Slowly opening my eyes, I spotted the metal container lying on the desk in front of me. Picking it up with two throbbing fingers, I fumbled for the message.
Mr Linton,
Look in your top drawer. There, you shall find a number of handwritten notes that I require to be typed and ready for dispatch within half an hour.
Rikkard Ambrose
With a heavy heart and even heavier fingers, I opened the drawer which, just yesterday, had only held a few pencils and other office equipment. Now, however...
Reaching inside, I groaned, and, with my last bit of strength, managed to lift the giant pile of paper out of the drawer. It landed on the desktop with a thump. Panting, I snatched up a piece of paper and started to scribble.
Dear, deranged Mr Ambrose,
Nobody can write that fast! Especially not with that devil's machine! You're insane! Go jump into the Thames and die!
Yours sincerely,
Lillian Linton
Oh, and P.S. Remember what I said about loving you? Forget it! I hate you! Hate! Hate!!!
A few moments later, a plink announced the arrival of a reply from Ambrose the Mighty.
Mr Linton,
Research has shown that machine-aided writing far surpasses the world record of thirty words per minute that was achieved by a renowned stenographer. Now that you have access to such machinery, make use of it. I shall expect you to work twice as fast as before, and I shall speed up my own work accordingly.
Mr Ambrose
P.S. I love you, too.
I swallowed, my eyes caught on the last few words.
I love you, too.
Too!
Bastard son of a bachelor! How did he know? How could he know that I was lying through my teeth?
Damn him, the sweet, chauvinistic arse!
But I wasn't beaten. Not by any means. Shoving the pile of notes towards the machine, I started to dig in. By the time Mr Rikkard Ambrose stepped into my office again, I was hanging in my chair, panting, exhausted—but victorious!
'Ah.' He surveyed the pile of typed paper with cool disinterest. 'Adequate. Quite adequate.'
'It was no problem,' I rasped, giving him a triumphant smile. 'This new machine is fabulous. The best invention ever.'
'How fortunate. Then you won't mind my dictating a few more letters, will you?'
Why? Why couldn't I keep my big mouth shut?
'Let us begin, shall we?' He cleared his throat.
'TothepresidentofHenningtonMachinery&Co,Imustexpressmydispleasurewiththedirectionyourbusinesshasrecentlytaken—'
I put up with it for ten more minutes. Then, finally, I'd had enough. Work was one thing, this was another altogether.
'Slower!' I growled between clenched teeth.
Mr Ambrose's incessant stream of correspondence ceased. A pair of ice-cold eyes fixed on me.
'What did you say, Mr Linton?'
Meeting his gaze head-on, I raised my chin. 'I said slower!'
'Are you trying to give me orders, Mr Linton?'
YOU ARE READING
Storm of Bells
RomanceNever do what you're told, never boil your own head in vinegar and, most important of all, never ever marry a man-those have always been Lilly Linton's principles for a happy, carefree life. So, how the heck did she end up engaged to multinational i...
