Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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had nodded at her reflection with complete gratification. She thought she was the epitome of a glamorous, successful international journalist. Sadly, Estelle Morgan did not think very deeply about anything, and so it never occurred to her that an outfit could not transform her into all the things she believed herself to be.
She glanced at her watch as she waited for the traffic lights to change at Seventy-Ninth Street. It was a few seconds to four, but she was almost there and would arrive exactly on time. Punctuality was not one of her strong suits, but she recalled that Francesca Avery, the cold bitch, was a stickler about time and, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, she had made a concerted effort not to be late. After giving her name and being announced, she was permitted to enter the grandiose building at Eighty-First Street.
She was greeted at the Avery apartment by a middle-aged woman in black, undoubtedly the housekeeper, who asked for her coat, laid it carefully over a chair, and then ushered her across the hall. Estelle had been to many elegant homes during the course of her career, but she had never seen anything quite as impressive as the Avery entrance hall, particularly in New York City. Jesus, it looks as if it’s been transported lock, stock and barrel from Versailles, she thought as she followed the housekeeper in silence, her eyes popping.
After she had shown Estelle into the library, the housekeeper gave her a small cool smile and said, ‘I’ll tell her Ladyship you’re here.’ Estelle murmured her thanks as the housekeeper departed.
She crossed the room to the fire, her boots sinking into the deep silken pile of the antique Chinese carpet. Her eyes flicked around yet again, curiosity glittering in them. They took in the antiques, and moved on to regard the paintings gracing the panelled walls. She was not particularly well informed about art, but Estelle had acquired a smattering of borrowed knowledge about innumerable subjects. And so she was able to recognize at once that these were not merely good copies, nor hardly likely to be in this apartment. They were originals and quite famous enough to identify, masterpieces from the Post-Impressionist period. That’s undoubtedly a Van Gogh on the far wall, she decided, hurrying over to examine it, delighted with her accurate guesswork when she saw the signature. She scrutinized the others with lightning speed. A Seurat. A Cézanne. A Gauguin.
A moment later the door swung open and Francesca Avery was standing there, her eyes sparkling with vitality, a smile on her tranquil face. ‘Estelle!’ she exclaimed, moving forward with grace and elegance, swaying slightly on the precariously high heels that drew attention to her fine ankles and long slender legs.
As she approached the fireplace, Estelle noted that the English-rose complexion was still quite flawless and the burnished amber-blonde hair as silky and luxuriant as it had ever been. Why, she hasn’t changed at all, Estelle commented to herself in astonishment, and with a stab of annoyance.
‘Do forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ Francesca apologized. ‘But here I am. And it’s so nice to see you again.’ She stretched out her hand.
The journalist arranged a pleasant smile on her face and grabbed Francesca’s long cool fingers clumsily. ‘I’ve only been here a few minutes, my dear. I didn’t mind waiting at all. And especially in this lovely room. What marvellous taste you have.’
Francesca extracted her hand, wincing inside. Estelle had always been something of a sycophant and time had apparently not tempered her obsequiousness. Although this was nauseating, she supposed it was harmless enough. Francesca moved away from the fireplace and murmured, ‘How kind of you to say so. Now I think we might be more comfortable over there.’ She indicated the sofa and chairs grouped against the back wall underneath the Gauguin painting of a Tahitian girl. Estelle followed her hostess’s suggestion and bounced over to the seating arrangement. She took her time settling comfortably and then she looked at Francesca, smiled with a fraudulent sweetness and said, ‘And I must say, my dear, it’s lovely to see you too, after such a long time. It seems like centuries.’
‘Not quite that,’ Francesca responded with a dry laugh. ‘About five years. I think the last time we ran into each other was in Monte Carlo, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, at Grace’s benefit. She’s such a lovely person, and Rainier is quite the charmer. I’m so fond of them both,’ she gushed.
Francesca was astounded at this blatant boasting of friendship with the Grimaldis, knowing it to be utterly false. Estelle was no more on intimate terms with the Prince and Princess of Monaco than she was with the Queen of England. Reluctant to embark on a conversation that could only prove embarrassing to Estelle, she refrained from passing comment, and asked in a brisk tone, ‘Can I offer you something? Tea, coffee or a drink perhaps?’
Disappointment flooded through Estelle, was quickly replaced by aggravation. But she caught herself in time. ‘Tea would be very nice, thank you.’ And then in an effort to conceal her annoyance at being deprived of an opportunity to show off, she went on, ‘With lemon please, and a sweetener if you have it. Must keep my figure, you know.’
‘Of course,’ said Francesca. ‘I’ll go and ask Val to make it, and then we can catch up, and get on with the interview. Please excuse me.’ She hurried to the door, wondering with dismay how she would cope with Estelle for the next hour.
Estelle’s narrowed gaze followed Francesca as she glided out. Why is it she always seems to float not walk? she wondered sourly. And how has she kept her looks? She’s got to be at least forty-two, yet she looks ten years younger.
Francesca returned almost immediately, interrupting Estelle’s thoughts. ‘Val already had the kettle boiling,’ she explained, placing the Georgian silver tray, with its matching tea service, on the coffee table. She sat down on the chair opposite, poured the tea and went on: ‘The last time I saw you I believe you were working for one of the newspapers. How long have you been writing for Now Magazine?’
‘Oh, about three years and I’m the Features Editor actually.’
‘Why that’s marvellous, Estelle. It must be a very important job, although I should imagine it’s rather hectic as well.’
‘It is. But it’s exciting. I lead a very interesting life, you know, jetting all over the world, staying in the best hotels, or with the best people, doing my in-depth interviews with famous personalities.’ Puffing up with self-importance, she continued, ‘I also have quite a large staff working for me. But I make sure I get the best interviews for myself, especially those abroad.’
Francesca thought: Well, at least she’s honest, and said, ‘How very smart of you.’
‘Just one of the many tricks of the trade,’ Estelle said and reached for her handbag. She took out a small tape recorder and placed it on the butler’s tray table between them. ‘You don’t mind if I use this, do you?’
‘No, whatever you prefer. I’d like to tell you something about the charity. I assume you’re going to mention it, since you went through my committee to arrange our meeting, and they’re expecting it, you know. Now –’
‘We’ll get to that later,’ Estelle interjected so brusquely Francesca was taken aback. The journalist hurried on without pause, ‘First I want you to talk about you, your life style, your personal life, your career, that kind of thing. After all, you’re the subject of my interview, not the charity. My readers are interested in personalities, and how they live, not organizations or institutions.’ She threw Francesca a look that seemed somehow challenging.
‘Oh. I see,’ Francesca replied softly, wondering what she had so foolishly let herself in for, albeit with the best of intentions. She also found the sharp rebuff rather discourteous and then dismissed it as insensitivity, or perhaps simply enthusiasm for the job. Estelle had always been a graceless person and never intentionally meant to give offence.
Francesca leaned forward and reached for a cigarette in the onyx and gold box on the table. She lit it and sat back in the chair, waiting patiently as Estelle fiddled with the machine, experiencing acute embarrassment for her. Estelle had obviously dressed in a manner she thought appropriate for the occasion, and even smart, but the red wool frock, although expensive, was a most unbecoming