‘Oh please tell me about it,’ Emily said eagerly, her face lighting up.
And Paula did.
After Emily had gone to her room to relax before dinner, Paula sat for a while at the desk, going over her engagements for the next few days. But at one moment the striking of the clock in the hall made her sit up with a start, and her concentration fled.
Leaning back in her desk chair she sat thinking about Tessa and her granddaughter Adele, and the things that had happened at Pennistone Royal that day. Thank God they were safe. She wished Shane were here. Turning her head, she looked at the photograph on a nearby circular table, rose, and walked over to it.
Seating herself in the adjacent chair, she picked up a silver-framed picture of Shane, and a smile broke across her face. It had been taken many years ago, when he was about twenty-six, and she couldn’t help thinking how wonderful he looked, so handsome, debonair even then. What was it Emma had always said about him? That he had glamour. And that was the truth. She had never known anyone with that kind of glamour, man or woman. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, he was Black Irish through and through, and she had always teased him, said he had kissed the Blarney Stone. ‘Inherited the gift of the gab from my grandfather,’ he answered back, and she responded, ‘Emma says Blackie’s kissed three Blarney Stones!’
It’s funny how life works out, she suddenly thought, her eyes settling on a photograph of Tessa and Lorne with Shane. He had brought them up as his own since they’d been toddlers, and she knew how much Lorne loved Shane, but she sometimes wondered about Tessa’s feelings for him.
Of course she loves him, Paula told herself. Everyone has always loved Shane. Grandy. My mother. Winston Harte, his best friend and sparring partner since they were boys. And Emily. And Sally and Anthony Standish. Shane, if the truth be known, was the most popular person in the three clans, and anywhere else!
Her eyes moved on, and she literally laughed out loud when they fell upon a photograph taken when they were all teenagers: a picture of them at Heron’s Nest one summer, Emma’s house in Scarborough by the sea. It had been taken the year the boys had formed their own band. The Herons they called themselves, and of course it was Shane who was the band-leader. He also played the piano and was the vocalist. Alexander, her beloved Sandy, now sadly dead these long years, had played the drums and cymbals; Michael Kallinski had warbled the harmonica; Jonathan scraped the violin; Philip blew the flute. But it had been Winston who considered himself the most important, the most talented member of the ensemble. He had modelled himself on Bix Beiderbecke, after seeing the film Young Man With A Horn, and thought he was the bees’ knees. They had wondered out loud where he had learned to play the trumpet, and Emma had smiled thinly and said he hadn’t, and that was the trouble. What fun they had had together in those days.
Shane had been part of her life for as long as she could remember, since her childhood. She had become conscious of him when she was four and he was eight, and had tagged along after him.
One summer afternoon, Shane had told her he had a wonderful idea. He said she was to become Queen Boadicea, and he would be her consort, her lord. ‘But we have to look right,’ Shane had confided. ‘How should we look?’ she had asked him, her violet eyes full of love and pride at being his friend even then. ‘We have to be blue,’ the eight-year-old boy had explained. And had then proceeded to paint her blue all over, after he had undressed her. She had insisted on keeping her knickers on, being a modest child. And later Emma had been thankful she had. At least some pores had been allowed to breathe, and so she had stayed alive. Somehow, Shane had coaxed her into painting him blue to match, and there was hell to pay when Blackie came over at Emma’s request to chastise his grandson. ‘Young scallywag,’ Blackie had pronounced.
Remembering all this, Paula smiled, thinking of the turpentine baths Emma and Blackie had given them … worse than any thrashing.
Blue, she thought, seeing in her mind’s eye her lovely blue marbles which Shane had managed to lose. He had presented her with some new ones but they weren’t as nice, and she had been put out with him for a long time.
And then one day, when they were grown up, he had given her a small leather box, and when she had opened it she had been entranced by the sapphire earrings inside.
Leaning down, kissing her, Shane had said, ‘I hope these will now satisfy you … they are in place of those blue marbles I lost when you were all of six.’
And one day much later she had married Shane.
Yes, life is strange, she thought again. They had grown up together, had been inseparable even as teenagers, and then he had gone off to boarding school, later university, and she had seen less of him.
And she had met Jim Fairley, who worked for Emma, and they had fallen in love. Or so she thought. She had married Jim, had had the twins, Tessa and Lorne.
Shane had moved to New York to run the O’Neill Hotel chain on that side of the Atlantic. But he had never married, and one day, when her marriage was falling apart, they had suddenly understood that they were in love with each other, and always had been.
They had discovered this in Shane’s wonderful old barn in New Milford, an oasis of peace in the Connecticut countryside. And they had vowed to be together always. Somehow. Because it was meant to be.
Life plays funny tricks, she murmured to herself. Jim Fairley and her father David Amory, on a skiing holiday in Chamonix, had been killed in an avalanche. Winston and Emily had decided not to go skiing that day, and had narrowly escaped death. Their time wasn’t up, Paula whispered to herself. That’s what Emma always used to say: ‘You go on living until your time’s up.’
For a long time she had grieved for Jim and her father, and suffered the most devastating guilt. She had sent Shane away because of her guilt. But eventually she had realized how much she loved him and needed him, had understood he was her entire life. He still was.
Evan’s mother, Marietta Hughes, was furious.
Once again Owen had behaved in the most high-handed way and she felt like strangling him. But because her mother had always told her no man was worth murdering because of the dire consequences to oneself, she had decided against this rather harsh and drastic solution.
Flight for several hours was the only way she could settle the score and calm herself. And so she grabbed her handbag, picked up the shopping bag she had just taken out of the wardrobe, where it had been hidden behind her clothes for days, and left the suite. She didn’t even go into the bedroom to say goodbye to him. And so he would worry when he discovered she had gone.
As she took the lift down to the hotel lobby she prayed she wouldn’t run into the hotel proprietors, George or Arlette, especially Arlette, who constantly wanted to take her for tea or coffee in order to gossip about Evan. She knew the Frenchwoman adored Evan, had been kind to her, and meant no harm, but Marietta usually felt a degree of discomfort if forced to discuss members of her family, particularly Evan who was very special to her.
Fortunately she was not waylaid, made it safely out into the street, where she stood looking for a cab. It was a nice day, if a little too humid, but she was relieved it wasn’t raining. It had poured yesterday.
A cab slid to a stop in front of her and she got in, gave the cabbie the address of her bank, then sat back. She was relieved that she had escaped from the hotel without having to deal with George or Arlette, and, most importantly, that the shopping bag had gone undetected in its hiding place in the wardrobe.
Marietta placed her handbag on the cab seat next to her, but kept the shopping bag on her lap. The package inside it was precious – ever since finding it she had believed it to be dynamite – and she must keep it safe. She wasn’t sure if she could use it to her advantage, but she certainly was aware of its true value.
It suddenly struck her how wise she had been to keep her account