended.
    “Not poetry. Mr. Dauntsey is examining and reporting on the archives, recommending which files should be retained, which destroyed. The Peverell Press has been publishing since 1792. There’s some interesting material in the old files and it ought to be properly catalogued.”
    Mandy followed Miss Etienne down the wide curved stairs, across the hall and into the reception room. Apparently they were to use the lift and it ran only from the ground floor. It was hardly, she thought, the best way to get an idea of the layout of the house, but the comment had been promising; it looked as if the job was hers if she wanted it. And from that first view of the Thames, Mandy knew that she did want it.
    The lift was small, little more than five feet square, and as they groaned upwards she was sharply aware of the tall silentfigure whose arm almost brushed her own. She kept her eyes fixed on the grid of the lift but she could smell Miss Etienne’s scent, subtle and a little exotic but so faint that perhaps it wasn’t scent at all but only an expensive soap. Everything about Miss Etienne seemed to Mandy expensive, the dull sheen of the shirt which could only be silk, the double gold chain and gold stud earrings, the cardigan casually slung around her shoulders which had the fine softness of