move on my part, promoting her to be my assistant a year ago. She’s proved herself to be invaluable.’ Paula glanced at her watch. ‘It’s five o’clock … eleven in the morning in New York. I’ll give her a ring later, explain that I want her to come with me. She’ll have her hands full this week, clearing the decks in order to leave with me on Saturday, so the sooner she knows, the better.’
‘You could call her from here, if you wanted to, Paula,’ Emily suggested, never the one to waste any time if she could help it.
‘No, no, that’s all right. I can do it when we get home to Faviola. The six-hour time difference gives me plenty of leeway.’
Emily nodded, and then right out of the blue, she said, ‘I bet you anything that dress she was wearing was a Givenchy.’
‘I’ve no doubt it was. Sarah always did have a flair for clothes.’
‘Mmmm.’ Emily turned thoughtful, sat looking into the distance for a few moments. Finally, she asked Paula, ‘Do you think she ever hears from Jonathan?’
‘I can’t even hazard a guess.’
‘I wonder what did happen to him, Paula? Where he’s living?’ Emily said softly, thinking out loud.
‘I’d prefer not to know. Or to talk about him, if you don’t mind, Emily. You know very well that Jonathan Ainsley’s not my favourite subject,’ Paula answered sharply.
‘Oh gosh, sorry, darling,’ Emily said, suddenly regretful that she had started talking about their cousins again. Changing the subject, she said quickly, ‘Well, I’d better pay and we’ll get off home, so you can call Madelana at Harte’s in New York.’
‘Yes, let’s go,’ Paula agreed.
She was the kind of woman that men looked at twice. And women, too, for that matter.
It was not that Madelana O’Shea was very beautiful. She was not. But she had what the French call je ne sais quoi, that indefinable something that made her special and different and caused heads to turn wherever she went.
Tonight was no exception.
She stood outside Harte’s department store on Fifth Avenue, patiently waiting for the radio cab she had ordered from her office a short while before. It was eight o’clock on a Thursday and the store was still open. Everyone who hurried in and out stole a glance at her, obviously wondering who she was, for she had style and there was a touch of regality in her bearing.
A tall young woman of about five feet eight, and slender, she had a willowy figure and legs that were long and shapely. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was shoulder length, worn full and loose around her heart-shaped face. This was a little too bony to be called pretty, but the smooth forehead and high, slanting cheekbones, sharp as blades, gave her the look of a thoroughbred, as did the finely drawn aristocratic nose sprinkled faintly with freckles. She had a wide Irish mouth, with a full, somewhat voluptuous bottom lip, and a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance, but it was her eyes that fascinated and compelled. They were large, widely set, and of an unusual pale grey the colour of chalcedony, their marvellous transparency emphasized by the dark brows arched above them. They were highly intelligent eyes, and filled with a determination that could turn steely at times, but there was also laughter in them and sometimes a hidden recklessness.
Madelana had a flair for clothes and wore them well. She looked smart in anything she put on, gave it her own cachet; it might be the way she knotted a scarf, snapped down the brim of a hat, wrapped a length of Oriental silk into a unique cummerbund or twisted antique beads around her long and slender neck. And it was this great personal chic in combination with her svelte good looks that made her appearance so arresting.
The evening was stifling, humid as only New York in the middle of summer can be, and everyone seemed worn down and wilted in the oppressive weather as they toiled up Fifth, or stood at the edge of the sidewalk, looking for a yellow cab or waiting to cross to the other side.
But not Madelana O’Shea, Her tailored cream silk tunic, with its simple round neckline and three-quarter length sleeves, worn over a straight black silk skirt, was as crisp as it had been when she had set out for work that morning, and she looked cool and untouched by the heat, and as elegant as usual.
The burgundy radio cab pulled up in front of the store, and she hurried forward with an ease and lightness of movement that bespoke her childhood ballet and tap lessons. She was limber, and had the agile grace of a dancer, and this, too, was part of her immense appeal.
After opening the taxi door, she put the large Harte’s shopping bag on the seat and slid in next to it.
‘West Twenty-Fourth Street, right, miss?’ the driver said, moving off down Fifth.
‘Yes, between Seventh and Eighth, in the middle of the block, please.’
‘Okay, miss.’
Madelana sat back, rested her hands on the black patent bag in her lap, her mind racing as it almost always did, no matter where she was or what she was doing.
Ever since Monday afternoon, when Paula had called from the south of France to tell her she was going to Australia, she had felt as if she had been running in a marathon. She had had to complete her current work, cancel her business appointments for the next few weeks, along with the few personal dates she had made, plan ahead for a possibly protracted absence from the store, and select appropriate clothes and accessories for the trip.
And then Paula had arrived in New York on the Concorde, early on Wednesday morning, and had come directly to the store. The two of them had worked like demons for two solid days, but they had accomplished miracles, and they would have a relatively normal business day tomorrow, before leaving on Saturday on the first leg of their journey. Tonight she would go over the files of papers she had stacked in the shopping bag and finish working on them, and tomorrow night she would pack.
I’m ahead of the game, Madelana thought with sudden relief, and nodded to herself, feeling gratified. She glanced out of the window, hardly noticing the tawdry glitter and squalor of Times Square with its hustlers and peddlers and drug addicts and pushers and undercover cops and hookers on the make. As the cab slid swiftly through this clamouring rinky-tink wedge of real estate and headed on downtown towards Chelsea, her mind focused on the trip to the other side of the world.
They were going first to Sydney, then on to Melbourne and perhaps even to Adelaide after that, before returning to Sydney where they would spend most of their time. From what Paula had told her, they had a lot of work to do, and it would be a gruelling two or three weeks. But the prospect did not daunt her. She and Paula O’Neill worked well together, had always seemed to understand each other right from the beginning, and they were compatible.
It struck her, and not for the first time, how strange it was that she, a poor Irish-American Catholic girl from the South, and an aristocratic Englishwoman, heiress to one of the world’s great fortunes and a noted international business tycoon, could have so many things in common, could be so similar, and in so many ways. They were both workaholics and had boundless energy, were sticklers for detail, disciplined, dedicated and driven, and extremely well organized. In consequence, they did not grate on each other’s nerves, or create problems for each other, and they seemed always to be in step. It’s like dancing with Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, she thought and smiled inwardly, liking her analogy.
In the year she had been Paula’s personal assistant, she had not put a foot wrong and she did not intend to, not ever, and especially not on their forthcoming trip to Australia. Paula was the key to her future. Her goal was to become President of Harte’s store in New York one day, and with Paula’s help she would achieve it.
Ambition. She was loaded with it, she knew this only too well, and she was pleased that she was. She considered it to be a plus not a minus. It had goaded her on, helped her to arrive where she was today. Her father had occasionally