Folly's Child (34 page)

Fergal's thick lips twisted with barely concealed amusement but he hardly so much as glanced in Linda's direction. His eyes were still firmly fixed on Theresa and there was something openly salacious in his expression.

‘I'd like to hear Theresa's plans from the lady herself,' he said smoothly. ‘If I'm going to be putting my money into something I prefer to cut away all the dead wood. So, Theresa, tell me in your own words how you would like to spend my investment if I decide to give it to you.'

Linda subsided, slightly put out. She was not unaware of the fact that Fergal was virtually ignoring her and since it had been she who had set up the meeting she felt a little hurt at being invited to play so little part in it. But she had the good sense to keep quiet. As long as Fergal could be persuaded to put up some money what did it matter who he talked to?

Throughout the meal Theresa outlined her hopes and plans and Fergal's questions and keen observations began to raise her hopes. Perhaps the man didn't know much about fashion – though he had certainly been astute enough to recognise good design when he had seen it in the shape of her samples – but he certainly did know about making money.

If only he could do for me what he's done for his computers all my worries would be over, Theresa thought, feeling almost light-hearted for the first time.

When the coffee was served Linda got up and excused herself, heading for the ladies' cloakroom and leaving Theresa alone with Fergal. With the coffee had come tiny delicious petit fours – and liqueurs. ‘I really think I've had enough to drink,‘ Theresa had objected, but Fergal had been so insistent, that it had seemed rude to refuse. Theresa sipped her Cointreau allowing the syruppy liquid to slide down her throat and feeling the warmth spread through her veins.

‘So,' she said, looking at Fergal over her glass. ‘Have we convinced you that Theresa Arnold is a name worth backing?'

‘Possibly.' His eyes narrowed in a face that was now slightly flushed. Theresa held her breath. ‘There would be a few provisos, of course,' he went on. ‘First, I would want to see someone with more experience running the business side. Your friend Linda is keen, she's a good saleswoman and perhaps one day she'll make a first class chief executive, but for the moment if I make a sizeable investment I should have to feel my money was in rather more capable hands than hers.'

‘I couldn't throw her out,' Theresa said. ‘She's part of the team and she's been with me from the beginning.

‘I'm sure there would be a place for her. As I said, one of these days, with experience, she will be an asset to any company.

‘What are the other conditions? Theresa asked.

‘That you use a bank and an accountant of my choosing.'

‘I can't see any problem with the accountant, but I do already have a bank loan for which my mother's house is collatoral.'

‘I see.' A single frown line furrowed Fergal's smooth brow and Theresa felt slightly sick. He obviously had not realised she was already in considerable debt.

Oh God, she prayed, please don't let it make any difference!

‘Well,' he continued, after a moment. ‘I expect we could work something out on that score, providing …'

His voice tailed away. Theresa looked up sharply to see those speculative eyes watching her narrowly.

‘Providing what?' she asked and heard the little tremor of nervousness in her own voice.

He smiled slowly. ‘ Oh, we don't want to discuss that now, do we? Come to my office and we'll talk about it there. Or better still, my little bachelor pad. We won't be interrupted there.'

Theresa's heart had begun to pound. It echoed hollowly at every pulse point and made her feel sick again.

‘I … I don't know …'

‘Now don't be a silly girl!' His voice was smooth and confident, the voice of a man practised in this sort of thing. ‘ I'm sure we can work very well together – an excellent team.' He took a card from his wallet and passed it to her. As he leaned close she caught a whiff of stale breath. ‘ The address of my little pad,' he said. ‘ I'm off to Brussels on business tomorrow for a few days – phone me next Monday and we'll fix up a time that suits both of us.'

Theresa's mouth was dry; she couldn't speak. She crumpled her linen napkin into a ball on the table top.

‘Ah, here's your friend coming back,' Fergal said in the same smooth tone. ‘She will be pleased to hear the good news, I expect.'

‘Good news?'

‘That you and I are on the point of coming to a very satisfactory agreement.' He smiled at her again; now that she had smelled his breath once she fancied she could smell it again, right across the table. ‘I think we should drink, don't you, to the success of the hottest new label in town – Theresa Arnold!'

He raised his glass and Theresa did the same. So – it looked as though her business worries could be at an end. She would have the money she needed to help pull her out of her difficulties and ensure her mother's house was safe. And with the management Fergal would put in she would be able to leave the business to people who knew what they were doing whilst she concentrated on designing just as she had always wanted to. It was all there on offer, everything she had hoped for … more. But at what a price!

Theresa looked at the smooth, lascivious man beside her and shuddered. She was honestly not sure if it was a price she was prepared to pay. But what choice did she have? If it had been just her own business at stake she knew what she would have done – told him, what he could do with his offers. But it was more, much more than that.

As she so often did Theresa thought of her mother, so kind, so caring, who had risked everything she owned to give Theresa her chance, and felt sick at the thought of what she stood to lose.

I can't do it to her, Theresa thought. What would she do? Where would she go?

Slowly, sick at heart, she raised her glass and clinked it with Fergal's. The bargain was sealed. Theresa was only glad she had a week's grace before she had to deliver her part of it.

‘Dad?' Harriet said softly. ‘Are you awake, Dad?'

For a moment there was no response and a nerve jumped in Harriet's throat.

He looked so frail lying there in his hospital bed with tubes attached to his arm and a monitor bleeping seismographical patterns on to a screen at the foot of his bed.

‘Dad?' she whispered again and his eyes nickered and opened, staring blearily into the middle distance then focusing on her.

‘Harriet?' His voice was slightly creaky, as if his lips were parched. Then, more strongly: ‘Harriet! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Australia!'

She drew up a chair and sat down, taking his hand in hers.

‘I came back as soon as I heard the news. Sally got a message to me.'

‘Sally?' His hesitance made her realise he was drugged. ‘Oh, Sally. Yes, she's a good girl.'

‘How are you, Dad?'

‘Oh fine, fine. Stupid thing to happen though, wasn't it?'

Harriet nodded, her throat too full to speak. From her conversation with Sally, Mark and the doctor in charge of the case she knew he was anything but fine. He was lucky to be alive. Had he been at the Ranch or one of his more far-flung homes he might not be. At least having a heart attack in the centre of New York guaranteed immediate medical attention.

‘Just imagine – me having a weak heart!' Hugo murmured incredulously. ‘ Goddammit, I always thought I was as strong as an ox!'

‘You are, but you are also human,' Harriet said gently. ‘You have been under a lot of strain recently.'

He did not answer for a moment. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

‘Yes, yes … I suppose I have.' Those eyes swivelled to her face, sharp suddenly in their dark sockets. ‘ How did you get on, Harriet? Did you find out anything?'

‘Not now, Dad,' she cautioned. ‘You mustn't worry your head about anything. Just get well.'

‘But I want to know!' he persisted stubbornly. ‘Did you find Greg Martin, the bastard?'

‘No. Forget him, Dad, please. It's all so long ago.'

‘He took your mother away from me, you know,' he said in the same dreamy voice. ‘ She was leaving me for him. God knows what she saw in him. Charm, I suppose. Charm – and money. He always made out he was so goddammed rich.'

‘Dad …'

But there seemed to be no way of stopping Hugo from talking.

‘I loved her so much I'd have died for her, Harriet, you know that? And instead … I never meant to hurt her, you know. I never wanted that. I just couldn't help myself. All that love – it seemed to go sour in me. I couldn't help myself!'

‘Dad, please!' Harriet begged, distressed. ‘You'll make yourself ill again.'

His fingers curled convulsively around hers. ‘But I never meant to hurt her, Harri, you must believe that! I only wanted …'

The monitor began to bleep more urgently and Harriet felt a chill of fear. She freed her hand from her father's grasp and ran into the corridor, hailing a white-uniformed figure.

‘Nurse! Come quickly, please! I think he's having another attack!'

The nurse hurried past her, moments later she was joined by a doctor. Harriet stood helplessly in the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth as she watched them working frantically. Then there was a firm but gentle hand about her waist and another nurse urged her away.

‘Come on, sweetie. Let's get you a cup of good strong coffee.'

Harriet hung back. ‘ But my father …'

‘There's nothing you can do there except get in the way. He's in good hands, I promise you.'

‘But… will he be all right?'

‘If Dr Clavell can't save him, no one can,' the nurse said comfortingly.

It was only when she was alone in the luxuriously appointed waiting room, pacing the floor with the untouched cup of coffee forgotten on the low glass-topped table that Harriet realised the nurse had not really answered her question. Sally had been at the hospital night and day since Hugo's first attack but had taken the opportunity afforded by Harriet's arrival to go home for a few hours' break, a shower, a change of clothes and a short sleep in her own bed. Now, Harriet had been forced to telephone and tell her the news that Hugo was once again in crisis. Sally had sounded distraught; now she would be on her way back to the hospital, her chauffeur fighting his way with all possible speed through the New York traffic.

As she waited alone, both for Sally and for news, Harriet found her mind playing and re-playing the conversation she had just had with her father like a scratched gramophone record stuck in the same groove and she paced the room wondering just what it was that had been going on in his confused brain when he had mumbled those agonised words.

Her first assumption had been that he was referring to the terrible fight he and Paula had had the night before she left to go to Italy – the fight the four-years-old Harriet had witnessed, unnoticed by either of them. She had been woken by the raised voices, got out of bed and toddled along the corridor to the door to her parents' room where she had stood in the doorway wide-eyed and frightened – more frightened than she had ever been before in her young life and probably more frightened than she ever would be again for a very long time.

She had not understood what was going on at the time of course. Only later had she been able to piece together the fragmented shards and even then she was unsure just how much was reality and how much imagination, distorted like a dream on exposure to daylight. Now, hearing her father's tortured ramblings, she thought that it must have been every bit as bad as she had feared.

Of course, it could be that he blamed himself for Paula's death. He shouldn't – she certainly didn't. Row or no row Paula had been going with Greg – wasn't that what it was all about? But grief plays unkind tricks with conscience. Perhaps Hugo felt that if he had acted differently Paula would be alive today.

‘I never meant to hurt her …' The words echoed again, each one spilling anguish, and a terrible new thought caught Harriet unawares, making her go cold. She pushed it away, unwilling to examine it even for a moment, yet it crept back like a shadow around the corners of her mind.

‘I never meant to hurt her … All that love seemed to go sour in me … I couldn't help myself …'

Harriet clapped her hands across her eyes, horror struck: ‘No!' she whispered and a voice inside her head seemed to echo it but with a scream, not a whisper. ‘No! You
didn't
, Dad. You
couldn't
have had any part in it.' Yet even as she denied it the terrible suspicion was growing like a cancer.

Sally had been to Italy shortly after the explosion, Tom's assistant had said. Why? And why had she been so upset when Harriet had made known her plans to try to solve the mystery? Was it that she knew something – something she wanted to remain hidden and that she was terrified Harriet might unearth?

Harriet paced the room, tight-coiled as a spring, while the unwelcome thoughts chased one another around her mind. With her whole heart she prayed that her father would come through this latest attack and recover, but at the same time the dread lay heavy in the pit of her stomach. If he did pull through – what then? Was it possible there would be another ordeal for him to face? And was it fear of the future, as well as anguish for the past, that had finally overtaxed his heart and brought on these totally unexpected attacks?

Harriet dug her hands deep into her pockets and the nails made half moon crescents in her palms. For the moment there was nothing to do but wait.

It seemed to Hugo that he was drifting, totally divorced from the pathetic frail body in the hospital bed. Dimly he was aware of the people in white coats, urgently ministering to him, but they seemed oddly unreal. It was the others who had substance, the wraith-like ones who had kept him company these last drug-befuddled days: Greg Martin, dark, swarthy, almost indecently handsome in his white yachting trousers and open neck shirt; his own past self, looking as he had done in the days of his youth; and Paula. Yes, most of all Paula.