‘I doubt that will explain anything. Even Naveena didn’t know of the child’s existence.’
‘I know. I spoke to her.’
Gwen’s heart leapt into her throat. ‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing more than we already know.’ He paused. ‘Gwen, you do look pale.’
‘I’m fine, just a little tired maybe.’
She saw the concern in his eyes, but was relieved when he glanced at the dresses laid out on the bed.
‘They all look lovely, but don’t pack too much. I thought you might like to know Christina is taking you shopping on Fifth Avenue. She thinks you might like some more fashionable clothes.’
She straightened up and, with her hands on her hips, she glared at him. ‘Who does bloody Christina think she is? I am not a charity case, and I do not need her to take me shopping.’
His chin jutted out. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Well, I am not. I’m fed up with being patronized by her. And by you.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry. I know you’re upset about Hugh going away.’
‘I am not upset,’ she said.
‘Darling –’
‘Don’t darling me! I am not upset at all.’ And then she burst into tears.
He came to fold his arms round her. She struggled, but he held her so tightly she couldn’t break free. She couldn’t tell him what she was really feeling about Liyoni, and although she would indeed miss Hugh terribly, the truth was he would probably enjoy himself at school. It was actually the thought of leaving everything in the lap of the gods for so long that sent a spasm of fear through her, and it didn’t help that not for one minute did she believe Verity would stay away.
‘We’ll be back before you know it, sweetheart.’ He tilted her chin up towards him and kissed her on the lips, and she wanted him at that moment, so much that she couldn’t speak.
‘Shall I lock the door?’ he said with a grin.
‘And the window. Sound carries.’ She glanced back at the bed, littered with clothes.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, and gathered them all up and chucked them in a shambolic heap on the floor, before heading to the door and locking it.
‘Laurence! Those things had all been ironed.’
He ignored what she had said, picked her up, tossed her over his shoulder and carried her to the bed. She laughed as he threw her down and then began to help him remove her clothes.
31
Gwen pulled the heavy brocade curtain aside. From her viewpoint at the window of their apartment in the Savoy-Plaza Hotel, on their first morning in the great city, she was surprised to see trees and the rocky shore of a lake glittering in the September sunshine. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this glorious shining morning, or such an enormous park in the centre of New York.
She twisted back to survey the room. The glossy black, silver and shades of green took quite some getting used to, but she decided she liked the geometric shapes and angular lines. A huge painting dominated one wall. She wasn’t sure how to interpret the daubs of black on a cream background, apparently not representing anything in particular, but the painting made her think of Savi Ravasinghe. Christina had proposed a visit to see his latest show in a gallery in Greenwich Village at some point, and Gwen was not looking forward to going. It was a series of paintings depicting the native population of Ceylon at work; not the usual portraits of rich, beautiful women. Although it was from these canvasses that Christina had picked the one to represent Hooper’s tea, Gwen had decided to claim one of her headaches as an excuse not to go and hoped that would mean Laurence would stay with her.
Free from the constant knot in her stomach she had grown used to at home, Gwen couldn’t help feeling a burst of excitement. ‘Keep Young and Beautiful’ was playing on the wireless. It seemed apt – New York was that kind of place. Laurence had already left for a meeting with Christina, and Gwen was considering what she might do in the meantime. To distract herself from thinking about Laurence spending time alone with Christina, she picked up a glossy copy of Vogue magazine and glanced through images of the new fashions, then picked up her bag, slipped a jacket on and took the plunge. Laurence had promised to be back by twelve, which left her with over two hours to herself.
Out in the street, she glanced up at their hotel building. Christina had booked them in at the Savoy-Plaza because it was a livelier place than its older sister across Fifth Avenue, and you could listen to music in the bar at midnight. But when they’d arrived the night before, they’d been too tired to listen to anything. Gwen felt a little intimidated by the place: the series of arched windows on the ground floor, the Tudor-style slanted roof with the two chimneys and the masculine look of the edifice itself, so much more imposing than the buildings in Ceylon, which seemed gentle and elegant by comparison.
It was noisy, the horns of a handful of motor cars blaring as they wove round trolleybuses, a few double-decker gasoline-powered buses and what looked like newer and smarter single deckers. She noticed a sign resembling an oversize lollipop on a stick, standing on what Christina called the sidewalk. On closer inspection, Gwen worked out it was a bus stop. She joined the troops of men wearing trilby hats, and attempted to stroll as nonchalantly as them while she considered what to do. She decided a taxi was safer. A bus might be going anywhere. But then, before she had time to flag a taxi, she spotted a cream bus with a glass top and Manhattan Sightseeing Tour advertised on the side. Without a moment’s hesitation, she queued to buy her ticket.
From her vantage point, leaning out of the window of the bus, she eavesdropped on a couple sitting in front of her, while watching street after street pass by. The man was complaining about a lawyer who had been indicted on a charge of hoarding gold. Two hundred thousand dollars’ worth, the man said. Whatever next. His wife, if that’s who she was, and Gwen was certain she was, muttered, ‘Yes, dear,’ in all the correct places, but Gwen could tell that the woman, as entranced by the sights as she was herself, did not care.
The subject of gold did, however, trigger thoughts of Laurence’s reason to be in New York. However much she would like to think so, she and Laurence weren’t here as tourists. Today he was going for meetings with Christina at the bank, and tomorrow they were all going to an advertising agency, and after that a solicitor’s. Tonight, by way of celebration, they’d been promised an evening of non-stop entertainment. Even the idea of it took Gwen’s breath away. Laurence was all for a visit to a jazz club, though Gwen would have preferred a show. They passed a series of billboards advertising 42nd Street at the Strand Theater. That would be just the ticket, she thought.
That wasn’t the only difference of opinion. There had been a continuing disagreement between Laurence and Christina over which advertising agency suited them better, so much so that they’d sounded like an old married couple. In the end it had boiled down to a choice between the James Walter Thompson Agency or Masefield, Moore and Clements, on Madison Avenue. The former had apparently invented the grilled cheese sandwich for one of its clients, and that impressed Christina no end, but it was rumoured the latter were planning the first ever commercially sponsored radio show, and that was even better. Accustomed to the slow rhythms of their Ceylon tea plantation, Gwen didn’t know what to make of it all.
At the same time as she marvelled at the succession of streets and tall buildings, she continued to be preoccupied by her thoughts, and was surprised when the tour ended abruptly and she found herself back somewhere near the park. As she moved out of the bus and on to the pavement, she spotted Laurence guiding Christina by the elbow as they headed towards the hotel entrance. A woman in less need of guiding, Gwen could not imagine.
‘Laurence!’ she called and, determined not to feel wounded, she swallowed her irritation. The noise in the street blocked the sound of her voice and he did not turn.
She ran and caught up with them a few moments later.
‘How did it go?’ she asked, slightly out
of breath.
Laurence grinned and kissed her cheek. ‘We have a master plan in place.’
‘And we’re seeing the advertising agency tomorrow at ten,’ Christina added, linking arms with them both as if absolutely nothing was wrong. ‘Perhaps we should lunch now. Gwen and I have some heavy shopping to get through this afternoon, Laurence. And a new suit for you wouldn’t go amiss.’
Later that day Gwen had just returned from the shopping trip to Saks and the House of Hawes. Outside, the daylight was fading, and as the electric lights came on, tiny yellow rectangles patterned the dark edifices of the looming buildings. In the sitting room of their apartment, Laurence smoked a pipe as he relaxed in one of two square leather armchairs. The bellboy carried in Gwen’s packages and placed them just inside the door. After she’d tipped him, she sprawled on the other chair opposite Laurence.
It had been more exhausting than any shopping trip she’d ever experienced, but she’d come away with three wonderful new outfits that brought her bang up to date. If she was honest, she’d actually rather enjoyed it. She had an evening dress in palest beige, with a slash of purple at the neckline and butterfly sleeves, and a beautifully cut two-piece in soft pea green, plus a business suit. All had the new mid-calf-length hemline and sleek bodices. Christina had insisted on gloves and a hat to match the suit. With a brim, it was a style that flattered Gwen’s face more than her old cloche hats had done. She was happy that she’d packed her fox-fur stole as it lent a touch of class to the off-the-peg outfits.
‘Laurence, have you noticed that hardly any of the bellboys and elevator attendants are white?’ She rubbed her ankles and hesitated for a moment. ‘Some are very dark, but some are a sort of toffee colour.’
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed,’ he said from behind his newspaper. ‘I guess some people may well be descended from white slave owners.’
‘Was that common?’
He nodded and carried on reading.
‘Are you reading about the lawyer who was charged with hoarding gold?’
‘Yes, and there’s an interesting article about that Hitler chap in Germany. They’ve had monumental inflation there. Could be he’ll be the one to sort it out.’
‘Do you really think so? I heard he’s blaming the Jewish banks over there.’
‘You may be right. Where did you hear that?’
‘I listen when I’m out and about.’
There was a short silence while Laurence carried on reading, and Gwen bided her time.
‘Shall I ring for some tea?’ she asked.
As he didn’t reply, she went ahead, then screwed up her eyes as she decided how to broach the subject that had been preoccupying her.
‘Laurence, I’ve been thinking.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said and grinned at her, then folded his paper and put it down.
‘Since I am to be a director of the new company, even if it is in name only, you need me to sign the papers too, don’t you?’
He nodded.
‘I will sign everything you want me to, of course I will.’
‘I never doubted that.’
‘And I’ll give the project my full support, but on one condition.’ Laurence’s brows shot up, but he didn’t say a word as she continued. ‘If we do make pots of money –’
‘Not if, when!’
‘According to Christina, yes.’
‘I think she’s right.’
‘Well, if we succeed, I’d like to see conditions improve for our labourers. I’d like the children to have better access to medicine, for example.’
‘Is that all?’
She took a breath in. ‘No. I want to improve their housing too.’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Though I hope I’ve already improved things since my father’s day. Dreadful to think of it now, but did you know that on a crocodile shoot, it was once common practice to use a chubby brown infant as bait?’
Her hand flew to her mouth.
‘The hunters would haggle the price for the child then tether him or her to a tree to lure the crocodile out of the water.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘True, I’m afraid. The croc makes a rush for the child, and the hunter, hidden in the rushes, fires and shoots him dead. Child is untied and everyone smiles.’
‘What would have happened if the hunter had missed?’
‘I guess the croc would have had a good lunch. Outrageous, isn’t it?’
Gwen looked at her feet, shaking her head in disbelief. Laurence sighed and picked up his paper again, but didn’t unfold it.
She took a deep breath. ‘My point is that a school without good medical care and better housing is a waste of time. We have to improve all three to make any kind of difference to their lives. Imagine what it must be like to have so little.’
He considered for a moment. ‘My father thought they were happy to have a job and be looked after.’
‘He believed that because it’s what he wanted to believe.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this before?’
‘It’s being here. I want to do something for our people if I can, that’s all.’
She waited while he opened out the newspaper and thumped it flat again.
‘In principle, I do agree,’ he said. ‘But it would mean a huge capital expenditure, so only if our profits allow it. Now, my darling, please may I read my paper?’
‘Is it one we’ll be advertising in?’
‘We’ll find that out tomorrow.’
‘It’s terribly exciting, isn’t it?’ she said and leant back in her chair.
She picked up a magazine and flicked through, then as she came across one particular article, tucked the magazine under her arm. This was something she needed to read alone.
‘I’m just going to the bathroom,’ she said.
In the bathroom she bit a fingernail as she read, then she opened the cabinet, took out her nail scissors and very carefully cut out the article before folding the magazine and throwing it in the bin.
At Masefield, Moore and Clements the next day, Laurence, Christina and Gwen were ushered through to a meeting room with a bank of windows that overlooked the busy street.
William Moore was the Creative Director. He nodded and grinned at them all, while indicating some designs already pinned to two large easels. While the introductions were being made, Gwen gazed at the transformation of Savi Ravasinghe’s original painting. She steeled herself not to reveal any unease at the mention of his name, but it was harder not to react to his work. The picture had been lovely before, but now, with the colours heightened and slightly adjusted, the image of the woman’s red sari against the luminous green of the tea bushes shimmered with vitality.
‘Sure will stand out,’ Mr Moore said with a broad smile, showing startling white teeth.
‘It is beautiful,’ Gwen said.
‘Well, we have to thank Christina here for the idea. The artist has seen the images, by the way, and he’s happy too.’
‘So that’s how the package of tea will look. What about the advertisements?’ Laurence said as he pulled out a chair at the large oval table.
They settled themselves and Moore handed out a sheet of typescript, while a girl brought in coffee and bagels.
‘It’s a list of the magazines and papers we’re aiming for. Radio stations too. We’ll be pushing out in the New Year.’
Laurence nodded. ‘Very impressive.’
Moore stood and flipped over the two sheets on the easels to reveal the design and layout for the billboards, and an enlarged version of a typical magazine advert. The smile never left his face.
‘The idea is to carry the image through on everything. We want to implant it deep in the American mind, and colour is by far the best way to go with Hooper’s tea. The colour of the woman’s sari, the colour of the tea bushes and so on, though it does work quite prettily in sepia tones too.’
‘And the exact launch date?’ Christina asked as she lit a cigarette.
‘At the start of the New Year. I’m just waiting to finalize the details. We want to emphasize the provenance.’
‘Pardon?’
He turned towards Gwen. ‘It’s all about where it comes from. In this case, rich-flavoured, pure Ceylon tea.’
While they drank their coffee, an irony that made Gwen smile, Moore showed her other advertisements currently posted on hoardings and in magazines. As she gazed at the pictures, she heard Laurence and Christina talking about the new investors she’d managed to convince. Gwen glanced across at her perfectly made-up face and glossy nails, and at her hair swept up in an elegant style. She wore black, as always, but with a red silk scarf knotted at the neck, and shoes to match. In a way Gwen admired her. She knew all the wealthy families and wasn’t afraid to use her connections.
During a pause in the conversation the intercom buzzed.
‘Excuse me a moment,’ Moore said, and left the room.
‘So what do you think, Gwen?’ Christina said. ‘Pretty exciting, huh?’
Gwen’s smile widened. ‘I am dazzled, to be honest.’
‘And this is just the start. You wait until we are the first commercial backers of a radio show.’
‘Is that on the cards?’
‘Not yet, but you bet it will be.’
Moore came back into the room with a sharp-looking younger man. His hair was slick and his suit immaculate, but he tugged at his tie and shuffled his feet. Moore took a deep breath and didn’t smile for once. It was an awkward moment, and Laurence stood up, seeming to sense that something had changed and that it required a response from him. As the atmosphere shifted from excited hopefulness into a silent hiatus, Gwen and Christina exchanged looks.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a glitch.’ Moore held up a hand as they all fidgeted. ‘But it’s nothing too serious, and I hope we can work round it.’
Gwen glanced at Laurence, whose chin was jutting out.
‘Like I say, I hope that we might still be able to proceed.’
The Tea Planter's Wife Page 33