Читать книгу Angel - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 11

It was a glittering day.

The sky was a clear and vivid blue, unblemished by cloud, and although the sun had no warmth on this cold November Saturday it was, nevertheless, a bright golden orb flung high above Park Avenue that added immeasurably to the sparkle and zest of the morning.

Rosie walked at a rapid pace, enjoying being back in New York, and assailed by many memories. Most of them were good memories, and so her present-day problems were lifted, at least temporarily. Certainly she felt less weighed down by them, and the heaviness she had been experiencing of late had miraculously evaporated the moment she had planted her feet on American soil. And she was determined to enjoy her few weeks here; nothing was going to spoil her first visit to her home town in two years.

She had arrived three hours earlier on Concorde from London, an amazingly rapid flight across the Atlantic which had taken only three hours and forty minutes. Her ticket on the supersonic plane was a present from Gavin, one he had forced her to accept. As usual, she had been reluctant to take anything from him, but now she was glad she had succumbed to his pressure. He had told her that Concorde was not a luxury but a necessity, if you were in their business and under so many different time constraints; she now agreed wholeheartedly with him.

The plane had landed at nine-thirty; she had whizzed through Baggage and Customs, and by eleven-thirty she had already been well ensconced in Nell’s apartment on Park Avenue at Eightieth Street, unpacked, freshly made-up and enjoying the cup of tea Nell’s housekeeper had made for her, and which Maria insisted she drink before going out into the cold weather.

Because it was such an icy day Rosie had exchanged her black suit and matching coat for a loden-green wool trouser suit worn with a wine-coloured turtle-neck sweater, her favourite Lucchese cowboy boots made of a wonderful dark reddish-brown Cordovan leather, and a long, full, highwayman’s cloak cut from Austrian loden cloth. She had bought the cloak in Munich a few years ago, and had it lined with wine cashmere which added extra warmth. But mostly she loved the cape for its dramatic looks, the sense of élan it gave her when she wore it.

Well dressed for the weather, she had left the apartment intending to hail a cab, but the crisp air felt so good after being cooped up in the plane that she decided to walk instead.

Now she paused for a second and stared down Park Avenue.

It was so clear she could see for ever, all the way to the Pan Am building where the tip of the avenue led into Grand Central. Despite the fact that she was based in Paris, and adored that beautiful, graceful, elegant city of light, New York was home to her, and it was unique. There was no other city like it anywhere in the world.

Earlier, coming in from Kennedy Airport, the limousine driver had chosen to enter Manhattan by way of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. As they had driven over it from Long Island City she had suddenly caught her breath as she gazed out of the car window.

Straight ahead of her, ranged on the other side of the East River, rising up like giant cliffs shimmering in the sunlight, were the towering apartment buildings of the East Side. And behind them floated the gargantuan office blocks of mid-town Manhattan; standing out in particular were the Empire State and the Chrysler buildings, the latter her favourite with its perfect art deco tower and slender spire. Those immense skyscrapers piercing the high-flung azure sky formed formidable canyons of steel and glass and concrete, and to Rosie they had never looked more impressive and awe-inspiring than they did at that moment. In the brilliant, mid-morning sunshine the skyline of Manhattan seemed to have been carved from crystal by some enormous god-like hand; it was so breathtaking it was almost otherworldly.

But then she had always thought this city was beautiful, high-powered, challenging, and the most exciting place to be – if you were talented, ambitious, driven and lucky. Conversely, her brother deemed it to be Sodom and Gomorrah, for Kevin had recognized, at an early age, its dark and decadent side, its seamy, sleazy underbelly, had been aware of the corruption, ruthlessness, cruel poverty and inequities that permeated New York, flourished alongside the excitement, the glamour, the success, the great wealth and privilege.

Now, as she thought of her brother, a flash of anxiety shot through her, and it made her tighten her lips imperceptibly. Kevin’s lack of response to her calls was the only thing which marred her gladness at being back in New York. She had phoned him every day for the past week, first leaving her London numbers and then yesterday, knowing she was about to depart, she had repeated Nell’s number into the machine.

He had not called her back, as yet, and her anxiety was running high; she had told him so when she had phoned once more, before leaving Nell’s apartment this morning, adding, ‘Please, Kevin, call me to reassure me you’re all right. I’m beginning to worry.’ Then she had repeated Nell’s number even though she knew that he knew it by heart.

He’ll call me today, she told herself, genuinely believing this as she plunged on down Park, her pace increasing, her cape flying out behind her like a proud banner. She made a striking figure in her dramatic outfit, and her mass of coppery hair which caught and held the sunlight was turned into a bright burnished helmet around her creamy-complexioned, heart-shaped face.

Quite a number of men glanced at her covetously, and several women admiringly, as she floated past them, staring straight ahead, intent in her purpose, aiming for her destination.

But Rosie was unaware of the dashing figure she cut, and of her special kind of beauty. Vanity had never been one of her traits, and these days she was so consumed by her work and worry and responsibilities that she never had much time for primping and preening.

Even getting herself ‘done up and dusted’ – as Fanny called it – for the wrap party had been Fanny’s idea, and her two assistants had virtually had to drag her to Make-up and Hair at Shepperton Studios. She had only given in finally to Fanny’s entreaties when Val had pointed out how exhausted she looked. Gavin was bound to pounce on that, and the last thing she wanted was him nagging her, making snide remarks about Collie and Guy, which he would do because, for the most part, he blamed them for her tiredness and worry, and anything troublesome that ever happened to her, in fact.

When she reached Sixty-fifth Street, Rosie swung to her right and strode down the block, passing the Mayfair Regent Hotel, where she loved to go for afternoon tea, and Le Cirque, one of her favourite restaurants in the city, heading in the direction of Madison Avenue.

Just as the Faubourg St-Honoré in Paris, Bond Street in London and Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills were all special to her, so was Madison. It was lined with the type of elegant shops and boutiques carrying designer clothes and other high-fashion items that appealed to her, and to her sense of aesthetics as a costume designer. However, Rosie only intended to window shop on Madison this morning; her real destination was Bergdorf Goodman, where she planned to do the first of her Christmas shopping.

Today was November the ninth, and Thanksgiving was still two weeks away, but Christmas was already very much in the air. It was in evidence in the store windows, and in the lights which were being strung up on the streets of Manhattan.

Fifth Avenue had been dressed up no end, she noticed, as she turned the corner of Sixty-fifth. She smiled inwardly, hurrying down Fifth towards the department store, remembering how excited she had been as a child when her mother had brought her in from Queens to see the Christmas decorations.

In particular, the store windows had always thrilled her, most especially the windows of Lord & Taylor. They were inventive, fanciful, imaginative; each one had been decorated to depict a specific scene, either religious or from a fairy tale, and was guaranteed to delight the eyes of a child – and the young in heart. She could easily recall how her eyes had stood out on stalks, how she had pressed her nose to the plate-glass window, mesmerized by what she saw, drinking everything in.

Every year there had been something different to captivate her, and so much to absorb…the Nativity with Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus…Santa Claus coming over the chimney tops in a sledge filled with toys, pulled by trotting reindeer which actually trotted…Swan Lake with pirouetting ballerinas that really moved, these two creations miracles of mechanical ingenuity. And the scenes taken from best-loved fairy tales were equally eye-catching and beautiful…Cinderella sitting in her glass coach, Sleeping Beauty in her glass coffin being awakened by a kiss from the Prince, and Hansel and Gretel in the gingerbread house.

How they had enchanted her, those magical windows. It was not very difficult at all for her to cast her mind back to those Christmases of the past. Her mother had always been as excited as she, and once they had thoroughly viewed the windows, and she had feasted her eyes to the limit, her mother had taken her inside the store for lunch. They favoured the Birdcage Restaurant, where she was permitted to choose anything she wanted since it was a special treat. Without fail, as a finale to the lunch, she ordered a banana split for dessert, and, even though her mother was for ever saying she must watch her weight, she would order one too.

Her mother had died when she was fourteen, and the day after the funeral and the wake – it was a Saturday and she remembered it so well, even today – she had gone to the Birdcage for lunch by herself. She had been trying to bring her mother back to life, to recapture the past, she knew that was why she had made the trip into Manhattan. But she had been so choked up she had been unable to eat lunch, even the dessert, and had sat staring at the untouched banana split, tears rolling down her cheeks, aching inside for her mother, filled with the most searing grief.

She thought of her mother frequently, almost every day, even though she had been dead for seventeen years now. Her mother was part of her, residing in a very special corner of her heart, and as long as she was alive her mother would be alive too, for there was no such thing as death in her lexicon. And stored up inside herself were all those wonderful memories of the happiest of childhoods, and the memories gave her great comfort and strength when she felt alone or sad. How lucky she and Kevin were to have been so very loved as children.

Kevin. She wondered what to get him for Christmas, and there was Gavin to think of, too, and Guy and Henri and Kyra, and her dearest friend, Nell. Their names danced around in Rosie’s head as she crossed Fifth Avenue at Fifty-ninth Street, skirted the Plaza, walked across the little square in front of the hotel, and into the famous department store.

Coming over on Concorde she had made a few notes, and high on her list of priorities were special gifts for Lisette, Collie and Yvonne, who were stuck in the country and never got to visit exciting shops. After an hour spent browsing in the store she selected a cream silk shawl for Collie. This was trimmed with a gold fringe and embroidered with a peacock, its huge, colourful tail spread out like a fan composed of iridescent blues and greens and golds, and in Costume Jewellery she found an unusual pair of flower-shaped earrings made of pastel-coloured rhinestones for Yvonne.

Once these purchases had been made, she left Bergdorf’s and headed down Fifth Avenue to Saks, glancing quickly in the store windows but not stopping as she walked at her usual rapid pace. When she arrived at Saks she went straight up to the children’s department, and within fifteen minutes she had picked out a party dress for Lisette. Beautifully made of fir-green velvet and trimmed with an ecru-lace collar and cuffs, it had a Victorian air about it, and she knew five-year-old Lisette would look adorable in it. Expensive though the frock was, Rosie couldn’t resist buying it.

It seemed to Rosie that it was colder than ever when she finally left the big department store, and walked back up Fifth. The wind was icy and she pulled her cape around her more tightly, glad she had worn it. Passing St Patrick’s she paused for a moment, staring up at the beautiful old cathedral and its Gothic-style cusps; then she hurried on, wanting to finish her shopping and get home to the apartment, in case Kevin had called.

The two last stops on her list were Gap and Banana Republic, not far from each other on Lexington. These were the best shops in which to pick up T-shirts and jeans for Collie and Yvonne, who so much admired hers. She generally donned these typically American clothes at weekends; in actuality, they had become something of a uniform for her, worn with the mandatory white wool socks and highly-polished brown penny loafers, and Collie and Yvonne both wanted to emulate this look. Since she wouldn’t have time to go shopping when she returned to Paris, she had decided to take a supply back with her. Also, the jeans and T-shirts could be gift-wrapped to go under the big Christmas tree which they would put up in the stone hall at Montfleurie.