Sweet Compulsion

by Woolf, Victoria

  Sweet Compulsion by Victoria Woolf

  Young Marcy Campion had had an unexpected and delightful legacy in the shape of a lovely house in London. But the house happened to be in an area that the forceful Randal Saxton and his big, powerful company wanted for 'development', in the name of 'progress'. And this was something that Marcy was determined was not going to happen ; she wanted the house to be used for the benefit of the local residents, who she was sure needed it more than they needed Randal's doubtful improvements. She was convinced of the rightness of her attitude. If only she could be equally convinced about her true feelings for Randal !

  Printed in Great Britain

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published 1979

  This edition 1979

  © Victoria Woolf 1979

  ISBN 0 263 73153 7

  CHAPTER ONE

  LIKE a Pied Piper leading a yelling band of grimy London urchins up and down outside the Town Hall; bright yellow jeans, dusty sneakers on her feet—from the Mayor's Parlour it was hard to decide if she was a girl or a boy, except that by now everyone in the borough knew perfectly well that her name was Marcy Campion, and she was the girl from Paradise Street.

  `I feel like Adolf Hitler,' said the Mayor to his secretary.

  Miss Pierce surveyed his small neat face and bald head as if watching for signs of an incipient moustache.

  The handwritten banners dipped and swayed below. A little huddle of photographers and reporters converged upon the slight figure in yellow jeans. The Mayor groaned.

  Behind him the telephone rang. Miss Pierce picked it up, spoke briefly, then handed it to him with an expressionless face.

  `Mr Saxton.'

  The Mayor gave a hunted look around the room. The heavy, polished furniture reflected what traces of sunshine remained after it had been filtered through the dust-laden London air. A massive Victorian clock ticked ponderously on the marble mantelshelf. A portrait of the monarch gazed from a corner.

  Reluctantly the Mayor lifted the receiver to his ear. The ghost of an obsequious smile drifted over his face as he spoke into it.

  Mr Saxton had just, it seemed, read his newspaper. It had spoilt his breakfast.

  The Mayor winced. 'Most unfortunate, yes .. . but . . . of course, I see that . . . but . . . you don't understand . . . oh, certainly ... yes . . . naturally we want to co-operate, but .

  Miss Pierce gazed from the window. Kids need space, not office blocks, shouted one banner. Say no to big business, cried another.

  Would it rain before lunch? thought Miss Pierce, studying the sky. There were clouds gathering in the west. She had not brought an umbrella and her tan suit showed every mark.

  In the oak-panelled boardroom of Saxton and Company the directors talked about Marcy Campion in tones of incredulous irritation. There were six of them around the long, highly polished mahogany table; pin-striped, crisp-shirted, affluent. Five of them talked all at once, competing explosively. The sixth leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, narrowed blue eyes fixed on the painting which hung on the opposite wall; a painting long familiar to him in every detail, yet always fascinating because, for all the artist's skill, it failed to reveal the character of the subject.

  Against an aptly stormy background he posed, casually, on the tilting deck of an eighteenth-century

  merchantman, his plum-coloured velvet coat and lace jabot richly glowing against the flying spray and massive waves. One slender white hand, gripped the ship's wheel. The other was placed upon his hip. The effect was of staggering insolence—the dark, bold countenance stared out in challenge at the world, defying curiosity. Pirate, genius, unhung villain—all manner of descriptions had been applied by his contemporaries to the founder of the firm of Saxton and Company. James Saxton had grown enormously wealthy by exporting and importing—how exactly was uncertain. If his own century had not pierced the fierce mask of his prosperity how could his descendants hope to guess? Randal silently saluted the old devil, then dragged his attention back to the matter in hand.

  `One of these girls who wear trousers,' snorted Henry Burns, glaring across the table, his pink face stiff with rage.

  His colleagues exchanged discreet glances. Henry's wife was known to be the prime mover of all that happened in their home; a small, compact woman with great energy and an immovable will.

  `She's trying to force the price up,' Andrew McAllister said. 'It is obvious.'

  `Is it ?'

  Randal spoke now for the first time, his voice soft. They all looked at him, waiting for him to speak again. Everyone always looked at Randal Saxton in that way—attentive, deferential, ready to be charmed or convinced depending on the circumstances. He was accustomed to it. He even expected it. It was the

  birthright of a man born to control a mighty industrial empire.

  Andrew, when it became clear that Randal was waiting for him to say something in response to that brief, ambiguous question, cleared his throat. 'I think this girl is shrewd enough to see the obvious!' He spoke with a residual Scots accent, rolling his eyes.

  `What is the obvious ?' Randal asked very gentry.

  `That she has us over a barrel,' said Andrew sturdily. 'We must have that site—it's that simple. She's waiting for us to reach our ceiling—or hers, whichever comes first. There has to be a price at which she'll sell.'

  Randal studied Andrew's thin sharp features. `We've offered her a hundred thousand pounds and she still expects more ?' The tone was mildly enquiring, yet somehow it made the other man flush.

  `With respect, Randal, we'll pay more,' he retorted. `I don't need to remind you that that house of hers is right in the middle of our development. We've already spent millions acquiring the rest of the sites and clearing them. She knows we have no choice but to pay her price.'

  `You're absolutely convinced it's only a question of price?'

  Andrew looked at Randal in astonishment, then sneered, his thin upper lip lifting at the corner. 'You don't believe this newspaper publicity, do you? I've met this girl. She's clever, she's quick—quite clever enough to use the media for her own ends.'

  Randal looked at the folder placed in front of him

  on the table. He did not open it. He knew the contents by heart.

  'Marcia Campion is eighteen. She inherited this house from an aunt a few weeks ago, and we immediately renewed the offer we'd made to her aunt.'

  `A very generous offer,' Andrew snapped. 'Seventy thousand pounds for a ramshackle old house in a dockland area of London! It was a windfall for a girl like that. She must have thought it was Christmas.'

  Randal quietly went on, 'She rejected our offer and informed us that she intended to turn the house and garden into a communal centre for the neighbourhood.'

  `Local agitators gave her that idea,' said Andrew. `Sentimental nonsense. Jobs are what they need in that area, especially with unemployment running at that l
evel. This girl saw her chance of holding us to ransom, and she took it. The house is an eyesore, a great Victorian eyesore. The garden is a wilderness. The way the press have been talking, you'd think we wanted to pull down some great stately home!'

  `It's the oldest building in that borough,' murmured a small, white-haired man from the far end of the table. Heads swivelled to stare at him as though he had committed an act of treachery. He flushed, defensively. 'And it isn't Victorian, you know—it was built in by a Spitalfields silk merchant and has been in the family ever since.'

  `It's more than a house, it's a heritage,' said Randal thoughtfully.

  They stared at him in silent, baffled disbelief, and he laughed. 'According to the Gazette! I was quoting

  their leader. They waxed poetic on the subject. We're cast as the big bad wolf with Miss Campion as Little Red Riding Hood.'

  `There was a picture of her in today's Post,' said Henry, pulling a newspaper out of his briefcase and flinging it angrily into the centre of the table. It lay there, crumpled and untidy. Randal leaned forward and opened it. Out of the grey pages stared a face which, even in this appalling reproduction, was startlingly alive; heart-shaped, with wide-set smiling eyes and a tenderly shaped mouth which had a natural curve of joy to it.

  `My God! No wonder we've been getting a bad press. She's a gift to them,' Randal breathed.

  The six men stared at the picture, each face mirroring a strong reaction, ranging from delight to rage. Andrew coughed angrily. He resented the charm of her features as much as the obstinacy of her will.

  `The longer all this takes the more it's going to cost us. Don't forget, we have a contractor's deadline to meet. We have to get that site cleared and the building up as soon as possible. We've borrowed to cover our costs and each extra day adds to the interest we shall have to pay. We have to break the deadlock somehow.'

  The argument burst out again. They had already spent hours discussing it and they were going round in circles, getting as irritated with each other as with Marcia Campion.

  Randal suddenly cut across their voices. He never needed to raise his clear, unemphatic tone. 'I'll go and see her myself,' he said.

  The flat statement stopped them dead. They stared at him.

  Andrew looked alarmed. 'I wouldn't advise that, Randal,' he said.

  Andrew was afraid that Randal would take over the negotiations. He was always resentful when anyone else showed an interest in his particular field of management. It was unusual for Randal to do so. He both proclaimed and practised delegation of responsibility. His father, the late Howard Saxton, had frequently told him that management was a genius for doing nothing but tell other people what to do. Randal had been born with this genius. That it also entailed an ability to note, and stop, time-wasting activity; to streamline work patterns and evolve more productive routines, often escaped less able minds, who merely saw him in his carefully nurtured public image of the playboy-millionaire Randal had always found it extremely useful to cultivate this image. Opponents were misled into imagining that he was a lightweight fool who could be treated with contempt, and by underestimating him were themselves defeated in sudden brilliant unexpected battle.

  His colleagues on the board knew him better by now. They saw the toughness of the bone structure under his good looks; the ruthless coldness of the vivid blue eyes, the jut of that angular, stubborn jaw and the tight, strong mouth.

  Some people had even noted an elusive resemblance to the stormy founder of the firm, James Saxton; a look of menace now and then about the eyes, a dangerous twist of the firm lips. The twentieth cen-

  tury, as Randal's cousin Perry had once observed, had its fair share of pirates, even if they no longer carried cutlasses or sailed the seven seas in search of prey.

  Randal looked at Andrew now, his eyes sharp. `You've had weeks in which to conclude this negotiation, Andrew. Time I took a hand, I think.'

  Henry Burns laughed. It amused him to see Andrew lose face, to hear, beneath Randal's cool tones, the crack of the whip. 'I agree,' he said. 'You'll have her eating out of your hand in ten minutes fiat, by previous records.'

  The others laughed. It would not be the first time Randal had used his undoubted attraction as a business weapon against a member of the opposite sex.

  `Then that's settled,' said Randal, leaning back in a gesture of dismissal.

  When they were leaving the boardroom a few moments later Andrew casually enquired, 'How's Lady Tarreton, by the way ?'

  Randal's eyes lifted in icy comprehension. He knew that Andrew was taking an oblique revenge for having had the negotiations taken out of his control. Andrew knew that such small failures were significant in this dog-eat-dog world. He resented Randal's intervention and was, in any case, secretly hostile to him. Andrew had fought his way up the business ladder from the bottom. Randal had been born into his power, and Andrew could never forget it.

  Isobel Tarreton, the widow of a shipping magnate, had earlier resisted an attempted merger between her firm and Saxton's, only to change her mind after Randal had exerted a little of his charm. Their names

  had been coupled in the public mind ever since, but the affaire had never progressed.

  Andrew had wondered, even secretly hoped, that Randal would at last have to pay the price for his ruthless use of the personal in business. Isobel Tarreton had seemed almost as determined as Randal himself. Gossip columnists had hinted at a forthcoming marriage. Isobel's friends had chosen their hats. But Randal had, somehow, remained elusive.

  There was only one constant feminine presence in Randal's life—the only feminine member of Saxton's board, Julia Hume, who had progressed from acting as their legal expert on company law to her own place on the board in four years, partly due to Randal's influence, partly to her own cool intelligence and grasp of affairs.

  Andrew, along with the rest of their acquaintance, had often pondered curiously upon this discreet, and puzzling, relationship. Clearly they saw a great deal of each other, both in and out of business hours. Clearly there was considerable intimacy between them—ten minutes in their company made that clear. But how much else' there was to know was obscured by their ability to conceal their emotions.

  Julia was, at present, abroad on company affairs. Randal's cold glance made Andrew pale, regretting that he had permitted his malice to show.

  `Lady Tarreton ?' Randal looked blandly bored. 'I have no idea.'

  `Watch yourself with this girl,' Andrew said roughly. 'She may be just a kid, but she's shrewder than she looks.'

  Randal nodded. 'I'll play it by ear.'

  The other man remained nervous. 'Perhaps I should come along with you,' he said.

  `Andrew, I don't need anyone holding my hand,' Randal drawled, looking at him thoughtfully.

  `Of course not, but . . .' There was sweat on Andrew's forehead along the ragged line of his brows. Randal's cool glance noted it, shrewdly. Why was Andrew so nervous about this business?

  `But nothing,' he said. 'I'll deal with it alone.'

  Andrew swallowed, but was silent. When Randal had left, Andrew hurried to his own light, airy office and picked up the white plastic telephone on his excessively neat desk. He dialled a number and then said abruptly into the receiver, 'Hello ? Saxton's coming along there himself. Watch it. Do you understand? Just watch it.' Then he slammed the receiver down with a crash that almost shattered it.

  Russell Gold was having the time of his life. He brought his flock of fellow reporters down the long line of kids like a sheepdog hustling sheep, pointing out newsworthy faces with all the fluency of a lifelong resident.

  `Dost Mohammed His dad runs the corner shop. He plays on the pavement—not even a back yard for him because his dad has to use the yard for storage . .

  Dost, tiny, bright-eyed, grinning, posed for his photograph. Behind him Wesley Stephens danced up and down, eager to appear in the newspapers. His banana grin and curly head drew attention. Wesley

  had enough energy and spirit for two
, learning so fast that his mother often watched him with a baffled mixture of despair and pride. His father was in prison for two years, of which he'd served half. Josiah Stephens, impulsive and hot-tempered, had been caught snatching fur coats from an unguarded furrier's van during a delivery. In a panic he had punched the furrier, breaking his jaw, then hidden, childishly, in his own house, where the police found him two hours later. Josiah had wept in court as he was taken down to begin his sentence. His wife had wept often since. Marcy Campion, watching, thought : Wesley is a genius. But what is he learning? The waste of it all made her feel sick.

  Russell came back looking flushed and excited. Tall, very dark, with gleaming white teeth and liquid, pleading eyes, he had been one of her keenest supporters from the first, yet she was secretly doubtful of him. Was he genuinely concerned about the playground, the community centre, or was he only using the situation to make money and a name for himself ? She hated to feel distrust towards people, but she had already begun to be wary.

  `They want another one of you, darling, with young Wesley. Now, remember ! No smile. They want a wistful expression . .

  `Do I have to ?' She was sick of the publicity, the fuss, the anonymous letters and stupid patronising questions.

  `This is the way things get done,' Russell assured her. 'You want to beat the big boys, don't you ?' The photographers looked at her like fishmongers

  regarding the blue-grey slippery piles of herring on their slabs. 'This way, darling! Turn your head to me, love . . . Hey, miss !'

  Marcy looked at them defiantly, chin up, her fine mop of ringleted, marmalade-coloured hair blowing in the wind, her slanting, bottle-green eyes glinting in the sunlight. Eighteen years old, she had been brought up in the wild fastness of Cornwall, in an elegant old house built above a lashing sea, by parents who were already middle-aged when she was born and had never been quite sure how to treat the tiny, squawling scrap with which life had presented them. Marcy had learnt to run head-on into the wind, to fight the elements with all her fierce energy, and to be as wary as a wild animal of the scholarly, elegant home her parents had made. She loved her mother and father, but she felt remote from them, and when they died, soon after her seventeenth birthday, she had already learnt to live alone.