Barbara Taylor Bradford - Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

‘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.