Peach (46 page)

“Teach me what to do.” Noel leaned back against the plaid rug and Claire curled into the crook of his arm, tucking her bare feet under her.

“It’s not just talent and hard work, Noel. There’s already an excess of talent in this city. And a hell of a lot of ambition. What you have to learn is how to climb the corporate ladder. I know, I watched Lance do it.”

“No doubt it came easy to him,” commented Noel moodily, “the right background, the right schools …”

“Noel! This is a
tough town. Numbers
are all that matter. If you went to the right schools and don’t make your numbers, you’re out.” Claire lit a cigarette exhaling a thin spiral of blue smoke. Reaching across to the table she put on her glasses.

“Don’t do that,” said Noel suddenly, “it makes you look dressed. As though you’re about to leave.”

Claire was wrapped in his robe with nothing on underneath and she laughed. “I need to see you,” she said firmly, “and you know I can’t see more than six inches in front of my nose. Now, do you want to hear this or not?”

“Tell me,” said Noel quietly.

“You can’t be the loner, Noel Maddox,” she began, “or be too ‘different’. You have to become a ‘team player’, part of the corporate family. First, you should apply to join every professional automotive and engineering society connected with the industry that you can. Use the company if you need pressure to make them let you in. Paul Lawrence gave you the promotion—he’s rooting for you. Drop his name. And it’s important to make social contacts with other young executives, play golf with them, get yourself invited to their homes. Buy their wives flowers when they have you to dinner, admire their homes and play with their kids.
Learn from them!
” Claire crushed out the cigarette in the yellow Ricard ashtray—the only thing in the room that she really liked. Noel was leaning back against the sofa, his eyes closed.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“And you have to start thinking ‘short-term’,” she said.

“What do you mean?” His eyes flew open and he stared at her puzzled.

“You understand that it’s all a game of
numbers
,” she
said. “All executives are under pressure to achieve their goals or quotas set by the top management. The men whose feet are climbing the ladder are not the ones who’ve planned a campaign to revolutionise the company five years from now. Success depends on
today’s
goals being achieved. And those young executives who are today’s successes will be wooed by other companies offering them a better job. They’re not interested in the man who just
shows promise
. You told me yourself that Paul Lawrence gave you the division manager job because of what you had achieved. Fast turn-around, quick concepts, immediate action … You’ve got to keep moving, Noel, you can’t brood over being turned down on an idea even though you know it’s good—and even if you are proved right. It’s like Monopoly. If you pass ‘Go’ today you are rewarded with money and another chance to go round the board. To get more you just keep on passing ‘Go’.”

Claire sat back and took off her glasses. “Take it or leave it,” she said, watching him, “but that’s the truth. That’s the way it’s played, Noel.”

She peered at him near-sightedly. He was frowning, staring at the view of Detroit outside his windows.

“Will you come to my party?” she asked.

Noel looked at her, his grey eyes unreadable. “I’ll come,” he said.

“Good,” Claire sat back, relieved. “At least it’s a start.”

Noel had driven through the pretty suburb many times, cruising slowly through its quiet streets where the spacious houses were set back from the road behind smooth green lawns. Bloomfield Hills is “Management”, Claire had told him. The next step is Grosse Pointe—that’s where the solid, old money lives—and, when they’ve really made it, the new top management. Every man on the second floor of the executive
tower aspires to reach the fourteenth “power” floor, and every executive wife in Bloomfield Hills aspires to a house in Grosse Pointe. Noel had admired the homes from a distance but they had seemed no part of the life he envisaged for himself. He hadn’t thought beyond the “tower”. Now he looked at them with new eyes. He watched a pretty woman unloading her shopping from a large luxurious station wagon helped by a white-coated maid, and kids riding new bicycles along unlittered sidewalks. There were sleek automobiles in the two-, or even three-car garages and the windows of the big houses were open to the sunshine with their flowered curtains blowing in the breeze. These were your rewards if you played the game well.

He knew where Claire’s house was, he’d driven past it several times on lonely Saturday nights, staring at its lighted windows and imagining her with Lance giving a dinner party and enjoying the company of their friends. Their two children would be upstairs in their pretty rooms—one for each child. Shelves would hold rows of stuffed animals and dolls and maybe they’d be watching television or reading, or perhaps they’d have other kids sleeping over. Claire’s life looked to him like the American dream—the one every man was striving for.

A parking valet in a red jacket came towards him as he pulled into the kerb. The driveway was already packed with cars, solid top-of-the-line vehicles with personalised number plates that showed they belonged to the top brass. Other smart cars lined both sides of the wide street and the valet took Noel’s GL Coupé and drove it to the far end of the street where the less expensive cars were parked.

Straightening his tie nervously, Noel strode up the driveway. The double doors stood wide open and a smiling servant directed him through to the drawing room that ran the length of the house. Beyond its open french windows lay an
acre of green lawns and flower beds. There was a glint of turquoise blue from a swimming pool, sheltered behind a low white brick wall. People were standing around laughing and gossiping and sipping glasses of champagne with orange juice. The tickets had cost twenty-five dollars and had said “barbecue” and one section of the immaculate lawn had been covered with fake grass and a whole bank of barbecues were already blazing under the supervision of four white-jacketed chefs.

Noel saw at once that he was wrongly dressed. All the men wore light pants and linen jackets and their wives wore trim summery cottons. They looked casual yet chic. Feeling conspicuous in his dark business suit he lurked on the patio, looking for Claire.

“There you are,” she said, pushing her spectacles—blue today—down her nose and peering at him over the top. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” muttered Noel.

Claire sighed. “I should have warned you that it would be informal, though people don’t usually wear business suits for a barbecue.”

“Forget it,” snarled Noel, “I’m leaving.”

“Noel! Noel wait. You mustn’t leave.” Her hand rested urgently on his arm and he turned to look at her. “Please Noel. For your own sake,” she said, “stay.”

“Hello there.” The man walking towards them was tall, brown-haired, clean-cut. Noel knew at once that it was Lance, her husband.

“I don’t think we’ve met.” Lance held out his hand, his keen blue eyes assessing Noel. “I’m Lance Anthony.”

“This is Noel Maddox,” said Claire.

“Of course, of course.” Lance shook Noel’s hand warmly. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Noel glanced at him warily.

“On the grapevine. All good things, Noel. Great things in fact. Everyone says you show great promise. I hear you’re one of the up and coming men at GL. Now, let me get you a drink.” He claimed a glass of Bucks Fizz for Noel from a passing waiter. “Sure hope you’re hungry, Noel,” he commented as they walked across the patio together, “there’s a hell of a lot of steak cooking over there. But first let me introduce you to some people.” Putting an arm around Noel’s shoulder, Lance led him towards a group of men standing in the shade of a great oak tree. “I’d like you to meet Noel Maddox,” he said genially, “I expect you’ve heard of him—news travels fast in this town. Noel this is Mort Shively, Stan Masters, Paul Lawrence, who I’m sure you know—and Dick Svenson.”

Noel’s gaze met those of the assembled top brass of America’s motor industry—US Auto, Ford, Great Lakes Motors … My God, he thought, if anyone were to drop a bomb the whole industry would be in a shambles …

Paul Lawrence smiled at him. “Glad to see you took my advice, Noel, and are getting out and relaxing. Noel’s one of our most promising division managers,” he told the others, “but the man’s a workaholic. Gotta get him out on the golf course more, let him relax.”

The talk was of golf and cabins on the lake for fishing and Noel just listened. He couldn’t think of anything to say. After five minutes Lance said, “There’s someone over there you should meet, Noel. He’s your opposite number at Ford.” Introducing them Lance left to check on the barbecue operations and Noel smiled at the man’s wife, asking where they lived and if they had children. He commented on how pleasant it was to be here on such a nice day. “And for such a good cause,” the young wife added.

“Enjoying yourselves?”

Claire was at his elbow, smiling at him, and Noel smiled back, relieved.

“I must introduce Noel to my children,” Claire said, pulling him away. She laughed. “Looks as though you’re finding the small talk hard work,” she said.

“It’s not easy,” admitted Noel.

“Here,” said Claire. “This is Kerry and this is Kim.” They were neat brown-haired preppie children in identical khaki bermuda shorts and pink polo shirts. They smiled at him nicely, the elder one showing an expanse of metal that glittered like railway tracks in the sun. Saying hello politely they skipped off in the direction of the barbecue. “And this is my father,” said Claire, dragging Noel towards a table near the pool. Beneath the umbrella sat a man familiar to anyone in the motor industry. Clive Sanders, former head of US Auto and, it was said, still the power behind the throne—even though he was retired.

“Noel Maddox is one of the up and coming young men in the business, Papa,” said Claire.

“Used to be one of those myself,” said Sanders, smiling and holding out his hand. “Come and sit down over here and tell me all about yourself, Mr. Maddox. I’m always interested to hear a new viewpoint on the same old business.”

Noel spent half an hour chatting to the older man and then it was time for lunch.

“You didn’t tell me you were Clive Sanders’s daughter!” he said accusingly to Claire, clutching a plate with an enormous steak.

“Come and sit down over here,” she replied, guiding him to one of the umbrella-shaded tables that dotted the patio and pool areas. “Why should I have told you?”

“No wonder you knew all about the business.” Noel’s gaze was serious.

“I learned it all from him,” she said simply. “And he knows what he’s talking about. My father’s word still counts for a lot in this town, Noel.”

Noel cut into his steak, watching as the blood followed the knife. It was too rare for his taste.

“That’s why I wanted you to meet him,” she said as Lance appeared with the two girls in tow.

“We need you, Mom,” called Kerry. “Dad’s not sure if the caterers have brought enough ice cream for the pies.”

Left alone, Noel ignored his steak. People were grouped at each other’s tables, talking as they ate. They all seemed to know each other, though the hierarchy was clear even in the seating arrangements. The top brass were on the patio near the house, the lesser executives near the pool. A few children had already changed in the cabana and were sitting on the edge, contemplating a swim.

Steeling himself, Noel picked up his plate and walked across to a neighbouring table. “Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly. “I seem to have been deserted.”

Two hours later, driving home to his black cubic apartment, he re-ran the day’s events in his head. First Claire had shown no embarrassment at all in introducing him to her husband. And Lance was a nice guy, he’d gone out of his way to see that he met influential people—and probably because Claire had asked him to. But Noel had been uncomfortably aware of his role as the “other man”! Paul Lawrence had been genial, too, and the young couples he’d sat with at lunch had accepted him easily as one of them. When he’d left the wives had said, “Oh, but you must come to dinner, Noel, some time soon.” And his talk with Clive Sanders had been interesting—the old man had wanted to know what his views were on the current state of the industry and its aims. Noel had told him, forgetting about keeping his mouth shut and keeping a low profile. Sanders had listened,
nodding in agreement every now and then, or stopping him to interject a question. He’d shaken hands again, firmly, when Noel left, saying it was very good to have met him and to have talked … for whatever it meant.

Back in his apartment Noel took out his old portfolio of drawings and ideas, spreading them across the big new drawing board he’d placed beneath the window. Dreams! he thought staring at them, this aerodynamic concept, that clean de-chromed bumper, this revolutionary new fascia for the dashboard … all dreams. Dreams were easy. It was reality that was so difficult.

Peach divided her weeks neatly into three days at Launceton with Wil and four days at the de Courmont offices on the Avenue Kléber in Paris. At first she’d felt terribly guilty about leaving Wil and once or twice she’d even stepped off the plane in Paris and taken the very next flight back to London, driving frantically up to Launceton, afraid that Wil might be missing her or that he couldn’t live without her. But of course Wil could and he was quite happy with Nanny. Harry seemed to notice she wasn’t there only when it affected his own plans, though Peach had found that the four o’clock Friday flight to London got her back home just in time to greet his weekend guests. Even the boring dinners had improved since she’d taken to dashing into Fouquets on her way to the airport, picking up extra little goodies—
mousses and terrines, cheeses and fruit sirops, to lighten up cook’s leaden meals.