Peach (62 page)

Masters stared at him. “Noel,” he said, swallowing his fish, “you’re in for a rough ride with the Board with those ideas.”

Noel shrugged. “The Board is in for a rough ride, whether they accept my ideas or not. It’s the chicken or the egg.”

Ignoring his food, he went over what he had just said, point by point, explaining and expanding his theories.

“Okay, okay,” said Masters finally. “Let’s see if we can get a hold of Arthur this evening and you can put your ideas to him.”

Noel sat back and sipped his glass of water. He was over the first hurdle.

Arthur Oranelli had an Irish mother and an Italian father and a reputation for being as pugnacious as the one nationality and as volatile as the other. He was sixty-seven years old and had climbed the executive ladder almost the same way as Noel had. Sipping scotch and water in his unostentatiously comfortable Grosse Pointe home that night, Noel felt he would get a fair hearing, without any of the biases that he had totted up in the shower that morning. Arthur Oranelli would hear him out and judge him on his proven career and his ideas for running Great Lakes Motors.

It was close to midnight by the time he’d finished explaining his concepts and answering Oranelli’s pertinent questions and Noel leaned back, feeling exhausted. Sipping the neglected scotch he watched Oranelli prowl the panelled library, noting the shelves of beautifully bound books, the rarer ones behind glass. Oranelli was a collector of repute.

“I love books,” said Oranelli, following his glance, “but I only
like
cars. It’s different with you—cars are your passion and sometimes passion can cloud a man’s judgement.”

Noel watched him, saying nothing.

“What exactly is it you want from Great Lakes Motors, Noel? The word is around that your success with the ‘Duke’ has gone to your head, that you like playing ‘the star’.”

Noel’s grip tightened on the glass. “That’s the media’s image of me,” he said, “I have no control over what they print or say on television. My own aims are more personal, Mr Oranelli. I walked these streets as a penniless boy and my passion for engines and cars has brought me to this point. Stardom is not my aim. Power is. I want the power to force changes on a company that’s sinking under its own weight. I have no illusions that being chairman of the company
would be an easy ride—it’s the hot seat and I’m ready to accept the slings and arrows that the media who love me today will be happy to throw at me tomorrow.” He shrugged. “That’s their game. Now you know mine.”

Oranelli nodded. “You’re a truthful man—and not many are. In this business truth can make or break you. And in your case I think it’ll make you. Everything you’ve said to me tonight makes sense, but not all of it is feasible and not all of it will work for a million different reasons. But that would be for you to sort out. Meanwhile, I’ll consider your bid as my successor.”

Noel took a deep breath as he stood up to shake hands. “Thank you, Mr Oranelli. I appreciate that.”

Oranelli chuckled. “Makes me wish I were young again and just starting,” he said. “You lose the flavour of the game a bit when you get to my age. But tell me, Noel,” he said as he walked with him to the door, “what about de Courmont? It’s your wife’s family’s company, isn’t it? And it’s tied in with US Auto. What will happen to de Courmont if you switch allegiance to Great Lakes Motors?”

For once Noel was lost for words. He hadn’t given a thought to de Courmont since Claire had given him the inside information on Great Lakes Motors. “My wife is chairman of the company, sir,” he said. “We have a pretty good management team, and of course I could hand over the control to my successor. There would be no conflict of interest with Great Lakes Motors.”

“Mmm,” said Oranelli thoughtfully, “but there may be a personal one. Well, goodnight, Noel. Good to have met you.”

Pondering on Oranelli’s words as he drove back to town Noel remembered suddenly that he had completely forgotten his promise to call Peach and that he was supposed to be
on a flight to Paris. Wondering anxiously if she were all right, he decided to call her in the morning and then catch an early flight.

Her suitcases were already being loaded into the car and the sweet young girl who Peach, with bad memories of old Nanny Launceton, had chosen to help her with Charles and the future new baby was waiting in the hall, holding Charles by the hand. Peach thought how sweet he looked in his little scarlet woollen cap, with his solemn grey eyes—eyes just like Noel’s. The sharp ring of the telephone startled her, even though it was a sound she’d stayed up all night, anticipating. Oliver was outside taking care of the cases and she walked back along the hall and picked up the receiver in the small salon.

“Peach, thank God, I’ve finally reached you.” Noel’s voice sounded tired.

“You could have reached me any time, Noel. In fact I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I also had a message that you were coming home,” she replied coldly.

“Peach, I’m sorry, I was tied up all day yesterday and couldn’t get to a phone. It was after midnight when I finally shook free and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I suppose it never occurred to you that I might not be able to sleep. Or even that I might be waiting for your call—though right now I can’t think why.”

“Peach, there are big things going on here—I can’t tell you over the phone, it’s too important.”

Peach held the receiver away from her, staring at it in amazement … not a word about what happened, not a mention of the woman. All he could talk about was business. “I suppose the long days and nights didn’t include the lady who answered your telephone yesterday?” she said, her voice trembling. There was a silence on the other end. “Well, Noel?” she said. “And don’t bother to think up some excuse because I know she’s your lover—I could hear it in her voice.”

“She’s not my lover, Peach …”

“She was in bed with you!”
She waited, praying for him to deny it, to prove to her it wasn’t true. “It’s true—isn’t it?” she quavered.

“Peach, what do you want me to say to you?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

“I’ve never lied to you …”

“Then she
was
in bed with you!”

“Yes, she was … but it’s not the way you imagine it, Peach …”

“Not the way I imagine it? Oh God, Noel, you must think I’m still the stupid little girl that Harry married! If he could get away with it, so could you.
And I trusted you! I loved you!”

“Don’t stop loving me, Peach,” begged Noel. “This had nothing to do with us—I can explain when I see you.”

“When you see me?
Why aren’t you here?
My whole life is in ruins and you’re thousands of miles away. You don’t even bother to
telephone
me because you’re too busy. Goddamn it, Noel Maddox,
I hate you!”
Slamming down the receiver, Peach fled up the stairs to her room, ignoring Charles and the bewildered girl waiting in the hall.

Trembling, she sat on the bed, holding back the tears by
force of will. She had to pull herself together, gain control. She had Charles to think of. She was a responsible mother even if she were no good as a wife and not lover enough to hold her husband. Going into the bathroom she drank a glass of ice-cold water, splashing some on her face, then she walked carefully back down the wide marble staircase to her waiting son.

As they walked down the steps to the car she heard the telephone ring again. “If it’s Mr Maddox, Oliver,” she said, “tell him that I’ve already left. And that I’m not coming back.”

Fog enclosed Detroit like a soft woollen blanket, cutting off the city from all air traffic, and trapping Noel in his suddenly lonely penthouse. The big windows that usually framed his personal sparkling picture of the city were now hung with a blank grey canvas, eliminating the thrusting towers and granite streets that gave him life.

With his bag packed, Noel waited by the telephone. A sombre Gregorian chant boomed from the multi-speakers in the apartment and a single bright lamp illuminated the beige surface of the telephone as though it were the only thing that mattered in the room. Every hour Noel punched out the number of Leonie’s villa, waiting impatiently while the line clicked and bleeped, until finally Marianne answered.

“Madame is not taking any calls at all,” she told him nervously, and yes, she would ask Peach to call him back at that number. Her voice grew more high-pitched and excitable with every call as she remitted the same message. “Oh Monsieur Maddox,” she said finally, “it is no use telephoning, she will not talk to you. You must get here as soon as you can.”

Goddamn it, he knew that. If he wanted to save his marriage and keep Peach, he should be on the next plane out of
this bastard fog-bound city. Frustrated, Noel picked up the phone and called the airport, asking them what the hell they were doing about the situation, only to be told in the calm soothing tones airlines use to keep their passengers firmly under control, that the fog was expected to lift by early afternoon and he would be contacted immediately his flight became available.

Striding into the kitchen, Noel poured himself another cup of strong black coffee, switching his thoughts from Peach to last night’s meeting. He hoped he had Arthur Oranelli in his corner because Oranelli had more clout than anyone else in the industry. Bill Masters could be expected to go along with Oranelli and their combined influence and lobbying both with the Board and Wall Street could push the job his way. Noel’s nerves tingled as he contemplated the idea, the top of the tower, the holder of the throne—and the power. Charged with nervous excitement he downed another cup of black coffee, prowling the apartment, hating the blank windows that cut him off from Detroit. Finally, he flung himself on the sofa and dialled France again. This time he got the busy signal and slamming it down he waited ten minutes and dialled again. He called every ten minutes for the next two hours, getting the busy signal every time. Peach had taken the phone off the hook.

The muted ring startled him and he grabbed back the receiver eagerly. “Yes,” he barked.

“Mr Maddox? This is TWA calling. I’m pleased to tell you that the fog is expected to lift by one o’clock and your flight has been rescheduled to depart at one forty-five. New York is clear and you will have no trouble with your connecting flight to Paris, though we’ve rescheduled you on Air France, departing six thirty. Can we confirm you on these flights, sir?”

“Great,” said Noel. “I’ll be there.” Slamming down the
receiver he sighed with relief. He’d pick up a flight from Paris to Nice and be at the villa the next morning. He remembered the way Peach had sounded on the phone, distant and cold with the tremor in her voice … Oh God, he hadn’t meant to hurt her! He’d make it up to her, reassure her that it was all nothing … But he could never explain to her why he’d needed Claire Anthony that night, or why he’d sought to curb his restlessness in her arms … only he knew the pressure of the force that drove him ever onwards to the next pinnacle of achievement.

He glanced at his watch. It was twelve o’clock—he might as well get out to the airport now, no use waiting about—there was bound to be some fog on the freeway still.

Grabbing his coat and his bag, Noel clicked off the light and the stereo and headed for the door. The telephone rang again and he glanced at it impatiently. Damn, who could it be now? Maybe it was Peach. Dropping his case he hurried across the room.

“Noel?”

It was Bill Masters’s voice and Noel snapped to attention.

“Yes, Bill?”

“Glad I caught you. Oranelli said you were leaving for France today but I guess the fog delayed you. Tell you what it is, Noel. Arthur and I have been talking over the points you made and we both like what we hear. It’ll be a tough campaign, Noel, but we’d both like to see you as Great Lakes Motors’ next chairman.”

“Thank you, Bill. I appreciate your support,” replied Noel, feeling a blast of excitement rocket through him.

“Both Arthur and myself will be lobbying for you this week but there’s no doubt in either of our minds that you are your own best salesman. We’d like you available here in Detroit. Noel, do you think that French company can run itself for the next ten days or so?”

Pale yellow sun flooded the room with light as the fog rolled away, exposing Detroit to his gaze. Without a second’s hesitation Noel replied, “I’ll be here, sir, for as long as you need me.”