by Liz Fielding
It was her baby and like all babies it was hard work. The hardest work of all had been to convince a bunch of hard nosed bankers that they should lend her the money to develop the restaurant.
With her father at her side the give the bankers confidence she had pulled it off. But she had known exactly what was required that day. Facing the unknown on her own was something else.
'He probably just wants is to be buttered up by the famous Edward Beaumont. That might be all it would take,' she said quickly, well aware that her father had a weakness for flattery. 'Even the most hard-boiled businessmen have their weak spots.'
'If he had been a hard-boiled businesswoman,' he joked, 'I might be of some use to you. As it is I'm just an old ham actor. If you hadn't coached me I would never have convinced those bankers that I knew what that restaurant deal was all about.'
'I can coach you again,' she pleaded, feeling the tide of panic rising to her throat. She didn't want to step out into the spotlight. He couldn't expect it. She still needed time.
'You're the brains behind this outfit, Fizz. You don't need me you know. You can do it if you believe in yourself.' He reached out, lightly touched her cheek. 'And your face is so much prettier than mine that I'm sure you'd be far more effective at buttering him up than I could ever be.' He glanced at his watch. 'Of course if you need me I'll try and help, but I must go now.' Then pausing in the doorway he turned to her. 'You know this is your station, Fizz. You made it what it is. It's up to you to fight for it.'
She stared at the door he had so carefully closed behind him. Had there been an almost audible snip as he had cut the umbilical cord?
He had been pushing her for months, insisting that when the licence came up for renewal she must publicly take on the role of chief executive of Pavilion Radio. She had resisted, preferring to hide beneath her father's famous name, let him step forward to take the applause and the praise and the awards that occasionally came their way.
Now he was using this crisis to drive her out into the open, making her fight for her station, because no one else was going to do it for her. It was her baby that was being threatened and knights in shining armour being thin on the ground these days, a girl had to fight her own battles.
Slowly she sank into her chair, reached for the telephone and gripping the receiver until her knuckles whitened, she dialled the number at the top of the letterhead.
'Good morning, Harries Industries. How can I help you?'
'Good morning. This is Felicity Beaumont calling from Pavilion Radio,' she said, investing her voice with a confidence she was far from feeling. 'I would like to speak to Mr Luke Devlin.'
*****
If it had been Luke Devlin's intention to make life as difficult as possible for Felicity Beaumont, he could not have chosen a better time to drop his bombshell.
'Miss Beaumont?'
Fizz immediately recognised the smooth tones of the local bank manager. 'Mr Nicholson, what can I do for you?'
'Deposit the sponsorship cheque from Harries Industries?' he suggested, without bothering with the niceties of polite conversation.
She had been expecting the call. The takeover had been reported on their own news programmes in great detail, as well as in all the local newspapers. Speculation about redundancies and cuts was rife and the town had a jittery air which had inevitably infected the radio station.
Several times in the last week staff had abruptly stopped talking when she entered a room.
'There is going to be a sponsorship cheque isn't there?' Nicholson continued. 'It's ten days until the end of the month and I don't have to remind you that the salaries will take you a long way over your overdraft limit.'
'I am aware of that, Mr Nicholson and I have a meeting scheduled with Mr Devlin later this week to confirm the details of Harries sponsorship with the new management.' More truthfully, she was still waiting to speak to the wretched man and if her fingers had been crossed any more tightly they would have broken. 'I don't anticipate any difficulties.'
She winced as she replaced the receiver. Despite her determination to see Luke Devlin at the first possible moment, his secretary had been evasive about an appointment, merely assuring Fizz that he would be told of her call. She could do nothing, but wait and gather her ammunition. Checking and double checking the portfolio that had convinced the financiers to loan the money for the restaurant and gift shop, and the photographs of what was now an expensive reality.
There were pages of careful costings and conservative estimates of return on investment. She had a sheaf of photographs and news cuttings showing sponsorship banners at sporting events and listening figures for Holiday Bay and she hadn't wasted her time while she waited.
She had been looking for alternative sources of sponsorship from likely companies. But the reaction was the same from everyone. With the future of Harries Industries in question, no one could afford to be relaxed. As the largest employer in the area any cutbacks would hurt local businesses. And the invoices for the January Sales ads wouldn't be sent out by the advertising agencies until the end of the month.
Not that anyone would be in a hurry to pay them.
She glared at the phone. 'Ring,' she instructed it. 'Go on, damn you, ring!' It immediately responded with a low burble and for one disbelieving second she stared at it. Then as it rang again she snatched it up.
It was her father.
'I was just checking to see if you had managed to speak to Mr Devlin yet.' He was a good actor, but even so she could detect the note of anxiety that had crept into his voice.
'Not yet,' she said, rather more brightly than she actually felt. 'I suppose we must come pretty low on his list of priorities right now. I'll let you know as soon as anything happens.'
'Well, it's in your hands, Fizz.' Yes, she thought, putting down the receiver. That had been made more than clear to her. But she wasn't complaining. Her father had already done enough in dragging her back from the abyss.
The telephone rang again.
'Fizz Beaumont,' she said, matter-of-factly.
'Good morning, Miss Beaumont. Luke Devlin returning your call.' His voice was cool, distant and not particularly encouraging. He must know why she was calling but he waited, leaving her to do all the work.
She forced her face into a smile, knowing that it would come through in her voice. 'Thank you, Mr Devlin, that's most kind of you when I know you must be very busy. I received your letter -'
'Did you?' he interrupted, smoothly. 'That's odd, I don't recall having written to anyone called Fizz Beaumont. It seems unlikely that I would forget such an unusual name.'
Fizz could have kicked herself. Instead she forced laughter into her voice, congratulating his wit. 'I meant of course the letter you sent to my father. Since I am the station manager and deal with all financial matters, he naturally passed it straight on to me.'
'I see.' The words conveyed a world of meaning. That her father had been less than polite in passing on his letter to a subordinate. That he wasn't used to dealing with chits of girls when it came to business. Something more that she couldn't quite put her finger on.
She dropped the laughter. It clearly hadn't impressed him one bit. 'My father is deeply involved with the city's youth theatre at the moment, as well as other projects that have first call on his time. And he prefers to leave all financial matters to me.'
'Even when it concerns the fate of his radio station? Dare I suggest that excessive sponsorship has made him just a little flabby in his attitude?' Again that dismissive edge to his voice. Fizz felt the slow burn of anger darken her cheeks.
'The fate of Pavilion Radio concerns him very deeply, Mr Devlin. He could come along and give you a convincing portrayal of a high-powered business tycoon if you feel that is your due. But that's all it would be. A performance. He did you the courtesy of assuming you would want to deal with someone who actually knows what they are talking about.'
'And you do?' Once again she caught the undercurrent in his voice. D
islike? She drew her brows together in a puzzled frown, but he gave her no time to dwell on the possibility, or wonder at it. 'Well, since you have been nominated as spokesperson, Miss Beaumont, I suppose you will have to do. Please be at my office at twelve o'clock.'
'On which day?' she asked with excessive politeness.
'This day, Miss Beaumont. If I had meant any other I would have said so.' And with that, he hung up.
Fizz was shaking when she put down the telephone. So much for putting her cards on the table and dealing with the man in an honest and straightforward manner. He had wanted to speak to her father and considered her second best.
She opened her mouth, ready to tell the four walls of her office exactly what she thought of Mr Luke Devlin but it was nearly eleven, the ring road would be packed with traffic as this time of day and she had to change.
She had dressed for the ice-house temperature of her office in the roof of the old Winter Garden where the heating never seemed to penetrate with any real enthusiasm. Thick corduroy trousers, flannel shirt, an Aran sweater with frayed cuffs that she had bought for fifty pence at a jumble sale.
Hidden away in her office at the end of the pier, her Eskimo garb went unnoticed by anyone but the station staff. They were used to it, but it would hardly impress Mr Luke Devlin with her business acumen. She came from a family of actors and was well aware of the importance of putting on a show, wearing the right costume for the part.
The pin striped business suit that she had borrowed from her sister, to wear during her negotiations for the loan with the bank, was hanging behind her office door in readiness for Luke Devlin's summons.
It had given her confidence to get through the ordeal of presenting her plans to a group of dubious bankers, hopefully it would carry her with equal success through the coming interview.
Determinedly ignoring the cold she stripped off her outer garments and stood in her navy stockings and silk teddy, peering in the old cracked mirror fastened alongside the door while she refreshed her makeup and tidied her hair. Then she stepped into the skirt, fastened the jacket about her, slipped into her high heeled shoes and turned to check her rear view.
Regarding her reflection in the long mirror fastened to the wall, Fizz was regretfully aware that the suit didn't have quite the same sharp elegance on her as it had on her sister. She pulled a somewhat rueful face at herself. What did?
It wasn't that she was short. Five feet, seven inches was a respectable enough height. But Claudia had obeyed nanny, eaten her crusts to be sure that her hair would curl, her cabbage for a perfect complexion and she had drunk up her milk to grow straight and tall so that one day she would be a beautiful and famous actress like their mother.
Two years younger, Fizz clearly hadn't tried anywhere near as hard. Not that there was anything wrong with her appearance. Her complexion was clear, apart from a few faint freckles that never disappeared even in the dead of winter and although she'd somehow missed out on the curls, she was perfectly happy with the thick, chestnut hair that she had twisted into a neat, businesslike chignon.
But although she would never have worn the skirt as short as Claudia did, Fizz was human enough to envy her sister those extra three inches.
*****
Just before twelve, she parked in front of the impressive head office of Harries Industries, running through, in her head, the convincing little speech that she had been preparing since she had received that bombshell of a letter.
It was reasonable, thoughtful, understanding.
She would invite Mr Devlin to come and visit the station, see for himself the impressive scheduling, the ties with community projects, the fact that their local sports coverage had won an award that had reflected handsomely on Harries Industries.
If he would just give her the chance to say it, she thought, uneasily aware of a distinct feeling that Mr Devlin might not be in the mood to listen to her well rehearsed arguments.
She took a deep breath and headed for the main entrance.
There was a glossy new receptionist in the entrance hall. It hadn't taken long for the new brooms to get to work.
'Can I help you?' the girl enquired, with a professional smile.
Fizz smiled back equally professionally. She was playing a part and she was glad of a dummy run. 'Felicity Beaumont, Mr Devlin's expecting me.' She signed the visitors book and while she clipped on a little label that identified herself a such she smiled at the new girl and asked, 'What happened to Edith?'
'Edith?'
'She was the receptionist here for ten years.'
'Oh?' The girl wasn't interested. 'Maybe she took early retirement.'
A secretary looked up from her desk as she entered the chairman's suite of offices. Another new face, older this time. Michael's secretary had probably taken the same fast track to retirement as Edith.
'Felicity Beaumont,' she said, announcing herself once again. 'I have an appointment -'
'Oh yes, Miss Beaumont. Please take a seat.' The telephone rang and the woman answered it, listening briefly, then without further acknowledgement of Fizz, she gathered her notebook and swept out of the suite.
Fizz waited. Ten minutes passed while her nerves frayed, began to unravel, disintegrate. She began to silently rehearse her presentation to keep her mind occupied. Fifteen minutes. When her watch informed her that it twenty minutes after twelve o'clock, she knew that it was deliberate.
The man was nothing but a petty little tyrant, she decided, taking pleasure in demonstrating his power. His manner on the telephone had already betrayed his negative attitude towards her and her father.
It was almost as if he felt some personal animosity towards them. But that was patently ridiculous.
He was just a thoroughly unpleasant man.
Fizz got up and began to walk around the office, taking deep calming breaths, concentrating on the paintings that decorated the wall, refusing to let the man wind her up with such an obvious tactic. But it took a serious effort of will to uncurl her fingers from the tight little fists that she had unconsciously made of her hands. She was staring at a painting of the pier, constructed in 1835 by the first Michael Harries for the shipment of their goods to the continent, when the door behind her opened.
She turned quickly to face the man who held all their destinies in the palm of his hand but there was nothing in his appearance to reassure her. His thin, humourless face had the pallor of a man who spent his time hunched over columns of figures under artificial light.
He looked as if he had a calculator for a brain and probably hadn't listened to a radio since the transistor had been invented. But it was her job to convince him of the importance of his support.
Fizz advanced swiftly over the thick carpet before she quite lost her nerve and extended her hand. 'Felicity Beaumont,' she said, introducing herself confidently with her warmest smile.
'Yes?' He clutched a pile of folders in both his hands and made no move to respond to her gesture.
And he managed in that one dismissive word to make her feel both foolish and angry all at once. Letting her hand fall to her side, she continued to smile even though she thought her face would crack with the effort.
'You said to be here at twelve,' she reminded him. 'I realise you must be very busy.' She resisted the temptation to check her watch, to remind him that it was now nearly half past the hour. That would not be a good start.
But he wasn't listening. 'Where is Mrs Meynell?' he asked, irritated.
'Your secretary?' Fizz asked, trying hard to remain cool in the face of such rudeness. 'She went out a few minutes ago.' He began to retreat into the office. 'Mr Devlin,' she said, quickly, before he could disappear again.
'Yes, what is it?' She hadn't known quite what to expect from this man who gobbled up companies for breakfast, but she had thought someone, well, larger in body and spirit. Maybe she was just hoping for that.
'I'm sorry my father can't be here to talk to you in person, but I did explain the reason. And you did
ask me come and see you. She indicated the portfolio lying on the chair beside her. 'Please let me show you what we are doing at Pavilion Radio before you make up your mind to stop sponsoring the -'
'Miss Beaumont, I'm afraid that you are labouring under some misapprehension. I cannot help you.' And he turned away, heading back towards his office.
That was it? No chance to put her case, just a few words exchanged in a secretary's office? Oh, no. Not good enough. Not nearly good enough.
'Won't you at least listen to me?'
The man stopped with a sigh, clearly out of patience with her as he regarded her slightly flushed cheeks, the way her breast rose and fell a little too rapidly beneath the smooth navy cloth of her suit.
'I suggest you save your appeals for those foolish enough to listen, Miss Beaumont. I really haven't the time to waste on such nonsense.' With that he retreated into the office and for a single shocked moment Fizz remained where she was.
It was a long time since she had come so perilously close to losing her temper. Really losing it and demonstrating the aptness of her pet name that had started as her sister's lisping attempt at Felicity, and stuck because of her habit of going off like a rocket when her emotions were inflamed.
It was a long time since she had lost her temper. The bubble of outrage that now rose to her throat warned her that she was still quite capable of exploding.
What on earth did the man think he was playing at? He had invited her to his office, kept her waiting interminably and then dismissed her without even the pretence of listening, the courtesy of a hearing. And he had the nerve to criticise her family's manners!
She didn't stop to consider the wisdom of her actions. She had nothing to lose and she certainly wasn't leaving without giving this man the benefit of his character. Snatching up her portfolio, she followed him through the pair of tall, ornately carved doors that guarded his sanctum and closed them behind her with a sharp click.
