Yet another waste of time, Olly felt. He had been told by the interviewing panel – specifically, a pompous, brassy blonde in a too-tight dress – that a great many well-qualified people had also applied for the position and that it was therefore unlikely he would get through to the next stage. Should that be the case, he would be contacted by letter. He was already sure, as he left, that he would not be. It was hard not to feel bitter. Especially as the newspapers he had read on the way to the interview seemed full of the by-lines of former student contemporaries. And most papers that morning had run in their diary column the fact that Jasper De Borchy – despite the fact he was supposed to be studying at a university some hundred miles to the north – had been voted, at a recent gathering of great social minds, London’s most eligible male. He had, naturally, been accompanied on this auspicious occasion by Amber Piggott. Olly had glared at the accompanying photograph of the handsome, self-satisfied face.
