“I know that. Except, I’m sure, in the most extreme circumstances. And it is to prevent such circumstances from arising that I propose that he should be invited to take ten per cent of our shares.” She was gaining in confidence. “Otherwise we have no deal.”
He was still amused. “An ultimatum, no less.” He held up his hands in mocking surrender. “Very well, you win. But tell me something—”
She looked a question, warily.
“While Joseph is protecting you from me, who is to protect me from you?”
“The Good Lord,” she said collectedly, “and all His angels.”
“I’d better have another case of best brandy delivered to my friend the Bishop at once then.”
She had to laugh. “You’re impossible.”
He moved in his practised way out of his chair and around the desk, stood leaning gracefully above her. “I always have been. I seem to recall that it hasn’t always worried you.”
She thought that her heart must have stopped at his nearness. He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet only inches from him. She could feel the strong bones of his hand, the light from the window sheened the brown skin of his face.
“Speaking of honesty,” he said, very softly, “tell me something. Cross your heart and hope to die.”
“What?” She struggled to quieten the thumping of her heart, to keep her breathing light and even.
“Can you tell me, truthfully, that you aren’t glad that I told Langton about the money? That I betrayed you, tricked Baxter, humiliated Jack? Can you tell me that you would rather have had our project fall through? That you and I had never seen one another again?”
She said nothing.
“Well?” His voice was very soft, belying the charged excitement that had flared suddenly between them. His gaze was fixed upon her mouth in a way that she remembered with a pang of almost physical pain.
Her face flamed. “I—”
Right beside them on the desk the telephone shrilled. Without releasing her hand Adam reached for it. “Hello?” His voice was impatient.
“Adam, darling? It’s Etta.” From where she stood Molly heard the high, clear voice distinctly. She pulled her hand from Adam’s, backed away from him. Adam half-turned from her, talked into the instrument quietly but with considerable force.
“I’m busy.”
The female voice rustled in the silence.
“No,” said Adam, “I can’t.”
Molly picked up her neglected sherry and drank it in one grim gulp, then gathered together her small handbag and gloves.
“I don’t know. I told you – it’s difficult. Look, I have to go, I have someone with me. Yes – all right. Goodbye.”
Very precisely he cradled the telephone on the hook.
“I have to go,” Molly said brightly.
“Of course. I’ll see you to the lift.” He picked the mood smoothly from her, made no attempt to recreate the odd intimacy of a moment before.
In the lift car Molly looked at the receding images of herself blindly, hardly seeing the hectic colour in her cheeks, the faint glitter of tears unshed.
On the subject of honesty, Adam, she thought with miserable savagery, are you having an affair with your best friend’s wife? And, if you are, is it any of my business?
Chapter Forty
The summer and autumn of 1913 passed in a blur of hectic activity. Once Jack had been persuaded to the cold storage plan – and in the absence of any reasonable alternative that had proved to be easier than Molly had feared – Adam set to work with his usual single-minded vigour to set it up. Within days the building had been started; the yard swarmed with activity every moment of daylight as the workmen slaved to gain the handsome bonuses Adam had promised for meeting almost – but not quite – impossible deadlines. Jack and Adam worked surprisingly well together. Jack openly admired Adam’s acute mind, sharp wits and apparently never-flagging energy, while Adam had a perfectly genuine regard for Jack’s transparent honesty and his capacity for sheer, bone-breaking hard work. Despite this, however, it was inevitable that sometimes they should clash. Inevitable, too perhaps, that the first of these clashes should occur very early in the project and should concern Molly’s part in the new company.
“It’s no job for a woman,” Jack said, stubbornly, for the third time.
“For God’s sake, man!” Adam’s hand hit the table, lightly, irritably. Molly was silent, her arguments already voiced. “Your wife is a born saleswoman. Can’t you see that? Man, woman, what does it matter? It’s what she does best. She went out there and sold the Venture Agency to men who had never until that day given a thought to employing a woman. She traipsed the streets for Danbury’s while you were flat on your back – selling something that she knew very little about. And doing it damn well. If you’re going to get anywhere in this dog-eat-dog world, you have to let your people do the things they do best. Molly’s face and blarney-stone tongue’ll get her into places where you and I wouldn’t stand a chance, make no mistake about that.” His tone, Molly noticed, was slightly irritable and strictly practical. He might have been talking about one of the carthorses. “To begin with, Molly will be the kingpin of the operation. If we can’t sell our service then we’re finished before we start. Who else is going to do it? Do you fancy the job?”
If Jack’s final capitulation was a little grudging, Molly noted with relief it appeared to be complete. And when, dressed to kill and with knees that trembled beneath her fashionable skirts, she began her first trips to the restaurants and hotels that they were hoping to interest in the project, he made neither further comment nor objection.
The company of Jefferson and Benton was set up with Adam as the major shareholder, with 45 per cent of the shares, Jack and Molly holding between them another 45 per cent – this being in its turn split 25 per cent to 20 per cent in Molly’s favour in recognition of her greater part in the setting up of the company – and, as Molly had insisted, with Joseph Forrest, jovially determined to be part of the new venture, being invited to take up the last 10 per cent. The first step that the new company took was to pay off the debt that Molly had incurred on the agency, thus ensuring Venture’s independence from any possible failure of the new project. Molly’s relief on the day that she walked from the bank with the debt finally cleared was akin to euphoria. She had not herself realized how the danger to the agency had weighed on her mind. She now threw herself into the new challenge with heart and soul, confident that the agency was thriving in Nancy’s capable hands. She learned every aspect of the new operation, she haunted the docks, the big cold stores, the meat and fish markets. She drank iced lemonade in the Savoy and in the Ritz, her eyes everywhere. Usually on these ‘scouting expeditions’, as Adam dubbed them, she was accompanied by an uncomfortable Jack, occasionally by Nancy – who was, she discovered, a slightly difficult companion since there was always the likelihood that she might climb up on a chair and make a speech – or, very infrequently, by Adam, who watched with admiration and amusement her efforts to discover where the flowers on the table had come from, or the fruit in the dessert, or the shrimps in the hors d’oeuvre. She and Adam during these months were like old adversaries who unexpectedly found themselves fighting side by side, each ready to admit his need for the other, each appreciating the other’s qualities as an ally, yet each watching the other like a hawk for the slightest sign of danger. Since that day in Adam’s office he had made no move towards her. Did he know, she wondered, that no matter how hard she tried to prevent it, the sight of him still brought that sudden quickening of her blood? That the oddly attractive sound of his voice affected her no less now than it ever had? She thought, probably not, and told herself, firmly, that it was best so. There was no place in her life for the lies and deceits, and no future at all in any relationship with Adam but a business one. On those occasions that she saw him with his head bent attentively to a pretty girl, or when she caught the occasional flash of antagonistic emotion that she recognized so surely between hi
m and Etta Forrest, she assured herself grimly that she wanted no part of those emotional storms that blew about the man. And she drove herself to work harder than she ever had in her life. She was determined upon success. Adam had called her the kingpin. She would be nothing less. Others might battle on softer territory, she would take him on, on his own ground.
She soon discovered, to her delight, that she actually enjoyed her task. These were not the streets of Stratford and West Ham, the shabby roads of dockland, that she was walking now, but the golden, beckoning thoroughfares of the fashionable West End of London that had first lured her from her home and that still, despite all, held that glamour. Her confidence – at first assumed – grew daily. The metamorphosis that time had wrought in her struck her most forcibly on the day that she pushed her way through smoothly revolving doors into the lobby of a small hotel that she had not visited before, in a side street whose familiarity she had not bothered to try to pin down in her mind. She struck the bell sharply, and a young man with slicked-down hair and supercilious eyes appeared from nowhere.
“I have an appointment with the manager,” she said, briskly, smiling. “Mrs Benton.”
“Ah yes, Madam. He is expecting you. If you wouldn’t mind waiting just a moment I’ll tell him you are here?”
She glanced around a lobby that seemed at first sight, beneath its Christmas decorations, exactly like a dozen others she had been in during the past few weeks. Tall potted palms, shining brass fittings, the inevitable patterned mirrors lining the walls – she paused for a moment as she caught sight of herself. She was dressed in blue, still her favourite colour, knee-length tunic over ankle-length, very narrow skirt, smartly-cut jacket, the V-neck revealing a demure, high-necked cream blouse. High on the side of her head her dark blue velvet hat adorned with cream feathers swept upwards, adding inches to her height. She tucked a small wisp of hair behind her ear. The swing door to the dining room opened and a couple came out, the man glancing at her with some interest as they passed. Molly’s hand, still raised to her hair, stilled as if it had been frozen. Clearly in the mirror she saw a small, dirt-smeared face, frightened and angry, black hair gypsy wild, ragged shawl clutched around thin shoulders. How had she not realized? This was, she was certain, the very hotel in which she had tried to take a room that day – how many years ago? Fourteen? No, fifteen – the day that she had arrived in London. She could see now the raised eyebrows of the clerk, hear his sneering tones: “We don’t buy off the streets—”
Behind her someone cleared his throat politely. “Er – Mrs Benton?”
Very slowly she turned. It was not the same clerk, she was certain. This one was too young. But it was, undoubtedly, the same place. The same shining bell stood still on the counter. She had rung it herself a moment before, without a thought.
“Mr Pearson is waiting, Madam. He asked if you would care for tea?”
She smiled her best and most dazzling smile. “Yes, please, I would.” And she glanced just once more at her reflection in the mirror before following him into the inner sanctum of the manager’s office.
A couple of hours later, in the comfort of the cab that carried her back through the streets of London to the railway station, she tucked the tiny notebook and pencil that she had been using to record this, her latest success, into her blue velvet bag and sat back to enjoy the view from the window. She had taken particular satisfaction in this day. The other, younger Molly had sat at her shoulder all afternoon, urging her on, measuring her success with a knowing and happy eye. Outside it was dark already, and bitterly cold. The streets and shops were decorated for Christmas. People hurried through the biting wind, lights and lanterns swung, gaily festive.
“’Ere we are Miss.” The vehicle had stopped. The cabby was at the door.
Molly drew her small purse from her bag to pay the man, and as she did so her fingers touched a stiff card, an invitation from Joseph Forrest to join him at a New Year’s ball at a large and fashionable hotel, a function designed to usher in the new year of 1914 with some style.
Sitting in the train that rattled through the dingy East End slums, Molly thought again of that small ghost with whom she had kept company that afternoon: and again she smiled. But as she stood at Stratford Station half an hour later in the bitter wind, stamping her small booted feet on the pavement in an effort to keep them warm, some of her good temper deserted her. There was not a cab to be had. Then, realizing the futility of waiting in the cold when ten minutes’ brisk walking would take her home, she turned up her collar, tucked her hands into her warm, fur-lined muff and set off into the dark evening.
The Broadway, too, was thronged with Christmas shoppers. There were ghosts here, as well – ones that she would rather not remember. As if it had been yesterday instead of fifteen years before she heard Sam Alden’s soft, uncertain voice, saw the harsh set of Ellen’s mouth. She hurried on, almost running, looking neither to left nor right. Ahead of her a barrel organ tinkled outside a public house; she crossed the road, head down, to avoid the crowd of youths who were gathered around it, unsteady on their feet, rowdily drunken. One of them whistled admiringly. She bent her head further into the sting of the rising wind and ignored them.
Young Danny Benton, with still enough of his wits about him to ensure self-preservation, ducked away from his noisy friends and slipped into a dark doorway, while the others continued to call coarsely admiring remarks at his mother’s fast-disappearing back.
* * *
Molly leaned a little nervously to the mirror, inspecting her smooth skin for the slightest blemish, wishing that her unruly hair would stick in a more disciplined way to the centre parting that she had contrived for it The soft, ice-blue silk of her gown shone almost silver in the light.
“Oh, Mum, you look lovely,” Kitty said from the doorway.
“How clever of Mr Forrest to discover that you were wearing blue,” Meghan said. She had picked up the corsage that had arrived at the house just a few moments before and now waltzed around the room, humming beneath her breath, holding the flowers to her own bleached cotton blouse. “I shall wear a lot of blue when I grow up,” she said, posing in front of the mirror, the flowers set against her fair hair. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”
Molly took the flowers from her. “There’ll be nothing left of that by the time you’ve finished with it. Help me pin it on, Meg, would you?” She stood still while her daughter’s quick fingers fastened the delicate thing to her gown. Then finally she surveyed herself, the finished article, in the long mirror. “There. What do you think?”
“Very nice,” Meg said nodding.
“Absolutely wonderful!” Kitty said, and then, as the door opened, “Oh, Dad! You look marvellous.”
Jack, a little red-faced, was attired, as Nancy had put it earlier, a sardonic sisterly twinkle in her eye, “in full fig”, his dress shirt and tie as white as snow, his elegant black coat and trousers showing off his width of shoulder and length of leg. Molly surveyed him with some satisfaction. “You look very handsome.”
“Aye, well as long as no one asks me what I feel like. You don’t look so bad yourself, lass, I’ll say that. Are you ready? The cab’s here. Though what in God’s name we’re doing celebrating the New Year with strangers is beyond me. Family’s always been good enough before.”
“Oh, Dad!” Meghan’s voice was utterly disgusted.
Molly ignored a plaint that she had been hearing ever since Joseph Forrest’s invitation had first come. In reality she knew that Jack was every bit as pleased about it as she was. “I’m ready,” she said.
The ballroom of the Royal Palace Hotel was everything that Molly had imagined and hoped it might be, and then more. The Forrests had had it sumptuously decorated for the occasion with streamers and garlands of silver and gold, on each table an arrangement of silver and gold artificial flowers. As their party entered, ushered by an efficient gentleman dressed every bit as resplendently as the male guests, the orchestra had already launched into a Strau
ss waltz that made Molly want to dance to the table. The air was perfumed and filled with talk and laughter. They were greeted from all sides by others who were already in the swing of celebration. Ice buckets in which nestled bottles of champagne were upon every table. Molly smiled in sheer delight at the atmosphere, and found herself looking with something of a shock directly into Adam’s dark eyes as he regarded her with obvious amusement from where he stood beside Joseph and Etta Forrest. Etta, dressed in the fashionable Oriental style with the soft, bright colours and “harem” skirt that Molly, regretfully, had had to eschew because of her height, or rather the lack of it, looked stunning. Her colour was high, her tall, slim figure in the exotic, almost stagey outfit demanded rather than attracted attention. Her eyes, Molly noted, widened fractionally when they rested upon Jack, whom she had never met before.
They settled themselves at the table, introductions were made – there were several people in the party whom Molly had not met – and the orchestra moved smoothly and sweetly into another waltz.
‘The evening is yours, my friends.” Joseph Forrest’s benign face was already a little flushed, his eyes twinkling with enjoyment. “We’ll launch 1914 with an evening to remember, eh? Waiter, another couple of bottles of champagne, please.”
A rainbow glitter of chandeliers sparkled like diamonds above the laughing, dancing, chattering crowds. Beneath her chair Molly’s feet moved, her body swayed slightly to the music. Joseph Forrest leaned towards Jack. “I say, Mr Benton, would you have any objection to my dancing with your charming wife?”
Slightly confused, Jack shook his head and Molly found herself led, a little ponderously, onto the floor. As her partner steered her into the crowds she saw Etta lean to Adam, saw him then stand and offer her his hand. Later, in between avoiding Joseph’s none-too-adept feet, she saw Adam and Etta dancing and could not but admire the smooth way that Adam moved. Lately she had noticed that his limp had become considerably less. He exercised with iron resolution, she knew, in order to strengthen his leg. She wondered, wryly, how much effort had been put into preparing for this moment. As the last strains of the waltz died Joseph, laughing, extended his arm to her to lead her back to the table. “—Not as young as I used to be, eh?”
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