To Be the Best. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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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 sudden laughter reverberated on the warm air, cut into his myriad thoughts. It was a full, throaty, curiously sexual laugh and it caused Michael to lift his head swiftly.
He glanced across the table at her. She was spooning sorbet into her mouth. A small glob of it clung to her upper lip and she licked it off with the tip of her tongue and went on eating. He watched her, fascinated, and as he did he experienced the most extraordinary physical attraction to her. His reaction unnerved him. Michael held himself perfectly still in the chair, dropped his eyes and stared into his coffee cup.
When he eventually looked up she had finished the sorbet and her face was averted as she responded to something his father had just said. He blinked, not understanding himself at all. He must be mad to think of Paula in this way.
Brilliant sunshine was pouring in through the window immediately behind her and it encircled her with shimmering light, brought her into focus as if she were under a pinspot on a stage. Her colouring appeared to be more vivid than ever … the black hair, the violet eyes, the incomparable skin touched with a faint tan like the golden bloom on a summer peach. How vibrantly alive she was at this moment … and how very sexual.
Michael, who had never felt anything but fraternal affection for Paula, was filled with a fierce desire to make love to her. He took a steely hold of his feelings, which had flared so suddenly, and lowered his head, fearful that something would show in his face, that his eyes would betray his lust for her. Why? he asked himself. Why do I want to take her to bed now after knowing her for so many years? He gazed intently at the small vase of flowers in the centre of the table, his face unreadable as he endeavoured to quell his emotions.
Sir Ronald was saying, ‘And I shall be in Paris next weekend, Paula, en route to Biarritz. If you’re going to be over there, visiting the Paris store, perhaps we could dine together.’
‘No, I won’t be in Paris next weekend – ’ Paula began, and came to an abrupt halt. ‘Oh damn!’ she exclaimed, sitting up jerkily in her seat, frowning, remembering the note on her desk. She had forgotten to cancel the Paris airline reservation which had been made for her for later in the day.
‘Is something wrong?’ Sir Ronald asked in concern.
‘No, no, it’s nothing,’ Paula assured him, making a mental note to telephone British Airways the minute she returned to her office. ‘I forgot to do something before lunch, but there’s no problem, really there isn’t, Uncle Ronnie.’
Michael, who had managed to extinguish his erotic thoughts about Paula, gave his father a puzzled look. ‘Why are you going to Biarritz at this time of year. Dad? The season’s over.’
‘Yes, I know it is … but I’m going to look at an Imperial Russian Easter Egg by Fabergé,’ Sir Ronald announced with obvious pleasure.
He beamed at them both. ‘My art dealer in Paris has a client in Biarritz. A very old lady. A White Russian lady. She is apparently ready to sell her jewelled egg at long last. And, quite naturally, I want to get there first, before the American publisher Malcolm Forbes or any other serious collector hears about it and snaps it up before I do. You know how extremely rare the Fabergé eggs have become.’ Sir Ronald peered at his watch, clucked to himself, and before Michael had a chance to comment, he rapidly went on, ‘And that reminds me, I have an appointment at Wartski’s in fifteen minutes. Kenneth Snowman recently acquired a cigarette box which belonged to Czar Nicholas the Second. It’s by Perchin, one of the greatest of the Faberge designers, and I promised I would pop in to see it this afternoon.’
‘I’m delighted for you, Dad, and I hope that you manage to get both items,’ Michael said with real sincerity, knowing how important collecting these beautiful objects had become to his father. What had begun as a vague hobby had turned into a grand passion. The Kallinski Faberge Collection was renowned, and was frequently on exhibition with the Sandringham Collection, which had been started by King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, sister of the Czarina Marie Feodorovna, later added to by Queen Mary and now owned by Queen Elizabeth II.
Michael smiled at his father. ‘Since you’re in a hurry, I’d better get the bill, Dad,’ he said, and motioned to their waiter.
Sir Ronald glanced at Paula. ‘If you wouldn’t mind dropping me off at Wartski’s first, my car can then take you back to the store, my dear.’
‘Thanks, Uncle Ronnie, that’ll be lovely.’
‘Michael, can I give you a lift too?’
‘Oh no,’ Michael said, suddenly having no wish to be around Paula any longer than was necessary today. ‘Thanks anyway, Dad, but I prefer to walk.’
She went to Paris after all.
It was a sudden decision, made when she returned to the store at three o’clock. She had picked up the phone and begun to dial British Airways, ready to cancel her reservation, when she had changed her mind and let the receiver drop back into its cradle.
It had been a scramble then to finish her work and stuff several silk dresses into the garment bag and get out to Heathrow to catch the six o’clock plane. She had made it with ten minutes to spare and the flight had been smooth and fast with the wind behind them, and exactly one hour and five minutes after take-off they had landed serenely at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Her luggage had come through without much delay and she had passed customs quickly and with no fuss. Now she sat comfortably in the back of the chauffeur-driven car he had sent to meet her, being whizzed towards Paris and her rendezvous.
For the first time since lunch at the Connaught with the Kallinskis earlier in the day, Paula began to unwind. And as she did she realized that it had not been such a sudden decision to come here … she had known from the first moment she had read his note that she would go to him, hadn’t she? Hadn’t it been a fait accompli even then? Of course it had, but, very simply, she had not wanted to admit this to herself and so she had clouded the issue with thoughts of duty and responsibility.
Paula leaned into the corner of the seat and crossed her long and shapely legs; a smile flitted across her face as she recalled something her grandmother had said to her many, many years before. ‘When the right man beckons a woman will always go running to him, no matter who she is, no matter what her responsibilities are. And no doubt you’ll fall into that same trap one day, just as I did when I met your grandfather. You mark my words, Paula,’ Grandy had remarked in her knowing way. As usual, Emma had been correct.
The smile lingered on Paula’s face as she turned her head to glance out of the window. With the hour’s difference in time between London and Paris it was now nearly nine and already growing dark.
The car was leaving the Boulevard de Courcelles at a good clip, following the other traffic through the Etoile without slowing, and as it whirled at a dizzying speed around the Arc de Triomphe, that giant monument to a nation’s valour, Paula cringed. She wondered how all these fast-moving automobiles, being driven as if they were in a miniature Grand Prix, would make it safely without crashing into each other and creating a major disaster. That seemed to