To Be the Best (Emma Harte)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Jonathan spoke first. He said in his smoothest voice, ‘It’s been a long time since we faced each other across a conference table. I do believe the last time was twelve years ago, when the saintly Alexander gave me the sack, and you kicked me out of the family.’

  ‘I’m perfectly certain this meeting wasn’t arranged in order that you and I could reminisce about old times,’ Paula snapped. ‘So let’s get to the point, shall we?’

  ‘The point is that I have –’

  ‘I know you hold shares in Harte stores,’ she said sharply, cutting him off. ‘Ten per cent. I also know that you think you’re entitled to a seat on the board. The answer is no, you’re not. And now that you have my answer, I will leave.’

  Paula pivoted, walked back to the door. Her intelligence and shrewdness told her that he had more up his sleeve, so she was not surprised, or perturbed, when he said, ‘I haven’t finished with you, Paula. I have something else to say to you.’

  She paused, turned to look at him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Over these many years I’ve been purchasing Harte shares through various nominees. Altogether, I now hold twenty-six per cent.’

  Although this startled her, she managed not to show it. She kept her face still, her eyes steady, decided to make no comment. She watched him alertly. Instinctively, her guard went up.

  Jonathan went on, ‘Furthermore, I also have the voting power over another twenty per cent – ‘ He paused for dramatic effect, and a smug smile slowly spread itself across his face. ‘Just think, Paula, forty-six per cent in my hands! And you only have forty-one per cent now.’ He laughed triumphantly. ‘I actually control more shares in the Harte stores than you do!’ A gloating expression slid into his eyes. ‘How unwise of you to put yourself in such a vulnerable position…just to buy the Larson chain in the States.’

  The shock Paula felt was so enormous she thought her legs were going to give way under her. But she managed to keep herself upright and steady, despite the tremors running through her whole body. She dare not allow any reaction to show.

  Keeping her voice low, composed, she remarked, ‘And whose twenty per cent do you control?’

  ‘The shares left to James and Cynthia Weston, by their grandfather, the late Samuel Weston.’

  ‘They are minors. Those shares are in the control of their solicitors, executors of their grandfather’s estate. And traditionally Jackson, Coombe and Barbour have always voted those shares with me, as Sam Weston did when Emma Harte was alive.’

  ‘Allegiances can change, Paula.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe that Jackson, Coombe and Barbour would involve themselves with you.’ ‘Believe it…it’s true.’ ‘You’re bluffing.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He rose, strolled down the other side of the room. Half way to the door he stopped, swung around. ‘It’s only going to take me a week or two to buy the five per cent I need to get control of Harte’s. You’d better start packing your things, lady, and clear out of your office. I’m moving in.’ He gave her a cold, penetrating stare, his bitter loathing for her surfacing. ‘I’m putting you on notice. I am going to make a takeover bid for Harte’s. And I promise you, I will succeed. I will be the winner this time! And you are going to be the loser, Paula O’Neill!’

  She did not deign to answer him.

  He slammed the door behind him as he left the board room.

  *

  Paula sank into the nearest chair.

  She was filled with an internal shaking, and she clutched her bag in her lap to keep her hands from trembling. It seemed to her that all her strength had drained away.

  Charles Rossiter appeared in the doorway. He rushed across the room to her, his face as white as hers, his expression grave, his eyes reflecting his apprehension.

  ‘I knew we had trouble brewing this afternoon, when I received that phone call. But I didn’t anticipate that it was going to be this bad,’ he cried. ‘Sir Logan Curtis just briefed me fully on Ainsley’s intentions. I’m flabbergasted.’

  Paula nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Her composure was shattered.

  Charles peered at her. ‘Let me get you a brandy. You look awful.’

  ‘Thanks, but not brandy, Charles. I don’t like it. Do you have vodka?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll go and get it. I need a drink myself.’

  He returned in a moment with a bottle and two glasses from the bar in his private office. He poured, handed her a glass. ‘Just knock it back. It’ll do the trick.’

  She did as he said, felt the sting of the alcohol in her throat, then a warm sensation. After a moment, she said slowly, wonderingly, ‘I find it difficult to believe that a staid, old-fashioned firm of solicitors like Jackson, Coombe and Barbour have done this. Thrown their lot in with Jonathan. Could he be bluffing, Charles?’

  ‘I doubt it. Anyway, why would he? Besides, having Sir Logan Curtis at his side was a manoeuvre on his part to show you – to show me – that he is absolutely above board, very legitimate, and that everything he is trying to do is perfectly legal. Sir Logan told me he is rich, a tycoon in his own right, head of a big company, Janus and Janus Holdings, in Hong Kong. He and his wife have been staying at Claridge’s for some time. No, Paula, I am afraid this is no bluff.’

  She exclaimed irately, ‘But why would Arthur Jackson go against me? Agree to vote those shares he controls with Jonathan’s?’

  ‘There is no question in my mind that Ainsley has offered Jackson a fabulous inducement to vote with him, something beneficial to those children. Ainsley must have some sort of agreement with the law firm, Paula. He wouldn’t have come here today if he hadn’t been holding all the cards.’

  She nodded miserably, knowing he was correct.

  Charles continued, ‘He wanted to undermine your reputation as CEO of Harte’s with our bank, of course, shake our confidence in you. That’s why he asked for the meeting to be held here. Clever devil, isn’t he? However, I just want to say this…I am behind you, Paula. This bank is behind you. As we were always behind your grandmother.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles.’ She stared at him morosely. ‘I’m in a mess.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ He paused thoughtfully, added, ‘The mere rumour of a takeover bid for Harte’s could be disastrous for you.’

  ‘I know.’ Abruptly, she jumped up.

  Charles was taken aback. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have to get some air. I’m going back to the store.’

  ‘But surely you want to talk with me further, work out some sort of strategy, Paula.’

  ‘I’d prefer to do that tomorrow, Charles, if you don’t mind. I feel the need to be alone right now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  She sat at her desk in her office at Harte’s in Knightsbridge, the world’s most famous department store, her special territory, her strong citadel.

  She was unable to move or think or focus on anything except the terrible problems facing her. She felt as if she had been bludgeoned about her head and her body. Her brain was still reeling, and, from time to time, waves of panic swept through her, blocking all rational thought.

  For the first time in her life, Paula O’Neill was afraid.

  She was frightened of Jonathan Ainsley, of the power he had over her, so suddenly, so unexpectedly. His spectre loomed like a black cloud. And she detested the feelings of helplessness, of powerlessness…

  He has me cornered, she thought, trying to quell the nausea rising in her again, as it had been doing off and on for the past hour. He’s going to ruin me, as he threatened he would all those years ago. And I’ve no one to blame but myself.

  The queasy feeling intensified and she ran into the bathroom in the adjoining dressing area. Leaning over the washbasin, she retched and retched until she thought there was nothing left inside her. When she finally straightened, looked at herself in the mirror, she saw that her face was the colour of putty; her eyes were red, watery, her cheeks streaked with mascara. After cleaning them with a damp tissue, she filled a glass wi
th cold water, drank it gratefully. The vodka made me sick, she told herself, all the while knowing this was not so. It was nerves and fear and panic that were having such a dire effect on her system.

  Returning to her office, she moved quickly towards the desk, then came to a halt in the centre of the room. The portrait of her grandmother hanging over the fireplace caught her attention, brought into focus as it was by the picture light on top of the frame. Aside from the lamp on her desk, this was the only illumination in the shadow-filled room. Consequently, the portrait stood out in bold relief. Walking over to it, she stood staring up at the beloved face of Emma Harte, captured with such life-like precision in oils.

  Oh Grandy, what have I done? How could I have been so stupid? I’ve jeopardized all that you built, put myself in jeopardy. You asked me once to hold your dream, and I’ve done just the opposite. I’ve let you down. I have made the most terrible error. Oh Gran, whatever am I going to do? How can I retrieve the situation? Regain the advantage to prevent the stores from falling into the wrong hands?

  The beautiful face in the portrait gazed back. The smile was benign, but the green eyes were watchful and shrewd.

  If only she were alive, Paula thought. Tears came into her eyes. She felt so alone.

  Patting her eyes with her handkerchief, she sat down on the sofa, continuing to study her grandmother’s face. She began to twist the hankie in her hands fretfully, asking herself how the brilliant Emma Harte would have extricated herself from such an appalling situation.

  But no sudden insights or clever solutions came to Paula, and in her anxiety she began to shred the lace hankie into tiny pieces. Her nerves were taut, she was paralysed by apprehension. She leaned back against the sofa, closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, hoping to bring some order to her turbulent and disturbing thoughts.

  The chiming of the hour made Paula sit up swiftly. She glanced at the clock on the chimney piece. To her astonishment it was nine o’clock. Where had the time gone? Had she dozed? She realized she had been sitting on the sofa for over an hour.

  Rising, she went to the desk, picked up the phone, instantly dropped the receiver back into the cradle. There was no point in calling Shane now. He had enough to cope with. Her news would only distress him. Far better to wait until tomorrow, or the day after, to tell him, when she had worked out some sort of strategy. And she would most certainly have to do that, find a way to block Jonathan Ainsley’s takeover bid for Harte’s. She could not let it happen.

  The feeling of claustrophobia she had experienced in the board room of the Rossiter Merchant Bank gripped her again. She felt as if she was suffocating, had the sudden pressing need to escape this room, to be outside, to breathe in fresh air.

  Snatching up her bag, she flew out of the office, took the staff elevator down to the ground floor. And with a brisk goodnight to the security guard on duty, she left the store.

  The air was crisp on this Wednesday evening, rather chilly for September. But Paula welcomed the coolness, found it refreshing. Certainly it seemed to revive her as she hurried away from the main thoroughfare of Knightsbridge, headed in the direction of her house in Belgrave Square.

  Ever since she had left the bank in the City she had felt dazed, unnerved, and panicked. But slowly, as she walked, these negative feelings were starting to lift. She had no idea what she would do, how she would proceed with Jonathan Ainsley, but she did know it was going to be an all-out war between them. And she was determined now to fight him with everything she had, do everything in her power to win. She could not afford to lose. Her cousin would be a cool, calculating and devious adversary, she had no doubt about that. His threat had not been an idle one. He was in deadly earnest, would stop at nothing. He wanted the Harte stores. Equally as important, he wanted – no, needed – to ruin her. Manifold emotions were tangled up in his drives. And not the least of them was his overwhelming jealousy of her which he had harboured since their childhood.

  Unexpectedly, it occurred to her there were several possible ways to out-manoeuvre Jonathan. But would they work? Were they viable? She wondered if one of them was even legal. She was not sure. She would have to check Harte’s papers of incorporation tomorrow. She made a mental note to call John Crawford, her solicitor, when she got home. She was obviously going to need legal counsel.

  Her brain was functioning again. This realization gave her a great sense of relief. Her mind began to race, and so intent was she on her mental machinations that she was unaware she had bypassed her house until she found herself crossing Eaton Square.

  She knew at once exactly where she was going. To see Sir Ronald Kallinski. Her Uncle Ronnie, her wise rabbi. He was the only one who could help her, guide her as Emma Harte would have guided her had she been alive.

  Chapter 42

  Wilberson, Sir Ronald Kallinski’s butler, opened the door of the Eaton Square house a few seconds after Paula rang the bell.

  A look of surprise crossed his face when he saw her standing on the front steps. ‘Why, Mrs O’Neill, good evening,’ he said, inclining his head politely.

  ‘Is Sir Ronald at home, Wilberson? I must see him urgently.’

  ‘But he’s entertaining guests this evening, Mrs O’Neill. A dinner party is in progress.’

  ‘This is an emergency, Wilberson. Please tell Sir Ronald I’m here.’ Before the butler could stop her, she walked right past him into the marble entrance hall hung with antique French tapestries. ‘I’ll wait in here,’ she said firmly, pushing open the door of the library.

  ‘Yes, Mrs O’Neill,’ Wilberson said, sheathing his annoyance, but looking pained as he hurried across the vast foyer and knocked on the dining-room door.

  It was only a matter of seconds before Sir Ronald hurried into the library to join her. Paula’s unannounced arrival at nine-thirty in the evening had startled him. But his surprised expression changed to one of concern when he saw her face.

  ‘You look frightful, Paula! Deathly pale. What on earth is wrong? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, I’m not, Uncle Ronnie. And I do apologize for bursting in on you like this. But something awful has happened. I’m in serious trouble and I need your help. There could be a takeover bid for Harte’s. I could lose the stores.’

  Sir Ronald was thunderstruck. He understood at once that she was not exaggerating. It was not in her character to do so. ‘Excuse me for a moment, Paula. Let me explain to my dinner guests that I have an emergency, and ask Michael to hold the fort for a while, I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Thank you, Uncle Ronnie,’ she said, and sat down on the leather Chesterfield sofa.

  When he returned almost immediately he took a seat opposite her. ‘Begin at the beginning, Paula, and don’t leave anything out,’ he instructed.

  Slowly, precisely, with her usual attention to detail she told him everything that had happened that day. She had a prodigious memory, was able to repeat every conversation verbatim. She started with Charles Rossiter’s phone call to her, and finished with her confrontation with Jonathan Ainsley at the bank.

  Sir Ronald had been listening to her attentively, his chin resting on his hand, nodding from time to time. When she had finally finished, given him all the facts, he exclaimed angrily, ‘My father had a name for a man like Jonathan Ainsley!’ He paused, levelled his gaze at her, pronounced with contempt, ‘A gonif.’

  ‘Yes, he is the biggest thief alive.’ Paula cleared her throat. ‘But actually, I’ve only got myself to blame. I set myself up for the likes of him.’ She sighed, shook her head. ‘I forgot that Harte’s is a public company, forgot that I had stockholders. I believed it was mine, believed that no one would ever challenge me. I was over-confident. Relaxed in too many ways. And that’s always when the sharp knives come out, isn’t it?’

  He gave a slight nod, sat scrutinizing her closely. He loved her like a daughter, admired and respected her more than anyone he knew. She was daring, brilliant and intuitive in business. It had taken a lot of guts to say what she had just s
aid, to admit her mistakes. Nevertheless, he had been stunned at the outset of their conversation, when she had told him she had liquidated some of her Harte stock. It had been an error of the worst magnitude.

  ‘I’ll never understand why you sold that ten per cent, Paula,’ he found himself saying sharply. ‘Never, as long as I live. Very flawed judgement on your part.’

  She looked down at her hands, fiddled with her wedding ring. When she finally looked up at him, she gave him a faint smile of chagrin. ‘I know. But I wanted to buy a chain of stores with my own money…So that it would really be mine.’

  ‘Your ego got in the way.’ ‘That’s true.’

  Sir Ronald exhaled heavily, adopted a softer tone. ‘But then nobody’s infallible, Paula, least of all business executives like us. People seem to think that we’re cut from a different cloth, that we’re a special breed, with immunity from human frailties. They think we must be hard-headed, passionless, without any weaknesses, to be able to wheel and deal, make fortunes the way we do. But none of it’s true.’ He shook his head, finished, ‘In your case, some sort of genuine emotional need got in your way. And it distracted you.’

  ‘I think I had to prove something to myself.’

  A costly way of doing it, he thought, but said, ‘Recriminations and regrets are a waste of valuable time. We must turn disadvantage to advantage, make certain you come out the winner. Let’s examine your options.’

  She nodded. His words reinforced her own attitude, which had grown more positive since she had been with him. ‘I could go and see Arthur Jackson, at Jackson, Coombe and Barbour, appeal to his better instincts, get him to reverse his decision to vote the shares he controls with Jonathan’s,’ she said. ‘I might even be able to find out what inducement Jonathan used, come up with a –’

  ‘Telephone Jackson by all means,’ Sir Ronald interrupted. ‘But don’t be surprised if he turns a deaf ear. He’s not beholden to you, and he doesn’t have to tell you anything.’