Oriental Hotel (2 page)

‘OK,' Stuart agreed. ‘By that time I might even know the end of it!'

With the jet satisfactorily parked, the two men climbed down on to the tarmac and walked towards Immigration and Customs – one formality which not even Stuart Brittain could evade. Then they made their way to the reception lounge and stood together for a moment at the foot of the curving staircase leading to the Landing Office: Nick Thorne a slightly built man with the gold braid of a captain on his uniform; Stuart Brittain a head taller, wearing an uncrushable lightweight suit that barely concealed the hard muscular strength of his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

‘Am I right in thinking you are Mr Brittain?'

A dapper middle-aged man crossed the lounge, extending his hand as Stuart confirmed his identity. ‘I'm Grantly Hedges of Roydell. I'm so pleased you were able to come. Did you have a good flight?'

‘Fine, thank you. I'm glad to be here.' As Stuart followed him outside to where a dark blue Mercedes was parked carelessly in a ‘No Waiting' area, all private matters were momentarily forgotten. ‘I hope we shall be able to finalise some arrangements which will suit us both.'

‘I certainly hope so.' As Grantly Hedges threw open the passenger door of the Mercedes, his forced cheerfulness and slightly ingratiating manner brought a smile to Stuart's lips. Instinct told him that Roydell wanted this deal badly, which meant he was likely to enjoy negotiating it.

As they drove, however, and Grantly Hedges was forced to concentrate on dealing with the late afternoon traffic, Stuart's mind returned briefly to Helen Shaw.

Why, he wondered, did women always suppose they could change a man? Helen had know from the beginning where he stood on marriage and commitment. He had never made any secret of his attitude. But clearly she hadn't accepted it – or at least, she had supposed that with her things would be different.

But they would not be.

It's unlikely I shall ever meet a woman who will change me, Stuart thought; but if I do, I shall know. And even then I shall probably fight her – and myself – all the way …

The Mercedes was halted by traffic lights and Grantly Hedges glanced sideways at him.

‘We've booked you into the best hotel in Bristol; you should be comfortable there. And I've arranged for a car to pick you up tomorrow at nine-thirty to bring you along to our offices.'

‘I should prefer to drive myself,' Stuart said easily. ‘If you haven't a company car available, then I can hire one.'

‘Oh, but … will you know your way around?' Grantly Hedges enquired.

‘I can find out,' Stuart said carelessly and then, noticing the dark flush creeping up the other man's cheeks, added: ‘There's a private visit I want to make while I'm here, so I'll need a car for that.'

‘Oh, I see. Well, I'm sure it can be arranged …'

Stuart nodded. ‘Thanks. Actually, the place I want is called Durscombe Park. It's in Gloucestershire, I believe.'

‘Durscombe Park? That sounds familiar,' Grantly murmured.

‘It's owned by a Mrs Sanderson,' Stuart continued. ‘ Mrs Elise Sanderson.'

‘Mrs Sanderson?' Grantly's voice was sharp suddenly; he had almost missed the flow of traffic and behind him someone hooted impatiently.

‘You know her?' Stuart enquired.

‘I know
of
her. Everyone knows of the Sandersons.' His voice was still clipped and with reawakening interest Stuart wondered why. He had come to Bristol on business – the visit to Mrs Sanderson was an extra indulgence only. But quite suddenly he had the feeling that the priorities might yet change.

‘When were you planning to see her?' Grantly asked, executing a smooth gear change.

In his pocket Stuart's fingers closed over the leather-bound address book in which he had written the address and telephone number.

‘I don't know,' he replied. ‘ But I think I may telephone her tonight.'

Summer sunlight dappled through the trees and made patches of light and shade on the luxuriant lawns of Durscombe Park.

To the front of the house the grass was rougher – parkland bisected by a broad gravel drive and ending suddenly at the edge of the forecourt where carriages had once assembled; here at the side the lawns were softer and more private, sloping gently away towards the wooded valley.

The swing-seat was positioned just on the rise, within sight of the drawing-room windows, yet secluded from them so that no one in the house could see the occupant.

Elise Sanderson liked it that way. During the last four years, since she had reached the age of sixty, comfort had become increasingly important to her; but it was not yet as important as her privacy.

She sat now on the padded cushions which were softly upholstered in a mixture of delicate pinks and greens; a slimly-built woman with a bone structure which would retain its perfection to the end of her life. Her eyes were still beautiful too – wide, amber-coloured and fringed by thick lashes – and her hair, though it had long since lost its once-glorious glow of honey, was now a mass of soft silver curls. As she reached up to adjust the deep fringing on the canopy of the swing-seat she smiled to herself, remembering the relentless suns which had beaten down on to her face forty years ago. She had been careless then, not thinking of how they would dry her skin and start fine lines. Now, when she looked in her mirror, she regretted her rashness. And yet, she thought, so many of her contemporaries who had worried constantly about their appearance now had tight-drawn skin too smooth for their years and tell-tale tucks hidden beneath the hairline. Elise had never contemplated having a face-lift, nor would she do so; it seemed to her the height of vanity. But nowadays sheltering from the sun was only sensible.

With a faint sigh she returned her attention to the file of papers lying on the swing-seat beside her. All were connected with the running of Sanderson International, the vast company which had given her – among other things – Durscombe Park. There was no longer any need for her to take an active part in the running of the company, she knew. Her son Alex, and David Fletcher, her son-in-law, were in the driving seat now. But when her husband Gordon had died ten years ago, Elise had made up her mind she would not allow herself to vegetate. It would have been all too easy to remain here simply as the lady of the manor, waited on hand and foot and with her every whim catered for. But that was not her way. Despite all their efforts to try to ease her out, Elise had kept her finger on the company pulse. It gave her a sense of purpose and prevented her from feeling old and useless. And they humoured her, Alex and David and the rest of the board; they pretended her voting shares were of importance – though she knew they could outmanoeuvre her any time they decided to act in concert – and asked her opinion on all manner of things from the decor for the new suite of offices in a London tower block to the final design on the company Christmas cards.

She still entertained for Sandersons, too, and it gave her the excuse she needed to justify keeping on Durscombe Park. She loved it; she couldn't have borne to see it sold, but it was much too large for her to live in alone. As a setting for dinner parties and working weekends, however, it was ideal: a rambling Georgian house set in fifteen acres of parkland, with breathtaking views across a valley populated only by grazing cows and a pony or two, yet within easy reach of the motorway. And Elise did so enjoy entertaining, planning menus, mixing guests and engineering conversation. Her dinner parties were always a success and invitations to a country weekend eagerly accepted.

Yet Geraldine, her daughter, had never made a hostess and never would, thought Elise. Geraldine was pure country through and through – happier mucking out a stable than choosing a fine wine, more comfortable in jeans and gumboots than in designer fashion from Paris, London and Rome. Geraldine resented time spent on herself, on fripperies, on five-course meals or anything else she did not consider absolutely essential, and was quite happy to escape any social commitments which might normally have come her way as wife of the deputy managing director of the company.

As for Alex's wife, Laura, she hadn't the faintest idea how to organise. A startlingly pretty blue-eyed blonde, she was always an enormous success as a guest, but faced with arranging anything more demanding than drinks for close friends panic set in and by the time people arrived she was prostrate with migraine.

Between them, Geraldine and Laura would have long since demolished the Sanderson reputation for lavish entertaining, Elise believed, and secretly she was glad of their lack of interest. It was nice to feel there was something she could do really well, especially since the younger generation could so easily make one feel intimidated by their accomplishments. Moreover, it meant she was still a part of Sandersons, not merely the widow of the founder, and gave her a reason for still seeing company documents, feeling involved and asking questions.

Lately, however, Elise had had the uncomfortable feeling that Alex and David were keeping something from her and now, as she waded through the pile of papers beside her, this niggled at her again.

There was something they hadn't said, she was sure – and if they were keeping quiet about it, the chances were that it had to do with money or the lack of it. Nothing undermined confidence more quickly than rumour. And during the last few weeks David and Alex had acted very like men out to scotch whatever rumours might inadvertently have begun to circulate.

Several times over the years similar circumstances had arisen, and always Elise had suspected from the very outset if something was wrong. She had never thought of herself as an intuitive person in other respects, yet where the business was concerned she had been proved right over and over again.

But there was nothing more concrete behind her anxiety, Elise thought, than this uncomfortable sensation that things were going on around her of which she remained ignorant.

‘You're getting old!' she told herself severely. ‘If there are problems, Alex and David can deal with them. And the chances are that they exist only in your imagination …'

She worked quickly through the remaining papers, marking a point here and there for attention with quick strokes of her pen. Then when she was satisfied she shuffled the papers together, returned them to the soft kid briefcase and reached instead for the nearby pile of newspapers and glossy magazines.

This was partly pleasure and partly work for Elise – searching for new and exciting recipes and ideas for settings, and keeping up to date with the personal lives of those she might expect to meet socially or entertain. She had her contacts, of course, but down here in the heart of Gloucestershire it was sometimes possible to feel a little cut-off, and with the high incidence of divorce and separation these days it was impossible to be too careful. For example, an invitation addressed to Sir Charles and Lady Lauderdale would become a disaster if the latter had left home – as the gossip columns had been predicting – in order to live in the South of France with a director of art films. And the live-in lover situation placed even greater pitfalls in the path of smooth entertaining. But Elise kept confidently abreast of current changes in partners where less experienced hostesses might have fallen by the wayside, thereby enhancing her reputation even further.

The glossy magazines she had already scanned – a quick glance assured her she had missed nothing. Then she opened the first of the daily papers to the gossip column pages and immediately her mouth softened as she recognised the face smiling up at her from the central photograph.

‘Miss Katrina Fletcher,' the caption read, but to Elise she would always be Katy and her heart lifted as it invariably did at the sight of her favourite grandchild. Katy was nineteen years old now, and as pretty as a picture. Not even black and white newsprint could mar the perfection of the oval face with its high cheekbones and delicate mouth, and with the love of a grandmother for her only granddaughter Elise looked beyond, seeing in her mind's eye the warm brown eyes flecked with sparkling hazel lights and fringed with long, thick lashes that had no need of mascara, and the luxuriant fall of shining brown hair, smooth yet with a tantalising hint of curl at the ends.

Those who had known Elise as a girl often remarked on the similarity – Katy was like her, they said. But Elise would have none of it. She gloried in Katy's beauty because she loved her – to admit that some of it might have been inherited would be another sign of the vanity she despised.

But she did acknowledge that Katy had taken after her in many ways. From the time Katy was a small child Elise had been able to identify with her and understand her as she had never been able to do with Geraldine. Empathy had jumped a generation, it seemed, for Katy liked the same things which Elise had liked as a girl, showed signs of the same passions, cried for the same tragedies. For her, life was a constant voyage of adventure and discovery, as it had been for the young Elise. There was a spirit there, a spark, that sometimes made Elise feel she was looking into a mirror when she listened to Katy dreaming her dreams; she knew that beneath the gaiety, Katy could be as stubborn and wilful as she and as fearless.

Indulgently Elise gave her head a little shake. What had Katy done to attract the gossip columnist's attention? she wondered. Partyed with too wild a crowd? Or danced until dawn with a duke, in one of the exclusive clubs to which she was frequently taken since moving to London to try to find herself a niche in the world of art and antiques? Elise had tried to persuade her to stay closer to home here in Gloucestershire – the thought of Katy going away had been like a light going out in her life. But she had known even as she had suggested trying to find her a position in Bristol or Bath that the request was a selfish one, and when Katy had told her, eyes alight: ‘But I really want to stand on my own two feet. Granny,' she had smiled sadly.