by Penny Jordan
In the end she had settled on a very subtle shade of peachy-pink, which would have to be specially dyed, and aware of the delay which might arise, Jenna had put in hand immediate instructions for the order and dyeing of the carpet. Bierley’s was a company that she used regularly: completely reliable and producing a first-class result. She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, aware of the beginnings of a tension headache in the base of her skull. She could already imagine Mrs Holmes’s reaction when she learned that the carpet might not arrive in time for the wedding. She picked up the file again, looking for the original order note. Although it might not do much good, at least if she could point out to the company doing the dyeing that they were way, way over the time limit agreed, it might help her to get rid of some of her tension. It was rather late in the day to find someone else to do the job now—especially someone reliable. Dyeing carpets to an exact shade as delicate as the one the Holmeses had chosen was a skilled business…
She traced through the file, locating the memos she had done putting various orders into effect, remembering briefly that she had been away for several days at the time the contract commenced, visiting a client in Spain who had just bought a villa there. A frown pleated her forehead as she looked at the date on her memo and then compared it with the date on the carpet order. Six weeks…why had there been that delay? It was a glaring error on their own part, and yet she could see no reason for it. Well, it was pointless crying over spilt milk, she reflected tensely, picking up her phone and asking Maggie to get the managing director of Bierley’s for her.
He was sympathetic when she explained her position to him. Yes, of course he could see that her client would want her carpet down for her daughter’s wedding, but, he explained, the delay was the usual one, the normal time-lapse between receiving an order and completion of it—three months, as it was in this case. However, he told Jenna much to her relief, because she was one of their better clients, and because they were presently just about to mix the dye for another large order which was not required urgently, he felt they might be able to reschedule things and get her carpet done in time. Thanking him Jenna hung up, and then frowning again she rang through to Richard’s office. His secretary answered the phone and put her through to him. Quickly she told him about the delay in the original order. ‘Obviously someone’s slipped up somewhere,’ she said crisply. ‘We can’t afford errors like that, Richard. Fortunately, the carpet will be ready in time after all, but its delay could have cost us the whole contract.’
There was a brief pause, and then he said heartily, ‘Well, thank God you managed to get it all sorted out. I can’t think what went wrong, although you know I’ve never been keen on your method of sending out memos. You know, I feel that we should each take on certain contracts and see them through to the finish instead of splitting the responsibility as we do now.’
Jenna let him finish and then said, ‘But if we did that, Richard, you would be my partner and not my assistant. People who use this firm as their designers are using it because of my reputation and have a right to expect me to be fully involved in what’s going on.’
She let him digest her comments and then rang off, still frowning. Problems with Richard were the very last thing she needed right now. Her phone rang, and Maggie informed her that there was a call for her. Banishing Richard from her mind, Jenna got back to work.
The backlog on her desk was far greater than she had realised: at least a dozen telephone calls were outstanding and there had been a rash of minor problems with their existing contracts that took time to sort out. Of course they would all happen now, just when she needed life to run smoothly, she reflected grimly, suddenly remembering something else she had to do, and jotting a note down on her pad to call in at a shop she knew, which specialised in reproduction mouldings for ornamentation and also copied or made up brass and wood motifs to order. She wanted to talk to them about copying the Adam plasterwork at the Hall which was badly damaged and also to discuss brass doorplates for the mahogany doors to match the Adam décor. Adam, she knew, would often use a central motif all through his work, so that it was echoed in minute detail all through a room. She reflected fleetingly that it was a pity there was no record of Robert Adam’s original designs for the new wing of the house, and then grimaced as the harsh purr of her phone broke into her thoughts.
It was gone six before she was free to leave her office. Everyone else had already gone, and as she stepped out on to the street, she realised that for the first time she had not paused to enjoy the thrill of pride the nameplate outside the main door gave her.
She was overtired, she told herself, and worried about Lucy, but she also knew that her heart was not in London. She was aching to get back to Yorkshire and the old Hall.
There was no Lucy to greet her when she got home. Instead, there was a message on the answerphone announcing that she was staying another night with her friend. The flat seemed empty and sterile and as she made herself a cup of coffee all her old guilts came flooding over her. What sort of a parent was she really to Lucy? There had been a hurtful degree of truth in the accusation that Lucy had thrown at her, but what was the alternative? How could she have kept Lucy without the financial means to support them both? She could have given her up for adoption, of course…Putting her coffee down, she prowled restlessly into the drawing-room, pacing up and down tensely. Would Lucy have been happier if she had? It was all very well telling herself that all teenagers were rebellious but there was a lack of communication between them that hurt as well as worried her. She knew its roots were in her refusal to talk to Lucy about her father. It was all very well for other people to be full of good advice, Bill, Nancy, James Allingham…
Her mouth hardened. Why on earth had she thought of him? A playboy millionaire who had inherited and not earned his wealth, a man who typified qualities of his sex she particularly disliked, rampantly male and arrogantly pleased by the fact, she thought unkindly, using his sexuality about as subtly as a caveman with a club. To denigrate him mentally released some of her tension and, she reflected sardonically as she headed for her bedroom to change for the evening, having a sick step-sister to care for would certainly cramp his style.
She showered quickly, putting on clean underwear before sitting down to do her make-up and hair. Her underwear was white and plain, pristinely immaculate, her taste quite different from Lucy’s who tended to go for pretty pastel cottons with embroidery and bows. Jenna despised even the idea of dressing to please a man, of using her body to gain male favour. The male sex as a whole was worthy only of contempt, she thought as she applied her foundation, so vain and egotistical that it honestly believed all the tricks of the feminine repertoire were motivated by desire rather than necessity. It constantly amazed her how the shrewd business brain behind a successful business could genuinely believe that his pretty secretary flattered him because she found him sexually desirable. Men were past masters at deception—especially of themselves. Take James Allingham, for instance. No doubt in twenty years’ time he would still be believing that it was his body and not his money that drew beautiful women to his side. Maybe now that was the truth, but like so many other men before him he would never be able to admit that he was ageing, less attractive. Women, unfortunately, were not able to be so self-deluding.
She got up and opened her wardrobe. What should she wear? She had several elegant formal dresses especially bought for these sort of dos and eventually selected a plain black silk skirt topped with a white silk jacket. The jacket had wide revers and a fitted waist. The skirt was straight with a discreet pleat at the back. To go with it, she chose very fine silk tights. She styled her hair in an elegant French pleat and then stood back to study her reflection with approval. Elegant and businesslike. No one looking at her tonight would mistake her for someone’s wife—or someone’s mistress.
The invitation had been for eight-thirty and it was just gone nine when she rang the doorbell of the Billingtons’ apartment.
&n
bsp; Margery Billington greeted her, hugging her theatrically. ‘Jenna, darling. I’m so glad you’re here! Everyone adores your décor.’
Jenna smile diplomatically and followed her hostess into the drawing-room. It was full of dinner-suited males and designer-clad women. Margery had specified something eye catching and different that also looked expensive and Jenna had done her best to oblige. The walls had been dragged in a soft aqua greeny-blue effect and then veined in gold to produce a delicate shimmer almost like a translucent pearled marble.
The carpet echoed the base colour of the walls; the furniture a matt off-white—to Jenna’s critical eye the scheme was rather theatrical but Margery had loved it. As she acknowledged several people she knew, she edged her way over to the fireplace to study the huge giltwood mirror she had commissioned from a young student at the Royal College of Art. He had done an excellent job, she noted approvingly, seeing that the cherubs holding the frame had Margery’s features. The mirror had been expensive, but…
‘Jenna, I absolutely adore it. You must do something similar for me.’
She turned away from her contemplation of the mirror to talk to the woman who had come to join her. She was the owner of an extremely successful New York-based boutique which sold British designs at a horrendous mark-up.
‘I’m thinking of buying a pied-à-terre over here…Just something small to use while I’m here on buying trips.’
They chatted for a while, Jenna making a mental note to follow up their talk.
‘Jenna, I’m so thrilled,’ effused Margery. ‘Maison want to do a feature on the apartment. One of the directors has a filly with us, and they’re contemplating a horse-racing issue—You know…noted trainers and their lifestyle, owners, races, that sort of thing, and he wants to feature us.’
Jenna knew the magazine, an upmarket glossy which would do her no harm to be seen in.
‘It would be fantastic advertising for you,’ Margery pressed. She looked sly as she added. ‘We’re thinking of redoing the cottage. I’d like you to do it for us, but you know what men are…he’s kicking a bit over the cost. With the business that will come your way from the Maison feature I’m sure you could see your way to, well…compromising a little.’
Jenna didn’t let any reaction show on her face. The Billingtons were multi-millionaires and could well afford a designer four or five times as costly as herself, but she had no wish to offend Margery, and she thought wryly that there were ways and means of offering a discount that was not always what it seemed. She never had, and never would, seek to make outrageous profits, and charged what she considered to be a reasonable fee for her services. That way she believed she was preserving both her integrity and her reputation, but people like the Billingtons were so used to being ripped off that it probably never occurred to them that she wasn’t jumping on the bandwagon.
‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ she agreed with a smile. ‘Why don’t we get together after the Maison feature is finalised?’
A subtle way of letting Margery know that she hadn’t been born yesterday: no feature, no discount!
She came up against a good many Margery Billingtons in her work and had learned to accept that to succeed she often needed to employ a degree of subtlety.
There were quite a lot of people at the party whom she knew. In the dining-room, hired staff were serving a buffet—the fashionably de rigueur wholefood-cum-nouvelle-cuisine type, Jenna noticed, accepting a glass of wine from a passing waiter. She had nothing against wholefood per se, and indeed was extremely particular about what she and Lucy ate, but most of the people at the party had probably dined well at lunchtime and would go on to consume another hearty meal later. Gluttony for food was like gluttony for sex, she thought distastefully, wondering as she did so why it was she who always seemed to stand apart from the rest of the human race.
Bill and Nancy were the only people she was really close to, and she kept even them at a distance. Sometimes she suspected from the sharp looks that Nancy gave her when she was particularly scathing about the male sex, that the older woman was about to take her to task. There was no one with whom she could share her innermost thoughts and fears—no one at all. She frowned, wondering why she should have such a depressive thought. Her lack of intimate relationships had never bothered her before, in fact she had deliberately cultivated it. The crowd round the buffet table thinned and her frown deepened as she caught sight of a familiar dark head. James Allingham—here?
She was just about to dismiss her suspicion as the product of an overworked imagination when he turned round and she realised she was right. He was looking straight across at her, and she flushed, knowing that to ignore his pointed scrutiny as she wanted would be both rude and gauche. There was a girl with him, a tiny blonde, with a carefully tousled mane of blonde hair, and the sort of immaculate make-up that shrieked model. She might have guessed he would go for that type, Jenna reflected, allowing herself a cool smile before letting her eyes slide away. However, she was not allowed to escape quite so easily. As she made for the drawing-room, Margery came up to her with James and his pocket Venus in tow.
‘Jenna, darling, let me introduce you…James…’
‘Jenna and I have already met.’
Jenna was aware of the hard speculation in the blonde’s eyes and grimaced inwardly. The girl had nothing to fear from Jenna, if she did but know it.
‘James has a horse with us, darling. He’s just moved into a new apartment. James…’ she turned towards him, ‘you simply must get Jenna to decorate it for you.’
Jenna saw the look in his eyes as they studied the drawing-room, and seethed inwardly, recognising it. How dare he sit in judgement on her? Didn’t he realise that a good interior designer always took note of the client’s own taste? She had never sought to impose her own taste on anyone and never would.
‘Jay, darling, there’s Naomi…do let’s go over and talk to her.’ The blonde’s pointed determination to ignore her only amused Jenna, as did her affected, breathy way of speaking. As she watched them go, it gave her quite a degree of pleasure to be able to reflect scathingly on James Allingham’s taste in women. Somehow it reduced him to the ranks of other members of his sex whom she also despised, making her feel…safer. Safer? What possible danger could he be to her? It was probably a hang-over from her fear of losing the Hall to him, she reflected, sipping her wine slowly.
At ten-thirty she was ready to go. Cocktail parties bored her in the main. She recalled that Nancy had been shocked to hear her say so. ‘You’re getting too high-falutin’ ideas about yourself, my girl,’ she had told Jenna bluntly. ‘You’re only human like the rest of us, you know.’
Even Bill had remonstrated gently with her, reminding her that she was a member of the human race. ‘You can’t always remain aloof from life, Jenna,’ he had told her quietly.
But Jenna had learned the hard way that by remaining aloof she remained safe. If Rachel had been more aloof…less naïve…
‘Ah, there you are, Jenna…’ It was too late to escape, being thoroughly embraced by the man bearing down on her, although Jenna held herself rigid beneath his embrace, turning her face so that his kiss landed on her cheek instead of her mouth.
‘Roger…’ Her eyes and voice were cool, but he appeared not to register that fact. Roger Bennett, supermarket entrepreneur extraordinaire was probably too used to riding roughshod over people to be put off by anything less subtle than a sledgehammer, Jenna thought, asking sweetly, ‘Maria not with you?’
Maria was his long-suffering wife, to whom he was constantly unfaithful with a parade of starlets and pseudo-débutantes. Jenna detested him, loathing his arrogance and the way he had of reducing every member of her sex under forty to a sex object. Roger Bennett had never respected any woman in his life and would have laughed himself sick if anyone had suggested that he should. He was everything Jenna most disliked in a man, and her mouth curled disparagingly as he said, ‘Saw you talking to James Allingham. Now there’s a
pretty piece he had with him. I bet she keeps him warm in bed at night.’
‘I’m sure.’ Jenna’s voice was cold. ‘Excuse me, Roger, but…’
‘No, don’t go yet, I want to talk to you. I’m moving into the property market—apartments abroad—upmarket stuff, and I could be in a position to put some business your way. Why don’t we go into the study and talk about it?’
Little though she wanted to, Jenna felt she had to agree. A contract like that was something she couldn’t afford to turn down right now. Since her talk with Gordon Burns, the burden of the loan she had taken out to buy the Hall was weighing heavily upon her.
She glanced at her watch and said coolly, ‘Well, I was just about to leave, but I can manage half an hour.’
Men like Roger were impossible to deal with once you let them get the upper hand. Jenna had had to learn to deal with many Rogers during the course of her career and she had found that a schoolmistressy bossiness was the best answer. For some reason it always de-sexed her in their eyes and once that had happened they became far less of a nuisance. She preferred to work for married couples and even then with the woman, but one couldn’t always choose one’s contracts.
The study was decorated in the traditional manner complete with a mock fireplace. Roger went to stand by it, one foot on the fender, his arm on the mantelpiece. Jenna stayed several feet away from him as she listened to him talking about the proposed contract. It sounded extremely promising, and whether because of that, or because her mind was still on the burden of the loan hanging over her, she failed to notice that Roger had moved, until she felt his arm slide round her.
