Unexpected Blessings (45 page)
‘The answer is
yes
to both questions. But you were not in any danger, darling. Jack Figg knew of Jonathan’s presence in Paris, and Mark’s also. He was having them tailed, and he knew everything they did, all of their movements. He’d told Linnet, and she alerted Lorne. You and Lorne were protected, believe me.’
‘Did Linnet phone Lorne on Friday morning, do you think?’
‘She did, yes, following Jack’s instructions. Once she’d told him you were there he thought it better Lorne was alerted. Your brother didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to alarm you.’
‘I see. Perhaps that’s why his friend invited us for the weekend?’
Paula shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. It’s a coincidence, but one that turned out to be convenient,’ Paula explained.
‘Is Adele at risk, Mummy?’ Tessa asked, concern ringing her face.
‘I don’t think she is, darling, but just to be sure Jack is hiring a bodyguard. However, the man will function as your driver, so as not to create undue alarm anywhere.’
‘I understand.’ Tessa sat back, staring off into space, and after a few moments she turned to her mother and said in a voice that was hardly audible, ‘I don’t think you should have offered Mark all that money. He doesn’t deserve to get anything, not after what he did to me.’
‘I agree with you,’ Paula replied. ‘But I like to be in control of certain situations, and if Mark signs the contract, accepts all the provisos, it’s money well spent. Because he will be in my control. Absolutely in my control.’
Tessa nodded, biting her lip. ‘I understand that, but even so it’s an awful lot of money to give him.’
‘Here’s a point you ought to consider, Tess,’ Paula told her. ‘I own the Hampstead house, and I paid about a million and a half for it some years ago now. I was planning to have it done up for Lorne, but he never wanted it. So it was rented out, as you know. That’s all of ten years ago now, and the house is worth much, much more. I spoke to Emily about it and she’s going to have it sold through the real-estate division of Harte Enterprises. She thinks it will fetch about three and a half million, maybe even four million pounds. I’ll be making a good profit. And if I invest the money from the sale of the house, it will go towards the ten million pounds I’m planning to give Mark.’
‘I see what you mean, and thanks, Mother, for looking after me and Adele, for dealing with Mark. Do you think he’ll accept your offer?’
‘I have no doubt about it.’ Paula began to laugh, and turning she looked at Christopher. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you not only demolished him but put the fear of God into him, about the Ainsley business, I mean. I’m sure he feels decidedly lucky to be getting ten million pounds and a trip to Australia. Far away from any Scotland Yard detectives. Wouldn’t you, under the circumstances?’
‘I certainly would,’ Paula murmured.
And Tessa said, ‘So would I.’
At this moment Geoffrey Creighton returned, followed by one of the firm’s secretaries carrying a tray loaded to overflowing with a teapot, cream jug, sugar basin and cups and saucers, all of the necessary items for afternoon tea.
‘Only biscuits, no nursery sandwiches,’ Geoffrey explained. ‘But they
are
Cadbury’s chocolate fingers.’
Tessa laughed for the first time that day. ‘My daughter’s favourites,’ she explained to Geoffrey who was staring at her in surprise.
Paula poured the tea, and they all had a cup; it was about twenty minutes after this that Mark and his two solicitors returned to the conference room.
After sitting down, Herbert Jennings handed the two manila folders to Paula. ‘These make interesting reading, very interesting indeed. I’m assuming you would call Mr Jack Figg and his operatives as witnesses, if this divorce case took the normal route? You would, wouldn’t you?’ He glanced away from Paula, looked at Christopher.
‘Of course,’ Paula replied.
‘We would have no alternative,’ Christopher said.
‘Mark has taken our advice, Mrs O’Neill, Mr Jolliet, and he is ready and willing to sign the contract now,’ Jennings told them.
‘The contract is perfectly clear,’ Jonas Ladlow said to the room at large. ‘It was as you said, Mr Jolliet. Precise and to the point, not to mention short.’
‘It’s the way I like to work.’ Paula smiled at him. ‘Short and sweet. And this is a sweet deal. The sweetest.’
The two solicitors nodded.
Mark signed all the copies of the contract first, then Tessa, and finally Paula. The copies were then witnessed by the legal representatives of both parties to the divorce.
As she put her pen back in her handbag Paula thought: Got you, you bastard. Now you’re under my control. You’re no longer Jonathan Ainsley’s creature. You’re mine.
E
van Hughes was a very special woman. Gideon was well aware of that. And he knew that he was in love with her; she was the first women he had ever been serious about, had wanted to marry. But suddenly, unexpectedly, in the last few weeks things had been strained between them, and he was having second thoughts.
He sighed to himself. It was not like him to be indecisive, yet that was his state of mind at the moment. The problem was her recent behaviour with her parents, perhaps most importantly her attitude towards her father. It seemed utterly ridiculous to him that she was so intimidated by him, actually in awe of Owen Hughes. Her father was a nice enough man, pleasant but rather dull. An ordinary man, really. With extraordinary good looks. And that was about it. He liked Owen well enough; however, it was Evan’s mother he was really taken with and liked more. Marietta was warm, loving, amusing, very intelligent, and what’s more she seemed perfectly healthy. He had seen no signs of the depressive in her, quite the contrary. He wondered what all
that
was about…the terrible worry Evan had about her mother’s health, the way she trembled at the thought that she herself might have inherited her mother’s illness. Yet there was a normality to Marietta and it had initially startled him, because he had been led to believe otherwise, had been told she was a sick woman.
Obviously Marietta had been a manic depressive when Evan was growing up, she wouldn’t have invented a thing like that about her mother. But wasn’t there something decidedly odd about this miraculous recovery? Oh well, he muttered to himself, there are all kinds of new medicines available today, revolutionary medicines. That was the answer most likely, the reason for Marietta’s radiant health. Because radiant she was. No question about that.
He knew deep down that he was still annoyed with Evan because she had not told her parents she was engaged to him, had not been wearing her ring the day they had all gone to lunch at the Dorchester. He was hurt about that, and disappointed that she was so…
cowardly.
She was also weak-kneed about telling her father the truth about his parentage, about his mother’s affair with Robin Ainsley during the war. Originally it hadn’t really mattered to Gideon, but somehow, now, it did. He wanted Owen Hughes to know who his biological father was, to understand that
he
was a Harte and therefore Evan was, too.
Pity she’s not acting like a Harte, he thought. In a sense that was at the root of his discontent, wasn’t it? Her timid attitude. It still rankled a bit. He wished he could get over it. Wasn’t he being mean-spirited and juvenile? After all, if he–
Four phones rang at once. The mobile in his trousers’ pocket; three of the four lines on the land-line unit sitting on his desk.
The shrilling brought him bolt upright in his desk chair, and he pulled out his cellular first. ‘Gideon Harte.’
‘Terrorists have attacked New York. The World Trade Center. Turn on your TV,’ his brother Toby yelled.
‘Jesus Christ! Hold on. My other lines are ringing.’ Gideon grabbed the receiver of the land-line, jabbed the first button. ‘Harte here.’
‘It’s Andy, do you–’
‘I know. I’ll get back to you.’ He cut the reporter off, jabbed the second button. ‘Harte here.’
‘It’s me, Gideon,’ Winston Harte said, sounding extremely strange. ‘The World Trade–’
‘I know, Dad. Just hold on, let me get my other line.’ As he finished speaking, Gideon punched the hold button, jabbed the third line. ‘Gideon Harte.’
‘It’s Joel. I’m pulling everybody in for an early editorial meeting for tomorrow’s
Gazette.
Okay?’
‘Okay. I’ll get back to you in a minute.’ Gideon now punched the second line again. ‘I’ve got Toby on my mobile, Dad.’
‘All right, talk to him. I’m coming up to your office. Be there in two minutes.’
‘Okay.’ He hung up then, grabbing his cellular, he said, ‘Are you still there, Tobe?’
‘Just about, I’ve got to get over to the newsroom. Can’t talk now. Turn on CNN. Call me at the network if you need me.’
‘Thanks, Tobe.’ Gideon ran across the room, switching off the mobile, pushing it in his pocket as he looked for the remote control. Usually it was on his desk but now he couldn’t find the damn thing anywhere. He spotted it on the shelf above the television set, grabbed it and punched buttons until CNN breaking news flashed across the screen.
He gasped as he gazed at the scenes in front of him, horror washing over him as he saw one of the towers crumbling before his eyes. He glanced at the clock on the shelf above the set and saw that it was two twenty-five, nine twenty-five on Tuesday morning in New York.
Gideon stood there in shock, his alarm spiralling. He was mesmerized by the terrifying images on the screen. Flames rising sky high. Thick billowing smoke. Dust. Falling rubble. The sound of collapsing buildings.
His breath caught in his throat as he focused his eyes on people jumping out of windows. Escaping the fire; falling to their deaths. Oh God! People running in the streets…fleeing. Sirens blaring. Crashing sounds…cars ablaze…He closed his eyes for a moment, hardly able to believe what he was seeing, hardly able to take it in.
The shrilling phone forced him to turn away and hurry to his desk. Seizing the receiver, he said hoarsely, ‘Yes?’
‘Gideon? It’s Andy again. I’m taking the editorial meeting for the
Post.
Tony Wharley had to leave early today. He’s gone already. Doctor’s appointment.’
‘Go ahead. I’m waiting for my father. I’ll leave it to you.’
Striding back to the television he stood there watching the ongoing mayhem, myriad thoughts racing through his head. Was this an act of war?
Who
was responsible for this catastrophe?
A positive attitude about life and enormous optimism were Winston Harte’s stock in trade…his glass was always half full, never half empty, anything was possible, maybe he
would
conquer the world one day, and tomorrow could only be better. That was the way he had thought since his earliest days.
Optimism was second nature to him, and it had seen him through some bad patches over the years. But this afternoon, for the very first time in his whole life, his optimism had fled.
Winston felt totally empty inside. He was extremely depressed. The latter was an emotion unknown to him until today, one that was entirely unfamiliar and which he found hard to deal with.
As the lift came to a stop, he stepped out onto the editorial floor of the London
Evening Post;
as usual he walked over to the bank of plate-glass windows that allowed passers-by to look into the newsroom from the corridor. He stood there for a moment or two, as he usually did.
The sight of any newsroom, anywhere in the world, gave him a thrill, and most especially his own, but the thrill was not there today. He was chilled to the bone, filled with a sense of despair, an aching sadness in his gut. Yet he knew he had to shake off these feelings…He was chairman, the boss, the staff would inevitably turn to him at some point for guidance…He must be there for them today, and in the ensuing days.
He took a deep breath, stood a little taller, pushing his shoulders back, reminding himself he was a newspaperman through and through. And for a few minutes he stood watching the activity in the newsroom…trying to relish it, to feel proud of his team.
Winston Harte’s love of journalism was inherited from his grandfather and namesake, the first Winston in the family, who had run this newspaper company for Emma; it had also come from his great-uncle Frank, Emma’s younger brother, a renowned journalist in his day, a war correspondent and political columnist. Printer’s ink was in Winston’s blood, just as it was in Gideon’s.
Winston’s gaze was now fastened on the television set positioned straight ahead of him…The appalling images of the tragedy in New York were still unfolding…filling the screen. His heart tightened at the sight of the devastation, the panic and fear.
Turning away, suddenly more sorrowful and morose than ever, Winston headed down the corridor to Gideon’s office, needing to unburden himself as well as discuss coverage of the attacks in Manhattan.
When he reached the door, he took several deep breaths, braced himself and walked in.
His son stood in front of the television set, and unable to tear his eyes away, even for a split second, Gideon cried, ‘Come and look, Dad! It’s John Bussey of the
Wall Street Journal.
Reporting everything he’s seeing from his office on the ninth floor. It’s opposite the World Trade Center. Oh my God, the tower’s coming down!
Oh my God!
This is staggering, just unbelievable!
Catastrophic!’
Winston joined his son but only for a moment. He now found it difficult to look at the TV screen, and abruptly moved away, went and sat down in a chair, shaking.
Swinging around Gideon said, ‘We’ll only be able to get a brief mention in the Stop Press. The late afternoon edition is already rolling, but–’ Gideon stopped speaking, startled by the look of terrible anguish and despair spreading across his father’s face.
