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‘That’s right. They’re having to sell assets.’
Amos’s tone held a significance that made Marcel ask, ‘Any asset in particular?’
‘The Alton Hotel. It was bought with the idea of development but the money ran out and it’s ripe for takeover at a knock-down price.’
He quoted a figure and Marcel’s eyebrows rose. ‘As little as that?’
‘It’s possible, if someone with a certain amount of influence twisted the screw on Daneworth so that the sale became more urgent.’
‘You don’t happen to know anyone with that kind of influence?’ Marcel asked satirically.
‘I might. How long will you be in England?’ ‘Long enough to look around.’
‘Excellent.’ Amos made a noise that sounded like ‘Hrmph!’ adding, ‘It’s good to know I have one son I can be proud of.’
‘Are you still mad at Darius because he gave his wife too generous a deal over the divorce? I thought you liked Mary. You’ve come to her wedding.’
‘I won’t quarrel with the mother of my only grandchildren. But sense is sense, and he hasn’t shown any. Do you know anything about the girl he’s bringing with him today?’
‘I saw them arrive. She looks attractive and pleasant. I’m going to visit them in a minute.’
‘While you’re there take a good look at her. See if Darius is falling into her trap.’
‘Thus spoiling your scheme to marry him to Freya?’ Marcel said ironically.
‘I’d like to have Freya as my daughter-in-law, I make no secret of it. And if Darius won’t come up to the mark—’
‘Forget it,’ Marcel interrupted him.
‘Why should I? It’s time you were putting down roots.’
‘There are plenty of others to do that.’
Amos snorted. ‘Five sons! Five! You’d think more than one of you would have settled down by now.’
But Amos himself was hardly an advertisement for domesticity, Marcel thought cynically. Of the five sons, only two had been born to the woman he’d been married to at the time. His own mother hadn’t married Amos until several years after his birth. Travis and Leonid were bastards and proud of it. But he didn’t want to quarrel with his father, so he merely shrugged and rose to go.
‘Tell Janine and Freya I’ll be up as soon as I’ve been to see Darius,’ he said.
As he approached his brother’s room he was barely conscious of adjusting his mask. He donned it so often that it was second nature by now, even with a brother with whom he was on cordial terms. When he arrived his charming smile was firmly in place.
The door was already open, giving him a clear view of a pretty young woman, done up in a glamorous style, and Darius regarding her with admiration, his hands on her shoulders.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ he asked.
‘Marcel!’ Darius advanced to thump his brother with delight, after which he turned and introduced his companion as Harriet.
‘You’ve been keeping this lady a big secret,’ Marcel said, regarding her with admiration. ‘And I understand why. If she were mine I would also hide her away from the world.’
His father was in for a shock, he reckoned. Harriet was definitely a threat to his plans for Darius’s next wife.
He chatted with her for a few moments, flirting, but not beyond brotherly limits.
‘So Darius has warned you about the family,’ he said at last, ‘and you know we’re a load of oddities.’
‘I’ll bet you’re no odder than me,’ she teased.
‘I’ll take you up on that. Promise me a dance tonight.’
‘She declines,’ Darius said firmly.
Marcel chuckled and murmured in Harriet’s ear, ‘We’ll meet again later.’
After a little more sparring, he blew her a kiss and departed, heading for his father’s suite. He greeted his stepmother cordially but he couldn’t help looking over her shoulder at the window, through which he could see the building Amos had pointed out to him.
Daneworth Estates. Assets ripe for an offer. Interesting.
In an office on the tenth floor of a bleakly efficient building overlooking the River Thames, Mr Smith, the manager of Daneworth Estates, examined some papers and groaned before raising his voice to call, ‘Mrs Henshaw, can you bring the other files in, please?’
He turned back to his client, a middle-aged man, saying, ‘She’ll have all the details. Don’t worry.’
He glanced up as a young woman appeared in the doorway and advanced with the files.
‘I’ve made notes,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find I’ve covered everything.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ he replied.
The client regarded her with distaste. She was exactly the kind of woman he most disliked, the kind who could have looked better if she’d bothered to make the best of herself. She had the advantage of being tall and slim, with fair hair and regular features. But she scraped her hair back, dressed severely, and concealed her face behind a pair of large steel-rimmed spectacles.
‘It’s nearly six o’clock,’ she said.
Mr Smith nodded. ‘Yes, you can go.’
She gave the client a faint nod and left the office. He shivered. ‘She terrifies me,’ he admitted.
‘Me too, sometimes,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘But if there’s one person whose efficiency I can rely on it’s Mrs Henshaw.’
‘It always sounds odd to me the way you call her “Mrs”. Why not just Jane?’
‘She prefers it. Familiarity is something she discourages.’
‘But you’re her boss.’
‘Sometimes I wonder which of us is the boss. I hesitate between valuing her skills and wanting to get rid of her.’ ‘She reminds me of a robot.’
‘She certainly doesn’t have any “come hither” about her,’ the manager agreed. ‘You’d never think she’d once been a fashion model.’
‘Get away!’
‘Really. She was called “Cassie” and for a couple of years she was headed for the very top. Then it all ended. I’m not sure why.’
‘She could still look good if she tried,’ the client observed. ‘Why scrape her hair back against her skull like a prison wardress? And when did you last see a woman who didn’t bother with make-up?’
‘Can’t think! Now, back to business. How do I avoid going bankrupt and taking your firm down with me?’
‘Can’t think!’ the client echoed gloomily.
Neither of them gave a further thought to Mrs Henshaw on the far side of the door. She heard their disparaging comments and shrugged.
‘Blimey!’ said the other young woman in the room. ‘How do you stand them being so rude about you?’
Her name was Bertha. She was nineteen, naïve, friendly and a reasonably good secretary.
‘I ignore it,’ Mrs Henshaw said firmly.
‘But who was that Cassie they keep on about? The gorgeous model.’
‘No idea. She was nothing to do with me, I know that.’ ‘But they said it was you.’
‘They were wrong.’ Mrs Henshaw turned to look at Bertha with a face that was blank and lifeless. ‘Frankly,’ she said, ‘Cassie never really existed. Now hurry off home.’
The last words had an edge of desperation. She urgently needed to be alone to think about everything that was happening. She knew the company was in dire straits, and it would soon be time to move on.
But to what? Her life seemed to stretch before her, blank, empty. Just as it had done for the last ten years.
The days when she could afford a car were over, and she took a bus to the small block of apartments where she lived in a few rooms one floor up. Here everything was neat, restrained, unrevealing. A nun might have lived in this place.
Tonight was no different from any other night, she assured herself. The name Cassie, suddenly screaming out of the darkness, had thrown the world into chaos, but she’d recovered fast. Cassie was another life, another universe. Cassie’s heart had been broken. Mrs Henshaw had no heart to break.
She stayed up late studying papers, understanding secrets about the firm that were supposed to be hidden. Soon there would have to be decisions but now she was too weary in her soul to think about them.
She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but it wasn’t a peaceful sleep. The dreams she’d dreaded were waiting to pounce. There was Cassie, gloriously naked, madly in love, throwing herself into the arms of the handsome boy who’d worshipped her. There were his eyes, gazing at her with adoration, but then with hate.
‘I loved you—I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’
In sleep she reached out her hands to him, crying, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’ ‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’
She screamed and awoke to find herself thrashing around in bed, throwing her head from side to side.
‘No,’ she cried. ‘It isn’t true. No, no, no!’
Then she was sitting up, staring into the darkness, heaving violently.
‘Leave me alone,’ she begged. ‘Leave me alone.’
Wearily she got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. A shambling wreck of a woman looked back at her from the mirror. Now the severe barriers of the day were gone, leaving no trace of the steely ‘prison wardress’. The tense stillness of her face was replaced by violent emotion that threatened to overwhelm and destroy her. Her hair, no longer scraped back, flowed over her shoulders, giving her a cruel resemblance to Cassie, the beautiful girl who had lived long ago. That girl had vanished into the mists, but suddenly her likeness taunted Mrs Henshaw from the mirror. Tears streamed from her eyes and she covered them with her hands, seeking oblivion.
‘No,’ she wept. ‘No!’
But it was too late to say no. Years too late.
CHAPTER TWO
‘I JUST hope I don’t regret this,’ Mr Smith said heavily. ‘The Alton Hotel is worth twice what he’s offering, but it’s still the best offer we’ve had.’
Mrs Henshaw was frowning as she studied the figures. ‘Surely you can drive him up a little?’
‘I tried to but he just said “Take it or leave it.” So I took it. We have to sell off properties fast, before we go under.’
‘Is that your way of telling me to find another job?’
‘Yes, but I may be able to help you. I’ve told him you’ll meet him to discuss details. Marcel needs an assistant with local knowledge, so I’m sure you can impress him. Why are you looking like that?’
‘Nothing—nothing—what did you say his name was?’
‘Marcel Falcon. He’s one of Amos Falcon’s sons.’
She relaxed, telling herself to be sensible. The Marcel she had known had been Marcel Degrande, and obviously no connection with this man. It was absurd to be still reacting to the name after so long.
‘Play your cards right and you’ll come out on top,’ Mr Smith advised.
‘When do I go?’
‘Right now. He’s staying at the Gloriana Hotel, and he’s expecting you there in half an hour.’
‘Half a—? What? But that doesn’t give me time to research the background or the man—’
‘You’ll have to play it by ear. And these papers—’ he thrust some at her ‘—will give you the details of his offer. Yes, I know we don’t usually do it like this, but things are moving fast and the sooner we get the money the better.’
She took a taxi and spent the journey memorising facts and figures, wishing she’d had time to do some online research. She’d heard of Amos Falcon, whose financial tentacles seemed to stretch halfway across the world, but it would have been useful to check his son out too.
Never mind, she thought. A heavy evening’s work lay ahead of her, and she would tackle it with the meticulous efficiency that now ruled her whole life.
At last she entered the Gloriana and approached the reception desk. ‘Please tell Mr Falcon that Mrs Jane Henshaw is here.’
‘He’s over there, madam.’
Turning, she saw the entrance door to the bar and just inside, a man sitting at a table. At that moment he turned his head, revealing just enough of his face to leave her stunned.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No … no …’
The world went into chaos, thundering to a halt, yet still whirling mysteriously about her.
Marcel. Older, a little heavier, yet still the man whose love had been the glorious triumph of her life, and whose loss had brought her close to destruction. What malign chance had made their paths cross again?
She took a step back, then another, moving towards the door, desperate to escape before he saw her. She managed to get into the hotel garden where there was a small café, and sat down. She was shaking too violently to leave now. She must stay here for a while.
If only he hadn’t seen her.
