Beaumont Brides Collection (Wild Justice, Wild Lady, Wild Fire)

by Liz Fielding

  And the radio franchise was up for renewal within months. If they failed to meet their programming agreement it was possible that they would lose it. Worse, since the relaxation of ownership rules, they were wide open to a takeover bid themselves.

  She knew of one consortium that had already bought up several nearby stations and was turning out anonymous pop music so that without the station “idents” it was almost impossible to tell who you were listening to.

  The whole concept of independent broadcasting by local people for local people was beginning to look very shaky. She had been so determined to make her station different, special. With the help of her family and the generous support of Michael Harries she had succeeded. And now, just when she had expanded her business base in order to make the station self-supporting, to avoid having to rely so heavily on sponsorship, she was in danger of losing it all.

  ‘What will happen to Michael?’ she asked, in an effort to keep her own troubles in perspective. ‘Will he be all right?’

  ‘He was putting a brave enough face on it, going on about how glad Alice is that he’s retiring early, how great it will be to spend the winter at his place in the Algarve and play golf all day. But you know how he felt about the plant. He loved it. Every brick of it and everyone who worked there.’

  And now it was owned by some anonymous financier who wouldn’t care a fig about the generations of lives invested in it. Wouldn’t care about anything except a snappy return on his investment.

  She dropped the letter on her desk and walked across to the window, rubbing at the cold glass misted with their breath.

  The view of the bay curving away into the distance, the town nestling beneath the hills rising away into the distance, the sea in all its moods rarely failed to inspire her, even on glowering winter days when the waves battered remorselessly against the pier. But today the sea and sky were uniformly grey, the hills blotted out by cloud, the town misted by a heavy drizzle. February at its most dreary.

  ‘What do you think he means by changes?’ she asked, finally, turning back to face her muddled little office. It always looked so much worse on the rare occasions when her father deigned to climb the stairs from his own, far more opulent office on the mezzanine floor.

  Her father, her sister, her dead mother, all had that same star quality that eclipsed everyone and everything they stood near, making the rest of the world look just plain shabby.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe this Devlin fellow just wants to put things on a regular footing,’ he suggested, hopefully.

  ‘And if he doesn’t? If he just wants to be rid of us? Can we fight it?’

  She had to face the possibility. Far more than a possibility. Then as her father’s shoulders slumped uncharacteristically she was sorry she had asked. He obviously felt bad enough without her rubbing salt in the wounds.

  ‘How much can the station stand, Fizz?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘The sports coverage and “Holiday Bay” are the major items of expenditure. Given time I might be able to put together a package, but there isn’t another local company who could take on the sole sponsorship of one of those, let alone both. Not right now. Not at such short notice.’

  ‘But you can’t drop them, Fizz,’ he warned. ‘It was part of the franchise agreement. Live drama and live sport. It gave us the edge over the competition and the Radio Authority could fine you, or decide against renewal this summer if you drop them.’

  ‘It might not take that long. We still have staff contracts, salaries to pay.’ And the loss of advertising revenue. Even if they could drop the programmes, it wasn’t a solution.

  ‘Is there money left from the bank loan?’

  ‘Not to spare. There are enough bills from building contractors to paper my office walls.’

  ‘Just as well it’s so small, then,’ her father said, in an effort to make a light of the situation.

  She conceded a smile. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Very small and very shabby. She wasn’t a star and didn’t need a glamorous setting in which to shine. ‘But it’s the bank loan that will be the main problem. If only I hadn’t gone ahead with the restaurant. I should have waited another year.’ She let it go. Her father had no interest in the financial side of the station. He lent it his name and his stature to Pavilion Radio, the rest was up to her.

  ‘You just need a good season, Fizz,’ her father said, trying to be kind. He continued to run on optimistically, but she wasn’t listening, she was too busy trying to think.

  In a worst-case scenario, assuming Harries’ sponsorship was totally withdrawn it would take a lot more than optimism. It would need a great deal of patience and understanding from the young merchant banker who had been so flatteringly eager to provide the loan for the new restaurant in the restored Pavilion.

  Flattering eager to take the relationship rather further than banking, if she had given him any encouragement. Her sigh was imperceptible.

  It had seemed such a brilliant idea, how could it possibly fail?

  They already had an informal chat and music show live from the foyer of the Winter Garden every morning in the summer season and on Saturdays in the winter. It had seemed so simple to capitalise on an audience already in a happy mood, to offer good food with the best view in Broomhill Bay and a gift shop full of locally made souvenirs, including their own Pavilion Radio merchandise to spread the word.

  It would make money, she knew it would, but it would take time. She had worked so hard and it had all been going so well. If they could hold on until Easter came, bringing the first visitors.

  She turned to stare once more at the letter on her desk, then picked it up. ‘Devlin has asked you to phone him. Have you done that?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought you should do it.’

  ‘Me? Don’t be silly, he’ll gobble me up and spit me out. I’ll brief you of course, but it’s probably better that he thinks he’s dealing with you.’

  Everyone thought she was station manager in name only, that she had been given the job by her father because he felt sorry for her. Because she didn’t have the talent of her glamorous big sister. Because she was the only Beaumont who couldn’t act.

  She preferred it that way.

  And her father’s sheer physical presence was usually sufficient to mesmerise people into doing what he wanted. Her father’s expression suggested he had other plans.

  ‘At least until we can work out what his mood is,’ she wheedled.

  ‘Fizz, darling, I’m up to my eyes with the joint schools’ production of Much Ado just as the moment. And my new television series is facing a bit of a crisis.’

  ‘What kind of crisis.’

  ‘Financial. What other kind is there? A couple of the backers have pulled out. I’ve got to find someone else or put up the money myself.’

  In other words don’t ask me to help with the cash flow?

  ‘And Claudia telephoned last night in a bit of a state over the film with Sean Deveraux, so I’ve got to go up to town today.’

  ‘Dad, please!’

  ‘Look, darling, I know absolutely nothing about running the station and a man like Devlin will see through me in a second. I really think it would be better if you talked to him, put all your cards on the table. Michael trusted your judgement, why shouldn’t he?’

  Michael had just lost the company his family had built from nothing. It wasn’t much of a reference. Her father had picked a hell of a time to step back and leave her to prove she could handle it.

  Hidden away in her office she managed the station, made decisions, produced the ideas that kept the advertisers happy. Only two or three people knew the truth, that Pavilion Radio had been her idea. Her baby.

  Like all babies it was hard work and the hardest job of all had been to convince a bunch of hard nosed bankers that they should lend her the money to develop the restaurant. With her father at her side to give the bankers confidence she had managed to pull it off. But she had known exactly what was required that day. Facing the un
known alone was something else.

  ‘He probably just wants is to be buttered up by the famous Edward Beaumont. That might be all it would take,’ she said quickly, well aware that her father had a weakness for flattery. ‘Even the most hard-boiled businessmen have their weak spots.’

  ‘If he had been a hard-boiled businesswoman,’ he joked, ‘I might be of some use to you. As it is I’m just an old ham actor. If you hadn’t coached me I would never have convinced those bankers that I knew what that restaurant deal was all about.’

  ‘I can coach you again,’ she pleaded, feeling the tide of panic rising to her throat. She didn’t want to step out into the spotlight. He couldn’t expect it. She still needed time.

  ‘You’re the brains behind this outfit, Fizz. You don’t need me. You can do it if you believe in yourself.’ He reached out, lightly touched her cheek. ‘And your face is so much prettier than mine that I’m sure you’d be far more effective at buttering him up than I could ever be.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Of course if you need me I’ll try and help, but I must go now.’ Then pausing in the doorway he turned to her. ‘You know this is your station, Fizz. You made it what it is. It’s up to you to fight for it.’

  She stared at the door he had so carefully closed behind him. Had there been an almost audible snip as he had cut the umbilical cord?

  He had been pushing her for months, insisting that when the licence came up for renewal she must publicly take on the role of chief executive of Pavilion Radio. She had resisted, preferring to hide beneath her father’s famous name, let him step forward to take the applause and the praise and the awards that occasionally came their way.

  Now he was using this crisis to drive her out into the open, making her fight for her station, because no one else was going to do it for her. It was her baby that was being threatened and knights in shining armour being thin on the ground these days, a girl had to fight her own battles.

  Slowly she sank into her chair, reached for the telephone and gripping the receiver until her knuckles whitened, she dialled the number at the top of the letterhead.

  ‘Good morning, Harries Industries. How can I help you?’

  ‘Good morning. This is Felicity Beaumont calling from Pavilion Radio,’ she said, investing her voice with a confidence she was far from feeling. ‘I would like to speak to Mr Luke Devlin.’

  *****

  If it had been Luke Devlin’s intention to make life as difficult as possible for Felicity Beaumont, he could not have chosen a better time to drop his bombshell.

  ‘Miss Beaumont?’

  Fizz immediately recognised the smooth tones of the local bank manager. ‘Mr Nicholson, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Deposit the sponsorship cheque from Harries Industries?’ he suggested, without bothering with the niceties of polite conversation.

  She had been expecting the call. The takeover had been reported on their own news programmes in great detail, as well as in all the local newspapers. Speculation about redundancies and cuts was rife and the town had a jittery air which had inevitably infected the radio station.

  Several times in the last week staff had abruptly stopped talking when she entered a room.

  ‘There is going to be a sponsorship cheque isn’t there?’ Nicholson continued. ‘It’s ten days until the end of the month and I don’t have to remind you that the salaries will take you a long way over your overdraft limit.’

  ‘I am aware of that, Mr Nicholson and I have a meeting scheduled with Mr Devlin later this week to confirm the details of Harries sponsorship with the new management.’ More truthfully, she was still waiting to speak to the wretched man and if her fingers had been crossed any more tightly they would have broken. ‘I don’t anticipate any difficulties.’

  She winced as she replaced the receiver. Despite her determination to see Luke Devlin at the first possible moment, his secretary had been evasive about an appointment, merely assuring Fizz that he would be told of her call. She could do nothing, but wait and gather her ammunition. Checking and double checking the portfolio that had convinced the financiers to loan the money for the restaurant and gift shop, and the photographs of what was now an expensive reality.

  There were pages of careful costings and conservative estimates of return on investment. She had a sheaf of photographs and news cuttings showing sponsorship banners at sporting events and listening figures for “Holiday Bay” and she hadn’t wasted her time while she waited.

  She had been looking for alternative sources of sponsorship from likely companies. But the reaction was the same from everyone. With the future of Harries Industries in question, no one could afford to be relaxed. As the largest employer in the area any cutbacks would hurt local businesses. And the invoices for the January Sales ads wouldn’t be sent out by the advertising agencies until the end of the month.

  Not that anyone would be in a hurry to pay them.

  She glared at the phone. ‘Ring,’ she instructed it. ‘Go on, damn you, ring!’ It immediately responded with a low burble and for one disbelieving second she stared at it. Then as it rang again she snatched it up.

  It was her father.

  ‘I was just checking to see if you had managed to speak to Mr Devlin yet.’ He was a good actor, but even so she could detect the note of anxiety that had crept into his voice.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said, rather more brightly than she actually felt. ‘I suppose we must come pretty low on his list of priorities right now. I’ll let you know as soon as anything happens.’

  ‘Well, it’s in your hands, Fizz.’ Yes, she thought, putting down the receiver. That had been made more than clear to her. But she wasn’t complaining. Her father had already done enough in dragging her back from the abyss.

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘Fizz Beaumont,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Beaumont. Luke Devlin returning your call.’ His voice was cool, distant and not particularly encouraging. He must know why she was calling but he waited, leaving her to do all the work.

  She forced her face into a smile, knowing that it would come through in her voice. ‘Thank you, Mr Devlin, that’s most kind. I know how busy you must be. I received your letter -’

  ‘Did you?’ he interrupted, smoothly. ‘That’s odd, I don’t recall having written to anyone called Fizz Beaumont. It seems unlikely that I would forget such an unusual name.’

  Fizz could have kicked herself. Instead she forced laughter into her voice, congratulating his wit. ‘I meant of course the letter you sent to my father. Since I am the station manager and deal with all financial matters, he naturally passed it straight on to me.’

  ‘I see.’ The words conveyed a world of meaning. That her father had been less than polite in passing on his letter to a subordinate. That he wasn’t used to dealing with chits of girls when it came to business. Something more that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  She dropped the laughter. It clearly hadn’t impressed him one bit. ‘My father is deeply involved with the city’s youth theatre at the moment, as well as other projects that have first call on his time. And he prefers to leave all financial matters to me.’

  ‘Even when it concerns the fate of his radio station? Dare I suggest that excessive sponsorship has made him just a little flabby in his attitude?’ Again that dismissive edge to his voice. Fizz felt the slow burn of anger darken her cheeks.

  ‘The fate of Pavilion Radio concerns him very deeply, Mr Devlin. He could come along and give you a convincing portrayal of a high-powered business tycoon if you feel that is your due. But that’s all it would be. A performance. He did you the courtesy of assuming you would want to deal with someone who actually knows what they are talking about.’

  ‘And you do?’ Once again she caught the undercurrent in his voice. Dislike? She drew her brows together in a puzzled frown, but he gave her no time to dwell on the possibility, or wonder at it. ‘Well, since you have been nominated as spokesperson, Miss Beaumont, I
suppose you will have to do. Please be at my office at twelve o’clock.’

  ‘On which day?’ she asked with excessive politeness.

  ‘This day, Miss Beaumont. If I had meant any other I would have said so.’ And with that, he hung up.

  Fizz was shaking when she put down the telephone. So much for putting her cards on the table and dealing with the man in an honest and straightforward manner. He had wanted to speak to her father and considered her second best.

  She opened her mouth, ready to tell the four walls of her office exactly what she thought of Mr Luke Devlin but it was nearly eleven, the ring road would be packed with traffic as this time of day and she had to change.

  She had dressed for the ice-house temperature of her office in the roof of the old Winter Garden where the heating never seemed to penetrate with any real enthusiasm. Thick corduroy trousers, flannel shirt, an Aran sweater with frayed cuffs that she had bought for fifty pence at a jumble sale.

  Hidden away in her office at the end of the pier, her Eskimo garb went unnoticed by anyone but the station staff. They were used to it, but it would hardly impress Mr Luke Devlin with her business acumen. She came from a family of actors and was well aware of the importance of putting on a show, wearing the right costume for the part.

  The pin striped business suit that she had borrowed from her sister, to wear during her negotiations for the loan with the bank, was hanging behind her office door in readiness for Luke Devlin’s summons.

  It had given her confidence to get through the ordeal of presenting her plans to a group of doubtful bankers. Hopefully it would carry her with equal success through the coming interview.

  Determinedly ignoring the cold she stripped off her outer garments and stood in her navy stockings and silk teddy, peering in the old cracked mirror fastened alongside the door while she refreshed her makeup and tidied her hair. Then she stepped into the skirt, fastened the jacket about her, slipped into her high heeled shoes and turned to check her rear view.

  Regarding her reflection in the long mirror fastened to the wall, Fizz was regretfully aware that the suit didn’t have quite the same sharp elegance on her as it had on her sister. She pulled a somewhat rueful face at herself. What did?