‘I think he opened the bank in the late thirties, just before the war.’
‘Would there be anything in the Journal’s old files?’
‘No idea.’
‘Might be something. Give me a handle on all this.’
‘I’ll have a look,’ she said.
She took the dessert menu from the hovering maitre d’ and consulted it. There goes another thirty francs, Cristiani thought sourly.
She turned to him. ‘Are you going to have something?’
‘Just coffee for me.’
‘You don’t mind if I do?’
‘Of course not,’ Cristiani said. ‘Have anything you want.’ She picked the apricot soufflé. Cristiani tried hard not to wince.
Chapter 23
Nervous and distracted, her mind so fragmented she found it hard to concentrate on work, Julia spent the next few days slipping in and out of deep depression. The knowledge that she had a child inside her totally unnerved her. She moved restlessly about her office, avoiding Emma as much as possible, working late into the evening. Since his last call from Buenos Aires she had heard nothing from Brand. This further depressed her.
Early one afternoon Chantal Ricci swept into her office. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
‘I’ve been here,’ Julia said dully.
‘Everything going well?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ve seen several mentions of the Burlington in the papers. That your doing?’
‘That’s my job.’
‘Terrific.’ She gave Julia a bright smile. ‘Listen, I need a favour. Have you got anything on the early history of the hotel? How it started; that sort of thing? It was a private mansion, I’m told.’
‘It was.’
‘There must be old photographs somewhere. Could you get that girl of yours to dig them out for me?’
‘You mean Emma?’
‘Whatever her name is. Signor Moscato has decided we should have some early pictures in the magazine. I think he’s right.’
‘It’ll take some time,’ Julia said.
‘Get her on to it right away, will you? I need them by the day after tomorrow. Deadlines, you know.’
She smiled again and swept out of the room.
Smarting at the arrogance of the woman Julia got up and paced the office. Damn her, she thought. Patronizing bitch. So sleek and coiffed and sure of herself.
That afternoon and all the next day she and Emma went through the old files for stories of the Burlington’s early days when it was first converted from a millionaire’s townhouse into a fifteen-room hotel. Emma spent the following morning putting the photographs together and writing the captions.
Two days later came a handwritten note from Chantal: Thank you for your assistance on this project. We really appreciate it.
Was that the royal we, Julia speculated. Or did she mean: Your boss and I? She threw it in the waste basket.
When Julia got back from lunch the next day there was a note on her desk: Jill Bannister called from New York. Julia’s spirits lifted. At last – news from Brand. She buzzed Emma. ‘When did she call?’
‘Half an hour ago, thereabouts. She sounded upset you weren’t here. Said she’d call back later. Whenever later is.’
The afternoon dragged. There was no further call from New York. Julia spent the time revising her weekly newsletter. She now included potted biographies of the personalities staying at the hotel together with the reasons for their visits to London. Since developing this idea the hotel had been mentioned in several interviews.
She did not get back to the flat until late. She knew she should go for a walk round the park but she was afraid she would miss Jill’s call. Just as she was stepping out of the shower the phone rang. Wrapping herself in her robe she rushed for the receiver.
‘Hello.’
‘Miss Lang? It’s Jill. Jill Bannister. I called you earlier …’
‘I know. I’m sorry I missed you.’
‘It’s about Mr Brand. He collapsed …’
‘What?’ Julia felt an inner flutter of fear.
‘He’s in the hospital in Peru. But he’s all right. He wants you to know that.’
‘When was this?’
‘This morning our time. I just got a call from the doctor there. Mr Brand went to Machu Picchu with a couple of Government people. It’s high, you know, twelve thousand feet. He was foolish; he set out to climb Huayna Picchu, which is even higher.’
Julia closed her eyes. Her hand gripping the receiver was damp. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s in a place called Cuzco. His own doctor gets there tonight. They’re flying him to New York tomorrow.’
‘Can I talk with him?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Julia was filled with dread. ‘What can I do?’
‘There’s nothing. Just sit tight. Try not to worry. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’
She hung up. Julia sat on the edge of the bed, holding the receiver, feeling stricken. Robert would die without ever knowing she was having his child. She remembered the way he had faltered as they climbed the steep cliff in Corsica. He knew he had a bad heart yet he carried on as if he were perfectly fit. Now this. She must try to think positively, she told herself. Men had heart attacks all the time and recovered from them. She mustn’t overreact. Perhaps this was not even a heart attack. He had ‘collapsed’, whatever that meant. Now he was in hospital. His doctor was flying down. He’d have the best possible care. Of course he’d be all right. Consoling herself with this thought she got into bed, eventually drifting into a troubled sleep.
The item was the third story in the gossip page of London’s top-selling tabloid the next day.
I hear all is not well at London’s most distinguished hotel, the Burlington in Knightsbridge. It appears that a new addition to the staff – shapely Italian Chantal Ricci – has been putting a few noses out of joint at the elegant hotel, a favourite hangout of the world’s celebrities. Brought in to edit a forthcoming hotel magazine by Managing Director Guido Moscato – about whom she recently wrote a sycophantic puff piece in Trends, her old magazine – Ricci has managed to alienate so many of the staff with her arrogance that several are threatening to quit. Mary Merrill, housekeeper at the hotel for the past five years, has already handed in her notice. Moscato, it seems, is so impressed with his new find that he has given her a grand office next to his – demoting Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s able Director of Sales and Marketing, to a burrow further down the hall. Does the fact that both Moscato and Ricci hail from Milan have anything to do with this? And does the Sultan of Malacca know? And would he approve if he did? As is widely known, he considers the Burlington the finest jewel in his colourful turban.
Julia, coming in late after a disturbed night, found the piece on her desk, ringed in red. An hour later Moscato called her in.
‘You saw this?’ he asked, holding up the paper.
‘Of course.’
He searched her face with unemotional eyes. ‘Who is this man?’ He glanced at the top of the column. ‘Jeremy Orde?’
‘A gossip columnist.’
‘You know him?’
‘I’ve met him.’
Moscato put down the item. ‘I want to know where this came from. Obviously someone on the staff passed it on. I want you to find out who.’
Tired and irritable, beset by worry, Julia looked at him contemptuously. ‘What do you expect me to do? Line up the staff and question them? That’s ridiculous. And it isn’t my job.’
Moscato glared at her. ‘I know that. What I want you to do is call this man Orde and find out who gave him the story.’
‘You expect him to tell me? You don’t know much about British newspapers. Anyway most of that story is common knowledge …’
‘It is a cheap piece filled with innuendo,’ Moscato said. ‘I had hoped that during the time you have been here you had formed a better relationship with the press.’
Julia reddened. ‘My relationship with the press is excellent. But a story is a story. I told you that piece in Trends would boomerang. You thought you knew better.’
‘Your rudeness to me is quite unacceptable,’ Moscato said angrily. ‘I warn you I will not put up with it.’
‘You’re the one making this ridiculous request,’ Julia said. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me …’
She left before he had a chance to reply.
Plenty of exercise, the doctor had said. Right, Julia decided, she would walk home. Well wrapped up against the chill of the evening she set off towards Hyde Park Corner. There she cut through the underpass, emerging in Park Lane where a short walk brought her to Grosvenor Square. She stood for a moment looking around. A few doors along from the Britannia Hotel she found the building that had drawn her towards the square, its small brass plate announcing The Brand Corporation. Crossing the street she stood beside the memorial to the men of the American Eagle Squadron who had fought with the RAF in the Second World War. She looked back at the building. A few lights were still on downstairs, but most of the windows were dark.
Why was she doing this, she wondered. Why was she standing there on a winter night like some jealous mistress looking up at a lover’s apartment? Was it a pathetic attempt to feel close to Robert, to stand where perhaps he had sometimes stood? She didn’t know. All she knew was she had never felt so alone. Michael was no longer a part of her life. Robert was thousands of miles away, perhaps dying. Her days at the Burlington were numbered. And she was pregnant.
She felt numb with depression.
When she got home she went straight to the bedroom. The light on her answering machine was winking. It was Lisa seeking further news about Brand. Julia had told her about his collapse earlier. The message ended: ‘I’m cooking tonight. Chicken piccata, your favourite. Come about eight.’
Pleased, Julia changed into her tracksuit and took a taxi to Lisa’s flat north of the park.
‘I can tell by your face,’ Lisa said, ‘you’ve heard nothing more.’
‘Not a word.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. Robert Brand is an important man. And a rich one. He’ll have the best medical attention in the world. I’m sure he’ll be all right. Maybe it was just a mild attack.’
‘You think so?’
‘You’ve got to be optimistic,’ Lisa said. She took Julia’s arm. ‘Come and help me in the kitchen. Incidentally, we’re invited to a dinner party next Saturday and I’ve accepted.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘It’s Simon Winnick. And you’re coming. He likes you and you like him and you’ve got to get out among people instead of cooping yourself up in that flat. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she said. Lisa was right. She needed cheering up.
Chapter 24
Simon Winnick’s dinner parties were always elegant affairs and when the time came for her to get ready Julia was filled with misgivings. She had felt nauseous all day. Her instinct was to hide away in the flat, to see nobody. But she knew it was important that she pull herself out of her slump. Mingling with new people was a good way to do it. And there was one thing about Simon’s dinners: the guest list was always interesting.
Julia had met him at a cocktail party at the hotel three years before and had liked him immediately. The Conservative politician was a man of wit and style, as good at listening to stories as telling them. She and Lisa had several times been invited to his house in Eaton Square and each time had stayed late, so good was the conversation. What made these affairs particularly enjoyable to both women was the fact that they were never invited as dates for people; they were there simply because Simon enjoyed their company.
Julia, whose pregnancy had still not started to show, had already decided on her all-purpose Louis Féraud black cocktail dress for the occasion. And she determined to wear Brand’s diamonds. Guests at Simon’s dinners were always elegantly dressed and she knew this might be one of the few occasions when she could actually wear the necklace. Taking it from its hiding place she went into the bathroom and put it on. It was the first time she had worn it since Brand had given it to her on the yacht and, standing before the mirror, she was captivated by its sparkling beauty. She was dressing up, she realized, for the first time in weeks. Not to impress any of the other guests but to make herself feel good, to temporarily banish gloom from her life.
When Lisa arrived in the taxi she took one look at Julia and her eyes widened. ‘You look sensational. You’ll knock them cold.’
Julia forced a smile. ‘Who’s them? Anyone I know?’
‘A couple of politicians. Some business tycoons. An editor or two. Some authors. You know Simon. It’ll be fun.’
Lisa’s forecast proved accurate. When they walked into Winnick’s house they found twenty people milling around in his ornate drawing room, sipping drinks and talking animatedly.
Julia recognized a couple of actresses, a well-known columnist, two Members of Parliament and a playwright. After introducing them Simon led them over to the small man standing with his back to the fire. With a rush of pleasure, Julia realized it was the Sultan of Malacca.
He took her hand. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Julia.’
She was surprised to see him there. She had supposed him long gone. ‘I’m delighted to see you, sir.’
‘Please,’ the Sultan smiled, ‘this is a social occasion. Call me George.’
Julia turned to Lisa. ‘This is my friend Lisa Faraday. Lisa – the Sultan of Malacca.’
Lisa’s reaction was entirely predictable. Her eyes widened. Her smile broadened. The volume of her body language increased markedly. ‘Julia, why have you been keeping this lovely man to yourself? I’ve been waiting years to meet him.’
For the next ten minutes, as they stood talking, Lisa never took her eyes from the Sultan, being in turn coquettish, funny, charming and just plain sexy. Julia, who had seen her friend in action before, wondered if her goal was the Sultan’s bed or just his admiration. Bed, she eventually decided, as Lisa continued to turn on the charm.
‘You know something, your Highness?’
‘George. Please.’
‘You don’t realize what a treasure you have in Julia.’
‘Oh, but I do, I do,’ the Sultan said.
‘You couldn’t. Because everything she does is dismissed by that man Moscato.’
Julia was horrified. ‘Lisa. Stop that.’
‘It’s true,’ Lisa persisted. ‘She’s absolutely wonderful at her job. The Burlington’s had more pieces written about it than any hotel I know. That’s her doing. But all Moscato does is criticize.’
Flushed with embarrassment, Julia wheeled on her friend. ‘I forbid you to go on.’
The Sultan put his hand on her arm. ‘Do not distress yourself, Julia. Clearly this is something about which your friend feels strongly. She is right to mention it.’
‘Not here,’ Julia said grimly. ‘Not a dinner party.’
‘It’s quite all right,’ the Sultan said. ‘Really.’
Angrily Julia excused herself and walked over to join a couple she did not know. She was seething inwardly.
‘You look like you’re ready to blow up the place,’ the man said. ‘Who are you mad at?’
‘Myself, actually.’
‘That’s a waste of time,’ the man said. ‘Far more rewarding to be mad at other people.’
The woman, who looked vaguely familiar, smiled. ‘You’re from the Burlington, aren’t you?’
Julia nodded. ‘Julia Lang.’
‘I think you know my mother, Judith Cameron?’
‘Of course.’ Julia brightened. ‘She ran our etiquette course for youngsters. She’s a wonderful lady. And such fun.’
The woman swirled the ice in her glass. ‘You heard what happened, I suppose?’
‘No.’
‘She’s chairing this year’s Primrose Ball. Because she’d had such a good relationship with all of you she wanted to hold it at the Burli
ngton. But they turned it down.’
Julia stared at her, astonished. ‘Who turned it down?’
‘Some Italian woman. Ricci, is that her name? Mother was told she was in charge of those things now.’
Julia took a deep breath. ‘I knew nothing about this,’ she said quietly. ‘Let me look into it.’
‘It’s too late for that. They’re holding it at the Savoy.’
Julia felt a knot of anger forming in her stomach. She turned to look at the Sultan. He was still talking with Lisa. I ought to march right up and tell him about this, she thought; explain to him the importance of the Primrose Ball. It would have been a great coup for the Burlington. But she knew she would be wasting her time. He would take it as yet another criticism of Moscato and Chantal Ricci. And, after Lisa’s outburst, he would almost certainly react badly.
At that moment dinner was announced, and everyone moved into the dining room. Julia found herself sitting between one of London’s most influential publishers, Anton Lazlo, and Sir Francis Calder, a former Minister in the Hong Kong Government.
‘This lady works at the Burlington Hotel,’ Lazlo said to Calder. ‘She’ll be interested in what you’ve just been telling me.’
Calder put down his wine. ‘I was just saying that unless we put some sort of cap on tourism we’re in for terrible trouble. Britain has nineteen million tourists a year – far more than it can cope with. Everywhere you go people are tripping over themselves. What about a few years down the line when the Chinese and Russians have money and start travelling? You won’t be able to get on a plane; you won’t be able to get into a hotel. If you want to spend a week at the San Pietro in Positano they’ll say:’ “We can give you two days in 1999. Nothing before that.” Seeing Julia’s smile he said sharply: ‘I’m serious.’
‘I know you are and you’re quite right,’ Julia said. ‘But what’s the answer?’
‘Countries must put a ceiling on the number of tourists they’ll accept in any year – just as they do with immigrants. They must stop this endless building of hotels. It’s self-defeating.’
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