by Janet Tanner
‘Oh Tom, would you?’ Again, that wave of gratitude – and longing. But this was neither the time nor the place to try to sort out their differences, and before she could put anything of what she was feeling into words he had gone.
The jet took off from Darwin and was almost immediately over the sea. Harriet looked down as the Australian coastline was lost in the clouds and thought briefly she was little closer to solving the mystery than she had been when she arrived. But it seemed unimportant now. After all, it had happened so very long ago. What mattered now was getting home to her father. He was still alive – just. Harriet unclipped her seat belt, folded her hands in her lap and said a silent prayer that he would still be alive when she landed in America.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fergal Hillyard was almost six feet tall, with the sort of frame that had made him an ideal selection for the back row of the rugby team at college, a smoothly handsome face and a long lick of light brown hair carefully arranged across a balding crown. In his dark business suit with a flamboyantly striped tie he cut an impressive figure; as he came down the marble staircase to the lower floor of the West End restaurant where Theresa and Linda were waiting he looked every inch the successful businessman who was, in Linda’s words, ‘rolling in money’ to the extent that he had been able to set his wife up in an exclusive boutique in order to ‘ give her an interest’. Waiters scurried forward solicitously but Fergal brushed them aside with a curious blend of impatience and charm, making straight for the table where the girls were sitting.
‘My apologies – I was delayed. An important telephone call. Linda – lovely to see you again. And you must be Theresa. Well, my dear, you are every bit as beautiful as you are talented, if I may say so. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ He took her hand, kissing it.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you too,’ Theresa said, but the flamboyant gesture had done nothing to make her feel any more at ease. Theresa was slightly overawed by the plushness of the restaurant and extremely anxious to make a good impression. It was so vitally important to her that this evening should be a success. The survival of her design venture – her whole future – depended on it. If she could impress Fergal Hillyard sufficiently to make him want to back her with some of his considerable fortune then she was in with a chance, buying time to establish herself and set up a decent workshop with new machines, top quality fabrics and perhaps even a showroom. If she failed then she could not see how she could keep going much longer.
She glanced at Fergal as he seated himself on her right. Since Linda had had the good fortune to meet him she had done a little checking on him. He had made his money in computer software, she had told Theresa, getting into the market at just the right time, and he was known to be shrewd, ruthless – and a voracious womaniser. He had, it was rumoured, bought the boutique for his wife in the hope she would be less likely to notice his junketings if she was busy with her own business. When Linda had told her this, Theresa had dismissed the comment as the kind of idle gossip induced by envy; now meeting him for the first time she could believe it might be the truth. As a purely instinctive reaction Theresa did not think she liked Fergal Hillyard very much. And in any case, where was his wife? If her boutique was going to be stocking Theresa Arnold designs, surely it would have made sense for her to have come along?
‘Shall we order first and get down to business later?’ Fergal suggested, opening the enormous leather-bound menu. ‘And what will you have to drink? Champagne, perhaps?’
The girls exchanged glances. Apart from cheap Spanish bubbly Linda had never tasted champagne; but Mark had once shared a bottlewith Theresa and the memory of their happiness as they toasted one another in front of the fire in his flat before going to bed for a long, luxurious evening’s lovemaking ran a thrill of sadness through her so sharp she could hardly bear it.
‘I was much impressed by your designs,’ Fergal said, turning to her. ‘ For one so young and so new to the business they show amazing perception.’
Theresa flushed with pleasure and if it crossed her mind to wonder what a man who had made his money from computers knew about fashion design she pushed the thought aside.
‘Very, very saleable,’ Fergal continued. ‘There were one or two details of the finish that need work but …’
Theresa’s pleasure faded. ‘What details?’
‘I didn’t feel the corners of the cuffs were as perfect as they might be and your labels could be better. When one is charging top prices without a known name as a selling point everything must be absolutely faultless.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Theresa said. ‘And I certainly wasn’t aware there was anything about my samples that could be criticised. If there is I’ll make certain it’s put right, and at risk of sounding like the poor workman blaming his tools, as the old saying goes, I’d like to explain that some of my machines are a bit past it and I think the outworkers have the same problem. It’s because we’re all working on a shoe-string, Mr Hillyard.’
‘Fergal, please.’ He smiled at her, his eyes lingering on her face.
‘I appreciate your problems, my dear. I think you need assistance to help you rise above them. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You really think …’ Theresa began eagerly, then broke off. She and Linda had agreed their strategy before coming; it would not be politic to appear to eager. It was important that Fergal Hillyard should see her as an up and coming designer who could make him a worthwhile return on his investment, not as a lame duck who needed rescuing. ‘I need cash, Mr Hillyard – Fergal –’ she continued, trying to impress with her directness. ‘I won’t deny that. It’s the one thing I haven’t got. But otherwise I have every confidence in what I’m doing and if you, or anyone, were to back me I know you wouldn’t regret it.’
He raised his glass, looking at her over the top of it.
‘You’re very positive, Theresa. I like that. Well, I may be able to help you. I’m not making any promises yet awhile but let’s explore the possibilities, shall we? What direction do you see your business moving in?’
‘Terri designs for the young sophisticate,’ Linda said. ‘Clothes that would take the high-powered executive from the boardroom straight on to the smartest of evening engagements.’
Fergal’s thick lips twisted with barely concealed amusement but he hardly so much as glanced in Linda’s direction. His eyes were still firmly fixed on Theresa and there was something openly salacious in his expression.
‘I’d like to hear Theresa’s plans from the lady herself,’ he said smoothly. ‘If I’m going to be putting my money into something I prefer to cut away all the dead wood. So, Theresa, tell me in your own words how you would like to spend my investment if I decide to give it to you.’
Linda subsided, slightly put out. She was not unaware of the fact that Fergal was virtually ignoring her and since it had been she who had set up the meeting she felt a little hurt at being invited to play so little part in it. But she had the good sense to keep quiet. As long as Fergal could be persuaded to put up some money what did it matter who he talked to?
Throughout the meal Theresa outlined her hopes and plans and Fergal’s questions and keen observations began to raise her hopes. Perhaps the man didn’t know much about fashion – though he had certainly been astute enough to recognise good design when he had seen it in the shape of her samples – but he certainly did know about making money.
If only he could do for me what he’s done for his computers all my worries would be over, Theresa thought, feeling almost light-hearted for the first time.
When the coffee was served Linda got up and excused herself, heading for the ladies’ cloakroom and leaving Theresa alone with Fergal. With the coffee had come tiny delicious petit fours – and liqueurs. ‘I really think I’ve had enough to drink,‘ Theresa had objected, but Fergal had been so insistent, that it had seemed rude to refuse. Theresa sipped her Cointreau allowing the syruppy liquid to slide down her throat and feeling the warmth spread th
rough her veins.
‘So,’ she said, looking at Fergal over her glass. ‘Have we convinced you that Theresa Arnold is a name worth backing?’
‘Possibly.’ His eyes narrowed in a face that was now slightly flushed. Theresa held her breath. ‘There would be a few provisos, of course,’ he went on. ‘First, I would want to see someone with more experience running the business side. Your friend Linda is keen, she’s a good saleswoman and perhaps one day she’ll make a first class chief executive, but for the moment if I make a sizeable investment I should have to feel my money was in rather more capable hands than hers.’
‘I couldn’t throw her out,’ Theresa said. ‘She’s part of the team and she’s been with me from the beginning.
‘I’m sure there would be a place for her. As I said, one of these days, with experience, she will be an asset to any company.
‘What are the other conditions? Theresa asked.
‘That you use a bank and an accountant of my choosing.’
‘I can’t see any problem with the accountant, but I do already have a bank loan for which my mother’s house is collatoral.’
‘I see.’ A single frown line furrowed Fergal’s smooth brow and Theresa felt slightly sick. He obviously had not realised she was already in considerable debt.
Oh God, she prayed, please don’t let it make any difference!
‘Well,’ he continued, after a moment. ‘I expect we could work something out on that score, providing …’
His voice tailed away. Theresa looked up sharply to see those speculative eyes watching her narrowly.
‘Providing what?’ she asked and heard the little tremor of nervousness in her own voice.
He smiled slowly. ‘ Oh, we don’t want to discuss that now, do we? Come to my office and we’ll talk about it there. Or better still, my little bachelor pad. We won’t be interrupted there.’
Theresa’s heart had begun to pound. It echoed hollowly at every pulse point and made her feel sick again.
‘I … I don’t know …’
‘Now don’t be a silly girl!’ His voice was smooth and confident, the voice of a man practised in this sort of thing. ‘ I’m sure we can work very well together – an excellent team.’ He took a card from his wallet and passed it to her. As he leaned close she caught a whiff of stale breath. ‘ The address of my little pad,’ he said. ‘ I’m off to Brussels on business tomorrow for a few days – phone me next Monday and we’ll fix up a time that suits both of us.’
Theresa’s mouth was dry; she couldn’t speak. She crumpled her linen napkin into a ball on the table top.
‘Ah, here’s your friend coming back,’ Fergal said in the same smooth tone. ‘She will be pleased to hear the good news, I expect.’
‘Good news?’
‘That you and I are on the point of coming to a very satisfactory agreement.’ He smiled at her again; now that she had smelled his breath once she fancied she could smell it again, right across the table. ‘I think we should drink, don’t you, to the success of the hottest new label in town – Theresa Arnold!’
He raised his glass and Theresa did the same. So – it looked as though her business worries could be at an end. She would have the money she needed to help pull her out of her difficulties and ensure her mother’s house was safe. And with the management Fergal would put in she would be able to leave the business to people who knew what they were doing whilst she concentrated on designing just as she had always wanted to. It was all there on offer, everything she had hoped for … more. But at what a price!
Theresa looked at the smooth, lascivious man beside her and shuddered. She was honestly not sure if it was a price she was prepared to pay. But what choice did she have? If it had been just her own business at stake she knew what she would have done – told him, what he could do with his offers. But it was more, much more than that.
As she so often did Theresa thought of her mother, so kind, so caring, who had risked everything she owned to give Theresa her chance, and felt sick at the thought of what she stood to lose.
I can’t do it to her, Theresa thought. What would she do? Where would she go?
Slowly, sick at heart, she raised her glass and clinked it with Fergal’s. The bargain was sealed. Theresa was only glad she had a week’s grace before she had to deliver her part of it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Dad?’ Harriet said softly. ‘Are you awake, Dad?’
For a moment there was no response and a nerve jumped in Harriet’s throat.
He looked so frail lying there in his hospital bed with tubes attached to his arm and a monitor bleeping seismographical patterns on to a screen at the foot of his bed.
‘Dad?’ she whispered again and his eyes nickered and opened, staring blearily into the middle distance then focusing on her.
‘Harriet?’ His voice was slightly creaky, as if his lips were parched. Then, more strongly: ‘Harriet! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Australia!’
She drew up a chair and sat down, taking his hand in hers.
‘I came back as soon as I heard the news. Sally got a message to me.’
‘Sally?’ His hesitance made her realise he was drugged. ‘Oh, Sally. Yes, she’s a good girl.’
‘How are you, Dad?’
‘Oh fine, fine. Stupid thing to happen though, wasn’t it?’
Harriet nodded, her throat too full to speak. From her conversation with Sally, Mark and the doctor in charge of the case she knew he was anything but fine. He was lucky to be alive. Had he been at the Ranch or one of his more far-flung homes he might not be. At least having a heart attack in the centre of New York guaranteed immediate medical attention.
‘Just imagine – me having a weak heart!’ Hugo murmured incredulously. ‘ Goddammit, I always thought I was as strong as an ox!’
‘You are, but you are also human,’ Harriet said gently. ‘You have been under a lot of strain recently.’
He did not answer for a moment. There was a faraway look in his eyes.
‘Yes, yes … I suppose I have.’ Those eyes swivelled to her face, sharp suddenly in their dark sockets. ‘ How did you get on, Harriet? Did you find out anything?’
‘Not now, Dad,’ she cautioned. ‘You mustn’t worry your head about anything. Just get well.’
‘But I want to know!’ he persisted stubbornly. ‘Did you find Greg Martin, the bastard?’
‘No. Forget him, Dad, please. It’s all so long ago.’
‘He took your mother away from me, you know,’ he said in the same dreamy voice. ‘ She was leaving me for him. God knows what she saw in him. Charm, I suppose. Charm – and money. He always made out he was so goddammed rich.’
‘Dad …’
But there seemed to be no way of stopping Hugo from talking.
‘I loved her so much I’d have died for her, Harriet, you know that? And instead … I never meant to hurt her, you know. I never wanted that. I just couldn’t help myself. All that love – it seemed to go sour in me. I couldn’t help myself!’
‘Dad, please!’ Harriet begged, distressed. ‘You’ll make yourself ill again.’
His fingers curled convulsively around hers. ‘But I never meant to hurt her, Harri, you must believe that! I only wanted …’
The monitor began to bleep more urgently and Harriet felt a chill of fear. She freed her hand from her father’s grasp and ran into the corridor, hailing a white-uniformed figure.
‘Nurse! Come quickly, please! I think he’s having another attack!’
The nurse hurried past her, moments later she was joined by a doctor. Harriet stood helplessly in the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth as she watched them working frantically. Then there was a firm but gentle hand about her waist and another nurse urged her away.
‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you a cup of good strong coffee.’
Harriet hung back. ‘ But my father …’
‘There’s nothing you can do there except get in the way. He’s in good hands, I p
romise you.’
‘But… will he be all right?’
‘If Dr Clavell can’t save him, no one can,’ the nurse said comfortingly.
It was only when she was alone in the luxuriously appointed waiting room, pacing the floor with the untouched cup of coffee forgotten on the low glass-topped table that Harriet realised the nurse had not really answered her question. Sally had been at the hospital night and day since Hugo’s first attack but had taken the opportunity afforded by Harriet’s arrival to go home for a few hours’ break, a shower, a change of clothes and a short sleep in her own bed. Now, Harriet had been forced to telephone and tell her the news that Hugo was once again in crisis. Sally had sounded distraught; now she would be on her way back to the hospital, her chauffeur fighting his way with all possible speed through the New York traffic.
As she waited alone, both for Sally and for news, Harriet found her mind playing and re-playing the conversation she had just had with her father like a scratched gramophone record stuck in the same groove and she paced the room wondering just what it was that had been going on in his confused brain when he had mumbled those agonised words.
Her first assumption had been that he was referring to the terrible fight he and Paula had had the night before she left to go to Italy – the fight the four-years-old Harriet had witnessed, unnoticed by either of them. She had been woken by the raised voices, got out of bed and toddled along the corridor to the door to her parents’ room where she had stood in the doorway wide-eyed and frightened – more frightened than she had ever been before in her young life and probably more frightened than she ever would be again for a very long time.
She had not understood what was going on at the time of course. Only later had she been able to piece together the fragmented shards and even then she was unsure just how much was reality and how much imagination, distorted like a dream on exposure to daylight. Now, hearing her father’s tortured ramblings, she thought that it must have been every bit as bad as she had feared.