Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection

Perhaps one doesn’t exist for Kim, she reflected forlornly, unless, quite simply, it is time. The passing of time had worked miracles for her, but she was uncertain of the effect it would have on him. It struck her then that her going to England was hardly a solution to Kim’s problems. Might it not be infinitely better if he came to New York? The more she thought about this, the more Francesca was convinced it was the most effective and practical solution. She would remove him from his normal environment and propel him into a round of social activities on this side of the Atlantic. Francesca was nothing if not decisive and she hurried to the desk, picked up the telephone and dialled her home in Virginia.

‘Hello, Harrison. It’s me,’ she said when her husband answered.

‘Ah, darling, so there you are. I was just going to call you. Why didn’t you awaken me before you left? You know I like to say goodbye. Creeping off like that was grossly unfair of you. Ruined my day, I don’t mind telling you.’

As he was speaking Francesca was, as always, conscious of the rich timbre of his voice, and touched by the warmth and love it exuded. He was such a dear man. How lucky she was. She smiled into the telephone. ‘You were sleeping so soundly, my darling, I didn’t have the heart to disturb you.’

‘Did you have a nice trip? How are things at the apartment?’ he asked.

‘Smooth trip, and everything is fine here.’

‘I forgot to tell you last night, I’d like you to stop by at the gallery and chivy Leclerc about the Utrillo, if you don’t mind. I’d really appreciate it, and I think a personal visit would be more effective than a ’phone call. Any time this week will do, whenever you can fit it in.’

‘Of course, darling. Actually, Harry, I called you for a couple of reasons, apart from wanting to say hello. I wondered if you’d like to come up for a couple of days? Perhaps on Wednesday. You could bring the girls. They would enjoy it, and so would I, and we can all fly back to Virginia together, on Friday.’

‘I’d love to, Francesca, but I can’t. I have some special meetings in Washington, which I must attend, and a Democratic dinner. So sorry. Next week maybe. If you’re going to New York again,’ he said, regret echoing in his voice.

‘Fine,’ she said, suppressing her own disappointment. ‘There’s another matter I must discuss with you, Harry dear. I’ve received a rather disturbing letter from Kim.’ She went on to tell him about its contents and her dismay about Kim’s depressed mood.

‘So I thought it might be a good idea to invite him here to New York, Harry. And then I thought we might all go to the estate in Barbados for a week or so. That would be more beneficial to you than going to England. After all, you’d only get embroiled with your political cronies in the British government, and it wouldn’t be a rest at all.’

Harrison Avery chuckled. How well she knew him. ‘You’re correct there, my sweet girl. And Barbados does appeal to me. Can’t say I fancy London in winter. Too damned cold and damp for these old bones. And I agree with you wholeheartedly about Kim. I think you should invite him here immediately, Francesca. I’ve been a little concerned about him myself. Why don’t you give him a call right now?’ he proposed.

‘It’s so easy to refuse on the telephone, Harry, and he might just do that, without giving it any real thought. I’d prefer to write to him and then telephone him next week when he’s had the letter. To persuade him, if necessary.’

‘You know best, of course, darling. But I hope he comes over at once, if he can get away from Langley. You know I’ve always had a soft spot for that brother of yours, and I think he needs us both right now.’

‘Yes, he does. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive, Harry dear. I’d better go. I must write the letter, and I’ve got rather a busy day. I’ll speak to you later in the week.’

‘Fine, darling. Goodbye.’

Since the plans for Kim’s trip were uppermost in her mind at this moment, that sense of regret Francesca had experienced on entering the apartment earlier was entirely forgotten. Yet only a few weeks later she was to remember it, and with a sudden surge of clarity, wondering if it had been some kind of premonition of impending disaster, and not regret at all. Ridiculous as it was, she even entertained the notion that events would have progressed differently, the consequences been averted, if she had followed her original impulse and returned to Virginia. But hindsight was meaningless. By then it was already too late. Her life and the lives of others had been changed irrevocably, and so profoundly they would never be the same again.

Now, this morning, preoccupied as she was with her brother’s well-being, her speculation about the future revolved solely around him. She picked up her pen and began the letter. When it was finished she sealed it quickly, addressed the envelope and found an airmail stamp in the desk drawer. There, it was done! She leaned back in the chair and regarded the letter propped up against a malachite bookend. It was articulate and persuasive and so lovingly couched, Kim would be unable to reject her invitation, of that she was absolutely convinced. She thought then of the postscript at the end of his letter, and she made a solemn vow to herself: 1979 was going to be a better year for him, no matter what was entailed or what she had to do to ensure this outcome.

Francesca pushed back the chair, filled with a sense of purpose and renewed energy. She smiled happily to herself as she hurried upstairs to change her clothes and refresh her make-up, in readiness for the day’s appointments. Kim would come to New York and she would help him to recover from his hurt and pain and melancholy. She would help to make him whole again. Everything was going to be all right.

Chapter Three (#ulink_1080b223-a6e6-5bcd-aa6c-2c0bcbcf9076)

Estelle Morgan was too early for her appointment with Francesca Avery, and as the taxi sped up Madison Avenue she decided to alight a few blocks away from the apartment, and walk the rest of the way. She paid off the cab at Seventy-Fourth Street and Madison and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air. It had stopped snowing at lunch time, and a watery sun was trying to penetrate the bloated etiolated clouds with scant success.

As she turned onto Fifth Avenue and approached the palatial and imposing building where the Averys lived, a self-congratulatory smile slipped onto her face, giving her a smug look. How right she had been to wear her mink coat. The doormen of these apartment buildings where the very rich lived were invariably snootier than their privileged inhabitants, and she wasn’t going to have even one of them look her over with disdain and treat her dismissively.

Estelle had hesitated about the coat at first, because it was snowing hard at eight o’clock and she did not want to get it wet. But it looked far better than her raincoat, and so she decided to take a cab to the office. It had been a worthwhile investment. The coat made her feel chic and bolstered her self-confidence. It was her pride and joy really. To complete the outfit Estelle had chosen a red dress, black patent knee-high boots and a large black patent shoulder bag, a copy of a famous Italian design. Earlier that morning as she had surveyed herself in the mirror, she had nodded at her reflection with complete gratification. She thought she was the epitome of a glamorous, successful international journalist. Sadly, Estelle Morgan did not think very deeply about anything, and so it never occurred to her that an outfit could not transform her into all the things she believed herself to be.

She glanced at her watch as she waited for the traffic lights to change at Seventy-Ninth Street. It was a few seconds to four, but she was almost there and would arrive exactly on time. Punctuality was not one of her strong suits, but she recalled that Francesca Avery, the cold bitch, was a stickler about time and, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, she had made a concerted effort not to be late. After giving her name and being announced, she was permitted to enter the grandiose building at Eighty-First Street.

She was greeted at the Avery apartment by a middle-aged woman in black, undoubtedly the housekeeper, who asked for her coat, laid it carefully over a chair, and then ushered her across the hall. Estelle had been to many elegant homes during the course of her career, but she had never seen anything quite as impressive as the Avery entrance hall, particularly in New York City. Jesus, it looks as if it’s been transported lock, stock and barrel from Versailles, she thought as she followed the housekeeper in silence, her eyes popping.

After she had shown Estelle into the library, the housekeeper gave her a small cool smile and said, ‘I’ll tell her Ladyship you’re here.’ Estelle murmured her thanks as the housekeeper departed.

She crossed the room to the fire, her boots sinking into the deep silken pile of the antique Chinese carpet. Her eyes flicked around yet again, curiosity glittering in them. They took in the antiques, and moved on to regard the paintings gracing the panelled walls. She was not particularly well informed about art, but Estelle had acquired a smattering of borrowed knowledge about innumerable subjects. And so she was able to recognize at once that these were not merely good copies, nor hardly likely to be in this apartment. They were originals and quite famous enough to identify, masterpieces from the Post-Impressionist period. That’s undoubtedly a Van Gogh on the far wall, she decided, hurrying over to examine it, delighted with her accurate guesswork when she saw the signature. She scrutinized the others with lightning speed. A Seurat. A Cézanne. A Gauguin.

A moment later the door swung open and Francesca Avery was standing there, her eyes sparkling with vitality, a smile on her tranquil face. ‘Estelle!’ she exclaimed, moving forward with grace and elegance, swaying slightly on the precariously high heels that drew attention to her fine ankles and long slender legs.

As she approached the fireplace, Estelle noted that the English-rose complexion was still quite flawless and the burnished amber-blonde hair as silky and luxuriant as it had ever been. Why, she hasn’t changed at all, Estelle commented to herself in astonishment, and with a stab of annoyance.

‘Do forgive me for keeping you waiting,’ Francesca apologized. ‘But here I am. And it’s so nice to see you again.’ She stretched out her hand.

The journalist arranged a pleasant smile on her face and grabbed Francesca’s long cool fingers clumsily. ‘I’ve only been here a few minutes, my dear. I didn’t mind waiting at all. And especially in this lovely room. What marvellous taste you have.’

Francesca extracted her hand, wincing inside. Estelle had always been something of a sycophant and time had apparently not tempered her obsequiousness. Although this was nauseating, she supposed it was harmless enough. Francesca moved away from the fireplace and murmured, ‘How kind of you to say so. Now I think we might be more comfortable over there.’ She indicated the sofa and chairs grouped against the back wall underneath the Gauguin painting of a Tahitian girl. Estelle followed her hostess’s suggestion and bounced over to the seating arrangement. She took her time settling comfortably and then she looked at Francesca, smiled with a fraudulent sweetness and said, ‘And I must say, my dear, it’s lovely to see you too, after such a long time. It seems like centuries.’

‘Not quite that,’ Francesca responded with a dry laugh. ‘About five years. I think the last time we ran into each other was in Monte Carlo, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, at Grace’s benefit. She’s such a lovely person, and Rainier is quite the charmer. I’m so fond of them both,’ she gushed.

Francesca was astounded at this blatant boasting of friendship with the Grimaldis, knowing it to be utterly false. Estelle was no more on intimate terms with the Prince and Princess of Monaco than she was with the Queen of England. Reluctant to embark on a conversation that could only prove embarrassing to Estelle, she refrained from passing comment, and asked in a brisk tone, ‘Can I offer you something? Tea, coffee or a drink perhaps?’

Disappointment flooded through Estelle, was quickly replaced by aggravation. But she caught herself in time. ‘Tea would be very nice, thank you.’ And then in an effort to conceal her annoyance at being deprived of an opportunity to show off, she went on, ‘With lemon please, and a sweetener if you have it. Must keep my figure, you know.’

‘Of course,’ said Francesca. ‘I’ll go and ask Val to make it, and then we can catch up, and get on with the interview. Please excuse me.’ She hurried to the door, wondering with dismay how she would cope with Estelle for the next hour.

Estelle’s narrowed gaze followed Francesca as she glided out. Why is it she always seems to float not walk? she wondered sourly. And how has she kept her looks? She’s got to be at least forty-two, yet she looks ten years younger.

Francesca returned almost immediately, interrupting Estelle’s thoughts. ‘Val already had the kettle boiling,’ she explained, placing the Georgian silver tray, with its matching tea service, on the coffee table. She sat down on the chair opposite, poured the tea and went on: ‘The last time I saw you I believe you were working for one of the newspapers. How long have you been writing for Now Magazine?’

‘Oh, about three years and I’m the Features Editor actually.’

‘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.