When he had laid out her meal on the table by the window she tipped him and let him out, making sure she put the chain back on the door before going back to eat. The food was better than she had hoped, the vegetables cooked crisply and quickly, the chicken tender, the sauce a mixture of honey and soy sauce. Sophie felt better when she had eaten it. She sat back to drink her strong coffee, switching the TV on again.
The news came on a few moments later, and she jumped in surprise as Steve Colbourne’s face appeared, talking in that quick, super-cool, super-confident way. He was everywhere!
‘With the New Hampshire primary only a few months away now, Senator Don Gowrie is gearing up for battle against the other would-be-presidents who are fighting it out for selection as future occupant of the White House. Getting yourself noticed is vital – many are called but few are chosen. Senator Gowrie had to stand out from the crowd – but with his background in international diplomacy, having represented the United States in many parts of the globe, he has many friends abroad and at home who can give him support simply by making it known how highly they value him. Most presidential candidates stay and slog it out at home, struggling to get TV and press recognition – but Senator Gowrie is not most candidates. Tomorrow he is flying to Europe to meet with the leading political figures there. He may only be a candidate so far, but Don Gowrie is already acting like a president-elect. This is a man to watch.’ He paused, smiled. ‘This is Steve Colbourne in New York.’
His face faded and the two newsreaders came back into shot; the woman smiled into camera. ‘And on a chilly November day in New York there was a touch of spring in the air when a Brooklyn florist celebrating his golden wedding decided to give away a red rose to every woman customer who came into his shop.’
Sophie switched off the TV and sat staring at the telephone, her mind in confusion. She had made a solemn promise to her mother, a promise she could not break. You didn’t break faith with someone who might die any minute. Somehow she had to persuade Gowrie to listen to her, understand what was at stake, but how? The man had so much to lose, she understood that. He wasn’t going to want to talk to her – how could she make him do what she wanted?
Don’t sit about brooding on it! she crossly told herself. It’s time you did it. She got up and grabbed the phone, dialled the operator and asked for the Penthouse Suite, not even sure they would put her through, but they did, indifferently; she wasn’t asked any questions. The phone shrilled, then a woman answered briskly.
‘I would like to speak to Senator Gowrie,’ Sophie tried to sound calm but was afraid her own voice was husky with nerves.
‘May I ask who wishes to speak with him?’
‘Sophie Narodni.’
There was an intake of air, as if the other woman was startled, then for a second or two silence before the brisk voice said, ‘The senator is not available, I’m afraid.’
Sophie threw caution to the winds. She had delayed long enough; she had, somehow, to make contact. ‘Please tell him I must speak to him, before he leaves for Europe. Tell him for his own sake he has to listen to me.’
The other woman’s voice thickened in anger. ‘Blackmail is an ugly crime. You could go to prison for a very long time and don’t think he won’t call the police. You aren’t scaring him. He knows you don’t have any evidence.’
She knows all about it! thought Sophie. He has told her! This couldn’t be someone who worked for him, it had to be his wife, surely!
‘Are you Mrs Gowrie?’
The voice seemed to get even angrier. ‘No, I’m his secretary. Now get off this line and don’t try to get in touch with him again, or you’ll regret it.’
Fiercely Sophie said, ‘I’m not trying to blackmail him. Tell him I just need to see her, that’s all. I won’t tell a living soul, so long as I can just see her.’
The phone went down with a crash and Sophie slowly replaced her own. Tears began to run down her face, blinding her.
Paul Brougham leaned back in his green leather swivel chair and drummed his fingertips on the matching desk, frowning as he listened to Freddy. Behind him a huge window glowed with the lights of London’s riverside night scene; a helicopter flew above the skyline, watching the homeward flow of traffic out of the city. Paul heard the engine note and glanced over his shoulder, grimacing. He should be going home himself soon, he was exhausted and dying to get into a hot bath and have dinner with Cathy, but Freddy’s news was too worrying. All day they had heard that there was movement in the shares, someone was buying them in large batches and the city was buzzing with curiosity.
‘I’m still not sure what’s going on except that the buyer is Media Inco World News,’ Freddy said.
‘Why are they hitting on us? They’re American, for God’s sakes – and big over there, too.’
‘Word is they’re looking around for a matching European company. I guess we’d fit their profile, and Salmond, the guy who runs them, is needy – he’s hit a ceiling over here and he’s looking for growth outside the US.’
That was what Paul had feared, but how far would Salmond want to take his attempt? He might back off if he met strong resistance and be satisfied just to have some sort of influence on the board. Before he talked to Salmond, Paul would like to have a clearer view of the man’s financial position.
‘Could you find out as much as you can about him for me?’
Freddy nodded, looking grave. ‘One thing, Paul, he’s solid; the man himself has a vast fortune inherited from his Swiss father. No cash-flow problems there.’
Paul met his anxious gaze and made a rueful grimace. ‘You’ve always worried too much, Freddy. We may have cash-flow problems, but then we always have had. We’ve got by until now, haven’t we?’
‘But this time bluffing may not be enough. This time we may be up against someone with a bottomless pocket and a habit of getting his own way.’
‘This time is no different from any other time. All business is based on people. I keep telling you that, Freddy. It will be me against him, whoever the guy is.’
Paul swivelled to face the London skyline, his face set. This wasn’t the first time he had had to face a take-over attempt, but this time it sounded as if he might have a fight on his hands, and if it came to a showdown he would have problems fighting back. Freddy was right about that. His cash-flow was in the usual state of flux; his companies weren’t nailed down, he was vulnerable and maybe this guy Salmond knew it somehow. A shrewd eye could always pick out clues from a company balance sheet.
Oh, what the hell, he had always won before. He would find a way to stop Salmond. Why did it have to happen right now, though? Now, when he had more than his usual share of worries. This had been a bad year. They had had a series of financial setbacks and he knew he hadn’t dealt with them with the old force and speed. In the past they had faced far worse, and he had ruthlessly despatched any opponents, but something was different now. He had always been obsessed with the business, but since he had met Cathy . . . yes, he recognized with a drawn breath, it had been since he met Cathy that he had changed. Work didn’t mean as much to him. He couldn’t concentrate. The minute he thought of her everything else faded away; he felt the clutch of desire deep inside him and his insides seemed to turn to water.
If he was going to beat a take-over bid he had to get himself back in control.
‘Tomorrow we’ll call a board meeting,’ he said to Freddy over his shoulder. ‘Talk to all our friends and allies. We’re going to need them now. Off you go for now, Freddy, and get a good night’s rest. You’re going to need it.’
When Freddy had gone, Paul looked at his watch. Before he left himself, there was a call he ought to make – would she be home by now or still in her office? If he knew Chantal Rousseau she would be at her desk.
He was right. When he rang her office she answered the phone in a voice sweet as honey and warm as Provençal sun. ‘Paul, mon cher, ça va?’
‘Bien – et toi?’
‘Pas mal.’
>
‘Tu es seule ce soir?’ he asked, needing to know if anyone else was with her or if she was alone, and she murmured, still in French.
‘Quite alone, Paul – what do you want?’
Once upon a time, if she had asked him that question, in that melting voice, he would have felt a sensual beat start inside his body. He had never been in love with her, but she was a sexy woman, terrific in bed; their affair had gone on for quite a while. It had ended when he met Cathy.
Their public relationship had continued, of course, since Chantal was a top executive with one of his major shareholders, an important fund management company who held around a quarter of his company shares on behalf of their investors, and had been one of his chief supporters for a long time, advising on acquisitions and taking a strong interest in the running of his business.
‘I’m calling an emergency board meeting,’ he told her crisply, using English deliberately now, to make it clear that he was ignoring the very personal note he had heard in her voice, that soft, inviting purr he knew only too well.
She used English too then, her voice dry. ‘Ah, you’re taking the threat from Salmond seriously, then?’
So she already knew about it? But of course she would; everyone in the market would know by now.
‘I would be a fool if I didn’t. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I’ll be there,’ she promised, then lapsed back into French. Using French with him had always been one of the ways in which she reminded him that they were both foreigners in this very English environment, the City of London, the dull, the formal, the grey sea of English business, so different to the glamour and civilised wit of their homeland. When he dined with Chantal they ate French or Vietnamese food. She liked to go with him to concerts given by visiting French musicians, to French opera or ballet. It made their relationship special, excluded everyone around them.
Now she said, ‘Why don’t we have lunch first, to talk it over, Paul? There’s a new French restaurant I’m dying to try. I hear it is fabulous and has a great wine list. Not the usual old plonk. Some really good stuff.’
He knew he should accept, keep her sweet, but he couldn’t do it and tried to sound really regretful as he refused. ‘I’d love to. Some other time, Chantal – but I’m very pressed for time at the moment with my father-in-law coming over tomorrow. I’m trying to wrap up as much as possible before he arrives. I’ll see you in the board room at three, OK?’
‘OK, Paul,’ she said, but the sweetness had a tart edge to it.
Up in the Penthouse Suite, Don Gowrie’s campaign team were in session, brainstorming ideas for the coming days in Europe. The room they sat in was crowded with chairs arranged in a circle.
His speechwriters listened to everything that was said, industriously scribbling notes, his PR people talked about the press coverage they had achieved since he got to New York and discussed the media people who were going with them to Europe to make sure the coverage continued. His campaign manager, Jim Allgood, discussed the travel and hotel arrangements for the first leg of the tour with a harrassed woman in a blue jersey suit.
The researchers passed round pages of background information on the places they would be visiting, the people they would be seeing, the issues paramount in London, Dublin, Paris, Bonn and Rome at the moment, issues he should address during his visits to those capital cities, issues which would also have an impact back home among the Americans with roots back in those countries who still kept an eye on what happened in Europe. That was the vital point to concentrate on – the reaction back home to what you said abroad. Foreigners had no vote. They didn’t count.
‘How do we deal with the Irish problem?’ asked a speechwriter, and Jim Allgood looked up impatiently.
‘For God’s sake, Jeff, read your background notes once in a while! Why do you think we give them out? He has an Irish family connection, way back – ancestor left during the Famine, joined the British army and went to India, did well, got married, had a son who emigrated here in 1878. It’s a good story: go big on that while we’re in Dublin, don’t mention while we’re in London. As we go to London first, no problem. On balance the Irish vote back here is more important than the Brits, though, don’t forget.’
‘What about this Nato stuff the British press is banging on about?’ asked a researcher, looking up from a snowstorm of press cuttings, and Jim Allgood frowned, shook his head.
‘Don’t touch it. We’re keeping our options open on that one. If he gets hassled for some statement, he’ll go for a standard response. America stands beside her friends, always has, always will, along those lines.’
‘Blah, blah, blah . . .’ scribbled Jeff, the speechwriter, and Allgood gave him a cold glance.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll make it sound good, but keep it vague. Very high-minded, very serious, but no firm commitment on budget, or promises that can be thrown back at him later, OK? The world keeps changing, you never know where we’ll be in a couple of years. He doesn’t want to be saddled with any promises he has to break.’
A lanky, tousle-haired young man in jeans and a T-shirt which read in bright orange lettering ‘Put Gowrie in the White House and Get the Job Done’ said drily, ‘God forbid we should do that. We wouldn’t want anyone to think the man has principles or believes in what he’s saying, would we?’
The other speechwriter, Jeff, grinned. Allgood didn’t.
‘Don’t get clever, Greg,’ Allgood said. ‘Unless you’re tired of writing for us and want to go back to writing novels that don’t sell?’
‘I’ve got too used to eating,’ Greg Blake said mournfully. ‘Sad, isn’t it? And I don’t think I’m ready to go back to sleeping in the park, either.’
‘Zip it, then,’ Allgood said.
Greg Blake silently mimed pulling a zip across his mouth. Jeff, beside him, zipped, too, his eyes full of amusement.
‘You guys slay me,’ Allgood said with no amusement whatever.
Next door Elly Gowrie was eating rainbow jelly; sunshine from the window made it flash and glisten as she carefully spooned it into her mouth with the serious concentration of a four-year-old. She watched the shimmer of it and laughed.
‘Jelly,’ she said.
‘You love jelly, don’t you?’ her nurse said.
She was in one of her happy moods for the moment; she beamed. ‘Elly loves jelly,’ she said, and began to giggle. ‘Elly loves jelly, Elly loves jelly,’ she chanted, banging her spoon on the side of her bowl.
The nurse gave her a wary look, recognizing the symptoms of over-excitement which could turn into a violent rage any minute. She had had an emotional day; that always made her volatile.
She had cried earlier when her father visited her, clinging to him sobbing, ‘Daddy, Daddy . . . take me home, I want to go home, I don’t like it here, don’t leave me with them, take me home.’
The old man had been very upset. They had had to pull her away from him; she was surprisingly strong, her arms like tentacles winding round him.
‘Look, let me take her home with me. Why not let me take her home?’ Eddie Ramsey had said shakily, almost in tears himself, when she had been taken away.
Don Gowrie had soothed him down. ‘She’ll be fine, Eddie. She was just upset, seeing you again. She’ll enjoy the trip, she badly wants to see Cathy and I promised Cathy she would come with me. Cathy hasn’t seen her mother for months.’
Pale and distressed, Eddie Ramsey had said, ‘I know, I know, but she’s always happiest at Easton. She doesn’t look at all well to me. She has deteriorated since I last saw her.’
‘She’s sixty-five next birthday, Eddie! She’s always been delicate, you know that, but I look after her and I always will.’
They had stared at each other, then Eddie had sighed. ‘I’m too old to get into a fight with you, Don, but when you get back I want her to come and stay with me for a while.’
‘Sure, of course,’ Don had said, in quick relief, but knowing that he did not dare leave her beh
ind or let her stay with her father once they got back to the States. He wouldn’t want Eddie Ramsey to realise his daughter was very close to the edge of sanity, if she wasn’t already way over it. Drugs and constant supervision kept her within limits, for the moment, but it was turning into a race between her last flicker of sanity and her father’s last flicker of life. Don hoped the old man would go first; it would be unbearable for him if his last living child had to be shut away for ever in a mental hospital, for one thing, and for another Don would be safe from any prospect of Eddie Ramsey changing his will.
Steve had to attend a budget meeting that afternoon, to listen to the latest gloomy prognostications of the head accountant on the perennial problem of advertising revenue versus costs, but managed to snatch a few minutes first to take a cab to the photography shop where they had blown up individual sections of Lilli’s wheel for him.
‘They’re very grainy, a bit scratchy, but you can see the faces a lot clearer, Steve,’ the guy said, watching him peering at the glossy sheets. ‘Is that OK? I can’t blow them up any bigger, they’d go completely out of focus if I tried.’
‘They’re fine,’ Steve said, shuffling them together. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He paid cash and left. In the cab taking him back to the network headquarters he had another look at the blown-up copies; the faces were certainly clearer, yet even more mysterious and alien now that they were three or four times as large. Looking at them more closely, he wasn’t even sure why he had had them blown up, what he had thought he might get out of them. There was nothing terribly interesting here.
They were poignant and rather pathetic, these faces – the old man in some sort of crumpled uniform, his hair oiled down, parted in the middle, a bushy moustache above his lip, a rifle propped against his shoulder – he must have lived around the turn of the century. But when had they lived, this young couple on their wedding-day? The bride looking as if she was barely out of childhood, a little girl dressing up, thick dark hair piled up behind her head, looking plump and yet childish in an old-fashioned wedding dress which might have been her mother’s, it was so shapeless and yellowed, carrying a bouquet of lilies and smiling solemnly at the camera, her groom a mere boy, taller than her by a foot, dark, very thin, looking slightly dazed, in a suit which fitted him so badly it must surely have been borrowed or hired? Were these Sophie’s parents – or her grandparents? He couldn’t guess from the clothes.
Walking in Darkness Page 12
