Deception and Desire

by Janet Tanner

  Don Kennedy was the Vandina accountant and finance director. He had been away for the last couple of days – in fact he had flown back into Bristol only this afternoon.

  ‘Costings!’ Steve remonstrated. ‘Couldn’t that have waited until tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m in London tomorrow, remember? And no, it really won’t wait. It’s terribly urgent. I have to get plans underway to cover for this Reubens fiasco.’

  Steve sipped the whisky he had poured himself.

  ‘As I said just now, you worry too much. I can’t see what all the fuss is about. Surely Vandina is well enough established not to be hurt by a newcomer like Reubens? You have the luxury end of the market well and truly sewn up.’

  ‘Because we are original. Oh yes, the quality is of prime importance too but alone it’s not enough. Our customers expect us to be the innovators, they like to feel they are the ones setting the trends. They expect us to lead the way, not copy others.’

  ‘You haven’t copied anyone.’

  ‘Try telling the trade – or the public – that when Reubens have already gone public with their plans. I know it doesn’t seem fair but business rarely is. That’s something you’ll learn, Steve. Believe me, it can be a hard lesson.’

  He looked at her. There were dark shadows under her eyes – she had been up half the night, he suspected – but the outer shell, the image she presented to the world, was very much in place. Glamorous, successful Dinah – how many people suspected the insecurity that lay beneath that mask?

  ‘So, how do you plan to sort it out?’ he asked, half smiling.

  ‘That’s what I want to talk to Don about.’ As if on cue the sound of a car engine and the crunch of tyres on gravel made her glance towards the window. ‘ Here he is now. I’ll take him into the study. Look, Steve, if any of the others arrive before we’ve finished, can you make them welcome?’

  ‘Of course.’ He tossed back his drink, smiled at her. ‘ Don’t worry, Dinah, I’m here. You can leave it all to me.’

  ‘What’s all this about then, Dinah? What’s so urgent it can’t wait for a few days?’ Don Kennedy asked.

  A dapper, unassuming man of unprepossessing appearance, Don had been a mainstay of the Vandina management team almost from its inception, without ever attempting to move into the driving seat. His was a face no one remembered, bland and ordinary, beneath thinning straw-coloured hair which he brushed self-consciously over his ever-spreading bald spot. But his eyes were kind, clear blue, and the rosy hue in his cheeks suggested that once upon a time he might have looked like a pink-and-white cherub.

  The moment he had arrived Dinah had ushered him into the study which had once been Van’s domain and which, in a way, seemed a living memorial to the man who had created and run Vandina. The original Punch cartoons which decorated the walls, the furnishings, tobacco brown and forest green, the huge antique swivel chair, all were of his choosing; on the leather tooled desk his heavy old inkwell and silver paperknife lay as if waiting for his return. No cigars had been smoked in the study since Van’s death yet it seemed that their sweet aroma still hung in the air, and Van dominated the room in death as in life through his life-size portrait in oils which hung above the Victorian-style mantelpiece.

  Don Kennedy glanced at the portrait as he always did when he entered the room in silent greeting to the man he had worked with for more than twenty years, and wondered at the way that mere oil and brush strokes could create a likeness so striking that the powerful personality seemed almost to reach out from the canvas and overwhelm in the same way the man himself had done.

  Did I like him? Don Kennedy asked himself on occasions, and was honest enough to concede that liking had had very little to do with it. Admiration, yes. From the moment he had been introduced to him Don had known that here was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and would almost certainly get it, a man with determination as well as vision, a man with an IQ practically off the scale in spite of having left school at the age of fifteen with no formal qualifications. Everything about him commanded – and received – admiration. Respect? Possibly, if a little grudging. Van could be ruthless; Don had seen him in action often enough to know that he could also be unscrupulous in the pursuit of his goals – and less than faithful to his wife. But then, were these not the characteristics typical of the successful entrepreneur who needed to be unscrupulous in order to survive in the jungle of big business, just as he needed the attention of young and beautiful women to feed his ego. And Don knew that the strongest emotion he had experienced towards Van had been envy – envy for the position he had carved out for himself, envy for the personal fortune he had amassed, and most of all envy because Van had Dinah, with whom Don had been in love for as long as he had known her.

  Perhaps, Don thought when he was in retrospective mood, if Van had been a less powerful personality and he himself had had a little more to offer he might have tried to win her away, but he had lacked the self-confidence even to try. Sometimes, angered by Van’s infidelity towards the woman he looked on as a goddess, he had longed to tell her of his feelings for her, to try to persuade her to leave Van and go with him, but he had known it was a vain hope. Dinah had idolised Van, there had been something almost mystic about the hold he had over her, and his death seemed to have done nothing to break the spell. Don knew that although Van was dead and gone Dinah still thought of herself as his wife. To make any move towards her would be, in her eyes, an insult to Van’s memory.

  He looked at her now, standing beneath the commanding portrait, a slim, still beautiful woman, elegant in a little black dress which set off the shining cap of fair hair and accentuated the whiteness of her skin, and knew that all he could do was what he had always done – be there for her when she needed him.

  Today her call had come when he had been back in his house for barely an hour but he had not hesitated. Something was bothering Dinah, she wanted to talk to him and so he had come gladly.

  ‘Well?’ he said evenly, adopting the half-teasing tone with which he always covered his deeper feelings for her. ‘ What’s been happening while I’ve been away that is so serious?’

  Dinah had replenished her glass and poured him a large measure of his favourite dry sherry before inviting him to the study; he never drank spirits, they didn’t agree with him. Now she sipped her gin and tonic, regarding him steadily.

  ‘Reubens.’

  ‘Reubens,’ he repeated.

  ‘Our latest would-be competitors.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know who they are. What have they been up to?’

  She told him.

  ‘The range appears to be almost identical with the one I planned,’ she finished. ‘God knows how it happened, but it has. You know what that means. I can’t possibly launch the new Vandina line the way I intended. The fashion editors would crucify me. Worse, they might ignore me altogether. Something has to be done, and quickly.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Dinah, there’s nothing I can do to help you there. I’m not an ideas man. I wish I was.’

  ‘I know that, Don,’ she said impatiently. ‘ Ideas are my province – and I have one. But I need to talk to you about it. I need costings urgently. And your approval to place a couple of rather large orders with the very best suppliers.’

  He smiled briefly. ‘When has Vandina used anyone else?’

  ‘I know. It’s the quantity this time that will make the order extra expensive.’

  He turned the sherry glass between his fingers, the soft white fingers with perfectly manicured nails that belonged to a man who had never done an hour’s manual work in his life.

  ‘All right. What’s the idea?’

  ‘Luggage.’ She said it breathlessly, with that little edge of excitement she always experienced when her creative juices were running. ‘I want to do a range of luggage. Suitcases, large, medium and small, soft grips, flight bags, right down to easy-to-manage hand baggage. Some will be pigskin, of course – Vandina is principally leathe
r and everyone knows it – but I also want to incorporate the other natural materials I intended to use for my new spring range – toughened hessians, for instance. That way I can work in the handbags as part of a co-ordinated whole. Customers will still be able to buy them as a one-off fashion accessory if they wish but the main emphasis will be on the idea of a total matching range of luggage with the handbag being just the last link in the chain. Oh – and I don’t want to aim it solely at women. Men buy a lot of suitcases but they need hand baggage too, particularly if they are flying. There will be at least one design masculine enough for even the most macho man but a great deal more practical than the usual compromise of briefcase and grip. There will be easily accessible pockets for travel documents, a padded compartment where spectacles can be safely kept with no fear of them being damaged when the bag goes through the radar check and a specially designed toiletry wallet for toothbrushes and so on. Oh – and a shaver, of course.’ She paused for breath and to sip her gin and tonic. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘I think you have been very busy! When did you dream all this up?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘I have to admit I didn’t get much sleep,’ she said a little ruefully. ‘But I wouldn’t have done in any case, I was far too worried about the Reubens business. I did go to bed at the usual time but my mind was just chasing round in circles wondering what the hell to do. In the end I got up again, came down here and made myself a stiff drink. Without a doubt I can thank Glenfiddich distillery for my inspiration.’ She crossed to the antique writing desk and pulled out a portfolio she had stacked behind it. ‘Here are my preliminary sketches …’ She flipped over A3 sheets of paper covered with the quick, deft drawings of the trained designer. ‘This is how I see it – a distinctive shape, a distinctive and unusual blend of materials, and of course the Vandina logo. Well, say something, Don.’

  Don Kennedy smoothed the hair protectively over his bald spot as he always did when he felt pressured. Dinah’s enthusiasm was almost touching, her commitment to her company unquestionable. But her talent frightened him. Caution was his watchword, it had helped him keep Vandina finances on an even keel, and though he was shrewd enough to know there would be no finances to manage without Dinah’s inspired vision he was still unnerved by each and every innovative step she had taken.

  In the old days he had not felt he was responsible for anything but ensuring the money was there to back Dinah’s hunches. Van had been there to keep an eye on things and curb her more extravagant ideas. How many times he had actually squashed a scheme of Dinah’s Don had no idea – perhaps never, perhaps many times – that was something that had remained between the two of them. Now Don himself was being put into the position of arbiter and elder statesman and he didn’t feel qualified to comment on the viability of anything beyond his own field of involvement.

  ‘It’s not going to come cheap,’ he said. ‘We haven’t budgeted for a major outlay on stock in this financial year.’

  ‘We can afford it though. We have to be able to! We’re not a tin-pot little outfit, for goodness’ sake. We’re Vandina!’

  ‘This is true, but we can’t afford to show bad half-year figures.’

  ‘Don, I’m doing this for the sake of our reputation. If we were to lose that then you would have to start worrying about half-year figures and full-year ones as well. This will work. I know it will!’

  ‘Have you talked to anyone else about it?’

  ‘You’re the first. I haven’t even told Steve. I wanted your OK from a finance point of view first. Now I have it I’ll get things moving.’

  ‘Dinah, I haven’t given you a definite yes.’

  ‘But you will. You will!’

  ‘I think you should discuss it with someone who has a better feel for the market than I do.’

  ‘I will, I promise. Now, I can’t do anything about it tomorrow. I’m in London, as you know. But the following day I’ll get these sketches on to the computer. I want to see dimensions and also the way the different materials will look together in rather different proportions than they were on the handbags. But I’m convinced I’ve got a winner here. Perhaps I should thank Reubens after all for forcing me into a rethink!’

  He shook his head. It was good to see Dinah sparkling with enthusiasm but the habit of caution was too ingrained to allow him to be completely carried along by it.

  ‘I certainly hope so, Dinah, but we’ll just have to see.’

  A little of the fight went out of her face.

  ‘You might be a little more enthusiastic!’

  ‘I told you, Dinah, I’m not really in a position to judge the market.’

  ‘But you do think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wish I did but I honestly don’t know. My only concern is that we shouldn’t be left with a lot of expensive stock we can’t sell. And I find it quite impossible to get excited about the prospect of handbags for men.’

  The moment he said it he regretted it. Her finely drawn brows came together, a tiny frown creased her forehead and her mouth drooped so that for the moment it looked as if she might be going to cry. He’d seen it before, it was all part of the quicksilver change of mood from bubbling enthusiasm to dejection that was intrinsic to her character. To her employees and the union representatives, the buyers and the suppliers, Dinah might appear full of confidence; those closer to her knew the basic insecurity that plagued her. When her judgement was called into question Dinah could deflate like a punctured balloon, for she lacked the inner resource of that very belief in herself that she apparently exuded. Now, he thought, with a moment’s extreme tenderness, she resembled nothing so much as a child desperately seeking approval.

  He wished with all his heart he could reassure her and knew he could not. What good would it do for him to tell her yes, he definitely thought she was on to a winner, when he was totally unsure himself if it was the truth?

  Silently he cursed himself for failing her. Van would have known the answer. Van would have said yea or nay and with that sure instinct for successful business he would have been right.

  There was no way, Don thought miserably, that he could replace Van, either in the company or in Dinah’s heart. He glanced up again at the dominating portrait as if to seek an answer. But the eyes, though burning with a long-extinguished vitality, were totally enigmatic. Van was not about to send him a message from beyond the grave.

  Chapter Eleven

  The car Steve had sent for Maggie – a chauffeur-driven Mercedes – had arrived promptly at seven, and Maggie was ready and waiting, smoking and pacing nervously as she wondered how the evening would turn out. She wasn’t looking forward to it at all, dining with a crowd of people she did not know and who might resent her presence, and she had agonised over what she should wear, since she had no idea how formal Dinah Marshall’s dinner parties were likely to be. Eventually she had settled for a long loose jacket and cigarette pants in soft autumnal shades with a cream silk camisole which she hoped would look neither over- nor underdressed. But she was still feeling far from confident and wishing fervently she had not accepted Steve’s rather surprising invitation. Under normal circumstances she would never have dreamed of doing so, but these were not normal circumstances and she felt obliged to take every opportunity to learn any snippet of information that might give a clue as to Ros’s disappearance, though, quite honestly, she was beginning to believe more and more that it had nothing whatever to do with Vandina and the ‘odd happenings’ there, and everything to do with Brendan.

  As the Mercedes turned into the drive leading to Luscombe Manor, Dinah’s country house, Maggie looked around with interest. It was a long drive, punctuated by a couple of cattle grids as it wound its way between green fields on both sides, past a small neat estate cottage and on to a broad gravel turnaround. The house itself was rambling – rather like a large farmhouse, Maggie thought – but the stonework had all been recently pointed and there was
an air of leisured elegance about it that set it apart from a working farm.

  As the driver came around to help Maggie out of the car the front door of the house opened and Steve emerged. He was casually dressed in white shirt and light-coloured slacks and Maggie was glad she had not gone more formal.

  ‘Maggie, so glad you could come.’ His tone was easy and welcoming, the faint transatlantic twang she had noticed when she first met him adding to the air of laid-back charm. ‘Do come in. The others are already here.’

  He ushered her into a hallway where the stone-slab floor reminded her once again of a farmhouse, though there any similarity ended for it was furnished with a heavy old hall stand and dresser in highly polished mahogany. There were sweet peas in a vase on the dresser and a huge arrangement of dried flowers in a jug on the floor, but there was also a pair of green Wellington boots and a set of golf clubs propped up behind the door and a couple of huge striped umbrellas together with a black city gents’ variety in the hall stand. They added a homely touch which put Maggie a little more at her ease. She had expected a showpiece home, but clearly Dinah and her son actually lived here.

  Voices were coming from behind a closed door on her right but Steve ushered her past it and into a pleasant drawing room. Again Maggie was surprised at the ordinariness of it whilst at the same time wondering why she should be. Vandina was, after all, as the slogan went, ‘A Touch of the Country’, and this was the home of its creator. Yet she had somehow expected the trappings of wealth and privilege with which Homes and Gardens led its readers to believe the rich and successful surrounded themselves, rather than this chintzy room furnished in wicker and pine with squashy soft sofas and chairs piled high with welcoming cushions.

  In one of the chairs a man was sprawling, glass between his hands, long legs clad in scarlet cotton trousers stretched out in front of him. Maggie’s first impression was that he was quite young, then, with a slight shock, she realised that she had been mistaken. The longish hair, tied back in a drooping pony-tail, and the bright colours of his clothes had misled her. Now she saw that the face was a little raddled, long lines etched between nose and mouth, deep circles under the eyes, and cheekbones which jutted, almost blue-tinged, through the pallor of his skin.