Oriental Hotel Page 2

  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.

  ‘You’re right, Katy. You need that; we all do.’

  But since Katy had left, how she had missed her! For eighteen years she had never been more than a short car ride away. Home had been the manor house in the fold of the Cotswolds where Geraldine kept a string of ponies and gave lessons to local children and visitors alike; and boarding school had been close enough for her to come home at weekends – despite being so involved with her horses, Geraldine had insisted on that. And there had been no question of university or finishing school. Katy, never an academic child, had been too bored by studying to want to prolong the agony even if she had achieved sufficiently good grades to obtain a place at college. As for finishing school, Geraldine had hated every moment she had spent in the exclusive establishment on the shores of Lake Geneva and had vowed Katy should never be subjected to the same torture. Privately Elise thought Katy would have enjoyed it, but remembering how she had resented any interference with the upbringing of her own children, she had kept her opinions to herself.

  The gossamer bond between them, however, meant that it was usually Elise to whom Katy turned when she wanted advice. And Elise had been the first to be told when Katy was offered the position at the London gallery.

  ‘I know I didn’t exactly excel myself at school, but this is something I really can do,’ Katy had said, excitement shining out of her like diffused sunshine. ‘I have always had an eye for lovely things.’

  ‘You have had the advantage of being brought up in a home where you’ve been surrounded by them,’ Elise had agreed. ‘But there will be more to it than that, Katy. There will be plenty to learn if you’re to be an asset to a gallery.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t mind learning things I’m interested in,’ Katy had told her confidently. Elise had smiled at her enthusiasm, glad she
was able to begin building a future for herself doing something she loved.

  David, Katy’s father, had not been so pleased, as Elise knew. Katy’s failure to gain formal qualifications had disappointed him, but even so he had been keen for her to join the business in some capacity or other and Elise had been favourably surprised that he had failed to persuade her. Katy adored her father – since she was a small child she had constantly gone out of her way to merit his approval. Elise could well remember how when Katy was nine years old she had persevered week after endless week with violin lessons, though it was obvious to everyone but David that she would never make a musician, and she could recall all too clearly the anxiety on the child’s face when she brought home a school report which she knew would be less than complimentary.

  But with regard to her future, Katy had remained deaf to her father’s wishes and had stubbornly stuck to her decision to make her career in the field where her interest lay.

  She had been in London for a year now, and still her enthusiasm had not waned. Whereas she had been reluctant to learn from formal lessons, she soaked up knowledge of art like a sponge and already was almost indispensable to Murray Trent, the gallery which employed her. But she still managed to find plenty of time for having fun – her name was often in the gossip columns and Elise guessed that the rich and famous clients of the gallery were very much taken with her gaiety and charm.

  ‘I’m prejudiced, of course,’ Elise said to herself with a smile. ‘ I’m so proud of her it almost makes me ashamed.’

  She lifted the newspaper, casting her eye over the report that accompanied the photograph:

  The delicious Katrina Fletcher, who combines a career in arts and antiques with a hectic social calendar, is often to be seen these days with Gunther Dietrich, head of the German electronics firm. Katrina’s father, David Fletcher, and her uncle Alex Sanderson have repeatedly denied rumours that the family firm of Sanderson International is in financial difficulties, but the close companionship of Katrina with 54-year-old Dietrich has added fuel to the suspicions of those who anticipate a take-over.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I mix business with pleasure?’ Dietrich said, smiling broadly, when interviewed last night at Annabel’s. And from the closeness of his contact with the luscious Katrina – or Katy, as she is known to her family – I suspect the pleasure is very potent indeed.

  As she read, a frown creased Elise’s forehead. These gossip columnists were impossible! They printed the most outrageous rubbish, and all in such a way that libel actions were hardly worthwhile. Often she had fumed over them, and sometimes had managed to force them into a retraction, but generally it was as well to keep quiet and let the gossip-mongering blow over. After all, everyone knew that their so-called scoops should be taken with a large pinch of the proverbial salt. And this was as ridiculous a piece of speculation as she had read in a long while. They were virtually saying that Sandersons was on the brink of ruin and Katy was selling herself to this Gunther Dietrich in order to save it. The sheerest rubbish, and yet …

  Elise tensed suddenly as she remembered the doubts which had niggled at her as she read her Sanderson files. She had had an indescribable, almost intuitive feeling that something was amiss. And now here was a gossip columnist suggesting that the company was in trouble. Apart from the minor hiccups which occurred from time to time in the most stable businesses, Sandersons had always been rock solid – the last organisation to have such rumours spread about it. Was it possible that the impossible had happened – that Sandersons was in danger and she knew nothing about it?

  For a second she sat motionless, biting her lip. Then, with a quick decisive movement, she folded the offending newspaper and stood up. If there was any truth whatever in the rumour, she wanted to know. How did they think they could keep it from her? For more than forty years she had been a Sanderson – Gordon, her husband, had founded the company with the flair and determination which had been typical of him where business was concerned. And since his death she felt she had almost become Sandersons. In that strange, disorientated period when her world had fragmented, she had found herself wondering not only what she had lost but who she had become. And in the void the answer had come to her: she was Sandersons. As a young bride she had willingly joined her life to Gordon’s and by the same token to that of the company. Nothing had happened afterwards to change that. If anything, the events which had almost torn her to pieces during the war years had only strengthened the bond. Sandersons had given her something to cling to then; with Gordon dead, it would do so again. Her life, her whole existence was so entwined with Sandersons that there was no way she could exist without it now. And if Sandersons was in danger, she had to know.

  Leaving the sunlit garden, she walked along the side of the house, her feet scrunching on the gravelled path. The French windows in the drawing room had been thrown open to the warmth of the afternoon; she went through them and into the cool green and cream room beyond without a thought for the elegance which she had planned and executed and which was her pride and joy.

  Homes and Gardens had featured this room, with its hand-painted wallpaper, curved window-seats and crystal teardrop chandeliers. The curtains of richest velvet fell in soft folds to the highly polished floor; a priceless Chinese carpet covered the centre of the room. The furniture Elise had chosen with taste and imagination – deep green velvet and carved mahagony inlaid with green, a Louis XV secretaire, a Chippendale chair, lamps which cast pools of light when they were lit to illuminate exquisite carvings in ivory and jade, a silver Victorian cigarette box, a pair of delicate Derby porcelains. On an octagonal table stood an intricately executed Chinese bronze urn, shaped like a dragon, which was precious to Elise for countless reaons. Often she came into the room for no other purpose than to look at it and touch its exotic perfection. But today she passed it without so much as a second glance, making her way through to the airy hall – made light and bright by the cupola above the stair-head – and across to the study beyond.

  The door to the study was closed as always, making it a private place in the otherwise open and welcoming house. It was dim inside, for in summer the sun was unable to penetrate the thick foliage of the trees outside the window, and there was a feeling of solid familiarity in the heavy old furniture and the cream walls which were bare except for framed antique maps. This was a masculine room, unchanged since it had been Gordon’s retreat. Elise had redecorated but not redesigned it, so that the study had retained a feeling of Gordon’s authority. The curtains were the same tobacco brown, the carpet the wiry mustard he had favoured, and on the desk the telephone was the same solid black instrument which had been there for fifty years.

  When an ultra-modern telephone system – with dialling at a touch and a memory for retaining frequently-used numbers – had been installed in the company’s new London office block, Alex had suggested the telephones at Durscombe Park should be brought into line. But Elise stubbornly retained the original instrument. She liked a telephone which looked and sounded like a telephone, she insisted. And on occasions such as this, there was undoubtedly comfort to be gained from the feel of the solid black bakelite between her slightly trembling hands.

  She leaned against the desk to steady herself as she dialled, then manoeuvred into the enveloping leather of Gordon’s chair as she listened to the ringing tone at the other end of the line.

  ‘Sanderson International – can I help you?’ came the operator’s voice. Elsie gave the extension number and after a moment another female voice answered.

  ‘Mr Sanderson’s office.’

  ‘May I speak to Mr Sanderson?’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. May I take a message?’

  ‘How long do you expect him to be?’

  ‘I couldn’t say; another hour, perhaps. May I tell him who called?’

  ‘Mrs Sanderson senior.’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Sanderson.’ Immediately the slightly off-hand voice became more deferential. ‘ I’m sorry, I really don�
��t know how long he will be. He has Mr Keith with him.’

  The accountant – a pinprick of cold-twisted within Elise.

  ‘I see. Do you happen to know if Mr Fletcher is meeting with them too?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact …’

  Was she imagining the slight awkwardness in the secretary’s tone, Elise wondered, or was it another sign of trouble – did the girl know something she herself did not? And did she also know that at this moment Mrs Sanderson senior was very much in the dark?

  ‘Thank you,’ Elise said, her cool tone concealing the rising feeling of anxiety. ‘Perhaps I will speak to one or the other of them later.’

  She disconnected the line without replacing the receiver and immediately dialled again. This time the telephone seemed to ring interminably and the voice which eventually answered was breathless and slightly impatient.

  ‘Hello? Camberfield.’

  ‘Geraldine – it’s me.’

  ‘Mother! This is an unusual time of day for you to ring!’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  A pause: Elise pictured Geraldine tucking stray ends of hair into the bun beneath her riding hat. Sometimes she doubted if Geraldine ever wore anything other than denim jeans or riding clothes – the tight-fitting beige breeches that flattered her firm thighs and narrow hips, a checked cotton shirt, shining black boots and, in winter, the heavy-duty mackintosh which always reminded Elise of an Army trench-coat.