'And this magazine?' He looked at her questioningly. 'It will be like Les Modes?'
She shook her head. 'No, no. One that American women will snatch up even faster. Lately I've been giving it quite a lot of thought. I think I want to emphasize today's working woman. She's supposed to be a new breed, you know.'
Hélène couldn't help but smile. New breed, indeed! She and Luba had been working all their adult lives.
'And it would be a mass-market magazine,' she added quickly. 'Available everywhere, from newsstands to supermarket checkout counters. It would be printed on glossier paper than Good Housekeeping, Redbook, or Woman's Day. Not as slick as Les Modes. What I'd like to do is combine today's many-faceted woman—at work, at home, at play. Something like a hybrid between American Vogue, Cosmo, and Family Circle. But big. Hundreds of pages covering everything from thirty-minute recipes to household hints to office management. Features on both white- and blue-collar women. And lots of how-tos. How to apply makeup. How to handle a job interview. How to hire and fire employees. How to dress for success. How to make your husband happy. Or your lover. Plus a whole lot more. Like what to do with your kids while you're at work. The pros and cons of day-care centers, the costs of housekeepers, what psychiatrists have to say about the effects of working mothers on their children. Maybe we can even get some big-name experts to do monthly columns.'
Edmond looked thoughtful. 'You'll have to get a whole new staff together.'
'I know that.'
'And keep everything separate from HJII. That means every last bank account, bill, printer, distributor, office space. . .'
She smiled. 'I intended on doing that all along.'
He nodded, and despite his calm, she could sense that his interest was aroused. 'Figure out a name for it yet?'
She grinned. 'You!'
'You?'
'That's right. You, followed by an exclamation mark. That's the name of the new slick. What do you think?'
He took a cigarette out of his case and tapped it thoughtfully against the brushed gold. 'If it succeeds right off the bat like everything else you've done, you'll make tons of money,' he said cautiously. 'If it doesn't. . .' He let the unfinished sentence hang ominously.
She nodded wordlessly. She knew what he meant. If the new magazine failed, she would be ten million in the hole. No, more than that. There was the interest to consider, too. It was a frightening prospect, to say the least. Especially since, with the HJII expansion, the construction of the building, the purchase of the cars and the plane, the profits had shrunk. Massively. Even for her.
Her violet eyes were steady and unwavering. 'I'm willing to take the gamble,' she said softly. 'I feel lucky.'
She wasn't lucky. She'd never had to swallow the bitterness of defeat before, and now its repugnant taste coated her mouth. From the moment You! hit the newsstands it was a miserable failure. She'd gone out on a limb, and the limb had given way under her. She had hoped against hope that perhaps by giving it a few months, You! would catch on. By the time the third issue was out, the bell was tolling loud and clear. It could be heard all the way from the newsstands to Madison Avenue and down to Wall Street.
She stood despondently at the floor-length windows looking down at the traffic crawling along Fifth. It was a miserable, windy day, and waves of rain lashed against the windows. Her thoughts were heavy and dark. The failure of You! could only be blamed on her, and she felt like kicking herself. For once she had broken her cardinal rule. For every other magazine she had ever created there had been a ready market waiting to snatch it up. Les Modes's secret had been to follow in the footsteps of Vogue and L'Officiel and Harper's Bazaar. They had done the testing on the proving ground, and she'd simply marched in behind them and outclassed them all. She realized now that had she done that this last time around, everything would have worked out fine. But America just wasn't ready for a magazine catering to the working woman. You! had two strikes against it. It lacked the slickness and gloss people had come to associate with her, and, unfortunately, it was ahead of its time.
She tightened her lips, walked over to her bookcase, and slid out the first edition of You! She stared down at it with a grim expression.
YOU! The tilted letters in the left-hand corner took up half the width of the cover, and they were long and white and sleek, followed by a fire-engine-red exclamation mark.
Directly beneath that was the tilted white legend 'The Magazine for Today's Woman.'
And under that, on the right and parallel to the logo, were the feature titles, each line decreasing in size from top to bottom.
Staring out at Hélène from the glossy cover was You!'s prototype of the new American working woman with her two children. Mommy wearing a chic man-tailored suit, navy-blue silk scarf, white, feminine blouse. Perfectly coiffed, expertly made-up, an arm around each child's shoulder. Junior, seven, blond, shaggy-haired, wearing a Yankees T-shirt. Daughter, red-haired, freckled, cute. Everyone laughing happily.
For a moment Hélène's eyelids felt very heavy. The HJII board members were winning. 'The Magazine for Today's Woman' had been resoundingly rejected by today's woman. She wondered if they knew that.
The telephone jangled suddenly. She started, then slowly went over to her desk. She punched down on the button of her private extension and picked up the receiver. It was Edmond.
'Gore just called,' he said. 'ManhattanBank wants to set up a meeting with you.'
She drew in a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and slowly let the air out. 'What about? The loan isn't due for another few months.'
'He didn't say. My guess is that maybe they're getting itchy feet. After You!'s disaster, they're probably worried about your ability to pay off the loan.'
She tightened her lips in annoyance. In this town, the only thing that spread faster than success was failure. She looked down at the magazine in her hand. It seemed to be mocking her. 'Can we stall?'
'I highly advise against it. We can't buy more than a few days at the outside, anyway.'
Wearily she closed her eyes. 'All right, call Gore. Schedule the meeting for tomorrow afternoon. Then get the comptroller in here. I want to be briefed as to where exactly we stand right now.'
'Will do. Anything else?'
'Yes,' she said slowly. 'Go to Citibank and open an identical account for each account we currently have at ManhattanBank. That includes both our personal accounts. But deposit only the minimum amount required for opening them.'
He let out a whistle. 'You do play dirty, Little French Girl,' he said with a note of admiration in his voice.
Slowly she replaced the receiver. She stared down at the copy of You! On an impulse, she tossed it into the wastebasket. Then she collected the other issues from the shelf and threw them away, too.
She had enough reminders of You!'s failure.
Yes, the vultures were winning.
Suddenly she slammed her hand down on her desk. 'I won't have it!' she shouted, and made up her mind. She would fight to the end. And then, even if ManhattanBank foreclosed and sold her collateral shares of HJII—even then, she would continue to fight.
What was it Siegfried had once said? If you've made it once, and it wasn't a fluke, you can make it again.
She would do her damnedest to prove him right.
17
James Cortland Gore III was waiting for them in his office. She kept her face impassive. She had learned one thing about bankers. They're bad poker players. When you're at the top of the world, they fall all over themselves trying to please you. When things aren't going too well, they're polite but curt. And when your world is slowly collapsing around you, they can smell it as clearly as a hungry shark can smell blood from a mile away. And the fat banker was smelling blood. She could tell that the instant she walked into his office.
He rose politely from his leather swivel chair, but this time he didn't come around from behind his big desk. 'Miss Junot.' He nodded curtly in her direction. She nodded in return. Then he faced Edmond
. 'Mr. Junot.'
Edmond nodded. 'Mr. Gore.'
The men exchanged handshakes. Then they waited politely until Hélène took a seat. Once she was seated, they sat down too.
Gore cleared his throat and came right to the point. 'We had a. . .ah . . . board of directors' meeting yesterday morning, and the subject of your ten-million-dollar loan was raised.' His beady gray eyes appraised Hélène from beneath his bushy black-and-white eyebrows. 'The board is considering calling in your loan.'
She felt as though she'd been shot, but she managed to keep her face impassive. 'Mr. Gore, I'm sure you're aware that the loan is a nonrenewable note,' she said smoothly. 'It is due in four months' time. Surely Manhattan- Bank is not so desperately in need of ready cash that it is calling in its outstanding loans early?'
'Miss Junot.' The bald banker folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. 'Please try to understand our position. The directors are only trying to look out for the bank's best interests.' He sighed regretfully. 'They are troubled because they think you may be in the midst of a severe financial crisis.'
She raised her eyebrows. 'Indeed,' she said coldly. She turned to Edmond. 'Would you like to brief Mr. Gore on my current financial situation?'
Edmond started to reach for his briefcase, but Gore gestured for him to put it away. 'Miss Junot,' he said solemnly, 'the reason the directors are worried is that ManhattanBank takes care of all your banking needs. They have a good overview of your daily financial status, and they have come to the conclusion that there is no way you'll be able to repay the loan in four months' time.'
Edmond had been quiet up until now. 'Mr. Gore. . .' he said softly.
Gore turned to him.
Edmond took out his gold cigarette case, selected a cigarette, and bought time by lighting it slowly. He inhaled deeply and blew out a cloud of smoke. 'Your directors are, of course, aware of all of Miss Junot's financial transactions?'
'I believe that's what I just got through saying,' Gore said irritably. 'We've been handling all of Miss Junot's accounts for several years now.'
Edmond watched Gore carefully. 'And just because she has been banking with you for so long, you believe that you have financial insight into all her accounts?'
'Yes.'
'No, Mr. Gore,' Edmond corrected him quietly. 'You are not completely aware of Miss Junot's financial dealings.'
Gore stared at him, then at Hélène. 'I don't think I quite understand.'
Hélène held her breath, but Edmond smiled easily. 'You are aware that Miss Junot is a very wealthy woman?'
'Of course.'
'And you're also aware that she has businesses overseas?'
'Of course,' Gore said more irritably than the last time.
'Do you happen to know just where her businesses abroad are located?'
Gore sighed faintly, resigned to have to play cat and mouse. 'England, Germany, Italy, and France,' he said wearily.
Edmond smiled. 'And what country do Germany, Italy, and France border on?'
'Switzerland.' Gore stared at Edmond. Then he turned to Hélène. There was surprise in his voice. And something else, too. Respect. 'You have Swiss bank accounts?' he asked softly.
She smiled mysteriously. 'Really, Mr. Gore. I'm sure you understand that I must keep that a confidential matter between the Swiss and myself.'
'Then you do have eleven million dollars?'
'Ten million, seven hundred and ninety-five,' Edmond said quickly. 'That is what ManhattanBank would be due if the loan is called in at this time.'
Gore steepled his fingers and nodded thoughtfully. 'Very well. I shall inform my directors that they have nothing to worry about. Of course. . .' He coughed in embarrassment. 'Of course, I shall have to verify that your Swiss accounts can indeed cover the loan.'
Hélène rose to her feet. 'As you wish, Mr. Gore.' She had to force herself to stay calm and collected. But her heart was racing. 'Need I remind you that ManhattanBank is holding eleven million dollars' worth of HJII stock as collateral?' She smiled at Edmond. 'It seems that Mr. Gore and his directors do not trust us. The checkbooks, please.'
She saw Gore watching them nervously, but she chose to ignore him. Edmond put his cigarette out, slung his briefcase onto his lap, and snapped it open. He took out thirteen checkbooks and a sheaf of long-term certificates of deposit. He leaned forward and stacked them neatly on a corner of Gore's desk. Then he took out thirteen more checkbooks. These were from Citibank, and he placed them prominently in two different stacks beside the others. Solemnly he handed his gold pen over to Hélène. She took it from him and smiled wordlessly. Quickly she sat back down and pulled her chair closer to the desk. 'Mr. Gore,' she said in a clear voice, 'I would like the following transactions put into effect immediately.' She pushed the long-term certificates toward him. 'I know that there is a large interest penalty on early withdrawal, but I would like to convert these into cash. Instantly.'
Gore leafed through them, and his eyes widened perceptibly. 'B-but.. . they're seven hundred thousand dollars' worth!' he stammered.
She smiled sweetly. 'Yes, they are.' Then she picked up the top checkbook from the ManhattanBank stack, flipped it open, and started to write out a check. 'Pay to the order of Hélène Junot. Six hundred thousand, three hundred and ninety-three dollars and forty-two cents,' she read aloud. She picked up a Citibank deposit slip and filled it out for that exact amount. Then with a flourish she ripped out the check. She looked at Gore. 'Would you happen to have a paper clip?'
Silently Gore rolled his chair back a ways, opened his top desk drawer, and handed her a clip. 'Thank you,' she said. She took it and clipped the check and the deposit slip together. She laid them aside. Then she opened the next ManhattanBank checkbook. 'Eight hundred thousand and sixty-eight dollars—'
'Miss Junot!' Gore seemed to have found his voice. 'May I ask what you are doing?'
She looked across the desk at him but kept the pen poised over the check. 'I'm simply transferring all my business to Citibank, Mr. Gore.' She saw his face go pale and quickly added, 'Don't worry, I shall inform my Zurich bank immediately and have them transfer to you the outstanding loan plus interest.'
Edmond sat back and nonchalantly started to light another cigarette. He smiled at Gore. 'No offense intended, of course, but I trust that our comptroller and some of our accountants can meet with the ManhattanBank auditors and determine that everything is in order?'
The banker had broken out into a sudden sweat, and he was mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. 'P-please don't be so hasty, M-Miss Junot,' he stammered.
'Mr. Gore,' Hélène said in a level voice, 'a bank is only as good as the services it provides its clients. When these services can't meet one's needs, it is time to change banks. Surely you can understand that. I have nearly four million dollars in various accounts here, my brother has two hundred thousand, and nearly thirteen million a month flow through the HJII accounts. Citibank has assured me that they can handle that volume to my satisfaction.' She continued making out the check. Then she tore it out of the checkbook, closed it, and filled out another deposit slip. 'I'm sorry, but could I trouble you for some more paper clips?'
'Miss Junot, please,' Gore pleaded in a small voice. 'I will ensure you that your loan will not be called in early. I agree that the directors were acting hastily—'
'I'm afraid you don't trust me, Mr. Gore,' Hélène said. 'Banking must be based on mutual trust.'
He nodded effusively. 'Of course, of course. Please, won't you reconsider? We're aware that you're a valuable client. Of course we won't need to verify your Swiss accounts. . .'
She exchanged glances with Edmond. He nodded his head imperceptibly. For now, they had won a round. Gore hadn't realized they were bluffing.
Only when they left ManhattanBank did Hélène realize that she was wrong. Gore had known they were bluffing. He'd swallowed the story of the nonexistent Swiss accounts too readily. But why he'd chosen to do that didn't matter now. She suspected he
had something to hide, something that an audit would have uncovered. Idly she wondered if his fingers had been in the till, but she really couldn't care less. Whatever it was, it was Gore's problem, and his alone. The bank would cover any losses.
But she didn't have much time to wonder about Gore. When she got back to the office, Julie handed her a message. Nigel had called. She placed a call to England immediately; a few minutes later, she had Nigel on the line. 'Darling, is something wrong?' she asked.
His voice sounded tortured and far away. 'It's Pamela. She's been in a car accident.' There was a pause. 'Hélène, she's dead.'
'Oh, Nigel! I am sorry.' Hélène stared at the receiver, then said, 'Nigel, I'll be there tonight. Wait up for me, darling.'
As soon as she hung up, she picked up the phone again and dialed the airport. The HJII jet was ready for takeoff. Her passport was in her desk. She'd worry about clothes once she got to England.
Five minutes later she was in the white Rolls with the HJII plates, heading toward the airport. Less than an hour later she was already well out over the Atlantic, headed for England.
And that was . . . yesterday.
TODAY
Monday, January 15
1
Hélène listened to the faint rise-and-fall breath of Nigel's sleep. She stared at him, her head resting in the palm of her hand, her elbow digging into the crisp softness of the Pratesi sheets. The thick cashmere blanket rose and fell with each breath he took. His head was turned toward her, lying sideways in the softness of the down pillows trimmed with satin ribbons and scallops of lace. She had watched him ever since he had fallen asleep. Now that the sky was beginning to lighten and let a soft, muted winter glow in through the windows, he was more than just a dark shape.
Nigel. She had waited for him for so long. Now the wait seemed worth it; it almost felt as if so many years had never passed. Nigel was hers, and hers alone.
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