The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke

By A. F. McKeating

The longer Hilary, the reluctant temp, spends in the civil service, the more distant her dreams of becoming a bestselling author seem to become. At the bottom of the pile and faced with an endless stream of admin, her future looks pretty bleak.

But then one day Rosamund Brown, her bullying manager, pushes Hilary too far. Suddenly there's a whole new mess to clear up. But Hilary's resourceful and, as she discovers, there are plenty of opportunities for someone like her to make to make this accidental career opportunity a success...

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. F. McKeating
• Release date: Mar 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301448074

A. F. McKeating

A. F. McKeating lives and writes in the UK. She has published several novels and short stories. She writes for children as Alison McKeating.

Book preview

The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke

By A. F. McKeating

THE ACCIDENTAL CAREER OF HILARY DARKE

by

A. F. McKeating

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

A. F. McKeating on Smashwords

The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke

Copyright © 2012 by A. F. McKeating

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Text copyright © A. F. McKeating

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Other Books by A. F. McKeating

Prologue

Her visitor came again last night.

It was the same as all the other times. She didn't know what hour it was, but she sensed that it was very late. Long past midnight. She was sitting in an empty office. Rows of desks receded into the darkness beyond the pool of light that fell over her workstation. She was the last living being in the building. Everyone else had deserted the place hours ago.

Silence pressed in from all sides like a thick, smothering blanket. The computer monitor, still switched on, cast a dim light across her restless hands as they skittered over the keyboard. Tapping, tapping. A random scattering across the keys. Endless words that never meant anything. But still she typed on. She had to. Then her hands fell motionless as the moment arrived with its horrible inevitability. She was no longer alone.

No matter how many times she endured this scene, the dull horror was always the same. It never lessened. The presence of another person touched her even before she felt the light hand on her shoulder. Quiet breathing just behind her. A movement of air just there by her shoulder. The faint musky scent of perfume. She knew it was her even before she heard the quiet voice in her ear.

Who’s been sitting in my chair?

She never answered the question; never felt that she had the strength. And then came the soft laugh creeping over her nerves like poison ivy. And what was that other sound? The faint whisper of a blade unsheathed?

Minutes – hours? – crawled by as she counted the heartbeats, until she was able to turn and face her visitor. To see, at last, what gift she had brought her.

But when she turned to look – slowly, ever so slowly, dreading every moment what she would see – she found that she was alone. Each time was just like the last. Always, she felt unutterably relieved and also oddly cheated. If she could face her night time visitor, just once, perhaps she could make her go away forever. But it was like that every time. She always left before she could see her face.

Chapter 1.

Cardiff: 9.30, a dreary Monday morning in July. The long spell of fine weather had just ended and the stale smells of rubbish and dusty pavements rose in the damp air. The city had never smelled so good.

Hilary looked up at Lloyd George House. With its neat, grey façade, the building was a tastefully discreet bastion of the civil service, just off the end of Churchill Way. Nearby, a merry-go-round carried the city's offspring in endless circles, accompanied by the strains of Three Blind Mice. The tune floated over to Hilary as she considered whether it was too late to change her mind. She reminded herself that she was in no position to be choosy. Sighing, she went in and presented herself at the reception desk.

Hilary Darke. She kept her voice calm, despite feeling slightly nervous. Her simple grey and white outfit had been assembled with today's appointment at the bank in mind. For Rosamund Brown, er, DSDC.

The receptionist gave her a security pass and a scant smile. Wait over there.

Hilary sat on a lime green sofa and waited for someone to come and collect her. The colour reminded her of a cocktail she had tried once; sweet, sickly and deceptively addictive. It had all been downhill after the first mouthful.

The girl at the temping agency had told her that, although Hilary was rather over-qualified for the job, she should be grateful for an opportunity to work for the Welsh Government. They wanted her until the end of December, maybe longer. Hilary had kept quiet about her abrupt departure from her previous job, citing lack of opportunities as her reason for switching agencies. She had managed to duck out of offering them any recent references.

Finally, a nondescript lad came to show her upstairs. Mumbling something about computer problems, he escorted her up to a large, open-plan office space on the fourth floor, where he abandoned her by a bank of desks.

They should be out soon.

Hilary sat down at an empty desk. The pall of a new week hung over the office, unleavened by the glow from the stark white lighting overhead. She blinked once, slowly, as if to satisfy herself that the place was real. A handful of people were making a show of working at their computers, although one screen showed an estate agent's website. Feeling restless, she wandered over to the lobby and back, passing a glass-sided office where a man and two women sat round a meeting table. One of the women, thirty-something with blonde hair and rather sharp features, glanced up at Hilary with a faintly accusing expression.

Hilary sat down again, self-consciously bored. The hum of background noise increased as more people entered the office, and two men stopped on either side of her and started up a conversation over her head.

Yeah, the umpire was a wanker.

Let it go, man. Obsession's an ugly quality. See what it did to old Smithy.

They both laughed loudly. Hilary wondered who old Smithy was and whether he found this pair as irritating as she did. As they wandered off, she reached into her bag for the notebook in which she was jotting down ideas for the demise of Sandra Hanson's next victim. Since no-one appeared to care whether she was here or not, she might as well use her time effectively. Sandra had dispatched her first victim with a cocktail of Cinzano and perming solution – messy, but effective, and readily available to the owner of a hair salon – but the next murder needed a little more panache.

She was almost annoyed when the people emerged from the meeting room and approached the desks around her.

The blonde woman greeted her. Hi, I'm Ros. You must be Hilary. We'd better make a start. We're Policy Development Branch. PDB. Society, development, education. We develop synergies between those areas. Roger Jones is our Head of Branch. He's based in Newtown. She launched into a complicated monologue about the team's role in the Department for Societal Development and Cohesion. Hilary was aware of the other two exchanging a glance as her voice droned on.

At last, Ros paused. Any questions?

Are you going to test me later?

Ros looked confused for a moment. She stood up briskly. Caitlin, John, this is Hilary, our new temp. Turning to Hilary, she added, Caitlin will show you what needs to be done.

Behind her glasses, Caitlin's eyes were intelligent and a little wary as she looked at Hilary. She might have been in her late twenties, like Hilary.

Ydych chi'n siarad Cymraeg?

Er, no, said Hilary, feeling awkward. The agency didn't say I had to.

You don't, said Ros.

Caitlin looked faintly annoyed. It would be helpful, she muttered.

Well, Hilary's here now, so let's make use of her, said Ros.

Hilary wasn't sure that she wanted anyone making use of her. She noticed that John was smiling, as though enjoying a private joke. He was a thick-set man with grey-flecked hair. His friendly glance lasted just a moment too long. She looked away quickly.

Right, I'll leave you to get settled in, said Ros, apparently losing interest in Hilary for the time being.

She began a lengthy telephone discussion, her voice carrying over half the office. No, of course the Minister isn't a lawyer… That's your job… Look, I need that clause in the contract, whether you think it's a good idea or not.

Steel-grey polished nails beat an impatient tattoo on the desk. Eventually she put the phone down with a sigh of exasperation.

Honestly, is everything second rate here?

He's just doing his job, said John

Bloody thing. Caitlin glared at her computer. Hey, can you help with this? she asked a man in a yellow polo shirt, who was crawling under a nearby desk.

He got to his feet. What's up?

This doesn't work.

Sure it's not you? he asked in an attempt to sound jovial.

Ros looked up. Yes, Caitlin. It might be you. She gave the engineer a charming smile. I'm glad you're here. My laptop's playing up.

With a slight grimace, Caitlin looked away. I'll give you a quick tour, Hilary. Health and Safety will give you the works this afternoon.

Their cursory excursion round the building was memorable only for Caitlin's marked lack of enthusiasm. Watch out there, she said as they approached the lift. The carpet's loose. It's a bit of a death trap.

I didn’t know the civil service was such a dangerous place.

Facilities haven't got round to fixing it yet. Caitlin jabbed at the lift button. Apparently we're expendable. It's a way to cut the pensions bill, I suppose.

Going down. Lifft i lawr, chirped the lift.

At least someone sounded glad to be here.

On their return upstairs, Caitlin handed her a pile of documents for photocopying, saying, So much for the paperless office. That should keep you going for a bit.

Lucky me, said Hilary. Which way's the photocopier?

*

A little before lunchtime, she splashed her face with cold water and inspected herself in the mirror in the ladies. There was no trace in her features of the nervousness creeping up her spine, although the prospect of returning to the bank for another dressing down had been hanging over her for weeks. She had told herself it would be fine; everyone owed money. But now the day had arrived, she was beginning to doubt herself again. She tried out a hard, go-fuck-yourself kind of smile. No, too sullen. They would never extend her overdraft if she looked at them like that.

Her dark brown eyes glittered as she told herself she needed to take the situation in hand. She gave a broader smile. Too many teeth. She looked mildly insane now. Better drop the smile and play it straight. She tried to will herself into the character of a more confident, upbeat Hilary. A sure bet for the bank's extended investment. She stared at herself for a bit longer until she almost believed it. Pity about the fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach, though. It kind of spoiled the effect.

Come on, get a grip. You're probably better qualified than they are, she murmured, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She wondered idly whether blonde would suit her better than mouse-brown.

Hilary tried to remind herself of her resolve twenty minutes later as a middle-aged man with a florid complexion talked through her options for managing her finances better. He waved at his computer screen and talked her through the figures, rather like a maths teacher drilling a particularly stupid child. Hilary clenched her fingers in her lap. She longed to slap him when he suggested, with a mild smile, that perhaps people who did arts degrees were at a disadvantage when it came to working with figures.

What about long term employment? Aren't there any opportunities for historians around?

Hilary wondered whether this was meant to be another joke. Recently, her applications for permanent jobs had dwindled. The amount of effort required for the endless enquiries and forms seemed way out of proportion to the chance of securing anything decent. Besides, the day job was just a means to an end; what she really wanted to do was write. How could she explain to him?

I'm looking, but with the economy the way it is… Did she sound too defeatist?

These are difficult times.

But I've been in continuous employment since I graduated. And most of it was legal. I'm, er, a writer.

Oh?

His face brightened momentarily, but fell again as she talked about the limited success she had achieved so far. Three short stories and a piece of flash fiction, all published online and none of them the kind of thing she would have wanted her parents to read.

I've got a website, though, she burbled, hating her defensiveness. "Hilary Says." God, that sounded twee when she said it aloud. She was stuck with the domain name for another year, though.

He looked at her in silence.

I like the idea of working for myself, she said and her face grew hot.

Doesn't everyone? What sort of stuff do you write?

She shrugged. Dark fiction. Modern gothic. Murder. That sort of thing.

Right. Clearly, he didn't know what the hell she was on about it. What income have you generated so far this year?

Another silence. Er, three pounds, she said at last.

Three pounds?

It was just a token payment. It's very common. I've got a few other irons in the fire. And I'm working on a novel.

He ventured a smirk.

Smug bastard.

She tapped her heel on the floor. Her submissions folder, where she filed all the rejection letters and emails, was filling up rapidly. Her previous novel, her third attempt to date, had been rejected on various grounds, ranging from too trite to too difficult to place. Apparently there was no more room in the market for murderous doctors at the moment. One agent had at least referred to it as an intriguing premise – but obviously not so intriguing that she had wanted to read the rest of it.

I'm doing my best. She hated the defensive whine which had crept into her voice again.

So you've nothing of substance to declare to the taxman. A statement, not a question. His face was inscrutable.

No. Her palms were sweating.

He coughed – or was he choking back a snigger? She imagined him having a laugh about her later with his colleagues. What gave him the right to be so bloody supercilious? At least she was trying, wasn't she?

Subject to a review in three months' time, we're prepared to extend your overdraft.

Was that the royal we? She gave a brief nod of thanks, as if there had never been any doubt about the outcome.

If your financial situation hasn't improved by then, Ms Darke, we may have to rethink your position, which would be unfortunate, he said as she got up to leave. He looked at her with a slightly sinister air. Let's hope that writing proves to be a profitable line of work. More profitable than temping anyway.

Hilary forced herself to smile despite her sudden urge to reach across the desk and hit him with the computer keyboard. Let's hope so, she said.

I'd make you eat that overdraft if I could.

She skulked out through the customer service area, hounded by a growing sense of injustice.

Have you heard the good news? A young man stepped forward, beaming.

No, I haven't,

He waved a leaflet in her face. Read this. It could save your life.

No, I don't think it could, she countered, trying to get round him.

How do you know till you've read it? If you just-

I haven't got time, she snapped.

Everyone's got time for eternity.

Get out of my way. Hilary could feel the situation slipping out of her control as she resisted an impulse to push him over. She managed to add, Please.

He stared at her for a moment before stepping aside. She could feel him watching her as she stalked off down the street.

Her anger was still simmering beneath the surface when she bumped into Ros in the reception area.

You came back? Ros asked.

Yes, of course. I need the money.

Ros seemed to decide that Hilary had said something funny and laughed. That's great. We've been falling apart without good admin support. You should see some of the people the agency's sent us.

Hilary wondered whether Ros had actually read her CV.

I'll be logged on at home, if anyone needs me. Ros gestured at her laptop bag. "There aren't enough hours in the day. Not that you need to worry about that. See you tomorrow."

Her heels clicked self-assuredly on the tiled floor as she walked off. Hilary gave a small, speculative smile.

*

Bloody hell! Hilary pushed the laptop away from her in frustration.

She had been trying to recapture the wisp of a storyline that had floated into her mind as she walked home from work. It was about a boy who got whisked into a car on his way back from school one dark, rain-soaked afternoon. And then… what? It had seemed like a promising idea when it first occurred to her, but now, as she groped for words to capture the images that had flicked through her mind, her enthusiasm dissolved into frustration.

Hilary glared at the laptop, a slightly battered DELL that she had picked up second hand on Amazon. She saved the document, with its sparse outline, and reminded herself that she should be finishing off her latest competition entry. Apparently, winning one of those magazine competitions, or even being listed as a runner up, could open doors or at least get your name recognised. She set to work, proof reading the story, which suddenly seemed hackneyed and cliché-ridden, dogged by the feeling that she should be sorting out Sandra's ex-husband. She had left him in limbo for long enough and, let's be honest, what she really wanted to be was a novelist, not a bloody competition winner. So she set the short story aside and opened Cutting Down instead, flicking through to the latest page. There was Sandra, still making a phone call that would bring Jeff to the salon, waiting for him to say... Come on, what would he say?

Her gaze moved restlessly about the attic, over the sloping ceiling, which felt as if it were bearing down on her, to the sash window that looked out over the street. She lived at the top of a spacious terraced house – although you wouldn't think so from up here. She wandered over to peer at the view of Pontcanna's rooftops, uninspiring and deservedly cut in half by the guillotine slash of the wooden frame. It was out there somewhere, whatever it was. An idea? Success? Recognition?

Working here wasn't always easy. The sounds coming from her flatmate, Cassie's room when her latest boyfriend came over didn't do anything for Hilary's inspiration – or her self-esteem as she cast a bleak look at her own empty bed in the corner. Once or twice, she had smacked her hand on the wall to tell them to shut up, but the frosty atmosphere in the kitchen the following morning made her wonder whether it was worth it. She would just have to buy earplugs.

She turned back to survey her room again, feeling a trace of disgust at herself for not getting any further than this. A writer. It sounded so glamorous, but the reality – someone else's second hand furniture and a worn green and yellow floral carpet – could be hard to bear, especially when she made an occasional venture onto Facebook and saw how well some of her contemporaries from university were doing in their various fields. Banking, economics, systems analysis (whatever that was). Things that spoke of money and success. Worst of all, though, was the success of one Jane Waters, class mouse from high school and now feted for her first novel, a gripping historical drama according to one critic. Apparently, a sequel was on the way. Bitch.

And here was Hilary, twenty seven and still living like a bloody student. She had moved to Cardiff the previous year after exhausting the possibilities for gainful employment in Swansea, where she had been a student. Most of the people she had known at university had moved on by then, taking up jobs or moving back in with their parents while times were hard. Another succession of temporary positions had followed, most recently the cashier's job, which she had left by mutual agreement with her manager. He had said he wouldn't report her for pilfering stationery if she didn't report his attempt to get intimate with her one afternoon in his office.

Reminding herself that life was a trade off, Hilary stumped back over to her table and squared up to the computer. She'd squeeze the rest of Sandra Hanson's story out of those keys if it was the last thing she did.

By the time Cassie got back an hour or so later, Hilary felt in need of company.

Hope your day was better than mine, said Cassie, as she threw herself into a kitchen chair.

How bad was yours?

Cassie gave a brief, fox-like grin, revealing rows of small sharp teeth. She was twenty two and worked in a call centre, about which she complained constantly, but never seemed to make any effort to leave. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in an untidy pony tail, and the stark glare of the overhead fluorescent strip made her face seem even more nervy and angular than usual.

Got anything to drink, hon? asked Cassie. I've got a cracking headache.

Hilary opened a bottle of wine. Here's to better times, she said, raising her glass.

"At least you're on the gravy train now. If anyone offered me a job in the civil service I'd bite their hand off."

Hilary shrugged. It's not great, you know.

Come off it. It's better than selling bloody insurance.

Maybe.

*

A little before eight o'clock the following morning, Hilary slipped behind the wheel of her rather shabby, red Ford Fiesta. She had to drive to Swansea to take notes at some steering group meeting for Ros. Her head was thumping and she massaged her temples. She and Cassie shouldn't have opened that second bottle of wine last night. Worse, she shouldn't have tried to write again afterwards. Before leaving her room, she had glanced at the words she had churned out. What a pile of garbage. Her time would have been better spent passing out sooner rather than later. The car gave a couple of loud chokes as she started the engine, before settling into a resentful chug.

Come on, you old sod, Hilary muttered.

She was determined to wring the last drops of life out of the Fiesta. If she could just keep it going until the MOT in December, maybe she would be in a position to replace it by then, or at least to pay for some repairs.

The Fiesta grumbled through the traffic, providing an accompaniment to her thoughts as they ran over a timetable for finalising her novel. First draft done by, let's see, September? End of August if she really got her act together. Proofing and corrections by the end of the month. Out to agents in October. She didn't follow the maxim that you should only approach one agent at a time. Life was too short.

Hilary was relieved once she had reached the motorway junction at Tongwynlais with its distant view of Castell Coch amidst the trees. The traffic was already building up on the M4. It was a bright morning and she switched on the radio, hoping to distract herself from her headache. She was humming away to an old disco track as a silver Volkswagen Golf streaked past in the outside lane. It looked like Ros's car.

In Swansea, the car crawled along Oystermouth Road, which was even busier at this time of day than Hilary remembered. It was a bright morning and the sea gleamed silver blue. Swansea was putting on its best face for the tourists. It seemed light years since she had lingered on the sand in the early hours, drinking with friends and speculating about where the future might lead them.

She was already ten minutes late by the time she reached the Council buildings where the meeting was being held. Trying to remain calm, she shoved her car into the nearest parking space and jogged into the building. She felt hot and dishevelled as she entered the meeting room, where Ros, slim and elegant in a plum-coloured trouser suit, glanced at her watch pointedly. Hilary felt a brief glimmer of jealousy; the suit looked good on her.

Sorry, I meant to be here earlier. She hated the apologetic tone in her voice.

I thought you'd know your way. You were a student here, weren't you?

Yes, but-

Ros turned away.

Right, Hilary's here, everyone. Let's get things started, shall we?

Feeling rebuffed, Hilary passed round copies of the amended paper and sat down next to Ros, who proceeded to chair the meeting. A couple of people complained at not having received the papers sooner.

If you want a proper discussion, we need to see them earlier than this, said a middle aged woman with an authoritative air. I drove down from Aberystwyth for this meeting…

Ros smiled. Hilary's new and we haven't quite got the timing sorted out yet.

Hilary clenched her fingers and looked down at her notebook. The voices droned on and, with an effort, she extracted points of note to include in the minutes; a challenge when it was all equally dull. She found her attention straying back to Sandra, who was a stunning redhead, equipped with a razor sharp mind and fingers that were preternaturally adept with a pair of scissors. She was a smart businesswoman, underestimated by people who