Free Buttoned-Up Secretary, British Boss by Susanne James Page B

she went over to the small pile of dusters, selecting one which had obviously not been used, because it was still neatly folded, and tied it around her head. At least that would be some protection.
    Then she started to tackle the floor. Masses of dusthad gathered along the skirting boards and in the corners; picking up a broom, she began sweeping it up carefully, collecting it in the dustpan she’d found. The vacuum cleaner could do the rest, she thought, going over to switch it on.
    As she moved the machine briskly over the huge Persian rug, she soon began to see the colourful design beneath. Although it clearly wasn’t new, it was a beautiful piece of soft furnishing which must have cost a fortune. When she’d finished that, she got down on her hands and knees and polished the dark-oak flooring until it shone, realizing that she was actually enjoying doing all this. She’d never minded house work in any case, but doing it in someone else’s place was slightly more interesting, or so it seemed just then. When she was satisfied that the whole area resembled something other than a receptacle for grime, Sabrina stood back and surveyed it critically. Well, that would do for a start.
    But there was still a long way to go, and for the next two hours she took down and wiped clean all the books from the shelves, polished the oak doors of the fitted cupboards and worked a damp sponge along the window frames.
    She decided to leave Alexander’s desk until last. Then she suddenly realized that there was still the old granite fireplace to deal with, almost hidden by a couple of high-backed chairs standing in front of it. With almost wild abandon, she scooped up all the bric-a-brac from the mantelpiece: old post cards, a torch which didn’t work, a box of matches, a nail file, a cork screw, a box of tissues, another one of plasters and some cough sweets. She shook her head as she put it all to one side. How can anyone—how can Alexander McDonald—live like this? she thought. But then, he didn’t live here, this was where he worked. And none of this disorder registered with him. He only had eyes for the words taking form in front of him.
    Standing in front of the chimneypiece was a huge jug of dried flowers long past their sell-by date, so that they had mostly disintegrated into a powdery heap. Well, she’d dump those and replace them with some fresh greenery from the garden. She’d spotted plenty of bushes down there that had some colourful leaves on one or two of them.
    When she finally got round to tidying his desk, Sabrina realized that here she must not take liberties. This was Alexander’s domain, and he wouldn’t like anything put back differently.
    Sitting herself in his chair for a moment, it gave Sabrina a genuine thrill as she stared at everything in front of her. There were countless pens, pencils—most of them chewed at the top—rubbers, sticking tape, directories and reference books. Not many people had the chance to sit here where all the imagination flowed, all the expertise, culminating in Alexander’s books, which sold in their millions. Almost reverentially, Sabrina cleaned the dust from every corner of the desk, wiped over the computer and telephone and tidied the books, before replacing everything she’d moved back to where it had been before.
    Suddenly, a small snapshot fell to the floor; it had obviously been tucked inside a page somewhere. Picking it up, Sabrina saw that it was a picture of a somewhat younger Alexander on a beach somewhere, tanned and wearing a brief pair of swimming trunks, his arms clasped tightly around the waist of a dark-haired young woman in a bikini. She was gazing up at him adoringly,and the whole scene told its own story. Those were two people very much in love.
    Sabrina put the snap back into one of the books, wondering who that girl had been. Someone who was once very special to Alexander, she thought.
    Then she shrugged. There were no doubt plenty of other photographs