‘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
‘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 Hotel 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
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 per
sonal 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.
To Be the Best Page 10
