by Susan Napier
'I like to work quickly. It keeps everyone on their toes.'
'Are you going to be here long?' she asked, striving for normality.
'Long enough.'
'Have you ever been here before?' 'No.'
It was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Sarah made one last attempt. 'Well, you've picked the right time of year. February weather is usually the best of the summer.'
'I came here to work, not lie in the sun.'
'I'm sorry,' she said, dismayed by his sharpness. It seemed nothing she could do or say was right. She was always either insulting him or apologising to him. 'I was just making conversation.'
'Aimless chatter I can do without.'
Sarah would have liked to slap his supercilious face. Instead she gave him a brief vitriolic look which completely passed him by, and subsided into rigid silence.
Shortly afterwards Tom Forest arrived back, and together the two men loaded the three bags into the boot of the car. Max Wilde then got into the back seat with his briefcase while the other man eased himself in beside Sarah.
'You're Julie Somerville's assistant, aren't you?' he asked. 'Have you worked for Rags & Riches long?'
'Three years,' said Sarah, concentrating on her driving. An accident would really round off the morning! 'I started off as a secretary, the rest was sort of gradually accidental. Julie seemed to think I had the potential to do more than type letters and answer phones.'
'With the idea being that you eventually graduate to editor?'
'Oh no.' She had never ever thought about it. 'It's a job for a journalist and I'm no writer. I prefer what I do, which is a bit of everything and everything of little bits.'
'More managerial than creative.'
'Yes. But management involves creativity, too.'
The large head nodded thoughtfully. 'I'm glad you think so. Too often organisational skills are underrated. Not everyone has the flexibility to do it well, particularly when control involves the interaction of artistic temperaments.'
Sarah grinned. A very subtle way of saying the crazies who inhabit the extended world of fashion journalism.
They discussed the point in general terms for a while, then moved on to specifics—Sarah's job at Rags and the magazine itself. Aware she was being sounded out, she spoke honestly and intelligently, hoping the man in the back seat was listening. At least he wouldn't be able to dismiss her as brainless.
She could see him in the oblong of the rear-view mirror, head tipped back on the seat, eyes closed. The lines of tension around his mouth and eyes were quite pronounced and the rigidity of the jaw showed that even now he wasn't relaxed. She felt a moment's uncertainty. She should have made allowances for the fact that he had just spent nearly twenty-four hours in the air, been effusively humble instead of being offended at his sarcasm. Then she remembered that Tom Forest had been on the same trip and he had managed polite civilities at the end of it. Flashing another look at the closed face behind her, Sarah shivered. For all the charm that had lit his face when he had smiled at that stewardess, there had also been a certain cool calculation. Not a man given to impulse. Not a man to make an enemy of.
If only she hadn't been so hasty. She cringed to think of his incredulity when he realised she thought he was trying to pick her up. She would have to try and put it from her mind, try to forget, too, that instinctive dislike she had felt. It could make her job over the next few weeks very difficult and could even jeopardise her future with the magazine.
When they reached the hotel Sarah double-parked and offered to check in for them, but Tom Forest declined with thanks.
'We'll sort ourselves out and give Mrs. Somerville a phone call,' he said. 'Thank you for meeting us, we'll see you again soon.'
Back at the office Sarah resigned herself to a wasted morning. Everyone wanted to know what the advance guard had discovered about the new arrivals. With difficulty Sarah managed a fairly accurate physical description and a less accurate description, because of the deliberate omissions, of her own feelings on meeting the great man himself. One by one her colleagues trotted back to their departments in the mistaken belief that they had pumped Sarah dry of information.
It wasn't until Julie got back from her meeting at ten-thirty that she really spilled the beans. Reluctant as she was to confess her stupidity, it was better that Julie heard it from her than from the Wilde man.
Wondering how to present her case Sarah had finally decided on a bald statement. Julie's sense of humour was a bit unpredictable and trying to dress up the facts as a funny story could well backfire.
Disbelief, annoyance, mock-sobs and heavy sarcasm was the result, followed by a short, sharp homily on the merits of being polite to strangers, even importunate ones. Quite mild for Julie, really.
'Honestly, Sarah, you are the limit,' she finished up. 'The one person I thought I could rely on not to foul up! What happened to your celebrated soft answer . . . the Carter trademark?'
How to explain about the prickle on the back of her neck? The instinct. The 'feeling'. She could imagine the beautiful blue eyes widen at such impracticality from practical Sarah. Besides, her complaint was quite justified, Sarah's job was to smooth down feathers that other people had ruffled, not do the ruffling herself.
'He should have introduced himself first,' she said, unwilling to take the entire blame. 'He definitely didn't look my idea of an English tycoon. More like a male model.'
'What did you expect—bowler hat and umbrella? Don't let the Hollywood looks fool you, honey. Men have done that before now and gone on to commit commercial suicide. He's got a brain with a capital B—commercial degrees up to here and the Midas touch as far as money's concerned. Let's just hope he lists a sense of humour amongst his other attributes. I hope you apologised.'
'Of course I did!' She was not going to enlarge on that conversation.
Julie slammed drawers and shuffled papers noisily for a few more minutes and then to Sarah's relief she began to laugh.
'Here. You'd better take this.'
She tossed over a large green envelope. It landed with a soft 'phlop' on Sarah's desk, disgorging some of its contents—light cardboard sheets to which printed clippings were pasted. 'It's the file on Wilde's, you'd better do some homework.'
It took a while for Julie's mirth to subside. Sarah closed her eyes and ears to the distraction and settled down to read the file in front of her. It was certainly comprehensive. There were clippings from overseas newspapers and magazines, press-releases, notes and sketches from the various Wilde fashion collections as well as cross-references to letter and photographic files, which Sarah also looked through. She read through everything once, putting her speed reading to good use, sifting out the references to Max Wilde and putting them aside for further study.
From the tenor of the news reports she could deduce that his attitude to the press was ambivalent. When he wanted publicity for his ventures he appeared charmingly frank and forthcoming, welcoming questions. But equally, he could be a reporter's nightmare. 'Mr. Wilde had no comment to make', 'Mr. Wilde was unavailable for comment', 'Mr. Wilde refused to answer further questions'.
Where his private life was concerned there wasn't even a 'no comment'. There were plenty of photographs— smiling, stern, frowning, quizzical—action flashes grabbed on the run, of him at nightclubs and theatres, fashion shows and functions. Always there was a beautiful woman on his elbow, or the suggestion of one just outside the frame, a slender hand clutching his, a wisp of skirt, the direction of his gaze. The captions were all gossip and heresay of the 'Millionaire Max's Latest Love' type. Sometimes there were coy little comments from the women in question but discretion was obviously something he expected from his female companions. Max himself never bothered to deny or confirm anything from what she could gather—not even the stories that were patently outrageous. Perhaps he knew that nothing generated publicity power like the suggestion of secrecy. His reticence made him a gossip columnist's dre
am.
Most of the financial news reports that mentioned him were also favourable, admiring even, in their restrained fashion and by the time Sarah had finished her homework she was sinkingly aware she had crossed swords with a very powerful and important man. However, nothing that she had read made her like him any better. All that money, all those boardroom and bedroom successes. How could he not be arrogant? Conceited?
It was some time before she became aware of the pangs of hunger and realised that it was lunchtime and she was alone in the" office. She was just thinking of going out for a bite to eat when the phone rang.
'Sarah?' It was Julie, her voice raised over a background of restaurant clatter.
'Hello. I wondered where you'd got to.'
'A last minute luncheon engagement.'
Hearing the suppressed note of excitement in her voice, Sarah didn't have to ask with whom.
'Having met the man in the flesh I can sympathise with your crass idiocy of this morning. Fathomless charm. It would be interesting to plumb the depths.'
'Rather you than me.' Sarah hadn't even received a puddle of charm from the man. 'What time will you be back?'
'I don't know ... I don't care,' floated the answer gaily. ‘I probably won't be back at all. I cunningly brought an idea or two with me to run up the flagpole, so we may spend the rest of the afternoon saluting. Incidentally, he wants a full staff meeting tomorrow morning—send a memo out, will you? If anything urgent comes up, I'll be at the hotel. I'll see you this evening.'
'This evening?'
'You haven't forgotten the Sappho launching, have you? I sent the invitation out to you. I want you to be there, Sarah, it's a major new line.'
'More flag flying?'
'It's a good way of keeping up our contacts . . . learning what's going on in an informal way. Talking of which, I'm having an informal party on Sunday afternoon. Coming?'
Sarah hesitated. 'Of course.’ Julie’s Sunday afternoon barbecues by the poolside of her lovely home were legendary and few people passed up the chance to attend. Everything was very relaxed, you didn't even feel obliged to make conversation if you didn't want to. Just swim and eat and lie in the sun. The only type of party Sarah did enjoy.
'I had forgotten about tonight, thanks for reminding me. What time?' 'Seven. And Sarah?' 'Yes?'
'Wear something. . .' she sniffed, 'different.'
Sarah hung up with a sigh. Sappho was a new cosmetics line coming on sale in New Zealand shortly and the American-based company was holding a 'happening' to introduce their product to the trade and media. They'd hired the top floor of the Intercontinental Hotel as the venue.
The trouble with me is that I'm becoming blasé about 'happenings', she told herself. As a novice she had gone to promotional evenings wide-eyed, but now they were just a small part of a full, demanding job.
CHAPTER THREE
By the time Sarah arrived at the Intercontinental Hotel everything was swinging. The noise-level was high, upbeat music competing with a voluble crowd, most of whom were watching a series of fantasy make-up demonstrations in one corner of the large restaurant. Drink was just as abundant as noise.
She greeted several people she knew and accepted a tall glass of something before being expertly cut out of the crowd by a young man from Sappho's advertising agency. Sarah glanced around the room while she listened politely, managing to look interested and impressed as she wondered whether the preponderance of unfamiliar faces meant the evening would be more of a chore than usual.
'Hello, Sarah. I wonder if I might have a word with you? Excuse us, Peter.'
Sarah was whisked away to the other side of the room by a pretty girl wearing a stunning combination of black lurex 'boob tube' and slinky, skin-tight gold satin pants.
'Thanks, I think he was just getting his second wind,' said Sarah gratefully. Her rescuer was one of Rags' staff writers.
'You looked as though you might be building up to a yawn. I would have come over sooner but I didn't want to break up what might have been a promising encounter.'
The two girls chatted for a few minutes about what Chris thought of the Sappho range, then a short speech signalled the end of the fixed agenda for the evening and the arrival of a mouthwatering array of food laid out on long, white-covered tables.
'Oh goody, I'm famished,' said Chris, who could eat like a pig and never put on an ounce. She slanted Sarah a sly look. 'I don't suppose you have any room?' 'What?'
'A little bird tells me that you got your foot rather firmly wedged in your mouth this morning. Still there, is it?'
Sarah pulled a face. It had been too much to hope that Julie would keep her gaffe to herself, once she had seen the humorous possibilities.
'A little bird with a big mouth. I suppose it will be joke of the month now.'
'Are you kidding? Of the year! Did you really—!' She broke off to give Sarah a sharp nudge. 'Speak of the devil!'
Near the door at the other end of the room was Julie, still in yellow but looking as fresh as a daisy, her arm tucked smugly through that of the tall dark man.
'Oh, Sarah,' breathed the girl beside her. 'How could you?'
Very easily, thought Sarah, her nerves tightening a notch. The dark head was tilted to one side as Max Wilde listened to Julie’s introductions. He looked totally at ease, the supreme confidence of power and wealth unmistakable. And the men he was meeting were shaking hands with the hint of deference that showed their awareness of it. He was wearing a dark suit, blue shirt and tie, yet he looked considerably cooler than many of the more casually dressed men around him. A state of mind rather than a physical condition, thought Sarah enviously.
'Lucky Julie,' drooled Chris. 'It looks like a take-over in more ways than one. Steven Somerville will have to look to his laurels. Hey!' Another nudge. 'He's looking at you! Give him a smile, Sarah.'
She had no choice. Forcing her reluctant cheek muscles into action she achieved a polite smile and inclined her head. To her intense embarrassment, conscious of the audible gasp beside her, he made no answering sign of recognition. He continued to look straight through her for several moments, a blank expression on his face. Then he turned away.
Sarah's whole body burned as she stared unseeingly at the back of his head, feeling as if the whole room had witnessed that snub. She knew precisely what he was doing—paying her back in Rind, but most unkindly, and unfairly. In the midst of her angry embarrassment she w*as surprised that he would stoop to such a thing. Perhaps spite was part of his nature—look how he had enjoyed watching her squirm at the airport when she found out who he was.
'Do you think he didn't recognise you?' Chris looked from Max Wilde to Sarah's pale face. 'It's a big room, maybe he's short-sighted.
In a pig's eye! thought Sarah, but she didn't say if. Stout-hearted Chris was unwilling to think badly of anyone, particularly a man whom, she had cheerfully informed everyone that morning, she had lusted after for years from afar.
'He was probably miles away,' Sarah said stiffly.
'Sure. But—'
'Forget it, Chris.'
Sarah could see her friend was dying to ask a flood of questions, but those three final words told her she would get nowhere. Her colleagues knew that there were clearly defined lines within which it was unwise to step where Sarah was concerned. One heavily scored line involved men and her personal relationships with them, her husband included. Sarah could take good-natured ribbing with the best of them but real curiosity was an intrusion. Because they liked and respected her they obeyed the unwritten rule, knowing that Sarah reciprocated by respecting the privacy of others.
'Okay, but seeing as you're obviously not going to introduce me, I'll drift on over myself. Maybe I can pry him away from Julie long enough to try my luck!'
Luck would have nothing to do with it, Sarah decided as she elbowed her way through to the buffet. That man made his own luck! His arrival seemed to have taken her appetite away but she piled her plate with chilled o
ysters in the shell, crayfish mayonnaise and salad, anyway. She would eat every scrap, just to prove to herself that it made no difference what he thought or did to her. She wasn't going to let herself be intimidated by someone else's opinion. It had happened once before in different circumstances and had brought nothing but stress and strife.
She had almost finished her meal and was sitting alone at her table after sharing it with a succession of companions, sipping on a light, cold white wine, when she suffered the shock of seeing Max Wilde sit down on the vacant chair opposite.
At her sharp intake of breath some of the wine went down the wrong way and sent her into a fit of coughing and spluttering, eyes watering furiously. The man was a jinx!
'Drink some more wine.'
She did as she was told and immediately felt better. Why did her common sense desert her in his presence? 'All right?'
She nodded, not trusting her voice, hating that grin.
'Good.' He sat back. 'Lost your tongue? Or minding your manners? How did it feel to be on the reverse end of a glacial stare?'
Struggling for composure, Sarah stole Chris's line without compunction. 'You mean when you arrived?' She shrugged casually. 'I assumed you must suffer from shortsightedness.'
He followed her further than she meant him to: 'And too vain to wear glasses?' She got a view of a hard, olive throat as he drew back his head to laugh uninhibitedly. If Sarah hadn't disliked him so much she might have found it an attractive sound. 'Nicely said. Unfortunately—for you—I know you better than to believe you thought anything so innocent.'
'What makes you think you know me at all?'
Lids veiled the glitter of his eyes. 'I told you. I've read your file.'
He made it sound like a scandal sheet, although Sarah knew it only contained unadorned facts and figures.
