I was incredulous. It had always been a financially successful operation. Until recently, apparently. Startled, I exclaimed, “Do you mean you might have to close the London office?”
He nodded emphatically. “Yep, I sure do. Malcolm Stainley’s one of the biggest dummies I’ve ever met. I don’t know what got into Joe. Giving him the European end to run was more than foolhardy. It was criminal. And it is the European end, not merely the London office, since most of our French, German, and Continental business is handled and billed out of here.”
“Nepotism, of course,” I said. “That’s why Malcolm is where he is.” Then I asked, “But what exactly did he do, Andrew?”
“He made one hell of a mess, that’s for sure,” Andrew muttered, falling silent as the waiter arrived with our drinks.
After we had clinked glasses, Andrew went on, “The trouble with Malcolm Stainley is that he hasn’t got a clue about people. He can’t keep staff, for one thing, and in my opinion that’s because he pits people against one another. Anyway, morale is at rock bottom here, and everyone hates his guts. Then again, he’s a bit of a cheapskate, so he’s always trying to save money—in the wrong ways. For instance, he hires second-rate talent instead of going for the best and the brightest. In consequence, we lose out on a lot of bids we make to potential clients, because the presentations are lousy.” Andrew shook his head. “He’s shown very flawed judgment on many different levels.”
“But what’s the solution? After all, Malcolm is married to Joe’s daughter, and Ellen likes living in London. So you can bet Joe isn’t going to remove her husband, or fire him. At least, that’s the way I read it.”
Andrew looked thoughtful as he sat and sipped his martini without responding.
Finally, he said, “No, I don’t suppose Joe is going to do anything about Malcolm, so Jack and I will have to render the bugger helpless and take his power away to boot.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” I asked, raising a brow.
“Appoint someone else to run the London office, get it on the straight and narrow.”
“But Joe may not agree to that. And Malcolm surely won’t,” I ventured.
Andrew gave me a small, very knowing smile. “Joe will agree to certain things, Mal. Jack, Harvey Colton, and I have been talking retirement to him, and in no uncertain terms, these last few months, and he will agree to do what we propose. In order to stay on with the agency himself. He loathes the idea of retiring, as I thought you’d realized.”
I nodded but made no comment. Joe Braddock was close to senile, in my opinion, and should have been put out to pasture eons ago.
Andrew continued, “You’re right, of course, in that Joe won’t like seeing his son-in-law demoted or displaced. And neither will Malcolm the Great himself. He’d put up one hell of a bloody fight, no two ways about it, if we said we wanted him to go. So we’re not going to do that. Instead we’re going to kick him upstairs, give him a fancy title.” Andrew paused dramatically, then finished, “And we’ll tie his hands. Manacle them, if necessary.” He grinned at me conspiratorially. “That leaves the way open for a new, hands-on guy who’ll pull the company out of the mire, get it back on course. And lead it to financial security. We hope.”
“Do you have someone in mind?” I wondered out loud.
“Jack and Harvey wanted me to take it on. However, I said thanks but no thanks. Frankly, Mal, I didn’t want to uproot us all, take the kids out of Trinity, move to London for a couple of years. Because that’s what it would mean. It’s going to take two, maybe even three years to pull this operation around.”
“Oh,” I said, staring at him. “But I wouldn’t have minded living in London for two or three years, Andrew, really I wouldn’t. If you haven’t already hired someone else yet, why don’t you take the position after all?”
He shook his head. “No way, Mal, it’s not my cup of tea, cleaning up somebody else’s mess. Besides which, Harvey, Jack, and I have been streamlining the New York operation. I want to keep on doing that, it’s very important to me.” Narrowing those brilliantly blue eyes at me, he said softly, “Oh, hell, darling, you’re disappointed, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not,” I protested, although he had read my thoughts very accurately.
“I know you, Mallory Keswick,” my husband said in the quietest of voices. “And I think you are disappointed . . . just a little bit.”
“Well, yes,” I admitted. Then I gave him a reassuring smile. “But I’m not important in this instance. It’s your decision. After all, it is your career, and you’re the one it affects the most. Whatever you decide about where you work, be it agency or city or country, it’ll be okay with me, I promise you.”
“Thanks for that. I just don’t want to live in England,” he answered, “but then you’ve always known this. I love Manhattan and working on Madison Avenue. The rhythm of the city excites and invigorates me, and I love my job. Not only that, I’d miss Indian Meadows, and so would you.”
“That’s true, I would. So who have you hired? Or haven’t you found anyone yet?”
“Jack Underwood. He’s going to move over here and tackle the job. In fact, he’s flying in next Wednesday so that we can go over things together before I leave. He’ll stay on, as of this coming week, and assume the running of the British company immediately. It’s going to be a permanent move for him. At least, he’ll be here for a few years. I’m going to miss him.”
“So you and Harvey will have to cope on your own in New York?”
“That we will. And we do have our jobs cut out for us. But we both believe we can bring the agency back to its former standing. Although it has been losing ground a bit, we’re still big in certain areas of advertising, and we have a roster of good and very loyal old clients.”
Reaching out, I took hold of his hand, which rested on the table. “I haven’t seen you looking so tired for a long time, darling. I guess it has been pretty rough whilst you’ve been here in London. Much rougher than you’ve let on to me.”
“Mal, that’s true to a certain extent.” He sighed under his breath. “And I have to admit that very long hours and a disgruntled staff have had their debilitating effect, no two ways about it.” Then he winked, taking me by surprise, and in a lighter, gayer tone, he added, “But now you’re here, my darling. We’re going to have a lovely weekend together, and we’re not going to discuss business. Not at all. Agreed?”
“I agree to anything you say or want.”
A dark brow lifted, and he laughed a deep-throated laugh. He said, “Let’s order another drink, and then we’ll look at the menu.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was gray and overcast on Friday morning, and as I left Claridge’s Hotel, heading toward Berkeley Square, I glanced up at the sky. It was leaden and presaged rain, which Andrew had predicted before he had left for the office earlier.
Instead of walking to Diana’s, which I liked to do, I hailed a cab and got in. Just in time, too. It began to drizzle as I slammed the door and gave the cabbie the address. English weather, I thought glumly, staring out the taxi window. It’s always raining. But one didn’t come to England for the weather; there were other, more important reasons to be here. I had always loved England and the English, and London was my most favorite city in the entire world. I loved it even more than my hometown, New York.
I settled back against the cab seat, glad to be here. On second thought, it could hail and snow and storm for all I cared. The weather was quite irrelevant to me.
My mother-in-law’s antique shop was located at the far end of the King’s Road, and as the cab flew along Knights-bridge, heading in that direction, I made a mental note to go to Harrods and Harvey Nichols later in the day, to do some of my Christmas shopping. Since we would be spending the holidays with Diana, I could have gifts for her, the children, and Andrew shipped directly to her house in Yorkshire. Certainly it would save me the trouble of bringing everything with me from New York in December. The stores would prob
ably gift wrap them, too.
Andrew had kept it a secret from his mother that I was joining him in London for a long weekend; when I had announced my presence to her on the phone last night, she had reacted in her usual way. She was full of excitement, so very pleased to hear my voice, and she had immediately asked me to have lunch with her today.
Once we arrived at the shop, I paid off the cabbie and stood outside in the street, gazing at the beautiful things which graced the window of Diana Howard Keswick Antiques.
I feasted my eyes on a pair of elegant bronze doré candlesticks, French, probably from the eighteenth century, which stood on a handsome console table with a marble top and an intricately carved wood base, also eighteenth-century French, I was quite sure of that.
After a few moments, I looked beyond these rare and priceless objects, peering inside as best I could. I could just make out Diana standing at the back of the shop near her desk, talking to a man who was obviously a customer. She was gesturing with her hands in that most expressive way she had, and then she turned to point out a Flemish tapestry, which was hanging on the wall behind her. They stood looking at it together.
Opening the door, I went inside.
I couldn’t help thinking how marvelous she looked this morning. She was wearing a bright red wool suit, simple, tailored, elegant, and her double-stranded pearl choker. Both the vivid color and the milky sheen of the pearls were perfect foils for her glossy brown hair and tawny-gold complexion.
It particularly pleased me that she was wearing red today, since I had painted her in a scarlet silk shirt and the same choker, which she usually wore and which was her trademark, in a sense. Observing her, I was instantly reassured that I had captured the essence of her on my canvas—her warmth and beauty and an inner grace that seemed to radiate from her. I hoped Andrew was going to like my portrait of his mother, which Sarah says is one of the best things I’ve ever done.
The moment Diana saw me she excused herself and hurried forward, a wide smile lighting up her face, her pale gray-blue eyes reflecting the same kind of eagerness and joy which I usually associate with Andrew. He always has that same happy, anticipatory look when he is seeing me for the first time after we’ve been apart; it is spontaneous and so very loving.
“Darling, you’re here!” Diana cried, grasping my arm. “I can’t believe it, and it’s such a lovely surprise. I’m so happy to see you!”
My smile was as affectionate as hers, and my happiness as keenly felt. “Hello, Diana. You’re the best thing London has to offer, aside from your son, of course.”
She laughed gaily, in that special warm and welcoming way of hers, and we quickly embraced. Then she led me forward.
“Mal, I’d like to introduce Robin McAllister,” she said. “Robin, this is my daughter-in-law, Mallory Keswick.”
The man, who was tall, handsome, distinguished, and elegantly dressed, inclined his head politely. He shook my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Keswick,” he said.
“And I’m happy to meet you, Mr. McAllister,” I responded.
Diana said, “Mal, dear, would you please excuse me for a moment or two? I wish to show Mr. McAllister a painting downstairs. I won’t be very long, then we can get off to lunch.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, “I’ll just wander around the shop. I can see at a glance that you have some wonderful things. As you usually do.”
Before my mother-in-law had a chance to say anything else, I strolled to the other side of her establishment, my eyes roving around, taking everything in.
I loved antiques, and Diana invariably had some of the best and most beautiful available in London, many of them garnered from the great houses of Europe. She traveled extensively on the Continent, looking for all kinds of treasures, but mostly she specialized in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century French furniture, decorative objects, porcelain, and paintings, although she did carry a few English Georgian and Regency pieces as well. However, her impeccable credentials and reputation as a dealer came from her immense knowledge of fine French furniture, which was where her great expertise lay. But like every antiquarian of some importance and distinction, Diana was extremely learned in other areas, well versed in a variety of different design periods from many countries.
I noticed that she was currently showing a collection of Biedermeier furniture in the special-display area of the shop, and even from this distance I could see that it was superb. I was instantly drawn down to the far end of the store, near the staircase leading to the upper floors. Here a small raised platform held the furniture, which was roped off.
I stood looking at the German pieces in awe, admiring the rich, gleaming woods and the incredible craftsmanship. I was especially taken by a circular dining table made of various light-colored woods, most likely fruitwoods, and inlaid with ebony. This was a combination often used in Biedermeier designs at the turn of the century, when the furniture was at the height of its popularity.
What I wouldn’t give for a table like that, I thought. But quite aside from the fact that it probably cost the earth—I was positive it did—I had nowhere to put it. Not only that, Indian Meadows was furnished with a mixture of antique English and French country furniture, and although Biedermeier was versatile and plain enough to blend with almost any period or style, it wasn’t quite right for us, either for our country home or our Manhattan apartment. Pity, though, I muttered under my breath as I walked on.
Pausing in front of an eighteenth-century French trumeau, which was hanging on a side wall, I admired its beautifully carved wood frame and painted decorative scene set in the top of the frame, wondering what mantelpiece it had hung over, and in which great house? A château in the Loire, I had no doubt. Then I took a peek at myself in its cloudy antique mirror.
My reflection dismayed me. I decided I looked a bit too pale and tired, almost wan under the mass of red hair, but nonetheless quite smart in my dark delphinium-blue wool coat and dress. No wonder I’m looking tired, I suddenly thought, recalling last night. Andrew and I had been very carried away with each other. A small smile slid onto my face, and I glanced down at the floor, remembering. My husband and I hadn’t been able to get enough of each other, and despite his tiredness in general, his fatigue over dinner, he had been imbued with an amazing vitality, a rush of energy the moment we had climbed into bed. If we hadn’t made another baby last night, I couldn’t imagine when we ever would.
“Hello, Mallory, how are you?” a voice said, and I gave a little start and swung around swiftly. I found myself staring into the smiling face of Jane Patterson, Diana’s personal assistant.
Taking a step forward, I gave her a quick hug. “How are you, Jane?”
“I couldn’t be better,” she said, “and you’re obviously in the best of health and thriving.”
I nodded and told her I was.
She inquired about the twins. I asked about her daughter, Serena. We stood chatting amiably for several seconds.
Out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of sudden movement. I saw Mr. McAllister striding toward the door. He nodded to us curtly as he went out into the street. Right behind him came Diana, hurrying forward on her high heels, throwing a red wool cape around her shoulders with a flourish as she headed in our direction.
“Shall we go, Mal?” she said to me briskly.
Turning to her assistant, my mother-in-law added, “Percy says he’ll be happy to hold down the fort whilst you go to lunch, Janey. I should be back around three.”
“No problem, Diana,” Jane murmured.
She and I said our good-byes.
Diana rushed out into the street, put up her umbrella, and stood on the edge of the sidewalk enthusiastically flagging a cab, ignoring the rain.
Diana took me to the Savoy Hotel in the Strand for lunch.
Even though it was a bit far from her shop, she knew it was one of my favorite places, and she wanted to please me, as she usually did. I protested. Knowing how busy she was, I tried to persuade h
er to go somewhere closer, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She could be as stubborn as her son at times.
We sat at a window table overlooking the Thames in the main restaurant, which I have always preferred to the famous Grill Room where Fleet Street editors, politicians, and theatrical celebrities frequently lunch and dine. It was quieter in here, more leisurely, and anyway, I could never resist this particular view of London. It was superb.
I gazed out the window. There was a mistiness in the air, and the sky was still a strange metallic color, but the heavy, slashing rain had stopped finally. Even the light had begun to change, now casting a pearly haze over the river and the ancient buildings, bathing them in a gauzy softness that seemed suddenly to make them shimmer; the winter sun was finally breaking through the somber clouds. Light on moving water, Turner light, I said to myself, thinking, as I so often did, of my favorite painter.
I lolled back in my chair. I was relaxed and happy, filled with the most extraordinary contentment. How lucky I was—to be in London with my husband, to be here with Diana at the Savoy having lunch, to have my beautiful children. I might even be pregnant again. My life was charmed. I was blessed.
I sipped my wine and smiled at Diana. And she smiled back, reached out, squeezed my hand.
“Andrew’s so lucky to have found you, and I’m so lucky to have you, Mal. The daughter I always wanted. You’re the best, you know, the very best.”
“And so are you, Diana. I was just thinking how lucky I am.”
She nodded. “I believe we’re both rather fortunate.” She sipped her wine, continued, “I was so sorry not to be able to come to your mother’s wedding. It was simply the worst time for me. I had made my plans such a long time before she invited me. I had to go to a sale in Aix-en-Provence, and then on to Venice. I just couldn’t get out of my commitments.”
“It was all right, Diana, Mom understood, honestly she did. To tell you the truth, I think she was relieved to keep it small. That’s unusual for her, I must admit, since she’s such a social animal, but she seemed glad to have just a few people. Us, and David’s son and daughter-in-law and grandson. Oh, and Sarah and her mother, of course. Mom’s been close to Aunt Pansy ever since Sarah and I were little kids, babies. She didn’t even invite her mother, Grandmother Adelia, but then I don’t believe she was up to it anyway. She’s getting a bit senile, poor thing. Such a pity. She used to be so vital.”
Everything to Gain and a Secret Affair Page 11