Читать книгу Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 14

Estelle Morgan was too early for her appointment with Francesca Avery, and as the taxi sped up Madison Avenue she decided to alight a few blocks away from the apartment, and walk the rest of the way. She paid off the cab at Seventy-Fourth Street and Madison and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. It had stopped snowing at lunch time, and a watery sun was trying to penetrate the bloated etiolated clouds with scant success.

As she turned onto Fifth Avenue and approached the palatial and imposing building where the Averys lived, a self-congratulatory smile slipped onto her face, giving her a smug look. How right she had been to wear her mink coat. The doormen of these apartment buildings where the very rich lived were invariably snootier than their privileged inhabitants, and she wasn’t going to have even one of them look her over with disdain and treat her dismissively.

Estelle had hesitated about the coat at first, because it was snowing hard at eight o’clock and she did not want to get it wet. But it looked far better than her raincoat, and so she decided to take a cab to the office. It had been a worthwhile investment. The coat made her feel chic and bolstered her self-confidence. It was her pride and joy really. To complete the outfit Estelle had chosen a red dress, black patent knee-high boots and a large black patent shoulder bag, a copy of a famous Italian design. Earlier that morning as she had surveyed herself in the mirror, she 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 choice. The colour was disastrous with her florid complexion and flaming red hair. Francesca was aware this was the natural colour, but Estelle seemed to be resorting to the bottle these days. It was several shades too bright, and harsh.

Drawing on her cigarette, Francesca glanced away quickly, chastising herself for her lack of generosity, and suddenly, being compassionate, she was touched by pity for Estelle. They had first met years ago in London when they were in their twenties, but the intervening years had not been kind to the woman sitting opposite her. Francesca was unexpectedly saddened. Poor Estelle. Her life was probably not half as glamorous as she pretended. It might even be a terrible struggle in so many different ways. Yet Estelle was a clever writer, and had been full of talent and promise in those early years. What had happened to her dreams of becoming a novelist? Quite clearly they had gone by the wayside. And then she thought: But who am I to criticize Estelle? Everyone did what they could in life, and hoped for the best. She had a particular distaste for those who constantly wanted to play God and passed judgment on their peers. She had always chosen not to indulge in that gratuitous pastime.

‘There, I’m all set,’ Estelle exclaimed and settled back comfortably.

And so the interview began. Where did she get her clothes? Did she prefer French or American designers? What kind of entertaining did she like best? Did she give large or small dinner parties? Or cocktail parties? How did she cope with homes in New York, Virginia and Barbados? How many servants did she have? Did she decorate her own homes? Did she have any hobbies? What was it like being the wife of an ambassador? Did Harrison enjoy his new role as a presidential adviser? What was his state of health? Did she go to the White House frequently? Who were the people she entertained? Did she enjoy a good relationship with Harrison’s grandchildren? Did she prefer living in America to England, or other countries? And why? Did Harrison have any hobbies? How did they relax? What were their leisure activities?

It seemed to Francesca that the questions were interminable. She answered honestly and with cordiality, pausing from time to time to freshen their tea or light a cigarette. But as Estelle probed and probed she grew steadily weary and a trifle impatient with this cross-examination of her life, began to see it as an intrusion into her privacy, and certainly not exactly what she had bargained for when she had agreed to the meeting. Furthermore, to Francesca’s growing unease, Estelle had not mentioned the charity once. She was just about to tactfully introduce this subject when the questions changed in character.

‘Do you think Teddy Kennedy will run for the Presidency in 1980?’

Surprise flickered in Francesca’s eyes. ‘I never discuss politics. I leave that to Harrison.’

‘But you must have an opinion, and I’m interviewing you, not your husband. Come on, Francesca, you’re a bright, liberated woman. What do you think? Will he try to run?’

‘You really must respect my wishes, Estelle. I don’t want to discuss politics on any level.’

‘Well then, on to other subjects. Let’s touch on your career. You haven’t written a book lately. Is that because the one about Edward IV and the Wars of the Roses didn’t do very well? I really felt for you when I read the reviews. Personally, I didn’t think it was dull, long-winded or verbose.’

Francesca stifled a gasp. Estelle’s expression was smoothly bland, revealing nothing. Maybe she doesn’t know she is being inflammatory, Francesca thought, and then laughed inwardly at her own naïveté. This was the new style of journalism. Being provocative to elicit angry or unthinking responses inevitably made for a better story. She was not going to fall into that trap. Conscious that journalists always had the last word when they sat down at their typewriters, she refused to take offence or to be chivied into losing her composure.

‘The reviews weren’t all bad. In fact, I had some excellent ones,’ she said. ‘And contrary to your impression, Estelle, the book did sell, both in hardcover and paperback. Of course, you’re right in one sense, in that it wasn’t a runaway bestseller like my books on Chinese Gordon or Richard III.’ She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You win a few and lose a few, I suppose. Anyway, to answer your question, the real reason I haven’t written another book in the past few years is simply because I haven’t found the right historical figure to focus on, but I expect I will come up with something eventually.’

‘I love your historical biographies, and I happen to think you’re equal to Antonia Fraser any time, even though she is a much bigger name. You know, in my opinion, you really are rather a good writer, my dear.’

Although this was uttered with pleasantness there was a patronizing undertone to the words, which Francesca could not fail to miss. And she thought, with sudden acuity: Hostility is implicit in this woman. She may not be conscious of it, but I know she does not like me at all. Her guard went up.

Estelle, who was so self-involved she was fundamentally oblivious to other people’s feelings, went on unperturbedly, ‘Oh dear, I see the tape’s run out. I’ll have to change it.’ Obviously the session was far from over in Estelle’s mind. It was almost six and it had grown dark outside, and the concert had not yet been broached. Francesca’s good manners were bred in the bone, and to be impolite or inhospitable to a guest in her home would go against the grain. Nevertheless, she felt disinclined to extend herself any further. She tightened her lips in aggravation and admitted she would have to endure Estelle’s presence until she had talked about the charity, otherwise the whole afternoon would have been a disgraceful waste of time.

Against her better judgment, Francesca now felt obliged to ask: ‘Would you care for a drink, Estelle? I thought I might have a glass of white wine, but there’s plenty to choose from, if you’d prefer something else.’ She waved her hand in the direction of the console table in the far corner. This held a large array of bottles, decanters and crystal glasses.

‘Oooh! What a lovely idea, my dear. I’ll have white wine too, please.’

Francesca nodded, retrieved the tea tray and escaped to the kitchen. Within minutes she was back, carrying a silver bucket containing a bottle of white wine. She took this over to the console, poured two glasses and rejoined Estelle. She felt as thought she was on the verge of screaming.

‘Santé,’ Estelle said. ‘I do appreciate good wines. After all my trotting back and forth to France I guess I’m spoiled. What is this? It’s delicious.’

‘Pouilly Fuissé,’ Francesca replied with a thin smile, marvelling at her considerable patience, But it was dwindling fast.

In the kitchen Francesca had finally resolved to seize control of the situation and bring the interview to its conclusion as rapidly and as diplomatically as possible. Adopting a businesslike tone, she plunged in: ‘I must talk to you about the charity, Estelle. It’s getting late and I have a dinner engagement. I’m sure your time is precious too.’

‘But I have more questions about –’

‘Please, Estelle, let’s be fair,’ Francesca interrupted firmly. ‘I have given you two hours already. I only agreed to this interview because I felt your story would be beneficial to a good cause, and help us with the concert, and this was made quite clear to you at the time. Normally I don’t give interviews of this type. I loathe personal publicity.’

Estelle had her glass halfway to her mouth. She put it down and gaped at Francesca. ‘Don’t like publicity! You’re always in the columns.’

‘I can’t help it if I’m constantly being mentioned in the newspapers. It’s none of my doing, I can assure you of that. But don’t let’s digress.’ Francesca glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘I’ll have to bring our visit to a close very shortly, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh sure, that’s all right,’ Estelle responded affably. ‘Please go ahead, Francesca dear. I’d just love to hear about your charity.’

Relieved that she had turned the discussion around to her advantage, Francesca launched into all the salient details of the elaborate star-studded concert she and the committee were planning. She spoke quickly, but articulately, for about fifteen minutes. Finally she concluded, ‘That’s about it. What can I add, but to say again that it is for a truly worthy cause, and naturally we’d appreciate any mention you can give.’

‘There’s no problem. I’ll give the charity a nice fat plug, right up front in the story.’ Estelle cleared her throat and added quickly, ‘I’d like to have a photographer come up next week and take a few candids of you, whenever it’s convenient. Can you give me a date and time, please?’

‘Oh dear!’ Francesca stopped, and began to finger her pearls. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d want to take special photographs,’ she said with a degree of hesitance. ‘Would next Wednesday at two o’clock be suitable? It’s really the only time I have free.’ She was not especially enamoured of this new development, but she knew herself to be trapped.

‘That’s fine. I’ll book our very best photographer.’ Estelle leaned forward and snapped off the tape recorder.

Sitting back in the chair, Francesca permitted herself to relax. She felt exhausted and longed to be alone, but it seemed that Estelle was determined to finish her drink, and at her own leisure.

‘I have something to tell you,’ Estelle began, lifting her glass and regarding Francesca closely over the rim. There was a small pause before she said, ‘Katharine’s coming back to New York.’

Francesca sat up swiftly and threw her an astonished glance, frowning. ‘Katharine?’ she echoed.

‘Yes. Katharine Tempest. The one and only Katharine,’ Estelle smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know who I meant!’

‘Naturally I knew. I was a little surprised, that’s all. Actually, I’d lost track of her. Why are you telling me anyway? It’s of no interest to me.’

‘Katharine wants to see you.’

Francesca tensed. She felt her face stiffening and her eyes, opening very widely, brimmed with shock. She did not believe Estelle, but as she studied the other woman’s face in silence she knew from her gloating expression that it was indeed true. She was momentarily speechless. She managed to say, ‘Whatever for? Why would she want to see me?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Estelle replied sardonically. ‘But she wanted me to request a meeting. Lunch, dinner, tea, drinks, whichever you prefer. Just give me a date. She’ll be arriving in about a week or ten days, and she expects me to have arranged it by then. When can you see her?’

Anger was fulminating in Francesca. And she, who was never rude, said with unusual vehemence, her voice rising, ‘I cannot see her! I will not see her! I think you have –’

‘I know you two became drawn enemies,’ Estelle exclaimed peremptorily. ‘That’s why I can’t understand Katharine. She’s being very foolish, in my opinion. I don’t –’

‘I was about to say, when you interrupted me, that I think you have behaved in the most despicable manner!’ Francesca cried. ‘How dare you wangle your way into my home, on the pretext of doing an interview, when it’s patently obvious the real reason you’re here is to carry messages for Katharine Tempest.’ Francesca’s anger now spiralled into cold fury. ‘How devious and underhanded of you! You’re a disgrace to your profession. But then I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better behaviour from you, Estelle. You always were her lackey. I think you had better leave.’

Estelle did not budge. She was enjoying Francesca’s discomfort. She gave her a slow derisive smile, and triumph flicked into the small brown eyes. ‘My, my, I never thought I’d see the day when you would display so much emotion.’

Dismay had lodged like a stone in the pit of Francesca’s stomach, but she took firm control of herself. Recovering some of her self-possession, she said, in a steadier voice, ‘You may tell Katharine Tempest I have no wish to see her. Ever again. I have nothing to say to her.’

‘It’s no skin off my nose either way, and although I don’t understand Katharine’s motives, I did agree to help.’ Estelle crossed her legs and lolled back in the chair, regarding Francesca with quizzical eyes. She shook her head wonderingly. ‘I’m surprised at you, Francesca. Why don’t you give a little, for once in your life, and get down off your pedestal. Let bygones be bygones. We’re all a bit older and more mature. I think Katharine expected you, of all people, to be more understanding.’

‘More understanding!’ Francesca gasped. ‘After what she did to me! You must be as demented as she apparently is. I absolutely refuse to continue this ridiculous discussion. I would appreciate it if you would leave my house. I think you have not only outstayed your welcome, but abused my hospitality.’

Estelle lifted her shoulders in a gesture of resignation, picked up the tape recorder and dropped it into her handbag. She could not resist a final attempt at effecting a reconciliation. ‘She only wants to be friends again. With everyone. That’s why she asked me to contact all of you. Come on, be generous, change your mind.’

‘I will not. Never. The others can do as they wish, but I will not see her.’ Francesca’s face had paled and her eyes blazed. ‘I don’t want anything to do with her. There’s nothing to be gained by a … a … reunion.’ Francesca drew a quick intake of breath. ‘And I’m surprised at you, Estelle. Why do you permit her to use you in this way?’

‘Use me! Good God, that’s a laugh. If ever she’s used anyone, it’s been you!’ Estelle regretted this remark the instant it left her mouth. Katherine had warned her not to let her antagonism towards Francesca get in the way, and she had done just that in the heat of the moment.

A bone-chilling coldness had settled over Francesca. She nodded her head slowly and with deliberation. ‘You are quite correct, Estelle. And I do not propose to be used again. Ever,’ she intoned with such icy finality that the journalist shrank back in her chair.

‘I will show you out,’ Francesca continued in the same glacial voice. She rose and, without giving Estelle another glance, walked to the door. She opened it and stood aside. ‘Please leave.’

Estelle cleared her throat. ‘I’ll see you next Wednesday then, with the photographer.’

‘I hardly think the photographs will be necessary, since you are not going to write the story. You might as well admit it, Estelle, the interview was just a ruse to see me,’ she snapped in an accusatory tone. ‘You could have told me this on the telephone, instead of wasting hours of my time doing a bogus interview.’

Estelle’s florid face filled with darker colour. ‘I am going to write the story, so you see, I will need the photographs.’

‘Obviously I must refuse.’

Even a woman as intrinsically obtuse as Estelle could not fail to understand that she had destroyed herself irrevocably in Francesca’s eyes and, knowing she had nothing to lose, she now exclaimed heatedly, ‘Seemingly your precious charity is not that important to you after all.’ She pushed herself out into the hall, grabbed her coat from the chair and flung it over her arm. She then swung around to face Francesca, who was watching her from the doorway of the library, a look of distaste flickering in her eyes.

The jealousy and envy at the root of Estelle’s antipathy for Francesca surfaced. Self-control and all rationality left her. ‘You always were a stuck-up, rotten snob!’ she almost screamed. ‘Whatever Katherine did to you is not half as bad as the things you did to her, and when she needed you the most. It’s because of you she has been isolated from everyone all this time. You’ve added to her suffering. The least you could do is see her. You cold unfeeling bitch!’

The mask of affability had been ripped off to reveal a face that was malevolent with hatred. Estelle headed for the front door. When she reached it she flung herself around and laughed an inane laugh. ‘I do believe you are afraid to see Katharine!’

With this final strident statement Estelle flounced out and slammed the door so ferociously behind her, Francesca flinched. She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. Her head was swimming and a sick feeling of dismay lingered. Vaguely she heard Val’s step in the corridor and with some effort she pulled herself together, moving towards the staircase.

‘My goodness, whatever was that?’ Val asked.

‘Miss Morgan. Leaving in a huff,’ said Francesca, turning around on the stairs.

‘I thought the roof was falling in,’ Val exclaimed, glancing about, suspecting damage to the more fragile art treasures. She shook her head, and her tightened lips signalled her immense disapproval of such undignified goings on. ‘Dear, dear, all that yelling and screaming like a fishwife. So common, M’lady.’ Val, who was the youngest sister of Melly, Francesca’s old nanny, and had known her since she was a child, was motherly and protective. Now she peered closely at Francesca and said, ‘I hope she hasn’t upset you unduly, M’lady. You look a bit peaked.’

‘No, Val, she hasn’t. I’m all right, really I am. I’m also late for Mr Nelson’s dinner party.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I’d better go upstairs and get ready.’

‘I’ll come and help you, M’lady.’

‘No, you don’t have to, Val,’ Francesca murmured, desperately wanting to be by herself. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’ She smiled again and retreated up the stairs.