'That's exactly why I've come to see you. I can't put it off any longer, I wanted to tell you my decision right away.' He paused dramatically for effect. 'I'm getting on—sixty-eight at the end of next month—too old to be taking on a lot of unnecessary work.'
'Don't tell me you've decided to give up designing?'
He received a rigid stare. 'Don't be ridiculous. I'm an artist, artists never give up their work. Millions of women depend on me to dress them in a style to which they are unaccustomed.' His father's jokes were always execrable. 'No, I'm talking about the business side of things. I've decided it's time you took over the chairmanship of the Group.' He sat back with the air of a magician who has just pulled a rabbit out of a hat, but the response was disappointing. Max refused to applaud.
'Indeed?' He walked over to the chesterfield and sat down, nursing his drink, contemplating his father. Tall and lean, like himself, Sir Richard was health personified. The desk lighting was flattering, but even in broad daylight his father didn't look his age. His face was lined, but they were the strong lines of character, and his hair, though white, was still the thick leonine mane it had been in his youth. His mind was as clear as a bell and he was still a powerhouse of energy.
He had talked about retiring before, but never seriously. In fact he had fought tooth and nail to retain his control, firmly resisting any efforts to dislodge him.
'And what are the strings?' inquired Max pleasantly.
'Strings?' Innocently. 'What strings? You're my son.'
'I've never known you offer anything without conditions. Perhaps you want me to merge with a textile heiress.'
'Don't be facetious, Max,' Sir Richard snapped, then stopped. 'Have you got someone in mind?' 'No, I have not.'
'Well, you should think about it anyway,' plunging down a sidetrack for a moment. 'A chairman should have a solid home background, the shareholders like it. Wenching is fine in your youth and I've no objection to the press you've been getting, but when you get to your age people begin to wonder if there's instability. You've got to start thinking about heirs, you know.'
'I don't have to do anything,' Max interrupted. 'I'm not marrying the first available candidate simply to provide you with grandchildren. In my considerable experience it's an overrated institution. Certainly you and mother were no blissful advertisement for the delights of matrimony.'
True to form his father waved the unpalatable away with an elegant gesture. 'Your mother was a very beautiful and intelligent woman but she could
be very wilful.'
'As wilful as you.'
Sir Richard frowned. 'We're digressing. We're supposed to be talking about you. The fact is . . .'he reached for his cane and made a play of using it to haul himself up. Here it comes, thought Max, cynically. 'The fact is that my age is beginning to creep up on me. I can't be bothered with all these new angles your whizz kids are dreaming up . . . new companies, new directions. It's distracting and these days I need all my energy and concentration for my real work—designing. I had hopes, of course, that yon would follow in my footsteps, but no matter, you've chosen other fields. Talent has many guises and I respect yours. You have a rational yet intuitive sense for business, you're demanding but fair, you have experience and all the qualities of leadership that would make you a good chairman.'
'Why do I get the feeling this is a funeral oration?'
'You have all these things,' his father continued inexorably, 'and yet, I hesitate. Why? Why do I now feel some doubt that you're ready for it?'
That brought Max up sharp. He set his half-empty glass down on the black coffee table beside him with a sharp click.
'What in the hell do you mean by that?'
'Just what I say. Something's not right, and I think you should tell me what it is. I should like to know, both as your father and as present chairman of Wilde's. For the past few months you've been like a cat on hot bricks, working like there's no tomorrow.'
'I've always worked hard. Dammit, you wouldn't want me as a director if I didn't pull my weight.' Max stood up abruptly, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
‘I agree. But there is a difference between working hard and over-working. You're driving yourself close to the brink, physically and mentally.'
'Which one of your tame executives has been keeping tabs on me this time?' Max enquired caustically, aware that this was a rare reversal—he was losing control while his temperamental father remained cool. The thought only angered him more.
'It's not a matter of telling tales, Max, and if you were reacting less defensively you'd see that. If your health is in jeopardy, naturally that affects the companies you control and the people you employ. And this is not just a straightforward case of overwork. It's been going on ever since that crash. I can't put my finger on it exactly but you seem to have lost your sense of proportion. What you're doing doesn't seem to satisfy you any more and that worries me. What are you trying to prove, and to whom?'
'I'm not trying to prove anything!' Max was furious now. 'I don't have to. When I fail in my job, then you can worry. But don't accuse me of doing it too well.'
'But you're not doing it well, that's the point. Not as well as you used to. If you're not happy in your work how can you expect others to be happy working with you, or for you?'
'Thank you for the honesty—it's the company that's worrying you, not my personal welfare, so you can drop the aged parent act, it cuts no ice with me.'
Unabashed, his father abandoned the cane and stood tall. 'Up until now the two have been virtually indivisible, perhaps that's the problem. I built my empire out of blood, sweat and tears as well as talent, and I want you to inherit it. But more than that, I want you to want it as much as I did. I've never doubted your ambition or your determination to take over from me but if that changes, I want to be the first to know. I've seen too many good men crushed by the sheer weight of responsibility at the top to want to see it happen to any son of mine.'
'Is that what you think? That I'm cracking up? That I can't handle the responsibility any more?' Max demanded tautly. It was the nearest his father had ever come to conceding that Max was more than the extension of his own ambitions, but there was too wide a gulf between them now to bridge with words. Ever since he had left university Max had been aware that beneath the casual affection and respect they had for each other ran uneasy currents—a competitiveness that inhibited any real closeness between them and tempered trust with wariness.
'You tell me. Can you honestly say that there is nothing troubling you?' Sir Richard paused expectantly but Max merely compressed his lips. 'All right... I didn't expect that you would tell me. Perhaps you haven't even worked it out for yourself yet. Maybe you need time to think.'