Hold the Dream

Remembering these words of Emma’s, Paula thought: But she always had Blackie, and she still has him; whereas I’ve lost Shane. Funny, though, that Miranda and I drew closer together once Shane had dropped out …

There was a knock and Agnes poked her head around the door. ‘These proofs just came up from the advertising department. Can you give them your okay?’

‘Yes, come in, Agnes.’

‘They’re the advertisements for the spring fashion sales,’ Agnes explained, handing them to her.

After studying the newspaper advertisements for a few seconds, Paula initialled the proofs, gave them back to her secretary and stood up. ‘I’m going out on to the floor for a while. Could you phone the Birdcage, Agnes, and tell them I’ll need my usual table, please. At noon.’

‘Right away,’ Agnes said as they went out together.

When Emma Harte had first opened the café on the second floor of the Leeds store, she had called it the Elizabethan Gazebo, and had decorated it in the style of an English country garden. Such things as handpainted wallpaper depicting pastoral scenes, panels of white trellis, artificial topiary animals, and antique birdcages combined to create a most enchanting little setting.

Over the years, as she refurbished the café, the name changed to match the theme, or vice versa. But always a garden or outdoor motif prevailed, often with an international flavour, as Emma had given rein to her imagination and fantasies with flair and not a little wit. After a trip to the Bosphorus, with Paul McGill, she had been inspired to create the effect of a courtyard in a Seraglio. Mosaic tiles, silver wallpaper painted with peacocks, potted palms and a splashing fountain were combined in the new design. She had called the café Turkish Delight, and had been delighted herself to witness its instantaneous popularity as a smart gathering place, not only for women shoppers but local businessmen who came in for lunch. Several years later, Emma decided a more homespun motif was in order. Highland Fling was the name she chose, and the setting took on the appearance of a Scottish castle yard, featuring rustic furniture and colourful tartans. Eventually this ambience gave way to one which suggested an Oriental teahouse and drew its inspiration from the elegant decorative elements of the Far East. The café was renamed the China Doll. Then came the Balalaika, redolent of nineteenth-century Russia; after that it was transformed into Riviera Terrace, and in 1960 Emma redid the café yet again. This time she used a sophisticated theme based on the skyline of New York City, lining the walls with giant-sized photographic murals of Manhattan. The decor suggested a big-city roof garden and she called it Skyscrapers. But by the late summer of 1968 Emma had grown tired of this decorative mood, and, as the café needed a complete overhaul at this time, she gave the project to Paula, asking her to create something different.

Paula knew everything there was to know about all of the stores in the Harte chain, and she remembered the photographs she had seen of the original Elizabethan Gazebo. She went into the archives, dug out the original plans and sketches, and was instantly struck by the uniqueness and beauty of the antique birdcages. Since she was aware they were stored in packing cases in the basement, she had them brought up and unwrapped. And so the current theme and the latest name were born.

Paula had the wooden and brass birdcages repainted or repolished and, after finding more to add to the collection, she featured them throughout the restaurant. They stood out beautifully against a background of lime-green wallpaper over-patterned with a sharp white trellis design; white wicker chairs and matching tables with glass tops reiterated the outdoor mood. Paula loved all growing things, was, in fact, a gifted gardener, and so her final, masterful touch was a lush assortment of small trees, flowering shrubs and plants. It was the many pots of hydrangeas and azaleas that gave the Birdcage its cachet, and this real garden within the heart of the store bloomed in all seasons under her personal supervision. Emma had recognized at once that it was an evocation of her own first design and as such a little tribute to her, and she was flattered.

A few minutes after twelve, on this Friday morning, Paula hurried into the Birdcage and as always she was struck by the refreshing sight of the flowers and foliage, one which appeared to cheer everyone up. Moving between the tables, where morning shoppers were settling down to lunch, Paula saw that Miranda O’Neill had already arrived. Her burnished copper hair, cascading in a glorious mass of waves and curls around her heart-shaped face, seemed to catch and hold all the light, was like a shining beacon at the far side of the room. Miranda glanced up from the menu she was perusing, saw Paula, and waved.

‘Sorry I kept you waiting,’ Paula apologized when she reached the table. ‘I was delayed in the Designer Salon. We’ve been having the most awful trouble with the new lighting, and I wanted to check on it again. It’s still not right I’m afraid.’ She bent down and kissed her friend, slipped into the next chair.

Miranda grinned a little impishly, and said, ‘Oh dear, the trials and tribulations of running a store! I’ll swap jobs with you any day. Doing public relations for a chain of hotels can be the pits at times.’

‘If I remember correctly, you really badgered your father for that job.’

‘That’s true. But I wouldn’t have, if I’d known what I was letting myself in for,’ Miranda grumbled, making a long face. But she then had the good grace to laugh, and admitted, ‘I suppose I enjoy it really. It’s only occasionally that I feel the pressure. But right now I’m in Dad’s good books. He’s very happy with my latest campaign, and he even went so far as to say I’d been innovative the other day. That’s praise indeed from him. He’s not given to paying me compliments, as you know. He even said that if I behave myself he’s going to send me to Barbados in a few weeks, to look over the hotel we’ve just bought there. By the time we’ve remodelled it and redecorated, it’ll be super de luxe and as elegant as the Sandy Lane. We all believe it’s going to be an important addition to our chain.’

‘That’s marvellous, Merry. Really exciting for you. Now, shall we order? I don’t want to rush you, but I have to leave the store early today.’

‘No problem, I’m a bit pushed myself.’ Miranda glanced at the menu again, said, ‘I’ll have the plaice and chips, I think.’

‘Good idea. I’ll join you.’ Paula caught the attention of the waitress, ordered, and then turned to Miranda, looking her over quickly, at once captivated by her outfit. Today she was wearing a rather theatrically-styled jerkin with a wide, flaring collar and three-quarter sleeves, and it was laced up the front over a white silk shirt with longer sleeves. There was a twinkle in Paula’s eyes as she said, ‘You look like a female Robin Hood, in all that Sherwood Green suede, Merry. The only things that are missing are a quiver of arrows and a perky little felt hat with a sweeping feather.’

Miranda broke into laughter. ‘Don’t think I don’t have the hat! I do. But I didn’t dare wear it to lunch, in case you’d think I was bonkers. Everyone else does.’ She swivelled in the chair to reveal her legs, which were encased in tight green-suede pants and matching boots that came up above her knees. ‘When Shane saw me this morning he said I looked like the Principal Boy in a pantomime. I went the whole hog with this outfit, I’m afraid. Is it too theatrical?’

‘Not really. And you could have worn the hat. I for one happen to like you in your fanciful costumes.’

Miranda looked pleased. ‘Coming from the elegant you that’s a real compliment.’ Leaning closer, she hurried on, ‘Are you and Jim busy tonight? I was wondering if I could invite you out to dinner?’

‘I’d love you to join us tonight, if you won’t be bored. Grandy’s having a family dinner at Pennistone Royal.’

‘I’m not sure that that’s still on, Paula. Your grandmamma has a hot date with my grandfather.’ Miranda’s laugh held a hint of mischief, which was reflected in her eyes, as she said, ‘Can you imagine, and at their ages!’

Paula was thrown by this statement. ‘Oh, you must be mistaken. I’m certain Grandy intends to be there.’

‘I’m not wrong, honestly I’m not. I heard Shane talking to my father a little while ago. Grandfather is taking Aunt Emma out to dinner. But I was only teasing when I said they had a hot date, since Shane’s going with them.’

‘Then Grandy must have changed her plans,’ Paula said, dreading the thought of the dinner without her grandmother’s presence. ‘I expect my mother will play hostess in her place, since I can’t imagine Grandy actually cancelling it without talking to me first.’

‘No, I don’t think she would do that.’ Leaning forward again, her manner still teasing, Miranda said, ‘When my grandfather and your grandmother get together, they’re incorrigible. I told him the other day that it was about time he made an honest woman out of Aunt Emma and married her.’

‘If anyone’s incorrigible, it’s you, Merry! And what did Uncle Blackie say to that?’

‘He chuckled, and told me he’d only been waiting for my approval, and now that he had it he was going to pop the question. ’Course, I knew he was only kidding me in return. But to tell you the truth, I don’t think it’s such a bad idea, do you?’

Paula merely smiled. She said, ‘Anyway, getting back to the family dinner, you’re very welcome. Come around seven-thirty for drinks. Dinner’s at eight-thirty.’

‘You are a darling, Paula. Thank you. You’ve just rescued me from a boring evening with Ma and Pa. All they do these days is talk about the baby.’

‘I’m not sure your evening with us will be much more stimulating. My mother has become something of a doting grandma. All she does is rave about the twins. I can’t seem to shut her up.’

‘But I adore Aunt Daisy. She’s such a lovely woman, and not a bit like the rest of you – ’ Miranda stopped, horrified at her words. Her pale, freckled face flamed to scarlet.

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Paula demanded, a dark brow arching as she pretended to be insulted, but the amusement touching her mouth betrayed her.

‘I didn’t mean it the way it came out,’ Miranda exclaimed in embarrassment. ‘I wasn’t referring to you or Aunt Emma, or your cousins, but to your aunts and uncles actually. I am sorry, though. It was rather rude of me.’

‘Don’t apologize, I happen to agree with you.’ Paula fell silent thinking specifically of her Aunt Edwina, the Dowager Countess of Dunvale, who was due to arrive from Ireland later that day. It was because of Edwina that she and Jim had had their first truly serious quarrel. Some weeks ago, to her utter astonishment and disbelief, Jim had decided that Edwina must be invited to the christening. When Paula had objected, and strenuously so, and had reminded him that Edwina was no favourite of Grandy’s, he had brushed aside her protestations and told her she was being silly. And then he had reminded her that Emma wanted bygones to be bygones, sought peace within the family. ‘Well, you’d better not invite Edwina until I’ve mentioned it to Grandy,’ Paula cautioned, and he had acquiesced to this suggestion, at least. When she had told her grandmother about it, Emma had appeared off-hand, indifferent even, and had told her to accept the situation gracefully, to let him invite Edwina, and to put a good face on it if she accepted. But there had been a strange look in Grandy’s eyes, and Paula suspected that Emma had been disappointed in Jim. As she had herself, but she had overcome this feeling, loving him as much as she did; and she had excused Jim, too, because he had no family of his own to invite to his children’s christening, and Edwina was half Fairley. If only Edwina weren’t so hostile to Emma and to her.

Miranda, studying her friend, saw that she looked troubled, and ventured, ‘You’re awfully pensive all of a sudden, Paula. Is something wrong?’

‘No, no, of course not.’ Paula forced a smile, and changing the subject, she asked, ‘How’s your mother?’

‘Her health’s much better, thanks. Also, I think she’s finally recovered from the shock of getting pregnant at forty-five and giving birth to a change-of-life baby. And little Laura is simply adorable. I love to watch Grandfather playing with her. He’s quite infatuated, and of course he’s thrilled they called her Laura, after my grandmother. They almost gave me that name, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t, Merry.’

‘Yes. Then they changed their minds, I suppose. But I wouldn’t have minded being named for my grandmother, and I certainly wish I’d known her. She must have been a remarkable woman. Everyone loved her so, especially Aunt Emma.’

‘Yes, and Grandy told me, only the other day, that she’s never stopped missing Laura since the day she died.’

‘We’re all muddled up, aren’t we, Paula?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The Hartes and the O’Neills. And the Fairleys, for that matter. Our lives are inextricably linked … we can’t really escape each other, can we?’

‘No, I don’t suppose we can.’

Miranda reached over and squeezed Paula’s hand. ‘I’m glad we can’t. I think it’s rather nice to have you and Aunt Emma and Aunt Daisy for a second family.’ Her huge hazel eyes, sparkling with tiny prisms of gold, overflowed with warmth and affection.

Paula returned the pressure of her hand. ‘And it’s nice for me to have the O’Neills.’

The arrival of the waitress with the tray of food interrupted this exchange, and for the next fifteen minutes or so the two young women talked mostly about Paula’s babies, the christening the next day, and the reception Emma was giving after the church ceremony. But then Miranda, quite suddenly, adopted a serious tone, when she said, ‘There’s something very important I’d like to discuss with you.’

Paula, at once noticing the change in her friend’s demeanour, asked swiftly, ‘Do you have problems?’

‘Not at all. But I do have an idea I’d like to throw at you, to get your reaction.’

‘What kind of idea, Merry?’ she asked curiously.

‘You and I doing business together.’

‘Oh.’ This was the last thing Paula expected, and after her initial exclamation she was startled into momentary silence.

Miranda grinned, and not giving her a chance to comment further or brush the idea to one side, she rushed on: ‘I had a flash of inspiration last week, when I was going over the blueprints for the new hotel we’re building in Marbella. The architect has planned a galleria of shops, and it struck me immediately that we must include a boutique. Naturally, I thought of Harte’s, then I realized one boutique wouldn’t interest you. So I took the idea a step further … Harte boutiques in all of our hotels. There’s the new one we’re doing over in Barbados, we’re about to remodel the Torremolinos hotel, and eventually the entire chain will get a revamp. We could have a boutique in each one, and Harte’s could run them.’ Miranda sat back and searched Paula’s face for a clue to her feelings, but it was unreadable. She asked eagerly, ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Paula said. ‘Have you discussed this with Uncle Bryan?’

‘Yes, and Dad liked the idea. He was very gung ho actually, and told me to talk to you.’ Miranda gazed at her friend expectantly and crossed her fingers. ‘Would you be willing to go into the venture with us?’

‘I think we might be. I’d have to talk to my grandmother, of course.’ This was uttered with Paula’s usual caution, but she could not conceal the interest quickening on her face. With a small rush of excitement, she thought: It could be the perfect project for Grandy. The one I’ve been looking for, and it would certainly take the sting out of the Cross fiasco. Straightening up, Paula said in a more positive voice, ‘Give me some additional details, Merry,’ and she listened attentively as the other girl talked. Within minutes she began to recognize the endless possibilities and advantages inherent in Miranda O’Neill’s idea.

CHAPTER 4

Emma sat up with an abrupt jolt.

I don’t believe it. I almost dozed off, she thought with exasperation. Only old ladies do that in the middle of the day. She began to laugh. Well, she was an old lady, even though she was loath to admit that to anyone, least of all herself.

Shifting her position on the sofa, she stretched, then straightened her skirt, and immediately became aware of the heat from the blazing fire. The room was stifling, even for her – she who had always suffered from the cold and rarely ever felt warm enough. No wonder she had become so drowsy.

With a burst of energy she propelled herself up and off the sofa, and hurried to the windows. She opened one of them and took several deep breaths, fanning herself with her hand. The crisp air felt good, and the breeze brushing against her face soon refreshed her, and she stood there for a moment or two until she was cooler, before turning away and retracing her steps.

Her pace was slower, and she looked around as she skirted the two large plump sofas in the centre of the floor. She nodded with pleasure, thinking how lovely the room appeared at this moment, washed as it was in the golden sunlight now streaming in through the many windows. But then it always did look beautiful to her, and she would rather be here than anywhere else on this earth.

Is it age, I wonder, that makes us cleave to the best-known spaces in our lives, and the well-loved and familiar things? Is it the memories of the years gone by, and of those we cared so much about, which bind us to those places and make them so special in our deepest hearts? She believed that this was true – at least for her. She felt safe, and comforted, when she was in surroundings where so many episodes of her long and colourful life had been played out.

Such a place was Pennistone Royal, this ancient, historic and rambling house on the outskirts of Ripon, which she had purchased in 1932. In particular she favoured this room – the upstairs parlour – where she had spent so many endless happy hours over the years. She had often wondered how it had come to be called the upstairs parlour, for there was nothing parlour-like about it at all. This struck her once again as her glance took in the impressive architectural details and the splendid furnishings.

By the very nature of its dimensions the room had a singular grandeur, with its high, Jacobean ceiling decorated with elaborate plasterwork, its tall leaded windows flanking the unique oriel window, and the carved fireplace of bleached oak. Yet for all its imposing detail, and despite its size, Emma had introduced a mellow charm and great comfort, plus a subtle understated elegance that had taken time, much patience, superb taste and a vast amount of money to create.

Being confident of her original choices, Emma had never felt it necessary to change anything, so the room had remained the same for over thirty years. She knew, for instance, that no other paintings could ever surpass the fine portraits of a young nobleman and his wife by Sir Joshua Reynolds, or the priceless Turner landscape. The three oils were in perfect harmony with her graceful Georgian antiques, collected so lovingly and with infinite care. And such things as the Savonnerie carpet, faded now to a delicate beauty, and her Rose Medallion china in the Chippendale cabinet, were matchless touches that added to the room’s graciousness and style. Even the walls were always repainted in their original primrose, for to her discerning eye this pale and delicate colour made the most restful backdrop for the art and the rich patinas of the dark woods, and it introduced the cheerful sunny aspect she preferred.

This morning, the springlike mood of the setting, created by the airy colour scheme and the brightly-patterned chintz on the sofas, was reinforced by porcelain bowls brimming with jonquils, tulips and hyacinth, which spilled their lively yellows, reds, pinks and mauves on to some of the darkly-gleaming surfaces, and their fragrant scents were aromatic on the still and gentle air.

Emma moved forward, then paused again in front of the fireplace. She never tired of looking at the Turner which hung above the mantelpiece, dominating the soaring chimney wall with its misty greens and blues. The landscape was bucolic, evocative, and a superb example of Turner’s poetic and visionary interpretations of the pastoral scene.

It’s definitely the light, she decided for the hundredth time, as always fascinated by the luminous sky in the painting. In Emma’s opinion, no one had ever been able to capture light on canvas in quite the same manner as Turner. The clear cool light in this masterpiece was forever associated in her mind with the Northern skies under which she had grown up, and had lived for most of her life, and which she would love always. She believed them to be unique because of their clarity, and a radiance that seemed unearthly at times.

Her eye now caught the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost one. She had better pull herself together, and very smartly, since Emily was due momentarily, and everyone had to be on their toes when the volatile, whirlwind Emily was around. Most especially old ladies, she added inwardly, chuckling softly again.

Hurrying briskly into the adjoining bedroom, she sat down at her dressing table. After dabbing her nose with powder, she renewed her pink lipstick and ran a comb through her hair. There, that does it. Passable, she added under her breath, peering into the glass. No, more than passable. I really do look pretty nifty today, as Alexander said.

She swung her head and stared at Paul’s photograph standing on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.

I wonder what you would think of me, if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?

Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him, and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York. On 3 February 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Risë Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterwards, Paul had taken them to Delmonico’s for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson’s talk of impending war, and Paul’s equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul’s mood had been gay later, at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.

She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.

Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life … particularly a long life like mine.

Without thinking, she spoke aloud: ‘If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.’ Her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.