The Women in His Life. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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squashy sofa, enjoying the comfort and warmth and the sense of ease that always came to him here.
He had been a member since the club had first opened its doors, and he liked the atmosphere, the intimacy that sprang from the blazing fire, the soft lights and deep sofas, the cheerful feeling created by the masses of fresh flowers in antique containers, the dark-red Oriental rugs and the pumpkin-coloured walls covered with a diversity of paintings. Wonderful dog portraits, cartoons by Landseer, Munnings and Bateman, oils of elegant women, some nude, some clothed, hung cheek by jowl, and at first glance seemed to have been put together with some sort of careless abandon. Yet there was nothing haphazard about their placement, if one looked a second time and a bit more carefully. They never ceased to delight his eye, to amuse him, and they were a source of constant pleasure, frequently brought a quick smile to his face.
To Maxim, Annabel’s was more like an extension of Mark Birley’s own house than a restaurant and nightclub, and perhaps this was the key to its enormous success. The bar area had the feeling of a country drawing room in a manor house, could never be mistaken for anything but an English drawing room at that, what with its mixtures of chintzes and paintings and flowers, its mellowness and charm. Quite aside from the inimitable and inviting ambience, there were the gracious staff to be thankful for, the excellent service they gave, and finally the type of unpretentious food Maxim preferred to eat. For the most part, English cooking at its best with a few continental dishes thrown in.
In his opinion there was nowhere in the world quite like Annabel’s, and it was one of the things he sorely missed about London when he was away. He had not been in town for some weeks and he was glad to be back in his special haunt. Invariably, the tensions of the day left him the instant he stepped through its portals. He felt insulated against the world when he was at the club, cocooned within the familiar, pleasant surroundings, attended to by the discreet and congenial staff. A home from home, he thought, then added sardonically to himself: Except that I prefer this place to home. But I don’t have a home any more, do I?
Reaching for the drink, he took a quick swallow, leaned against the cushions, forced himself to focus on the meeting he had just had in Stubby’s office.
He was curiously ambivalent about going after the Lister newspaper empire, and he wondered why. Before he had a chance to focus on this properly, ponder the reasons further, he saw Louis, the manager, coming through the bar-sitting room, heading in his direction. Louis’s face was wreathed in smiles. They were old friends, had known each other for over thirty years, ever since the days Louis had been the maitre d’ at the Mirabelle Restaurant in Curzon Street, just around the corner from the club. There was a camaraderie between them that sprang from the past, many shared experiences, the genuine affection they held for each other.
Maxim jumped up, beaming.
They greeted each other warmly, shook hands. Louis congratulated him on his knighthood, and they stood chatting, catching up with each other’s news. After a few minutes, Louis was summoned to take a phone call in the dining room, and he excused himself. Maxim sat down on the sofa and picked up his drink, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself rising once more as his personal assistant came floating into the bar-sitting room on a cloud of perfume.
Graeme Longdon was an American, thirty-seven years old, tall, bean-pole thin, with curly brown hair shot through with a hint of auburn and the brightest of green eyes. Not classically beautiful in the given sense of the word, she was, nonetheless, a lovely young woman, very arresting, with a broad brow, high cheekbones above rounded cheeks, and a full, wide mouth that was forever smiling. She was from Richmond, Virginia, was independent, feisty, and outspoken.
Maxim considered her to be one of the smartest people he had ever known, and she was his good right hand.
Tonight she was dressed in a superlative black velvet suit, which to his discerning eye was most obviously an haute couture number from Paris. The excellently-styled jacket above the pencil-slim skirt was trimmed across the shoulders and yoke with jet-bead embroidery and silk tassels. Her long, shapely legs were encased in sheer black hose, her feet elegantly shod in a pair of black satin pumps. The only jewellery she wore were large diamond earrings shaped like flowers, and, on her wrist, a narrow diamond watch designed by Cartier in the thirties.
Maxim went to meet her, took hold of her elbow, guided her over to the corner table.
‘You look lovely,’ he said, forever appreciative of a pretty woman, always full of genuine gallantry, ready with a compliment.
‘Why thank you,’ she said, turning to him, widening her smile. It lit up her face. ‘I always feel I must get myself done up in my best fancy duds to come to this place. So I dashed back to the Ritz to change. That’s why I’m late. Sorry, Boss,’ she said with her usual breeziness and casual style.
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ he replied, returning her smile, as usual faintly amused by her irreverent manner, her persistence in calling him Boss. When she had first come to work for him and had started to address him in this way, he had been irritated, had tried to make her stop. But she had ignored his protests, or they had flown over her head, he wasn’t sure which, and Boss it had remained since then. He had grown used to it by now, no longer minded. It was of no consequence to him, really. And he admired her for being herself, for not compromising her personality to suit somebody else’s idea of the proper corporate image. She was honest and forthright and rather blunt, unnervingly so at times. He laughed to himself. Graeme had nicknames for everyone in the company, at least those she dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Most of the names were highly appropriate, and some disconcertingly so.
‘What’s a few minutes between us,’ Maxim remarked as they sat down. ‘In any case, you’re worth the wait, Graeme. You’re positively blooming tonight. Let’s settle down, relax, have a drink before dinner and you can tell me what happened after I left the office. What would you like? A glass of champagne, as usual? Or something else?’
‘Champagne, Maxim, please.’ Graeme put her black velvet evening purse on the table, made herself more comfortable on the chair opposite him, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt. There was an air of expectancy about her; it was as though she could hardly contain herself.
Once he had ordered her drink, she bent forward, her manner suddenly grown confidential, her vivid eyes more alive and eager than ever, her intelligent face aglow, flushed pink with excitement. ‘I’ve come to a conclusion about the Winonda Group, after being on and off the phone with Peter Heilbron in New York for the last couple of hours,’ she exclaimed, her tone rising slightly. ‘I think we should go for it, Boss, make a bid! It’s a cinch for us. The perfect company for a takeover despite what appear to be certain problems. I’ve studied the last two faxes I received from Peter and –’
‘If they’re sensitive, I presume you’ve shredded them,’ Maxim cut in swiftly.
‘Of course! How can you think otherwise!’ She sounded astonished, looked at him askance. ‘Am I not your clone, Boss?’
Maxim bit back a smile, made no response.
Graeme rushed on, ‘Winonda has a number of unprofitable divisions, but these would be easy to liquidate. We would keep the profitable divisions, of course, and simply reorganise them, give them a bit of the West International streamlining.’
She paused when the waiter brought the flute of champagne to her, waited until they were alone before continuing, ‘What makes the deal so attractive to me is the real estate Winonda owns just outside Seattle. It looks worthless at first glance, and especially so on paper. Undervalued, actually. It’s run down, and it’s in a very bad area. However, I know it has great value, that it’s a big asset.’
Maxim raised a brow.
Graeme explained. ‘It’s an asset because a Japanese company wants to buy it. They’re in the process of buying up the entire area, actually, and they want the Winonda real estate so that they can tear down the existing buildings, redevelop the land by constructing a hotel, a shopping mall, and offices on it.’
‘Then why hasn’t Charles Bishop sold?’ Maxim’s brow furrowed. ‘That strikes me as particularly