Free Charlie Glass's Slippers by Holly McQueen Page B

to the page with the “New Body Boot Camp” article, rereading for the fifth (or is it the sixth?) time the writer’s extolling of the solicitous ex-marine trainers, the delicious portions of salad, and the daily Think Yourself Thinner meditation sessions. And it sounds absurd. I was beingridiculous to think that the best way to kick-start my new, post-Dad existence is through something as frivolous and silly as getting thin. There are other ways to start rebuilding my life—serious ways, and plenty of them. This job, for example. It’s a great opportunity that’s fallen into my lap, and I intend to make the most of it.
    “Charlene?” Annabel has popped her head around the doorway of the library again. She’s phenomenally healthy-looking: clear-eyed and glowy-cheeked, though that may just be an excitable flush from spending the last ten minutes barking at the elevator maintenance man on the phone. I guess she’s some kind of personal assistant or private secretary, because she’s far too glamorous ever to be considered as anything so domestic as a housekeeper. I mean, Mum was a housekeeper, and Mum was beautiful, but Annabel looks like she could have just stalked off a catwalk in Paris or Milan.
    “Actually, it’s Charlotte.”
    “What?”
    “My name. Charlotte. Or you can just call me Charlie, because that’s what my friends . . .”
    But Annabel isn’t interested, either in my friends or in getting my name right. “I’ve just managed to get hold of Mr. Broderick on his mobile. He should be here in five minutes. Can I get you anything in the meantime? Tea? Coffee? Biscuits?”
    “No, thank you.” Tempted though I always am by the offer of a biscuit, I’ve made a huge effort with my appearance this morning, and I don’t want to go into this interview with crumbs all down my front. “I’m perfectly okay just to wait.”
    “Fine. Oh, and by the way, I should have said before—please keep your phone in your bag while you’re inside the house.” She nods at my mobile, which I’ve been fiddling with to relieve the boredom, and which is still sitting in my lap. “The family consider it a security risk.”
    “A security risk?”
    “Yes. People taking photos, those photos finding their way into newspapers . . . I’m sure you understand, with a family like the Brodericks, that privacy is at an absolute premium.”
    “Er—yes. I understand.” I’m kicking myself, now, for not asking Marit more about exactly who these Broderick people are . What if they’re people I’m meant to have heard of ? The name doesn’t ring any bells, but then I’m rubbish at general knowledge.
    “Good.” Annabel gives a brisk nod. “Well, I’ll leave you to prepare, then.”
    Which begs the question, doesn’t it: prepare what ?
    I mean, after Marit called back yesterday to tell me she’d arranged an interview, I did spend several hours getting as prepared as I possibly could. But now Annabel has made me feel that there’s more I could be doing. More I should have done. Great . Just what I needed, at the last minute, for my rickety confidence. And I can’t even ask her what she meant, exactly, because she’s disappeared into the hallway again.
    When my mobile rings, I practically jump out of my skin trying to get to it before anyone hears it.
    “Lucy?” I hiss into my phone when I finally locate it and see that it’s her calling. “Look, I can’t talk . . .”
    “I was just calling to wish you luck.”
    “Thanks, but I really can’t talk. I’m not meant to use a phone while I’m here. It’s a security risk, apparently.”
    “Security risk?”
    “Yes. Do you know who these people are? I mean, did Pal’s sister-in-law ever mention them to you?”
    “No, all I know is that they’re stinkingly rich. Though that’s probably enough of a need for security in itself. Oh, and the son is a racing driver, of course.”
    “A racing driver?” I’m filled with respect for the teenage Rob/Ron.