“You’re right.”
I blink. “I am?”
“Call my editor and tell him I’ll need another couple of months.”
“Me?”
“You’re my PA, aren’t you?”
I nod.
He waves his hand towards the phone on my desk. “Get to it. You’ll find contact details somewhere on that computer. I have no idea how any of the useless PAs before you organised any of it. Oh, and I sent you a guest list for my next party. Make sure you send invitations out today, please.”
“By email or post?”
“Email. Again, all the contact information for everyone on the list will be on that computer somewhere.” He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, and sighs. “This is good.”
I smile. It might be a silly thing to be praised for, but it’s so nice.
“You’ve got work to do,” he growls.
I’m curious about what he’s going to do—try to improve what he’s written or start over—but I don’t dare ask. Instead, I get on with the two tasks he’s set me. It doesn’t take long to find his editor’s details. It really doesn’t feel right to be the one asking for an extension. Is he testing me? Seeing how far he can push before I refuse to do something? My pulse quickens as I dial the number. A woman answers.
“Hello, Kevin Mitchell’s office. How can I help?”
“Hello. I’m Archie Morris, Hamish Cameron’s PA.”
“You’re new.” She doesn’t sound surprised.
“Could I speak to Mr Mitchell?”
“He’s busy. I can take a message and have him call Hamish back.”
“Hamish wanted me to handle the call.”
“Oh.” She stretches the vowel out into a knowing tone. “I’ll ask Kevin to callyouback, then. Is there a good time?”
“Before five if possible?” That’s the end of my working day.
“I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye.”
I put the phone down and turn my attention to the guest list, which has been sent to my desktop via the local network. I’m not sure why Hamish doesn’t just email things to me. When I open the list, the first thing I notice is that every name is masculine. What kind of parties does Hamish hold? It seems a little far-fetched that everyone in his friendship circle would be male. I scan the list for his publisher’s name, but Kevin Mitchell isn’t on there. I try not to read too much into it. Why would Hamish and his editor be friends?
The list also has the date and time of the party. It’s this Friday, at nine in the evening. That’s late. And short notice, as it’s already Wednesday. Still, it’s not for me to question these things. The trouble is, I’m not sure what to put in the invitations.
I turn around. Hamish’s fingers are resting on his keyboard, but he’s not actually typing.
“Hamish?”
“What?” He doesn’t turn around.
“What do you want me to say in the invitations?”
“Whatever you’d normally put in. I thought you were meant to be good at your job?”
