Folly's Child (33 page)

He tossed back the whisky thinking what supreme irony it was. A few short days ago he had been quite ready to exploit Harriet for the good of the job, now, with the memory of her warmth and passion fresh in his senses, the very idea that she should believe him capable of such a thing appalled him. What the hell had happened to him that he should have undergone such a complete change of heart? In love? He'd have laughed in the face of anyone who had suggested it could happen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and most of all to
him
, and yet …

‘Damn it to hell!' Tom exploded.

He returned to the refrigerator and took out another small bottle. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

Next morning Harriet failed to appear for breakfast. Tom, who had made a valiant effort to be there (in spite of a thumping hangover) in order to try and make amends, drank three cups of very black coffee and went in search of her.

‘Harriet, can we talk?' he asked when she opened her door to him.

‘We have nothing to say, have we?' She was pale, unsmiling, with dark weals beneath her eyes that suggested she might have been crying.

‘Yes – we have. You've got it all wrong. I know how it must have sounded, but …'

‘Exactly. It could hardly have been clearer. In spite of everything you still believe that I and my family have somehow cheated your clients and you were quite prepared to seduce me to try and find out what you wanted to know – just as you seduced that poor girl at Darwest Construction, no doubt. I'm sorry I wasn't as forthcoming as she was and this time your efforts were in vain. But the simple truth is I don't know anything.'

‘Listen – I believe you.'

‘It's a bit late for that kind of protestation, don't you think? Now that you have made a complete fool of me? You must be feeling very pleased with yourself. Do you always manage to mix business with pleasure? A regular James Bond, aren't you, though come to think of it he usually manages to bed at least three women during the course of a mission.'

‘Harriet …'

‘And what's more he could take his drink better than you. You look absolutely dreadful.'

‘For Christ's sake, Harriet, will you believe I did not make love to you in order to gain information?'

She looked at him standing there pale, dull-eyed, heavy-lidded, and almost believed him. She wanted to, for heaven's sake – oh how she wanted to! But she had heard that conversation with her own ears – it had not been something passed on and exaggerated or misrepresented in the telling. It had been perfectly obvious that Tom had already discussed her with his assistant and told her what he planned to do – boasting, probably, and maybe laughing too. Bitterness rose like gall in Harriet's throat.

‘Let's just leave it, Tom, shall we?' she said tightly.

And Tom, his head thundering as if someone was tightening a steel vice around his skull, decided to do as she said for the time being. There would be another time, another place. She would be around until they located Greg Martin, at least. When he felt better he would talk to her again and somehow, one way or the other, he'd make her understand he was telling the truth. But for the moment all he longed for was peace, quiet and dark!

‘When are we leaving?' Harriet asked. ‘Shouldn't it be very soon if we are to be in Darwin by lunchtime?'

‘Yes, I suppose so,' Tom said wretchedly.

It was quite plain he was not going to get any of them.

They drove back to Darwin in virtual silence. The rain that had begun early today on the coast came out to meet them rolling down The Track in a thick mist. Tom, whose head was still thudding, swore softly to himself. It was easy to see why the Wet was known as Suicide Season. Everything seemed that much worse when one was slowly suffocating in a steam bath and he could imagine even small everyday problems could easily assume gigantic proportions under such conditions.

He turned into Telford Top End and pulled up outside the reception office.

‘Do you want to get out here?' he asked Harriet. ‘There's no point in two of us getting wet.'

She nodded, grateful to him in spite of herself, and dived for the shelter of the office.

The receptionist was the same girl who had checked them in when they first arrived.

‘Did you have a good time?' she asked.

‘Yes. Fine,' Harriet said flatly.

‘Right. You're in a different room today, let's see …' The girl burrowed in her paperwork, then her face changed. ‘Oh, I almost forgot – there's a message for you, love. Can you ring home right away? A Mrs Sally Varna was trying to reach you. It's urgent, she said.'

‘When was this?' Harriet asked.

‘The day you left for your trip. I told her we didn't have an address for you but I'd pass the message on as soon as you got back.'

Harriet checked her watch, frowning. Why on earth should Sally be trying to contact her?

‘It'll be a bit late to ring now, won't it? It must be the early hours in New York.'

‘You may be right,' the girl said, unsmiling, ‘but the message was for you to ring as soon as you returned, whatever the time.'

A nerve pulsed in Harriet's throat.

‘Can you give me a line?'

‘Pick up your phone when you get to your room and I'll have it for you.'

In her room Harriet reached for the receiver and stood tapping it impatiently as she waited for the international numbers to connect. Then the telephone was ringing and moments later she heard Mark's voice on the line. Immediately her anxiety increased – Mark was rarely at his mother's house and certainly not at this time of night. Even when he was in New York he usually stayed with friends.

His first words did nothing to reassure her.

‘Harriet? Thank goodness! We'd almost given up trying to get hold of you.'

‘What is it, Mark? What's wrong?' Her anxiety spilled over into her voice.

‘Bad news, I'm afraid. It's your Dad. He's had a heart attack.' Her own heart lurched; her mouth was dry. ‘Dad? Dad has had a heart attack? Oh Mark, you don't mean …?'

‘It's all right, Skeeter, he's not dead, but I'm afraid he's not very well either. It was touch and go and at this stage there is always the risk of another one, like aftershocks with an earthquake, you know what I mean?'

‘When – where – did it happen?'

‘Two days ago. At the showroom. Skeeter, I really think you should come home.'

‘Don't worry, I'll be there. On the first available plane.'

‘Good girl.'

‘Yes. And Mark … give him my love.'

She replaced the receiver, her head whirling. Ring the airport – book a flight – at least I'm already packed, I can just… go. Oh Dad, poor Dad, you will be all right, won't you? You must be all right!

‘Is something wrong, Harriet?'

It was Tom, standing in the doorway. Clearly the receptionist had told him about the emergency phone call.

She looked at him, so comfortingly solid somehow, and experienced a sharp wave of longing. Oh, to have his arms around her again, as they had been last night! Oh, to lay her head against his shoulder, share her fears and take comfort from the sharing. But the hurt was still there, a barrier that could not be so easily hurdled.

‘It's my father,' she said. ‘ He's had a heart attack.'

‘Oh – I'm sorry. You'll want to get home as soon as possible.'

‘Yes. I shall fly out as soon as there's a plane to take me.'

‘Would you like me to ring the airport for you and check?'

‘Oh Tom, would you?' Again, that wave of gratitude – and longing. But this was neither the time nor the place to try to sort out their differences, and before she could put anything of what she was feeling into words he had gone.

The jet took off from Darwin and was almost immediately over the sea. Harriet looked down as the Australian coastline was lost in the clouds and thought briefly she was little closer to solving the mystery than she had been when she arrived. But it seemed unimportant now. After all, it had happened so very long ago. What mattered now was getting home to her father. He was still alive – just. Harriet unclipped her seat belt, folded her hands in her lap and said a silent prayer that he would still be alive when she landed in America.

Fergal Hillyard was almost six feet tall, with the sort of frame that had made him an ideal selection for the back row of the rugby team at college, a smoothly handsome face and a long lick of light brown hair carefully arranged across a balding crown. In his dark business suit with a flamboyantly striped tie he cut an impressive figure; as he came down the marble staircase to the lower floor of the West End restaurant where Theresa and Linda were waiting he looked every inch the successful businessman who was, in Linda's words, ‘rolling in money' to the extent that he had been able to set his wife up in an exclusive boutique in order to ‘ give her an interest'. Waiters scurried forward solicitously but Fergal brushed them aside with a curious blend of impatience and charm, making straight for the table where the girls were sitting.

‘My apologies – I was delayed. An important telephone call. Linda – lovely to see you again. And you must be Theresa. Well, my dear, you are every bit as beautiful as you are talented, if I may say so. It's a pleasure to meet you.' He took her hand, kissing it.

‘It's a pleasure to meet you too,' Theresa said, but the flamboyant gesture had done nothing to make her feel any more at ease. Theresa was slightly overawed by the plushness of the restaurant and extremely anxious to make a good impression. It was so vitally important to her that this evening should be a success. The survival of her design venture – her whole future – depended on it. If she could impress Fergal Hillyard sufficiently to make him want to back her with some of his considerable fortune then she was in with a chance, buying time to establish herself and set up a decent workshop with new machines, top quality fabrics and perhaps even a showroom. If she failed then she could not see how she could keep going much longer.

She glanced at Fergal as he seated himself on her right. Since Linda had had the good fortune to meet him she had done a little checking on him. He had made his money in computer software, she had told Theresa, getting into the market at just the right time, and he was known to be shrewd, ruthless – and a voracious womaniser. He had, it was rumoured, bought the boutique for his wife in the hope she would be less likely to notice his junketings if she was busy with her own business. When Linda had told her this, Theresa had dismissed the comment as the kind of idle gossip induced by envy; now meeting him for the first time she could believe it might be the truth. As a purely instinctive reaction Theresa did not think she liked Fergal Hillyard very much. And in any case, where was his wife? If her boutique was going to be stocking Theresa Arnold designs, surely it would have made sense for her to have come along?

‘Shall we order first and get down to business later?' Fergal suggested, opening the enormous leather-bound menu. ‘And what will you have to drink? Champagne, perhaps?'

The girls exchanged glances. Apart from cheap Spanish bubbly Linda had never tasted champagne; but Mark had once shared a bottlewith Theresa and the memory of their happiness as they toasted one another in front of the fire in his flat before going to bed for a long, luxurious evening's lovemaking ran a thrill of sadness through her so sharp she could hardly bear it.

‘I was much impressed by your designs,' Fergal said, turning to her. ‘ For one so young and so new to the business they show amazing perception.'

Theresa flushed with pleasure and if it crossed her mind to wonder what a man who had made his money from computers knew about fashion design she pushed the thought aside.

‘Very, very saleable,' Fergal continued. ‘There were one or two details of the finish that need work but …'

Theresa's pleasure faded. ‘What details?'

‘I didn't feel the corners of the cuffs were as perfect as they might be and your labels could be better. When one is charging top prices without a known name as a selling point everything must be absolutely faultless.'

‘I couldn't agree more,' Theresa said. ‘And I certainly wasn't aware there was anything about my samples that could be criticised. If there is I'll make certain it's put right, and at risk of sounding like the poor workman blaming his tools, as the old saying goes, I'd like to explain that some of my machines are a bit past it and I think the outworkers have the same problem. It's because we're all working on a shoe-string, Mr Hillyard.'

‘Fergal, please.' He smiled at her, his eyes lingering on her face.

‘I appreciate your problems, my dear. I think you need assistance to help you rise above them. That's why I'm here.'

‘You really think …' Theresa began eagerly, then broke off. She and Linda had agreed their strategy before coming; it would not be politic to appear to eager. It was important that Fergal Hillyard should see her as an up and coming designer who could make him a worthwhile return on his investment, not as a lame duck who needed rescuing. ‘I need cash, Mr Hillyard – Fergal –' she continued, trying to impress with her directness. ‘I won't deny that. It's the one thing I haven't got. But otherwise I have every confidence in what I'm doing and if you, or anyone, were to back me I know you wouldn't regret it.'

He raised his glass, looking at her over the top of it.

‘You're very positive, Theresa. I like that. Well, I may be able to help you. I'm not making any promises yet awhile but let's explore the possibilities, shall we? What direction do you see your business moving in?'

‘Terri designs for the young sophisticate,' Linda said. ‘Clothes that would take the high-powered executive from the boardroom straight on to the smartest of evening engagements.'