Deception and Desire (6 page)

But now Van was no longer here to supervise the day-to-day management of Vandina and mastermind long-term projects. It was over a year since he had been killed when his Cessna had crashed into a Gloucestershire hillside, and she still mourned him and missed him as sharply as if it had been just yesterday.

When the crash had happened Dinah had thought her world had come to an end. On a personal level she had felt as if her heart had been torn out, leaving a great gaping hole that refused to heal, and often in the beginning she had wished that she had been with him and had died at his side in the blazing wreck of the Cessna. She and Van had been together so long she could scarcely remember a time when she had not loved him, and the thought of a future without him was a desert waste too bleak to contemplate.

But for Dinah the loss was not only personal. There was also the business to think of – the business which Van had controlled and masterminded from its very inception.

How the hell could she keep going? she had wondered when the first numbing shock of his death had begun to wear off and she could think again. How the hell could Vandina survive without him? But the need to work had been strong – it was the only analgesic for the all-consuming pain of loss – and besides, she had known she had to keep going for Van's sake.

Vandina had been their dream. Together they had built it. Now it would be his memorial.

There were, of course, plenty of advisers Dinah could turn to. Vandina had not grown to its present size without collecting an army of accountants and lawyers, a strong middle-management team and a sales force second to none. Dinah had taken advice and promoted the best of them to take on increased responsibility in their own fields. But she had been unwilling to relinquish control to them, hopelessly inadequate though she sometimes felt. Instead she had hired a new and inspired designer, Jayne Peters-Browne, to take over some of the work she had previously done herself, and tried, in her own way, to assume the helm.

It was an uphill struggle and Dinah hated it. But at least with the help and advice of her team she was making it work – or so she had thought. The last few days she had not been so sure. Ros Newman, her personal assistant, had taken unexpected leave, and as she floundered among the mounds of paperwork that now came directly to her Dinah began to realise with a sinking heart just how vital a role Ros had assumed in the running of the company.

Sighing, Dinah reached for her spectacles and slipped them on. The metal frame cut uncomfortably into the narrow bridge of her nose, and she adjusted it carefully with a beautifully manicured finger. The spectacle frame wasn't the most sensible design, she knew, much too heavy for long periods of use, but she liked the way she looked in them – stylishly businesslike. So many of the frames had made her look, in her opinion, ‘mumsy' – the very last impression she wanted to project.

This worry was, in fact, totally unfounded. Though Dinah was now almost fifty years old there was nothing even marginally ‘mumsy' about her appearance. Her hair, highlighted to conceal the dull grey that had begun to appear in the natural silver-blonde, was cut short and feathered into a style that was both glamorous and flattering, and her face, with its minimal make-up, was clear-skinned and almost unlined. Dinah had gone on record as an advocate of hormone replacement therapy, and certainly her glow and vitality appeared to be a testament to it. Her figure, always slim and shapely, had been kept in trim by a rigorous diet and the use of health clubs and Van's home gym – though she had not been able to bring herself to use the gym since his death.

As might be expected of a woman in her position Dinah's dress sense was perfect if, surprisingly, a little unadventurous. She had always worn a great deal of black; since Van's death she had worn nothing else – little black dresses, short snappy black skirts with black satin opaque tights, black sweaters with either scoop or polo necks, black cigarette pants, oversized black jackets, masculine style. Today it was a tailored suit, obligatory short skirt and cropped jacket teamed with a perfectly cut black silk blouse. Dinah had some important meetings today, so she had felt the need to be a little more formal. But first there were the motions to go through – this stultifyingly boring pile of papers that had been put on her desk for her attention.

One by one she leafed through them, noting with relief the ones that could be passed on, trying to absorb information from the others so that she could discuss them intelligently with the relevant departmental heads. Amongst the pile was a report from the fabric design department with computerised sketches of how the new fabrics would look made up into the blouses she intended integrating into the range, and she put it to one side to study later. That, at least, would be a pleasant job.

Next in the pile was a newspaper cutting marked for her attention. Dinah instantly recognised the layout of the women's page of a popular national daily in whose columns Vandina often figured.

Not today, however. The article headlined ‘ Bags of Glamour' seemed to be about Reubens, a new firm on the fashion accessory scene. The moment she realised it Dinah felt her hackles begin to rise, and as she read on her irritation grew, through disbelief to full-blown anger. When she had finished she read it again, trembling with fury. Then she reached for the intercom and buzzed for Liz. A moment later the blue leather-padded door opened and the secretary appeared, pad, pencil and engagement diary in her hands.

‘You're ready for me now, Miss Marshall?'

‘Have you seen this?' Dinah demanded, stubbing at the article with her pink-tipped finger.

Liz Christopher nodded. She was an excellent secretary, a pretty if rather plump girl, whose softly rounded face became almost beautiful when she smiled. She was not smiling now.

‘Yes, Miss Marshall. It was in my morning paper. I thought you ought to know about it.'

‘Frankly, I can hardly believe my eyes!' Dinah blazed. ‘If this article is to be believed Reubens have come up with almost exactly the same idea for a range of bags as I had for my new line for next spring.'

‘I know. It's odd, isn't it?'

‘It's worse than odd – it's catastrophic. The idea should have been exclusive to Vandina. Absolutely right for our image but using totally different combinations of materials – natural fabrics, softwood handles, suede and leather trims. Now here are Reubens coming up with something very similar and releasing details of the range before we have. They've cut the ground right out from under our feet.'

‘It is pretty devastating,' Liz agreed. ‘ But these things do happen.'

Dinah snorted angrily. It was true; in the constant search for something new it was not unheard of for two totally unrelated designers to hit on the same idea. Some claimed there was an almost psychic element at work, as if the designers were ‘ plugging in' to the same ‘ideas pool', others that it was simply the law of inevitability, it had to happen sometimes that two or even more individuals or companies would come up with a supposedly innovative idea simply because they were all desperately searching for something new – or, at least, something that had not hit the headlines for a very long time. There was, they claimed, nothing new under the sun, only ways of making it
seem
new.

Dinah was not sure she subscribed to either theory. Her success had given her a slight edge of arrogance, and as someone who had always been a setter of trends she had in her time seen a great many imitators. None of them had done anything to damage Vandina. The quality of their products set them head and shoulders above the rest of the market, and the fact that they were first with the bright new ideas made them unassailable. What did it matter if High Street chain stores followed where they had led with cheap and cheerful copies? They weren't in competition for the same customers. But Reubens … that was a very different kettle of fish.

Reubens had erupted on to the scene just a couple of seasons ago and they clearly intended going after a slice of the Vandina market. At the time of their launch Van had still been alive and with his legendary business sense he had scented danger immediately.

‘There's money behind this one,' he had warned darkly. ‘I'm not sure yet who it is – they are keeping their heads down for some reason. It will come out eventually, of course – they can't remain anonymous for ever. There's always someone who will tittle-tattle. In the meantime we'd better watch out for them or we could find ourselves losing out.'

At the time Dinah had let it all wash over her. She didn't like getting too involved with the business side. It inhibited her creativity to worry about competitors and market shares and all the hundred and one things involved in running a successful company. She was the ideas side of the partnership, Van could cope with the administration. He would see that Reubens were not allowed to become a threat, just as he juggled budgets and investments, expenditure and forward planning.

Now it seemed Reubens was threatening Vandina just as Van had predicted they would – but he was no longer here to troubleshoot on her behalf.

Damn Reubens for coming up with an idea so similar to hers that it stole all her thunder, damn them for causing her trouble just when she wanted an easy ride. She'd have to have a major rethink now on the spring lines. Since Reubens had already gone public it would only look as if she was copying them if she went ahead now with her plans. But the omission from the range would leave a gap unless she could come up with something to replace it, and she had already placed orders for some of the materials to begin manufacture. The orders would either have to be cancelled, with all the attendant problems of possible penalties, or she would have to come up with an idea for a different way of using them.

Damn, damn, damn! And all this
would
happen when Ros, her personal assistant, was away. Even without the Reubens fiasco she had a full day ahead of her. She did not need to check her engagement diary to know what was in it – an appointment with one of the union representatives to discuss a bonus scheme, a progress meeting with a director of the firm Vandina subcontracted to make certain items for their limited range of costume jewellery, and lunch with the chief buyer of one of Vandina's most important customers. The lunch was unavoidable, of course – as a public relations exercise it was vital that she herself should take the buyer out to lunch and keep her champagne glass well filled – but Ros would have dealt with the jewellery company executive and sat in on the meeting with the union rep.

More than ‘sat in', Dinah conceded. Though to all intents and purposes it was Dinah he was coming to see, it would have been Ros who would have stage-managed the interview, skilfully steering Dinah through the pitfalls of dealing with the union rep, who would at best be abrasive and disconcertingly disrespectful, at worst openly aggressive. Dinah hated confrontation. For her there was no excitement in the cut and thrust of fighting for the best possible deal, no satisfaction in the bluff and double bluff necessary to keep the workforce happy, or at least satisfied with their lot, and make the maximum profit for Vandina at the same time. Though thankfully George Pitman, the brash, hard-talking union man, didn't seem to have realised it yet, every brush with him left her shaking with tension, her nerves in shreds. In his lifetime Van had shielded her from any unpleasantness and since his death she had relied on Ros more and more to do the same.

Why on earth had she chosen this moment to take an unscheduled holiday? Dinah wondered distractedly. She had never done such a thing before in all the time she'd been with Vandina, which she had joined as a trainee buyer six years previously. From the very beginning she had been impressive, studying for extra qualifications in economics and business studies to add to her degree in fashion design, and it had not been long before Van had spotted her potential and promoted her to the prestigious position of Dinah's personal assistant. In all that time Dinah could never remember Ros not being there when she was needed and when Van had died so suddenly and shockingly she honestly did not know what she would have done without her. Ros was calm and efficient – Dinah could never once remember seeing her flustered or fazed – but she was also good at dealing with people. There was a confidence about her that inspired respect and she was wonderful at pouring oil on troubled waters. But most of all she was reliable. Unlike so many of the office staff Ros never seemed to be ill, and when she took holiday it was always planned well in advance and carefully scheduled to avoid the busy periods in Vandina's calendar. Before she left Ros always made certain everything was set to run smoothly in her absence. There were no loose ends but a sheaf of copious notes for whoever was taking over from her to cover every eventuality.

Under her jurisdiction the whole office ran so smoothly that it was only when she was not there that Dinah realised just how much she actually did. And without her this last week had been absolute hell.

Dinah sighed. A small frown furrowed her forehead and she smoothed it out with two fingers. She couldn't understand Ros taking time off like this. She had been utterly amazed when Liz had told her a week ago that Ros had rung in and said she needed to take some leave – amazed, and annoyed. Quite frankly it hadn't occurred to her to wonder or worry about what was behind this totally uncharacteristic behaviour. She had been too annoyed at being left in the lurch.

Now, a week later, with chaos piling up around her, she was even more annoyed. How could Ros do this to her? Hadn't she any sense of loyalty at all? She knew the suppliers had to be chased, she knew the union man was agitating. Surely there was no need for her to have absented herself so suddenly and for so long?

‘There's no news of Ros, I suppose?' she said now to Liz.

‘Not a word; I just can't understand it. It's not like Ros to go off like this. I'm beginning to be quite worried.'