'Not about the chairmanship.'
'Fine. Then there's something you can do for me before you take it on.'
'I knew there would be strings.'
'I've already discussed this with the other board members—individually, of course—and the consensus is that I resign at the March board meeting and you are voted in to my place. Naturally I'll still retain a seat on the board, but you will be Group Chairman. There'll be shufflings on some of the subsidiary boards as well, but when you come back we can discuss that further!'
'Come back!' Max rapped out. 'Come back from where?'
'New Zealand.' Sir Richard avoided his son's incredulous stare. 'You know that the publishing company has taken over this fashion magazine—Rags & Riches—there. I've been through the paperwork. It's a good little magazine, that's the general opinion, but it could do with a shot in the arm—hook it into our syndication network, inject a little more cash, that sort of thing. I see our first official issue is the April one; it will be going into preparation about now as a matter of fact, and will come out the week that we introduce the new collection in Australasia. Great possibilities there. I suggest you're the man to explore those possibilities. I want you to go down there, look at the situation, deal with it as you see fit. You've worked in this area before—you spent some time on Elan in Paris, as I recall, and enjoyed it, so you can't say it isn't in your line—'
'It isn't. Not now. Five years ago maybe!' Max exploded, unable to listen any longer. 'If you think you're going to exile me to the back of beyond until I shape up to some nebulous ideal—'
His father over-rode him with ringing tones. 'You can take your time. A month I think. You and Tom Forest.'
'So I get a nursemaid now! You're the one who needs the nursemaid, you must be going senile. I can't leave London now. I've got a thousand and one things on my plate. I'm not going to walk away from delicate negotiations now, it could kill a dozen deals.'
'We did without you while you were in hospital,' his father pointed out drily. 'You're not indispensable, Max, not yet anyway. As to your workload, that proves my point. I want the pressure off you for a while and I can't think of a better way of doing it, short of a complete holiday, and to get you to do that I'd have to commit you. You'll have one task and one task alone down there and I'll instruct head office to that effect. No long-distance conference calls. As for Tom, he damn well deserves time off. He's kept up with your pace in spite of the fact that he's more my* generation than yours. I won't have you risking his health without good reason. If the thought offends your work ethic I suggest you get him to investigate the possibility of other interests Down Under.'
Max had the grace to feel uncomfortable. Tom had worked closely with him ever since Max had first joined Wilde's and had remained his right-hand man through all the learning years. Originally Sir Richard's man, he was now indisputably Max's; a source of sound advice and trusted wisdom, and taken too much for granted.
'If you don't want Tom, it'll have to be one of the whizz kids,' his father added cunningly and Max shook his head absently.
'Tom.' His head jerked up and he glared at Sir Richard when he realised the admission. His father was looking his usual sprightly self. 'What happened to creeping old age? Changed your mind about retiring?'
'My word is my bond.'
'And if I don't go I suppose you'll refuse to step down. I could force you to, regardless.'
'You could,' his father agreed complacently. 'But you won't. It would take time, you'd alienate a lot of good people and it would damage Wilde's reputation . . . not to mention me. But the choice is yours.'
'It's no choice, it's blackmail,' Max snapped and Sir Richard fell back on the age-old parental maxim:
'It's for your own good.'
Looking at it from a distance Max realised that if he had pursued his argument with his usual ruthless determination he would have prevailed in the end. In spite of his father's position and reputation Max«wielded a great deal of power in his own right, not only in the votes of the many boards he was on but also in personal loyalty. He had never fully flexed his muscles because he had never needed to, and when it came to the point he had held back. And here he was, wondering whether he was going to regret it.
'You did inform Mrs. Somerville it was Tuesday not Thursday, didn't you?' he asked Tom who had stood up to stretch his legs.
'The telex should have arrived first thing yesterday. I'll go and call their office, they may have got the times mixed.'
Max glanced at the flat silver watch on his wrist. 'It would be quicker just to find a taxi.'
'I'll phone first. Give them the benefit of the doubt.' Ever the diplomat. Max watched as he disappeared in the direction of a row of telephone booths.
Easing the tension out of his neck and shoulders he began an idle survey of the comings and goings around him, noting the summer fashions. A woman coming through the automatic sliding door at the main entrance-way jolted him out of his torpor.
My God, if that's our typical New Zealand reader I can see our work cut out for us, he thought sardonically.
She hesitated and looked around. Max couldn't take his eyes off her, spellbound by a kind of detached horror. She looked about thirty years old but it was difficult to tell in that awful dress. The dated style did nothing for her and the muddy colour was further flattened by the deep tan of her skin. Her hair, scraped back into a severe pleat, emphasised the undistinguished features. Poverty, carelessness, or sheer lack of taste, decided Max critically.
He watched her walk briskly over to the British Airways desk. Surprisingly, she moved well. His experienced eye detected that beneath that apology for a dress was a good body, tall and well-proportioned, though a trifle voluptuous for Max's taste.
He was still staring, lazily amusing himself by imagining what she would look like in some of his father's designs, when she turned impatiently from the desk attendant who was shaking his head. Their eyes met. Full face, the triangular line of her jaw and high cheekbones gave her a pointed, vulpine look and he smiled at the comparison.
He was rewarded with a cool disdainful look that held a hint of contempt. The kind of look that it was usually his prerogative to
deliver. Caught on the raw he deliberately dropped his eyes in insolent appraisal of her body and when he raised them again he was gratified to see her reddening as she turned away. Her bag swung on her shoulder as she turned and he caught sight of the magazine tucked there.