To Be the Best. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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we really do appreciate your input.’ He sipped his wine and his light blue eyes grew thoughtful and after a moment he asked, ‘By the way, just out of curiosity, is Sarah Lowther still married to that French painter? Or don’t you hear anything about her any more?’
‘Obviously not directly, since I kicked her out of the family along with Jonathan,’ Paula murmured, the gaiety on her face instantly fading. ‘But there was a piece on Yves Pascal in a French magazine about six months ago … Paris Match, I believe. Anyway, amongst the many photographs was one of Sarah and Yves and their five-year-old daughter, Chloe. Seemingly they live in Mougins in the Alpes-Maritimes. They own an old farmhouse; that’s where he has his studio. He’s known as the enfant terrible of French art, and he’s become very big, immensely successful.’
Michael said, ‘He’s a damned good painter actually, although his work’s not my cup of tea. Having been raised on the school of French Impressionist painting, all this ultramodern stuff leaves me utterly unmoved. Give me Monet, Manet, Sisley and van Gogh any day of the week.’
‘Absolutely,’ Paula agreed.
‘And talking of Sarah, whatever happened to her partner in crime, Jonathan Ainsley?’ Michael stared at Paula, frowning. ‘Is he still lurking in the Far East?’
‘I believe so, but not even Sandy knows for sure,’ Paula said, her voice low and unemotional. ‘Friends of Emily’s reported seeing him in Hong Kong, and then Singapore on another occasion. Jonathan’s dividends and the balance sheets of Harte Enterprises go to a firm of accountants here in London who handle his business seemingly.’ She made a sour face. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t show up in England, that’s all that matters to me. As Emma would have said, good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘Christ, yes!’ Michael began to shake his head wonderingly. ‘I’ve never been able to understand why he did what he did. He was such a fool – bloody stupid if you ask me. He had everything going for himself and he threw it all away.’
‘Perhaps he believed he would never get caught,’ Sir Ronald ventured to Michael. ‘But then I’m sure he hadn’t bargained for this one here.’ He glanced at Paula through the corner of his eye, patted her arm and finished with a chuckle, ‘He met his match in you, my dear, no doubt about that whatsoever.’
Paula attempted to laugh with him but it came out sounding forced and artificial, and for a moment she did not trust herself to speak. She was hating this discussion about Jonathan Ainsley, her cousin, her deadly enemy of long ago.
Michael pressed, ‘And so nobody in the family knows what he’s doing for a living?’
Paula stared at Michael through eyes grown bleak and flat. She gave him a long and careful look, and pursed her lips, a habit she had picked up from her grandmother years before. After a split second, she said with a certain pithiness, ‘Jonathan Ainsley doesn’t have to earn a living, since he receives a very sizeable income from Harte Enterprises.’ There was a small pause before she thought to add, ‘And nobody’s ever bothered to find out about his personal or business life … because none of us care what’s happened to him.’ Now frowning in perplexity, and pinning Michael with her vivid blue gaze, Paula asked testily, ‘Why the sudden preoccupation with Jonathan anyway?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t thought about him in years, and now, unexpectedly, I’m riddled with curiosity,’ Michael admitted with a rueful grin.
‘I’m not.’ Despite the warmth of the Connaught dining room, Paula shivered. She had never forgotten the last words Jonathan had spoken to her … I’ll get you for this, Paula Fairley. Sebastian and I will bloody well get you, he had screamed, shaking his fist at her in the most ridiculous way, like the villain in a Victorian novel. Well, Sebastian Cross could not ‘get her’ since he was dead. But Jonathan would if he could. Sometimes she had nightmares about her cousin, nightmares in which he did her terrible harm. He was certainly capable of it. Capable of almost anything. She knew that from their childhood. Once, a few years ago, she had confided her fears in Sandy, who had laughed and had told her to dismiss Jonathan from her mind. Sandy had reminded her that Jonathan was a bully and, like all bullies, a coward. This was true; nevertheless, she had never been able to expunge the memory of the day Sandy had fired him. It was only too easy to recall the baleful look in Jonathan’s eyes, the mask of hatred contorting his face and instinctively, ever since then, she had known he would always remain her enemy until the day they buried him. Ten years had passed and she had not set eyes on him again, none of them had, in fact, and yet deep down inside her was this small kernel of fear.
Suddenly becoming aware that Michael and Sir Ronald were watching her, were waiting for her to say something, she turned towards Michael. Adopting the lightest of tones, she said, ‘Master Ainsley turned out to be a bad penny, and the least said about him the better.’
‘Quite so, my dear, quite so!’ Sir Ronald muttered. He had grown conscious of the change in her demeanour whilst they had been discussing Ainsley and he decided it would be wise to change the subject. And so he said with a rush of genuine enthusiasm, ‘I received your invitation to the dinner dance you’re giving for the sixtieth anniversary of the store, Paula, and I’m looking forward to it immensely. Now, tell me more about the other celebrations you’ve planned.’
‘Oh I’d love to, Uncle Ronnie, I have some really special things coming up – ’ She cut herself off as the waiter drew to a standstill at the table. ‘But perhaps we should order dessert first,’ she went on, accepting one of the menus being thrust at her.
‘Splendid idea, and I do recommend the sorbets,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘It’s really far too hot for anything else, isn’t it?’
Paula nodded. ‘I think that’s what I’ll have.’ She glanced at the waiter, half smiled. ‘A lemon sorbet for me, please.’
‘You can make that two,’ Sir Ronald said. ‘And what about you Michael, will you join us?’
‘Oh, no.’ Michael threw his father a look of mock horror and grimaced. ‘Only coffee for me.’
As the waiter went off with their order, Michael’s eyes swept over Paula appreciatively. He grinned as he remarked, ‘It seems to me you can eat anything and never put on an ounce … I’m afraid I have to watch myself these days.’
Paula shook her head and laughed with him. ‘Oh, I don’t know, you’re trim enough, Michael.’
Swivelling to face his father, she now picked up the conversation where they had left off a moment ago, and launched into a recital about the forthcoming events to be held at the Knightsbridge store later that year.
Michael had settled back in his chair, toying with his wine glass. He was only vaguely listening to Paula.
His mind remained focused on Lady Hamilton Clothes and the endless possibilities the company held for them, if they were lucky enough to buy it back from Harte Enterprises. Amanda Linde, Sandy’s half sister, had been creating the line for a number of years now, and in his opinion she was a far better designer than Sarah Lowther had ever been. Her clothes were easy and comfortable to wear, and yet they had a special kind of elegance because she always managed to give them a touch of the Harte class. Her designs would sell as well in other Continental countries as they did in France, of that he was quite certain.
Michael’s mind turned on business matters.
Sir Ronald and Paula continued to chat about her celebratory plans for the store’s anniversary. Their voices were a faint murmur, barely audible against the buzz of the lunchtime crowd in the busy restaurant.
The waiter came back and served the dessert, poured the coffee.
Michael picked up his cup, further ruminating on the talented Amanda. If they bought Lady Hamilton, whether now or in the future, she would have to remain as head fashion designer and managing director. That was an imperative. If she was in any way reluctant to stay on, to work for them, he would have to come up with some special inducements –
Paula’s