To Be the Best
Barbara Taylor Bradford
Enthralling sequel to Barbara Taylor Bradford’s universally loved novels, A Woman of Substance and Hold The Dream.Set in Yorkshire, Hong Kong and America, this remarkable contemporary novel continues the story of an unorthodox and endlessly fascinating family. As the spirit of Emma Harte lives on in her granddaughter, Paula O’Neill, an engrossing drama is played out in the glamorous arena of the wealthy and privileged, underscored by a cut-throat world of jealousy and treachery.Paula must act with daring and courage to preserve her formidable grandmother’s glittering empire from unscrupulous enemies – so that Emma’s precious dream lives on for the next generation…
BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
To Be the Best
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_db1c8226-1f86-55f0-abb0-fffbe280426c)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Granada Publishing 1988
Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1988
Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780586070345
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007363711
Version: 2017-10-25
DEDICATION (#ulink_22dfe155-e038-5cf7-a336-0b9bf3861231)
For Bob, who is,
with my love.
CONTENTS
COVER (#ubfcd55ff-a740-533b-a22a-e6cc0512b05f)
TITLE PAGE (#u0c940c71-e717-5c49-8f08-de5406e56e27)
COPYRIGHT (#ulink_5c0e05fa-e99b-5a95-baf3-0341a9f22845)
DEDICATION (#ulink_2e17f0ea-bd57-5a3b-9d6a-638ff580900e)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_a4728069-6ca7-52e6-9d29-2789a0e4b576)
PART ONE Lovers & Strangers (#ulink_a8bf3834-caba-5d2e-ad30-6f5d40fde33f)
Chapter 1 (#ulink_4fd1fc8c-12ab-5cd6-8b8b-ace91d503013)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_cec61def-6c03-557e-b8cf-ac4a4fad879d)
Chapter 3 (#ulink_f030450f-cf18-57b6-a33c-92df48fc604f)
Chapter 4 (#ulink_24d57c00-bc2b-58dd-abdc-be105344f24c)
Chapter 5 (#ulink_26e72b09-69d3-51e0-8a0a-468a12d4dcfb)
Chapter 6 (#ulink_46946989-d25b-5065-b4d1-1f5d58700090)
Chapter 7 (#ulink_45a0af63-61c4-5515-828f-7b32121da9c8)
Chapter 8 (#ulink_94a73fec-0d4a-5bd3-95dd-a509c1bc975c)
Chapter 9 (#ulink_215ffe30-a4f5-53f4-b65c-558c918e4d5a)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO Saints & Sinners (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)
PART THREE Winners & Losers (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
KEEP READING (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
OTHER BOOKS BY (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_57e91ffe-b33c-5f8a-9c24-b4e7355b40d6)
To be on my team, you’ve got to be the best. And to be the best, you’ve got to have character.
EMMA HARTE, in A Woman of Substance
(#ulink_57e91ffe-b33c-5f8a-9c24-b4e7355b40d6)
Paula left Pennistone Royal just before dawn.
It was still dark as she eased the car out of the tall iron gates and turned left, heading for the moors. But as she came up onto the road which cut through the Pennine Chain of hills the sky was already beginning to change. Its blurred mass of anthracite greys was giving way to amethyst and pink and a cold and fading green; on the far horizon the first rays of the sun shimmered like shards of silver against the dark rim of the moors. It was an eerie hour, neither day nor night, and the silent spacious moors seemed emptier, more remote than ever. And then unexpectedly there was a sudden burst of radiance and that crystalline light so peculiar to the north of England filled the entire sky; day finally broke.
Paula rolled down the window and took a deep breath, then leaned back in the seat, relaxing as she pushed the car forward at a steady speed. The breeze that blew in was cool, but then it was always cool up here on the ‘tops’, whatever the time of year, and hardly the right place to gauge the weather. She knew it would be a scorching day again, and she was glad she had set out early.
It was the end of August when the heather always blooms in Yorkshire and the wild, untenanted moors were glorious. Grim and daunting for most of the year, they were breathtaking in their beauty this morning, a sea of violet and magenta rippling under the wind, rolling ahead as far as the eye could see. On an impulse Paula stopped the car and got out, glancing around, filling her eyes. The landscape was awesome … stunning. She felt her throat tighten with emotion. Grandy’s moors, she murmured, thinking of Emma Harte. I love them just as much as she did … as my own daughters Tessa and Linnet have grown to love them too.
Paula stood for a moment by the car, savouring her surroundings, looking and listening. She could hear the sharp trilling of the larks as they soared and wheeled high on the clouds and in the distance was the tinkling of water as a little beck rushed down over rocky crags, and on the cool air were the mingled scents of heather and bilberry, wild flowers and bracken. She closed her eyes briefly, remembering so many things, and then she lifted her head and looked up. The inverted bowl of a sky was China blue and filled with white puff-ball clouds and brilliant sunshine. The beginning of a pretty day, she thought, smiling. There is nowhere like the moors when the weather is beautiful, nowhere in the whole world. It was a long time since she had been up here. Too long really. My roots are here, just as Grandy’s were, she said under her breath, lingering a moment longer, the memories flooding her fully, carrying her back …
Abruptly, Paula turned away, got into her Aston Martin DB 2–4, and drove on, following the winding moorland road for another hour until it finally started its descent into the valley below, and Fairley. Because it was so early, the village still slumbered. The streets were entirely deserted. Paula parked in front of the ancient grey stone church with its square Norman tower and stained-glass windows, then she alighted, went around to the passenger door and opened it. She had wedged the cardboard box on the floor near the seat, and now she lifted the vase of summer flowers out of the box and closed the door with her knee.
Carrying the vase with both hands, she pushed through the lych-gate that led into the cemetery adjoining the church.
Her steps carried her down the flagged path until she came to the far corner, secluded, bosky, infinitely still. Here, near the ancient moss-covered stone wall and shaded by a gnarled old elm tree, was a cluster of graves. For a while she stood staring at one headstone.
Emma Harte was the name engraved upon the dark green marble, and below were the dates 1889–1970.
Eleven years ago, Paula thought. She died eleven years ago today. Whatever has happened to the time? It has spun away from me so fast … it seems only yesterday that she was alive and vigorous, running her business and ordering us all around.
Moving closer to her grandmother’s grave, Paula bent down, placed the flowers on it, then straightened and stood motionless with one hand resting on the headstone, staring out towards the distant hills. There was a reflective look in her eyes, and she was lost for a moment in the sweep of her thoughts.
I’ve got to do something, Grandy, something drastic that you wouldn’t like. But I’m certain you’d understand my reason … that I want to create something of my own. If you were in my position you’d do exactly the same thing. I know you would. And it’ll come out right. It must. There is no room for doubt …
The striking of the church clock split the silence like thunder, made Paula start, and brought her out of her reverie with a jolt.
After another moment or two she turned away from Emma’s grave and let her eyes roam over the other headstones. They came to rest on David Amory’s, then moved on to regard Jim Fairley’s: her father … her husband … who had lain here for ten years. They had both been far too young to die. Sadness struck at her with such sharpness she caught her breath in surprise and her heart filled with an old familiar ache. She steadied herself, and continued along the path, clamping down on the pain and sadness the memories engendered in her. She reminded herself that life was for the living.
Paula broke her rapid pace only once, when she passed the private plot which stood close to the church. Encircled by iron railings, it was filled with the graves of Jim’s forebears … Adam and Adele … Olivia … Gerald. So many Fairleys … just as there were so many Hartes buried here. Two families whose lives had been entwined for three generations … bound together in a bitter feud … and in love and hate and revenge and marriage … and finally in death. Here they lay, together in their eternal resting place under the shadow of the windswept moors, at peace at last in this benign earth …
As the lych-gate clicked behind her, Paula straightened up, threw back her shoulders and hurried to the car, a new determination in her step, a new resoluteness in her expression. There was so much ahead of her, so many challenges, so much she had to accomplish.
She got into the car and settled herself comfortably for the long drive ahead of her.
The tape was on the passenger seat where she had placed it earlier that morning in readiness for the journey. After slipping it into the player in the dashboard, she turned up the volume. The strains of Mozart’s Jupiter symphony filled the car … rich, melodious, so full of spirit and vivacity and, for her at least, a soaring hope. It was one of her favourites. Tessa had bought the tape for her a few weeks ago. It was the latest recording. Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berliner Philharmoniker. Paula shut her eyes, letting the music wash over her, thrilling to the first movement … allegro vivace … it made her feel … uplifted.
A moment passed, and then another, and she opened her eyes finally, turned on the ignition and coasted down the hill, making for the Leeds–Bradford road which would lead her onto the Ml. She swung onto it thirty minutes later and saw at once that the traffic was light. There were only a few stray cars on the road and no trucks at all. If she was lucky and continued to have a clear run, she would be sitting behind her desk at Harte’s in Knightsbridge within four hours.
Picking up speed, Paula roared ahead, her foot hard down on the accelerator, her eyes fixed on the road.
The symphony swelled to a crescendo, fell away, rose again, enveloping her in its beauty, transporting her with its magic. She experienced a surge of real happiness. Her mind was vividly alive.
She increased her speed. The Aston Martin flew forward along the motorway as if it had wings and were airborne. She was enjoying the feel of this superb piece of machinery under her hands, enjoying the sense of control she felt … control of the car, of herself, of the future. She had made her plan. Her master plan. She intended to execute it as soon as possible. It was watertight. Nothing could possibly go wrong …
PART ONE (#ulink_2652db41-553a-5d1f-a940-5a33e150f05f)
Lovers & Strangers (#ulink_2652db41-553a-5d1f-a940-5a33e150f05f)
Call no man foe, but never love a stranger.
STELLA BENSON
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
THE BIBLE: HEBREWS
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
Chapter 1 (#ulink_b9c2c99a-952b-57cc-a484-9a9df53d9c2b)
Paula walked into her private office at the London store with her usual briskness and, after removing several folders from her briefcase, sat down at the antique partners’ desk in the corner. It was precisely at this moment that she noticed the buff-coloured envelope propped against the antique porcelain lamp.
Marked PERSONAL, it had apparently been hand-delivered, and she recognized the writing at once. She felt a small shiver of pleasure. Eagerly, she reached for the envelope, slit it open with the gold-and-jade paper knife, and took out the folded piece of paper.
The note was boldly penned.
Meet me in Paris. Tonight, it said. You’re booked on Flight 902. British Airways. 6 P.M. I’ll be waiting impatiently. Usual place. Don’t disappoint me.
Paula frowned. The tone was peremptory, commanding, and implicit in his words was the assumption that she would go. Mild irritation at his high-handedness flared and diluted the flush of pleasure she had experienced a second before. Of course she wouldn’t go. She couldn’t. She must spend the weekend with her children as planned, wanted to spend it with them, in fact.
Still clutching the note, she leaned back in the chair and gazed into space, thinking about him. Bossy … conceited … those were the adjectives which sprang into her head. They were certainly appropriate. A trace of a smile surfaced, flickered on her mouth. She was suddenly amused by the invitation and sorely tempted to accept. Admit it, you’d love to spend the weekend in Paris with him. But then you’d love to do a lot of things you constantly pass up, a small voice at the back of her head reminded her. And she smiled again, though this time with wryness, a hint of regret even, knowing that she could never be indulgent with herself. Perish the thought! Duty had to come first. That little rule of Emma Harte’s had been inculcated in her since childhood, although sometimes she wished her grandmother had not been so thorough. But Grandy had schooled her well, had taught her that wealth and privilege also meant responsibilities, and that they had to be shouldered without flinching, no matter what the cost to oneself. And since she was now thirty-six, almost thirty-seven, her character was hardly likely to change at this stage in her life.
Paula sat up, slipped the note back into its envelope, sighing under her breath as she did. A romantic interlude in her favourite city with that very special and exceptional man was infinitely appealing but decidedly not possible. No, she would not go to Paris for a weekend of love and intimacy and pleasure. Instead, she would go to her children and be a good mother. Her children needed her. After all, she had not seen them for two weeks. On the other hand, she had not seen him either …
‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered out loud, wishing he had not sent the note. It had thrown her off balance, made her feel unexpectedly restless, and at a moment when she could not afford to have distractions of any kind. The months ahead were going to be extremely complicated, and they would be crucial months.
And so she would phone him later, tell him she was not coming; she must also cancel the airline reservation he had made for her. On second thoughts, perhaps she ought to call British Airways immediately.
As she reached for the telephone it began to ring.
She picked it up swiftly, said, ‘Hello?’ and glanced at the door as her assistant, Jill, hurried in with a cup of coffee.
‘Hello, Paula, it’s me,’ her cousin Alexander was saying at the other end of the phone. ‘I came into the Leeds store looking for you, only to find that on the one day I’m up here, you’re in London.’
‘Oh Sandy darling, I am sorry to have missed you,’ she exclaimed, then covered the mouthpiece, murmured her thanks to Jill, who placed the coffee in front of her, smiled, and disappeared.
Paula went on, ‘Were you in Yorkshire last night?’
‘Yes. I got in around six-thirty.’
‘I was still at the store, Sandy. You should’ve called me. We could’ve had dinner.’
‘No, we couldn’t. You see, I had to get out to Nutton Priory as early as possible. My estate manager’s going off on holiday today and we had a lot to go over.’ Alexander paused, cleared his throat. ‘You were at Grandy’s grave this morning … those are your flowers, aren’t they, Paula?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice growing softer. ‘I went there very early, before driving to London.’
‘I was close on your heels.’ He laughed faintly. ‘I suppose we just weren’t meant to meet up today. Well … my loss.’
Paula loved her cousin dearly and thus was sensitive to his moods. She had caught something odd in his voice, a nuance that disturbed her. ‘Sandy, do you have some sort of problem?’ she asked quickly. ‘Do you want to talk to me about anything?’
There was only the slightest hesitation before he exclaimed with a certain firmness, ‘No, no, not at all! I merely thought it would be nice for us to lunch together, I haven’t seen you for weeks. I realize you’ve been busy … however, I do miss our tête-à-têtes, old thing.’
Paula had been listening attentively, straining to catch that peculiar inflection she had noticed a moment ago, but now it was absent. His voice sounded perfectly normal – as controlled as it always was.
She said, ‘Yes, I miss them too, Sandy, and it has been a bit hectic for me this summer, what with all the flying to the south of France and back, and staying ahead of the game with the business. And look here, whilst I have you on the phone there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for ages.’ She took a quick breath, and her voice was a trifle sterner when she continued, ‘I’m terribly cross with you, Alexander. You’ve hardly spent any time with us at Cap Martin this year, and it is your house for God’s sake. Besides, I do think you – ’
‘You’re not the only person who works for a living!’ he shot back tersely, then added, in a rush of words, ‘I’ve had a lot on my plate, too, you know, so please, Paula darling, don’t nag. Emily’s become quite the expert at that technique, She’s beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘Your sister thinks you don’t get enough relaxation. She wants you to take it easy, enjoy life a bit more. And I happen to agree with Emily. Wholeheartedly, I might add.’
Ignoring these comments and her reproachful tone, Alexander said, ‘I expect you’re going down to the villa this weekend, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m catching the nine o’clock plane to Nice tomorrow morning, returning early on Monday. Sandy! I’ve just had a wonderful idea! Why don’t you come with me? You’ll enjoy it, you know you will, and the children will be so thrilled to see you. So will Emily.’
‘I really do have to be at Nutton Priory for the next few days. Honestly I do, Paula. I’d love to join you, but there’s far too much that needs my attention on the estate. Look, let’s have lunch on Tuesday.’ His voice was suddenly eager.
‘Oh God, I can’t,’ she groaned. ‘I’m taking the Concorde to New York first thing on Tuesday morning, and at the end of the week I’m flying from New York to Sydney. I’ll be gone for the whole of September.’
‘Oh. I see.’
His disappointment communicated itself to her so acutely, she exclaimed, ‘Why don’t we make a date now? For October.’ As she spoke she opened her engagement book, flipped the pages. ‘How about the first Wednesday in the month?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine, but let me look at my pocket diary. Hold on, Paula.’
There was a clatter as he put down the phone.
Paula lifted her cup, took a sip of the hot coffee.
A moment later, Sandy was back on the line, his voice bright and chipper. ‘All free and clear, darling. I’ll see you in October then. And I’ll be looking forward to it.’
‘Oh so will I! And Sandy …’
‘Yes?’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘I will, and you do the same, Paula. My love to everyone at the villa.’
After they had hung up, Paula sat drinking her coffee, frowning, and staring at the telephone, her mind on her cousin.
She felt a pang of genuine regret for having let the summer slide by without putting more pressure on him to come to the Riviera with them. On the other hand, would her insistence have done any real good? Most likely not. After all, Emily had been relentless with him since Easter, using all of her not inconsiderable wiles and doing everything in her power to persuade him to join them at the Villa Faviola. He had flown down twice, but only for brief stays and then only to please his sister. This had been quite evident to both her and Emily.
Still, she could not help feeling guilty now, recognizing that she had neglected Alexander of late. There had been so much to cope with this past year; so many things had encroached on her free time, interfered with her various friendships. Sandy had been a casualty of the merciless work ethic she had adopted for herself. Poor Sandy, she hadn’t had time for him, that was the sad truth.
Perhaps that was why he had sounded strange. No, that was not the reason at all. The peculiar inflection in his voice, which she knew she had not imagined, had been tension pure and simple. No, it had been strain. Or anxiety? Yes, that was it. Anxiety. And it had alerted her to something … to trouble.
As she came to this realization, Paula thought, with a sinking feeling: Everything’s not right with Sandy. I just know it in my bones.
A curious unease took hold of her. Frowning, she ran things through her mind at the speed of light. There could be nothing amiss at Harte Enterprises. Emily would have known and would have told her. His health was good. He certainly had no financial problems. And even though he was not wooing anyone special – according to Emily, who knew everything about everyone in the family – he did not appear to lack for female companionship whenever he felt the need of it. His social life was not spectacular. But then again, this seemed to be his preference, the manner in which he chose to live his life these days.
He must often be lonely though, she mused, wishing for the hundredth-or-so time that Sandy had remarried.
After Maggie’s tragic death in the avalanche at Chamonix he had been grief-stricken and inconsolable for so long. Then slowly he had pulled out of it, had regained his self-possession, and, painstakingly, he had put himself back together. But it was as if he had assembled all of the pieces of himself in a new and wholly different pattern. He had not seemed quite the same ever again.
The avalanche affected us all, Paula reminded herself, thinking in particular of her brother, Philip. He had also been skiing on the mountain that day. But he had been the one family member who had lived … the sole survivor. And then there was her mother, who had lost a husband. And I lost a father; and my children lost a father. Yes, the avalanche wreaked havoc on the entire family. It damaged us, changed us, irrevocably. Each one of us has been decidedly odd ever since …
She began to laugh under her breath. And me most of all, she thought, as she endeavoured to shake off that sense of unease she had felt about her cousin a moment ago. Wasn’t she being overly imaginative, perhaps? After all, she and Sandy had been close as children, had remained close over the years. If there truly was something troubling him, he would have confided it to her on the telephone. I’m being irrational about this, she decided, and made a resolute effort to dismiss her worries about Alexander.
Her gaze came back to the papers on her desk.
The quickest of glances told her there was nothing particularly urgent to be dealt with, and she was relieved. Problems that arose on Fridays usually had a way of impinging on her weekends – and ruining them. This did not matter so much in the winter, but in the summer, when the children were home from their respective schools for a long period, it was distressing for them. They treasured their weekends with her, guarded them jealously, and resented any intrusions on their time, just as she did.
Once she had read the morning’s mail and a memorandum from Jill, which detailed suggested structural changes in the Designer Salon, she checked the pile of purchase orders, then reached for the telexes. All had emanated from the New York store and were signed by her American assistant, Madelana O’Shea. They had come in late last night and only one required an answer.
Pulling a yellow pad towards her, Paula began to draft a reply. When this was done, she opened the thickest of the folders she had brought with her from Yorkshire and took out the top sheet of paper. It was the only thing which interested her at this moment. On it were the salient points of her master plan. A single sheet of paper … but it was the key to so much … the key to the future.
Within seconds she was so immersed in her work, so busy making additional notes on the pad, that all thoughts of her cousin Sandy fled. But months later Paula was to recall this day only too well. She would remember her uneasiness about him with great clarity, and she would fervently wish she had paid more attention to her intuition. Most of all, she would bitterly regret that she had not pressed him to confide in her. Knowing about his problems would not have enabled her to change the inevitable outcome, but at least she could have revised her travel plans. In so doing she would have been able to help him, simply by being there for him whenever he needed her.
But on this scorching morning in August of 1981, Paula had no way of knowing any of this, and that sense of impending trouble – a foreboding almost – which she had experienced earlier had already been squashed by the force of her will. Also, like her grandmother before her, she had the enviable knack of pushing everything to one side in order to concentrate on her business priorities, and this she now did. Head bent, eyes riveted on the page, she fell deeper and deeper into her concentration, as always so totally absorbed in her work that she was oblivious to everything else.
Twenty minutes later, Paula finally lifted her head, stapled her notes together, and put them in the folder along with the single sheet of paper; she then locked the folder in the centre drawer of her desk for safe-keeping over the weekend. Half smiling to herself, satisfied that she had thought of everything and was prepared for any contingency, she sat holding the key for a split second longer before placing it carefully in her briefcase.
Pushing the chair back, she rose, stretched, walked across the floor, feeling the need to move around. Her body was cramped, her bones stiff from sitting – first in the Aston Martin and then here at her desk. She found herself at the window and parted the curtains, looked down into Knightsbridge below, noticed that the traffic appeared to be more congested than ever this morning, but then Fridays were usually wicked in the summer months.
Turning, Paula stood facing the room, a look of approval washing over her face. From her earliest childhood days she had loved this office, had felt comfortable within its confines. She had seen no reason to change it when she had inherited it from her grandmother, and so she had left everything virtually intact . She had added a few mementoes of her own and photographs of her children, but that was the extent of it.
The office was more like a drawing room in an English country house than a place of business, and this was the real secret of its great charm. The ambiance was intentional. It had been created by Emma Harte some sixty-odd years earlier when she had used valuable Georgian antiques and English oil paintings of great worth instead of more prosaic furnishings. Classic chintz fabrics on the sofas and chairs and at the windows introduced glorious colour against the pine-panelled walls, while antique porcelain lamps and other fine accessories lent their own touches of elegance and distinction. The decorative look aside, the room was spacious and graceful, and it had a beautiful old Adam fireplace which was always in use on cold days. The office never palled on Paula, and she was delighted when people entering it for the first time exclaimed about its beauty.
Like everything else she did, Grandy got this room exactly right, Paula thought, walking across the priceless Savonnerie carpet, drawing to a standstill in front of the carved pine fireplace. She gazed up at the portrait of her grandmother which hung above it, painted when Emma had been a young woman. She still missed her, intensely so at times, but she had long drawn comfort from the feeling that Emma lived on in her … in her heart and in her memories.
As she continued to stare at that lovely yet determined face in the portrait, she experienced a feeling of immense pride in Emma’s extraordinary achievements. Grandy started out with nothing and created one of the greatest business empires in the world … what incredible courage she must have had at my age. I must have her kind of courage and strength and determination. I must not falter in what I have to do … my master plan must succeed just as her plan did. Paula’s mind raced, leapt forward to the future, and she filled with excitement at the thought of what lay ahead.
She returned to her desk, realizing she must get on with the day’s business.
She flipped on the intercom. ‘Jill …’
‘Yes, Paula?’
‘My things were brought up from the car, weren’t they?’
‘Some time ago, actually, but I didn’t want to disturb you. Do you want me to bring everything in now?’
‘Please.’
Within seconds Jill’s bright auburn head appeared around the door and she hurried through into Paula’s office, holding aloft Paula’s garment bag in one hand, a suitcase in the other. Jill was tall, well built, an athletic type of young woman, and she appeared to manage these items with the greatest of ease.
‘I’ll put these in your dressing room,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Paula murmured, and when her assistant returned to her office, she went on, ‘Sit down for a minute, would you, please, Jill? I’d like to go over a couple of things with you.’
Jill Marton nodded, took the chair on the other side of the desk, sat watching Paula through warm and intelligent brown eyes. Jill had worked for her for over five years and she never ceased to admire her, forever marvelling at her extraordinary energy and stamina. The woman opposite her was a powerhouse – astute, inspired and frequently daring in business. Jill had never worked for anyone like her. Those at the store who had known the legendary Emma said that Paula was a chip off the old block. Jill suspected this was the truth, that the traits she so admired in her boss were inherited from the famous founder of the Harte chain. Yes, it’s all in the genes, Jill thought, continuing to observe Paula surreptitiously.
‘Ah, here it is … your memo about the Designer Salon,’ Paula said, picking up the piece of paper she had been searching for on the desk.
Jill sat up straighter in her chair, looked at Paula with alertness. ‘I hope it makes sense to you,’ she said.
‘It does indeed. Your recommendations are excellent. I’ve nothing to add. You can put the structural alterations into work immediately and make the other changes as well. They’ll do wonders for the salon, Jill.’
On hearing this compliment Jill felt vivid colour staining her neck and cheeks, and with a flush of pleasure she took the memo which Paula had slid across the highly-polished surface between them. She said, ‘I’m so glad you approve,’ and beamed.
Paula returned her smile. ‘Send this telex to Madelana later, and here’s the morning mail … nothing important, as you already know. You can deal with it easily. I’ve initialled these purchase orders.’ She tapped them with a bright-red finger nail, then asked, ‘Now, did any of last week’s advertisements come up from the art department yet?’
Jill shook her head. ‘But they’ll be on your desk immediately after lunch. I spoke to Alison Warren earlier, and they’re almost ready.’
‘Good. And speaking of lunch, did Michael Kallinski confirm? Or let you know where I’m supposed to meet him?’
‘He called a bit earlier. He didn’t want me to bother you, since you’d just arrived when he rang. That’s why I didn’t put him through. He’s picking you up at twelve-fifteen.’
‘Oh.’ Paula looked at her watch, rose and walked over to the dressing room, paused at the door, glanced down at her wrinkled cotton slacks. ‘In that case, I’d better change. I want to go out onto the floor, check a few things before Michael arrives, and I don’t have too much time. Excuse me, Jill.’
‘Of course.’ Jill scooped up the papers on the desk and headed to her own office. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’
‘I will,’ Paula said, closing the door behind her.
The dressing area had been the filing room in Emma’s day, but Paula had revamped it, adding floor-to-ceiling closets with mirrored doors, excellent lighting and a dressing table. She sat down at this, freshened her make-up and brushed her hair, then she slipped out of the shirt, trousers and sandals she had worn for driving from Yorkshire.
Within seconds she was dressed in the clothes she had brought with her in the garment bag: a black silk shantung suit, designed especially for her by Christina Crowther, classically simple, tailored and smart, worn with a white silk camisole, dark, very sheer stockings and high-heeled black patent pumps. The jewellery she added was equally simple but effective: a three-strand pearl choker with a diamond clasp at the front encircled her neck, and large mabé pearl studs ringed with diamonds glittered on her ears.
Staring at herself in the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically, Paula decided she liked the way she looked. The suit was crisp and businesslike without being overly severe and was therefore perfect for the store; it was also chic enough to go to lunch at an elegant restaurant. And no doubt they would be going somewhere smart. Michael always took her to the best places.
The staff elevator carried her rapidly down to the main floor.
Paula crossed the jewellery department and headed in the direction of cosmetics and perfumery, looking about as she did.
The store was crowded this morning.
But then it was generally thronged with shoppers from the moment it opened its doors at ten until it closed them at six. Over the decades it had become a famous landmark in London, and people from all over the world flocked through its great portals, to walk around its renowned halls and simply look as well as to buy the merchandise.
Paula loved the bustle, the activity, the crowds, the high-pitched buzz of the voices, so many of them foreign, the excitement that seemed to hang in the air. She usually experienced a small thrill when she returned after an absence, however short it had been, and this morning was no exception. The Yorkshire shops were important entities in the chain, just as those in Paris and New York were, but this was the flagship, and the one she loved the most.
Emma Harte had opened it in 1921.
In three months they would be celebrating its sixtieth anniversary. And what a celebration she had planned. It would be a tribute to her grandmother, one of the greatest merchant princes who had ever lived, as well as a salute to sixty years of superlative retailing and a record unchallenged by any department store, in any city, in any country in the world. Harte’s of Knightsbridge was the best. The only one of its kind. A legend.
A sense of exhilaration at being back on this very special territory, her favourite bit of turf, brought an extra spring to her step as she walked into perfumery and drew to a stop.
Eagle-eyed as always, she stood seeking out imperfections but found none. This pleased her. The area had recently been redesigned under her close supervision and even though she said so herself, the results were smashing.
Glass panels etched in the manner of Lalique, many mirrors, masses of chrome and silver accents, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces … all these elements combined to create a shimmering effect that was stunning. The scheme made the perfect backdrop for the eyecatching displays of cosmetics, perfumes and beauty products. Opulent, glamorous, inviting, the department was designed to lure women into spending tons of money, and it had succeeded brilliantly, just as she had known it would when it was still on the drawing board.
Good merchandising and marketing, that’s what it’s all about, Paula thought, moving on briskly, making a detour through lingerie on the way to the Rayne-Delman shoe salon. She was revelling in her morning walk through her store … the finest department store in the world. It was the seat of her power, her strong citadel, her pride and joy. In fact, it was everything to her.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_f3b343a6-7c84-502c-8fc8-b666b77852c5)
For the second time that morning the portrait of Emma hanging in Paula’s office was undergoing a close and fixed scrutiny.
The man who had just drawn to a standstill in front of it was in his late thirties, fair-haired with light blue eyes and a summer tan. He stood about five feet eight, but appeared taller because of his lean, trim build. Also, his clothes added to the illusion of height. He wore a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, and his dark blue suit, made of the finest imported raw silk, was so flawlessly cut, so unerringly tailored, it hung on him perfectly, was obviously a work of art from Savile Row.
His name was Michael Kallinski and he stood examining the alluring face captured in oils on the life-sized canvas, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he ruminated on the formidable Emma Harte.
It suddenly struck him as quite curious that a woman who had been dead for over a decade – eleven years to this very day to be exact – was always spoken about as if she were still alive, and by most people at that, not merely her immediate family. He supposed that someone of Emma’s charisma and brilliance, who had made such a vivid and powerful impact in her lifetime, would be on the short list for immortality. After all, the dent she had made on the world – in her personal relationships, in international business and through her many philanthropies – was enormous.
Michael stepped back, tilted his head to one side, trying to ascertain how old Emma had been when she had sat for this portrait. Most probably in her late thirties, he decided. With her chiselled features, flawless complexion, reddish-gold hair and those extraordinary green eyes, she had been a great beauty as a young woman: there was no doubt about that whatsoever.
Little wonder his own grandfather had been madly in love with her those many years ago, and ready and willing to leave his wife and children for her – according to Kallinski family gossip, at any rate. And from what he understood from his father, David Kallinski had not been the only man to fall under her mesmeric spell. Blackie O’Neill had apparently been bewitched by her, too, in their youth.
The Three Musketeers. That’s what Emma had called them – his grandfather, Blackie and herself. In their early days together, at the turn of the century, they had been considered an unlikely trio … a Jew, an Irish Catholic and a Protestant. Seemingly they had not paid much attention to what people thought of them or their friendship, and they had remained close, almost inseparable, throughout their long lives. And what an unbeatable trio they had proven to be. They had founded three impressive financial empires which straddled half the world and three powerful family dynasties which only went from strength to strength with the passing of time.
But it had been Emma who had been the real mover, the doer and the shaker, always pushing ahead with vision and enterprise, the two men following her lead. Anyway, that was the way his father told it, and he had no reason to disbelieve him. And he knew from his own experience of her that Emma had been absolutely unique. As far as the younger members of the three clans were concerned, she had certainly left her imprint on each one of them, himself included. Her indelible stamp, his father called it.
Michael smiled to himself, remembering exactly how Emma had been thirty-odd years ago … rounding them up as children and carting them off to Heron’s Nest for the spring and summer holidays. They had called her ‘The General’ behind her back, and the house in Scarborough had been affectionately referred to as ‘the army camp’. She had put them through their paces and instilled in them her own philosophy of life, had taught them the meaning of honour and integrity, the importance of the team spirit and playing the game. And all through the years of their growing up she had given unstintingly of her love and understanding and friendship; they were better people now for having known her then.
A look of love washed over his face, and he touched his hand to his forehead, gave the portrait a small salute. She had been the very best … just as her granddaughters were the best. A rare breed, the Harte women, all of them, and most especially Paula.
The sound of the door opening prompted him to swing around quickly.
His face lit up at the sight of Paula.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting!’ she exclaimed, looking apologetic, hurrying forward to greet him.
‘You didn’t, I was early,’ he replied, going to meet her in the centre of the floor. He gave her a huge bear hug, then held her away, stared down into her face. ‘You’re looking wonderful.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the portrait, then brought his gaze back to hers. ‘And you’re beginning to resemble that legendary lady more than ever.’
Paula groaned, gave him a look of mock horror as they drew apart.
‘Oh God, Michael, not you too! Please. There are enough people who call me the Clone behind my back without you giving voice to the idea.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s all I need from a dear friend …’
He burst out laughing. ‘I sometimes think you’re all clones, actually. The lot of you … Emily and Amanda, as well as you.’ He swivelled to face the portrait. ‘And when was that painted, by the way?’
‘In 1929. Why?’
‘I’d been trying to figure out how old Emma was when she sat for it.’
‘Thirty-nine. It was started and finished just before her fortieth birthday.’
‘Mmmm. I guessed as much. And she was beautiful then, wasn’t she?’ Not giving Paula a chance to reply, he went on, with a small grin, ‘Do you realize that you and I would have been related if David had left my grandmother Rebecca and run off with Emma?’
‘Let’s not get into all that old history today,’ she said with a light laugh, moved rapidly towards the desk, sat down and added, ‘Anyway, I feel as if we are, don’t you? Related, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
He followed her across the room and seated himself in the chair facing her.
There was a brief silence, then he remarked quietly, ‘Blood might not be thicker than water as far as some families are concerned, but it is when it comes to the three clans. Our grandparents would’ve killed for each other, and I think their kind of loyalty has been passed down to our generation, hasn’t it?’
‘I should say so – ’ She cut herself short when the phone rang and reached to answer it. After saying hello and listening for a second she put her slim, tapering hand over the receiver, explained, ‘It’s the manager of the Harrogate store, I’ll only be a minute.’
He nodded, sat back in the chair, waiting for her to finish her call, quietly studying her as he had studied the painting only a few minutes before.
Michael Kallinski had not seen Paula for over two months, and because he had been away her uncanny resemblance to Emma had struck him more forcibly than ever when she walked in. Her colouring was different from Emma’s, of course. Paula had hair as black as pitch and eyes of the deepest darkest blue. She had inherited Emma’s clear, finely wrought features, though, and the famous widow’s peak, which was extremely dramatic above those large eyes set wide apart. With the passing of time the two women seemed to merge more and more, to become identical, to him at least. Perhaps it had something to do with the expression in Paula’s eyes these days, her mannerisms, her pithiness, the way she moved – swiftly, always in a hurry – and the habit she had of laughing at her misfortunes. These characteristics reminded him of Emma Harte, just as her attitude in business did.
He had known Paula his entire life and yet, oddly enough, he had not really known her until they were both in their thirties.
When they had been children he had not liked her one little bit, had considered her to be cold, standoffish and indifferent to them all, except for her cousin Emily, that roly-poly pudding of a child whom she had forever mothered, and Shane O’Neill, of course, whom she had always striven to please.
Privately, Michael had called her Miss Goody Two Shoes, because she had been just that, a child who appeared to have no faults whatsoever, one who was always being clucked over, praised and held up as an example to them by their respective parents. His brother Mark had had his own name for her … Paragon of Virtue. He and Mark had secretly laughed at her, made fun of her behind her back, but then again, they had scoffed at all the girls from the clans, had never wanted to spend time with them, had preferred to be roistering around with the other boys. They had banded together with Philip, Winston, Alexander, Shane and Jonathan, who had been their boon companions in those days.
It was only in the last six years that he had come to know Paula and he had discovered that this shrewd, hardworking and brilliant woman hid a deep emotional side behind her cool air and her inbred refinement. The aloof manner was merely an outward manifestation of her shyness and natural reserve, those traits he had so misunderstood in childhood.
Discovering that Paula was quite different than he had believed her to be had come as something of a shock to him. To his astonishment, he found she was so very, very human. She was vulnerable, warm, loving, fiercely loyal, and devoted to her family and friends. Terrible things had happened to her over the past ten years, devastating things which would have felled most other people, perhaps even destroyed them. But not Paula. She had suffered deeply, yet had found strength from adversity, had become a most compassionate woman.
Since they had been working together they had drawn closer, and she was his staunch supporter in business and an ally in every way, whenever he needed one. It occurred to Michael now that he would not have been able to cope with his messy divorce and his dreadful personal problems without Paula’s friendship. She was always willing to listen to his woes at the end of the phone, or make herself available for a drink or a meal when the going really got tough. She had cornered a special place in his life, and he would be forever grateful that she had.
For all her success and sophistication and self-confidence, there was something about Paula – an endearing little-girl quality – which tugged at his heart, made him want to do things for her, want to please her. Frequently he went out of his way to accomplish this, as he had in New York recently. He wished the interminable phone call from the Harrogate store would come to an end so that he could impart his news.
Paula put down the receiver, made a little moue.
‘Sorry about that,’ she apologized. Leaning back in the chair, she went on, in an affectionate tone, ‘It’s lovely to see you Michael … and how was New York?’
‘Terrific. Hectic. I was up to my neck with work, since our business is going well over there right now. Still, I also managed to enjoy myself, even had a few weekends out in the Hamptons.’ He leaned closer to the desk. ‘Paula – ’
‘Yes, Michael?’ she cut in, eyeing him astutely, alerted by the urgency in his voice.
‘I think I may have found it … what you’ve been looking for in the States.’
Excitement flew onto her face. She sat forward slightly, her eagerness only too apparent. ‘Private or public?’
‘Private.’
‘Is it for sale?’
‘Isn’t everything – if the price is right.’ There was a hint of mischief on his face as he held her eyes.
‘Come on, don’t tease me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is it actually on the market?’
‘No, it isn’t. But what does that mean in this day and age of the takeover? The owners can be approached … it doesn’t cost anything to do that.’
‘What’s the name of the company? Where is it? How big is it?’
Michael chuckled. ‘Hey, steady on, I can only answer one question at a time. The company is called Peale and Doone and it’s in the midwest. It’s not big, only seven stores … suburban stores. In Illinois and Ohio. But it’s an old company, Paula, founded in the 1920s by a couple of Scotsmen who settled in the States and at first dealt only in Scottish imports. You know, woollen goods, tartans and plaids, cashmeres and the like. They extended their inventory during the ’forties and ’fifties. But the merchandise is supposedly stodgy and the company’s in the doldrums, management-wise that is. Quite solid financially, or so I’ve been led to understand.’
‘How did you hear about Peale and Doone?’
‘Through a lawyer friend who’s with a Wall Street law firm. I’d asked him to be on the look-out for a chain and he heard about this company through a colleague in Chicago. My chap thinks they’re ripe for a takeover.’
Paula nodded. ‘Who holds the stock?’
‘The heirs to Mr Peale and Mr Doone.’
‘There’s no guarantee they’d sell, Michael.’
‘Correct. On the other hand, often stockholders don’t know they want to sell until they’re actually approached to do so.’
‘That’s true, and it’s worth investigating further.’
‘You bet it is, and although this chain is small, it might well be perfect for you, Paula.’
‘It’s just a pity the stores are in the boondocks,’ she murmured, and with a grimace, thinking out loud, ‘Big cities like Chicago and Cleveland would be more my speed.’
Michael gave her a sharp stare. ‘Look here, with your flair and expertise you can easily put your own special cachet on any store anywhere, and you know that. Besides, what’s wrong with the boondocks? There’s plenty of money to be made out there.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ she answered quickly, suddenly realizing she may have sounded ungrateful after the effort he had made on her behalf. ‘Can you get some more information, please, Michael?’
‘I’ll ring my friend in New York later in the day and ask him to pursue this further.’
‘Does he know you were inquiring about retail chains for me?’
‘No, but I can tell him if you like.’
Paula said very briskly and firmly, ‘No. I think not. At least not for the moment, if you don’t mind. It’s better no one knows. The mention of my name could send the price skyrocketing. If there’s going to be a price, that is.’
‘Point well taken. I’ll keep Harvey in the dark for the time being.’
‘Please … and thank you, Michael, for going to all this trouble for me.’ Her smile was warm, sincere, as she added, ‘I really do appreciate it.’
‘I’ll do anything for you Paula, anything at all,’ he replied, his eyes filling with affection for her. Then he glanced down at his watch. ‘Oh, it’s getting late! We’d better be going. I hope you don’t mind, but the old man’s invited himself to lunch.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ she said, her voice rising slightly. ‘You know I adore Uncle Ronnie.’
‘And the feeling is mutual, I can assure you.’ He threw her an amused look. ‘The old man dotes on you … he thinks the sun shines out of you.’
She picked up her black patent bag and moved across the room. ‘Come on then, let’s go. We don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?’
Michael took her arm, escorted her out of the office.
As they went down in the elevator he could not help thinking about his father and Paula, and their special relationship which had developed over the past few years. The old man treated her like a beloved daughter, whilst she seemed to revere him. Certainly she behaved as if he were the shrewdest man alive, which, of course, he was. Dad’s become her rabbi, Michael thought suddenly with an inner smile, and a substitute for her grandmother. Not surprising that some people considered their friendship peculiar and were jealous. Personally, he applauded it. Paula filled a void in his father’s life. Perhaps he did in hers.
Chapter 3 (#ulink_4087c522-cbf4-5099-9a82-8cce502b78fb)
Sir Ronald Kallinski, chairman of the board of Kallinski Industries, walked across the impressive marble lobby of Kallinski House at a leisurely pace.
Tall, slender, a man of dominating presence, he had black wavy hair, heavily frosted with white, and a saturnine face. He had inherited the eyes of his father David and his grandmother Janessa Kallinski; they were of the brightest cornflower blue and seemed all the more startling because of his weatherbeaten complexion.
Renowned for never appearing ruffled or dishevelled, no matter what the circumstances, he was always perfectly groomed and elegantly attired. This morning he was wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit with an impeccable white shirt and a pearl-grey silk tie. Although he was almost seventy, he was in such robust health and was so vigorous for his age he looked like a much younger man.
As he strolled through the vast entrance foyer, he nodded graciously to several people who recognized him, and paused to admire the Henry Moore reclining figure in the centre, which he had commissioned from the great English sculptor who also happened to be a Yorkshireman born and bred. Sir Ronald was as proud of his north-country origins as he was of his Jewish heritage.
After a brief moment of contemplation in front of the imposing piece of bronze, he continued on his way, pushed through the swing doors and stepped out into the street. He drew to an abrupt halt after taking only two steps, recoiling as the intense heat hit him. He had not realized how hot the day had become.
Sir Ronald could not abide heat of any kind. Upstairs in his executive suite, a series of handsomely-furnished rooms spanning the entire top floor of the giant office complex bearing his name, the atmosphere was icy cold, thanks to the air conditioning that was permanently turned up high and the well-shaded windows. This area of Kallinski House was generally referred to as ‘Antarctica’ by those who occupied it with him. Doris, his secretary of twelve years, had grown used to the freezing temperature by now, as had other executives who had been with him for more than a year or two, and none of them bothered to complain any more. They counteracted the chill simply by wearing warm sweaters in their offices. Even in winter, Sir Ronald kept the executive suite and his various homes as cold as he possibly dared without eliciting violent protests from staff, family and friends.
Earlier that morning he had contemplated walking to the Connaught Hotel; now he was relieved he had changed his mind and had ordered his car up from the garage. It was sizzling out here, and oppressive, hardly the kind of weather for sauntering through the busy streets of Mayfair.
His chauffeur had spotted him the instant he had emerged from the building and was already standing stiffly to attention next to the back passenger door.
‘Sir Ronald,’ he said, inclining his head respectfully, and opened the door wider.
‘Thank you, Pearson,’ Sir Ronald responded with a half smile, stepping into the burgundy coloured Rolls-Royce. ‘The Connaught, please.’
The car pulled away from the kerb and he settled back against the seat and stared absently ahead. He was looking forward to lunching with Paula and Michael. He had not seen her for several weeks and his son had been in New York for over two months and he had missed them both … in different ways.
His son was his good right hand, his alter ego, his heir apparent, and his favourite. He loved his younger son, Mark, very much; but Michael had a special hold on his heart. He was never quite sure why this was so. How could one explain these things? Sometimes he thought it was because his son was very much like his own father had been. Not that Michael looked anything at all like David Kallinski, being so much more Anglo-Saxon in appearance with his fair complexion and blondish hair. It had to do with a similarity of character and personality, and just as Sir Ronald had enjoyed a marvellous camaraderie with his father until the day of David’s death, so did he now with his son. It had been thus ever since the boy’s childhood, in fact, and he noticed Michael’s absences most acutely these days, was frequently lonely when his first born was travelling.
As for Paula, she was the daughter he had never had, or rather, the surrogate for the daughter who had not lived through her childhood. Miriam, their second child, born after Michael and before Mark, would have been thirty-four this year, if she had not died of encephalitis at the age of five. How they had grieved, he and Helen; they had not understood why she had been taken from them at such a tender age. ‘God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform,’ his mother had said to them at the time, and only in old age had he come to terms with that extraordinary belief.
Paula was the smartest woman he had ever known, except for Emma, and he appreciated her sharp and clever mind, her quickness, her business acumen. But she could also be very female at times and he missed her femininity as much as he relished his role as her sounding board and, on occasion, her adviser. He had a lot of admiration for Paula. She was a good mother as well as a successful executive. Hers was a hard road and she trod it most adroitly, rarely ever stumbled.
He wished his daughter-in-law were half as practical and down to earth as she was. The trouble with Valentine was that she lived in another world. She was airy fairy, a bit flighty, and forever discontented. Nothing was ever enough for her, or ever right, and he understood only too well Michael’s feelings. His son’s frustration had grown to monumental proportions over the years and the inevitable explosion, when it had come, had been violent. He had not been surprised. He had never approved of Valentine as a wife for Michael, not because she was a shiksa – differences in religion scarcely mattered to him – but because she was so shallow, unworthy really. He had always known this, but how did one tell such a thing to a young man in love? In any event, the divorce agreement had been concluded finally, after much bitter wrangling and the exchange of vast amounts of money. Michael, most fortunately, had succeeded in getting what he wanted – a decree nisi and joint custody of his three children, the boy, Julian, and the two younger girls, Arielle and Jessica.
A smile softened Sir Ronald’s stern face as he thought of his little granddaughters. If only Helen had lived to see them, it would have made her so happy. But his wife had died eight years ago. He had never stopped missing her, and when he had been given his knighthood by Harold Wilson in 1976 his joy had been tempered by sadness because Helen was no longer with him.
This singular honour had come as a genuine surprise to him. He had never asked for nor sought a title, nor had he tried to buy one by making heavy donations to charity. He was philanthropic, and he had his favourite causes, had contributed generously to medical research and the arts, but this had been done discreetly and without fanfare.
To be on the Prime Minister’s honours list was flattering, and especially since everyone knew the title had been earned and was therefore deserved. Kallinski Industries was one of the largest and most successful conglomerates in Great Britain, and as such it not only provided much-needed jobs for thousands but was a major exporter of British goods abroad. Ronald Kallinski had devoted his life to bringing the company to its present dominant position, and he was proud of his accomplishments. So was his country apparently, since this was the reason the knighthood had been bestowed upon him.
Sir Ronald was not the first Yorkshire Jew to be knighted; others had been singled out by grateful prime ministers over the years … men like Montague Burton, and Rudolph Lyons. But nevertheless he prized the honour, as if he had been the first, and most especially when he contemplated the Kallinski family’s early history, thought of his grandfather Abraham fleeing Russia and the pogroms in the last century, settling in the ghetto in Leeds, and eventually opening his tailoring shop in North Street. That little factory turning out piecework for the John Barran company – the first ready-made clothiers to start in Leeds after Singer invented the sewing machine – had been the beginning, the nucleus of the billion-pound empire that Kallinski Industries was today.
On the morning of his investiture his one regret had been that Helen, Abraham, his father David, Emma and Blackie had not been present to share his pride and happiness. The four old-timers in particular would have appreciated the significance of the ceremony at Buckingham Palace, truly understanding how far the Kallinskis had risen since Abraham, the young refugee from Kiev, had first set foot on English soil at Hull in 1880.
The Rolls-Royce came to a sudden stop in Carlos Place.
Sir Ronald shook off his thoughts, leaned forward, addressed his chauffeur: ‘Please pick me up around two-thirty, Pearson,’ he said as the uniformed doorman outside the Connaught Hotel stepped up to the car, opened the door for him, helped him alight.
They ‘Sir Ronalded’ him to death as he went from the front steps to the dining room, and a faint smile touched his eyes as he was shown to the table his son had reserved. Five years ago he had wondered how he would ever get used to being addressed by his title. But he had – and in no time at all.
After he had ordered a dry sherry, he took a sip of the iced water a waiter had placed before him, then sat back to wait for Paula and Michael.
Sir Ronald did a double take.
Paula and his son were heading across the restaurant in his direction, and she looked so much like Emma that it was quite amazing.
He realized, as she drew closer, that she was sporting a new hairdo, and that it was this which underscored her already-pronounced similarity to her grandmother. Her dark glossy hair had been cut short in a sort of sleek bob. It was chic and obviously of the moment, and yet to him it had the look of the 1930s. It brought to mind the film stars of his youth … and the elegant Emma he had known and admired as a boy.
He rose, took Paula’s outstretched hand in both of his, shared her broad and loving smile, kissed her cheek. They exchanged affectionate greetings, seated themselves next to each other, and at once started chatting animatedly.
Michael went to the other side of the table, took a chair, motioned to the waiter. After Paula and he had ordered aperitifs, he asked for the menus.
Turning to Paula, he said, ‘You’re always in such a hurry, so let’s order … then we can relax.’
‘Why not?’ she laughed and took the menu from the headwaiter.
The latter hovered next to the table, explaining the specialities of the day, and making his own recommendations. After a cursory glance at their menus, Paula and the Kallinskis followed his advice. All three asked for the cold poached salmon and cucumber salad, and Michael ordered a bottle of Sancerre.
The aperitifs had materialized in front of Paula and Michael whilst they had been ordering lunch, and once the waiters had disappeared, Sir Ronald raised his glass. He looked directly at Paula. ‘To the memory of your grandmother.’
‘To Emma,’ Michael toasted.
Paula smiled at them both. ‘Yes, to Grandy.’
They clinked glasses, sipped their drinks.
After a moment, Paula said, ‘I thought you’d remember what day it is today, Uncle Ronnie.’
‘We both remembered!’ Michael exclaimed.
Sir Ronald remarked, ‘How could anyone forget the passing of such a great woman. And she’d be so proud of you, my dear. You’ve never let her down, and you’ve held her dream wonderfully well.’
‘I hope so, Uncle Ronnie … I’ve certainly endeavoured to guard everything she built … and make it stronger.’
‘And you have,’ Sir Ronald said, regarding her warmly. ‘You’re as much of a genius at retailing as Emma ever was. You’ve displayed a great deal of vision over the years, and I can only commend you on everything you’ve done with the stores.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Ronnie,’ Paula said, smiling, enjoying his approval.
‘And I second everything Dad says,’ Michael declared emphatically. He took a sip of his Cinzano Bianco, then winked at her over the rim of his glass.
Paula’s violet-blue eyes filled with laughter. ‘You’re prejudiced, Michael. Actually, you both are.’
Sir Ronald settled back in his chair, said in a more confidential tone, ‘One of the reasons I invited myself to lunch is to seek your advice, my dear.’
Paula’s curiosity was instantly piqued, and she quickly asked, ‘But how can I possibly advise you? Why, you’re the wisest person I know, Uncle Ronnie.’
He made no response to this remark. It was almost as if he had not heard it. A preoccupied expression invaded his face; he took a sip of his sherry, then gave her a long and careful look. ‘Ah, but you can advise me, Paula. About Alexander. Or, to be more precise, you can give me an opinion.’ Sir Ronald briefly paused, before asking, ‘Do you think Sandy would sell Lady Hamilton Clothes to Kallinski Industries?’
This was the last thing Paula had expected to hear, and she was taken aback. She stared at Sir Ronald without speaking for a moment. ‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t,’ she said at last in a surprised voice. ‘That division is far too important to Harte Enterprises. And to Harte stores, for that matter.’
‘Yes, it has great value to Sandy, and to you too, of course, since the Lady Hamilton line is made exclusively for Harte’s,’ Sir Ronald said.
Michael interjected, ‘He may want to unload it, Paula – for the right price, and to the right people. Let’s face it, Sandy has been terribly overburdened ever since that family débâcle, when he fired Jonathan and Sarah. He and Emily really have their hands full, and they have to work awfully hard running Harte Enterprises – ’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she cut in swiftly, ‘they seem to manage quite well, Michael.’
‘In any case, we’d be prepared to pay top money for that division,’ Michael added, determined to get his point across.
‘I’m sure you would,’ Paula replied evenly, ‘and I’m just as sure Sandy wouldn’t even consider it, no matter what you offered.’ She looked from the younger Kallinski to the older, rapidly and with quickening interest. ‘Why do you want to buy Lady Hamilton Clothes, Uncle Ronnie?’
‘We’d like to have our own women’s fashion division,’ Sir Ronald explained. ‘And to supply your stores with women’s ready to wear in much the same way we supply your men’s clothing, and to sell to your boutiques in the hotels. Just as importantly, we wish to start and to build up a strong export line.’
Paula nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
‘Obviously, we wouldn’t sell the women’s fashions in countries where you own retail stores,’ Michael pointed out. ‘We’re thinking of trading only in common market countries – ’
‘Excluding France,’ Sir Ronald interrupted, ‘since you have a store in Paris.’
‘Oh I know you’d never do anything to damage my business, that goes without saying,’ Paula murmured. ‘And I can see why you’d like the acquisition, Uncle Ronnie, it makes a lot of sense.’
She glanced at Michael. ‘But you know how conservative Sandy is, and bound by tradition. Those are just two of the reasons Grandy gave him control of Harte Enterprises. She knew it would be safe in his hands because he would never do anything to weaken its basic structure. Such as selling off a very, very profitable division,’ she finished dryly, but her mouth twitched with sudden amusement.
Both men laughed.
‘Touché,’ Sir Ronald said.
‘Yes, I do know exactly what kind of person Sandy is,’ Michael acknowledged, shifting in his chair. ‘And that’s why I suggested to Dad that we got your reading on the matter first.’
At this moment the waiter arrived with the food, and Michael changed the subject. The three of them chatted about inconsequential things for the next few minutes, and once they had been served, the sommelier poured the chilled white wine for Michael. After tasting it, he nodded approvingly.
Sir Ronald and Paula sipped their wine and both of them commented on its fresh dry taste and lightness, and then Sir Ronald put his goblet down. ‘Bon appétit,’ he said, and picked up his fork and cut into the poached salmon.
‘Bon appétit,’ Paula and Michael responded almost in unison.
They ate in silence for a while, but at one moment Paula swung her gaze between the two Kallinski men, and asked curiously, ‘Uncle Ronnie, Michael, why don’t you simply start your own women’s clothing division? Certainly you’ve got all the necessary resources.’
‘We thought of that, my dear,’ Sir Ronald admitted. ‘But quite frankly we’d prefer to buy a well-established brand. So much easier, you know. And it would save us an enormous amount of time – and money, of course, in advertising and promoting a new product.’
‘And surely there must be lots of manufacturers who would jump at the chance to sell to Kallinski Industries!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’m perfectly certain there are.’ Sir Ronald gave her a pointed look. ‘But I’m interested in Lady Hamilton Clothes because it was founded by Emma and my father all those years ago. He had a soft spot for the company long after he sold his shares to your grandmother, and so do I.’ Sir Ronald smiled wryly, and finished, ‘I must admit, I do feel rather sentimental about it.’
Paula placed an elegant, beautifully manicured hand on Sir Ronald’s arm, squeezed it affectionately. ‘But Alexander has no reason to sell that division … at least, not one I can think of, Uncle Ronnie. His sister’s been running it successfully for a number of years now.’ Her arched black brows drew together in a small frown. ‘Besides, what would she do if he sold Lady Hamilton? Amanda would be out of a job, and Sandy would always take that into consideration. You know how he fusses about her.’
‘She need not necessarily be out of a job,’ Michael was quick to announce. ‘Amanda’s terrific at what she does. She’d remain with the company and run it for us.’
Paula made no comment. She toyed with the cucumber salad on her plate, suddenly acknowledging to herself that if Lady Hamilton were ever up for grabs Sandy ought to sell it to the Kallinskis. In a way they were entitled to it.
Sir Ronald dabbed his mouth with his napkin and ventured, ‘I’d like to pose a hypothetical question, Paula.’
‘Of course.’ She looked at him alertly, wondering what was on his mind now.
He said, ‘Let us just suppose that Alexander did want to sell Lady Hamilton, was anxious to do so, in fact. Could he? Or would he have to go to the other shareholders, get their agreement?’
‘Oh no. There’s only Emily, and she would go along with anything her brother wanted to do. She always has, you know.’
Puzzlement flickered in Sir Ronald’s eyes and he leaned back in his chair, regarding Paula thoughtfully. After a second, he said slowly, ‘Only Emily … But surely you told me several years ago that Sarah and Jonathan still owned their shares in Harte Enterprises, even though they were thrown out of the company because of their shoddy behaviour.’
‘That’s perfectly true, they do. They draw their dividends, receive the company reports and balance sheets, but they have no power whatsoever. But then, neither does Emily, now that I think about it.’
Sir Ronald appeared to be more baffled than ever.
Recognizing this, Paula said, ‘Let me clarify things for you, Uncle Ronnie, and for you too, Michael.’
Father and son nodded and Sir Ronald said, ‘Please do, my dear.’
‘My grandmother left fifty-two per cent of Harte Enterprises to Sandy. The remaining forty-eight per cent was split three ways between Emily, Jonathan and Sarah, who each received sixteen per cent. As chairman of the board and majority stockholder, Sandy can do virtually anything he wishes in the company, or with it, for that matter. This is the way Grandy set it up. Whilst she wanted all four of them to draw income from the company, she knew Sandy must have absolute power to prevent any bickering between the four cousins. She felt Sandy had earned, and also deserved, the bulk of the shares in her privately owned company. She gave total control to him because she knew that he would always abide by her wishes.’
‘Ah, yes, I can see the sense in everything your grandmother did.’ Sir Ronald never failed to be impressed by the late Emma Harte’s clever strategy. He went on, ‘As usual, Emma was shrewd – and most prudent, I might add. Certainly Sandy has guided Harte Enterprises through some rough periods and done admirably well in the past few years.’
Quickly Michael said, ‘Look, Paula, I know you’re adamant about Sandy not being interested in selling, and perhaps you’re right. At least about his attitude at present. But he may well change his mind and decide to pare down Harte Enterprises … one day in the future …’ Michael paused. There was a speculative expression on his face as he added, ‘No?’
Paula could not help smiling at his dogged persistence. ‘So you’d like to talk to him anyway, explain that Kallinski Industries are standing in the wings, if ever he decides to get rid of Lady Hamilton Clothes. Is that what you’re trying to say?’ she asked with a laugh.
Michael nodded. ‘That’s exactly it. You wouldn’t object if Dad did have a word with him, would you, Paula?’
‘No, of course not. There’s no harm in letting Alexander know about your interest in the division.’ She swung to the older man. ‘Are you going to Yorkshire this weekend, Uncle Ronnie?’
‘Yes, I am, my dear.’
‘Then why don’t you drive over to Nutton Priory, and have a chat with him. He’s always much more relaxed when he’s in the country.’
‘I think I shall do that,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘And my thanks to you, Paula, you’ve been most helpful.’
Michael flashed her one of his engaging smiles. ‘Yes, thanks, we really do appreciate your input.’ He sipped his wine and his light blue eyes grew thoughtful and after a moment he asked, ‘By the way, just out of curiosity, is Sarah Lowther still married to that French painter? Or don’t you hear anything about her any more?’
‘Obviously not directly, since I kicked her out of the family along with Jonathan,’ Paula murmured, the gaiety on her face instantly fading. ‘But there was a piece on Yves Pascal in a French magazine about six months ago … Paris Match, I believe. Anyway, amongst the many photographs was one of Sarah and Yves and their five-year-old daughter, Chloe. Seemingly they live in Mougins in the Alpes-Maritimes. They own an old farmhouse; that’s where he has his studio. He’s known as the enfant terrible of French art, and he’s become very big, immensely successful.’
Michael said, ‘He’s a damned good painter actually, although his work’s not my cup of tea. Having been raised on the school of French Impressionist painting, all this ultramodern stuff leaves me utterly unmoved. Give me Monet, Manet, Sisley and van Gogh any day of the week.’
‘Absolutely,’ Paula agreed.
‘And talking of Sarah, whatever happened to her partner in crime, Jonathan Ainsley?’ Michael stared at Paula, frowning. ‘Is he still lurking in the Far East?’
‘I believe so, but not even Sandy knows for sure,’ Paula said, her voice low and unemotional. ‘Friends of Emily’s reported seeing him in Hong Kong, and then Singapore on another occasion. Jonathan’s dividends and the balance sheets of Harte Enterprises go to a firm of accountants here in London who handle his business seemingly.’ She made a sour face. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t show up in England, that’s all that matters to me. As Emma would have said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘Christ, yes!’ Michael began to shake his head wonderingly. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why he did what he did. He was such a fool – bloody stupid if you ask me. He had everything going for himself and he threw it all away.’
‘Perhaps he believed he would never get caught,’ Sir Ronald ventured to Michael. ‘But then I’m sure he hadn’t bargained for this one here.’ He glanced at Paula through the corner of his eye, patted her arm and finished with a chuckle, ‘He met his match in you, my dear, no doubt about that whatsoever.’
Paula attempted to laugh with him but it came out sounding forced and artificial, and for a moment she did not trust herself to speak. She was hating this discussion about Jonathan Ainsley, her cousin, her deadly enemy of long ago.
Michael pressed, ‘And so nobody in the family knows what he’s doing for a living?’
Paula stared at Michael through eyes grown bleak and flat. She gave him a long and careful look, and pursed her lips, a habit she had picked up from her grandmother years before. After a split second, she said with a certain pithiness, ‘Jonathan Ainsley doesn’t have to earn a living, since he receives a very sizeable income from Harte Enterprises.’ There was a small pause before she thought to add, ‘And nobody’s ever bothered to find out about his personal or business life … because none of us care what’s happened to him.’ Now frowning in perplexity, and pinning Michael with her vivid blue gaze, Paula asked testily, ‘Why the sudden preoccupation with Jonathan anyway?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about him in years, and now, unexpectedly, I’m riddled with curiosity,’ Michael admitted with a rueful grin.
‘I’m not.’ Despite the warmth of the Connaught dining room, Paula shivered. She had never forgotten the last words Jonathan had spoken to her … I’ll get you for this, Paula Fairley. Sebastian and I will bloody well get you, he had screamed, shaking his fist at her in the most ridiculous way, like the villain in a Victorian novel. Well, Sebastian Cross could not ‘get her’ since he was dead. But Jonathan would if he could. Sometimes she had nightmares about her cousin, nightmares in which he did her terrible harm. He was certainly capable of it. Capable of almost anything. She knew that from their childhood. Once, a few years ago, she had confided her fears in Sandy, who had laughed and had told her to dismiss Jonathan from her mind. Sandy had reminded her that Jonathan was a bully and, like all bullies, a coward. This was true; nevertheless, she had never been able to expunge the memory of the day Sandy had fired him. It was only too easy to recall the baleful look in Jonathan’s eyes, the mask of hatred contorting his face and instinctively, ever since then, she had known he would always remain her enemy until the day they buried him. Ten years had passed and she had not set eyes on him again, none of them had, in fact, and yet deep down inside her was this small kernel of fear.
Suddenly becoming aware that Michael and Sir Ronald were watching her, were waiting for her to say something, she turned towards Michael. Adopting the lightest of tones, she said, ‘Master Ainsley turned out to be a bad penny, and the least said about him the better.’
‘Quite so, my dear, quite so!’ Sir Ronald muttered. He had grown conscious of the change in her demeanour whilst they had been discussing Ainsley and he decided it would be wise to change the subject. And so he said with a rush of genuine enthusiasm, ‘I received your invitation to the dinner dance you’re giving for the sixtieth anniversary of the store, Paula, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. Now, tell me more about the other celebrations you’ve planned.’
‘Oh I’d love to, Uncle Ronnie, I have some really special things coming up – ’ She cut herself off as the waiter drew to a standstill at the table. ‘But perhaps we should order dessert first,’ she went on, accepting one of the menus being thrust at her.
‘Splendid idea, and I do recommend the sorbets,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘It’s really far too hot for anything else, isn’t it?’
Paula nodded. ‘I think that’s what I’ll have.’ She glanced at the waiter, half smiled. ‘A lemon sorbet for me, please.’
‘You can make that two,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘And what about you Michael, will you join us?’
‘Oh, no.’ Michael threw his father a look of mock horror and grimaced. ‘Only coffee for me.’
As the waiter went off with their order, Michael’s eyes swept over Paula appreciatively. He grinned as he remarked, ‘It seems to me you can eat anything and never put on an ounce … I’m afraid I have to watch myself these days.’
Paula shook her head and laughed with him. ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re trim enough, Michael.’
Swivelling to face his father, she now picked up the conversation where they had left off a moment ago, and launched into a recital about the forthcoming events to be held at the Knightsbridge store later that year.
Michael had settled back in his chair, toying with his wine glass. He was only vaguely listening to Paula.
His mind remained focused on Lady Hamilton Clothes and the endless possibilities the company held for them, if they were lucky enough to buy it back from Harte Enterprises. Amanda Linde, Sandy’s half sister, had been creating the line for a number of years now, and in his opinion she was a far better designer than Sarah Lowther had ever been. Her clothes were easy and comfortable to wear, and yet they had a special kind of elegance because she always managed to give them a touch of the Harte class. Her designs would sell as well in other Continental countries as they did in France, of that he was quite certain.
Michael’s mind turned on business matters.
Sir Ronald and Paula continued to chat about her celebratory plans for the store’s anniversary. Their voices were a faint murmur, barely audible against the buzz of the lunchtime crowd in the busy restaurant.
The waiter came back and served the dessert, poured the coffee.
Michael picked up his cup, further ruminating on the talented Amanda. If they bought Lady Hamilton, whether now or in the future, she would have to remain as head fashion designer and managing director. That was an imperative. If she was in any way reluctant to stay on, to work for them, he would have to come up with some special inducements –
Paula’s sudden laughter reverberated on the warm air, cut into his myriad thoughts. It was a full, throaty, curiously sexual laugh and it caused Michael to lift his head swiftly.
He glanced across the table at her. She was spooning sorbet into her mouth. A small glob of it clung to her upper lip and she licked it off with the tip of her tongue and went on eating. He watched her, fascinated, and as he did he experienced the most extraordinary physical attraction to her. His reaction unnerved him. Michael held himself perfectly still in the chair, dropped his eyes and stared into his coffee cup.
When he eventually looked up she had finished the sorbet and her face was averted as she responded to something his father had just said. He blinked, not understanding himself at all. He must be mad to think of Paula in this way.
Brilliant sunshine was pouring in through the window immediately behind her and it encircled her with shimmering light, brought her into focus as if she were under a pinspot on a stage. Her colouring appeared to be more vivid than ever … the black hair, the violet eyes, the incomparable skin touched with a faint tan like the golden bloom on a summer peach. How vibrantly alive she was at this moment … and how very sexual.
Michael, who had never felt anything but fraternal affection for Paula, was filled with a fierce desire to make love to her. He took a steely hold of his feelings, which had flared so suddenly, and lowered his head, fearful that something would show in his face, that his eyes would betray his lust for her. Why? he asked himself. Why do I want to take her to bed now after knowing her for so many years? He gazed intently at the small vase of flowers in the centre of the table, his face unreadable as he endeavoured to quell his emotions.
Sir Ronald was saying, ‘And I shall be in Paris next weekend, Paula, en route to Biarritz. If you’re going to be over there, visiting the Paris store, perhaps we could dine together.’
‘No, I won’t be in Paris next weekend – ’ Paula began, and came to an abrupt halt. ‘Oh damn!’ she exclaimed, sitting up jerkily in her seat, frowning, remembering the note on her desk. She had forgotten to cancel the Paris airline reservation which had been made for her for later in the day.
‘Is something wrong?’ Sir Ronald asked in concern.
‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ Paula assured him, making a mental note to telephone British Airways the minute she returned to her office. ‘I forgot to do something before lunch, but there’s no problem, really there isn’t, Uncle Ronnie.’
Michael, who had managed to extinguish his erotic thoughts about Paula, gave his father a puzzled look. ‘Why are you going to Biarritz at this time of year. Dad? The season’s over.’
‘Yes, I know it is … but I’m going to look at an Imperial Russian Easter Egg by Fabergé,’ Sir Ronald announced with obvious pleasure.
He beamed at them both. ‘My art dealer in Paris has a client in Biarritz. A very old lady. A White Russian lady. She is apparently ready to sell her jewelled egg at long last. And, quite naturally, I want to get there first, before the American publisher Malcolm Forbes or any other serious collector hears about it and snaps it up before I do. You know how extremely rare the Fabergé eggs have become.’ Sir Ronald peered at his watch, clucked to himself, and before Michael had a chance to comment, he rapidly went on, ‘And that reminds me, I have an appointment at Wartski’s in fifteen minutes. Kenneth Snowman recently acquired a cigarette box which belonged to Czar Nicholas the Second. It’s by Perchin, one of the greatest of the Faberge designers, and I promised I would pop in to see it this afternoon.’
‘I’m delighted for you, Dad, and I hope that you manage to get both items,’ Michael said with real sincerity, knowing how important collecting these beautiful objects had become to his father. What had begun as a vague hobby had turned into a grand passion. The Kallinski Faberge Collection was renowned, and was frequently on exhibition with the Sandringham Collection, which had been started by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, sister of the Czarina Marie Feodorovna, later added to by Queen Mary and now owned by Queen Elizabeth II.
Michael smiled at his father. ‘Since you’re in a hurry, I’d better get the bill, Dad,’ he said, and motioned to their waiter.
Sir Ronald glanced at Paula. ‘If you wouldn’t mind dropping me off at Wartski’s first, my car can then take you back to the store, my dear.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Ronnie, that’ll be lovely.’
‘Michael, can I give you a lift too?’
‘Oh no,’ Michael said, suddenly having no wish to be around Paula any longer than was necessary today. ‘Thanks anyway, Dad, but I prefer to walk.’
Chapter 4 (#ulink_97b80c34-1e4c-515c-9984-aa2fbb2150ff)
She went to Paris after all.
It was a sudden decision, made when she returned to the store at three o’clock. She had picked up the phone and begun to dial British Airways, ready to cancel her reservation, when she had changed her mind and let the receiver drop back into its cradle.
It had been a scramble then to finish her work and stuff several silk dresses into the garment bag and get out to Heathrow to catch the six o’clock plane. She had made it with ten minutes to spare and the flight had been smooth and fast with the wind behind them, and exactly one hour and five minutes after take-off they had landed serenely at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Her luggage had come through without much delay and she had passed customs quickly and with no fuss. Now she sat comfortably in the back of the chauffeur-driven car he had sent to meet her, being whizzed towards Paris and her rendezvous.
For the first time since lunch at the Connaught with the Kallinskis earlier in the day, Paula began to unwind. And as she did she realized that it had not been such a sudden decision to come here … she had known from the first moment she had read his note that she would go to him, hadn’t she? Hadn’t it been a fait accompli even then? Of course it had, but, very simply, she had not wanted to admit this to herself and so she had clouded the issue with thoughts of duty and responsibility.
Paula leaned into the corner of the seat and crossed her long and shapely legs; a smile flitted across her face as she recalled something her grandmother had said to her many, many years before. ‘When the right man beckons a woman will always go running to him, no matter who she is, no matter what her responsibilities are. And no doubt you’ll fall into that same trap one day, just as I did when I met your grandfather. You mark my words, Paula,’ Grandy had remarked in her knowing way. As usual, Emma had been correct.
The smile lingered on Paula’s face as she turned her head to glance out of the window. With the hour’s difference in time between London and Paris it was now nearly nine and already growing dark.
The car was leaving the Boulevard de Courcelles at a good clip, following the other traffic through the Etoile without slowing, and as it whirled at a dizzying speed around the Arc de Triomphe, that giant monument to a nation’s valour, Paula cringed. She wondered how all these fast-moving automobiles, being driven as if they were in a miniature Grand Prix, would make it safely without crashing into each other and creating a major disaster. That seemed to be almost an impossibility.
But suddenly their car was free of the traffic jam, jostling bumpers, screeching tyres and madly hooting horns, and was pulling onto the Champs-Elysées. She caught her breath in delight as she usually did upon seeing this glittering avenue.
Whenever she returned to Paris she remembered the very first time she had come here and all the other times after that, and there was always something of those times caught up in her feeling for it. Memory and nostalgia were woven into her love for the City of Light, her favourite city, the most beautiful city in the world. It was full of evocations of the past and of all those who had been with her who had made those occasions so very special: Grandy, her mother and father, her brother Philip, Tessa, and her cousin Emily, who had been her dearest companion on so many trips when they had been girls.
He was very much bound up with her remembrances of Paris, too, and in a short while she would be seeing him; she made up her mind not to spoil the weekend by worrying about the children or having regrets that she had changed her plans to be with him instead of them. That would not be fair, and anyway, she had always considered regrets to be pointless and a waste of valuable time.
They were on the Rond-Point now and ahead she could see the Egyptian obelisk built in the reign of Ramses II and transported from Luxor to rest in the immense rectangle of floodlit stone that was the Place de la Concorde. How spectacular the sight was … a breathtaking scene that was forever etched in her mind. She felt a sudden thrill of pleasure at being back here and she was glad she had told the chauffeur to take the longer route to the hotel.
But within a matter of minutes they were entering the Place Vendôme, that quiet gracious square of perfectly-proportioned buildings designed in the reign of Louis XIV, and coming to a standstill in front of the Ritz, and Paula was alighting and thanking the chauffeur and asking him to deal with the luggage.
She moved rather swiftly through the grand and elegant lobby and down the seemingly endless gallery filled with display cases from Paris shops, making for the Rue Cambon section of the hotel – known as côté Cambon, just as the other side where she had entered was called côté Vendôme. When she reached the smaller lobby she took the lift to the seventh floor and ran the length of the corridor to his suite. She found she was taut with excitement when she reached the door. It was slightly ajar, in anticipation of her arrival, and she pushed it open, went in, closed it softly, and leaned against it, catching her breath.
He was standing behind the desk, his jacket off, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, his dark tie dangling loose around his neck. He was talking on the telephone and he lifted a sunburned hand in greeting, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He paused in what he was saying into the receiver, listened carefully to his caller and finally said in a low rapid tone, ‘Merci, Jean-Claude, à demain,’ and hung up.
They moved towards each other at precisely the same moment.
As she passed the small Louis XV table holding a bucket of champagne and two crystal glasses she gaily twirled the bottle resting in the ice and said in a light voice, ‘You were sure of yourself, sure I’d come, weren’t you?’
‘Of course,’ he laughed, ‘I’m irresistible.’
‘And so terribly modest.’
They met in the middle of the room, stood facing each other for a split second.
Quickly she said, ‘I almost didn’t … I was worried … worried about the children … they need me – ’
‘Madam,’ he said, ‘your husband needs you too,’ and reaching out he pulled her into his arms. He bent down and kissed her deeply on the mouth and she returned his kiss, clung to him, and he held her hard and very tightly for the longest moment after they stopped kissing.
‘Oh, Shane,’ she said at last against his chest, ‘you have me.’
‘Yes, I know I do,’ he answered. And then with a deep chuckle he drew away from her, held her by the shoulders, and looked down into her face upturned to his. He shook his head slowly.
‘But you’re always surrounded,’ he continued, the residue of laughter clinging to his voice, ‘by children and relatives and secretaries and staff, and I can never seem to get you alone for very long, or have you entirely to myself for a while these days. And that’s why I decided early this morning, when I was flying up to Paris for a meeting with Jean-Claude, that we were going to have this weekend together. Without our usual encumbrances. A bit of private time for us, before you leave for New York, We’re entitled to that, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, we most certainly are.’ Paula gave him a small, rueful smile. ‘Coming in from the airport I vowed I wouldn’t say anything about the children, and I’ve only been here a few minutes and already I’ve – ’
Shane gently placed his hand over her mouth. ‘Sssh! I know how much you wanted to see the kids before going away, and you shall.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, giving him a puzzled look.
‘Tonight and Saturday belong to us, and then on Sunday morning Kevin will fly us down to the Riviera to spend Sunday and Monday at the villa with the brood. You’ll have to go to New York one day later, that’s all. On Wednesday instead of Tuesday. Okay?’
‘Oh darling, yes, of course! What a marvellous idea and how lovely of you to think of it, to think of pleasing them as well as us,’ she exclaimed.
He grinned at her. ‘They’re my kids, too, you know.’
‘But you’ve been coping alone with them for the last two weeks and you must have had your fill of them by now.’
‘Only too true … in some ways. On the other hand, they’ve really been looking forward to seeing you, and I don’t want them to be disappointed, or you to think I’m an entirely selfish sod. So, I’m prepared to share you with our offspring … after all, you are going to be gone from us for five or six weeks.’
Paula gazed up to him, loving him. ‘Yes, I am …’ She paused, hesitated, then asked softly, almost tentatively, ‘How’s Patrick? Is he all right, Shane?’ A worried frown knotted her dark brows together and her clear blue eyes turned cloudy and apprehensive.
‘He’s wonderful, Paula, and as happy as a sandboy, enjoying every minute of the day and having lots of fun,’ Shane reassured her, his tone very positive. ‘Please, darling, don’t worry so much.’ He put his hand under her chin, tilted her face to his and added, ‘Patrick manages very well, really he does.’
‘I’m sorry, Shane, I know I fuss about him, but he’s such a little boy and so diffident … and different. And the others can be so boisterous at times, and I’m always afraid he’ll get hurt when he’s out of his usual environment …’
She let her sentence trail off, not wanting to express the thought that anything might ever happen to their first-born child. Patrick, who was seven, was slow, retarded, and she could not help being concerned about him when he was not under her sharp and watchful eyes.
Although Shane was equally protective of their son, he was constantly – if gently – chastising her for being overly anxious. Deep down, she knew Shane was right and so she tried very hard to control her anxiety, to treat Patrick as if he were perfectly normal, like his five-year-old sister, Linnet, and his half-brother and half-sister, Lorne and Tessa, the twelve-year-old twins fathered by Jim Fairley.
Shane, observing her carefully, fully understanding her complex feelings about Patrick, said with a confiding smile, ‘I haven’t mentioned this to you before, but Linnet’s become a real little mother while we’ve all been down at the villa. She’s taken Patrick under her very small but very loving wing and, actually, without you around, she’s even turned a bit bossy. And you know how Lorne is with Patrick … he adores him. So all is well, my darling, and –’ Shane broke off at the sound of knocking, exclaimed ‘Entrez,’ and, moving away from Paula, he went hurrying to the door as it was being pushed open in response to his command.
A genial-looking porter came in carrying her garment bag and small suitcase, and Shane dealt with him briskly, showed him through into the bedroom, told him where to put the luggage and tipped him.
Once they were alone again, Shane strode over to the table, began to peel the metal paper off the champagne cork.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘enough of the kids. They’re absolutely fine with Emily and Winston.’
‘Yes, of course they are, darling.’
A moment before, Paula’s thoughts had swung to their youngest child, and now she started to chuckle and her eyes crinkled up at the corners in amusement. ‘So Linnet’s true character has finally emerged, has it? I always suspected that that daughter of ours had inherited a bit of Emma’s imperiousness, that she also had the makings of a general in her.’
Shane glanced up, pulled a face, rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Another general in the family! Oh my God, I don’t think I can stand it! Oh well, I suppose all of my women compensate for their bossiness by being so easy on the eye.’ Winking at her, he said, ‘And by the way, Emily sends her love. When I rang her earlier this evening, to tell her I’d side-tracked you to Paris, that we wouldn’t be at the villa until Sunday, she was tickled to death about our weekend alone together. She thought it was a smashing idea, and she says you’re not to be concerned about a thing. Now, how about a glass of this marvellous stuff, before we get ready for dinner?’
‘That’d be lovely, darling.’
Paula had seated herself on the sofa whilst he had been dealing with the porter, and she kicked off her shoes, curled her legs under her and sat back, watching him.
It did not matter whether they had been apart for four days or a fortnight, she was always a little startled when she saw Shane after an absence and overwhelmed by the sheer physical presence of him. It had much to do with the force of his personality – that extraordinary charisma he possessed – as well as his height and build and natural dark good looks. Sixteen years ago, at his twenty-fourth birthday party, Emma Harte had said that Shane O’Neill had an intense glamour, and this had never been more true than it was today. He was the most dazzling of men.
Shane had celebrated his fortieth birthday this past June: he was in his prime and looked it. He had a powerful physique with a broad back and massive shoulders, and he had stayed lithe and trim; his sojourn in the sun with the children had given him a deep tan. There was a touch of grey at his temples now, but, curiously, this did not age him. Rather, in combination with his bronzed complexion, the grey seemed to underscore the youthfulness of his strong and virile face. And in contrast to his hair, there was not a strand of grey in his moustache which was as coal black as it had always been.
I’ve known him all of my life and it’s never changed, this extraordinary feeling I have for him, Paula thought, continuing to quietly observe him. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I will ever want … for the rest of my life … my husband, my lover, my closest friend.
‘Hey, Beanstalk,’ he said, using his childhood nickname for her as he walked across the room. ‘You’re a million miles away.’ He handed her the glass of champagne, sat down next to her on the sofa and gave her a quick quizzical glance.
‘Just daydreaming,’ she replied, clinking her glass to his when he held it out.
He leaned into her and fastened his eyes on her face. ‘Emma would’ve approved of this weekend of ours … she was a thorough-going romantic, just as I am.’
‘Yes, that’s very true.’
‘She was on my mind earlier today and for the obvious reasons,’ Shane went on, ‘and it suddenly struck me how quickly the time has passed since her death. It’s frightening, really, the way the years have sped by. It seems like only yesterday that she was ordering all of us around – ’
‘I was thinking exactly the same thing when I was at the cemetery this morning!’
Their eyes met. They exchanged slightly startled glances and then smiled knowingly at each other. This frequently happened, the shared thought when they were apart, or, when they were together, the sudden voicing by one of them of a sentiment that the other had been about to express.
As a small child, Paula had believed Shane had the ability to read her mind and that he knew her every thought, and she still believed this. But it no longer surprised her; they were too much a part of each other now and she took their closeness for granted and considered it perfectly natural that they were on the same wavelength.
Looking across at him, she said in a voice that rose slightly, as if she were suddenly surprised, ‘It doesn’t seem possible that we’ll have been married for ten years in November, does it?’
‘No …’ He lifted his hand and touched her cheek lightly. ‘But we have, and every single day I’ve been your husband has been meaningful to me, and I wouldn’t have missed one of them, not even the really bad days. Better to be with you, no matter what the circumstances, than without you.’
‘Yes, I feel the same way,’ she said and her eyes signalled her deep and abiding love to him.
Shane returned Paula’s unwavering gaze and the expression in his brilliant black eyes echoed the one in hers.
A silence fell between them.
It was a compatible and harmonious silence, one of those quiet interludes they often shared when they discovered words were not necessary to communicate their feelings.
Paula sat back and sipped her drink and unexpectedly thought of what it would be like to be without him, and she felt herself shrivelling inside, appalled at the idea. It was Shane who gave true meaning to her existence. He was the substance of her life, her rock; he was always there for her, just as she was for him. She was glad he had devised this weekend, that they had this bit of special time together before she went off on her business trip to the States and Australia. She smiled inwardly, thinking of the clever and masterful way he had planned the interlude for them, adoring him for it.
Shane, studying her, became aware that the tensions of the day were slowly ebbing out of her face, and this gladdened his heart. He frequently worried about her, knowing how hard she worked, but he never interfered. She was far too much like Emma to be any different, and protesting about her unremitting schedule would only be a waste of his breath and an irritant to her.
He eased his large frame into the corner of the blue velvet Louis XVI sofa, settled back to enjoy his drink; he, too, was finally able to relax, to let go for the first time since leaving the villa that morning. From the moment he had stepped off the O’Neill corporate jet, until Paula’s arrival in the suite, he had been busy with Jean-Claude Soissons, the head of O’Neill Hotels International in France. But he had no intention of letting business intrude any further, either tonight or tomorrow, which was why they were not staying at the hotel he owned in Paris. Whenever he wanted Paula to himself, to spend some quiet private time with her, he always took a deluxe suite at the Ritz where he knew no one would disturb him.
Now, as Paula had done a moment before, he turned his gaze inward, contemplating the next thirty-six hours and the joy they would derive from being together – and completely alone.
There was something very special between these two.
It had always been there, even as children, this spiritual oneness, this closeness, this bonding together, and what had begun in infancy had come to full flower with their sexual union as adults.
For a period of time, during Paula’s disastrous marriage to Jim Fairley, Shane had been at odds with her, but the bond between them had never really been broken. When they had patched up their friendship and had subsequently become lovers at long last, they had been profoundly shaken by the strength and force of their physical passion for each other. But they had recognized how right it was, knew they had always been meant to be together in this way, and they felt whole and complete for the first time in their lives.
Shane realized how utterly worthless his liaisons with countless other women had been, and at once understood that without Paula his life would be meaningless; Paula finally knew that Shane was the only man she had ever loved, saw how empty and loveless her marriage to Jim was, and acknowledged that to continue to live this lie would be like killing herself. And she accepted that she must end the marriage if she was to save her life – and keep her self-respect and sanity.
Expecting to meet opposition from Jim as she had, Paula, nevertheless, had been staggered by his vituperativeness and the spiteful way he had behaved once he knew she wanted a divorce. They had battled, locked horns, reached an impasse.
In the middle of one of their worst crises, Jim had done a bolt to Chamonix for a winter holiday with her parents at their rented chalet, and she had been furious with him for going skiing with the family at such a crucial time in their lives. And then he had been fatally struck down on Mont Blanc by the avalanche that had decimated the family, and she did not have to worry about getting a divorce any more because she was suddenly a widow at the age of twenty-six.
Jim’s death had come between Paula and Shane and she had sent him away out of her great and terrible guilt. But eventually she had come to her senses and had found her true self again, and had gone to him, had told him she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, and they had been reconciled immediately, for Shane O’Neill had never stopped loving her.
Two months later, with Emily and Winston Harte as their witnesses, they had been married at Caxton Hall registry office in London.
And they both knew deep in the innermost recesses of their hearts that they had finally fulfilled their destiny.
The antique ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece began to chime loudly.
Paula and Shane both started in surprise and glanced across at it, and Shane exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, it’s nine-thirty already, and I booked a table at the Espadon for quarter to ten. Can you get ready in fifteen minutes, darling?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Paula said, putting down her glass, stretching, then smothering a yawn behind her hand.
Shane stared hard at her and scowled. ‘You’re terribly tired,’ he said in concern. ‘How thoughtless of me to expect you to go downstairs to the restaurant. It’s a hot bath for you, my girl, and immediately. We’ll have a snack from room service tonight.’
‘Don’t be silly, I’m fine,’ Paula began and paused, yawning again. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, it has been a long day,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps you’re right about eating in the suite.’
‘I know I am.’
As he spoke, Shane stood up, reached down, took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. He laid his arm around her shoulders and propelled her towards the bedroom door. ‘I wish I’d cancelled Kevin’s weekend off and sent him with the plane to collect you this evening – ’
‘I’m jolly glad you didn’t cancel it!’ Paula cried, giving him a sharp, almost reproving look. She was fond of Kevin Reardon and was aware that the pilot’s devotion to them frequently caused him to neglect his personal life. ‘Kevin’s been looking forward to his girlfriend’s birthday party tomorrow night for weeks now. Anyway, he made a good messenger, didn’t he? It was Kevin who delivered your note to the store this morning, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was.’ Shane grinned as he proceeded to bundle her into the bedroom. ‘Come on, get undressed and take a hot bath, and whilst you’re relaxing I shall order supper. What do you fancy?’
‘Oh anything you like … I’ll leave it to you, darling.’
‘How about a picnic … with some of your favourite things? And another bottle of bubbly.’
Paula laughed gaily. She said, ‘If I drink any more champagne I might just pass out.’
‘That’s permissible,’ Shane shot back, ‘you have your husband here to look after you.’
‘True. And a very special husband at that.’ She stood on tiptoe, kissed his cheek.
Shane’s arms went around her and he caught her to him for a moment, tightening his grip, kissing the top of her dark head, and then he suddenly let go of her abruptly, stepped away from her.
‘I’d better be a good boy and go and order supper, otherwise you never know what might happen. After all, I have been deprived of you for two whole weeks, and I don’t mind telling you, I’ve missed you like bloody hell, my love …’
‘Oh Shane darling,’ she said slowly, very softly. ‘Yes … I know what you mean …’
It was the inflection in her voice, the sudden longing on her face that made him instantly take a step forward.
She reached out her hand to him.
He took it.
Their clasped hands tightened and they moved into each other’s arms swiftly. He bent his face to hers, seeking her mouth, and felt the sudden hotness of her cheeks, and the knowledge that she always wanted him as much as he always wanted her aroused him, made his heart begin to clatter erratically. They kissed, a long deep kiss, and he let his tongue explore her mouth, and they shared a feeling of the most profound intimacy.
Paula was suddenly trembling in his arms and together they swayed on their feet as if they were intoxicated, and of course they were – with each other – and then they half-stumbled, half-walked in the direction of the bed, their arms still wrapped around one another.
Shane stripped her of her clothes.
She went and lay down on the bed, waiting for him, and her eyes never once left his face as he flung off his own clothes. As she watched him intently she was hardly able to contain herself, wanting him so much, and when she saw how excited he was she felt a shiver trickle down her spine.
As Shane stared back into those violet eyes turning inky black with longing for him, he was possessed by such a violent desire for her it sent the blood rushing to his head and made his heart begin to pound against his rib cage. He felt dizzy and lightheaded as he walked across to the bed and stretched out beside her.
Pushing himself up on one elbow, he bent over her, looked down into her face.
She gazed up at him.
Their eyes locked and held for the longest moment of the most intense and adoring communion, and then he touched her cheek with two fingers, moving their tips across her brows, her eyelids, her nose and onto her mouth; slowly he traced the outline of her lips and parted them and rested his fingertips against her tongue. She sucked on them and the sensuality of this little act inflamed him, made the fire leap through him. Immediately, he crushed his mouth to hers. It was hard and insistent and their teeth grazed as he kissed her with mounting passion, and as he did he moved his fingers away from her lips, slid them along the elongated line of her lovely throat. They did not linger there, but moved on to fondle her voluptuous breasts, then slipped further down to flutter lightly across her flat stomach until they were finally resting between her thighs.
Shane began to stroke her lovingly, languorously, in slow motion, and with such tenderness he seemed hardly to be touching her at all. But he could feel the velvet softness of her increasing and he continued to stroke, to explore, until his fingertips came to nestle against that precious core of her that was the fountainhead of her womanhood.
Instantly, Paula twisted herself into him, bringing her body closer to his, her slender hand reaching out for him, and she began to caress him as delicately as he was her. Shane felt his hardness growing as she unexpectedly moved her hand with greater rapidity and he had to bite back a cry as he began to throb under her touch. He grasped her wrist, stilled her hand, and then he intensified the pressure of his fingertips and she tensed, and held her body rigid. He explored further, slipped deeper into the velvet folds of her, and as he did he heard a strangled cry in her throat.
He leaned over her satin-smooth breasts, very taut and upright, and savoured the hard, erect nipples with his mouth, first one and then the other. She started to gently undulate under his expert fingers, his loving mouth, and she sighed and murmured his name softly, over and over. Now her hands went out to him again, were strong and hard on the nape of his neck and in his thick hair, and they suddenly moved on to grasp his wide shoulders as her excitement accelerated.
Paula stiffened and gasped. She was filling with an exquisite warmth. His touch quickened, became ever more nimble and deft, and she cried out in her excitement, ‘Shane, oh Shane, my darling husband, I love you so much!’ And he said against her throat, in a voice thickened by desire, ‘You’re my true love, Paula, my own true love. Come to me, my darling, so that I can take you to me.’ And she gasped again and said, ‘Yes, oh yes,’ and gripped his shoulders more tenaciously than ever.
Shane thought he was going to explode as she opened up to him like an exotic flower unfolding soft lush petals, moaning his name and shuddering. He was unable to contain himself, and he moved onto her, took possession of her swiftly, raging with the same kind of molten heat that was suffusing her.
She held him to her, as he pushed his hands under her body and lifted her to him and they cleaved together, were joined, became one.
As Shane thrust deeper, lost himself completely in her and in the joy of her, he suddenly thought: I want to make her pregnant tonight. I want another child.
This idea, unexpected as it was, sent such thrills surging through him he moved against her violently and she responded with unbridled ardour, matching his passion equally, and they quickly found their own rhythm as they had all through the years of their marriage. But for Shane, tonight was suddenly like the first time they had ever made love and in an instant the years fell away. He was back in Connecticut, in the barn he had once owned, taking her to him as he had yearned to take her during the years of her marriage to another man, loving her as he had never loved any other woman, as only he and she were meant to love.
And then he was reaching up … reaching into the light … the light was surrounding him … she was at the centre of the light … waiting for him … his dreamlike child of his childhood dreams. And she was his now. Nothing, no one, could ever separate them again. They belonged together for all time, into eternity. He felt weightless … he was soaring higher and higher … rising up into that timeless light … floating into infinity. And he was carrying her with him, holding the world in his arms, calling her name, just as she called his.
And together they crested on waves of ecstasy in the golden shimmering light … were blinded by it and then could see … and oh the blessed peace of it …
Shane woke up abruptly.
He moved his head to the right and looked at the bedside clock. In the dim light he could see that it was almost five.
Paula slept soundlessly by his side.
He braced himself on one elbow, bent over her, touched her face lovingly, but very lightly, so as not to awaken her from her exhausted sleep, and lifted a strand of hair away from her eyes. Then he settled down again, stretched out on his back and closed his eyes, but before many minutes had passed he decided he was not going to fall off again quite so easily, or as quickly as he had just imagined he would. He was suddenly wide awake. Still, he had slept very deeply for the past few hours, as he always did when he was with Paula, as if he were more content and at peace when she was in his bed. Well, of course he was.
He turned over onto his side, made an arc of his body around hers. She was his whole life, and now, lying next to her in the darkness, adoring her in the silence of his heart, he wondered if he had made her pregnant? Weeks ago they had agreed she should stop taking the pill.
Tonight he had planted his seed in her and he prayed that the seed had taken hold and would come to flower as a child … a true love child conceived at the height of passion and spiritual joining. He stifled a sigh, thinking of Patrick. He loved his little boy with a deeply tender and protective love, but he could not help being sad that their first born was not normal. He dare not let Paula perceive his feelings, for fear of underscoring her own pain, but they were never far from the surface and yet, somehow, he always managed to conceal his sorrow from her.
Instinctively, Shane lifted his right arm, put it around her, drew closer, burrowed his face in her fragrant hair, overflowing with his love for her. He closed his eyes again, let himself drift into sleep. Yes, he thought, now is the time for our next child. And he wondered, as he finally dozed off, if that was the real reason he had side-tracked her to Paris.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_ebd42bdd-28e2-540e-ada1-02fa8b9c0cb1)
The Villa Faviola was situated in the town of Roquebrune-Cap Martin, approximately halfway between Monte Carlo and Menton.
It stood in its own small park at the end of the little peninsula of Cap Martin, sheltered by pines at its back, with its many tall windows facing out towards the sea.
Built in the 1920s, it was a lovely old house, sprawling, airy and gracious, with a curving driveway bordered by pines, spacious green lawns that swept down from the terrace past the swimming pool, up to the edge of the rocky promontory and the glittering Mediterranean Sea beyond.
Its exterior walls were painted a soft melon, but in a tone so pale it was almost sand, and the canvas awnings shading the windows were of a deeper melon, were partnered with shutters of pristine white.
A wide terrace stretched along the side of the house facing the sea and was made of white stone and marble, and it appeared to float gracefully above the verdant gardens where flowers grew in riotous colour and fountains sparkled in the shimmering sunlight. Scattered along the terrace were several round white-metal tables topped by melon-coloured parasols; matching white chairs, swing-sofas with sun-awnings, and chaises all had cushions of cream, and because only these soft integrated tones had been used nothing jarred the harmonious flow of pale colour across the lovely front façade.
The Villa Faviola had been purchased by Emma Harte in the late 1940s, just after the end of the Second World War, and it was she who had originally created the gardens surrounding the house and intersecting the lawns. But in recent years, Paula had enlarged the flower beds and borders and had planted a wide variety of small flowering trees and shrubs and exotic plants, cultivating the entire park to its present beauty – and a magnificence that was renowned along the Côte d’Azur.
Inside Faviola its cool, lofty rooms were filled with lovely filtered sunlight and furnished with a simple yet distinctive elegance. Charming old French Provincial pieces made of dark woods or bleached oak were mingled with vast sofas and comfortable chairs and there were chaises and ottomans, and occasional tables held small pots of African violets and pink and white cyclamen and the latest magazines and books.
Floors of highly polished parquet and rose-veined cream marble were either bare or were covered here and there by old Aubussons and plain rugs of cream wool, and throughout the house colours were pale and cool. Cream, vanilla and white predominated, flowed over the walls, were repeated in the fabrics that fell at the windows and covered sofas and chairs, and accent colours were variations of melon and peach and sand, and there were touches of café-au-lait, that lovely milky brown that was so typically French.
Spilling vivid colour into these monochromatic-toned rooms were romantic, lyrical paintings by such noted contemporary French artists as Epko, Taurelle and Bouyssou and huge Baccarat crystal urns overflowing with a great abundance of flowers and foliage from the gardens.
But none of the rooms were so imposing or so grand that guests and children were intimidated and felt they were in a museum and therefore hardly dare breathe. On the contrary, Emma had designed the house as a vacation home, one to be lived in and enjoyed to the fullest, and it had a great deal of comfort and an easy grace that was all its own. It also happened to be one of those houses that had always had a warm, welcoming and happy atmosphere, and there was a lovely serenity about its calm, sun-drenched rooms and the inviting pine-shaded park with its glorious gardens.
Alexander Barkstone owned Faviola, having inherited it from Emma along with its contents – with the exception of the Impressionist art, which his grandmother had bequeathed to Philip in Australia. But Sandy rarely came to the villa, preferring his country estate in Yorkshire, and it was mostly used by his sister Emily and her family, his cousins Paula O’Neill and Anthony Dunvale and their respective spouses and children, and occasionally his mother, Elizabeth, and her French husband, Marc Deboyne, who came down from Paris for long weekends, usually when the season was over.
But of all of them, it was Emily who loved Faviola the most – and with an enduring passion.
As a little girl some of the happiest times of her childhood had been spent at the villa with her beloved Gran, and she had always believed it to be an enchanted and magical place. She knew every cranny and every corner of every room on every floor, and every inch of the park and the garden and the beach below the rocky promontory. After she had married her cousin, Winston Harte, in June of 1970, they had flown down to the Riviera for their honeymoon and the first two weeks of their life as man and wife had been spent at the villa. The lovely carefree days and romantic evenings were so blissful, Emily’s deep feelings for Faviola were only intensified, and ever since then the villa had been her haven which she could escape to at odd times during the spring and winter, either alone or with Winston, and always in the summer months with their children, Toby, Gideon and Natalie. And she had never grown tired of it and she knew she never would, and she thought of the villa as the most perfect place in the world to be.
But in contrast, Sandy’s visits to the house had grown fewer and fewer after his wife’s death; in 1973, recognizing how much Emily loved the place, he had asked her to take over from him, to supervise its general management. He had been relieved and happy when she had promptly and enthusiastically agreed.
Inevitably, Emily had put her individual stamp on Faviola over the years, but she had not tried to turn it into a replica of an English country house. Instead she had retained its Gallic flavour in every possible way, and if anything she had even enhanced the predominantly Provençal feeling with her inimitable touches. But as involved with it as she had become in the last eight years, Emily never considered the villa to be her own, never once forgot that it was the property of her brother . And yet it was hers in a certain sense, because of the time and the care and the great love she constantly lavished on it, and certainly everyone thought of Emily as la grande châtelaine of the Villa Faviola.
When Emma Harte was living, the day-to-day running of the villa had been in the capable hands of a local woman from Roquebrune, one Madame Paulette Renard. Engaged by Emma in 1950, she had moved into the pleasant and roomy caretaker’s house in the private park – known as la petite maison – and had looked after the Harte family with unfailing care for the next twenty years.
But with Emma’s death in 1970, Madame Paulette had decided the time had come for her to retire and she had handed over her responsibilities and her keys to her daughter, Solange Brivet, who wished to leave her job as the housekeeper at a hotel in Beaulieu. Madame Paulette was a widow, and the Brivets and their children had been living with her in la petite maison for a number of years, and so there had been no great upheavals or sad goodbyes. And since it was only a short walk across the vegetable garden to the villa, Madame Paulette was always on hand to give her expert advice or air her considerable knowledge, and she was delighted she was still able to participate in life at the villa.
Over the past eleven years, the management and running of Faviola had become something of a Brivet family affair. Solange’s husband, Marcel, was the chef, two of their three daughters, Sylvie and Marie, were the maids, and their son, Henri, was the butler and, as Emily put it, ‘our general factotum par excellence’, while Marcel’s nephews, Pierre and Maurice, were the gardeners. These two drove over from Roquebrune in their little Renault every morning, bringing with them another Brivet, Cousin Odile, who worked in the kitchen as assistant to Marcel, and it was Odile who carried with her the huge basket of breads from her mother’s boulangerie … fresh croissants and brioche, which Marcel served warm for the family’s breakfast, and baguettes, those long French loaves with a hard crust which the children especially loved.
Madame Solange, as she was called by everyone, had been trained at the Hôtel de Paris in nearby Monte Carlo, and she ran the villa in the grand Riviera style, rather in the manner of a great hotel, with efficiency, meticulous attention to detail, and with the same kind of loving devotion her mother had expended before her. And in all the years she had been employed, she and Emily had worked together in harmony, with rarely, if ever, a cross word; to Emily the brisk, bustling, but very motherly Frenchwoman was indispensable.
The phrase, ‘Thank God for Solange,’ was forever on Emily’s lips, and she was muttering it under her breath on this August Monday morning as she hurried into the kitchen, stood in the centre of the floor, glanced around, and nodded to herself, looking pleased.
They had had their annual, end-of-the-summer dinner party last night, but no one would have known it from the look of the large, old-fashioned kitchen. As usual, the hanging pots and pans sparkled, the wood counter tops were scrubbed to gleaming white, the terracotta tile floor shone and everything else was spotless and back in its given place.
Solange must have really cracked the whip to get everything so ship-shape for this morning, Emily thought, recalling the mess in the kitchen the night before, after the last of their guests had finally departed. Smiling to herself, she took a glass from the cupboard, went to the refrigerator, poured herself some Vichy water, and carrying the glass she walked back through the pantry, across the dining room and out of the French doors onto the terrace, the clicking of her sandals the only sound on the warm, still air.
Emily was always the first one to be up and about every morning, sometimes as early as dawn.
She treasured this private time before the family awakened and the staff started to arrive. She liked being entirely alone to enjoy the gentle quiescence of the silent slumbering house, to savour the early morning smells and colours of the Mediterranean landscape.
It was also her hour for reviewing the paperwork she invariably brought with her, making notes for her secretary in London, whom she phoned several times a week, working out the day’s menus and planning activities for the children. But frequently she just sat quietly on the terrace, glad to have a few moments of solitude and introspection before the excitement of the day began and a horde of children descended on her, dragging a kind of chaos in their wake.
It was not so bad when she had only her own three to cope with, but when Paula’s four and Anthony’s three children were at Faviola, often bringing with them a number of young guests, it was rather like having an unruly juvenile football team underfoot. But Emily had her own system and she managed to control them far better than anyone else. It was not for nothing the children called her ‘The Sergeant Major’ behind her back.
Now, taking sips of Vichy as she walked, Emily went up to the edge of the terrace and leaned against the balustrade, looked out across the gardens to the sea. It was a dark metallic blue and choppy, and the sky that surged above it was a curdled cloudy grey that seemed ominous.
She hoped the weather was not going to change again, as it had last week when the mistral, that dry north wind that blew down out of the Rhône Valley, had brought several days of mean weather with it. Without exception, all of the children had been restive and moody and difficult, and Solange had immediately blamed the mistral, reminding Emily that this wind usually disturbed everyone’s equilibrium, and Emily had agreed, and they had both been relieved when it had finally blown out to sea. The weather had changed for the better – and so had the children. They were much calmer, almost their normal selves again, and even Emily felt more at ease. She had been edgy and irritable during those dull and incredibly windy days, and she now had to admit there was probably a lot of truth in what Solange – and the locals – said about the mistral and its peculiar effect on people. She glanced at her watch. It was only twenty minutes past six and by nine o’clock the sky would be a perfect cerulean blue, the sun would be out and the sea would be as still as a pond, she decided, as always the eternal optimist, as her grandmother had been before her.
Turning away from the balustrade, she stepped up to the table where she had laid out her papers a few minutes earlier, and sat down. As far as work was concerned, her immediate priority was her impending trip to Hong Kong to buy merchandise for Genret, the import-export trading company she ran for Harte Enterprises. She opened her diary and glanced at the dates in September she had tentatively selected some weeks ago. She flipped the pages backward and forward several times, carefully studied her schedule, pencilled in the changes she now wished to make, and began to scribble a note for Janice, her secretary in London, outlining her new itinerary.
A few minutes later, Emily almost jumped out of her skin as a strong cool hand came to rest firmly on her shoulders, and she started up in her chair and swung her head swiftly, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘My God, Winston! You mustn’t creep up on me like that! So silently. You scared me!’ she cried.
‘Oh, sorry, darling,’ he apologized and bent over and kissed her cheek. ‘Good morning,’ he added as he walked across the terrace and leaned against the balustrade, where he stood regarding her lovingly for a moment before proffering her a warm smile.
Emily smiled back. ‘And tell me, what are you doing up so early? You’re usually dead to the world until ten o’clock at the earliest.’
Winston shrugged his bare shoulders, put the towel he was holding on the balustrade. ‘I couldn’t sleep this morning. But it’s always the same with me, isn’t it, Em? I mean, on our last few days here I seem to want to cram everything in, enjoy every single second, just like the kids.’
‘And as I do, too.’
‘Yes, that’s true … you do love this place so. But then it loves you, Emily … why you’re positively blooming.’
‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said.
He eyed the glass in front of her. ‘I suppose that’s water you’re drinking … aren’t you going to make coffee?’
Emily shook her head. ‘No, Winston, I’m not,’ she said very adamantly. ‘Because if I do, I’ll also make some toast and I’ll butter the toast and put jam on it and then I’ll eat it, and when Odile arrives at seven, with all that scrumptious stuff from the bakery, I’ll have another breakfast, a second breakfast, and you know perfectly well that I’ve got to watch my weight.’
‘You look pretty terrific to me, Mrs Harte,’ he said with a chuckle and leered at her. ‘I don’t half fancy you.’
‘Honestly, Winston, at this hour!’
‘What’s wrong with this hour? It’s still very early … come on darling, let’s go back to bed.’
‘Oh don’t be so silly, I’ve a thousand things to do this morning.’
‘So do I,’ he remarked lightly, giving her a pointed look. Then his face changed suddenly, and he levelled a swift appraising glance at her, liking what he saw. Emily was now thirty-four and one of the prettiest women alive, in his opinion. She was blonder than ever and brown from the sun and her brilliant green eyes, so identical in colour to his own, sparkled with a vivid intelligence and a joie de vivre that were uniquely hers. She was wearing a lime-green-and-pink cotton shift over her bikini and looked impossibly young, fresh and delectable this morning.
‘Winston, you’re staring. And very rudely. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Just admiring you, that’s all. And thinking that you look like a delicious ice cream … and good enough to eat.’
‘Oh pooh!’ Emily laughed, but her neck turned bright pink and she dropped her head, stared at her engagement book intently.
There was a tiny silence.
Winston swallowed a smile, both amused and pleased that he could still make her blush after eleven years of marriage, but then that was his Emily and he adored her for her girlishness and her femininity and her softness. Odd, he thought, that she can be so tough in business and yet she has such a soft edge to her in her personal life. Like Paula, of course, and Aunt Emma, when she was alive; it was just this dichotomy in their natures that made the Harte women so original. He had known that for a long time.
Emily raised her head. At once, she saw the contemplative expression on her husband’s face and asked, ‘And what are you thinking about now?’
‘I was just wondering what all this is in aid of this morning?’ Winston murmured, strolling over to join her at the table. He flopped down in the chair opposite and held her eyes as she looked across at him.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, puzzled.
‘Why are you going at the work hammer and tongs today, when you’ll be back in London at the end of the week? It hardly seems worth it, love.’
‘I’m not working, actually, I’m trying to figure out the dates for my buying trip to Hong Kong and Mainland China,’ Emily explained. ‘If I leave on the tenth of September, instead of the sixth as I’d planned, I’d still be there when Paula breaks her return journey back to the States from Sydney. We were talking about it yesterday afternoon, and decided it would be nice to have a couple of days in Hong Kong. Relaxing … doing our Christmas shopping … and then we could fly on to New York together, spend a day or two there before taking the Concorde home to England. What do you think?’
‘It sounds good to me, if that’s what you feel like doing. I’ve certainly no objections, I don’t have to be in Canada until the first week of October. Presumably you’d be back in England before I left?’
‘Yes, of course I would. I’ve taken your Canadian trip into consideration and planned around it.’
‘Then it’s fine, darling,’ Winston answered with a smile and stood up, went to get his towel. ‘Well, if you’re not going to take pity on your poor husband and make him a cup of coffee, I think I’ll go for a swim before that tribe of fiendish little monsters invades the area and ploughs down everything in sight.’
Emily couldn’t help laughing at the expression on his face. ‘Oh I don’t know, darling, they’re not so bad,’ she protested, feeling the sudden need to defend the younger generation.
‘Oh yes they are!’ he retorted. ‘They’re bloody awful most of the time!’ A lopsided grin glanced across his face. ‘But I must admit, I do love ’em … especially the three that are mine.’ He kissed her quickly and loped off in the direction of the swimming pool without another word, nonchalantly swinging the towel and whistling merrily.
Emily watched him go, thinking how fit and healthy he looked with his tanned body and face and his reddish hair turned to gold by the Riviera sun. The summer here had done him good. He worked extremely hard running the Yorkshire Consolidated Newspaper Company and its Canadian subsidiaries, and she was always after him to slow down a bit. But he paid not the slightest attention to her, merely commented that they all worked like demons, which was true, of course. It was the way her Gran had brought them up. Emma had only disdained slackers, so naturally they had all become over-achievers.
How lucky I am to have Winston, Emily mused, settling back in the chair, idly drifting with her thoughts, putting off preparing the menus for that day’s meals for a few moments longer.
Sometimes, when she turned her gaze back into the past, she realized she had managed to catch him by the skin of her teeth, understood how easily she might have lost him to another woman.
Emily had been in love with Winston since she was sixteen. They were third cousins. His grandfather and namesake, Winston Harte, had been her grandmother’s brother. Although Winston was five years older than she, they had been bosom pals as children, but once he had grown up he had hardly noticed her again, at least not as an attractive young woman with whom he might become romantically involved.
He had gone off to Oxford with his best friend, Shane, and the two of them had rapidly acquired reputations as terrible womanizers. Almost everyone had been scandalized by their disreputable antics. She had ached with a mixture of jealousy and longing, wishing she were one of the girls Winston chased and bedded. Only her Gran had been sanguine. Emma had simply laughed, had said they were merely young bucks sowing their wild oats. But then neither Winston or Shane could do much wrong in Emma Harte’s eyes and she had had a special fondness for them both.
And so Emily had worshipped Winston from afar, hoping that one day his glance would fall on her again. But it hadn’t, and much to her profound dismay he suddenly became seriously involved with a local girl, Alison Ridley. At the beginning of 1969 the gossip going around the three clans was that he was about to get engaged to Alison. Emily had thought her heart was going to break.
Then everything had changed. Quite miraculously, Winston had noticed her at the christening of Paula and Jim Fairley’s twins in March of that same year. And all because of an incident with Shane which had upset her grandmother. She and Winston had been called into the library at Pennistone Royal and had been grilled by Emma about Shane’s feelings for Paula. When they had finally escaped, they had gone for a walk in the gardens to recover from their gruelling ordeal, and for some reason Winston had been prompted to kiss her. This action on his part had been as sudden as it was unexpected, and Emily, loving him though she did, had been as stunned as he by their intense physical reaction to each other as they had sat on the bench by the lily pond, entwined in each other’s arms. The world had turned dizzily and wonderfully upside down for them both.
Winston, in typical Harte fashion, had wasted little time. The moment their affair had begun he had broken off with Alison, and shortly thereafter he had asked Emily’s grandmother if they could become engaged. Emma had given her consent, thoroughly approving of the match between her granddaughter and her great nephew. And one year later, when her Gran had returned from Australia, they had been married in the quaint old church in Pennistone village, and Gran had given the most beautiful wedding reception for them in the gardens of Pennistone Royal; her life as Winston’s wife had begun … and it was the best life any woman could ever want …
Emily sighed with contentment, brought her thoughts back to the present, picked up her pen and began to write out the menu for lunch. When she finished, she started on the one for dinner, but stopped abruptly as an idea occurred to her. Tonight, she and Winston, Paula and Shane, would drive over to Beaulieu and have dinner at La Reserve. Just the four of them. Without the tribe. That would be much more peaceful. Not to mention romantic. Winston will approve, she thought, and smiled a small secret smile.
Chapter 6 (#ulink_26cf491a-7280-5759-8b32-f7bc41cb2a2b)
‘You clot! You unbelievably stupid clot! Look what you’ve done! You’ve splashed my beautiful painting and ruined it!’ Tessa Fairley yelled at the top of her lungs, glaring at Lorne, adopting an angry stance, waving the paintbrush in the air.
‘The side of the swimming pool is hardly the proper place to set up an easel and start painting,’ Lorne rejoined loftily, returning her glare. ‘Especially when everyone’s leaping in and out of the pool. It’s your own fault the watercolour’s been splashed, not mine. And one more thing – I’m not a stupid clot.’
‘No, you’re a stupid CRETIN,’ his twelve-year-old twin shot back, then sucked in her breath with a horrified gasp. ‘Don’t do that, Lorne Fairley! Don’t shake yourself like that! Oh! Oh! you rotten thing. You’ve spoiled my other pictures. Oh, God, you’ve made them all trickly.’ She had the sudden murderous urge to bash her brother in the head, to do him some kind of bodily harm, but instantly suppressed it because of her mother’s presence this morning. ‘Mummy … Mummy … tell Lorne to stay away from my paintings drying on the grass,’ she wailed.
‘I want this hat,’ Linnet announced matter-of-factly and snatched Tessa’s large yellow sun hat from the chaise near the easel, placed it on top of her bright red curls and happily marched off, dragging a rubber duck on a string behind her and pushing the hat up as it kept sliding down over her eyes.
‘Bring my hat back at once, you naughty girl!’
When her five-year-old sister paid not a blind bit of notice, Tessa exclaimed to no one in particular, ‘Did you see that? She took my hat without my permission. Well! Her behaviour certainly leaves a lot to be desired. Mummy … Mummy … that child’s spoiled rotten. You and Daddy have ruined her. There’s no hope – ’
‘Pompous, pompous, Tessa’s being pompous, just like Lornie, she’s parroting Forlornie,’ Gideon Harte taunted in a sing-song tone from the relative safety of the pool.
‘I won’t dignify that ridiculous remark,’ Lorne sniffed with hauteur and lowered himself onto a mattress, picked up his copy of Homer’s Iliad and buried his face in the book.
‘Bring my hat back!’ Tessa screamed, stamping her foot.
‘Oh for God’s sake, leave her alone,’ a faintly disembodied voice admonished from the pool, and Toby Harte’s reddish-gold head bobbed up over the side. The ten-year-old grinned at Tessa, who was his favourite girl cousin, and then hauled himself out of the water, being careful not to splash her or her paintings, having no wish to incur her wrath. Reaching for a towel, he added, ‘After all, she’s only a little itty bitty baby, and how could she – ’
‘Not a baby,’ a muffled voice informed them from underneath the large sun hat.
‘ – possibly damage it,’ continued Toby, towelling himself dry. ‘And why do you care so much, Tess? It’s only a stupid old hat you bought in Nice market … a cheap bit of rag.’
‘It’s not a bit of rag! It’s beautiful. And it cost me a whole week’s pocket money, Toby Harte!’
‘More fool you,’ called out Gideon, and with this inflammatory comment the eight-year-old paddled swiftly to the centre of the pool, flipped over, floated on his back, and began to make faces at her.
‘What do you know about anything, Gideon Harte! You’re a CRETIN like my brother. ’
‘Is that the only stupid word you know, Stupid?’ Gideon shouted back and stuck his tongue out at her.
‘Brat! Brat!’ Tessa yelled at him. ‘You’re a spoiled brat, too!’
‘Oh shut up both of you,’ Toby admonished in a bored voice. ‘Listen, Tess, can I borrow one of your old Beatles’ albums?’
‘Which one?’ Tessa asked, suddenly wary, squinting up at him in the bright sunlight, moving a strand of fair hair away from her face.
‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.’
‘Oh no, I can’t possibly lend you that one! It’s er … er … it’s become a … classic. When Auntie Amanda gave it to me, she told me it’d be very, very valuable one day, ’cos it’s an early one … she’d had it since before we were even born. But … Well … all right, because it’s you I’ll make an exception, so – ’
‘Gosh, thanks, Tess,’ Toby cut in, his freckled face lighting up.
‘ – you can rent it if you want, it’s ten pence an hour,’ Tessa finished, sounding as magnanimous as she now looked.
‘Ten pence an hour! That’s highway robbery!’ Toby spluttered, his expression indignant. ‘No thanks, Tessa, I’m not going to help you become a capitalist.’
‘In this family, everybody’s a capitalist,’ Tessa declared smugly, with a small smirk.
‘Forget it, I’ll play my new Bee-Gees.’
‘Suit yourself.’
‘Aunt Paula. Aunt Paula … your daughter’s turned into a really nasty little sharpie this summer,’ Toby exclaimed scathingly and threw a disgusted look in Tessa’s direction.
‘Mummy … I’m taking my knickers off, they’re all wet,’ Linnet cried from the depths of the sun hat.
‘You see what I mean about her behaviour, Mummy,’ Tessa sniggered. ‘She’s the only five-year-old I know who still wee-wees in her pants.’
‘I don’t! I didn’t, Mummy!’ a clear voice shrilled as the hat was pushed back and Linnet’s round flushed face appeared.
‘Auntie Paula, may I have one of these ginger snaps, please?’ three-year-old Natalie Harte asked and promptly took one and crunched on it before she was forbidden to do so.
‘Mummy! Look at her now! She’s dragging my gorgeous sun hat in the puddles. Stop it, you little monster. Stop it! Mummy, make her stop. Mother … you’re not listening. If you throw that hat into the pool, I’ll kill you, Linnet O’Neill! Gideon! Get my hat! Quick, before it sinks!’
‘Okay, I will, but it’ll cost you plenty.’
Tessa ignored this threat. ‘Wait until I catch you, Linnet,’ she screamed after the small, plump figure retreating swiftly in the direction of the pool house.
‘Mother … Mother … will you please tell Tessa to stop screeching like a banshee? I’m getting a frightful headache,’ Lorne murmured languidly from the mattress where he lay reading.
‘Auntie Paula, Natalie’s eaten all of the ginger snaps,’ India Standish gasped and, turning to her cousin, she added in the most dire tone a seven-year-old could summon, ‘You’re going to be sick. Horribly, horribly sick, and it serves you right, you greedy little girl.’
‘Have this, India,’ Natalie said with a winning smile, pulling a half-eaten chocolate out of the pocket of her sundress, dusting it off and offering it to the older girl, whom she adored.
‘Ugh! No thanks. It looks icky!’ India pulled a face. ‘It’s covered in sand. And fluff. Ugh!’
‘Auntie Paula, there’s a dead something at the bottom of the pool,’ Gideon shouted, coming up for air with a splash, triumphantly holding the sodden sun hat aloft.
‘Oh my God, my beautiful gorgeous new sun hat has been ruined! Mummy, she’s ruined my expensive hat. Who’s going to buy me a new one? Mummy, did you hear what I just said?’
‘Where’s the dead something?’ Patrick asked, throwing himself flat on the ground, dangling his dark head over the pool, craning his neck so that he could peer down into the depths. ‘Can’t see it, Gid.’
‘I’ve got to dive for it,’ Gideon explained, running his hands through his wet blond hair, taking a deep breath and instantly plunging underwater again like an agile little dolphin.
‘Patrick, don’t lean over the edge,’ Linnet warned from the door of the pool house. ‘You’ll fall in.’
‘Won’t fall.’
‘Will you take five pence an hour for Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band?’ Toby negotiated hopefully.
‘Eight pence … perhaps.’
‘No thanks, Miss Sharpie. You can go and shove it up your … jumper.’
‘Oh Mummy, Mummy, look! A bird. Dead,’ Patrick cried. ‘Oh poor birdie. Funeral. Can we have a funeral?’
‘Auntie Paula, please make Gideon get rid of that foul, disgusting, revolting object,’ eleven-year-old Jeremy Standish exclaimed. ‘It pongs to high heaven and it’s contaminating the air.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ Gideon glared at his cousin. ‘We’re going to bury it, like Patrick wants, aren’t we, Auntie Paula? Auntie Paula, cooee! Auntie Paula, we can bury it, can’t we?’
‘Mummy, can birdie have a funeral?’
‘Mummy, I want some dry knickers.’
‘Mother, look at Linnet now. She’s waving her knickers in the air. She’s a disgusting child. Just look at her, Mummy. Mummy. MOTHER!’
‘For Christ’s sake, Tessa, stop screaming,’ Lorne shouted. ‘How can I concentrate on my Homer with you bellowing in my ears. I’ll be jolly glad to get back to school next week and away from you. Far, far away. There’s never a minute’s bloody peace when you’re around. You’re a bloody little pest, a bloody nuisance.’
‘If Daddy hears you swearing, you’ll catch it.’
‘And who’s going to tell him, Miss Tattle Tale?’
‘I’ve never split on you yet, you MORON,’
‘If I’m a moron, then so are you, TWIN!’
‘Don’t bring that frightful smelly disgusting thing anywhere near me, Gideon, or I’ll punch you on the nose,’ Jeremy threatened. ‘Auntie Paula, please make him stop waving that beastly dead bird in my face.’
‘Auntie Paula! Auntie Paula! Natalie’s being sick! I knew she would be. Look, over there by the tree. Auntie Paula, did you hear me?’
‘Gideon Harte, I’m warning you. Keep your distance or I’ll thump you!’
‘Stop it, Gid, stop being childish,’ Toby ordered loudly.
‘I’m not. He is. Sissy! Sissy! Lord Jeremy Standish’s a sissy!’
‘I’m going to really thump you for that!’ Jeremy cried, jumping up.
‘Gideon, give me that dead bird,’ Toby shouted, racing after his brother, catching him by the top of his wet bathing trunks.
‘Auntie Paula, tell Toby to let go of me!’ Gideon screamed. ‘He’s hurting me.’
‘And it’s my turn next,’ Jeremy threatened with sudden manic glee.
‘Mummy, Mummy, make the boys stop fighting,’ Linnet shrieked.
Paula threw down her book and angrily leaped to her feet.
She began to chastise them loudly and vociferously, but they heard nothing. Her voice was drowned out by a series of strange booming echoes that reverberated on the warm air, and as the echoes died away, Paula was able to ask, in a tone that rose slightly, ‘What on earth was that?’
‘The gong,’ Linnet said.
‘Gong,’ Paula repeated in perplexity, and it instantly struck her how chastened the children seemed and she stared at them sharply through narrowed eyes. ‘What gong? Whose gong?’
Lorne explained, ‘Auntie Emily’s gong … she bought it – ’
‘From the house up the mountain,’ Tessa quickly interjected, then volunteered to her still-baffled mother, ‘The old lady who owned the house died, and there was a sale. Two weeks ago, just after you left, the last time you were here, Mummy. And we all went with Aunt Emily, she thought we might find some bargains.’
‘But all we found was the gong,’ Jeremy muttered.
‘And where does Aunt Emily keep this gong?’ Paula inquired, her eyes flicking over each one of them with considerable interest.
‘Up there in the gazebo,’ India replied.
‘But why did Emily buy the gong?’ Paula wondered out loud.
Toby supplied the answer, when he said quietly, ‘Mummy uses it to signal us. One strike means that breakfast’s ready, two is for lunch, three is to summon us inside, to get ready for dinner, and – ’
‘When she bangs and bangs and bangs, like just now, it means we’re going to catch it,’ Linnet confided and grimaced. ‘For being bad. For something terrible we’ve done.’
‘I see,’ Paula said and her shrewd eyes swept over the group of youngsters yet again. It was more apparent to her than ever that each child was suitably intimidated – even the most recalcitrant of them. She turned away to hide a smile, thinking how terribly clever Emily was.
‘We’re definitely in for it. Because of the unholy row we’ve been making,’ Lorne muttered, jumping up, edging away.
‘You’re right,’ Toby agreed. ‘Come on, Troops, let’s skedaddle before my mother gets here and starts giving us stupid chores to do, or worse still, starts thinking up idiotic activities to keep us properly occupied.’
Within the space of seconds, the older children had raced after Lorne and Toby, as always the ringleaders, who were heading at breakneck speed for the steps that led down to the beach below the promontory. Only Patrick, Linnet and Natalie remained with Paula in the pool area.
Silence finally reigned.
Paula sank gratefully into her chair, delighted to have peace and quiet for the first time that morning. She had done her utmost to ignore them, had remained aloof from their endless bickering – as she had learned to do over the years – at least until Toby and Gideon had started fighting and Jeremy had seemed about to join in the mêlée. She couldn’t permit that to happen. Anthony and Sally Dunvale’s eldest son had not been well, and the last thing his father had said, before leaving for Ireland earlier that morning, was for them to make sure the boy did not overtax himself for the rest of his stay at the villa. Paula knew that if Jeremy went home to Clonloughlin looking as if he had been scrapping with the boys, she and Emily would never hear the end of it from his mother. Their cousin Sally fussed a great deal about her first born, the heir to the Dunvale title, lands and fortune.
Paula took a deep breath, and was about to give her small daughter a stern lecture about removing her underclothing in public, when she saw Emily hurrying down the path between the lawns.
‘Cooee! Cooee!’ Emily called, waving.
Paula waved back.
A moment later, Emily drew to a stop and she and Paula exchanged looks. They began to laugh.
Emily said, ‘I know it’s noisy, but it’s very effective.’
‘And how,’ Paula agreed. ‘I’ve never seen them silenced quite so quickly. Never. It was an inspired buy on your part.’
‘Yes,’ Emily chuckled, ‘so it’s proved. My God, they were kicking up such a racket, I’m surprised you don’t have a splitting headache by now. I know I could hardly hear myself think when I was in the kitchen, talking to Marcel about the meals for today.’
‘Mummy, I’ve been sick,’ Natalie announced, going over to Emily, tugging at her shift. ‘I frowed up.’
‘Don’t talk like a baby, you’re a big girl. And it’s threw up,’ Emily corrected. She looked down at her youngest child, frowning, and put a hand on her forehead in concern. ‘Are you feeling all right? Are you better now, angel?’
‘I don’t know, Mummy.’
‘It’s because she ate all the ginger snaps,’ Linnet said.
‘Now, now, Linnet, you know it’s wrong to tell tales out of school!’ Paula reprimanded sharply, scowling at her daughter. ‘And let’s not forget that you’ve been very naughty this morning. First, flinging Tessa’s sun hat in the pool, and then taking your knickers off in public. I’m terribly cross with you, and ashamed of you, Linnet.’ Paula shook her head, trying hard to look appropriately angry without much success, but nevertheless, she added, ‘You’ve disgraced yourself, and the only reason you haven’t been punished yet is because I’m still trying to think of a suitable punishment.’
Linnet bit her lip, adopted a sorrowful expression, and wisely said nothing.
Emily looked from her daughter to her niece and then glanced at Paula. She exclaimed, ‘Why do I do such stupid things? Such as letting both nannies have the same day off, so they can go up to Grasse to buy perfume. And today of all days – the last chance you have to get a bit of rest before you go to New York on Wednesday. I’m sorry, Paula.’
‘It’s all right, really it is, lovey.’
Sighing under her breath, Emily now took hold of Natalie’s hand. ‘Come along, let’s go inside and get something to settle your tummy. And you’d better come along, too, Linnet, for a pair of clean underpants.’
‘Oh thanks, Emily,’ Paula murmured, settling back in her chair.
‘Lunch is at one,’ Emily said, ‘and I’ve booked a table at La Reserve for dinner tonight. Just the four of us.’
‘I should jolly well hope so,’ Paula laughed. ‘And it sounds absolutely lovely. It’s ages since we’ve been over there … it’s one of my favourite places.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Emily replied, looking pleased as she turned away. She took a couple of steps, stopped, and said over her shoulder to Paula, ‘Oh by the way, I’ve got to go into Monte Carlo this afternoon, to pick up a repair from my antique porcelain man. Do you want to drive in with me? I’ll only be a few minutes with Jules, and then we could take a stroll around the town and have tea at the Hôtel de Paris … watch the world go by for a while, like we used to with Gran.’
‘What a nice idea, Emily, yes, I’d like that.’
Emily gave her a sunny smile, then bustled her charges forward, half bending down, talking to them as they made for the villa.
Paula watched the three of them go up the path together, the two little girls walking on either side of Emily, clinging to her hands. Linnet and Natalie bore a strong resemblance to each other, could easily be mistaken for sisters since they had both inherited the famous Harte colouring – Emma’s red hair and vivid green eyes and English rose complexion. They were beautiful. Dazzling children, really. A couple of Botticellis.
Patrick now came to Paula, stood by her chair, touched her arm, stared deeply into her face. ‘Mummy …’
‘What is it, darling?’
‘Mummy … poor birdie. Gid took it. No funeral now.’ The child shook his head and looked sad.
‘Of course we’ll have a funeral,’ Paula said gently, taking his small, rather grubby hand in hers, looking into his angelic face. His black O’Neill eyes were bright and lively for once, not devoid of expression and vacant as they so frequently were. Her heart lifted with joy to see such life in them today.
She gave her son a reassuring smile, and went on, ‘I know Gideon will bring the little bird back, and we’ll ask Madame Solange for one of her old tin biscuit boxes to put the birdie in, and then after lunch we’ll have the funeral. I promise, darling.’
Patrick put his head on one side and studied her carefully. ‘Bury it in the garden?’ he asked, and gave her a slow, tentative smile.
‘Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do. Oh darling, look who’s coming!’
Patrick swung his head and when he saw Shane approaching his face lit up and he extracted his hand from his mother’s and ran to meet his father.
Paula called out worriedly, ‘Patrick, do be careful. Don’t fall.’
Patrick did not answer. He sped ahead as fast as his little legs would carry him, shouting, ‘Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!’
Shane caught his son in his arms and swung him up high in the air, then placed him on his shoulders, and the two of them laughed merrily as Patrick rode Shane back to the pool area, crying, ‘Gee-up, gee-up. Nice horsey. Gee-up, gee-up.’
‘I’m going to take him for a swim. Is that okay, darling?’ Shane called. He knelt down and carefully lowered Patrick to the ground.
‘Yes, of course,’ Paula called back.
She sat up straighter, so that she could see the two of them better, shading her eyes with her hand.
Shane jumped into the shallow end of the pool, holding Patrick tightly in his arms, and immediately they began to frolic in the water, still laughing, and shouting with glee, and Patrick’s face was bright with excitement and happiness and so was Shane’s.
From this distance, her son seemed like any normal seven-year-old; the problem was that he would always have the mind of a seven-year-old. His body would grow and age, but his mental capacities would remain as they were now for the rest of his life. He would never be any different; they had given up hope of that. When they had first discovered Patrick was retarded, Paula had blamed herself, believing she carried some flaw in her genes which had been inherited from her grandfather. Paul McGill had had a legitimate son, Howard, by his legal wife, Constance, in Australia, and the boy, who had been dead now for a number of years, had been retarded. She had so convinced herself that this was the case, she had told Shane she dare not risk having any more children. But Shane had immediately pooh-poohed her theory, and he had insisted they see Professor Charles Hallingby, a leading geneticist.
They had both been tested and the results had proved conclusively that neither she nor Shane had passed on any kind of deficiency to their son. Patrick’s condition was inexplicable, simply a terrible fluke of nature. Professor Hallingby, having studied their family histories, had pointed out to Paula that her grandfather’s son may well have suffered prenatal damage because of Constance McGill’s heavy drinking during her pregnancy, a possibility her mother, Daisy, had mentioned innumerable times. She had finally conceded that the professor and her mother could be right. Not unnaturally, the knowledge that Professor Hallingby had imparted had helped to ease her mind. Shortly after, she had conceived again, and when Linnet was born she was a perfectly normal baby.
Paula loved her children equally, and tried not to have a favourite, but deep down in the innermost regions of her heart she was aware that Patrick was special to her, that he had a unique place in her affections. There was a terrible fierceness about her love for her afflicted child, perhaps, in part, because of his affliction, which made him so vulnerable and dependent.
His siblings also loved him dearly, were patient, and took great care with him, and for this she was thankful. Often she thought how heartbreaking it would have been if they had despised him or treated him badly or shunned him, as sometimes happened in families where there was a retarded child. But Lorne, Tessa, and even little Linnet, were as protective of Patrick as she and Shane were and, in fact, so were his many cousins. Not one single child in the family had ever made Patrick feel that he was in any way different to them. It was an awful tragedy that her little Patrick had not been born a perfect child, that he was damaged in the way he was. But Paula recognized that his inherent sweetness, his gentle nature, and his loving disposition compensated for so many things and endeared him to the family, and certainly he brought out the best in all of them.
An afflicted child is like a bruise on the heart, one never quite gets rid of the aching pain, Paula thought, and she sighed under her breath and held herself very still, pressing down on her sadness, continuing to watch the two dark heads bobbing around in the water. Her husband, her son. Oh how she loved them both, and with a love that was heartstopping at times.
It did her good to see how much they were enjoying their nautical games. Shane could be very gentle and tender with Patrick, or roughhouse with him, as he was doing now, and from the joyous shrieks and the whoops of delight filling the air, she knew the little boy was having the best time with the father whom he worshipped. A great rush of happiness filled her to the brim, displaced the sorrow she had felt a moment ago.
Paula lay back and closed her eyes, feeling a measure of contentment, but she lifted her lids almost immediately and sat up at the sound of Winston’s voice.
He walked into the pool area carrying a large tray of plastic tumblers, and trotting dutifully behind him was his nephew, Giles Standish, second son of his sister Sally, the Countess of Dunvale. Giles was carefully holding a large jug of lemonade with both hands.
‘Bonjour, Tante Paula. Voilà! Ici citron pressé pour toi,’ the nine-year-old Giles said, showing off his little bit of French, as he had been doing all through the summer. He was having special tutoring in the language and made a point of speaking it whenever he could, much to the irritation of the other children, who were not as fluent as he was becoming. But their constant ribbing rolled off his back; he was independent by nature, so he paid no attention and went on speaking French whenever he felt like it.
Giles put the jug down on one of the tables in the shade, and politely stood aside to make way for his uncle.
‘How delicious it looks, Giles dear,’ Paula said. ‘Just what I need, I’m getting quite parched from this heat. Did your parents get off all right?’
‘Yes, but Nice airport was jammed, wasn’t it, Uncle Winston?’ Giles said, reverting to English.
‘It was bloody awful, Paula,’ Winston asserted, pouring lemonade into a tumbler and bringing it to her. ‘Chaotic. I’ve never seen so many people. Sally and Anthony were thankful they were returning on Shane’s private jet, and I must say, that plane’s turned out to be a real godsend. I’m certainly glad Emily and I will be able to use it to get the mob back home at the end of the week. Now, Giles, do you want a glass of this?’
‘No, thank you very much.’ Giles glanced around. ‘Where are Jeremy and India, Auntie Paula?’
‘I believe your brother and sister decamped to the beach. With the rest of the troops.’
‘Oh goody! I bet they’re all fishing or looking for oursins. I’m going down there too!’ Giles squealed excitedly. ‘Please excuse me, Auntie Paula, Uncle Winston,’ and so saying he took off, leaping across the grass in great bounds, making for the long flight of steps.
Winston stared after him, and said to Paula, ‘That kid’s got the best manners of the whole bunch of them. If only some of the others – mine in particular – would borrow even half a page from his book I’d be happy.’ He lowered himself onto a nearby chair, took a long swallow of lemonade, and continued, ‘Emily told me every single one of them was raising hell earlier, driving you crazy.’
‘It did start to get a bit out of hand, actually, Winston. But Emily finally put a stop to their bickering with that wonderfully effective gong.’ She glanced at her cousin through the corner of her eye, and chuckled. ‘Trust Emily to come up with something ridiculous like that. Still, it really works and I must admit, I wish I had a handle on them the way she does.’
Winston grinned. ‘Don’t we all.’
Chapter 7 (#ulink_30ae6cf6-d918-5c27-9f0d-c01f6de5f21d)
‘I adore old-fashioned hotels, especially when they’re in the belle époque style and have a grandiose splendour,’ Emily said to Paula as they turned into the Place Casino in Monte Carlo later that afternoon. ‘You know, like the Hôtel de Paris here, the Negresco in Nice, the Ritz in Paris and the Imperial in Vienna.’
‘Not to mention the Grand in Scarborough,’ Paula said, laughing, tucking her arm through Emily’s companionably. ‘I can well recall how attached you were to that place when we were little. You never stopped pestering me to take you there for afternoon tea, and you couldn’t wait to stuff your fat little face with cucumber sandwiches and cream puffs and scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream,’ she teased, her violet eyes dancing merrily.
Emily shuddered at the remembrance and made a gruesome face. ‘My God, all those fattening things! No wonder I’ve had to work so hard to keep my weight down ever since. Too much ballast as a child, methinks!’ She grinned at Paula. ‘You shouldn’t have let me eat like that.’
‘How could I stop you! I tried very hard to keep you out of the Grand Hotel, using every kind of ruse, even pretending I didn’t have any money on me. But you always had an answer for everything, even for that … “scribble on the bill like Grandma does,” you used to tell me. You were a very enterprising child, you know.’
‘And so were you.’
They both stopped at precisely the same moment and automatically swung to face each other and they shared a smile, thinking of those lighthearted happy days when they were growing up together in Yorkshire and London. There was a brief and loving silence before Emily said, ‘We were lucky, weren’t we, Paula? We had such a wonderful childhood, and especially when we were with our Gran.’
‘Yes, it was the best,’ Paula agreed. ‘And she was the best.’
They started walking again, lost in their own thoughts as they crossed the pleasant square, heading in the direction of the Hôtel de Paris, which was situated in the far corner, opposite the renowned Casino de Monte Carlo.
It was a lovely afternoon, filled with dappled sunlight and soft white clouds scudding across the azure-blue sky, and there was a refreshing breeze blowing up from the sea; it ruffled the skirts of their summer dresses and puffed them out like tulip bells, and made the white sails on the boats in the harbour billow about and the brightly-coloured flags on the masts ripple and dance gaily.
Emily had driven them down to Monte Carlo in her powder-blue Jaguar, after a family luncheon on the terrace at the villa, and the burial of the dead bird in the garden afterwards, which everyone had attended, much to Patrick’s satisfaction.
Once they had arrived in the Principality of Monaco they had parked the car and gone to Jules et Cie, the antique shop where Emily frequently bought old porcelain, to pick up a Limoges plate Jules had repaired for her. The charming old man had chatted to them at length about antique china and glass, and had shown them his private collection of rare items, and they had browsed for a while before leaving the antiquaire’s to stroll around the main streets and window shop on their way to the famous hotel for afternoon tea.
‘It’s impossibly grand, even a bit gingerbready, but it’s irresistible, at least to me,’ Emily said, pausing on the pavement outside the Hôtel de Paris, looking up at it, beginning to laugh at herself as they climbed the front steps. Almost instantly the laughter died in her throat, and she grabbed Paula’s arm so tightly her cousin winced and followed her gaze.
Heading towards them down the steps was a tall woman with an abundance of flaming red hair and the kind of elegance that was indisputably French. She wore a white silk dress, very chic and severely tailored, with a black silk rose pinned to one shoulder, black-and-white high-heeled shoes, a matching bag, and white gloves. She carried a black straw picture hat, and she was holding the hand of a little girl of about three years, also dressed entirely in white, who had the same natural, bright red hair. The woman was bending over the child, saying something to her as they moved forward, and she had not seen them.
‘Christ Almighty! It’s Sarah!’ Emily gasped and squeezed Paula’s arm again.
Paula sucked in her breath, but she had no chance to make any response, nor could she and Emily turn around and hurry away.
A split second later their cousin had drawn level with them. The three women were standing on the same step, gaping at each other, and they were so stunned they were utterly speechless, rooted to the spot.
It was Paula who finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ she said, very quietly, in a soft voice. ‘You’re looking well.’ She stopped, took a deep breath. ‘And this must be your daughter … Chloe, isn’t it?’ she added, forcing a smile, looking down at the child, whose upturned face was solemn and filled with enormous curiosity. And Paula saw, on closer inspection, that this was a true offspring of Emma Harte.
Sarah had regained her self-possession, and she gave Paula a look that was deadly. ‘How dare you speak to me!’ she cried, not bothering to sheathe her hostility and loathing. ‘How dare you attempt to make a friendly gesture towards me.’ Leaning closer, she hissed in Paula’s face, ‘You have a bloody nerve, behaving as if nothing happened between us, Paula O’Neill, and after what you did to me, you rotten bitch!’
The angry words, spoken so violently, the undisguised hatred on Sarah’s face, and her threatening manner, made Paula recoil in shock and dismay.
‘You’d better stay away from me and mine!’ Sarah exclaimed, her face turning brilliant red. She looked almost choleric, and her voice was unnecessarily loud and shrill. ‘And you too, Emily Harte, you’re no better than she is,’ she scoffed, her scarlet lips curling in scorn. ‘You two turned Grandmother against me, and then you cheated me of what was rightfully mine! You’re both thieves. Now, get out of my way! Both of you!’
Tightening her grip on the child’s hand, Sarah pushed between Paula and Emily, almost knocking Paula over as she did. And she swept on grandly down the remainder of the steps without a backward glance, the child hurrying and stumbling to keep up with her mother, exclaiming, ‘Maman, Maman, attendez!’
Paula had gone cold all over, despite the heat of the day, and there was a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was momentarily paralysed, powerless to move. Then suddenly she grew conscious of Emily taking hold of her arm.
Emily said, ‘Phew! That was awful. She’s not changed, has she?’
‘No, she hasn’t,’ Paula agreed, rousing herself. ‘Let’s go in, Emily, people are staring at us.’ Paula extricated herself, flew up the steps and through the doors of the hotel, wanting to put distance between herself and those passersby who had witnessed the scene. She was mortified and still shaking inside.
Emily ran after her and found her cousin waiting inside the door, striving to calm herself. She slipped her arm through Paula’s and drew her forward into the hotel, saying, ‘At least we didn’t know any of those people who were listening and gawping at us, darling, so forget it. Come on, let’s go and have a nice cup of tea. It’ll do us both good.’
Once they had been shown to a secluded table in the lounge area of the vast lobby, and had settled down and ordered a pot of tea, Emily sat back and expelled a great sigh. ‘What a nasty performance that was,’ she said.
‘Yes. Ugly. And embarrassing. I could hardly believe my ears when she started to shout at us like a fish wife, not to mention the ghastly things she was saying.’
Emily nodded and gave Paula a careful look. ‘Why on earth did you speak to her in the first place?’
‘I didn’t know what else to do. We were eyeball to eyeball. It was terribly awkward, you know that, Emily,’ Paula replied, and paused. A contemplative expression settled on her face and she shook her head slowly. ‘I suppose I’ve always felt a bit sorry for Sarah … deep down. She was Jonathan’s pawn, and his victim, in a certain sense. He duped her, used her and her money. I’ve never really considered her to be wicked like Jonathan. Just rather stupid.’
‘I agree with you – about her stupidity, but I don’t feel sorry for her, and neither should you,’ Emily exclaimed. She drew closer, continued, ‘Look here, Paula, you’re far too nice, always trying to be fairminded and compassionate, and seeing everyone else’s point of view. That’s all very well, when you’re dealing with people who deserve your concern, but I don’t think Sarah does. Stupid or not, she knew it was wrong to back Jonathan, to put up money for his private company. That truly was going against Harte Enterprises – and the family.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Paula admitted. ‘But I still think that in some ways she’s more dense than anything else, and I’m sure Jonathan pulled the wool over her eyes.’
Emily said, ‘Maybe he did.’ She sat back, crossed her legs, and went on, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that we haven’t run across Sarah before now. I mean after all, she’s been living up the coast near Cannes for about five years, according to that story we saw in Paris Match, and Mougins isn’t that far away.’
Paula was silent.
After a moment she levelled her steady gaze at Emily, and murmured, ‘What’s also kind of odd is that for the first time in years Michael Kallinski was talking about Sarah and Jonathan on Friday and – ’
‘Why?’ Emily cut in peremptorily, arching a blonde brow.
‘No special reason, other than his own curiosity. We’d been talking about Lady Hamilton Clothes for a good half hour, as I told you yesterday, so I suppose it was natural for him to inquire about Sarah’s whereabouts. Still …’ Paula broke off, shook her head.
‘Still what?’ Emily pressed.
‘I was just thinking that his talking about them was almost prophetic.’ Paula gave a curious, rather nervous little laugh as she stared pointedly at Emily.
‘Gosh, it was! And I hope to God we don’t run into Jonathan next. I’m not sure I could survive an encounter with him quite as coolly as the one with Sarah.’
‘I know I couldn’t.’ As she spoke Paula shivered involuntarily, and she felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck and goose flesh speckle her arms. She sat back in the chair, biting her inner lip, wishing the mention of Jonathan’s name did not upset her in the way that it did.
Fortunately, the waiter arrived with the laden tea tray, and Paula was glad for the distraction as he started to place the cups and saucers on the table in front of them and speak in rapid French to Emily, whom he apparently knew by sight. He departed, almost instantly returned with the pot of tea and a jug of hot water, went away and came back again, this time pushing a four-tier trolley in front of him. Paula declined the many delicious pastries being offered, and stole a surreptitious glance at Emily, wondering if her cousin would succumb to temptation.
Emily looked longingly at the cakes, but she also shook her head, and as Paula poured the tea, she said, ‘Don’t think I didn’t want one of everything, because I did. I could have cheerfully made a meal out of the chocolate eclairs and the vanilla slices, but you saw how I resisted. All for the benefit of my figure. And Winston. He likes me to be svelte, so I’ve developed a will of iron when it comes to nasty fattening things like cream buns. You should be very proud of me,’ she finished, irrepressible laughter bubbling up in her.
‘And so should Winston,’ Paula said, also laughing. Their sudden gaiety helped to dissipate the unpleasantness of the scene with Sarah, which still lingered in their thoughts, and it changed their mood, brought them back to normal. Almost at once they began to talk about spending a few days in Hong Kong together next month, and made their plans.
At one moment, between sips of tea, Paula said, ‘You and Shane are right, Emily. I think I will take Madelana to Australia with me.’
‘Oh, I am glad you agree with us, darling. If the boutiques really are in a mess, she’ll be of tremendous help.’
‘Yes, that’s true, and I think she’ll be thrilled to come with me, don’t you?’
‘Who wouldn’t be – it’s a marvellous trip, and anyway she’s devoted to you.’
‘She is. It was a smart move on my part, promoting her to be my assistant a year ago. She’s proved herself to be invaluable.’ Paula glanced at her watch. ‘It’s five o’clock … eleven in the morning in New York. I’ll give her a ring later, explain that I want her to come with me. She’ll have her hands full this week, clearing the decks in order to leave with me on Saturday, so the sooner she knows, the better.’
‘You could call her from here, if you wanted to, Paula,’ Emily suggested, never the one to waste any time if she could help it.
‘No, no, that’s all right. I can do it when we get home to Faviola. The six-hour time difference gives me plenty of leeway.’
Emily nodded, and then right out of the blue, she said, ‘I bet you anything that dress she was wearing was a Givenchy.’
‘I’ve no doubt it was. Sarah always did have a flair for clothes.’
‘Mmmm.’ Emily turned thoughtful, sat looking into the distance for a few moments. Finally, she asked Paula, ‘Do you think she ever hears from Jonathan?’
‘I can’t even hazard a guess.’
‘I wonder what did happen to him, Paula? Where he’s living?’ Emily said softly, thinking out loud.
‘I’d prefer not to know. Or to talk about him, if you don’t mind, Emily. You know very well that Jonathan Ainsley’s not my favourite subject,’ Paula answered sharply.
‘Oh gosh, sorry, darling,’ Emily said, suddenly regretful that she had started talking about their cousins again. Changing the subject, she said quickly, ‘Well, I’d better pay and we’ll get off home, so you can call Madelana at Harte’s in New York.’
‘Yes, let’s go,’ Paula agreed.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_b7a04cec-f293-5341-a2b4-f0566afc79b4)
She was the kind of woman that men looked at twice. And women, too, for that matter.
It was not that Madelana O’Shea was very beautiful. She was not. But she had what the French call je ne sais quoi, that indefinable something that made her special and different and caused heads to turn wherever she went.
Tonight was no exception.
She stood outside Harte’s department store on Fifth Avenue, patiently waiting for the radio cab she had ordered from her office a short while before. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday and the store was still open. Everyone who hurried in and out stole a glance at her, obviously wondering who she was, for she had style and there was a touch of regality in her bearing.
A tall young woman of about five feet eight, and slender, she had a willowy figure and legs that were long and shapely. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was shoulder length, worn full and loose around her heart-shaped face. This was a little too bony to be called pretty, but the smooth forehead and high, slanting cheekbones, sharp as blades, gave her the look of a thoroughbred, as did the finely drawn aristocratic nose sprinkled faintly with freckles. She had a wide Irish mouth, with a full, somewhat voluptuous bottom lip, and a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance, but it was her eyes that fascinated and compelled. They were large, widely set, and of an unusual pale grey the colour of chalcedony, their marvellous transparency emphasized by the dark brows arched above them. They were highly intelligent eyes, and filled with a determination that could turn steely at times, but there was also laughter in them and sometimes a hidden recklessness.
Madelana had a flair for clothes and wore them well. She looked smart in anything she put on, gave it her own cachet; it might be the way she knotted a scarf, snapped down the brim of a hat, wrapped a length of Oriental silk into a unique cummerbund or twisted antique beads around her long and slender neck. And it was this great personal chic in combination with her svelte good looks that made her appearance so arresting.
The evening was stifling, humid as only New York in the middle of summer can be, and everyone seemed worn down and wilted in the oppressive weather as they toiled up Fifth, or stood at the edge of the sidewalk, looking for a yellow cab or waiting to cross to the other side.
But not Madelana O’Shea, Her tailored cream silk tunic, with its simple round neckline and three-quarter length sleeves, worn over a straight black silk skirt, was as crisp as it had been when she had set out for work that morning, and she looked cool and untouched by the heat, and as elegant as usual.
The burgundy radio cab pulled up in front of the store, and she hurried forward with an ease and lightness of movement that bespoke her childhood ballet and tap lessons. She was limber, and had the agile grace of a dancer, and this, too, was part of her immense appeal.
After opening the taxi door, she put the large Harte’s shopping bag on the seat and slid in next to it.
‘West Twenty-Fourth Street, right, miss?’ the driver said, moving off down Fifth.
‘Yes, between Seventh and Eighth, in the middle of the block, please.’
‘Okay, miss.’
Madelana sat back, rested her hands on the black patent bag in her lap, her mind racing as it almost always did, no matter where she was or what she was doing.
Ever since Monday afternoon, when Paula had called from the south of France to tell her she was going to Australia, she had felt as if she had been running in a marathon. She had had to complete her current work, cancel her business appointments for the next few weeks, along with the few personal dates she had made, plan ahead for a possibly protracted absence from the store, and select appropriate clothes and accessories for the trip.
And then Paula had arrived in New York on the Concorde, early on Wednesday morning, and had come directly to the store. The two of them had worked like demons for two solid days, but they had accomplished miracles, and they would have a relatively normal business day tomorrow, before leaving on Saturday on the first leg of their journey. Tonight she would go over the files of papers she had stacked in the shopping bag and finish working on them, and tomorrow night she would pack.
I’m ahead of the game, Madelana thought with sudden relief, and nodded to herself, feeling gratified. She glanced out of the window, hardly noticing the tawdry glitter and squalor of Times Square with its hustlers and peddlers and drug addicts and pushers and undercover cops and hookers on the make. As the cab slid swiftly through this clamouring rinky-tink wedge of real estate and headed on downtown towards Chelsea, her mind focused on the trip to the other side of the world.
They were going first to Sydney, then on to Melbourne and perhaps even to Adelaide after that, before returning to Sydney where they would spend most of their time. From what Paula had told her, they had a lot of work to do, and it would be a gruelling two or three weeks. But the prospect did not daunt her. She and Paula O’Neill worked well together, had always seemed to understand each other right from the beginning, and they were compatible.
It struck her, and not for the first time, how strange it was that she, a poor Irish-American Catholic girl from the South, and an aristocratic Englishwoman, heiress to one of the world’s great fortunes and a noted international business tycoon, could have so many things in common, could be so similar, and in so many ways. They were both workaholics and had boundless energy, were sticklers for detail, disciplined, dedicated and driven, and extremely well organized. In consequence, they did not grate on each other’s nerves, or create problems for each other, and they seemed always to be in step. It’s like dancing with Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, she thought and smiled inwardly, liking her analogy.
In the year she had been Paula’s personal assistant, she had not put a foot wrong and she did not intend to, not ever, and especially not on their forthcoming trip to Australia. Paula was the key to her future. Her goal was to become President of Harte’s store in New York one day, and with Paula’s help she would achieve it.
Ambition. She was loaded with it, she knew this only too well, and she was pleased that she was. She considered it to be a plus not a minus. It had goaded her on, helped her to arrive where she was today. Her father had occasionally complained that she was too ambitious. But her mother had merely smiled her lovely Irish smile at him, and behind his back had winked at her and nodded maternal approval and encouraged her at every opportunity.
She wished her parents were still alive. And her little sister, Kerry Anne, who had died when she was four. And Joe and Lonnie. Her two brothers had been killed in Vietnam. She missed them so very much, just as she missed her baby sister and her parents, and at times she felt as though she had no roots, no centre to her life, with all of them gone from her. They had been close knit as a family, and very loving of each other. She considered her losses over the past few years, thought of her sorrow, and her heart clenched. Resolutely, she pushed the pain away.
Madelana took several deep breaths, keeping absolute control of herself and her emotions, as she had taught herself to do after her father had been buried four years ago. Only when he was lying in the ground did her sense of aloneness truly overwhelm her, and only then did she fully comprehend that she no longer had any family left, except for Aunt Agnes, her father’s sister, who lived in California and whom she hardly knew.
The cab drew up outside the Residence Jeanne D’Arc. She took the receipt from the driver, said goodnight, grabbed her shopping bag and alighted. She ran swiftly up the steps and into the building.
The minute she walked inside, Madelana felt herself relaxing.
This place was so familiar and cosy and welcoming … she had lived here in one of the rooms when she had first come to New York, had stayed for three years. It had been her home. She still thought of it as home, even though she now had her own apartment uptown in the East Eighties.
She crossed the small entrance foyer and turned right, heading for the office.
‘Hello, Sister Mairéad,’ Madelana said to the nun behind the counter, who was in charge of the office this evening. ‘How are you?’
‘Why, Madelana, it’s nice to see you, and I’m just fine, very fine indeed,’ the sister replied, the faint Irish lilt echoing softly in her voice, her rose-apple cheeks dimpling with pleasure. The sister had had a soft spot for Madelana when she had lived here, and she was always delighted to see this lovely young woman who was such a credit to her parents, God rest their souls, and who in every way exemplified her good Catholic upbringing.
‘Sister Bronagh’s expecting me,’ Madelana said with a smile, and put the large Harte’s bag on the counter, took out a gift-wrapped package and looked at the sister, ‘Can I leave my shopping bag with you, please?’
‘Of course you can, Madelana.’
‘It’s full of my papers from work, so please put it somewhere safe, won’t you? It’d be more than a disaster if it got mislaid.’
‘Now don’t you be fretting yourself about it, I’ll keep it safe, and you know there’s no need to be worrying about anything you leave here. Sister Bronagh said for you to go to the garden. She’ll be up to join you in a few minutes. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.’ Sister Mairéad beamed and nodded to herself and picked up the phone, began to dial.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ Madelana murmured, and swung around, heading for the small, box-like elevator that would take her up to the fifth floor and the stairs that led to the roof of the building.
Surprisingly, the roof garden was empty.
Usually in the summer, on pleasant evenings, some of the girls who lived at the residency came up here to chat and socialize with each other, and with the sisters, to share a drink of wine or juice, or read a book or simply be alone.
It was a charming spot, planted with rambling ivy, and there were vines growing on trellis panels, and window boxes of bright red and pink geraniums, and pots of yellow and peach begonias, and the sisters grew vegetables up here. Scattered about were chairs and several small tables, and the atmosphere was inviting and suggested conviviality.
She paused to look at the statue of the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by masses of flowers as it generally was in the summer, recalling how often she had tended the flowers when she had been living here. She had always thought of this spot as a little oasis, a lovely patch of green-growing things in the middle of the concrete canyons of Manhattan, and it had given her a feeling of wellbeing, had nourished her soul.
Gliding forward, she went to one of the tables, put down the gift and her handbag, and seated herself in one of the chairs facing uptown. Straight ahead of her, in her direct angle of vision, were the Empire State and the Chrysler Buildings thrusting up above the higgledy-piggledy roofs and chimney pots of Chelsea and the less-distinguished skyscrapers of the city.
Dusk was already falling, and the lavender-and-grey tinted sky was changing as a deep cobalt blue seeped in like ink and slowly extinguished these paler hues. The lights that washed over the towers of the two dominating buildings had been turned on, but the grandeur of the architecture would not be properly visible until the sky was pitch black. Then these towers would be thrown into relief, would shimmer magnificently against the dark velvet backdrop of the sky, and it was a sight that never failed to make her catch her breath in delight.
Even in winter, Madelana had enjoyed coming up here when she had lived at the residency. Wrapped in warm clothes, she had huddled in a sheltered corner, admiring these two extraordinary edifices and a skyline that stunned with its unique beauty.
The Chrysler, with its Art Deco sunburst motif on its elegant tapering tower, was only ever flooded with clear white light that gave it a pristine beauty and underscored the purity of its design, whereas the Empire State changed its colours to suit the season and the holidays. At Thanksgiving, the two tiers and the slender tower above were flooded with amber, gold and orange; at Christmas with red and green. The lights changed to blue and white for Chanukah and other Jewish holidays, became yellow at Easter, green on St Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for the fourth of July. And if the Chrysler Building really was the more beautiful of the two, then certainly the Empire State was the most eyecatching when it blazed with a celebratory selection of its rainbow colours.
‘Good evening, Madelana,’ Sister Bronagh called as she walked across to the table, carrying two glasses of white wine.
Madelana sprang up at the sound of her voice.
‘Hello, Sister.’ She hurried forward, smiling, and took the glass being offered to her, and the two women clasped hands affectionately, before sitting down together at the table.
‘You’re looking extremely well,’ Sister Bronagh said, peering at her in the gathering dusk.
‘Thank you, I feel good.’
They touched glasses and sipped their drinks.
‘This is for you, Sister,’ Madelana said, after a moment, and slid the gift across the table.
‘For me?’ Sister Bronagh glanced at it, raised a brow, her warm hazel eyes suddenly twinkling merrily behind her spectacles, her face wreathed in smiles.
‘That’s why I came tonight … to bring you the present and to say goodbye. I won’t be able to come to your farewell party next week. I’ll be in Australia by then.’
‘Australia! My goodness, so far away, Madelana. But exciting, I think, for you. I’m so sorry you won’t be at the party … your absence will be noticed. It always has been, when you haven’t been able to make one of our little get togethers. And thank you for the gift, it was thoughtful of you.’
‘You’re quite welcome.’
‘May I open it now?’
‘Of course,’ Madelana said, laughing, enjoying her obvious delight in the small token she had brought.
Sister Bronagh untied the yellow ribbon, dispensed with the wrapping paper and lifted the lid of the Harte’s silver cardboard box. Underneath the layers of tissue paper were three different-sized toilet bags made of deep blue silk and trimmed with a lighter blue welting.
‘Oh, how lovely they are!’ Sister Bronagh exclaimed, taking one out, turning it over in her hands, opening the zip, looking inside. Her small, birdlike face was bright with sudden happiness and she took Madelana’s hand resting on the table and squeezed it. Thank you so much, my dear, they’re just what I need.’
‘I’m glad you like them. I wanted to get you something that was pretty but also useful.’ Madelana grinned at her. ‘I know you … how practical you are. Anyway, I thought these would be perfect for travelling.’ She rested her elbows on the table. Her fingers toyed with the glass of wine. ‘When do you leave for Rome?’
‘On the tenth of September, and I’m becoming excited about going. It’ll be a challenge, helping to run the residency over there. It’s situated not very far away from the Vatican, and that’s an added joy for me, being so close to the Holy See.’ There was a lovely glow about her as she continued, ‘I must confess to you, Madelana, I was thrilled when Sister Marie-Theresa picked me to be the one to go.’
Madelana nodded. ‘Everyone here at the residency is going to miss you, though, me included.’
‘Oh and I shall miss you, too, Madelana, and the other old girls who still come to see me, and the ones living here now, and the sisters.’ There was a brief pause. A fleeting sadness touched Sister Bronagh’s eyes, and they grew moist, and then she cleared her throat quickly, sat up, straightened the collar of her white blouse. She gave Madelana a warm smile. ‘Tell me about your trip to Australia. It’s rather sudden, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’m going on business with my boss, Paula O’Neill. We’re leaving for Los Angeles on Saturday morning, and we’ll spend the night there, since she thinks we’ll both be in better shape if we break the trip instead of flying direct. We take the Qantas flight to Sydney at ten o’clock on Sunday night.’
‘And how long will you be gone?’
‘Two or three weeks, perhaps even four. Paula may have to leave me behind to follow through for her. We’re going out there because of the boutiques in the hotels. She’s concerned they’re not being run properly. The manager has been sick, and her assistant seems to either panic or flounder on alternate days.’
‘You’ve done well at Harte’s, Madelana, I’m proud of you.’
‘Thank you. Anyway, my career’s very important to me, as you know …’ Madelana stopped, and there was a hesitation in her manner, and she looked down at her hands resting on the table. Shortly, she went on in a more muted, thoughtful tone, ‘But working so hard these past few years has also helped me to keep grief at bay, to come to grips with my losses …’ Her voice suddenly trailed off.
The sister reached out, took Madelana’s hand in hers, and there was a sense of comfort in this gesture. ‘Yes, I know it has. But then so has your great faith, Madelana. Always remember that God has His reasons, and that He never gives us a burden that is too heavy to carry.’
‘Yes, you’ve told me that many times before.’ Madelana tightened her grip on Sister Bronagh’s hand. There was a short silence between them. She lifted her head then, and smiled faintly at this devout and gentle middle-aged woman who had been so warm and loving to her when she had lived here, who had singled her out for special attention.
‘I couldn’t let you leave for Rome without coming to see you, Sister Bronagh, to thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me to get through so much pain and sorrow, for making me feel so welcome when I first arrived. You gave me courage.’
‘No, no, I didn’t, Madelana,’ the sister said swiftly. ‘The courage was within you, already part of you then. As it is now. And as it will always be. If I did anything at all, it was simply to show you that it was there, to make you understand that all you needed to do was to reach inside of yourself, and to draw on it.’
‘Yes … But I’ll never be able to thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. And for all you’ve taught me – especially about myself.’
‘You were always very special to me, my child,’ Sister Bronagh replied in a soft voice. ‘If I had not chosen this way of life, had not chosen to be in service to God, to do His work, and if I had married and had had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be exactly like you.’
‘Oh Sister Bronagh, what a beautiful thing to say, thank you, thank you so much!’ Madelana experienced a sudden rush of emotion as her genuine feeling for this woman rose up in her and there was the unexpected sting of tears behind her eyes and she blinked them away, not wanting to break down. She realized how much she would miss Sister Bronagh after the nun had departed for her new job in Rome.
Now Madelana said, ‘Your belief in me has been so important, Sister, it’s mirrored the belief my mother had in me. She encouraged me the way you have. I’ll try never to let you down.’
The sweetest of smiles brushed across Sister Bronagh’s pale mouth and she said slowly, to give greater emphasis to her words, ‘The important thing is never to let yourself down, Madelana.’
Chapter 9 (#ulink_3e8cbe58-f5d6-5da7-ba05-3d28372eac9c)
It was a long, hot ride uptown from the Residence Jeanne D’Arc to East Eighty-Fourth Street, and for the first time that day Madelana felt uncomfortably warm and damp when she finally alighted in front of the small apartment building where she lived.
‘Hi, Alex,’ she said, greeting the doorman breezily as he helped her out of the cab.
The doorman responded in kind, and there was an admiring look in his eyes as he watched her walk rapidly across the sidewalk with her usual ease of movement and gracefulness. She swung into the building before he could rush to open the door for her, and appeared to float across the lobby, her feet hardly seeming to touch the marble as she sped ahead.
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