Obviously Marietta had been a manic depressive when Evan was growing up, she wouldn’t have invented a thing like that about her mother. But wasn’t there something decidedly odd about this miraculous recovery? Oh well, he muttered to himself, there are all kinds of new medicines available today, revolutionary medicines. That was the answer most likely, the reason for Marietta’s radiant health. Because radiant she was. No question about that.
He knew deep down that he was still annoyed with Evan because she had not told her parents she was engaged to him, had not been wearing her ring the day they had all gone to lunch at the Dorchester. He was hurt about that, and disappointed that she was so…cowardly. She was also weak-kneed about telling her father the truth about his parentage, about his mother’s affair with Robin Ainsley during the war. Originally it hadn’t really mattered to Gideon, but somehow, now, it did. He wanted Owen Hughes to know who his biological father was, to understand that he was a Harte and therefore Evan was, too.
Pity she’s not acting like a Harte, he thought. In a sense that was at the root of his discontent, wasn’t it? Her timid attitude. It still rankled a bit. He wished he could get over it. Wasn’t he being mean-spirited and juvenile? After all, if he–
Four phones rang at once. The mobile in his trousers’ pocket; three of the four lines on the land-line unit sitting on his desk.
The shrilling brought him bolt upright in his desk chair, and he pulled out his cellular first. ‘Gideon Harte.’
‘Terrorists have attacked New York. The World Trade Center. Turn on your TV,’ his brother Toby yelled.
‘Jesus Christ! Hold on. My other lines are ringing.’ Gideon grabbed the receiver of the land-line, jabbed the first button. ‘Harte here.’
‘It’s Andy, do you–’
‘I know. I’ll get back to you.’ He cut the reporter off, jabbed the second button. ‘Harte here.’
‘It’s me, Gideon,’ Winston Harte said, sounding extremely strange. ‘The World Trade–’
‘I know, Dad. Just hold on, let me get my other line.’ As he finished speaking, Gideon punched the hold button, jabbed the third line. ‘Gideon Harte.’
‘It’s Joel. I’m pulling everybody in for an early editorial meeting for tomorrow’s Gazette. Okay?’
‘Okay. I’ll get back to you in a minute.’ Gideon now punched the second line again. ‘I’ve got Toby on my mobile, Dad.’
‘All right, talk to him. I’m coming up to your office. Be there in two minutes.’
‘Okay.’ He hung up then, grabbing his cellular, he said, ‘Are you still there, Tobe?’
‘Just about, I’ve got to get over to the newsroom. Can’t talk now. Turn on CNN. Call me at the network if you need me.’
‘Thanks, Tobe.’ Gideon ran across the room, switching off the mobile, pushing it in his pocket as he looked for the remote control. Usually it was on his desk but now he couldn’t find the damn thing anywhere. He spotted it on the shelf above the television set, grabbed it and punched buttons until CNN breaking news flashed across the screen.
He gasped as he gazed at the scenes in front of him, horror washing over him as he saw one of the towers crumbling before his eyes. He glanced at the clock on the shelf above the set and saw that it was two twenty-five, nine twenty-five on Tuesday morning in New York.
Gideon stood there in shock, his alarm spiralling. He was mesmerized by the terrifying images on the screen. Flames rising sky high. Thick billowing smoke. Dust. Falling rubble. The sound of collapsing buildings.
His breath caught in his throat as he focused his eyes on people jumping out of windows. Escaping the fire; falling to their deaths. Oh God! People running in the streets…fleeing. Sirens blaring. Crashing sounds…cars ablaze…He closed his eyes for a moment, hardly able to believe what he was seeing, hardly able to take it in.
The shrilling phone forced him to turn away and hurry to his desk. Seizing the receiver, he said hoarsely, ‘Yes?’
‘Gideon? It’s Andy again. I’m taking the editorial meeting for the Post. Tony Wharley had to leave early today. He’s gone already. Doctor’s appointment.’
‘Go ahead. I’m waiting for my father. I’ll leave it to you.’
Striding back to the television he stood there watching the ongoing mayhem, myriad thoughts racing through his head. Was this an act of war? Who was responsible for this catastrophe?
A positive attitude about life and enormous optimism were Winston Harte’s stock in trade…his glass was always half full, never half empty, anything was possible, maybe he would conquer the world one day, and tomorrow could only be better. That was the way he had thought since his earliest days.
Optimism was second nature to him, and it had seen him through some bad patches over the years. But this afternoon, for the very first time in his whole life, his optimism had fled.
Winston felt totally empty inside. He was extremely depressed. The latter was an emotion unknown to him until today, one that was entirely unfamiliar and which he found hard to deal with.
As the lift came to a stop, he stepped out onto the editorial floor of the London Evening Post; as usual he walked over to the bank of plate-glass windows that allowed passers-by to look into the newsroom from the corridor. He stood there for a moment or two, as he usually did.
The sight of any newsroom, anywhere in the world, gave him a thrill, and most especially his own, but the thrill was not there today. He was chilled to the bone, filled with a sense of despair, an aching sadness in his gut. Yet he knew he had to shake off these feelings…He was chairman, the boss, the staff would inevitably turn to him at some point for guidance…He must be there for them today, and in the ensuing days.
He took a deep breath, stood a little taller, pushing his shoulders back, reminding himself he was a newspaperman through and through. And for a few minutes he stood watching the activity in the newsroom…trying to relish it, to feel proud of his team.
Winston Harte’s love of journalism was inherited from his grandfather and namesake, the first Winston in the family, who had run this newspaper company for Emma; it had also come from his great-uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, a renowned journalist in his day, a war correspondent and political columnist. Printer’s ink was in Winston’s blood, just as it was in Gideon’s.
Winston’s gaze was now fastened on the television set positioned straight ahead of him…The appalling images of the tragedy in New York were still unfolding…filling the screen. His heart tightened at the sight of the devastation, the panic and fear.
Turning away, suddenly more sorrowful and morose than ever, Winston headed down the corridor to Gideon’s office, needing to unburden himself as well as discuss coverage of the attacks in Manhattan.
When he reached the door, he took several deep breaths, braced himself and walked in.
His son stood in front of the television set, and unable to tear his eyes away, even for a split second, Gideon cried, ‘Come and look, Dad! It’s John Bussey of the Wall Street Journal. Reporting everything he’s seeing from his office on the ninth floor. It’s opposite the World Trade Center. Oh my God, the tower’s coming down! Oh my God! This is staggering, just unbelievable! Catastrophic!’
Winston joined his son but only for a moment. He now found it difficult to look at the TV screen, and abruptly moved away, went and sat down in a chair, shaking.
Swinging around Gideon said, ‘We’ll only be able to get a brief mention in the Stop Press. The late afternoon edition is already rolling, but–’ Gideon stopped speaking, startled by the look of terrible anguish and despair spreading across his father’s face.
‘Dad, you look awful! So white. Aren’t you feeling well?’ Gideon asked, hurrying over, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder affectionately, immediately concerned about him. They were very close, and Gideon was aware he had always been his father’s favourite, although Winston had never actually shown favouritism.
Winston looked up at his son, opened his mouth to speak, to confide, but no wor
ds came out. He simply put his hand on Gideon’s resting on his shoulder.
Gideon scanned his father’s face, noted the beads of sweat on his forehead, the chalkiness of his skin. He was now so unusually white the freckles, normally quite faint, seemed to stand out on the bridge of his nose and across his cheekbones. And then with a small shock Gideon became aware of the pain in his father’s light-green eyes, the unexpected glitter of tears.
What’s wrong with him? Gideon wondered. He knew his father was too much of a dyed-in-the-wool newspaperman to show his emotions about the tragic events now unfolding in New York, however much he cared. In a sudden flash Gideon understood there was something else troubling his father, that it was serious. And very personal.
Trying to keep his voice even and calm, Gideon asked, ‘Are you ill, Dad?’ As he spoke he peered into his father’s face yet again.
Swallowing several times, Winston endeavoured to steady himself, and slowly, in a voice that was gruff and thick with tears, he answered Gideon. ‘He’s in there. In that lot. He’ll never get out alive.’
‘Who, Dad? Who’re you talking about?’
‘Shane,’ Winston told him in a voice that faltered slightly. ‘He had a meeting at the World Trade Center this morning. That’s why he didn’t come back with us.’ Winston was unable to finish. He shook his head and a sob broke free. Bringing one hand to his mouth, as though he wanted to push the sobs back inside himself, he went on shaking his head, finally mumbled, ‘He’s probably dead already.’
Stunned and horror-struck by what his father had just said, Gideon bent over him, put his arms around him, holding him close to his chest. After a moment or two, he said in a low, very loving voice, ‘Dad, please don’t jump to conclusions. You can’t be sure Shane didn’t get out. At this moment we don’t really know anything, except what we’re seeing on television. I know this is a stupid question, but you have tried to reach him, haven’t you?’
‘I have, and of course I can’t get through on his mobile. Not on any phone, actually. In fact, I can’t get through to New York at all. Not to anyone. The lines are probably totally overloaded. Or down.’
Releasing his father, Gideon straightened, and asked quietly, ‘Dad, what about Paula?’
‘I phoned her as soon as I saw what was happening on TV. She was in a meeting. So I asked Emily to go over to the store, to be there for her.’
‘Yes, Mum’s the best person to be with her right now, at a time like this.’
‘Our mothers were close friends, you know,’ Winston volunteered, out of the blue. ‘They used to take us out in our prams together when we were babies. That’s how long I’ve known him. Sixty years.’
‘I know. All your life.’
‘We’ve never had a disagreement, a quarrel. Never. Never in all these years. He’s my best friend, the brother I never had…’ Winston stopped, unable to say another word.
‘Let’s try and be positive!’ Gideon exclaimed. ‘Maybe the office Shane went to for the meeting was on a lower floor. Perhaps he was able to walk down the stairs, get out. And listen, Dad, since you couldn’t get through then maybe he couldn’t either. It’s more than likely that’s why you haven’t heard from him.’
‘I pray to God that’s so.’
The ringing phone forced Gideon to hurry to his desk. ‘Gideon Harte here.’
‘It’s Paula,’ she said in a faint voice that shook. ‘Is your father there, Gideon?’
‘Yes, Paula, he is, and–’
‘Give me the phone!’ Winston exclaimed before Gideon could say anything else, and jumped up, went to the desk, took the receiver from his son.
Gideon moved away, in order to give them privacy. But even if he had wanted to eavesdrop it wouldn’t have been possible. After saying her name softly, very lovingly, his father had lapsed into silence, had become the listener, not the one doing the talking.
Moving closer to the television set, Gideon seated himself in a chair, continued to watch the never-ending disaster, knowing that very soon he would have to go, join Joel and later Andy at the editorial meetings. They had to plan tomorrow’s first editions no matter what.
His heart ached when he thought of Shane O’Neill. How would any of them cope if he had been killed? He had no idea. He closed his eyes, visualizing Shane, and silently in his head he said: Please God, let Shane be alive. And he repeated this over and over again, as he waited for his father to get off the phone.
Tessa stood staring at the portrait of Emma Harte, which hung in an alcove in the main corridor of the management floor. Whenever she stopped to look at her great-grandmother she thought she was getting a glimpse of the woman Linnet would become when she was middle-aged like Emma was here.
Her sister truly did resemble their great-grandmother. It was actually more than that: Linnet looked more like Emma Harte than anyone else in the family; she was the spitting image of her. She was Emma’s clone…the same clear, pink-and-white complexion, the large sparkling green eyes, the bright red-gold hair coming to a dramatic widow’s peak. There were those in the family who said it wasn’t only her looks Linnet had inherited from her famous predecessor but Emma’s brains as well. And perhaps that was true. Maybe Linnet was the right one to run the department store chain, even though she thought of herself as the heiress, the Dauphine. Did she want to be top dog? The boss lady? The queen of the hill? She wasn’t sure how to answer that anymore.
What did she want?
She had a ready answer. Jean-Claude Deléon. Lock, stock and barrel. All of him. For always.
Well, that might mean giving up her ambitions. Her career.
Could she do it?
Why not? She didn’t want to sleep in a cold, lonely bed all night, every night, all by herself. As Emma had done after Paul’s death in 1939. They all knew the story of that great love, of his tragic accident and death. Actually, his suicide.
‘You were a beautiful woman, Grandy,’ Tessa whispered out loud. ‘And you were right about everyone having their price. Mark Longden definitely had his price. But you’d say good riddance to bad rubbish, wouldn’t you?’
Mark Longden was a rat. She couldn’t change a thing now, but she still wished her mother had not given Mark all that money, such a big settlement. Ten million pounds. Her mother had told her again, yesterday on the way home from the solicitor’s office, that the money from the sale of the house would be invested, and that it would all balance out in the end; she supposed it would. What an avaricious rat he was. All he wanted was money. He had protested about being banished, exiled as he called it, but in the end he had signed the contract. And willingly. The money was more important than his daughter. He preferred to take the money and run, rather than sweat it out in London so that he could visit Adele, have access to her.
Her mother had been smart, brilliant actually. She had judged him accurately, had bought Mark off. Banishing him to Sydney for five years meant he was off her back, and was no threat to Adele. And by the time he could return to England, permanently if he wanted, Adele would be twelve, going on thirteen.
She shivered involuntarily, remembering that he had been in Paris last weekend. How awful it would have been if she had run into him when she was with Jean-Claude.
Turning once again, Tessa walked towards the door which led to the business offices of the store. But before she reached it, the door flew open, and Linnet came rushing out. She was wearing pale blue and looked like a young Emma.
‘Mummy wants you to come. Now, Tessa,’ Linnet exclaimed, beckoning to her.
Frowning, Tessa said, ‘What’s the matter? You seem upset about something.’
‘Where have you been, Tess?’
‘In my storage room, going through the inventory. For over an hour and a half. Why?’
‘You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘Terrorists have attacked New York…they’ve flown planes into the World Trade Center. It’s unbelievable–’
‘Oh God, no! Linnet,
how awful! Frightening.’
‘Come on, let’s not waste time. Mummy’s so upset. She needs us at a time like this.’
Shane, Tessa thought. Her father was still in New York. Oh God, no! Had something happened to him? She was unable to move, stood rooted to the spot, gaping at her sister, now seeing her clearly…the drawn face, the laughing mouth no longer laughing, stern, tight instead. Her dreadful paleness. The startled look in her green eyes…like a deer frightened by headlights.
‘Is Dad all right? He hasn’t been hurt, has he?’ Tessa demanded.
Linnet stared back at her. ‘We don’t know anything. We haven’t been able to reach him. Or anyone else for that matter. I think all the phone lines are down in Manhattan.’ Reaching out, Linnet grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, please, Tess. Let’s go to our mother. She really does need us.’
Tessa allowed her younger sister to drag her through the door and into the foyer which led to the management offices. And she thought: It’s taken me all these years to understand he truly is my father. It was Shane who brought me up, loved me all of my life. Helped to make me who I am. Not Jim Fairley. Jim was killed when I was just a toddler…killed in an avalanche. Now she prayed that Shane had not been killed in a terrorist attack…Her mother wouldn’t be able to survive that. None of them would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Linnet had only seen this look on her mother’s face once before, years ago when her brother Patrick had died. Devastation. That was it, pure and simple.
She’s shell-shocked, Linnet thought, as she followed Tessa into her mother’s office; she thinks Dad is dead.
The mere idea of this brought a lump to Linnet’s throat, and she blinked back the tears which had instantly sprung into her eyes. I don’t believe it, I don’t. And I won’t. I would have known. Like Shane, Linnet thought of herself as a true Celt, and that meant she was different, more sensitive, spiritual, and intuitive than most other people. She and her father had a special bond, and if he were dead she would have known. The moment he died. Because he would have communicated with her in some way before his death.