Peach (48 page)

The hierarchy of the company from the top was the chairman, the vice-chairman and the president. Then there were the executive vice-presidents who were their right-hand men. Below that came the vice-presidents in charge of a group of whom Noel was now one at Great Lakes, and below that, the group divisional managers. It was unlikely that all of these jobs would be changed at once but Paul Lawrence was going to appoint his own executive vice-president immediately and, working on the old Machiavellian concept that those who are only ninety-nine per cent for you
are basically against you, Paul Lawrence would want his own man in there. A man who would be one hundred per cent loyal to him and a man he could trust. Noel wanted that job. And, analysing his likely rivals for the position, he saw that the man who stood head and shoulders above any other was Lance Anthony.

Paul had moved Noel rapidly upwards from division manager to vice-president in charge of design, giving him as much leeway as he wanted to push forward new concepts. And Noel knew that Paul was pleased with him. The new model four-wheel-drive truck had already been given his blessing and various modifications he had suggested and designed had been made mandatory on some of their existing cars, mainly new refinements in engineering. Noel pushed his designers hard, charging them with his own energy and employing a pool of young people straight from design college for new “street” input to get a feel of the young market and ideas. It was exciting and it worked. He was happy in his job.

When Noel had moved to the fourteenth floor he had thought he had finally made it. As the youngest and newest vice-president he had an office off the green-carpeted corridor nearest to the door. As you progressed further along the corridor so the rank of importance rose, until at the far end was the executive suite—the chairman, vice-chairman and the president’s office—currently empty now that Paul Lawrence had left. No one knew yet who would get that coveted job but it seemed panic buttons were being pushed and odds were it would be someone already in a similar position. A big company like Great Lakes couldn’t afford to take chances on any less.

Noel’s private phone rang and he picked it up quickly. It was Claire. He hadn’t seen her for several weeks, the children had been ill with bad colds and coughs and then she’d
had the ’flu. Last time they had spoken Claire had sounded harassed.

“Can we see each other tonight? Lance is in New York and the children are sleeping over with friends. I’m alone.”

“Alone at last!” said Noel.

“Oh, Philip Marlowe—always good with a cliché,” she commented but could tell he was smiling.

“Your place,” she said, “seven-thirtyish.”

He was late but Claire had her key and she was waiting for him. There were flowers in a blue vase on the table and tall pale candles gleamed in the twilight.

Claire had brought Chinese take-out food and a bottle of chilled Mersault. Noel realised that he had never once taken her out to dinner. They never went out together. His apartment was their entire world. Occasionally they met socially at other people’s houses but naturally Claire was with her husband, and their assignations had become less frequent because of the hazards of continuing such a friendship.

“Sometimes I need you,” sighed Claire hugging him.

Noel grinned. “Is life that hard for a true princess of Motor City?”

“And what did that ever do for me?” she exclaimed.

“It got you good schools and a beautiful home, ponies, houses by the sea, European travel. And all before you were eighteen! God, I was working at three jobs as well as studying then. You should count what it bought you, Claire—and count yourself lucky,” said Noel angrily.

Her brown eyes behind the red glasses were cold. “It paid for my nose fixing and my teeth straightening—and a lot of pairs of spectacles,” she assured him. “God, think of the mess I would have been without it. You wouldn’t have looked at me twice.”

“You shouldn’t joke about having money, Claire,” said Noel irritably. “Your father worked hard for it.”

Pushing away from him she walked to the table and poured white wine into the Baccarat crystal glasses she had bought him.

“I came here tonight hoping to get away from exactly this sort of discussion,” she said angrily. “I might as well be with Lance. I’m sick to death of talk of money and ambition. This whole town talks of nothing else.”

Noel took the glass of wine and tasted it. It was good. “It’s Motor City,” he said, “we’re all here to play its game. Remember, it was you who taught me the rules.”

“It wasn’t me who gave you that ruthless streak of ambition,” she retorted.

“No. My mother gave me that.”

Claire had never heard him mention his mother before and she stared at him curiously. Noel’s face looked pinched in the grey twilight, but he said nothing further.

“Well,” she said finally, “Lance is just as bad. But thank God it looks as though he’s going to get the job he’s after and then we can all sleep in peace again. He’s driving us crazy—even the children can’t put up with his irritability.”

“You mean executive vice-president for Paul Lawrence?” Noel asked, carefully casual.

“He deserves it,” said Claire. “He’s the right man for the job and my father had a word with Paul yesterday. It looks as though it’ll go through.” She looked at Noel worriedly. “Let’s not fight,” she said gently. “Come and have some Chinese food, darling. It’s in the oven keeping warm.”

Noel sank on to the sofa placing his glass on the coffee table in front of him. “Sorry Claire,” he said, “but I don’t feel much like eating. You go ahead.”

Claire watched him in silence. His eyes were shut and he looked remote, as though he were on some other planet. Picking up her coat from the chair where she had thrown it as she came in, she walked over to him and kissed him.
“Something tells me I’ve overstayed my welcome,” she said softly. “It’s time I left, Noel Maddox.”

His eyes flew open and he reached out his hand to her but Claire was already half-way across the room. She turned at the door. “Call me when you need me,” she said, managing a smile.

As the door closed behind her Noel turned his head away, burying it in the soft plaid rug she’d bought him. He’d lost her. And he’d lost the job. He wasn’t about to pass “Go” and he wouldn’t get another turn at the Monopoly board.

Paul Lawrence requested Noel’s presence at lunch at the Pontchartrain Hotel the following week.

Smart in a well-cut grey flannel suit from Brooks Brothers, and the striped tie of the Detroit Athletic Club, Noel waited for his host at the bar.

“What can I get you, sir?” the barman asked deferentially.

“A Virgin Mary,” ordered Noel. He never mixed drink and business. He liked the Pontchartrain and was beginning to feel comfortable in its tapestry-hung, soft-carpeted luxury.

Paul Lawrence greeted him affably and Noel could feel curious eyes on them as they made their way into the busy dining room. Everyone knew everyone else in Motor City and the word would soon be around that Noel Maddox was lunching with Paul Lawrence and conclusions would be drawn. Rightly? he wondered.

“Quite frankly,” began Paul over excellent roast beef, “I had another man in mind for the job. A very able man. A little older than you, Noel—not that age is a detriment in your case, you’ve proven that. But sometimes seniority and experience count for a lot. I won’t mention his name because this is kind of confidential and his father-in-law is a friend of
mine. But there have been some disquieting rumours about this man’s wife, that she’s running around with some other guy. It’s not that I’m a prude about these things, though I can’t say I approve of it. But a potential domestic disaster can cause havoc with a man’s work. Divorce has lost me more good executives than I’d care to think about. So, I’m afraid I had to pass on him. And his bad luck turns out to be
your
good luck, Noel. I’d like to offer you the job as executive vice-president in charge of all our divisions. You’ll answer to me and where necessary the chairman and you’ll have free reign for your creative concepts.” Laying down his knife and fork he beamed at Noel, his eyes twinkling in his pink-cheeked jovial face like Santa Claus bestowing a gift. “I dare say we can reach agreement on the money,” he added, “and it will be generous, Noel, I assure you. I know you’re getting fifty thousand at Great Lakes. I think I can promise you double that, plus stock options and bonuses. We’ll take care of you at US Auto. Well—what do you say?”

Pushing any thought of Claire firmly into a recess of his mind Noel held out his hand. “I’d be delighted to accept, Mr Lawrence,” he said. “And thank you. You’ve made my day.”

Paul Lawrence chortled gleefully. “My boy,” he said, “I may just have made your entire life.”

Harry Launceton slammed the newspaper down on his desk glaring angrily at the photograph of Peach. The caption over the top read, P
EACH OPENS DE COURMONT’S NEW BEVERLY HILLS SHOWROOM
—and there was Peach standing between two famous film actors snipping a ribbon with an oversize pair of scissors and smiling her celebrity smile, looking glossier than any fashion model.

Since Peach had become the star of de Courmont’s new advertising campaign her face appeared everywhere—in the daily papers, in double-page spreads in magazines and zooming across billboards ten-times life-size—at the wheel of the latest de Courmont, with “It’s a Peach of a Car,” or “Take it from a de Courmont—it’s the Greatest” and other such rubbishy blurbs emblazoned across the top. He rarely saw her, she was always dashing around the world promoting de Courmont cars and having her photograph taken with rock-stars and actors and hosting parties and giving press conferences.

Of course it was the row about Wil that had finally separated them. Peach had never fitted in with the English way of doing things and there was no question that Wil was to be sent off to board at a prep school when he was seven. But Peach had ranted and raved about Harry’s cruelty in storms of tears and made him feel like an ogre when all he was doing was the proper thing. He’d had Augusta take Wil to Peter Jones to buy the boy his uniform because Peach refused
to be party to his “barbarism” and to Augusta’s credit she hadn’t once said about Peach, “I told you so.” After Wil had finally gone off to school Peach had spent most of her time in Paris, only coming to Launceton for Wil’s holidays and then, if Harry were busy writing, she’d whisk Wil off to the South of France or Florida.

Of course he should never have divorced Augusta and married Peach, but when he was writing he was like a man wearing blinkers and Peach had led him up an erotic new path that he’d been unable to resist. She’d been his inspiration for what might eventually, in his obituary in
The Times
, be called “his two greatest novels”. Harry’s last two books had been difficult ones to write, involving lots of research and painstaking marshalling of facts and it galled him that they hadn’t been received nearly as well. And now Peach was flaunting herself around the globe, probably with a pack of men sniffing at her heels, while he was here at Launceton worrying about his next book.

Thrusting the newspaper into his waste-basket Harry picked up the phone, glancing out of his study window as he dialled Augusta’s number. It was a lovely blue summer morning, perfect for young Wil’s great day. “Augusta? Forget your plans for today. I want you to come with me to watch Wil’s cricket match. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty and we’ll have lunch on the way down. What about Peach? Yes, I suppose she will be there, Wil told me she was flying in from Paris specially … I don’t give a damn what she thinks, Augusta. Right. See you then.”

Checking his watch, Harry walked to the door, hands in his pockets, whistling. He felt like a school kid himself, now he’d made the decision. He needed someone to look after him and be a decent mother to his boy. He was going to divorce Peach and ask Augusta to marry him—again.

*  *  *

Peach sat up in bed sipping coffee and admiring her new room. The interior designer had done a marvellous job, though of course she’d told him exactly what she wanted. After six years of lonely nights at home on the Ile St Louis she’d realised what a waste it all was—one person and four servants and a house that was just a great gloomy relic of a past way of life. With a flash of inspiration she’d decided to make the house work for its living. The de Courmont mansion would be part of the new de Courmont
image
, the way the
châteaux
were to the wine industry. It would be the company’s hospitality house, lunches would be held for visiting VIPs, for company executives and their wives, for visiting car dealers from the USA or Japan, and celebrities whose photographs could be used in publicity—anything that would sell more cars.

Peach had learned early in her new career that if you wanted a decision from a busy director you didn’t go to him with an idea, you went with your total concept mapped out from beginning to end—what it would involve, how it would benefit the company and what it would cost. Then all the man had to say was yes or no. It saved his time and hers. And since she had taken over as head of publicity and made such a success of the new advertising campaign, the board took her seriously.