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‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you another Becca,’ said Jeremy breezily. ‘I’ve had twenty applicants already.’
Twenty! ‘Wow, the advert was only posted on Friday.’
‘Yes, smallpox must be a popular topic,’ he replied.
I suspected it was more likely the chance to work with a hot professor.
‘Out of curiosity, what’s the female-to-male ratio?’ I asked.
‘Uh ...’ Jeremy ran his eyes down his laptop screen, counting under his breath. ‘Fifteen female, five male.’
Dammit, just as I thought.
I gulped nervously. ‘That ... that’s a lot.’
‘I know, it’s a bit silly. I closed off the job before you came in. There are three main standouts for interviewing to my way of thinking, but I’ll let you have a look at them.’
Jeremy swivelled his laptop towards me to display the candidates he’d shortlisted. There were two male and one female. The males I disregarded because as soon as I locked eyes on Lucy Flanagan’s CV photo, I knew I was in trouble. She was Irish with blue eyes, blonde hair, and, judging from the swell of flesh before the photo cut off, an ample bosom.
‘I think she’s the best of the bunch,’ Jeremy said, tapping on the photo of pretty Lucy. My mouth went dry. Seriously? Could this Monday get any worse?
‘Her qualifications are top-notch, and she’s got excellent references,’ he continued. ‘But of course, it’s up to you since you’re the one who’ll be working with them closely. I trust your judgement to choose the best candidate, Anna.’
I glowed a little at that and felt relieved. I have some say in the matter. I made up my mind there and then. There was no way in hell Irish Lucy would be working in my office!
‘OK. Send me through the link, and I’ll have a look at them.’
‘Excellent,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ll do that now. Oh, and by the way, the books I requested from the Wellcome Library arrived yesterday afternoon.’ He gestured to a sturdy-looking box sitting on the floor by the door. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet. Would you mind having a look?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, eager to help even though it would add considerably to my workload. As well as conducting research for Jeremy’s book, I was independently researching and writing a paper on Queen Mary II, who had died of smallpox at age 32.
‘We can discuss anything you find over lunch later in the week.’
‘Great, I’ll look forward to that.’ My breath hitched as I realised what I’d said. ‘Uh, I mean, the takeaway salads you get from that cafe are delicious. I’ll look forward to eating another one.’
Jeremy chuckled. ‘Good, aren’t they? Anyway, I’d better let you get on with it.’ He nodded at the box.
Right. Yes, the books. Our meeting was over. I got up, went over to the box, and hefted it off the floor and into my arms. It weighed a small ton. Awkwardly grasping it against my chest, I managed to open the door, manoeuvre myself and the box through, and inch the door shut with my foot. As it closed, I allowed myself a final tantalising glimpse of Jeremy’s handsome face, peering intently at his laptop; he was no doubt checking out Irish Lucy’s credentials more thoroughly.
Back in the office, I deposited the box of books on my desk with a thump. Becca glanced over. ‘How did it go? You were in there for a while.’
I grunted. ‘We were discussing your replacement. But Jeremy said I’d get to choose whoever it is, thank God.’
Becca raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything else, as if sensing that all wasn’t well in paradise.
At least I had something interesting to distract me. Unpacking books from an archive was always thrilling. You could practically smell the past seeping from their ancient pages.
Pulling on a pair of white gloves, I cut open the top of the box and removed the foam cushioning material that had been packed in tightly to prevent the books from moving around during transit. There were eight: four small and four large, wrapped in acid-free tissue paper and packed in two layers, spine down to prevent damage to the binding.
I unwrapped one of the small ones first. The cover was dark green and had an intricate gilt-tooled floral border. It was in superb condition, as if it had been someone’s treasured possession. But it was the title that instantly caught my eye.
Memories of a Pox-Scarred Maid
by Contessa Mercy Mocenigo
Intriguing. Who was Mercy Mocenigo, and what had happened in her life that was noteworthy enough to warrant writing a memoir? I couldn’t wait to find out.
Chapter 2
