"Uncle John's little weakness," she said slowly.
Larry chuckled. "That's a good way of putting it." He gave her a frank look. "When I first heard what he had done, I laughed. I thought he had turned the tables on us and was forcing us to work together amicably."
"And what do you think now?"
"That we don't need to worry. After all, you're here to make an unbiased third."
"As long as you remember that," she said bluntly. "I would never allow personal liking to cloud my business judgment."
His eyes mocked her. "How knowledgeable is that business judgment of yours, my fair haired Samantha?"
"Knowledgeable enough to know its limitations—which is why I'm following Uncle John's suggestion and working in the store. Until I've got myself some experience I intend to maintain a very low profile. So don't think you can charm me into siding with you."
"I knew you suspected my motives for asking you out," he said reproachfully. "And I won't deny it because I know you won't believe me. Instead, I'm going to let time talk for me." His head tilted to one side. "You will let me see you again, won't you?"
"Every day at Farrell's!" Before he could add anything to this, she went on: "Of course I'll see you again. You're fun to be with."
"So are you. How come you're still single? I'd have thought someone with your beauty and brains would have been snapped up long ago?"
"Perhaps all the men I've known have been like you and your cousin—playmates and not keepmates!"
He chuckled. "I can easily see a man wanting to be your keepmate."
She shrugged. "Actually I've never fallen in love."
"No black-haired prince on a white charger?"
"Not even a redhead on a palomino!"
He laughed outright. "When I first heard of you I wondered if you were a free-living liberationist—bearing in mind your arty background. I think I thought wrong!"
"You certainly did. My mother was as good with a hair brush as a paint brush! I was very strictly brought up."
"What's it like to have a famous parent?"
"Great fun. And I genuinely admire what she does; which makes it even more fun."
"I'm a fan of hers too. I always like pictures to resemble reality. Abstract stuff leaves me cold." He refilled their coffee cups. "I wouldn't go out and buy a painting though. I'm just as happy with a print."
She was not overly surprised at his attitude but said politely, "You probably have a very good eye for what you like."
"Zachary is the one who knows about art," Larry said. "His house is full of paintings."
"Don't you live together?"
"What an idea! We haven't done so for years. We each have our own pad in town and Zack used to spend his weekends at Uncle John's place in the country."
"I remember going there a few times when I was a child," Samantha murmured.
"It belongs to Zack now. Uncle left it to both of us but I was happy to sell my half. I'm not the squire type."
Samantha could not see Zachary Farrell in the role either, but knew that if she said so, Larry would see it as a criticism of his cousin. She must not show herself to be critical of either of them. At least not until she knew much more about the way the store was run. And about the two Farrells themselves, she added.
This last thought came into her mind again as Larry drove her home, kissed her lightly on the brow and wished her good-night. This particular branch of the family tree was delightful and easy to know on the surface, but she would be unwise to assume there were no prickly thorns behind the leaves. Soberly she went up to her apartment. Life ahead was going to be interesting but it was also going to be difficult.
CHAPTER FOUR
After working for two weeks in the Hardware Department, Samantha was delighted to receive word from Zachary's secretary that she was expected in the Art Department on the following Monday. This was far more her milieu, and when she said as much to Larry he expressed surprise that she had bothered to work in Hardware at all, feeling the way she did.
"But Uncle John specifically said he wanted me to work in every department," she explained, "not just the ones to which I'm drawn by inclination."
"If that was the case, you'd probably end up in jewelry or clothes!" he teased.
"Or furs," she retorted and then immediately shook her head. "No, not furs. I think mink looks much better on a mink!"
His laugh was loud and people at the next table looked across at them. They were dining in the same restaurant to which he had taken her the first time they had gone out. In the last fortnight she had seen him four times, not counting the odd occasions when he popped in during the day to see how she was getting on. Though she kept telling herself not to' read too much into his attentions, she could not help thinking he was genuinely attracted to her.
"Why shouldn't he be?" Jackie had said when she had mentioned it. "You're a stunning-looking girl. Peter's always remarking on it."
"Praise indeed," Samantha had said dryly.
"Coming from Peter, it is. In his kind of job, women fawn all over him." Jackie had sighed deeply. "I wonder if I'm doing the right thing in leaving him?"
"You are doing the right thing for your future," Samantha had said firmly. "You've told him you are going away and you can't back down now. Give yourself a chance to make a new life."
Jackie had tried to look bright at the prospect but had failed dismally, and her departure for the airport the next day had been a tearful one, particularly as Peter had been unable to see her off because of an unexpected assignment to Helsinki.
"But he still believes I'll be back in a couple of months," Jackie had stated.
"Prove him wrong," had been Samantha's final words to her friend and, waving her good-by when she had gone through the departure gates, she had prayed fervently that Jackie would not weaken.
It was strange to return to the apartment and know she would not be sharing it with anyone. It suddenly seemed twice as large and far emptier. But she did not regret taking it and knew that with room to spare she would be able to put more of her own things around her. A couple of her mother's paintings in the sitting room, for instance, to replace the prints that Jackie had put there, and a delicate Degas pastel on the wall opposite her bed, so that she would see it each morning when she awoke. It seemed to her like an omen that, with her mother's pictures hung and other objects of sentimental value placed in the sitting room, she should go to Farrell's the next morning and start work in the Art Department. The atmosphere here was quite different from the plebeian one of the lower ground floor, and after a couple of hours she felt as if she had always been a part of it.
The head of the department was on a buying trip to Paris, so she was told, and the words rang ominously in her ears. What exactly did "buying art" in Paris mean? From the paintings displayed she did not have a high opinion of the man's artistic knowledge and, watching the Farrell clientele during the next few days, she reached the same conclusion about them! Pictures bought from Farrell's Art Department were obviously regarded as additional items of furniture.
"The drawing rooms of the upper middle class must have a pink and gold decor," she said wryly to Jean Denton, the assistant manager of the department, after she had sold her fifth view of Mont Blanc at sunset. "I never knew people really bought things like this."
"You're here to give the customers what they want, not what you want."
"Does that mean we have to stand by and applaud bad taste?"
"You aren't applauding it. You're selling it. That's what business is all about. To sell."
"Farrell's has a special reputation," Samantha insisted. "People all over the world know that we sell the best. The same way they know that Neiman Marcus in the States sells the most expensive!" She glanced round the walls and shuddered. "No one could say these paintings are anything other than awful!"
"What about that?" Jean Denton pointed to a cluster of flower paintings—all derivative of the Dutch Masters.
"They're copies,"
Samantha protested.
"We couldn't sell the real thing, Miss Byers. Paintings like that would run into tens of thousands of pounds, and the most expensive one we've sold here was for three thousand. After all, we aren't in competition with the West End Galleries."
"Of course we are," Samantha argued. "The only difference is that all the paintings we sell are rubbish!"
The woman went scarlet and Samantha was dismayed that her remark should be taken so personally. But the male voice that spoke behind Samantha suddenly gave the clue to Jean Denton's change of color. It was not her vociferous criticism that had caused it, but the fact it had been overheard by Zachary Farrell. Quickly she swung round to greet him and the assistant manager tactfully disappeared.
"Miss Denton is correct in what she said to you, Miss Byers."
How cold and deep his voice was, she thought. Cold and deep as an iceberg. The way the simile had come into her mind made her wonder if she was also describing her feelings about his character? After all, most of it was hidden and only to be guessed at, though there was little guessing required to know his present mood, if his lowered eyebrows and heavy scowl were anything to go by.
"We are not in competition with the art galleries," he continued. "They invest hundreds of thousands of pounds in their stock, whereas for us it is only a small part of what we carry."
"Then why bother carrying it at all?"
"Because there is a demand for what we sell. Our clients wish to buy pictures for their home and we feel it our duty to supply them."
"You would do just as well to give them colored bits of wallpaper in rococo frames!"
"I am sorry if our paintings aren't expensive enough for you," he said frigidly.
"It has nothing to do with their value," she flared. "You can't be that ignorant!"
"We are not discussing my ignorance, Miss Byers, but yours. Until you know more about the way Farrell's is run—and why a department supplies what it does—I suggest you make no further comment. My uncle asked you to work here for a year to learn the business. At the end of that time you might—and I even use that word without conviction—you might be in more of a position to give your opinion."
"I don't need to work here for a year to know your Art Department is dreadful. I'm not an ignoramus on the subject. I have represented my mother for two years and—"
"Does being your mother's daughter qualify you as an expert?" he cut in.
"Two London galleries have asked me to buy for them," she said stiffly, "and they don't sell her work, so that wasn't the reason they made the offer."
There was a slight pause before his shoulders lifted. "I am sorry if I have misunderstood your experience in the art world, but I haven't misunderstood it in relation to our own Art Department. We run ours on quite different lines. As I said before, we are here to cater to our clients, not to educate them."
"You could do both."
"I am satisfied that we do one thing very well, without hankering for two. I would suggest that you cultivate the same attitude."
He continued on his way and she watched him mutinously. His steps were soundless and his movements lithe. In his dark suit and with his jet black hair he reminded her of a panther: black and powerful and always ready to pounce. How long had he been listening before he had sprung out on her? Anger rose higher as she remembered his critical comments. So Farrell's gave their clients what they wanted? What he had really meant to say was that he gave the clients what they wanted, for in his own mind he was Farrell's too. And so am I, she thought darkly. Oh yes, Mr. Zachary, so am I.
When Samantha arrived at the Art Department the next morning there was a message for her to go to Zachary's office. With a heart that persisted in beating annoyingly fast, she ran up to the top floor, ignoring the lift which was too slow for her impatient mood. Breathless, she reached his secretary's desk.
"I believe Mr. Farrell wishes to see me?"
"Not that I am aware of." Mrs. Fielding, who could have been the twin of Larry's secretary, looked suitably contrite. "I am afraid the message was misunderstood. It was to ask you to telephone Mr. Zachary's office. He has made arrangements for you to go to the Dress Department."
"But I've only been in the Art Department two days. Are you sure there isn't some mistake? I was in Hardware for a fortnight and—"
"There is definitely no mistake, Miss Byers. Mr. Zachary was quite clear about it last night. In fact I tried to phone you then, but you had already left the store."
"Why am I being moved?" Samantha asked bluntly.
"Mr. Zachary felt you would be more at home in the Dress Department." Mrs. Fielding spoke without any change of tone.
"Will I be expected to put myself on the stand with the dummies?"
The graying head jerked up sharply, but the composed face gave nothing away. Were all secretaries to tycoons impervious to criticism about their bosses, Samantha wondered, or were they so used to it that they could ignore it?
"I am just annoyed at being shifted," she said hurriedly, knowing it was wrong to involve a stranger in a family matter. For this was a family matter; she was John Farrell's goddaughter and because of it had been placed in this position.
"I am sure you will enjoy working in the Dress Department," Mrs. Fielding stated. "All the clothes there are exclusive to Farrell's."
Smiling good-by, Samantha went downstairs to tell the news to Jean Denton, who did not hide her relief that her assistant was being moved away from her with such speed. Feeling like a chastised schoolgirl, Samantha presented herself to Madame Vonet, a chic Frenchwoman under whose eagle eye the entire couture and ready-to- wear department ran.
"You cannot wear your hair loose," Madame said when the first greetings were over. "And you are much too young. I like my assistants to be in their forties, particularly for couture."
"Why?" Samantha asked.
"Because young girls cannot afford the prices of the clothes we sell here, and older women do not find it—" there was a tightening of the lined face—"do not find it heartening to be served by the young."
"You mean because it reminds them of their own lost youth? I would have thought that the quicker a woman comes to terms with that, the better."
"Please keep your opinions for the psychiatrist's consulting room, Miss Byers. I run this department my way."
"Mr. Zachary Farrell sent me to work here," Samantha said firmly, "and you'll have to put up with me. I can put on a gray wig if you like."
"A guard on your tongue would be better."
Samantha could hardly wait for the day when Madame Vonet learned her true identity and, in the next couple of days of haranguing, almost blurted it out. Only her vow to remain incognito —which she had foolishly given to Zachary Farrell—enabled her to hold her tongue.
In the meantime the Frenchwoman seemed set on making Samantha's life a misery. Each day she had to change the clothes on the stands. It was a difficult task for the dummies were made to Farrell's own design and were so lifelike that it was as complicated as dressing real people. Unfortunately Samantha did not have a good eye for size and she frequently dressed them in clothes that were either too large or too small, which necessitated taking them off again. The first time that she had dressed a dummy in a garment two sizes too large, she had skillfully pinned it at the back, only to be met with a shriek of fury when Madame's eagle eye spotted it.
"Stupid girl," the Frenchwoman had hissed, "don't you know that if you put pins into chiffon it will damage the fabric? And if you spoil a garment the cost of it is docked from your salary."
"I haven't damaged it." Samantha had hastily withdrawn the pins, which immediately sent the dress flopping to the floor.
"Lift the skirt from the carpet!" Madame had wailed. "It will pick up the dust."
"No dust would dare settle in your department, Madame," Samantha had said solemnly, hoisting the garment onto her arm and at the same time lifting it over the dummy's head.
"Find a smaller size," Madame had hisse
d.
"This is the smallest."
"Then put another dress on the stand."
"You told me to display this one."
"Only because I thought it was the correct size for the model. Why don't you use your brain, Miss Byers? I assume you have one!"
Muttering angrily, Madame Vonet had stalked off and Samantha chose another dress to put on the model.
It was this same model which Samantha was dressing this morning, and it was now displaying an alarming tendency to lose its arms. She examined the figure with interest. It was extremely well made, with a beautifully shaped torso and elegant legs. All the limbs—as well as the head— could be taken off, and she thought it would be amusing to switch the various parts around. Discarding such a frivolous thought, she refixed the arms into their slots and then stepped back to look at her handiwork. Darn it, she had got it wrong. The hands were pointing backward. She giggled and stepped farther away for another look, freezing into immobility as her body came up against a hard, immovable barrier and a cold hand placed itself on the side of her waist and pushed her firmly away. Face flaming, she turned and saw Zachary Farrell.
"I was—I was just looking at the dummy," she stammered.
"Waiting for it to come to life and talk to you?"
"It won't do that," she said solemnly. "It's designed to be a Farrell woman—mute—the way you obviously like them."
There was not a flicker in his pale eyes and the well-shaped mouth, with its full lower lip, tightened thinly.- "I suggest you dress it," he said, pointing to the nude body.
"Is it giving you ideas?" she asked innocently.
This time he could not hide what he was feeling, though even then it was only shown by a swift indrawn breath, which he immediately released on a long-suffering sigh.
"You must have gone to a boarding school, Miss Byers. You have that particular juvenile sense of humor which they seem to inculcate."
Roberta Leigh - Love in Store Page 4
