Hold the Dream

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

Once they had left, Paula walked slowly across the room to the desk, a great slab of glass supported by a simple base of polished steel. It was the dramatic focal point in Emma’s highly dramatic office at Harte Enterprises, where Paula always based herself when she was in New York. The room was furnished with modern pieces and washed throughout with a melange of misty greys and blues. The soft muted colours were enlivened by some of Emma’s priceless French Impressionist paintings, while sculptures by Henry Moore and Brancusi, and rare temple heads from Angkor Wat, were displayed on black marble pedestals around the room. All made a strong definitive statement, and evidenced Emma’s great love of art.

  Seating herself at the desk, Paula placed her elbows on it, cupped her face in her hands, thinking about the meeting she had just finished. At the back of her mind a germ of an idea flickered, began to take shape, and as it did a slow smile spread across her face. Quite unwittingly Ross Nelson and Dale Stevens had shown her a way to resolve some of her problems at Sitex, if not, in fact, all of them. But not now, she thought. Later, when I really need to make everyone keep in step to the beat of my drum.

  As she straightened up she laughed out loud. It was not a very nice idea, indeed it was rather diabolical – Machiavellian – but it would be effective, and it bore Emma Harte’s inimitable stamp. Still laughing quietly, she thought: I must be growing more like Grandy every day. The possibility that this was true pleased her. In a sense it helped to alleviate some of the depression and frustration she had been experiencing since her abortive attempt to talk to Jim before she had left England.

  If her marriage was in a shambles, her personal life grounded in aridity, then she was going to make certain she had a fruitful career, her own successes in business to compensate for her other losses. Work had been Emma’s strong citadel when her private life had been wrecked, and so it would become Paula’s, sustaining her at all times. With her business to occupy her thoughts, and her abiding love for her children to give her emotional nourishment, she would survive, and survive well, perhaps even with style as her grandmother had done. Her thoughts jumped to Jim, but they were neither rancorous nor condemning. She felt only a terrible sadness for him. He did not know what he had lost, and that was the pity, the tragedy of it all.

  Shane O’Neill was in a quandary this afternoon.

  He strode up Park Avenue at a rapid pace dodging in and out between the other pedestrians, his thoughts twisting and turning at a similar accelerated rate. He was unable to make up his mind about Paula. Should he phone her or not? The knowledge that she was in New York, sitting only a few blocks away from him at this very moment, had so unnerved him he couldn’t imagine what being in her presence would do to him. And if he did call her he would have no alternative but to see her, invite her out, take her to lunch or dinner, at the very least have drinks with her.

  Earlier that day, when he had been talking to their London office, he had been taken aback when his father had mentioned in passing that Paula had flown to New York yesterday. ‘Merry and I had supper with her in London on Sunday night,’ his father had gone on to explain before reverting to their discussion about current business matters. And before they had hung up, his father had exclaimed, ‘Oh Shane, just a minute, here comes Merry now. She wants to say hello to you.’

  But Merry had given him more than a greeting. She had issued instructions. ‘Please ring Paula,’ Merry had urged. ‘I gave her your numbers the other night, but I know she won’t call you. She’d be too intimidated.’ When he asked her for clarification, his sister had told him that Paula had long been acutely conscious of his aloofness, as she had herself. ‘She’ll be scared of being rebuffed,’ Merry had pointed out. ‘So it’s really up to you. Be nice, Shane, she’s such an old friend. And she doesn’t look very well.’ This last statement had been announced in a grave and worried voice, and Merry had rushed on, ‘She seems weighted down, troubled, morose even, and that’s not the Paula we know. Please take her out, give her a good time. Have some fun together, Shane, make her laugh again, like you used to do when we were all children.’ His sister’s comments had alarmed him; he had pressed for more information about Paula’s state of mind and health. Merry had not really been able to enlighten him any further, and before they had said goodbye he had faithfully promised his sister he would get in touch with Paula.

  But he was wavering again. Whilst he longed to see her, he knew that by succumbing to his yearning he would only be inflicting punishment on himself. She was another man’s wife. Lost to him forever. To spend time with her would open up all the old wounds…wounds which had not exactly healed but had scabbed over at least, and were therefore much less painful. It will be unsettling, he thought, reflecting on the life he had built for himself in New York over the past eight months. It was not an exciting life; rather it was dull and uneventful, with no great highs but no debilitating lows either. He was neither happy nor sad, in limbo in a sense, but he did have peace and quiet. There were no women around any more. Two sorties in that direction had foundered miserably and rendered him helpless, despairing. And he had decided, yet again, that celibacy was infinitely preferable to disastrous scenes in the bedroom which ended in embarrassment, left him shaken and filled with mortification at his own inadequacies. And so he scrupulously avoided all female entanglements, and spent most of his time working. More often than not he remained at the new offices of O’Neill Hotels International until eight or nine at night, and then went home to a dreary supper in front of the television set. From time to time he made a date with Ross Nelson or with one of the other two men he had become friendly with; occasionally he took Skye Smith to a movie or the theatre and then on to dinner afterwards. But for the most part he led a solitary existence, with books and music as his sole companions. He was not happy, but there was no pain to deal with. He was dead inside.

  As all of this ran through his head Shane had a sudden change of heart. He really ought to see Paula, if only for appearances’ sake. Should any of his other childhood friends happen to visit the city, he would wine and dine them automatically. To avoid Paula would look peculiar, pointed actually, especially to Emma and his grandfather, who would undoubtedly ask him about her when they passed through New York next month. Besides that, Merry had said Paula was not looking well. Yes, he had better invite her to dinner, just to satisfy himself she was really all right. But she’s not your responsibility, he cautioned himself, thinking of Jim Fairley. Her husband. Unexpectedly, a savage feeling of jealousy seized him, and he had to make a strenuous effort to fling this emotion off as he crossed Fifty-Ninth Street and continued on up Park, making for the mid-sixties.

  In a few minutes he would be arriving at the site of their new hotel. The construction company had almost finished rebuilding the old-fashioned interiors and momentarily he would be surrounded by the crews, the foremen, the architects and the interior designers. All would be demanding his attention. I must make a decision about Paula. Now. No more procrastinating. Oh, to hell with Jim Fairley! She’s my oldest and dearest friend. I grew up with her. Of course I’m going to see her. No, you can’t. It will be too hurtful. Once again Shane reversed himself.

  And he was paralysed into inaction by the knowledge that he was vulnerable to her. If he so much as set eyes on the only woman he loved he would be exposing himself to pain and suffering from which he might never fully recover.

  Skye Smith looked at Ross Nelson nervously, and her voice quavered slightly as she said, ‘But your divorce has been final for weeks now. I don’t understand. I always thought we were going to get married.’

  ‘I’m afraid that has been wishful thinking on your part, Skye,’ Ross said, endeavouring to keep his voice level, to be courteous if nothing else.

  ‘But what about Jennifer?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s your child, Ross!’

  For a moment he said nothing. He had been furious when he had arrived home from Wall Street ten minutes earlier to find Skye Smith, his former mist
ress, sitting in his living room so coolly composed and obviously determined to fight with him yet again. He was growing exasperated with her and the constant pressuring. The moment she left he was going to fire his housekeeper for being stupid enough to allow her into the apartment.

  Skye sat twisting her hands together, her face white, her eyes filled with mute appeal.

  Ross Nelson stared at her, his implacability increasing as he noted her agitation. Her apparent distress did nothing to engender sympathy or compassion in him. It only served to annoy him further. ‘You say she’s my child. But is she really?’ he asked cruelly. ‘I’ve never been too sure…about her paternity.’

  Skye gasped, drew back on the sofa. ‘How can you say that! You know you’re her father. She’s the spitting image of you, Ross, and there’s the blood test. And anyway you kept me virtually under lock and key for four years. I never so much as looked at another man.’

  He smiled ironically. ‘But you’re looking at one these days, and very lovingly so, aren’t you, Skye? Shane O’Neill to be precise. And since you’re sleeping with him I suggest you use your considerable sexual wiles to ensnare him. You’d better lead him by the nose to the altar, and as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with him,’ she protested fiercely, her apathy dropping away, her eyes flashing angrily with sudden life.

  ‘Do you really expect me to believe that,’ he exclaimed with a cynical laugh. ‘I know everything there is to know about you, Skye, and then some.’ His eyes hardened as they swept over her and his mouth lifted at the corner in a scornful smile. ‘You can’t resist tall husky handsome studs, they’ve always been your terrible weakness, my dear. As we both know only too well. You’d be wise to marry one of them while you still have your beautiful blonde looks and that extraordinarily athletic sexual ability. Shane’s definitely the most likely prospect. He’s getting it from you in bed, so why don’t you get him to make it legal, while the romance is still in that first euphoric flush. He’s your type, no two ways about it. He’s also a rich man, and he’s certainly available.’

  ‘Ross, I’m telling you the truth. I’m not having an affair with Shane O’Neill,’ she insisted.

  Ross laughed in her face, reached for the silver cigarette box on the antique Chinese coffee table, slowly put a flame to the cigarette he held between his fingers.

  Skye’s eyes rested on him. She wondered why she had ever let herself become embroiled with him, and so foolishly, years ago, asked herself why it was her misfortune to love this man in the way in which she did. The trouble was he knew exactly how she felt, and that was why he had lately begun to cool towards her. Ross only wanted the things in life which he could not possess, and especially women who showed no interest in him whatsoever. He’s perverse, she thought, but oh God how I love him. She knew she had to make him believe her about Shane for the child’s sake as well as her own. Suddenly realizing that the only way to convince him was to be open and explicit, she said quietly. ‘All right, I admit it. I did go to bed with Shane. Once. It was when I discovered you’d taken Denise Hodgson to South America with you, when I found out about your affair with her. Retaliation, I suppose. But it didn’t work between us. We never made love. And we’ve never been near each other since, not in that way, Ross. We’re friends, that’s all. Chums.’

  ‘Chums,’ Ross spluttered, shaking his head. ‘Come on, Skye, it’s me you’re talking to, remember. I haven’t known you for five years not to understand exactly how you can make a man feel, especially in the beginning, when he’s not yet slept with you.’ He laughed derisively. ‘Didn’t work between you, eh?’ he muttered, his expression one of total disbelief.

  Skye swallowed, knowing she had to continue talking, give him a full explanation if she was to make any headway, ingratiate herself with him again, somehow win him back. ‘Yes, that’s correct, I promise you, Ross. Shane and I are simply good friends.’ She swallowed again. ‘He couldn’t…well, the night we went to bed…he wasn’t able to…you know, do anything.’

  Ross slapped his knee, raucous laughter rippling through him. ‘Do you expect me to believe Shane O’Neill couldn’t get it up with you? Oh no, Skye, I’ll never accept that one from you.’

  ‘But it’s the truth,’ she whispered, remembering so clearly that miserable night, Shane’s dreadful embarrassment, her own confusion. ‘It’s the God’s truth.’ She leaned across the coffee table, finished in a much stronger tone, ‘I swear it on Jennifer’s head, on my child – on our child.’

  His laughter ceased and his eyes narrowed, observed her thoughtfully. Instantly he knew she was not lying, not when she brought the child into it. He said, ‘So…Shane’s got a little problem, has he?’

  She nodded. ‘With me at least.’ She hesitated. ‘I have a feeling he’s in love with someone.’

  ‘I wonder who that could be, who the woman in question is? Do you know?’

  ‘That’s a silly thing to ask. How could I possibly know. He hasn’t confided anything. Don’t you see, Ross, that’s why he’s not available as a husband for me.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have no desire to get married again,’ he said almost chattily, ‘not with my track record. I’ve had enough of grasping wives and the divorce court. Besides I’m paying too much alimony as it is. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. But if I were ever demented enough to take that suicidal plunge I can assure you my bride would have to be a rich one.’

  ‘Oh come off it! Money doesn’t interest you, Ross,’ she scoffed. ‘You couldn’t spend your millions if you lived to be a hundred.’

  He said nothing.

  Skye said slowly, her face growing soft, almost tender, ‘We’ve had so much together. We have a child, and I love you very much.’

  ‘You don’t seem to understand – I don’t love you.’

  She flinched, but kept her hurt to herself. He had a penchant for being cruel, and his moods changed like the wind. In five minutes he might easily do a turn about and sweep her off to bed. That had happened so many times before. A thought came to her, and she stood up, went and sat down next to him on the other sofa, laid her hand on his knee. She drew closer, whispered, ‘You don’t really mean that, Ross darling, you know it’s not true. You do love me. There’s a special kind of magic between us, and there always has been.’ She smiled into his cold face, her eyes enticing. ‘Let’s go to bed. I’ll show you just how strong the bonds are between us.’

  He lifted her hand from his knee and placed it in her lap. ‘I didn’t think you were a masochist, that you’d want a repetition of your misadventure with Shane O’Neill. It must be very humiliating for a woman like you to realize that her sexual expertise has lost its power.’

  She pulled away from him, gaping, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Wanting to be rid of her, he went in for the kill, said in the quietest but hardest of voices, ‘You see, Skye, you don’t turn me on any more.’

  Rising, she blundered across the room to the window, flicking the tears off her cheeks, trying to stem their flow, her shoulders heaving. She knew she had lost him. Her life was in shreds.

  Ross also rose and crossed to the small Regency writing table. He opened the drawer, took out his chequebook, picked up the pen and wrote. As he ripped the cheque out of the book she turned around, stood staring at him, puzzlement replacing the anguish on her strained face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, beginning to tremble.

  ‘This is for you, for the child,’ he said, pushing himself up out of the chair, walking to her. ‘I will make arrangements with my accountants for you to receive the same amount every month. It should be more than enough.’ He stopped in front of her, held out the cheque.

  Skye shook her head wildly. ‘I don’t want it, Ross. I can support our child. I’m not interested in your money, and I never have been. It’s only you I want. As a husband, as a father for Jennifer.’

  ‘That’s too high a price
for me.’ He tried to force the cheque into her hands but she refused to take it, balling her fists, backing away from him.

  He shrugged, turned, walked back to the sofas in front of the fireplace. He opened her handbag, slipped the cheque inside, then carried her bag to her, put it in her hands. ‘I think it’s time for you to leave, Skye. I’m expecting guests. It’s over between us. There’s nothing more to say.’

  Lifting her head, she gathered some of her shattered pride around her, and she was surprisingly cool and steady as she said, ‘Oh yes, there is something more to say, Ross, and it’s this…’ She paused, looked deeply into his face. ‘Things are not over between us and they never will be, whether we see each other again or not. And one day you’re going to need me. I don’t know for what reason, or why, but need me you will.’ She opened her bag, took out the cheque and tore it in half without looking at it. She let it flutter to the floor. And then she pivoted and walked away from him without a backward glance, her pace measured and controlled.

  Ross picked up the torn cheque and pocketed it, his face expressionless. He would write another one tomorrow and mail it to her. He ambled over to the window and parted the curtain, looked down on to Park Avenue. In a few minutes she would leave the building and cross the street as she always did, heading in the direction of Lexington. He sighed. It was a pity about the child. His face softened a fraction. There was no way he could have his three-year-old daughter without the mother, and the mother he neither wanted nor needed. She was far too troublesome in far too many ways. He felt a sudden twinge about Shane and the manner in which he had manoeuvred him, had tried to throw Skye into his arms. Funny coincidence, he thought, the way Skye and Shane were introduced in Yorkshire and then a week later he phoned me at the bank with an introduction from Emma Harte. The minute he had met Shane he had thought of Skye, realizing he might have found a solution to his problems with her. He had manipulated Skye, had augmented the beginning of the affair, if one could call it that. Oh well, they say all’s fair in love and war. Skye’s unexpected revelation about Shane’s impotency had surprised him though. Shocked him. Shane O’Neill of all people. Poor son of a bitch, Ross muttered, wondering for the second time what woman had so got her hooks into O’Neill he couldn’t perform with anyone else.