Free Highland Fling by Katie Fforde

it occurred to Jenny that her client hadn’t expressed a lot of interest in the workers, either. Grant-Dempsey’s last email had just asked her to look at profits and losses. He specialised in really short emails, but this one had been even curter than usual. ‘Give me the bottom line.’ It had annoyed Jenny at the time. Now she was here, and was beginning to see the human side of the business, it seemed even more heartless. Perhaps she shouldn’t work for such a blatant capitalist. Thetrouble was, he was a blatant capitalist who gave her a lot of work and paid her well and promptly, which couldn’t be said about all her clients. Henry might tell her that her Mr Grant-Dempsey was using her, but she’d be mad to give him up – he was her route to a bit of independence from Henry, something Jenny wanted badly.
    ‘Come and meet Miss McIntyre, my right-hand woman,’ said Philip, opening the door to an office without knocking. ‘Kirsty’s worked here all her life.’
    Late middle-aged, and smartly dressed, from her iron-grey hair to her sensible, leather-shod feet, Philip’s ‘right-hand woman’ was hostile. She was wearing the kind of well-cut tweed that was both warm and smart, if formal. She made Jenny terribly aware of her Aran sweater, her tartan trews and her loafers. If it hadn’t already been too late, Jenny felt she would have suffered frostbite rather than have appeared before this woman so eccentrically dressed.
    Completely unaware of any tension, Philip breezed on. ‘Kirsty, this is Jenny Porter, who’s here to sort us all out.’
    ‘Good morning, Miss Porter,’ said Kirsty, making her position on the use of Christian names on brief acquaintance quite clear. She had the kind of Scottish accent that made Miss Jean Brodie seem lacking in refinement.
    ‘Good morning, Miss McIntyre,’ said Jenny, taking the hint.
    Philip turned to Jenny. ‘Anything you want, just ask Kirsty. She’ll make sure you have everything you need. Now, I’ll be off. I’ve got a lot on.’
    Without Philip, Jenny felt the chill of Miss McIntyre’s dislike. She looked as if she would make sure Jenny had everything she needed only if it included strychnine.
    Jenny swallowed. ‘I hope you won’t find my visit too much of an intrusion.’ It was a hope doomed to die before it had been uttered. Seeing the other woman raise a disapproving eyebrow at her clothes, Jenny felt obliged to explain. ‘I brought all the wrong things for Scotland. I had to buy some others. It was either trews or a kilt, and I didn’t know which tartan I should have.’ Jenny smiled, although she knew she would get no woman-to-woman understanding about sartorial cock-ups from Kirsty McIntyre.
    There was not even a twitch. ‘Mr Dalmain said you must be allowed to see everything you ask for.’ Her scepticism was blatant.
    ‘Yes.’ Jenny was emphatic. ‘I’m here to help, but I can’t unless I know everything.’
    ‘Are you here to help? I had the impression that you were here to prove the company was unviable, and to close us down as soon as possible.’
    Jenny suddenly felt too hot in her Aran sweater. It could have been the central heating, but she knew that, really, it was the rush of guilt, because what Miss McIntyre said was probably true.
    ‘I’m to find out what is going wrong with the company. If there’s something that can be done to make it go better, well, that is what I’ll tell my client and he will act accordingly.’
    ‘Your client?’
    ‘Yes. I’m what is known as a virtual assistant. I work for several clients. Mr Grant-Dempsey and his syndicateare just one of them. We communicate mostly by email.’
    Miss McIntyre nodded so slightly it was hardly noticeable. This tiny movement conveyed every negative emotion from disbelief to disgust, barely stopping short of hatred.
    Jenny’s smile felt artificial, even to her. Fleetingly she wondered if her client stayed in California to avoid actually meeting the people he put out of