Free A Girl in Wartime by Maggie Ford Page B

future.
    Hurrying through the main foyer, up the stairs to the second floor, folded umbrella dripping water, she found the
London Herald
with no trouble. The young woman who opened the frosted glass door was the same who’d opened the door to her that first time, but this morning as she entered the outer office, no line of hopeful applicants met her, for which she was grateful.
    â€˜This way, Miss Lovell,’ the lady said, her tone far more courteous than that first time. ‘My name is Miss Cranwell. I’ll take your hat, coat, and your umbrella. I expect you would care to freshen up.’
    Leading the way to the cloakroom, she waited outside while Connie hurried in to relieve herself and hopefully soothe away some of her nervous tension. Afterwards she washed her hands and touched her lips with just the faintest trace of lipstick her father had no idea she owned. Running a hasty comb through her wavy hair that her hat had left flattened, she stood back from the narrow mirror to stare at herself.
    What would Stephen Clayton see? A mature-looking young woman, she hoped. After all she was seventeen now, but her height meant that she could pass for much older and she only hoped Stephen Clayton would see a mature, composed young woman, not a childish bag of nerves.
    The secretary was waiting for her as she came out, refreshed and hopefully calm. The woman’s smile seemed to confirm it as she led the way to the office Connie had entered the last time she was here. As the secretary tapped lightly on the frosted glass, Connie suddenly felt her nerves begin to flutter.
    The secretary looked to be in her early twenties: tall, very sure of herself, trim and beautiful. How could she, at seventeen, for all she already had all the feelings of a woman, dare to think of herself as being competent enough to take on the job being offered, whatever it was? She was a fraud. She would finally betray herself, come out with something stupid and have to admit she wasn’t up to this job, that Stephen Clayton had been misled. He could blame her, not himself, for being so gullible in that new idea he’d excitedly but misguidedly conjured up.
    She wanted to turn and run but was already being ushered into his office, the secretary smoothly withdrawing as he hurried round from his side of the desk to greet her with a hearty handshake. His flesh felt warm.
    â€˜I’m so very glad you’ve decided to go along with this venture. Seeing your talent for drawing, I knew immediately that we would have to put you to work in some capacity. I am still thinking exactly what that capacity might entail.’ He paused, regarding her, and then taking a deep breath, said, ‘I need to be honest with you, Miss Lovell. I never mentioned this in my letter but you will have to undergo a trial period.’
    â€˜A trial period?’ she burst out. There was a catch to all this good news? A few weeks and it would be ‘Sorry, we don’t think you’re up to this.’
    She saw him draw in a deep breath. ‘I’ve had the devil’s own job to convince my superiors that this idea could really lift off. That’s why it’s taken so long. I needed to be certain.’
    â€˜But you’re still not certain,’ she cut in, disappointment making her bold, anger making her forthright. She’d given up a secure job to take up this position, turned down the chance of war work too. And he’d still not asked her to sit down. He seemed on edge. ‘And perhaps I am wasting my time coming here.’
    He turned sharply to look at her.
    â€˜No, of course not! This will be a trial period of a few months, see how it works out, but if it doesn’t, if they feel it’s not working and cut it short, I will make sure you have a job here – in a few months you’ll have learned something of how a newspaper works and I will help you all I can towards a career in the print. Are you willing to give it a