In Vino Veritas (12 page)

It was his smile which did it. Complacent, when the least he should have been was penitent and conciliatory. She found herself voicing the speech she had rehearsed a few times in the privacy of her flat but had thought she would never deliver. ‘I have decided to do nothing about what happened on that day. You may regard the incident as closed. I think you should consider yourself extremely fortunate, Martin, that I have resolved to take this no further.'

He looked at her steadily for a moment, his face deliberately expressionless. ‘I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.'

‘I don't think you should take that line. I could make life very unpleasant for you, if I chose.'

‘I don't for a moment think you could, my dear. And even if you felt inclined to pursue whatever absurd fantasy has beset you, you would of course be most unwise to do so. You have a promising career here, which is still in its early stages. I should hate to see you jeopardize it. In these uncertain times, being dismissed and denied any sort of reference would hardly help your future employment prospects.'

Sarah could hardly believe it. He, and not she, was being the aggressor. All her carefully weighed judgements flew from her like frightened swallows. ‘A claim for sexual harassment, or something much worse, would hardly enhance your own reputation, Mr Beaumont.' She noticed that she had switched to the formal address and was pleased with that. It seemed to reinforce the threat she was offering to him.

But the man did not look as if he felt threatened. Indeed, he said nothing for a moment, as if to allow the smile which flooded his features its full effect. He must have been handsome in his day, which to her mind must have been at least twenty years ago. But the features which had no doubt then been smooth and sharp were heavy now. The cheeks had the first fine red lines of veining and jowls were beginning to form on the neck above the collar. When eventually Beaumont spoke, his words were slow and deliberate, which added to their menace, ‘I think you would be well advised to drop that tone right away, my dear. It shows your ignorance of life.'

‘I'm not your “dear”. And I'm not ignorant. I'm very clear about what you were trying to do to me. I'm very clear about the resistance I offered. I'm very clear about my rights.' But she was not clear that she would win any contest: the unpleasant spectre of an expensive lawyer ridiculing her protestations in court reared itself obstinately. It was a vision which undermined her attack.

He took his time again, probably aware that the more calm he appeared, the more she would be disconcerted. ‘I spoke of your ignorance of life, Sarah. The world does not work in the way well-meaning people think it should work. You have a good job and I'm your employer. I shouldn't like you to lose that job, but I have it in my power to terminate your employment. Fact of life, you see. The kind of situation that can never be acknowledged in the law.'

‘You conducted a sexual assault on me. Now you're threatening me with dismissal when you've no complaints about my work.'

‘I think you should forget about this fiction of an assault you've dreamed up. And I haven't threatened you with dismissal. I've just pointed out some of the facts of real life to you.'

‘You're saying that I should forget all about what happened two weeks ago and carry on as if nothing had happened.'

Once again the pause; once again that patronizing, infuriating smile. Didn't the man recognize that any charm he might once have possessed had long since left him? ‘You should accept the situation, my dear – and I use that term because I am still fond of you, despite the attitude you have displayed this afternoon. The situation is that you are a young woman with a career to make and I am an employer, who at the moment is pleased with your work. I should hate that situation to change.'

‘This is incredible!' She tried to force all the indignation she felt into the words, but she knew they were totally inadequate, in the face of his measured, confident attack. She couldn't work out why the words as they dripped from him sounded so astoundingly logical.

‘I'm sorry you should find it so, my dear Sarah. I'm sure that given a little time for reflection, you will find it entirely credible. You would be well advised to review your position. Nothing has changed here, despite your preposterous allegations, which I shall charitably ignore. You are still a woman in her early thirties with an evolving career. I am still your employer and, because of that, in a position to strangle that career at birth. Or to give it a helping hand. Needless to say, I should prefer it to be the latter. The process would be considerably assisted if you could see your way to making certain . . . accommodations.'

For a moment she couldn't believe her ears. ‘You're asking me to sleep with you, even now?'

He smiled behind the big desk, then held his arms wide and opened the palms. ‘I'm asking you to be open-minded, as one would expect every ambitious young executive to be. Your work, as I say, is generally satisfactory. You seem to have found in me a good and appreciative employer. All I'm saying is that work and the rest of life are related. I'm telling you gently that if, when the working day was over, you chose to make certain moves towards a more intimate friendship with your boss, they would be well received. Most women, I'm sure, would be pleased to hear that, pleased to know that such possibilities for career advancement existed.'

This time it was she who paused, but not as a tactic, as Beaumont had used his silences. She was simply taken aback by his effrontery, rendered temporarily speechless by it. She shut her eyes, because she had to shut out that grinning face, that thinning but perfectly groomed hair, before she could begin to think. Eventually she stuttered, ‘You're – you're amazing!'

‘Thank you, my dear! Even though I fear you did not mean that to be entirely complimentary, I shall take it as such. I hope I have been able to open your eyes to the reality of the situation. To the facts of working life, as I said.'

‘I – I can't believe that you have the – the insolence to—'

He held up one of the large hands he had recently spread wide, projecting it palm forwards towards her. He looked for an absurd instant like a stern but benevolent traffic policeman. ‘Don't say anything more at the moment, Sarah. I should hate you to say anything you might regret. I think you should go away and reflect on our little discussion before you say anything further.'

Sarah felt that Beaumont's secretary was looking at her curiously as she moved like a sleepwalker through the outer office. Moments later, she found herself not in her own office, as she had expected, but at the back of the shop, where Gerry Davies had shut the doors for the day and was preparing to be the last one to leave his empire.

She wanted to be the controlled young executive, prepared either to keep what had happened entirely to herself or to ridicule it with a mature cynicism as she told it to the man who had become rather a father figure to her. But he could see immediately that something was wrong and he said, ‘Come and sit down for a minute. I'll make a cup of tea while you decide whether you want to tell me about it.'

But she did not sit down. Instead, the mature thirty-three-year-old executive found herself weeping uncontrollably, with her head against the older man's chest.

V
anda North did not know what to make of the phone call, even an hour afterwards, when she had had time to think about it.

‘This is Jane Beaumont. You don't really know me. We met once, ten years ago.' The delivery was even. The tone sounded brittle, as though the sense might disintegrate if the sentences the woman had prepared were challenged.

Vanda was scarcely calm herself. It was not usual to be contacted by the wife you had cheated on – certainly not in these measured tones and many years after the passion had died. She replied cautiously, ‘I remember meeting you. It was a long time ago, as you say. What can I do for you, Mrs Beaumont?'

‘I need to speak to you about a private matter. I cannot do it on the phone. I shall not make any trouble. By that I mean that I shall not make a scene or cause you embarrassment.'

‘Is this about your husband, Mrs Beaumont?'

‘It is. But I should prefer not to say any more on the phone.'

‘Perhaps I should say that it is many years since I had any close . . . association with him.' Vanda was furious with herself because she had fumbled for the word. But she had never expected to be speaking in this situation.

A short pause. ‘But you are a partner in his firm, are you not?'

‘A very junior partner, yes. It is a status I would rather relinquish, as a matter of fact. But he apparently does not wish me to do that.'

Again a pause, longer this time. Was the woman weighing this, or simply trying to retain control of her emotions and her speech? There was an unexpected trace of irony in the tone as the voice eventually said, ‘Then we have things in common, as I suspected. I think it would be in our interests to talk. But not here, please. I do not wish Martin to be aware that I have contacted you.'

Vanda thought for a moment about a neutral venue: it was usually easier to talk when neither of you felt the disadvantage of being on the other's ground. But she could not think of anywhere where they could rely on being able to talk freely. And in any case, why shouldn't she have the advantage? It was Jane Beaumont who wanted this meeting. If it was going to be embarrassing, as the circumstances said it must surely be, Vanda might as well have the territorial advantage. She said calmly, ‘You can come here. Almost any time today or tomorrow would be possible for me.'

‘Today, then. This afternoon. Three o'clock.'

‘You'll need the address. It's—'

‘I know the address.'

‘You do?'

‘It's in the phone book, Ms North.' There were traces of relaxation and amusement in the voice, now that she had what she wanted. ‘I shan't need directions. I have a satnav in my car. Thank you for agreeing to meet me.'

‘That's all right. May I ask—' But the click at the other end of the line told her that Jane Beaumont had put down her phone.

Gerry Davies was behaving irrationally and he knew it.

He was fifty-seven now. He had been happily married for thirty-six years; he was the father of two boys who were making sensible careers of their own. Even as a young man, his life had been grounded in the hard reality of the Rhondda Valley and Welsh mining, his leisure enacted amidst the slag-heaps and muddy playing fields of Pontypridd and the like. He hadn't gone off to university and torn up his roots, like some of the men he had grown up with. He was proud of his background, proud to assert the basis for life that it had given him. He had been disciplined in the realities of human existence for as long as he could remember.

And yet. And yet he'd never had a daughter, and that was making him vulnerable in a way he had never expected. Sarah Vaughan had come to him for advice ever since she had arrived at Abbey Vineyards three years ago. She had been able enough, but young for her years. She had lacked the confidence to assert herself, even when she knew she was right. Sarah had been very happy to adopt Gerry Davies as a father figure, and he had been pleased and a little flattered by her dependence. It was only when she had flung herself on his chest with the news of Martin Beaumont's sexual harassment that he realized how completely he had accepted that role. Accepted it almost eagerly, he acknowledged to himself ruefully.

There was nothing sexual in the bond between them. He had joked about it over the months with his wife. Sarah had sworn him to secrecy when she stopped weeping and recovered her self-control, or he would have told Bronwen now about Beaumont's predatory attentions. It was a pity he was not able to do that, for Bronwen would have given him a better perspective on the situation. She would have told him that Sarah was not a pretty and vulnerable girl, but a woman of thirty-three who was quite capable of looking after herself.

That was exactly what Sarah Vaughan herself told him, but it did not have the same effect coming from her. Gerry saw it as the brave attempt of a victim to assert her independence, in a situation where she was at the mercy of a predatory and experienced older man.

Gerry would have loved to discuss Sarah's predicament with his closest working colleague, Jason Knight, but her demand that the information should go no further meant that too was impossible. That again was a pity, because the chef would also have put a better perspective on the news than he could. Jason would, indeed, have been rather more cynical, not about Sarah's innocence and shock, but about the possibilities of turning the situation to her advantage. It might just have been to his advantage as well, of course, but that would have been no more than a happy coincidence.

As it was, the effect upon Gerry Davies of Sarah Vaughan's revelations was unfortunate. It upset his usually sound business judgement. It meant that he allowed personal and emotional considerations to impinge upon his working relationships, a thing he had always previously avoided. As he had told Knight, he respected Martin Beaumont as an efficient entrepreneur, a shrewd judge of markets and potential niches in them, a good picker of men and women to serve him, an excellent leader, and an employer who rewarded ability and hard work.

These were accurate judgements. They should not have been modified by the news of Beaumont's lubricious tendencies. He was not the first owner of a business who thought power and position entitled him to put his hand up skirts, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. Lust was a more dangerous weakness than it had been in the past, and that was surely a good thing. But it didn't make Martin Beaumont any less efficient at the things he did well as a business leader.

When it was much too late, Gerry Davies would see all of this. But on the day after Sarah Vaughan had arrived in his deserted shop in such a distressed state, he took a decision which was to prove momentous for other people as well as him.