Folly's Child (4 page)

‘Mummy, why don't I look like Paula?' she had asked, staring wretchedly at her five-year-old reflection in the mirror, but her mother, herself slightly bemused by the young beauty she had produced, had been unable to give her any satisfactory answer.

As the girls had grown older things had not improved. No matter how hard she tried to make the most of herself Sally had always been aware that she could not hope to rival Paula and the knowledge had damaged her self-confidence so that she always lived with the feeling that people on meeting her for the first time would exclaim behind her back: ‘
Paula
's sister? That plain little thing? Goodness me, she was in the back row when looks were handed out wasn't she!' The fact that very few other girls she knew could hold a candle to Paula did not help much either. They didn't have to live with this goddess, they didn't have to compete with the legend.

In spite of this, Sally had adored Paula. When other girls, jealous of her looks and the doors they opened for her, jealous especially of the way the boys flocked after her, made spiteful remarks, Sally had always been her fiercest champion. No one had wanted to believe that Paula's beauty went right through her more than Sally did for she was a shining golden idol as well as a sister and it had been a shock to Sally when she had at last been forced to concede, in private at least, that the other girls might have been right in the accusations they made.

Sally stood up, letting the towel drop and shrugging on a silk wrap. It clung slightly to her still-damp skin and again she surveyed her image in the mirror, this time full-length. Years of dieting and exercise had banished that slight stodginess for ever; now her body looked lithe and firm, yet still blessed with more curves than Paula's had ever been, as much a denial of her years as her face. In some ways those days when she had lived in Paula's shadow seemed a very long time ago, in others they might have been just yesterday. She had never been able to equal her sister's matchless beauty, she knew, but at least she presented the world with a fair imitation of it. And she had everything she had ever dreamed of – more. This house on Central Park South, a ranch in Colorado, a home in Montego Bay, a private jet at her disposal, the wherewithal to buy anything which took her fancy. Not bad for a girl who had grown up on a council estate.

Most important of all, she was married to the man who had been Paula's husband. It was the final proof that perhaps, after all, she had not been as inferior to her sister as she had imagined.

Only one shadow lay over Sally's life, a secret shadow that none of the luxuries she enjoyed could quite banish. For a moment it hovered over her thoughts then, with an ease born of long practice, she pushed it away and went into her dressing room. Tonight she and Hugo were dining with an important senator who generally included show business personalities among his guests and she had not yet decided what to wear. She crossed to one of the racks which lined the watered silk walls, her feet sinking into the deep cream carpet, and took out a black gown, holding it against her. The neck was high and round, the sleeves decorously straight to the wrists. But at the back the bodice was slit from collar to midriff and the skirt was daringly short. Worn with her Van Cleef diamond earbobs and bracelet it would look quite stunning. Yes, she thought she would wear the black – or perhaps the strawberry crushed velvet …

The sound of someone entering her bedroom, which lay beyond the dressing room, made Sally turn, still holding the dress against her and frowning with annoyance. She had instructed the maids not to disturb her for she valued her privacy and having staff constantly on hand was one of the things she had found most difficult to become accustomed to. Very nice to be able to step out of used underwear and know it would be laundered and returned to its drawer pressed and scented, even better never to have to worry about clearing a table or washing up, but nevertheless there was something vaguely disconcerting about maids who went silently, sneakily about their duties under her very nose.

‘Who is it?' she called a little sharply.

The door to the dressing room opened and to her surprise she saw that it was Hugo. Her eyebrows, which she darkened artificially so that they no longer merged into her skin, lifted slightly. She had not expected him home for at least another hour. At this time of day he was usually still at his office in the 550 building on Seventh Avenue.

‘Hugo!' she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing home so early?'

He came into the dressing room and closed the door, a middle-aged man of medium height wearing a grey suit with a white rollneck shirt. Then as he turned towards her the overhead lights that she had switched on to look through her dresses shone directly onto his face and she noticed how pale and drawn he looked, lines that were usually unnoticeable etched between nose and mouth, eyes almost feverishly bright.

‘Are you all right?' she asked. ‘You're not ill?'

He did not answer, just stood there looking at her as if trying to make up his mind how to begin.

‘Hugo!' She took an anxious step towards him.

‘Greg Martin is alive,' he said.

His words stopped her in her tracks. ‘ What did you say?'

‘Greg Martin is alive. He's been living in Australia. He didn't die on the
Lorelei
. The whole damned thing must have been a fake.'

‘Oh my God,' Sally said.

‘I know. I couldn't believe it either. But I've had the story checked out, Sally. There is no doubt it's true. I had to come home and tell you immediately. Because you realise what it means, don't you? If Greg is alive then the chances are Paula is alive too.'

‘Oh my God,' she said again.

The room seemed to have gone dark, as if someone had turned off the lights, and she wondered if she might be going to faint. She stood frozen, still clutching the black dress against herself, looking at her husband and seeing only her world crumbling around her.

She had always known this moment would come one day. Now it had arrived and still Sally knew she was no more prepared for it than she had ever been.

It had begun to snow in London. The first great white flakes had melted on the pavements, now it was falling thicker and faster, building up on the window ledges and in the cricks and crannies, turning to slush on the roads as the traffic churned through it.

In her small workroom on the top floor of a crumbling old warehouse in Whitechapel Theresa Arnold shivered and turned on another bar of her portable gas fire. She couldn't really afford it and when she needed a new cylinder it had to be humped up three flights of stairs, always a nuisance for which she had to enlist the help of one of her boyfriends, but when she got cold Theresa's fingers turned numb, white, bloodless lumps that no longer seemed to belong to her hands. Then she could not work properly and it was imperative she worked or her new collection would never be ready on time.

Theresa rubbed her hands together to bring some life back into them and bent over the sheets of paper laid out on her work table, trying to forget the cold and concentrate on her designs. They had to be good – not just good but sensational – or she would let everyone down, all those who believed in her – her small workforce of pattern cutters and outworkers, the friends from art school who dropped in to lend their help and support, and most of all her mother, who had put her house up as collateral for the bank loan that had set her up and enabled her to get started.

Theresa sighed, the cold depressing her and quenching her usual defiant optimism. How easy it had all seemed then – how exciting! When she had graduated from the School of Fashion she had sold her entire degree collection to Lady Jane, a small but exclusive West End boutique, who had greeted her designs with such enthusiasm that she had believed the world was her oyster and everything was about to
happen
for her. Riding on a high she had decided to set herself up as an independent designer. But it was all so much more difficult than she had ever imagined it would be. Perhaps, she thought it was because Mark had been there at the planning stage – Mark Bristow, the dynamic young advertising executive she had met and fallen in love with when she had been chasing jobs in the heart of Somerset; Mark who, in spite of being English, had lived long enough in the States to absorb – and give off – some of the typically American blend of enthusiasm and energy. He had encouraged and praised her, bullied her a little when she needed bullying, and given her the love and support that had made her feel, even in the darkest moments of self-doubt, that she could rise above all the problems and emerge triumphant. It was Mark who had persuaded her to approach the bank for a loan, Mark who had suggested her old friend Linda George, who had graduated in business studies at the same time that Theresa had finished her fashion degree, should join forces with her to organise the commercial side, Mark who had given her enough confidence in herself for her to allow her mother to put up her house as security – something Theresa had fought against even whilst realising there was no other way to secure the loan she needed. And above all it was Mark who had made her feel loved and special. ‘I am very proud of you, lady', he had said and she had glowed with happiness and a secret bubbling excitement that came from believing she could conquer the world with her talent.

But now Mark was no longer around. He had gone out of her life suddenly and without explanation and try as she might Theresa simply could not get over losing him. Why – why – why? she had asked herself over and over again, why did it end that way? We were so close – weren't we? We were in love – weren't we? How could I have imagined something like that? But the answers never made sense and the fact remained, whatever she had chosen to believe Mark had simply walked out on her and not bothered to come back. She had begun to accept it now, but there was still a yearning deep inside her, his absence a constant nagging ache in her heart, and her business enterprise seemed to have been affected too, for it was as though some of her confidence had drained away, running down her cheeks with her tears.

With Mark anything had seemed possible. Without him some of the magic had gone from her life and the dullness encroached into her work, no matter how she tried to compartmentalise it. Now the problems were paramount. A number of shops and boutiques had shown an interest in her clothes but she still had to produce them, innovative yet saleable, not too expensive for the market but of a good quality. In many ways it was a vicious circle – everything cost so much more if one couldn't produce in bulk, but to produce in bulk one needed capital – and plenty of outlets. And always she was haunted by the knowledge that if she failed her mother would lose her home.

What she needed desperately, of course, was a backer – someone to put up enough money to make her financially secure while she created. But as yet no genie had materialised, no matter how hard she metaphorically rubbed the magic lamp. Linda was working on that one too. Let's hope she comes up with something pretty soon; Theresa thought. If she doesn't I don't know how much longer I can carry on.

The sound of footsteps on the rickety staircase leading to her workroom made Theresa look up from her drawings, a small ray of hope that refused to be extinguished flickering to life. Somehow she could never hear disembodied footsteps on the stairs without wondering fleetingly if it might be Mark returning as unexpectedly as he had left. Then, a moment later the hope died as tall young man dressed in an aged reefer coat and brown leather cap appeared in the doorway.

‘Weasel! Hi!' she said, smiling a greeting which she hoped concealed her disappointment. ‘What are you doing here?'

It was not a question requiring an answer – Weasel was a good friend from art school days and often dropped in unannounced.

‘Shit, it's cold in here, Terri,' he said now, stamping is feet in their Doc Martens. His breath puffed out like white smoke.

‘You don't have to tell me that!' she snorted. ‘Put the kettle on if you want a coffee.'

‘Oh, I want a coffee, all right, and so do you – but not here. Come on, I'm taking you to that little café down the road – what's it called now?'

‘Mario's – I think. It's always changing its name. But I can't stop to go out for coffee. I've got far too much to do. We can't all be gentlemen of leisure like you, living off the social.'

‘Less cheek if you don't mind! One day someone will appreciate my sculptures, you'll see. In the meantime I intend to stay healthy enough to enjoy success when it comes and you'd be wise to do the same.'

‘But I have to get these done.'

‘You never will if you catch pneumonia. Come on, get your coat – or are you already wearing it? You're coming with me and I'm not taking no for an answer.'

‘All right, stop bullying.' Theresa reached for her thick knitted shawl and knotted it around her shoulders – as Weasel had observed, she was already wearing her jacket in an effort to keep warm. She turned off the gas fire – must save the Calor gas! – and the lights and followed him out onto the landing, locking the door behind her.

‘Things no better, I assume,' Weasel said as they tramped down th stairs, deftly avoiding those treads which had rotted.

‘Fraid not.'

‘Mind this patch, it's slippery,' Weasel warned as he traversed a landing where snow had drifted in through a broken skylight.

‘I know, I know. I just wish they hadn't boarded up the windows. It makes the staircase so dark.'

Weasel reached the bottom and pushed open the door to street level.

‘What you need, Miss Top Designer 1991, is a decent place to work from.'

She grimaced. ‘What I need is a miracle.'

In the gutter a copy of the morning's newspaper lay discarded, snow and slush turning it to pulp and partially obscuring the headline FINANCIER RETURNS FROM THE DEAD.