Peach (50 page)

His big rosewood desk was empty except for the telephones and the special box that meant Noel could talk on the phone from across the room without having to hold the receiver. Anna placed his mail in the centre of his desk and the newspapers on the left, looking around to make sure everything was tidy. A large sheet of drawing paper was clamped to the cantilevered steel drawing board by the window and she wandered over to take a look at it.

The idea for this new car was Mr Maddox’s and he had been working personally on it with the company’s young designers for almost two years, until it finally emerged the way he wanted. She remembered taking minutes at the very first meeting.

“This has to be the kind of car that if I were twenty-five years old, married with a kid and the price were just a little more than I could afford, I’d go into hock for it,” Mr Maddox had told them. “It’s got to be zappy and sporty and yet have enough room in the back to seat two adults in reasonable comfort. But that young guy has got to be able to feel like he’s at the wheel of the sports car he always dreamed of having.”

“Why not make it cheaper?” the design chiefs and the accountants had asked him. And Anna knew he was right when he answered, “Because everyone needs to have something to long for, something he can’t
quite
afford so that it means more to him when he gets it. Give him a car he can
afford and he’ll compare it with a dozen others on the market. This has to be the compromise between the sports car he’s wanted since he was sixteen and the car he can still take his family out in. If it’s a bit more than he can afford his reasoning will be it means it’s that much better a car.”

The Stallion was the end result and it was already scheduled to roll off the lines early next year. She herself was going to spend her fifteen-year-bonus on one. Metallic blue, she thought. She liked blue.

Taking out a little duster Anna flicked away a speck of dust missed by the cleaners and went to make sure the coffee was brewing. Mr Maddox still drank coffee all day long, even though she’d told him it was bad for him. Then she checked his engagement calendar and noticed he was lunching at the Pontchartrain Hotel with two gentlemen from a French automobile company. He would be out between twelve forty-five and three. His morning was free for work in his office and for telephone calls and he had three meetings in the afternoon that would take him up to six o’clock. After that he was going to the studios to work on some new ideas with the latest bunch of kids he’d recruited fresh from design colleges. He probably wouldn’t finish much before nine or ten and then she knew he’d grab a bite at a hamburger stand and go on home to his penthouse apartment atop one of Detroit’s newest and tallest buildings. She had never seen Noel’s apartment and whether he would spend tonight alone or not, she didn’t know. Anna never pried into Mr Maddox’s personal affairs though she’d heard it said, on the grapevine, that there was always a glamorous girl on Noel’s arm when he went to public functions. She wasn’t surprised because, though Mr Maddox wasn’t what you might call handsome, she thought he had an odd sort of appeal. Yes, she’d say Noel Maddox was a very attractive man. But that was none of her business.

Sitting at her desk she opened the parcel, pulling off the silver string carefully and rolling it into a neat loop, saving it for another time. Beneath the wrapping paper was a little suede bag in the distinctive blue of Tiffany’s the jeweller’s and inside the bag was a bracelet made out of ropes of gold and silver entwined. The card with it said, “Just so you know your own value, Anna. What would I do without you!? My very best wishes for your birthday and thanks for all your help to me. Noel Maddox.”

He must have bought it when he went to New York last week. He’d gone to Tiffany’s specially to get
her
a present! Of course it was far too extravagant of him, she’d expected the usual bottle of perfume—large size, of course—but she really appreciated it. She’d felt lonely this morning, forty wasn’t a birthday anybody relished, and now Mr Maddox and his lovely gift had made her feel that she was still wanted. It was nice to know you were appreciated. Smiling, Anna slid the bracelet on her arm, admiring it. Then, tucking the box into her drawer, she began to sort out the comparative figures Mr Maddox wanted on the sales of four-wheel-drive pick-up trucks over the past five years.

Noel waved to her as he hurried into his office. “Morning Anna,” he called.

Anna smiled. “Good morning, Mr Maddox. And thank you for the flowers. And the present. It’s
wonderful
—more than I deserve.”

“Never underestimate yourself, Anna. You’re the world’s best secretary and that’s just a token to let
you
know that I know.”

In his office Noel took off his jacket and sat at his desk in his shirt sleeves, glancing rapidly through the papers.
Wall Street Journal
first, then the American papers, the foreign ones finally. Sipping his second cup of black coffee he turned to
The Times
. He’d enjoyed reading the British paper ever
since he’d first been there—four years ago? It had been his first trip abroad and he was on company business. He’d stayed at the Savoy in a small suite with a river view and his copy of
The Times
had arrived every morning with his bacon and eggs. Now he only ever ate bacon and eggs when he was in England, but he’d become addicted to
The Times
newspaper. It was on page 2 of
The Times
that he noticed the paragraph about Peach de Courmont. It said briefly, ’Wil Launceton (8), the son of Sir Harry Launceton the writer, who was struck by a cricket ball at his school six weeks ago, is now out of a coma and making progress though he won’t be released from hospital for some weeks yet. Lady Launceton is better known as Peach de Courmont, of the French motor car family.”

Noel stared at the bleak little statement. It wasn’t easy for him to think of Peach with a son, but there it was in black and white and she had almost lost her child. Of course, he saw Peach’s face everywhere—she seemed to be on every billboard on every highway across America! De Courmont were making a concerted push for the American market, but despite all their advertising and the publicity, he didn’t think their new car would make it. It was too feminine, and even
women
didn’t want feminine cars. It had been tried before and proven. They wanted masculine, gutsy automobiles, so that they could compete with men on the roads.

Walking across to the bookcase he pulled out the latest copy of a trade magazine, flicking through its pages until he came to the de Courmont advertisement. Peach’s face smiled back at him behind the wheel of the little pale blue convertible, “The Fleur”. The car door stood open showing her long legs stretched comfortably, making the point that the car had enough room even for a tall person. Noel hadn’t seen her since that party in Boston ten years ago. But he hadn’t forgotten her.

*  *  *

The dining room of the Pontchartrain was crowded but Noel’s usual table had been kept for him even though he’d lingered late in the bar. Everyone knew Mr Maddox at the Pontchartrain. Doors were opened for him before he reached them and the doormen greeted him by his name, as did the barmen and the waiters. Lunch with the French management team was as dull as he had expected but it was afterwards, that one of them finally said something that interested him.

“We could use more forward-thinking men like you in the industry, Mr Maddox, especially in Europe. We too need a ‘Stallion’ and cars like the de Courmont ‘Fleur’ are not the answer.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking this morning,” Noel commented.

“De Courmont are in trouble,” added the Frenchman. “The ‘Fleur’ is selling—but not enough to justify an expensive production. It’s been a big mistake and not even Peach de Courmont’s publicity campaign can save it. That company is in financial trouble.”

“Big financial trouble?” asked Noel, interested.

The man nodded. “That’s what the word is. Jim Jamieson is a good businessman, one of the best. But he’s never been a true automobile man. He’s had to trust his management team to guide him on that. And they’ve let him down badly this time.”

Noel remembered their conversation later that night driving home after the design meeting, and he was still thinking about it when he took the private elevator up to his penthouse.

After he’d worked as Paul Lawrence’s executive vice-president for two years Noel had decided it was time to move house. He’d toured Bloomfield Hills with a real-estate
agent looking at attractive houses and wondering what the hell he was going to do alone in three reception rooms, gourmet kitchen, five bedrooms and four and a half baths? “Forget it,” he told the agent, “I’m a bachelor. What I need is a great apartment.” The man had found the penthouse for him the very next week and Noel had contacted the interior decorator that Paul’s wife had used when the Lawrences redid their house last year. Sliding glass windows surrounding the sitting room led on to a terrace and Noel had a wonderful view all the way across the city to the trees and park-lands of the suburbs and beyond. His only brief to the decorator had been to keep it simple and to avoid using black. He’d created a restful decor in pleasing earth tones, cream, sand and taupe, just adding a flash of cool colour here and there—an angular gold-yellow chair or a bitter-green rug. Furnishings had been kept to a minimum, giving a feeling of space, with a seating area by the window and another in front of the modernistic steel fireplace. The only possessions Noel had kept from his old apartment were the orphanage-angel headboard, the Ricard ashtray and the two cheap art prints—the Kandinsky and the Mondrian. Only now they hung opposite the real thing. Noel had squandered his hefty annual bonuses on the paintings. Kandinsky and Mondrian and others. He had a small Monet landscape in his bedroom and a Marie Laurencin flower painting near the dining table. He had bought strong modern abstracts and a wild Roy Lichtenstein cartoon-strip acrylic, as well as a couple of sculptures by unknowns whose work he really liked. He’d had his eye on a Seurat Breton seashore scene but the price had gone too high at auction and that’s when he’d bought the cabin at the lake instead.

There was a pretty girl waiting for him on the oatmeal tweed sofa in front of the fire and he dropped a kiss on her
blonde hair as he threw his coat on to a chair and headed for the bedroom.

Della Grieves stretched out on the sofa, smiling. He was late, but then Noel was always late. They were supposed to drive out to the lake tonight but what difference if they went in the morning instead? She liked it here.

Noel came back into the room in a dark blue terry robe, his hair still wet from the shower. He took off the Fleetwood Mac album she was playing and put on his favourite Mozart concerto instead. Leaning back against the cushions he looked exhausted and he still hadn’t said a word to her. That was all right too. A man like Noel Maddox had a lot on his mind. He was a workaholic, Della could swear he was thinking about business sometimes when they made love.

“How’s the fashion world today?” asked Noel finally as he began to unwind.

Della shrugged, smiling, “The same.” She ran her own boutique in a smart area of Detroit financed by her wealthy father and she enjoyed it, but she knew better than to bother Noel with its up and downs right now.

They sat listening to the music until he fell asleep on the sofa and Della left him there and went to bed alone.

Della was used to Noel’s silences but this weekend it was unnerving. He paced the apartment the next morning in silence. She fixed salad and grilled the steak she’d bought while Noel stared out of the tall windows and they ate silently. By six o’clock Della was close to tears and she thought she’d better ask him what was wrong.

Noel lingered by the windows watching the sunset over Detroit. The de Courmont situation had been brewing in his mind since yesterday and the more he thought about it the more interesting it got. It was a good company and in the right hands it could become a profitable one. His mind made
up, he strode over to the phone and called Paul Lawrence at home. Paul said he’d speak to the chairman but he gave him the go-ahead to open tentative negotiations with de Courmont.

Noel scarcely saw Della as he walked back to the windows, staring at the nearly dark sky.

“Noel?” said Della, tears in her eyes. “Is anything wrong?”

Noel stared at her in surprise. Della was a lovely girl. A sweet girl too. She wasn’t the only one he went out with but she was the one he was with now and he realised he was neglecting her. There were always plenty of girls to fill up the lonely corners of his life—those that were left over from his crowded business schedule. The trouble was they never lived up to his image of Peach de Courmont, the little golden girl of freedom, the exotic young girl in the scarlet dress at the party.
The dark-eyed girl killing him with her words, “You’re Noel Maddox of the Maddox Charity Orphanage
.”

He went into the kitchen and Della heard him open the refrigerator and take out some ice and the sound of drinks being mixed.

“Martini?” asked Noel handing her a glass and a little blue parcel. Then he smiled at her and Della knew why she put up with him. When Noel looked at her like that she melted. She opened the little blue suede bag delightedly and took out the pair of large gold hoop earings.

“I was in New York last week,” said Noel. “I was passing Tiffany and I thought about you. The sales clerk told me they were fashionable. I hope he was right?”

“Of course he was. And so were you. Thank you,” said Della, kissing him.

Noel stared at her pretty smiling face. “I’m going over to
Europe next week on business,” he said suddenly. “How’d you like to come with me?”

There were a million reasons why Della couldn’t go but she knew she’d put them off. “I’d love it,” she said smiling.