'There, I told you not to panic, Julie. How late is it?'
'Not late,' yelped Janey. 'Half an hour early! Tailwinds or something.' Her voice rose to follow the blur that was Sarah.
So much for not rushing. Fleeing for the stairs, Sarah cursed the fact that they were on the fourth floor of an old building. There were only two lifts and they always seemed to be rattling up when you wanted to go down.
She was still panting as she manoeuvred the bright orange office Chevette through the streets of the inner city. It was all the fault of the grape dress, really. If Julie hadn't started on that she might have left before the phone rang, and not learned that the plane was early, and not be chauffeuring a stomach-load of butterflies around now. It was always worse having to anticipate disaster.
She knew, however, that none of her clothes would have met with Julie's unqualified approval. The easy, comfortable blouse and skirt combinations were 'boring', the suits 'too severe', the dresses 'wallpaper clothes'. The root of the problem, according to Julie, was that Sarah lacked the prime motivation to dress fashionably: the desire to attract men.
As she swung out to pass a slow-moving container truck the tiny diamonds that studded her wedding ring caught the light and points of white fire blazed briefly, mocking her thoughts.
When she had first joined Rags & Riches as a nervous, inexperienced secretary Sarah had been grateful for Julie's help and advice. In fact she had spent her first few weeks' wages buying clothes, most of which, though dated, she still wore. Simon had made it clear that he resented the idea of her drawing money out of their joint account to buy clothes for a job he didn't want her to take, another petty attempt to make her feel guilty about wanting some independence. Yet when she had gone ahead and used her own earnings it had provided him with a fresh grievance…now she was trying to make him feel guilty and inadequate. Most of his complaints had been similarly confused and contradictory but at the time she had been too involved to see it and had suffered agonies of self-doubt as a result.
Her husband's death had come only four months after she had started her job and the resulting gradual ingrowth hadn't been a conscious process, but an instinctive reaction to inward and outward pressures.
A plane roared-low overhead as Sarah turned into the airport approach road, reminding her of her mission, and she wished again that she knew something about the people she was to meet. Perhaps she could try some logical deductions.
She knew that Sir Richard Wilde was about 70, very rich and very famous. Therefore his son must be about 40, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, attending the best schools, gaining entrée to all the best p
laces by virtue of his name. He would be sleek and well fed, impeccably dressed, of course, and probably rather aloof, as befitted his wealth and position. His companion would be much the same, perhaps the junior of the two.
There—they couldn't be too difficult to pick out of a crowd, thought Sarah smugly, especially as most of the flights from England at this time of the year were filled by families returning from Christmas reunions. And she had made her trip in record time—fifteen minutes.
Time is relative. To Max Wilde it seemed that he had been waiting an awfully long time and he found himself becoming increasingly irritated with each passing minute. Surely they would be met as arranged, in spite of the last minute change of plan? It was common courtesy, not to mention good public relations. He would allow the tardy Mrs. Somerville another ten minutes.
Restlessly he shifted position in the cushioned chair. He felt flat, drained of energy. He shot an envious look at the man sitting next to him. Tom looked perfectly comfortable, quietly finishing off a cigarette, not at all depressed by the functional lifelessness of the terminal. The bulky body was relaxed, the heavy head tilted back, thinning grey hair fluffing out from behind large ears. He looked like a big, amiable teddy bear, but the simile was only apt in the physical sense. Tom's refined manners were anything but bearish and his brain, when it came to debits and credits and the ins and outs of tax laws, was the equivalent of a sophisticated computer. At the moment the computer was switched off, and Tom seemed to be very much looking forward to a few weeks of semi-relaxation in a Southern hemisphere summer. Max was not.
He only had himself to blame, of course. If he hadn't been so over-confident as to risk flying in marginal weather last April he wouldn't be facing exile now. It had been a needless risk and one that had very nearly ended in his death. And for what? For temporary gratification. For a woman whose body he enjoyed no more and no less than he had enjoyed others, and whose mind had begun to bore him utterly.
Max's social life had figured briefly in that last, blazing row he had had with his father before his rapid exit from London. Their relationship, always precarious, had suffered one of its recurrent blow-ups and this time-Max, usually able to ignore his father's frequent provocative moods, hadn't even tried to avoid it.
He had arrived home from a particularly grinding session with the executives of a company that Wilde's was in the process of buying out. A number of problems had cropped up unexpectedly and it was nearing ten o'clock by the time he got into his car. Ice on the road had made driving a chore and negotiating his route Max regretted the impulse that had led him to agree to the meeting at the other company's offices. If it had been held at Wilde House he would have been only an elevator ride away from home.
By the time he reached the door of his penthouse apartment all he wanted was food, drink, sleep... not necessarily in that order. But he was greeted by Brandon, his butler, who apologetically informed him that his father was waiting in the study.
'Oh God, what has he come visiting for at this time of night?'
'He has been waiting some time, sir.'
'Lying in wait you mean. Bring me in a large brandy, will you? Nothing for Sir Richard, we don't want him to settle in.'
The study was his retreat, jealously guarded. Sir Richard had instructed that the apartment be designed as a showcase for Wilde Interiors and since Max spent so little time at home he made no demur. But he had put his foot down over the study and the quiet, understated elegance of the room contrasted with the dramatic brilliance of the living areas. Booklined walls and a long ebony desk warmed the deep-pile cream carpet and the cream velvet chesterfield. The wall behind his desk displayed a few favourites from Max's extensive art collection.
Sir Richard Wilde did not possess the kind of personality that complemented the room. Even seated at the desk, absorbed in some papers, he managed to radiate a volatile aura.
'You've been avoiding me for weeks, Max. I want to know why,' he announced, taking up the conversation as though they were already in the middle of an argument.
'Hello, father.' Max refrained from mentioning that he had been out of the country for most of that time. His father was well aware of the fact. Besides, it was true.
He walked over and twitched a paper out of his father's hand. 'Well, what is it that's so pressing it can't wait? Other than your enduring, endearing interest in my paperwork.' He flicked a sarcastic finger at the untidy pile on the desk.
His father squared off the papers with pale, neat hands while Max watched objectively. For the first time he noticed the thin black cane leaning against the edge of the desk and stifled a sigh. That meant his father was roleplaying again. The aged parent, he supposed. It would be laughable if it were not so tiresome. Max was in no mood to play games.
'You're my son, my only child, of course I'm interested. I'm worried about you.' The quavery note was nicely balanced by an injured air.
'Well stop worrying,' Max said callously. 'I'm thirty-five not fifteen. I've been running my own life quite satisfactorily for a long time now. And if it wasn't for you I'd be running Wilde's the same way.' He turned and took the amber glass from a silent Brandon, approving the large measure with a dismissive nod.
He took a gulp, expecting a sour look from his father, but instead he got a quiet smile and the younger man's eyes narrowed. Usually a remark like that produced an explosion and usually Sir Richard, who only drank champagne, made some pointed remark about Max's drinking.