Tall Poppies (20 page)

Despite the long day and the rush at the end of it, Nina felt composed. Somehow, Lady Elizabeth’s challenge had ‘made up her mind. The confusion she’d felt in Tony’s office had vanished long since. Nina knew what she was here to do.

The outfit she was wearing had cost over a thousand pounds. All the new money she’d thought she had was vanishing in things like this: good suits for the office, dcent shoes, coats, accessories. As a Dragon executive, you couldn’t shop at Marks & Sparks. You had to have an abundance of the right clothes, the stuff Elizabeth merely ‘inherited’. Nina thought about that when she was dressing. How the few square feet of fabric clinging to her curves would, less than a year ago, have paid for months of food and lodging.

Elizabeth and the well-heeled young men at Dragon looked on her as nothing. An upstart, almost a child. They don’t realise, Nina thought sourly, that I’ve never been a child. I’ve never had that luck.

Her past was a prison. Growing up in that slovenly apartment, carrying the can for Mom and Pop. Her mother a lush. The teasing she’d gotten at St Michael’s for being white trash, well, some things never changed. The dizzy hope of Jeff and then the crunch of b.etrayal.

Rooming with drunk sailors. Passing up college. Frank dying, Connor throwing her over. Miscarrying in a dark room.

But she’d done it. She’d gotten away. Two years at Dolan, now Dragon, Nina thought, and no one to help me but me. She’d turned twenty-one a few days ago and hadn’t even noticed until the evening. Birthdays just didn’t seem important. Elizabeth Savage might be the same age as her, but she was younger, lifetimes younger. Even though she was untrained and inexperienced, Lady E. was drawing a salary like Nina’s and getting respect and position. Because she’d been lucky enough to be born on the right side of the tracks.

Nina pulled her cashmere scarf tighter and picked up her skirts, carefully stepping across the Dean Street slush. Her coat was smart, but not practical against the biting December air. She hurried across to the nondescript entrance to the club and ducked inside. When she told the receptionist she was meeting Lord Caerhaven, the woman melted.

The Groucho was a hot place to be. Full of media executives and stars, Nina recognised a couple of famous actors, a newscaster and a pop star. There was also a division chief from Hanson and the Treasury Secretary. Every one of them eyed her up as she walked over to the restaurant.

The atteiation thrilled her. It was perfect, she thought cynically. Men were all the same, no matter who or what they were. Some curves and a pretty face, and they were baying for it.

So why shouldn’t she take advantage? Nina felt tired of being bruised. Of being the last person on the field playing by the rules.

Tony Savage was an attractive man. She knew the gossip round Dragon was that she was his pet. Elizabeth never lost a chance to sneer about her by the watei”

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cooler. Nina respected the earl, although she didn’t like him, or trust him. However, he was her boss, the ultimate power. Lord Caerhaven was known for making his favourites rich and destroying his enemies. She was sure he wanted he. Well, maybe she wanted him. Maybe it was time to do something for herself.

Tony was seated at a discreet table in a corner of the room, still wearing his work suit. He stood up when Nina appeared and waited as she shrugged off the scarf

and coat, appearing in a slither of cobalt and silver. She saw desire blaze into his eyes. ‘You look wonderful, Nina.’

‘Thank you, Tony,’ Nina said softly.

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‘So what do you think?’

Jack looked at Rupert Beeching and shrugged. He thought it was too cold, too windy, and too damn close to Christmas to be conducting serious business, but he’d asked Pop for the assignment, and now he had to live with it.

He was standing with a Gloucester farmer in a rundown stables, inspecting one of the finest colts he’d ever seen: Beeching was a part-timer with a useless trainer, but this one had come third in a minor race he’d attended down in Sussex. Beautifully proportioned, bursting with potential. Trouble was, his interest would spark off other buyers. Rupert wasn’t so dumb he wouldn’t have figured that one.

Jack thrust his hands into the pockets of his thick overcoat. The farm behind him looked out over sweeping hills; elm copses and dry-stone walls glittered under midwinter frost. In London, his secretary was drowning in messages from Paris and Galway; his book of photos and stud pedigrees was attracting a lot of interest. Jack was a good salesman, and the warm Texan accent was a help. Breeders were looking into Taylor Stud who had never considered it before. It had been a successful couple of months.

Jack named a figure, ignoring Beeching’s theatrical scowl. ‘Look, bud, I ain’t haggling. He’s pretty, but he’s got no blood.’

‘He is the blood.’

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Jack laughed. ‘Unplaced in three meets, third in one minor race? It ain’t the Derby winner we’re talking about.’

‘Kerry Stud left me a message.’ ‘Ireland’s in deeper trouble than Britain, right now. They can’t match my price, and you know it.’ Jack looked at his Rolex Oyster. ‘Come on, Rupe. I want to take him home. I’m too tired for hassle. You think you can get a better price, be my guest, but I’m leaving now and so’s my chequebook.’

The farmer winced at the familiarity, but he also looked wary. I’ve got you, you stupid, greedy jerk, Jack thought.

‘You’ve got me,’ Beeching said. He smiled foolishly as ‘Jack sat down on a bale of hay and pulled out his

chequebook. Coutts & Co. A lousy bank with high charges, but in England, appearance was everything.

First-class on a rickety BR train back to London, Jack sipped a watery Earl Grey and grinned to himself. Piece of cake. What should he call the animal? A funky racehorse name. Maybe Easy Money. His fledgeling operation here had been as successful as everything else in his life. It was a nice surprise to find that the business school principles he’d picked up at Harvard actually worked. Plus, it was a buyer’s market. Britain was tightening its money supply, and the medicine was hurting. Jack had toasted Margaret Thatcher, strident at her party conference in a frumpy suit and floppy bow tie. ‘You turn if you want to. The lady’s not for turning.’ Stirring stuff, sure, but monetarism was hard. Inflation fell, but recession was biting deep. Luxury, high-end businesses - like racehorse stables - were feeling it. Closing down, selling up, desperate for cash influxes. And here was the young Texan champ, riding to the rescue like Zorro. A bit of schmooze, a bit of bluff, a

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macho chat about skiing and sport. Amazing how all the round, red-cheeked country gents with their gin and tonics and massive girths loved that stuff.

Jack bought himself a malt whisky and soda from the drinks trolley and smiled at the ogling waitress. He sipped the drink and watched rural England slide past him, the beautiful riverside meadows and thick forests belying the turmoil the country was going through.

Old money - landowners like Beeching - was on the slide, and a new breed was on the rise. Young, smart entrepreneurs, working for themselves, clawing up the ladder hand over fist. Men just like him.

To the victor the spoils. Jack had nearly everything he wanted. And finally, he had a chance at the one prize he hadn’t been able to reach. Though she’d been turning down his calls all winter and refusing all his invitations, this one Me couldn’t duck. An order from Ronnie Davis, the British coach, to start her training again in preparation for the Olympics. The whole British women’s team to meet in Kent at the weekend. And Ronnie, bless his cockney heart, had heard Jack was in town.

‘Don’t tell her I’m turning up.’ Jack grinned as he remembered his own words. ‘It’ll be good to see all the girls again, but let’s keep it a surprise.’

Elizabeth tried to get her brain in gear. Skiing. The Olympics. It was important, she had to focus on it. A weekend at base camp. doing fitness routines and studying videos would be a good warm-up to the new training season, but it was hard to fight the ense of failure that swamped her.

Life at Dragon had proved to be one big disappointment. She was sure her ideas for ad campaigns were good ones, but Nina Roth was having none of them. And nobody was going to listen to her over Nina, that robotic cow. Nina, with her years of experience and her

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in-at-seven ferocious energy. Whatever Nina was up to, in that search for a new drug, she was given total backing from everyone who mattered. With her severe suits and her humour bypass, everyone took the New Yorker seriously. Especially darling Daddy.

Constant failure had worn Elizabeth down. She stopped presenting new ideas to Nina, and contented herself with reading company reports and typing market research. At least there was enough of that to keep her looking busy, and she’d learned more than she ever wanted to know about the pharmaceutical marketplace in the UK. Which hospitals bought what, which new pills were in development. Maybe it would be valuable knowledge - if they let her do anything with it.

‘ Elizabeth’s blonde hair whipped back under her Scotch House scarf as she emerged out of the Leicester Square Tube. The cinemas flashed ads for the big Christmas movies - Raiders of the Lost Ark, On Golden Pond. Tinned carols bled out of tourist-shop windows and mixed with pop music from a breakdancer’s transistor. It Was freezing. She bought some chestnuts from a brazier stall to try and jolly herself out of it. What was Hans Wolf doing at this moment? Sipping Gliibwein by the lake in Lausanne? Waiting for her to come back, in January, ready to forget playing shop and get on with her real job?

That was how everybody else saw it. Certainly Nina. And certainly her noble papa. Elizabeth never even thought about complaining to him. Hand Tony that satisfaction? She’d rather die. He thought the sun shone out of Nina Roth’s backside. He was happy to give her all the chances of real work, real satisfaction, he’d always denied his own daughter.

Elizabeth strode briskly through the crowds down to Charing Cross. Tunbridge Wells, great. Home of rich dowagers and the biggest drugs problem outside of

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Glasgow. Plus dry-skiing slopes. As if! It was like asking Picasso to practise on a painting-by-numbers book. Oh well, maybe they were all right. Maybe she should just try and ski.

Jack Taylor had called this morning. Again. And she’d blanked him, again. It didn’t help to see that arrogant bastard doing so well, his every triumph reported lovingly in Dempster’s diary, his social exploits pictured in Tatler for the last couple of months. When she really didn’t need to feel any lower, there Jack was, staring out at her, his muscled arm slipped round some bland blonde: Violet Tomlins at the Royal Ballet do, Ursula Fane-Harvey at the Waldegraves’ party, even Vanessa Chadwick, her old schoolmate from Switzerland. God, to think she’d nearly fallen for him!

Elizabeth scurried into the station, her Louis Vuitton overnight bag slung across her shoulder, and ducked into W. H. Smith’s to pick up some reading for the journey. Nothing about fucking business. A Jilly Cooper and a Standard, that should do it. Her train was already at the platform and she secreted herself in first-class, ready to

try and relax with a KitKat and the paper.

She opened it at the sports pages.

There was a picture of Jack, his warm smile beaming brightly at her through the muddy newsprint. He had his hand on the neck of a young horse, a magnificent-looking colt. The caption called it ‘Another score for Taylor Stud.’ Jack had named the beast Easy Money. Elizabeth flung the paper into the luggage rack.

The Alpine Hotel was primed for their arrival. A twee, purpose-built affair on the outskirts of town, it overlooked the distinctly non-Alpine dry-ski slope and was decorated with Holiday Inn-style mountains, pigtailed Heidis and cuckoo clocks. A giant Christmas tree in the lobby fought for attention over the huge display of’

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banners and balloons welcoming ‘Our Lovely Olympic Hopefuls’. Elizabeth signed in, furiously embarrassed, under a huge poster of herself, as the hotel manager fussed over her.

‘Mr Davis has left a message in your ladyship’s suite. Let me get a porter for your bags.’

‘There’s just the one. I can manage,’ Elizabeth muttered, lifting her small bag.

‘No, really, my lady—’

‘Honestly, it’s good for me. The exercise,’ Elizabeth pleaded, scribbling an autograph and escaping to the lifts.

Her ‘suite’ was two rooms done up in tasteless pink and grey, with noisy air-conditioning that she knew would dry out her skin. Her spirits perked up for a moment as she noticed a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and moved to pick it up, but the cork had been popped and it was empty. A small note was tucked under the neck: ‘You won’t be needing this. Or the chocolates, which I threw away. Meet us in the gym at six thirty.’ It was signed Ronnie Davis.

Elizabeth flopped down on the bed. She wouldn’t even have time to clean up. The mirror opposite showed a cross, red-eyed young woman with hair that needed a wash and skin that needed some sleep. In her futile efforts to make a dent at Dragon she’d let the gym work slide, and now she was unfit, out of condition and muscularly weak. She was tired and she looked dreadful.

‘Welcome back,’ she said aloud.

The gym was reserved for the team. Elizabeth could hear Ronnie’s trademark growl as she arrived, in a sports bra and Lycra leggings over Adidas cross-trainers. No point trying to hide in baggy jog-pants, Ron would see right through that.

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‘Fucking ‘ell, Karen, is that the best you can do? Pick it up, girl, gawd almighty …’

Elizabeth stuck her head through the door. Poor Karen, Janet and Kate were racing around a circular track, sweating bullets. Tinny music, Adam and the Ants, was drifting out of a portable radio. It was no competition for the strident voice of her coach, yelling scornfully as his athletes completed their endurance tests. A group of men in BSF tracksuits lounged at the side of the track but Elizabeth didn’t look at them. She was staring horrified at her teammates. Ron didn’t think any of them were up to it, and all three of them looked way, way fitter than she was.