Kitabı oku: «To Be the Best»

BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
To Be the Best

COPYRIGHT

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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

For Bob, who is,

with my love.

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

PART ONE Lovers & Strangers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART TWO Saints & Sinners

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PART THREE Winners & Losers

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

EPILOGUE

KEEP READING

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

PROLOGUE

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

PART ONE

Lovers & Strangers

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

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

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

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.