The thought of Emma Harte putting the duplicitous John Cross firmly in his place brought a flicker of a smile to Paula’s violet-blue eyes. He deserved that if nothing else. But in reality he was facing much worse than Emma’s acid tongue and her virulent condemnation. He was looking disaster right in the eye. Bankruptcy. Total ruin. Obliteration. She knew he was convinced that he could easily find another conglomerate or company to refinance Aire. She also knew he was absolutely wrong in this foolish belief. She had her ear to the ground, and the word was out. Nobody wanted to touch Aire Communications. Not even those ruthless and rapacious asset strippers who bought companies, plundered them, and then tossed to one side the empty shells which were left.
It suddenly occurred to Paula, as she cut down Albion Street, that, unbelievable though it was, John Cross had no real conception of what was about to happen to him or his company. She thought then of those he would take down with him, and of the many employees at Aire who would be thrown out of work. We could have saved him, more importantly saved them, she muttered under her breath. The man is unconscionable. Ever since she could remember, her grandmother had instilled a sense of responsibility in her, and this was one of the mandatory rules in Emma’s special code of ethics.
‘Great wealth and power bring enormous responsibilities, and don’t you ever forget that,’ Grandy had told her time and time again. ‘We must always look after those who work for us, and with us, because they help to make all this possible. And they rely on us, just as we rely on them in other ways,’ she had constantly pointed out. Paula was well aware that there were those magnates and industrialists who were jealous of Emma Harte, and who, as adversaries, misguidedly saw her as a hard, ruthless, driven and powerhungry woman. Yet even they did not have the temerity to deny that she was eminently fair. That was something every Harte employee knew from firsthand experience, hence their extraordinary loyalty and devotion to her grandmother, and their love for her.
Paula stopped abruptly, and took several deep breaths. She must get rid of the anger boiling inside her. It was exhausting, took too much of her precious energy – energy which could be directed elsewhere and to much better purpose. And besides, rage blocked reasonable and intelligent thought. She started to walk again, but now her step was slower and more regulated, and by the time she reached Commercial Street she had managed to calm herself considerably. She dawdled a little bit, stopping to glance in shop windows, until finally she was drawing to a standstill in front of E. Harte, her grandmother’s huge department store at the end of the street. She smiled at the uniformed doorman, whom she had known since childhood. ‘Hello, Alfred,’ she said, smiling.
‘’Ello, Miss Paula,’ he responded with a benevolent grin, touching his cap. ‘It’s a right beautiful day. Yes, luvely, it is that, Miss Paula. Let’s ‘ope t’weather ‘olds til termorrer, for yer bairns’ baptisms.’
‘Yes, let’s hope so, Alfred.’
He grinned again and pushed open the door for her. She thanked him, hurried through the perfumery department and took the lift to her office on the fourth floor. Her secretary, Agnes, looked up as she walked in, and exclaimed, with a small frown, ‘Oh dear, Mrs Fairley, you’ve just missed Mr O’Neill. Shane O’Neill, that is, and only by a few minutes too. What a shame. He waited for quite a while, then had to rush off to an appointment.’
‘Oh.’ Paula stopped dead in her tracks, taken aback, but she recovered herself, and asked quickly, ‘Did he say why he dropped in? Or leave a message?’
‘I gathered he was passing the store and decided to say hello on the spur of the moment. No message though, other than to tell you he would be coming to the christening.’
‘I see. Anything else, Agnes?’
‘Mr Fairley phoned from London. You can’t call him back, he was on his way to a luncheon at the Savoy Hotel. He’ll be arriving on schedule, at six, with your parents. The other messages are on your desk. Nothing vital.’ Agnes hesitated, then asked, ‘How did your meeting go at Aire?’
Paula made a sour face. ‘Not good, Agnes. In fact I’d venture to say that it went extremely badly.’
‘I am sorry, Mrs Fairley. I know the amount of work you put in on those dreadful balance sheets, and then the hours you devoted to the contracts.’ Agnes Fuller, prematurely grey at thirty-eight, plain of feature and with a severe expression that actually betrayed the kindest of hearts, had worked her way up through the ranks of the Leeds store. She had been flattered yet apprehensive when Paula had promoted her to private secretary. After all, Paula was the heiress apparent, and Emma Harte’s favourite; also, there were those in the store who thought she was cold, remote, unyielding and something of a snob who lacked Emma’s extraordinary common touch. But Agnes had soon discovered that Paula had none of the characteristics so unkindly attributed to her by detractors. She was reserved of nature – even a little shy – cautious and prudent, and a veritable work horse, and these traits had, very simply, been misconstrued. Over the past three years, Agnes had come to love the younger woman, was admiring of her, and considered her to be a brilliant executive who was a warm and caring person and a considerate employer.
As she peered at her young boss through her bifocals, Agnes noticed that Paula was paler than usual, and drawn. She gave her a look of sympathy mingled with regret. ‘It’s all very annoying,’ she clucked in commiseration, shaking her head. ‘And I hope you’re not going to let it bother you, particularly this weekend.’
‘No, I won’t, I promise you that,’ Paula reassured. ‘As my grandmother always says, you win a few, lose a few. We lost this one – ’ She did not finish, and a reflective expression settled on her face. ‘But, come to think of it, perhaps that’s just as well.’ There was a thoughtful pause, before she finished, ‘Excuse me, Agnes, I’ll see you shortly.’
Paula went into her office and sat down at the huge antique partners’ desk which dominated the room. After taking the Aire Communications papers out of her briefcase, she picked up a red pen and wrote dead in capitals across the front of the bulging folder. She rose, went to the filing cabinet and slipped it inside, then returned to her desk. The deal was dead as far as she was concerned. The negotiations had ended in a fiasco, and, in consequence, she had lost all interest in Aire Communications.
More than any other of the Harte offspring, Paula had inherited an unusual number of Emma’s characteristics, and those she had not been born with she had acquired by osmosis, from years of working at Emma’s side. Chief amongst these was the ability to admit any kind of mistake with openness and candour, and then put it behind her philosophically. Like Emma, she would invariably say: It didn’t work. Perhaps my judgement was flawed. But let’s go on from here. We mustn’t look back.
And this was exactly what she said to herself now. In her mind, Aire Communications was already a thing of the past. If she had gravely misjudged John Cross and wasted a great deal of time and effort on him, she had no intention of compounding these errors by dwelling on them unnecessarily. She wondered whether she ought to give her grandmother a ring, to explain what had happened, then decided against it. Grandy was seeing both Alexander and Emily this morning, and was bound to be busy. Later, she would drive out to Pennistone Royal, as arranged, and apprise her of the situation. Grandy is going to be disappointed, of course, she thought, sorting through the sheaf of messages. But that won’t last long, and I’ll soon find another project for her.
Picking up the telephone, Paula returned all of her business calls, signed the stack of letters Agnes had typed, and then sat back in the chair, glancing at her personal messages.
Her mother had called. Nothing important. Don’t bother to call back. Will see you tonight, Agnes had scribbled, then added one of her inimitable postscripts. Mrs Amory sounded marvellous, elated about tomorrow. We had a lovely chat. She’s got a new hairstyle, and is wearing a grey Christian Dior suit for the event.
Paula smiled at Agnes’s comments, then scanned the message from her cousin, Sarah Lowther. Ap
parently she was fighting a cold and might not be well enough to attend the christening. But she didn’t sound at all sick, Agnes had written cryptically. How strange, Paula thought, frowning and re-reading the slip of paper. Sarah obviously doesn’t want to come. I wonder why? Since she could not hazard a guess, she turned to the last message. Miranda O’Neill was at the Leeds office of O’Neill Hotels International. Please call her back before lunch, Agnes had instructed.
Paula immediately dialled Miranda’s private number. The line was busy, as it usually was when she was in the city. Like her grandfather, Miranda had what the poet Dylan Thomas had called ‘the beautiful gift of the gab’. She could easily be talking for the next hour. Automatically, Paula’s thoughts turned to Miranda’s brother, Shane, and instantly she saw his vivid laughing face in her mind’s eye. She was terribly disappointed she had missed him earlier. Such a visit had become a rarity. For years he had made it a habit to drop in on her both in Leeds and London, and when these unexpected visits had ceased abruptly she had been hurt and baffled.
Shane O’Neill, son of Bryan, grandson of Blackie, had been Paula’s closest friend since childhood. They had grown up with each other, had spent all of their school holidays together, and they had been inseparable for most of their lives, so much so that Emma had nicknamed Paula the Shadow. As her mind lingered on Shane, she realized she had not set eyes on him for many, many months. He was constantly travelling these days, dashing off to Spain and the Caribbean, where a number of the O’Neill hotels were located, and when he was in England, and if she chanced to run into him, he had a preoccupied air and a distant manner. She exhaled softly, slowly. How odd it was that their closeness should end with such finality, as it had two years ago. It still puzzled her. When she had eventually tackled Shane, had asked him what had happened between them, he had looked at her in the most peculiar way, and denied that anything had. He had blamed business and his time-consuming schedule for his absence from her life. Perhaps he had simply outgrown her. Childhood friendships often did change radically; very frequently they deteriorated to such an extent they could never be reinstated. Regrettably, she thought. And I do miss him. I wish I’d been here this morning.
The buzz of the telephone cut into her thoughts. She reached for it. Agnes said, ‘It’s Miss O’Neill, Mrs Fairley.’
‘Thanks, Agnes, put her through, please.’
A split second later Miranda’s lilting voice flowed over the wire. ‘Hello, Paula. I thought I’d better call you again, since my phone’s been busy for ages.’
‘That’s par for the course,’ Paula said with an affectionate laugh. ‘When did you get in from London?’
‘Last night. I drove up with Shane. And for the last time, I don’t mind telling you. He’s a maniac in a car. The tyres sizzled the roads. I thought we’d end up in a ditch. I’ll never know how I got here safe and sound. I was so shaken up, and white, when we arrived at the house, Mummy knew immediately what had happened. She’s forbidden me to drive with him again. She gave him quite a piece of her mind, and –’
‘I’ll bet,’ Paula broke in, with another laugh. ‘Your mother thinks the sun shines out of Shane. He can’t do anything wrong in her eyes.’
‘Well, he’s in the doghouse at the moment, my dear. She really told him off, and so did Dad.’
‘Shane came to see me today, Miranda.’
‘Hey, that’s good news. Like you, I can’t understand why he’s so aloof with you these days, but then he’s a strange one, that big brother of mine. Too much of the Celt in him, perhaps. Anyway, what did he have to say?’
‘Nothing, Miranda, since I wasn’t here. I was out at a meeting.’
‘Too bad. Still, he’s coming to the christening. I know you had your doubts, but he told me he was definitely going to go. He even offered to drive me.’ Miranda groaned in mock horror at this idea. ‘I declined. I was going to go with Grandpops, but naturally he’s escorting Aunt Emma. So I’ll toddle over by myself. Listen, Paula, apart from wanting to say hello, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch? I’ve got to come over to the store to pick up a package for my mother. I could meet you in the Birdcage in half an hour. What do you think?’
‘That’s a nice suggestion, Merry. I’ll see you there at noon.’
‘It’s a date,’ Miranda said. ‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’ As she began clearing her desk of papers, Paula was suddenly glad Miranda had suggested lunch. Her friend was a delight to be with, and a very special girl, with her naturalness, her sweetness, her gaiety and effervescence. She had a joyous, carefree disposition, and laughter sprang readily to her lips, undoubtedly the reason why her nickname Mirry had soon turned into Merry when she was small.
Paula smiled to herself, wondering what Miranda was wearing today, what surprise was in store for her. The twenty-three-year-old girl had a penchant for creating the most outlandish outfits – costumes really – but they were put together with imagination and style, and she certainly carried them off with élan. They would have looked perfectly ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow they were exactly right on Miranda O’Neill. Apart from suiting her tall, somewhat boyish figure, they were an adjunct to her fey and whimsical personality. Or so it seemed to Paula, who considered Merry to be an original, the one genuine free spirit she knew. Her grandmother was equally fond of Miranda, and said that Blackie’s granddaughter was the best tonic in the world for all of them, because she chased their blues away. ‘There’s not a bad bone in that girl’s body,’ Emma had remarked to Paula recently. ‘And now that she’s grown up she reminds me a lot of her grandmother. There’s a good deal of Laura Spencer in Merry – Laura’s true goodness for one thing. Also, there’s a wise head on those young shoulders, and I’m pleased you two have become such good friends. Every woman needs a close and trusted friend of the same sex. I should know. I never really had one after Laura died.’
Remembering these words of Emma’s, Paula thought: But she always had Blackie, and she still has him; whereas I’ve lost Shane. Funny, though, that Miranda and I drew closer together once Shane had dropped out…
There was a knock and Agnes poked her head around the door. ‘These proofs just came up from the advertising department. Can you give them your okay?’
‘Yes, come in, Agnes.’
‘They’re the advertisements for the spring fashion sales,’ Agnes explained, handing them to her.
After studying the newspaper advertisements for a few seconds, Paula initialled the proofs, gave them back to her secretary and stood up. ‘I’m going out on to the floor for a while. Could you phone the Birdcage, Agnes, and tell them I’ll need my usual table, please. At noon.’
‘Right away,’ Agnes said as they went out together.
When Emma Harte had first opened the café on the second floor of the Leeds store, she had called it the Elizabethan Gazebo, and had decorated it in the style of an English country garden. Such things as handpainted wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, panels of white trellis, artificial topiary animals, and antique birdcages combined to create a most enchanting little setting.
Over the years, as she refurbished the cafe, the name changed to match the theme, or vice versa. But always a garden or outdoor motif prevailed, often with an international flavour, as Emma had given rein to her imagination and fantasies with flair and not a little wit. After a trip to the Bosphorus, with Paul McGill, she had been inspired to create the effect of a courtyard in a Seraglio. Mosaic tiles, silver wallpaper painted with peacocks, potted palms and a splashing fountain were combined in the new design. She had called the café Turkish Delight, and had been delighted herself to witness its instantaneous popularity as a smart gathering place, not only for women shoppers but local businessmen who came in for lunch. Several years later, Emma decided a more homespun motif was in order. Highland Fling was the name she chose, and the setting took on the appearance of a Scottish castle yard, featuring rustic furniture and colourful tartans. Eventually this ambience gave way to one which
suggested an Oriental teahouse and drew its inspiration from the elegant decorative elements of the Far East. The café was renamed the China Doll. Then came the Balalaika, redolent of nineteenth-century Russia; after that it was transformed into Riviera Terrace, and in 1960 Emma redid the café yet again. This time she used a sophisticated theme based on the skyline of New York City, lining the walls with giant-sized photographic murals of Manhattan. The decor suggested a big-city roof garden and she called it Skyscrapers. But by the late summer of 1968 Emma had grown tired of this decorative mood, and, as the café needed a complete overhaul at this time, she gave the project to Paula, asking her to create something different.
Paula knew everything there was to know about all of the stores in the Harte chain, and she remembered the photographs she had seen of the original Elizabethan Gazebo. She went into the archives, dug out the original plans and sketches, and was instantly struck by the uniqueness and beauty of the antique birdcages. Since she was aware they were stored in packing cases in the basement, she had them brought up and unwrapped. And so the current theme and the latest name were born.
Paula had the wooden and brass birdcages repainted or repolished and, after finding more to add to the collection, she featured them throughout the restaurant. They stood out beautifully against a background of lime-green wallpaper over-patterned with a sharp white trellis design; white wicker chairs and matching tables with glass tops reiterated the outdoor mood. Paula loved all growing things, was, in fact, a gifted gardener, and so her final, masterful touch was a lush assortment of small trees. flowering shrubs and plants. It was the many pots of hydrangeas and azaleas that gave the Birdcage its cachet, and this real garden within the heart of the store bloomed in all seasons under her personal supervision. Emma had recognized at once that it was an evocation of her own first design and as such a little tribute to her, and she was flattered.