Читать книгу The Women in His Life - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

A female voice he did not recognise answered the telephone. ‘Alix West’s office. Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to Miss West, please,’ Maxim said.

‘I’m sorry, but Ms West isn’t in today,’ the young breathy voice went on to inform him. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘This is her father. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Oh good morning, Sir Maximilian,’ the voice said in a tone that now sounded a little awed. ‘This is Geraldine Bonnay, her new assistant. Alix flew to California this morning. On business.’

‘I see. When will she be returning to New York?’

‘Hopefully on Monday, Sir Maximilian. It’s a quick trip. She has a meeting with a client in Beverly Hills tomorrow and is flying right out again on Sunday. Unless there are unexpected problems, of course. She will be calling me sometime tomorrow. Can I give her a message?’

‘No, not really,’ Maxim began, and paused, thought quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Bonnay, I’d rather you didn’t say I telephoned today. I have something special for her … a surprise,’ he improvised. ‘So please, not a word, it would only spoil everything.’

‘Of course I won’t tell her!’ Geraldine Bonnay assured him, her genuine sincerity echoing down the wire, ‘and just in case you do change your mind and want to talk to her tonight, or on Saturday, Alix is staying at the Bel-Air Hotel.’

‘I think not … the surprise, you know. But thank you for the information anyway.’

‘Oh it’s my pleasure, and it’s been lovely talking to you, Sir Maximilian.’

‘Likewise, Miss Bonnay. My thanks again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Maxim let his hand rest on the phone for a moment, fighting back his disappointment that Alix had left New York the very same day he had arrived. He had so wanted to see her, to spend time with her. He ought to have checked with her about her plans, he supposed, made sure she was going to be in the city for the weekend. Obviously that would have been the most intelligent and sensible thing to do. On the other hand, if he had phoned from London he would have alerted her to his arrival and she, more than likely, would have fled. Or found innumerable reasons why she was not able to see him. Surprise was always the most successful technique to use with her he had discovered long ago.

He sighed under his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that Alix still harboured all manner of grudges, even though she persisted in denying this. He was equally convinced that her smouldering dissatisfaction with him was more than likely being fanned into a roaring bush fire by her brother. Michael had always had enormous influence over her, ever since their childhood, more so than anyone else and in an infinite number of ways. Furthermore, his son had his own axe to grind these days, filled with grievances and resentment as he was, and not a little anger. Maxim was patently aware of that anger, and the frustration in Michael, even though he, too, denied there was anything wrong just as his sister did. Children, Maxim muttered to himself. Why do they want to make things so difficult? As if life isn’t hard enough without having them inventing problems and blowing things out of all proportion.

Shifting slightly in the chair behind his desk, Maxim turned his head, allowed his gaze to rest on the photograph of Alix that stood framed in silver on the ebony table near the window along with other family portraits. This had been taken six years ago to commemorate her twenty-first birthday, and it struck him yet again what a lovely young woman the tomboy of a child had grown up to be, so fair and creamy of skin, with delicate bone structure in a face whose expression was invariably so serene, so calm it made him catch his breath. But most beautiful and striking were her eyes. Widely spaced and enormous, they were an unusual pale grey-green and filled with pellucid light. Alix was tall, as he was, and lissome, with a fine athletic body, and she moved with considerable grace and elegance. Aside from her great looks, his daughter had a quick, intelligent mind, and was extremely clever, most especially when it came to business and finance. In fact, she was as smart as her brother, perhaps even a fraction more astute than he, which was saying a great deal for her since Michael was brilliant.

Alix had wanted to come and work with him since her teens. He had been thrilled at the idea of having his daughter in the business, and everything had been planned most carefully. And then four years ago, just before she started at the New York office, they had quarrelled badly. It had been about her entanglement with a man whom he considered to be highly disreputable, amongst several other things which now seemed too petty to recall, and she had gone off in a huff and started a business of her own.

Without as much as batting an eyelash, she had opened an office in the middle of Manhattan, had set herself up as an art and antiques broker, working primarily with English and European dealers and leading art galleries.

She bought and sold only the most sought-after items, the kind of rare, precious and costly objects and paintings that generally made it to the auction floor of Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Some few years earlier she had taken several courses at Sotheby’s in London, and her knowledge of paintings and objets d’art was considerable. Also, she had been gifted with the beady, critical eye of a true expert who recognises excellence instantly and can just as quickly and easily spot a fake. These attributes, plus her extraordinary taste and natural head for business, had proven to be an invaluable combination. She had been successful right from the start and he was inordinately proud of her. Nonetheless, he still hankered after her presence at the office, wished she worked alongside him.

Perhaps it was not too late. Maybe he could still lure her into West International – once they had made their peace. And he was determined to do that. He heard his mother’s voice reverberating in his head … ‘It’s never too late to repair the damages of the heart, Maxim. It’s never to late to start over again, to come back to a loved one by mending a quarrel.’ His mother had said that to him countless times over the years and he had always believed her. He still did. He had to, because that belief reinforced his hope that he would win Alix back, that they would be as close as they were before their ghastly row.

He had never missed anyone as much as he missed his daughter.

Alix’s absence from his life was so acutely felt it was a genuine physical pain in the region of his chest. A savage ache that rarely if ever dissolved. He hurt in a way he never had before. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had once experienced this same kind of longing, this yearning for someone a long, long time ago.

It had been for Ursula.

Once again Maxim’s eyes strayed to the photograph of Alix.

She had the same fine blonde hair and flawless complexion as Ursula, the same lovely, luminous eyes full of dreaminess and tranquillity.

Ursula. He had thought of her so often recently; he began to wonder why she had been so much on his mind of late. Was it because his painful feelings about Alix echoed his feelings about her, the other one he had loved with such intensity and so completely? These feelings had been buried for so long, and buried so deep at that, he had been momentarily startled a few weeks ago when her face had sprung wholly formed into his mind for the first time in years. His memories of Ursula were very clear … unalloyed.

Maxim unlocked the top drawer of his desk and reached into the back, took out the black leather wallet which he kept there for safety. He opened it and gazed at the picture of Ursula held therein. It was a black and white shot, faded now, but time had not dimmed the lustrous eyes, the bright curving smile so full of trust and hope.

The wallet was worn, the leather cracked in places. He smoothed his hand over it, remembering. It had belonged to Sigmund …

Eventually he slipped it back into the drawer and he was surprised at the tightness in his throat, the way his eyes smarted, were unusually moist.

Resolutely pushing away this unexpected rush of profound emotion, Maxim stood up and walked across the cream-coloured stretch of carpet. He stood gazing out through the metal-mesh curtain that covered the plate-glass window of his office high up in the Seagram building, focused his attention on Park Avenue far below, but he hardly saw anything, so puzzled was he. The troubled mood that had beset him in London in the early hours of the morning seemed somehow to persist, and now, to cap it, he found himself dwelling on his past. Tearing his mind away from Ursula, Maxim brought his concentration to bear on the present. He had come to New York for the weekend hoping to see his daughter. But Alix was not available until Monday, perhaps even Tuesday. Today was Friday. The whole weekend stretched ahead.

What to do? More precisely, where to go?

He had a variety of choices. None appealed. There was his beautiful apartment on Fifth Avenue. If he went there he would undoubtedly be confronted by Adriana, whose sole purpose in life these days was to fight with him. He could go to the house he owned in Sutton Place, where he had installed Blair. If he did he would be exposing himself to a weekend of Blair’s nagging and veiled threats, except that they were not particularly veiled any more. There was his bucolic farm in Connecticut, but Adriana might conceivably get wind of his arrival in New Preston and come rushing out – to fight with him in the country instead of the city. She was certainly combative enough at the moment.

What he really wanted was to be alone.

Entirely alone.

There was only one place for that, and it was the perfect place. His beach house in East Hampton. Closed for the winter though it was, the house was more or less kept ready for his sudden arrival at any moment. It was a year-round house, proofed for the cold weather, and in the winter months the heat was kept on a low temperature at all times. Elias Mulvaney, his gardener and handyman, watched over the house, checked on it every day or so. And Mrs Mulvaney went in to dust once a week. All he had to do was telephone Elias and instruct him to go over to the house later that afternoon to turn up the heat, and arrange for Mrs Mulvaney to come in on Saturday and do a few chores. It couldn’t be simpler.

Maxim swung away from the window, strode back to his desk, well pleased with the idea of driving out to East Hampton for a couple of days. He would be able to indulge himself in that rare commodity – solitude. And do nothing except listen to music, take long walks on the beach. Mostly, though, he would do some very serious thinking, endeavour to bring a semblance of order to the chaos in his head.

He had an unconventional private life. It had long needed to be put in order. Yet he had not been able to commit himself to any action. Perhaps the time had come to do this, to normalise things. Also, he must make some decisions about Adriana and Blair. Only then would he be able to take himself in hand, get to the root of the personal crisis that threatened to engulf him, and in so doing solve his own inner conflicts.

The decision to go to the Hamptons for the weekend galvanised him, brought him out of the introspection that had held him in its grip since the previous night.

He opened his address book, picked up his private phone and dialled Elias Mulvaney’s number on Long Island. It rang and rang. No one answered. Maxim glanced at the clock on the desk. It was just turned eleven. No doubt Elias was making his daily rounds, checking on other homes, doing odd jobs for the permanent residents in the village who also employed him on a part-time basis. And Mrs Mulvaney was more than likely out marketing for the weekend groceries.

No problem, Maxim murmured to himself. I’ll reach one of them sooner or later. He pressed the intercom. ‘Douglas, would you come in, please.’

‘Right away.’

Within a couple of seconds, Douglas Andrews, Maxim’s private secretary at the New York office, hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers. A New Yorker born and bred, Douglas was about thirty-three, short, fresh-faced, dark-haired, with a pleasant, outgoing disposition and a willingness to work around the clock for Maxim. He had been his private secretary for five years and was devoted, loyal and fiercely protective.

‘Here are the legal documents on the Mystell deal which you asked me for. Peter Heilbron’s secretary just dropped this memo off for you. It’s regarding the Blane-Gregson takeover,’ Douglas said. As he reached the desk, he placed the papers in an empty chromium tray on the right-hand corner, then seated himself in the chair facing Maxim, his notebook in his hand, his pencil poised.

‘Thank you,’ Maxim said, glancing at the pile in the tray. ‘I’ll attend to those shortly. There’s a couple of things I’d like you to do, Dougie. Rent a car for me, please, and have it outside at four o’clock, and send one of the secretaries over to Bloomingdale’s food department to buy some provisions for me. A cold chicken, potato salad, a piece of Brie, some French bread and a carton of milk. That should do it. Okay?’

‘Yes, I’ll get on it right away.’ Try though he did, Douglas could not quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and he gave Maxim a curious stare. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

An imperceptible smile flicked onto Maxim’s face. ‘Obviously, Dougie. To my beach cottage in East Hampton, to be precise. For the weekend. Alone. I want a bit of peace, some quiet time to think. And I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Understand?’

Douglas nodded. ‘I do. Absolutely. I’ll deal with the car and send Alice over to the store, but are you sure that’s enough food for you? Maybe she should buy more.’

‘No, no, the chicken and the salad will do me fine for tonight. I can easily pick up some groceries in East Hampton village on Saturday morning.’

‘You’re pretty brave, leaving at four o’clock,’ Douglas volunteered, frowning. ‘You’ll have all that commuter traffic on the Long Island Expressway to contend with. It might be a better idea to drive out to the Hamptons later, say around six or so.’

‘Oh it’s not all that bad in winter, Dougie.’

‘I guess not. Still …’ Douglas’s voice trailed off. He could see that Maxim was already thinking about something else, and so he got up, headed for the door.

Maxim reached for the documents in the chromium tray, and called across to Douglas, ‘Please ask Peter if he can have a quick lunch with me. And if he is available, you might let the Four Seasons know that I’d like my usual table today, if that’s possible. Around one.’

‘Yes, Sir Maxim,’ Douglas murmured, opening the door, closing it quietly behind him, wondering if Maxim really was going to spend the weekend alone. Or did he have an assignation with some new lady love? Lucky devil, Douglas thought, he’s got it all. And then some. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes.

But would I really? Douglas asked himself as he sat down at his desk a moment later. Would I want that bitch Adriana for a wife? And as for the girlfriend over on Sutton Place, she’s not much better. More than once he had seen a look in Blair Martin’s baby blues that had immediately alerted him to her scheming ways. Graeme Longdon called her Miss Greedy Guts behind her back. Spot on, Graeme was.

How did such a lovely guy, such a prince of a guy, like Maxim West get hooked up with those two barracudas? Douglas sat shaking his head in bafflement. He came to the conclusion, as he had so often in the past, that men who were brilliant in business were not necessarily very smart when it came to the women in their lives. Fools rush in, he thought.

Still shaking his head, Douglas lifted the phone, dialled Peter Heilbron, head of West International’s acquisition team.

The phone was answered after one ring. ‘Heilbron here.’

‘It’s Dougie. The boss wants to know if you can have a quick lunch with him today. Downstairs. At one. I hope you can, because he seems a bit down in the mouth to me.’

‘I’m free … at least I’ll make myself free,’ Peter said quickly. ‘And what exactly do you mean by down in the mouth, Dougie?’

Douglas heard the concern in Peter’s voice, the anxiety surfacing. He said, ‘When the boss walked in off the Concorde this morning I thought he looked really lousy. Preoccupied. No, troubled is a better word, and a bit sad, or so it seemed to me. And that’s not like him. You know what an expert he is at veiling his feelings.’

‘Yes, I do. Business? Or personal, Dougie?’

‘I’m not sure … personal most probably.’

‘It has to be. There are no problems here, or at the London office that I know of … and I’d know –’ Peter bit off the end of his sentence. I hope to God those two women are not on the rampage again, he thought, dismay rising. He cleared his throat and said carefully, ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be too serious, Dougie. He would have mentioned it to me, if only in passing. I’m sure it’s merely tiredness.’

‘Yes,’ Douglas agreed, deeming discretion to be the wisest policy when it came to the subject of the boss. He had no intention of speculating, gossiping with Peter. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dougie continued. ‘He has been travelling a lot these past few weeks. By the way, nobody knows he’s in town except you and me and your secretary. I have a feeling he wants to keep it that way.’

‘I get your drift, Douglas, my boy,’ Peter responded. ‘That’s my other line ringing. Please tell the boss I’ll pick him up in his office just before one.’