Ruby was about to say no when she had a light-bulb moment. Really, why hadn’t she thought to mention this before?
‘Not professionally,’ she said briskly. ‘But I ran the family household for seven years from the age of eighteen till I was twenty-five. My mother was ill at the time,’ she raced on before he could ask why. She didn’t add that her mother had actually died of ovarian cancer a year after she’d finished school, her precious father leaving it up to Ruby to help her shattered younger brothers through school and then university. The rotten mongrel deserted them two months after the funeral to live with his rich mistress in her fancy city penthouse. Yes, he’d given them the family house to live in and, yes, he’d paid the bills, but that had been the extent of his support.
‘I did all the cooking and cleaning,’ she added, in case Mr Marshall thought they’d been rich enough to pay someone to do that.
‘Your mother must have been very proud of you,’ he remarked. ‘And is she well now?’
Ruby blanked from her mind the grief that still consumed her whenever she thought of her lovely, brave mother. ‘No,’ she bit out, gritting her teeth at the same time. ‘She passed away. Cancer.’
‘Bloody cancer,’ Mr Marshall muttered, then was silent for a few seconds. ‘Sorry,’ he said at last. ‘My wife died of cancer. Still, no use going on about it, is there?’ he continued gruffly before she could make any sympathetic noises. ‘Only makes things worse. What’s done is done. So, how old are you now, Ruby?’
‘Thirty.’
‘I see. And what have you been doing with yourself since your mother’s death?’
Clearly, he thought her mother had died fairly recently and not a decade earlier. Ruby decided not to enlighten him as it would only mean answering awkward questions that weren’t really relevant to this interview. She hated talking about that time in her life. Hated it!
‘Well, I’ve always worked part-time in the hospitality industry,’ she explained, ‘even when I was at school. So once I had the opportunity I took off by myself, travelling all over northern NSW and Queensland, working in various resorts and clubs. I’ve done lots of things, from serving behind the bar to waitressing to the occasional bit of work as a receptionist. But I’m a little tired of that life, so I’ve come back to Sydney to find suitable work whilst I study for a degree in social science.’
‘That sounds very commendable. And you sound like a very nice girl. Not that Housewives For Hire ever recommends any other kind. I have it on good authority that they’re very reputable, so I’m sure you’ll be fine for the job. Unfortunately, I’m in London on business at the moment and I won’t be back in Sydney for over a week. I hate leaving my house empty so this is what I’ll do. My sister lives in Sydney in a nearby suburb—I live in Mosman—and she has keys to my house. I’ll contact her and have her meet with you there tomorrow morning. She can show you the house and answer any questions you might have about me. But if you want it, then the job’s yours, Ruby.’
If she wanted it? Of course she wanted it. Wanted it like crazy! He sounded like such a nice man. ‘Oh, Mr Marshall, that’s wonderful. I’ll do a good job. I promise.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now hand the phone back to Barbara for me so I can give her my sister’s details. Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently to someone in the background. ‘I won’t be long. You go down to breakfast and I’ll join you there.’
Ruby handed the phone back and just sat there, dazed and elated, whilst Barbara spoke to Mr Marshall and tapped some more on her computer. Finally, the woman hung up and turned her swivel chair to face her.
‘You’re a lucky girl, Ruby,’ she said with a smile on her face. ‘Mr Marshall is none other than Sebastian Marshall, head of Harvest Productions, which you may or may not have heard of.’
She hadn’t, and shook her head in the negative.
‘They produce several highly successful television shows,’ Barbara went on. ‘I’m sure you’d have heard of them. Australia at Noon... What Word Am I? The soapie Elizabeth Street. But the jewel in their crown is Battle at the Bar.’
‘That’s a very popular show,’ Ruby agreed, despite only having watched it the once. But she’d heard a lot about it and was always meaning to watch the series some more. The hero, or anti-hero really, was a lawyer named Caesar Battle who defended the sometimes indefensible and often won. A loner, he was an enigmatic character who worked hard and played hard but still had an integrity about him that was very likeable. Women lusted after him. Men wanted to be him. The show had won countless awards, especially for its handsome main actor whose name eluded her.
‘I’m sorry it’s only a temporary position,’ Barbara continued, ‘but it’s better than nothing.’
‘Much better,’ Ruby agreed with a smile.
‘The job won’t be too hard, either. Mr Marshall is a widower, with no children.’
‘So how old is Mr Marshall?’ It had been impossible to tell from his voice. A widower, however, suggested someone elderly.
‘Forty, according to the internet,’ came the crisp reply.
‘Goodness. That young.’ Ruby suddenly thought of her father, who’d been forty when he began having an affair. A dangerous age, forty. Or so she’d been told.
Thinking of her father always made Ruby angry. Angry and cynical and just a little wary, when it came to her dealings with men. The last thing she wanted was to stuff up this job by presenting herself with the wrong look.
‘Does your company have a dress code?’ she asked. ‘A uniform perhaps?’
‘No. My girls wear whatever they like. Though under your circumstances,’ Barbara added with a knowing glint in her eye, ‘I would suggest dressing conservatively. Professional.’
Ruby glanced down at her outfit, which she considered reasonably conservative. Yes, the skirt ended above her knee and the top did show a hint of cleavage but by modern standards it was hardly provocative. Still...
‘That’s very good advice,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Sensible girl,’ Barbara praised. ‘Now, I’ll just contact Mr Marshall’s sister and we’ll make arrangements for tomorrow.’
CHAPTER TWO
RUBY WAS EARLY. Partly because she didn’t want to risk being late, but mostly because she wanted to have a good look at the house—and the area—all by herself.
She’d expected her new boss’s house to be posh. Wealthy people who lived in Mosman didn’t live in ordinary houses. And she wasn’t disappointed. It was posh. So posh and so elegant, in fact, that it took her breath away.