‘Look, George.’ Daisy Miller jabbed excitedly at the newspaper spread out on her lap. George Dale looked over her shoulder.
‘You mean the unrest in Germany? It’s really …’
‘No, no,’ said Daisy, impatiently. ‘This!’ She pointed to an advertisement under the news item. ‘What do you think?’ George peered at the ad, which was in rather small print.
Wanted: Competent young typist needed for secretarial work with respectable lady. Should be prepared to travel. Interest in films an advantage. Apply Thursday to Mrs Peabody, Elysian Hotel.
‘Today’s Thursday,’ said Daisy, happily. ‘So, George, what do you think?’
George laughed. ‘I think you want to apply! You know you hate working at Miss Grantley’s Typing Bureau. I don’t blame you,’ he added. ‘She’s a right old dragon.’
Daisy was hardly listening. ‘Interest in films an advantage.’ Her blue eyes widened. ‘Do you think this lady’s a film star?’
George grinned. ‘I can just see a film star advertising in the Charlton Post! Besides, it said respectable lady, didn’t it? What film star could that describe?’
‘Oh, you are silly, George! Maybe she’s a producer — or a director — or something. Who cares? The ad says be prepared to travel. Oh, George! Imagine me in London, Paris, New York!’
‘More likely to be Ludlow, Penzance and Newcastle!’
‘Don’t be such a wet blanket, George. I just know today’s going to be my lucky day.’ She got up, smoothed down her skirt and set her pull-on hat at a becoming angle on her honey-blonde hair. ‘How do I look?’
George glanced at the bright, lively face smiling at him under the hat, and the slim figure in the blue suit and fur-collared coat. ‘You’ll do,’ he said, gruffly.
Daisy smiled to herself. That was about the highest compliment George would ever pay. She looked at her watch. ‘We’ve got about fifteen minutes left of lunch. I’m going to go over to the hotel right now.’
George jumped up and walked along with her. ‘I’d better come. Someone’s got to look out for you. You’d believe what anyone told you.’
Daisy grinned. ‘Listen to the wise old Grandpa. You’re only nine months older than me, George Dale, and don’t you forget it!’
‘Well, I’m seventeen, and you’re only just over sixteen. And you’re a girl. I’ve seen more of the world, being a man,’ proclaimed George, pompously.
Daisy made a very rude face at him. ‘Honestly, George, what rot you talk! This is 1931, you know, not the Dark Ages! Girls are every bit as capable as boys. Anyway, a lot you see of the world, stuck in Miss Grantley’s storeroom! I bet I meet more people than you, in the typists’ room!’
‘But you’ve always got your head stuck in film magazines, mooning over film stars,’ said George, crossly. ‘That’s all dream stuff, fairytales! None of it is real.’
‘And I suppose the things you read in those detective magazines of yours are so much more real,’ Daisy teased. She was referring to the adventures of George’s great hero, the famous private detective Philip Woodley-Foxe, who also wrote a column in the Real Detective Mysteries magazine. ‘I bet he makes most of it up!’
George’s green eyes flashed. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about!’ He rubbed at his ginger hair. ‘I’ll have you know he is the greatest private detective in the world! He worked for years at the Surete in Paris, and at Scotland Yard, and with the New York detectives! Now he’s come back to Britain and opened his new agency, and it’s already famous! Lots of really well-known people have used his services. Plus there are photos, and everything. It’s all true.’ He glared at Daisy’s unrepentant, impish face. ‘Anyway, here we are so you’d better stop saying silly things if you want to impress this Mrs Peabody person.’
The Elysian was the grandest hotel in Charlton Wells, the spa town where Daisy and George lived. At the reception desk, a very superior sort of person, whose hair shone like patent leather, raised his eyebrows at them.
‘Yes? May I help you?’
Under his scrutiny, Daisy was immediately conscious that her smart suit was in fact a cheap imitation of a famous brand, and that her hat was a couple of years old. She coloured. ‘I’m … er … here for Mrs Peabody. I mean, for the job. It said to come here …’
‘Whom shall I say is calling?’
‘Er … my name’s Miller, Daisy Miller. I’m from Miss Grantley’s Typing Bureau.’
The superior person turned to an underling. ‘Call through to Mrs Peabody’s suite. Tell her a young person named Miss Miller, from a typing bureau, is here, about the job.’ He turned back to them. ‘Please take a seat in the lounge.’ He looked haughtily at George. ‘You may wait there, sir, till your friend returns.’
‘As if he’s doing me a big favour,’ said George to Daisy, later, when they were sitting in the lounge. ‘Look at him, still watching us as if we’re going to make off with the silver or something. Can’t stand that sort of person!’
‘Mmm,’ said Daisy, absently. ‘I wonder if …’
‘Miss Miller?’ They turned. A rather grim-faced woman, dressed all in black, was standing behind them.
Daisy’s heart sank. Was this Mrs Peabody? She looked worse than Miss Grantley! ‘Er … yes, I’m Daisy Miller.’
‘I am Irene Taylor, Mrs Peabody’s personal assistant.’ Her grey eyes narrowed. ‘You are very young.’
‘Oh, not so young,’ said Daisy, hastily. ‘And very, very competent.’
‘We’ll leave that to Mrs Peabody to decide, shall we?’ said the maid, tartly. ‘You had better come up, then, Miss Miller.’
‘Good luck,’ George mouthed at Daisy’s retreating back, before settling down to read the newspaper.