Deception and Desire (21 page)

He looked at her now, standing beneath the commanding portrait, a slim, still beautiful woman, elegant in a little black dress which set off the shining cap of fair hair and accentuated the whiteness of her skin, and knew that all he could do was what he had always done – be there for her when she needed him.

Today her call had come when he had been back in his house for barely an hour but he had not hesitated. Something was bothering Dinah, she wanted to talk to him and so he had come gladly.

‘Well?' he said evenly, adopting the half-teasing tone with which he always covered his deeper feelings for her. ‘ What's been happening while I've been away that is so serious?'

Dinah had replenished her glass and poured him a large measure of his favourite dry sherry before inviting him to the study; he never drank spirits, they didn't agree with him. Now she sipped her gin and tonic, regarding him steadily.

‘Reubens.'

‘Reubens,' he repeated.

‘Our latest would-be competitors.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I know who they are. What have they been up to?'

She told him.

‘The range appears to be almost identical with the one I planned,' she finished. ‘God knows how it happened, but it has. You know what that means. I can't possibly launch the new Vandina line the way I intended. The fashion editors would crucify me. Worse, they might ignore me altogether. Something has to be done, and quickly.'

He shook his head.

‘Dinah, there's nothing I can do to help you there. I'm not an ideas man. I wish I was.'

‘I know that, Don,' she said impatiently. ‘ Ideas are my province – and I have one. But I need to talk to you about it. I need costings urgently. And your approval to place a couple of rather large orders with the very best suppliers.'

He smiled briefly. ‘When has Vandina used anyone else?'

‘I know. It's the quantity this time that will make the order extra expensive.'

He turned the sherry glass between his fingers, the soft white fingers with perfectly manicured nails that belonged to a man who had never done an hour's manual work in his life.

‘All right. What's the idea?'

‘Luggage.' She said it breathlessly, with that little edge of excitement she always experienced when her creative juices were running. ‘I want to do a range of luggage. Suitcases, large, medium and small, soft grips, flight bags, right down to easy-to-manage hand baggage. Some will be pigskin, of course – Vandina is principally leather and everyone knows it – but I also want to incorporate the other natural materials I intended to use for my new spring range – toughened hessians, for instance. That way I can work in the handbags as part of a co-ordinated whole. Customers will still be able to buy them as a one-off fashion accessory if they wish but the main emphasis will be on the idea of a total matching range of luggage with the handbag being just the last link in the chain. Oh – and I don't want to aim it solely at women. Men buy a lot of suitcases but they need hand baggage too, particularly if they are flying. There will be at least one design masculine enough for even the most macho man but a great deal more practical than the usual compromise of briefcase and grip. There will be easily accessible pockets for travel documents, a padded compartment where spectacles can be safely kept with no fear of them being damaged when the bag goes through the radar check and a specially designed toiletry wallet for toothbrushes and so on. Oh – and a shaver, of course.' She paused for breath and to sip her gin and tonic. ‘Well, what do you think?'

‘I think you have been very busy! When did you dream all this up?'

‘Last night.'

‘Just like that?'

‘I have to admit I didn't get much sleep,' she said a little ruefully. ‘But I wouldn't have done in any case, I was far too worried about the Reubens business. I did go to bed at the usual time but my mind was just chasing round in circles wondering what the hell to do. In the end I got up again, came down here and made myself a stiff drink. Without a doubt I can thank Glenfiddich distillery for my inspiration.' She crossed to the antique writing desk and pulled out a portfolio she had stacked behind it. ‘Here are my preliminary sketches …' She flipped over A3 sheets of paper covered with the quick, deft drawings of the trained designer. ‘This is how I see it – a distinctive shape, a distinctive and unusual blend of materials, and of course the Vandina logo. Well, say something, Don.'

Don Kennedy smoothed the hair protectively over his bald spot as he always did when he felt pressured. Dinah's enthusiasm was almost touching, her commitment to her company unquestionable. But her talent frightened him. Caution was his watchword, it had helped him keep Vandina finances on an even keel, and though he was shrewd enough to know there would be no finances to manage without Dinah's inspired vision he was still unnerved by each and every innovative step she had taken.

In the old days he had not felt he was responsible for anything but ensuring the money was there to back Dinah's hunches. Van had been there to keep an eye on things and curb her more extravagant ideas. How many times he had actually squashed a scheme of Dinah's Don had no idea – perhaps never, perhaps many times – that was something that had remained between the two of them. Now Don himself was being put into the position of arbiter and elder statesman and he didn't feel qualified to comment on the viability of anything beyond his own field of involvement.

‘It's not going to come cheap,' he said. ‘We haven't budgeted for a major outlay on stock in this financial year.'

‘We can afford it though. We have to be able to! We're not a tin-pot little outfit, for goodness' sake. We're Vandina!'

‘This is true, but we can't afford to show bad half-year figures.'

‘Don, I'm doing this for the sake of our reputation. If we were to lose that then you would have to start worrying about half-year figures and full-year ones as well. This will work. I know it will!'

‘Have you talked to anyone else about it?'

‘You're the first. I haven't even told Steve. I wanted your OK from a finance point of view first. Now I have it I'll get things moving.'

‘Dinah, I haven't given you a definite yes.'

‘But you will. You will!'

‘I think you should discuss it with someone who has a better feel for the market than I do.'

‘I will, I promise. Now, I can't do anything about it tomorrow. I'm in London, as you know. But the following day I'll get these sketches on to the computer. I want to see dimensions and also the way the different materials will look together in rather different proportions than they were on the handbags. But I'm convinced I've got a winner here. Perhaps I should thank Reubens after all for forcing me into a rethink!'

He shook his head. It was good to see Dinah sparkling with enthusiasm but the habit of caution was too ingrained to allow him to be completely carried along by it.

‘I certainly hope so, Dinah, but we'll just have to see.'

A little of the fight went out of her face.

‘You might be a little more enthusiastic!'

‘I told you, Dinah, I'm not really in a position to judge the market.'

‘But you do think it's a good idea?'

‘I don't know. I wish I did but I honestly don't know. My only concern is that we shouldn't be left with a lot of expensive stock we can't sell. And I find it quite impossible to get excited about the prospect of handbags for men.'

The moment he said it he regretted it. Her finely drawn brows came together, a tiny frown creased her forehead and her mouth drooped so that for the moment it looked as if she might be going to cry. He'd seen it before, it was all part of the quicksilver change of mood from bubbling enthusiasm to dejection that was intrinsic to her character. To her employees and the union representatives, the buyers and the suppliers, Dinah might appear full of confidence; those closer to her knew the basic insecurity that plagued her. When her judgement was called into question Dinah could deflate like a punctured balloon, for she lacked the inner resource of that very belief in herself that she apparently exuded. Now, he thought, with a moment's extreme tenderness, she resembled nothing so much as a child desperately seeking approval.

He wished with all his heart he could reassure her and knew he could not. What good would it do for him to tell her yes, he definitely thought she was on to a winner, when he was totally unsure himself if it was the truth?

Silently he cursed himself for failing her. Van would have known the answer. Van would have said yea or nay and with that sure instinct for successful business he would have been right.

There was no way, Don thought miserably, that he could replace Van, either in the company or in Dinah's heart. He glanced up again at the dominating portrait as if to seek an answer. But the eyes, though burning with a long-extinguished vitality, were totally enigmatic. Van was not about to send him a message from beyond the grave.

The car Steve had sent for Maggie – a chauffeur-driven Mercedes – had arrived promptly at seven, and Maggie was ready and waiting, smoking and pacing nervously as she wondered how the evening would turn out. She wasn't looking forward to it at all, dining with a crowd of people she did not know and who might resent her presence, and she had agonised over what she should wear, since she had no idea how formal Dinah Marshall's dinner parties were likely to be. Eventually she had settled for a long loose jacket and cigarette pants in soft autumnal shades with a cream silk camisole which she hoped would look neither over- nor underdressed. But she was still feeling far from confident and wishing fervently she had not accepted Steve's rather surprising invitation. Under normal circumstances she would never have dreamed of doing so, but these were not normal circumstances and she felt obliged to take every opportunity to learn any snippet of information that might give a clue as to Ros's disappearance, though, quite honestly, she was beginning to believe more and more that it had nothing whatever to do with Vandina and the ‘odd happenings' there, and everything to do with Brendan.

As the Mercedes turned into the drive leading to Luscombe Manor, Dinah's country house, Maggie looked around with interest. It was a long drive, punctuated by a couple of cattle grids as it wound its way between green fields on both sides, past a small neat estate cottage and on to a broad gravel turnaround. The house itself was rambling – rather like a large farmhouse, Maggie thought – but the stonework had all been recently pointed and there was an air of leisured elegance about it that set it apart from a working farm.

As the driver came around to help Maggie out of the car the front door of the house opened and Steve emerged. He was casually dressed in white shirt and light-coloured slacks and Maggie was glad she had not gone more formal.

‘Maggie, so glad you could come.' His tone was easy and welcoming, the faint transatlantic twang she had noticed when she first met him adding to the air of laid-back charm. ‘Do come in. The others are already here.'

He ushered her into a hallway where the stone-slab floor reminded her once again of a farmhouse, though there any similarity ended for it was furnished with a heavy old hall stand and dresser in highly polished mahogany. There were sweet peas in a vase on the dresser and a huge arrangement of dried flowers in a jug on the floor, but there was also a pair of green Wellington boots and a set of golf clubs propped up behind the door and a couple of huge striped umbrellas together with a black city gents' variety in the hall stand. They added a homely touch which put Maggie a little more at her ease. She had expected a showpiece home, but clearly Dinah and her son actually
lived
here.

Voices were coming from behind a closed door on her right but Steve ushered her past it and into a pleasant drawing room. Again Maggie was surprised at the ordinariness of it whilst at the same time wondering why she should be. Vandina was, after all, as the slogan went, ‘A Touch of the Country', and this was the home of its creator. Yet she had somehow expected the trappings of wealth and privilege with which
Homes and Gardens
led its readers to believe the rich and successful surrounded themselves, rather than this chintzy room furnished in wicker and pine with squashy soft sofas and chairs piled high with welcoming cushions.

In one of the chairs a man was sprawling, glass between his hands, long legs clad in scarlet cotton trousers stretched out in front of him. Maggie's first impression was that he was quite young, then, with a slight shock, she realised that she had been mistaken. The longish hair, tied back in a drooping pony-tail, and the bright colours of his clothes had misled her. Now she saw that the face was a little raddled, long lines etched between nose and mouth, deep circles under the eyes, and cheekbones which jutted, almost blue-tinged, through the pallor of his skin.

A little embarrassed, Maggie looked quickly away towards the second person in the room– a statuesque redhead stunningly dressed in shocking pink. As Maggie entered she moved away from a corner bookcase where she had been idly examining the titles stacked there, meeting Maggie's glance with a cool half-smile.

‘Maggie, meet Jayne and Drew,' Steve was saying. ‘ Jayne is a designer with Vandina, Drew is …'

‘A professional layabout,' the raddled man interrupted. His voice was lazy and surprisingly well educated – definitely public school, Maggie decided, Marlborough perhaps, or Clifton College, maybe even Eton or Rugby.

‘Drew is joking,' Steve said swiftly. ‘He is actually a very fine artist. Drew, Jayne, meet Maggie – Ros's sister.'

Was it her imagination or did Maggie feel a slight change of atmosphere? No, ridiculous, it must be imagination. They would have known she was coming, surely? But there was something alert suddenly about Jayne, a sharpening of those green eyes, a slight but unmistakable curve to the scarlet lips that was not quite a smile.