The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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swept through the double doors that led to her private domain. She closed the doors firmly behind her, for she did not subscribe to this American custom of open doors in executive offices. She thought it peculiar and distracting, addicted as she was to total privacy. She threw her tweed coat and her handbag carelessly on to one of the sofas and, still holding the briefcase, she crossed the room to the desk. This was a gargantuan slab of heavy glass on a simple base of polished steel, a dramatic focal point in the highly dramatic office. It was angled across a corner, looking out into the vast and lovely room, facing towards a plate-glass window. This covered the whole of one wall and rose to the ceiling in a glittering sweep that presented a panoramic view of the city skyline, which Emma always thought of as a living painting of enormous power and wealth and the heartbeat of American industry.
She enjoyed her New York office, different as it was from her executive suite in the London store, which was filled with the mellow Georgian antiques she preferred. Here the ambiance was modern and sleek, for Emma had a great sense of style and she had decided that as much as she loved period furniture, it would be unfitting when juxtaposed against the slick architecture of this great steel-and-glass structure that pushed its way up into the sky. And so she had assembled the best in modern furniture design. Mies van der Rohe chairs were mingled with long, slender Italian sofas, all of them upholstered in dark leather as soft and as supple as silk. There were tall steel-and-glass étagères filled with books, cabinets of rich polished rosewood, and small tables made of slabs of Italian marble balanced on polished chrome bases. Yet for all of its modern overtones there was nothing austere or cold about the office, which had a classical elegance and was the epitome of superior taste. It had, in fact, a tranquil beauty, a softness, filled as it was with a misty mélange of intermingled blues and greys, these subdued tones washing over the walls and the floor, enlivened here and there by rafts of more vivid colours in the cushions on the sofas and in the priceless French Impressionist paintings which graced the walls. Emma’s love of art was also evidenced in the Henry Moore and Brancusi sculptures and the temple heads from Angkor Wat, which were displayed on black marble pedestals around the room. The great soaring window was sheathed in sheer bluish-grey curtains which fell like a heavy mist from the ceiling, and when they were open, as they were now, the room seemed to be part of the sky, as if it was suspended in space above the towering concrete monoliths of Manhattan.
Emma smiled as she sat down at the desk, for Gaye’s handiwork was apparent. The long sweep of glass was neat and uncluttered, just the way she liked it, bare except for the telephones, the silver mug of pens, the yellow legal pad she favoured for notes, and the practical metal extension lamp that flooded the desk with light. Her correspondence, interoffice memos, and a large number of telexes were arranged in respective files, while a number of telephone messages were clipped together next to the telephones. She took out her glasses and read the telephone messages and the telexes, making various notations on these, and then she buzzed for Gaye. The minute she entered the room Emma knew that her fears had not been unfounded. Gaye was haggard and she had dark smudges under her eyes and seemed to vibrate with tension. Gaye Sloane was a woman of about thirty-eight and she had been Emma’s executive secretary for six years although she had been in her actual employ for twelve years. She was a model of diligence and efficiency and was devoted to Emma, whom she not only admired but held in considerable affection. A tall well-built woman with an attractive appearance, she was always self-contained, usually in command of herself.
But as she walked across the room Emma detected raw nerves barely controlled. They exchanged pleasantries and Gaye sat down in the chair opposite Emma’s desk, her pad in her hand.
Emma sat back in her chair, consciously adopting a relaxed attitude in an effort to make Gaye feel as much at ease as possible. She glanced at her secretary kindly and asked quietly, ‘What’s wrong, Gaye?’
Gaye hesitated momentarily and then said rather hurriedly, feigning surprise, ‘Why, nothing, Mrs Harte. Truly, I’m just tired. Jet lag, I think.’
‘Let’s forget about jet lag, Gaye. I believe you are extremely upset and have been since you arrived in New York. Now come along, my dear, tell me what’s bothering you. Is it something here or is there a problem with business in London?’
‘No. Of course not!’ Gaye exclaimed, but she paled slightly and looked away, avoiding Emma’s steady gaze.
Emma leaned forward, her arms on the desk, her eyes glittering behind her glasses. She became increasingly conscious of the woman’s suppressed emotions and sensed that Gaye was troubled by something of the most extreme seriousness. As she continued to study her she thought Gaye seemed close to total collapse.
‘Are you ill, Gaye?’
‘No, Mrs Harte. I’m perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Is something in your personal life disturbing you?’ Emma now asked as patiently as she could, determined to get to the root of the problem.
‘No, Mrs Harte.’ Her voice was a whisper.
Emma took off her glasses and gave Gaye a long, piercing look and said briskly, ‘Come, come, my dear! I know you too well. There is something weighing on your mind and I can’t understand why you won’t tell me about it. Have you made some sort of mistake and are afraid to explain? Surely not after all these years. Nobody is infallible and I’m not the ogre I’m supposed to be. You, of all people, should know that by now.’
‘Oh, I do, Mrs Harte …’ The girl broke off. Her voice was shaking and she was close to tears.
The woman sitting opposite Gaye was composed and in absolute control of herself. She was no weakling, Gaye knew that only too well. She was tough and resilient, an indomitable woman who had achieved her phenomenal success because of her formidable character and her strength of will, plus her resourcefulness and brilliance in business. To Gaye, Emma Harte was as indestructible as the coldest steel that could not be twisted or broken. But I am about to break her now, she thought, panic taking hold of her again.
Emma had seen, with gathering disquiet, the twitching muscles and the fear in her eyes. She stood up decisively and crossed the room to the rosewood bar, shaking her head in perplexity. She opened the bar, poured a measure of cognac into a small glass, and brought it back to Gaye.
‘Drink this, my dear. It will make you feel better,’ she said, patting the woman’s arm affectionately.
Tears sprang into Gaye’s eyes and her throat ached. The brandy was harsh and it stung her throat but she was suddenly glad of its rough taste. She sipped it slowly and remembered Emma’s kindnesses to her over the years. At that precise moment she wished, with great fervency, that she was not the one who had to impart this news. Gaye realized that there were those, who had dealt with Emma as a formidable adversary, who considered her to be cynical, rapacious, cunning, and ruthless. On the other hand, Gaye knew that she was generous of her time and money and understanding of heart. As she was being understanding now. Perhaps Emma was wilful and imperious and even power-ridden. But surely life had made her so. Gaye had always said to Emma’s critics, and with the utmost veracity, that above all the other tycoons of her calibre and stature, Emma Harte had compassion, and was just and charitable and infinitely kind.
Gaye eventually became aware of this prolonged silence between them, of Emma’s fixed stare. She put the glass down on the edge of the desk and smiled weakly at Emma. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harte. I do feel better.’
‘Good. Now Gaye, why don’t you confide in me? It can’t be all that terrible.’
Gaye was paralysed, unable to speak.
Emma shifted in her seat and leaned forward urgently. ‘Look here, is this something to do with me, Gaye?’ Her voice was calm and strong.
It seemed to give Gaye a degree of confidence. She nodded her head and was about to speak, but when she saw the look of concern enter Emma’s eyes, her courage deserted her again. She put her hands up to her face and cried involuntarily, ‘Oh God! How can I tell you!’
‘Let’s get it out in the open, Gaye. If you don’t know where to begin, then begin in the middle. Just blurt it out. It’s often the best way to talk about something unpleasant,