Barbara Taylor Bradford - To Be the Best

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 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.