Hold the Dream

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘Good morning, Mummy,’ Emily called in a cheery tone from the doorway and meandered across the floor.

  Elizabeth turned with swiftness, smiled and said, ‘Oh Emily, there you are, good morning, darling.’

  After planting a kiss on her mother’s cheek, Emily sat down at the long rustic table and lifted the coffee pot. She asked, ‘Where is everybody?’

  For a moment Elizabeth did not answer, continuing to examine her face in the bright sunlight pouring in through the window and then, sighing under her breath, she joined her daughter at the table. ‘The devoted skiers left ages ago, as they always do. You’ve just missed Winston. He decided to go skiing at the last minute, and hurried off, hoping to catch up with the others. Apparently you were sleeping so soundly he didn’t have the heart to wake you. He asked me to tell you he’ll see you at lunch.’

  ‘I just couldn’t get up early this morning,’ Emily murmured, stirring her coffee, eyeing the croissants longingly. They smelled delicious. Her mouth watered.

  ‘I’m not surprised. It was awfully late when everyone left last night. I’m paying for it myself this morning – ’ Elizabeth cut herself short, glanced at Emily quickly. ‘Do you think I need to have my eyes done?’

  Laughing, Emily put the coffee cup down and leaned across the table, staring at her mother’s eyes. She was accustomed to such questions and aware that she had to pay the strictest attention when they were asked. She shook her head several times. ‘No, of course you don’t, your eyes are marvellous.’

  ‘Do you really think so, dear?’ Elizabeth lifted the mirror and gazed at herself again. ‘For heaven’s sake, Mummy, you’re a young woman, only fifty – ’

  ‘Not so loud, darling,’ Elizabeth muttered. She placed the mirror on the table and went on, ‘I must admit I have been toying with the idea lately. I think my lids look a bit wrinkled. Marc is so conscious of a woman’s looks, and being older than he is – ’

  ‘I didn’t know he was younger than you, Mummy! He certainly doesn’t look it.’

  This seemed to cheer Elizabeth and her face brightened. ‘I’m glad to hear that, Emily, but he is younger, I’m afraid.’

  ‘By how many years?’ Emily reached for a croissant, no longer able to resist temptation and broke it in half.

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Good heavens, that’s nothing. And forget about having facial surgery, Mum, you’re a beautiful woman, and don’t look a day older than forty.’ Emily plunged her knife into the mound of creamy butter, lavishly spread it on a portion of the breakfast roll and added peach jam.

  Elizabeth, distracted from her constant preoccupation with herself for a moment, stared at her in disapproval. ‘You’re not really going to eat that, are you, dear? It’s loaded with calories.’

  Emily grinned. ‘Of course I am. I’m ravenous.’

  ‘You know, you must watch your weight, Emily. You’ve always had a tendency to get plump very quickly ever since you were a child.’

  ‘I’ll starve myself when we get home.’

  Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation, but knowing it was useless to argue, she remarked, ‘Did you notice Marc flirting with that French countess at the party last night?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I did. But he flirts with everyone, Mother. He can’t help it, and it doesn’t mean anything, I’m sure. I wish you’d relax about that man. He’s lucky to have you.’

  ‘And I’m most fortunate to have him. He’s very good to me, the best husband I’ve had, if you want to know the truth.’

  Emily doubted this and before she could stop herself, she exclaimed, ‘What about Daddy? He was wonderful to you. It’s a pity you ever left him.’

  ‘Naturally you’re prejudiced about Tony. He is your father. But you have no conception of how it was between us, dear. Latterly, I mean. You were only a small child. Anyway, I don’t propose to start regurgitating all the details of my first marriage with you, Emily, picking it over and examining it under a microscope.’

  ‘That’s very wise of you,’ Emily said with acerbity and munched on the roll, conscious they were touching on an explosive subject.

  Elizabeth gave her daughter a sharp look but she, too, sagely held her tongue. She poured herself another cup of coffee and lit a cigarette, sat observing Emily, thinking how pretty she looked this morning in her emerald green sweater and trousers. They intensified the colour of her eyes. After almost two weeks in the French Alps, her hair was a lighter brighter blonde and her delicate face had the hint of a suntan. Elizabeth was suddenly glad that she and Marc had accepted Daisy’s invitation to join them at the chalet they had rented. She had enjoyed being with her children and she had derived a great deal of satisfaction from Marc’s attentiveness to them, especially to Amanda and Francesca.

  Between bites, Emily said, ‘I think I’ll go into the town later. I need to buy a few things.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘And perhaps you’ll drop me off at the hairdressers, darling.’

  Emily burst out laughing. ‘You don’t need your hair doing, Mummy, you were there yesterday.’ ‘Now, Emily, let’s not get into a long discussion about my hair. You paddle your canoe and I’ll paddle mine.’

  ‘Okay.’ Leaning forward, Emily propped her elbows on the table and continued, ‘I have a vague remembrance of Amanda and Francesca barging into our room at some ungodly hour this morning and smothering Winston and me with kisses. I assume Alexander dragged them off to Geneva – screaming at the top of their lungs, no doubt.’

  Elizabeth nodded. ‘They were rather obstreperous. Neither of them seem to like the finishing school on Lake Geneva, and I can’t imagine why. But they settled down when they knew Daisy was going to Geneva with them. She wanted to do some shopping and decided to go along with Alexander. They’re planning to take the girls to lunch at the Hotel Richmond before returning them to the school. I do love that hotel, Emily, and in fact I promised the twins I’d fly up to Geneva from Paris at Easter to spend a few days with them.’ Elizabeth had a sudden thought and it brought a warm smile to her face. ‘Why don’t you and Winston join Marc and me, as my guests at the Richmond? It would be fun, Emily.’

  Pleasantly surprised at this unprecedented gesture, Emily said, ‘That’s a lovely thought, Mother, and very kind of you to invite us. I’ll ask Winston and let you know later.’ Emily reached out, her hand hovering over another croissant.

  ‘Please don’t eat that, darling!’

  Looking slightly shamefaced, Emily pulled her hand back. ‘Yes, you’re right. They are awfully fattening.’ Emily rose. ‘I think I’d better go upstairs and get ready to go into the town. I know if I sit here chatting to you I’ll demolish that entire plate.’

  ‘I’ll come up too,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I want to change.’

  Emily groaned. ‘You look perfectly gorgeous, Mummy, you don’t have to bother…you’re only going to the hairdressers.’

  ‘One never knows whom one might meet,’ Elizabeth countered. Glancing at her watch, she added, ‘It’s not quite eleven. I’ll only be half an hour. I promise.’

  To Emily’s relief her mother was true to her word for once, and a few minutes after eleven-thirty she was turning the key in the ignition and pulling away from the chalet. This was located in a small hamlet on the outskirts of Chamonix, the lovely ancient town that nestled at the foot of Mont Blanc. As Emily swung out on to the main road and cruised along at a steady speed, she could not help admiring the extraordinary scenery which never failed to make her catch her breath.

  The Valley of Chamonix, bounded on one side by the Mont Blanc range and on the other by the Aiguilles Rouges chain, was like a natural platform from which to view the highest peak of Europe. And now, as Emily peered ahead at Mont Blanc and the surrounding mountains, she could not help feeling overawed by their grandeur and majesty. Their glittering snow-covered pinnacles thrust up into a high-flung sky that was clear cerulean blue, filled with white puff-ball clouds and brilliant sunshine.

&n
bsp; As though reading her daughter’s thoughts, Elizabeth exclaimed, ‘Impressive, isn’t it, Emily! And it’s such a glorious day.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily agreed. ‘I bet our skiing enthusiasts are happy as larks, enjoying themselves on the slopes.’ She glanced at her mother through the corner of her eye. ‘By the way, did Marc go with Uncle David and the others?’

  ‘Yes, and Maggie.’

  ‘Oh,’ Emily said, surprised. ‘I thought she was driving to Geneva with Alexander.’

  ‘She wanted to go skiing instead, make the most of it, I suppose, since they’re leaving tomorrow for London.’

  ‘Jan and Peter are travelling back with them, so Jan told me last night,’ Emily remarked, referring to the only non-family members who were house guests of her aunt and uncle.

  ‘I tried to persuade them to stay on for a few days longer,’ Elizabeth explained. ‘I rather like them, and he’s such a charmer.’

  ‘Peter Coles! Honestly, Mummy, you do have funny tastes. I think he’s a crashing bore. So pompous.’ Emily giggled. ‘But he is especially attentive to you, and I’ve seen Marc give him more than one filthy look during the ten days they’ve been here. I do believe the old Frog is as jealous as hell.’

  ‘Please don’t refer to Marc as an old frog, darling, it’s a very unkind description and most inappropriate,’ Elizabeth chastised. Then she laughed with sudden gaiety. ‘So you think Peter makes Marc jealous. That’s nice to know. Mmmm.’

  ‘Very.’ Emily smiled to herself, realizing how happy this bit of irrelevant information made her mother feel. But maybe it wasn’t so irrelevant to her. The poor woman was dotty about Marc Deboyne. That snake in the grass, Emily thought. She detested him, and wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

  Elizabeth now launched into a glowing recital about her new husband’s manifold qualities and Emily nodded and made small agreeable sounds, as if concurring. But she was only half listening. Her mother was quite irritating when she went on and on about him in this ridiculous way, and Emily was pleased when she saw the town of Chamonix looming immediately ahead.

  After leaving the Citröen in the car park, Emily and her mother walked briskly down one of the main boulevards, heading in the direction of the small square where the hairdressing salon was situated. When they arrived at its door, Emily said, ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Oh just about an hour, dear. I’m only having a comb out. Why don’t you meet me at that little bistro over there at the other side of the square. We’ll have an apéritif before going back to the chalet for lunch.’

  ‘All right. Bye, Mummy.’

  Emily sauntered leisurely around the square, glancing in the shop windows. She only had a few things to buy and an hour to waste, so she took her time. After traversing the entire square she continued down the boulevard, making for a boutique that sold highly original après ski clothes, and went inside. The sales assistants knew her and she wasted twenty minutes chatting to them and trying on evening tops, none of which she liked enough to buy.

  Back on the street, Emily wandered down to the pharmacy, purchased the small items she needed, tucked them in her shoulder bag, and left the shop. Slowly she retraced her steps, remembering she wanted to pick up some picture postcards to send to friends in England.

  To her astonishment Emily saw Marc Deboyne coming towards her. He was hurrying, looked deeply preoccupied, and he had obviously not seen her.

  As they drew level with each other, Emily said archly, ‘Fancy meeting you, Marc. Mummy thinks you’ve gone skiing.’

  Marc Deboyne, caught off guard, was both startled and embarrassed. Quickly recovering his equilibrium, he exclaimed, ‘Ah, Emilee, Emilee, my dear,’ and caught hold of her arm, squeezed it affectionately. He added, in his Gallic-accented but perfect English, ‘I changed my mind. I decided to go for a walk. I have a headache.’

  Leaning into him, Emily said pointedly, ‘It’s not the only thing you have, Marc. You’ve also got lipstick on the neck of your sweater.’

  His smile was indulgent but his eyes reproved, and then he chuckled. ‘Emilee, what are you implying? It’s undoubtedly your mother’s lipstick.’

  Ignoring this remark, she said, ‘Mummy’s having her hair done. I’m meeting her at the bistro opposite for a drink. At one o’clock. She’ll be disappointed if you don’t join us.’ Emily’s tone was all sweetness. Her eyes were chips of green ice.

  ‘I would not disappoint Elizabeth. I shall meet you there. Ciao, Emilee.’ He gave an odd little salute and moved on, walking at the same rapid pace.

  Emily stared after him, watched him as he crossed the road and cut down a side street. She wondered where he was going. Bastard, she thought. I bet he was having a quickie with that ghastly countess from the party last night, who is no more of a Frenchwoman than I am. Filled with dislike for him, Emily grimaced in distaste and turned on her heels, marching up the street in search of a newspaper shop. She found one within minutes and browsed for a while, flipping through the latest magazines, still endeavouring to pass the time. Finally peeking at her watch she saw that it was almost one o’clock, almost time to meet her mother. Stepping up to the metal rack holding cards of Chamonix, she selected four and went to pay for them.

  Putting the cards and the change in her shoulder bag, Emily smiled at the woman behind the counter. ‘Merci, madame.’

  The woman started to respond and then stopped abruptly, cocking her head. At that precise moment there was a sudden extraordinary rumbling sound that rent the air around them and increased to thunderous and deafening proportions within the space of a split second.

  Emily shouted, ‘That sounds like a terrible explosion.’

  The woman gaped at her through terrified eyes, screamed back, ‘No! Avalanche!’ She swung her plump body, grabbed the telephone.

  Clutching her bag, Emily ran out into the street.

  Shop doors were opening and people were emerging, all of them wearing the same frightened expressions, as were the passers-by.

  ‘Avalanche!’ a man cried to Emily and pointed in the direction of Mont Blanc as he sped on down the street.

  Emily stood transfixed, mesmerized by the sight. Even from this distance she could see that great fractures boomed across the slopes of Mont Blanc and half the mountainside was rumbling down in a tremendous swathe that looked to be hundreds and hundreds of feet across. Gargantuan slabs of snow were hurtling forward at gathering speed, gaining momentum as they tumbled on their precipitous downward journey, sweeping aside all that lay in their path. And rising up into the brilliant blue air were enormous billowing clouds of powdered snow that had been pulverized by the turbulence of the slide into millions of tiny snowsmithereens.

  Two police cars, their sirens screaming, raced along the street at breakneck speed. Their high-pitched wails broke the hypnotic spell that had momentarily held Emily in its grip. She blinked several times and then the blood seemed to drain out of her. Winston was up there. Everyone was up there. David. Philip. Jim. Maggie. Jan and Peter Coles.

  She began to shake like a leaf and she could not move. Her legs turned to jelly as the fear rushed through her, swamped her, overwhelmed her. ‘Oh my God! Winston!’ Emily cried out loud. ‘Winston. Oh God! No!’

  It was as if the sound of her own voice galvanized her. She began to run, racing along the pavement, her head thrust forward, her feet flying over the stones as she ran faster and faster, making for the large cable-car terminal she knew was only a short distance away.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, her breathing was laboured as she hurled herself on, blinking again, squeezing back the tears that stung her eyes. Oh God, let Winston be safe. Please let Winston be safe. And the others. Make them all safe. Oh God, don’t let any of them be dead.

  Emily became aware of other running feet, other people pressing around her. Some were outstripping her as they pounded past. They were also making for the terminal, which was now in her line of vision. A man jostled her as he leaped ahead, and she a
lmost tripped and fell. But she recovered her balance and went on running, her fear propelling her.

  She thought her heart was bursting when she finally reached the terminal. Only then did Emily slow down and come to a standstill, gasping for breath. She pressed her hand against her heaving chest. Rasping noises emanated from her throat. She leaned against one of the police cars parked near the cable-car depot, and fumbled in her shoulder bag. She found her handkerchief, wiped her sweating face and neck, endeavoured to marshal her swimming senses, willed herself to stay calm.

  After a few seconds her breathing was more normal and she straightened up, looked around. Her eyes were frantic as they swept over the crowd that had already gathered in the space of fifteen minutes.

  Emily hoped against hope that Winston had finished skiing before the avalanche had struck, prayed that he was somewhere amongst the tourists and townspeople milling around. She threw herself into their midst, her eyes darting from side to side, seeking him, her anxiety paramount. Instant dismay lodged in the pit of her stomach. He was nowhere in sight.

  Turning away, Emily pressed her hands to her mouth, choking. Terror seized her, held her in a vice. She stumbled back to the police car, leaned against its hood, her heart clenching. How could anyone have survived that avalanche? She had seen it hurtling down at such speed and force it would have crushed anything that stood in its way. Emily closed her eyes. She ought to go and speak to someone, ask about rescue teams, but she had no strength. She closed her eyes. She felt her legs slipping and sliding under her as if she had lost all control of her body.

  Suddenly two strong arms gripped her, pulled her upright.

  ‘Emily! Emily! It’s me.’

  Her eyes flew open as she was spun around rapidly. It was Winston. She grabbed at his ski jacket, weak with relief, and then her face crumpled as she burst into tears.

  Winston held her close, supporting her limp body and soothing her at the same time. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he kept repeating over and over again.

  ‘Thank God! Thank God!’ Emily gasped. ‘I thought you were dead. Oh Winston, thank God you’re alive.’ She searched his worried face. ‘The others?’ she began and stopped when she saw his grim expression, the clenched jaw.