‘So?’
‘Maybe she’s looking for inspiration.’
He tossed the paper on his desk. ‘More likely it’s some fancy way of keeping me out of the way while their lawyers waste their time searching for some way to prevent us from ousting them.’
‘Maybe it is, but you’ll be shadowing her anyway and it has to beat trailing her around a department store for a month. You could do with a holiday.’
‘This won’t be a holiday.’
‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think. You’ve got a lot in common.’
‘We both have a major holding in a department store. And we both want to be in control,’ he agreed, with just a touch of irony. ‘Whether that will make for a relaxing time, I take leave to doubt.’
‘Is she pretty? Her sisters are lovely but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a photograph of Flora.’
Bram offered her a copy of Ashanti Gold, the latest non-fiction title to grip the public imagination and become a runaway bestseller. ‘Her picture’s on the back,’ he said, leaving her to make up her own mind.
‘Oh, well, I suppose you can’t have everything. You’ll be in paradise; getting Eve would be too much to ask. You’ll just have to lie back, close your eyes and remember how much you want to get your hands on that department store.’
‘Haven’t you got something important to do?’ he asked irritably.
‘Yes, but this is more interesting. I’ll go and make some coffee.’
Left to himself, Bram took out his wallet. At the back, stashed away where no one would see, was a snapshot of a small boy with his puppy. He looked at it for a long time. Then, about to return it to its hiding place, he put it instead in the small pocket provided for such treasures.
It was a timely reminder that he’d thought he’d found paradise once, when he was young enough to believe in such a concept. He’d bitten the apple and found the serpent.
‘You’ve done what?’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Flora Claibourne. You were there when it was arranged for Bram Gifford to shadow you during May. I asked you to put off your trip, but you went ahead and arranged it anyway.’
It had been a matter of self-preservation. Flora didn’t think her sister would accept that as an excuse, however, so she pleaded a higher cause. ‘I can’t put off an invitation from the Saramindan government until it’s more convenient for you, India. You might be pretty big here, but I don’t suppose they’ve ever heard of Claibourne & Farraday.’
‘Nonsense. Their royal family has an account with us.’ She shrugged. ‘But it doesn’t matter. If you won’t stay here and let Mr Gifford watch you at work, he must go with you to Saraminda.’
‘That’s out of the question.’ Flora reached up to capture a handful of untidy curls that had slithered from a comb, twisting them carelessly into a knot on top of her head and anchoring them out of her eyes. ‘And pointless. I don’t know a thing about running Claibourne & Farraday, Indie. I just design the occasional jewellery collection—’
India regarded her younger sister with undisguised exasperation. ‘You do a lot more than that,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you understand just how important you are to us. You bring us your own amazing jewellery designs, new fabrics you’ve picked up on your travels, and before you know it the entire store has been inspired. Last year you went to Africa and this summer everyone’s going to be wearing hot colours and animal prints to go with those gold wire chokers and cuffs. The opposition is scrambling to catch up. But you know what they say about a bandwagon. If you can see it—’
‘You’ve missed it. I know.’
‘And this autumn and winter is going to be fabulous. Celtic silver and platinum jewellery against soft, misty greens and mauves…’
Flora knew when she was being buttered up, and this was buttering on a grand scale. ‘Indie—’
‘Enough. You didn’t object at the time, and one month out of your life is not a lot to ask…’ she paused briefly ‘…considering you’re a director of this company.’
‘That was not my choice. I’m not a businesswoman.’ She’d been railroaded into taking it on in order to show solidarity against the Farradays. ‘I really don’t have the time—’
‘I’ll let you go, Flora—and I promise I’ll never ask you to do another thing for me once this Farraday nonsense is out of the way—but I need you to show total commitment right now. Not next month. Not next year. Now. We have to offer a united front in the face of their attempt to grab control. Please don’t be difficult.’
Flora wanted to be difficult. She wanted to scream and stamp and throw things, just the way her mother did when she didn’t get her way. Knowing from experience just how unattractive that was, she restrained herself. She didn’t give up, though. ‘I’m going there to look at some ancient finery, take some pictures and then write about it, Indie. It’s not a spectator sport,’ she said. ‘And Bram Gifford will not be amused when he finds out that it’s nothing to do with the store.’
‘You’ll have to convince him that it is. Tell him you’re working on next year’s collection. Ask his advice about camera angles if he gets tricky,’ she suggested, abandoning buttering in favour of arm-twisting. ‘Men can’t resist any opportunity to display their superiority. Especially Farraday men,’ she added, with feeling. ‘I just need you to keep Bram Gifford busy and out of my hair while the lawyers work on a strategy to keep them out. It isn’t much to ask.’ She paused only long enough to draw breath. ‘Unless you want to see them move in and take over?’
Flora didn’t care much one way or the other, but she knew better than to say so.
‘The last thing I want is him being left to his own devices, poking around the store, probing into things that don’t concern him,’ India added. ‘And if you leave him behind, that’s what he’ll be doing.’
Flora thought that as a major shareholder Abraham Farraday Gifford had every right to ask difficult questions. But since that was part of the agreement—whichever family was in control ran the place without interference—she didn’t bother to say so. Her apparently watertight excuse to avoid getting involved in this shadowing scheme had just developed a leak.
‘Any progress with the lawyers?’ she asked, infinitely hopeful.
‘Well, the fact that the agreement states control should pass to the “oldest male heir” offers considerable scope on the sex discrimination front, but it isn’t going to hold Jordan Farraday for long. He’s older than I am, so he can surrender the “male” bit without giving away a thing—’
‘After which it’ll be a mad race to see who can produce the first baby Claibourne or Farraday so that the next generation can do this again in another thirty years,’ said Flora. Put like that, maybe she did have a duty to help put an end to such nonsense.
Her sister apparently missed the irony, because she simply shrugged and said, ‘As women, I think we might have the upper hand there.’
Flora doubted that. She strongly suspected that if Bram Gifford called for volunteers, he’d be in severe danger of being trampled in the crush.
‘In the meantime,’ she went on, ‘I’ve got to make my case on the grounds of equality in the workplace. Which means proving I’m Jordan Farraday’s equal.’
‘So prove it. Go ahead and announce your stunning plans for the total revamping of Claibourne & Farraday. Surely