Barbara Taylor Bradford - Unexpected Blessings

‘No way! A father has as many rights as the mother these days, and let’s not forget that.’

‘But you are rather a problematic father, I would say.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ he demanded furiously, staring at Jack through blazing eyes.

‘I don’t want to go into it now, since your solicitor and Tessa’s will be discussing everything shortly. But perhaps I should just add that we have quite a lot of information about your private life, your indulgences, your preferences, your rather … decadent lifestyle, shall we call it? Do I need to say more?’ Jack gave the younger man a hard look, rose and went to stand next to Tessa.

Leaping to his feet, Mark cried, ‘This sounds like bloody blackmail to me!’

‘Call it what you will,’ Jack murmured. ‘But I do have the evidence to prove that I am speaking the truth. And by the by, it’s certainly the kind of evidence that a judge would be interested in hearing, especially since a child’s welfare is at the heart of the matter.’

Glaring first at Jack and then at Tessa, Mark shouted, ‘You haven’t heard the last of me!’

‘Nor have you heard the last of me, mate,’ Jack retorted. ‘And now, under the circumstances, I think it’s about time you left. I’ll escort you to the door.’

Paula O’Neill stood at one of the windows in the bedroom of the Fifth Avenue apartment, looking out at the view of Central Park. It was sunny and hot but not humid outside, and there was a sparkle to the day. The leafy domes of the trees in the park were brilliantly green against the azure sky, and rising upward beyond the trees the skyline of Manhattan looked superb. Brilliant sunshine glanced off thousands of windows, making the skyscrapers appear to gleam, almost shimmer in the clear light.

There’s no city like it anywhere else in the world, she thought. She had always loved New York ever since she had first come here as a child with her grandmother; Emma had also been addicted to this busy, electric, exciting, whirlwind city – where anything was possible, Emma frequently said to her, adding, ‘The sky’s the limit here, Paula. And don’t you ever forget it.’

Turning away from the window, Paula walked across the bedroom and out into the entrance foyer, her high heels clicking against the black-and-white marble floor as she headed towards the library, one of her favourite rooms in the apartment. It had been her grandfather’s favourite, too, according to Emma, who had once confided that he had loved the dark-wood panelling on the walls, the books bound in red leather, the Georgian antiques she had chosen, the warmth of dark-rose brocade hanging at the windows and used on the sofas. ‘He used to say it was masculine without being stuffy and heavy,’ her grandmother had explained, ‘but then he usually did like the way I decorated our homes.’

Paul McGill had bought the Fifth Avenue apartment for Emma and himself in the 1930s, and it was a spacious and lovely duplex designed by the renowned architect Rosario Candela in 1931. After Paul’s untimely death in 1939 Emma had contemplated selling it but only briefly. There was a war on, and she was far too preoccupied with other matters and the Blitz in London to worry about the apartment in Manhattan. ‘And I’m glad I didn’t sell it,’ Emma had once told her, ‘because it means we can live here in comfort and privacy when we come to the States instead of having to stay in hotels.’

Paula and her brother Philip had inherited the apartment jointly upon Emma’s death, but it was also used by other members of the family whenever they came to America, particularly her cousins Emily and Winston Harte, and Emily’s sister Amanda Linde who flew in all the time. Everyone loved it, took great pride in its uncommon beauty; luxurious and comfortable without being ostentatious, it truly bore Emma Harte’s imprint in every way and was a reflection of her great taste, her critical eye for colour and the finest in antiques and paintings.

Now, as she seated herself at the desk, Paula felt a sudden, unexpected sense of awe when she thought about her grandmother and her most remarkable achievements. It was mind-boggling really when she considered everything that Grandy had accomplished in her life – and she a poor girl from Fairley, a mill village on the Yorkshire moors, who had started working at the age of twelve as a servant for the Fairleys of Fairley Hall.

However did she do it? Paula wondered. Where did it come from, this talent, this infallible taste, this sense of style and scale, this understanding of art, and colour and fabrics? And where did her drive and energy, her strength and stamina come from? How did she summon up that unique will, that indomitability, that desire to scale the mountain tops? How on earth did that little servant girl become such a great lady, such a successful tycoon, so powerful, unbeatable, and absolutely inimitable? Emma Harte almost single-handedly had created a business empire worth many billions of pounds today, and had left her descendants an extraordinary legacy of power, wealth and privilege, not to mention that successful, thriving business empire that circled the globe.

There has never been anyone like her, Paula thought, shaking her head in wonderment, still gazing into space. Emma was a one-off; they threw away the mould after they made her. And again she wondered to herself how Grandy had done it … what extraordinary gifts she had had …

As the phone rang Paula automatically reached for it. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Mummy, it’s me, Linnet.’

‘Darling, what a nice surprise! How’s everyone? How’s the remodelling and revamping of the stores coming along?’ Paula asked, her joy at hearing her daughter’s voice echoing in her own.

‘Oh very well, I’m pleased …’ Linnet paused, took a deep breath, said quickly, ‘Mummy, listen, something happened today. But it’s all right now, everything’s fine. Honestly. But I thought I’d better fill you in. And –’

‘What happened, Linnet?’ Paula cut in swiftly, sensing trouble at once. ‘I hope everyone’s all right?’ As she spoke Paula had a sudden remembrance of the day her cousin Winston Harte had called Shane in Connecticut, to break the news that her father and her husband were dead, killed in an avalanche in Chamonix. Goose flesh speckled her arms and she felt cold all over; she tensed, wondering what bad news was coming now.

‘Yes, yes, all’s okay,’ Linnet exclaimed, and told her what had happened earlier.

‘Oh God, no! Not Adele! But she has been found? You did say everyone was all right?’

‘Yes, she’s safely home at Pennistone Royal again, with Tessa.’ There was a pause and Linnet added, ‘I brought Jack in, and here he is, Mummy. I’ll come back to you in a few minutes. Jack needs to talk to you.’

‘Hello, Paula,’ he said.

‘Hello, Jack, I’m so glad you’re there,’ Paula answered, and she thought her voice sounded unnatural, strangled in her throat.

‘Everybody’s quite safe,’ Jack went on calmly in his most reassuring voice. He had always adored Paula, and there were those in the family who actually believed he’d been secretly in love with her for years. ‘As Linnet just told you, the child is unharmed. Now, Paula, I must insist you do something about security here. You don’t have much at all. Just burglar alarms … it’s downright dangerous.’

‘Shane’s mentioned it several times lately. I don’t think any of us envisioned something like this … kidnapping happening though. But you’re right, security has become extremely important. Can you do it for us, Jack? Can you set it up?’

‘Yes, I’ll get the best security experts on it at once. Tomorrow, in fact.’