Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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Harbor when we were boys. Tommy is also a client of the bank. And it just so happens I’m a major stockholder of Everett Communications.’ He chuckled and, taking control in his usual masterful manner, continued: ‘So you see, there’s no problem. I’ll talk to Tommy right now. Call him at home, in fact. I’ll have the story killed and the journalist fired immediately. I’m not going to have you hounded by that particular magazine and disturbed in this way. It’s perfectly outrageous. What’s the name of the journalist?’
Francesca hesitated and, ignoring the question, said, ‘No, don’t do anything, Nelson. Please. At least not at the moment. I’m not really worried about the story. I’ll discuss it with you this evening, and then we can decide.’
Nelson sighed, knowing better than to press the point with her. ‘Just as you wish, darling. But I don’t like you to be so perturbed. And don’t deny it either, because I can tell from your voice that you are.’
‘Nelson, there’s something else – ‘ She took a deep breath and said, ‘Katharine Tempest wants to see me.’ As she spoke Francesca acknowledged to herself that this was the real reason for her distress.
A prolonged silence at the other end of the telephone. And then, ‘I knew she would turn up again one day, like the damned bad penny she is. She’s a troublemaker, Francesca. I sincerely hope you are not going to see her.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘The right decision, darling. Now, if you hurry, you’ll arrive before the other guests and we can have a quiet chat about all this. Dayson should be there in about twenty minutes to half an hour, depending on the traffic. It was bad earlier, when I came up from Wall Street. See you shortly.’ As an afterthought, he added quietìy, ‘And don’t dwell on Katharine Tempest. She’s not worth it. Dismiss her from your mind.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Nelson.’
There was no time to waste if she was to be ready when the car arrived and Francesca did as Nelson suggested, turning her thoughts away from Katharine Tempest as she went into her dressing room. She undressed quickly, supped into a towelling robe and sat down at the dressing table to attend to her face and hair, working with concentration on her appearance.
At one moment she did pause to think about Estelle, and discovered, much to her amazement, that her anger had abated considerably. Her mind strayed back to the interview, and she ruminated on the outcome. Estelle had protested her innocence of any deviousness, arguing that she fully intended to write the story. But Francesca was not entirely convinced of the veracity of this statement, still believing the journalist had connived, and had entered her home under false pretences. On the other hand, she might be genuinely sincere about doing the piece. It struck Francesca then, and with an uneasy jolt, that it would be relatively easy for Estelle to do a vicious hatchet job on her, simply by making her appear to be the spoiled, pampered and indolent wife of a very rich and powerful man, who took up charities out of perpetual boredom. Estelle could make her look ridiculous, and there was no more devastating weapon than ridicule, especially in print. All those questions about her clothes, her home, her servants and her life in general, apparently so meaningless on the surface, now gained greater significance.
Worry clouded Francesca’s eyes. Undoubtedly Estelle was not very bright in certain areas, and she was obviously living in a world of fantasy. Yet she was also a clever journalist with a flair for words, and there was no denying her fervid hostility. She might be motivated by sheer maliciousness to dip her pen in venom, and that could prove to be embarrassing to Harrison, not to mention the charity. She bit her lip, attempting to outguess Estelle, and then gave up, knowing it to be a fruitless task. And, of course, there was always Nelson, ready to interfere.
Over the years Francesca had acquired a sense of irony about life, and now she thought: Poor pathetic Estelle, playing out of her league again. How little she knows about the power brokers in this town, the most influential of whom is Nelson. Not only in New York, but from coast to coast. He could demolish Estelle with one telephone call. But Francesca was too big a woman to be vindictive, and she had no wish to deprive anyone of a livelihood, particularly an unfortunate creature like Estelle. And so, for these reasons, she now decided she must exercise prudence, speak with the utmost caution to Nelson when he questioned her about the interview later. Otherwise he would act with lightning speed, out of fierce protection and love for her, wielding his immense power to Estelle’s detriment. Perhaps she was being foolish and soft-hearted in view of Estelle’s reprehensible behaviour, but for the moment she thought it wiser to keep her own counsel. She wanted to analyse the situation before making any moves and enlisting Nelson’s help. And if she did resort to the latter, it would be with the understanding that the only action to be taken was the suppression of the story.
Francesca brought her gaze back to the selection of cosmetics in front of her. She picked up a pot of silver eyeshadow and smoothed the merest trace of it on her lids, added several layers of brown mascara to her lashes, and then outlined her mouth with soft peach lipstick. She sat back, looking in the mirror with a critical eye and decided Val was right; she did seem peaked. Rectifying her pallor with a light stroking of rouge on her high cheekbones, she then lifted the silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair several times, and finally completed her toilet with a few sprays of Joy perfume. As she rose the intercom buzzed. It was Val, announcing the arrival of the car.
‘Thank you, Val. Tell Dayson I’ll be down shortly. I’m not quite ready.’
Having selected her clothes for the evening earlier in the day, Francesca was dressed within seconds, and she added the two strands of opera-length pearls she invariably wore, along with the other jewellery she had taken out of the safe that morning. As with the necklace, none of these pieces was ostentatious or elaborate, just plain pearl studs for her ears, a simple pearl bracelet with a coral clasp, and a coral-and-pearl ring she slipped on next to her platinum wedding band. A peach silk evening bag, identically matched to her high-heeled silk pumps, lay on the dressing table. She put in her keys and a few items she required for the evening, picked it up and moved towards the door.
On an impulse she turned, and walked back to the far end of the dressing room. Here it widened into a more spacious area and became a deep, relatively large alcove. This was fined with closets running from the floor to the ceiling on all three walls, and they were entirely sheathed with mirrors that created a glittering cocoon of shimmering light and reflections, this effect intensified by hidden spots in the ceiling.
Francesca paused in the centre of the alcove to view herself full length. After a moment’s consideration she frowned and shook her head, suddenly dissatisfied with the way she looked, although she was not quite certain why. Unless it was the dress which was new and had never been worn before. Like all her clothes this was understated and simple, a rippling column of peach-coloured panne velvet, cut like a Roman tunic and falling to the floor in straight fluid lines. The long wide sleeves helped to soften its basic severity, the square-shaped neckline beautifully emphasized her slender stem-like neck, and the off-centre slit in the skirt revealed enough of her right leg to lend a dash of sophistication. There was no question in her mind that the dress was elegant, and perfectly suitable for Nelson’s intimate dinner party. And yet there was something she was not sure about, something which troubled her, and she wondered whether to change into another gown, even though she was running late.
She turned from side to side, looking at herself appraisingly from all angles, and finally made a long slow turn. It was then that Francesca saw her reflection doubled, tripled and quadrupled. An infinity of images in an infinity of mirrors assaulted her eyes, and she was confronted by a dizzying number of Francescas encased in a sliver of supple peach velvet. Peach from head to toe. Peach. She caught her breath and drew closer to the central mirror, staring intently, and a look of surprise mixed with dawning comprehension spread across her face. It was not the style of the dress that disturbed her, but the colour. Of course that was it. She had not worn peach for years, over twenty years to be exact.
And as she continued to gaze at herself, mesmerized by the peach dress, up from the inner recesses of her mind there was dredged a memory, a memory so carefully, so deliberately and so deeply buried it had lain dormant for years.
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