Hold the Dream. Barbara Taylor Bradford

on one corner of the dressing table, and she began to speak to him in her mind. This was an old habit of hers and one which had become something of a ritual.

      I wonder what you would think of me, if you could see me now? Would you recognize your glorious Emma, as you used to call me? Would you think that I have grown old gracefully, as I believe I have?

      Picking up the photograph, she sat holding it with both hands, gazing down into his face. After all these years she still remembered every facet of him, and with a poignant vividness, as if she had seen him only yesterday. She blew a mote of dust off the glass. How handsome he looked in his white tie and tails. This was the last picture taken of him. In New York. On 3 February 1939. She recalled the date so easily. It had been his fifty-ninth birthday, and she had invited a group of their friends for drinks at their lavish Fifth Avenue apartment, and then they had gone to the Metropolitan Opera to hear Risë Stevens and Ezio Pinza sing Mignon. Afterwards, Paul had taken them to Delmonico’s for his birthday dinner, and it had been a wonderful evening, marred only at its outset by Daniel Nelson’s talk of impending war, and Paul’s equally bleak assessment of the world situation. Paul’s mood had been gay later, at dinner. But it was the last carefree evening they ever spent together.

      She touched the white wings of his hair with a fingertip, and half smiled to herself. The twins who were being baptized tomorrow were his first great-grandchildren too, a continuation of his bloodline. Upon his death, the McGill dynasty had passed into her hands for safekeeping, and she had guarded it well and faithfully, just as she had preserved and multiplied his great fortune, which she had solemnly vowed she would.

      Sixteen years, she thought. We only had sixteen years together. Not very much time really, in the span of a life … particularly a long life like mine.

      Without thinking, she spoke aloud: ‘If only you had lived longer. If only we could have shared our later years, grown old together. How wonderful that would have been.’ Her eyes misted over and she felt a tightening in her throat. Why you foolish, foolish old woman, she admonished herself silently. Weeping now for something gone so far beyond tears. With a swift and darting movement she returned the photograph to its given place.

      ‘Grandma … are you alone?’ Emily asked in a tentative voice from the doorway.

      Startled, Emma jumped, and turned in the chair. Her face lit up. ‘Oh hello, Emily dear. I didn’t hear you come through the parlour. And of course I’m alone.’

      Emily ran to her, gave her a resounding kiss, and then looked down at her curiously. She said, with a funny little smile, ‘I could have sworn I heard you talking to someone, Gran.’

      ‘I was. I was talking to him.’ She inclined her head at the photograph, and added dryly, ‘And if you think I’m getting senile, you can forget it. I’ve talked to that photograph for thirty years.’

      ‘Gosh, Grandy, you’re the last person I’d ever think of as being senile!’ Emily was quick to reassure, meaning every word. ‘Mummy maybe, but never you.’

      Emma fixed her coolly probing eyes on her granddaughter. ‘Where is your mother, Emily. Do you know?’

      ‘Haiti. Basking in the sun. At least I think that’s where she’s gone.’

      ‘Haiti.’ Emma sat up in the chair, surprise registering, and then she let out a small whoop of a laugh. ‘Isn’t that the place they practise voodoo. I hope she isn’t having a wax doll made called Emma Harte, into which she can stick pins and wish me ill as she does.’

      Emily also laughed, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, Gran, you are a card. Mummy wouldn’t think of anything like that. I doubt she’s ever heard of voodoo. Besides, I’m sure she’s far too preoccupied. With the Frenchman.’

      ‘Oh. So, she’s done another bolt, has she? And with a Frenchman this time. Well, I must say, your mother is getting to be a regular United Nations.’

      ‘Yes, she does seem to have developed a fondness for foreign gentlemen, Grandy.’ Emily’s green eyes brimmed with laughter as she stood rocking on her heels, regarding her grandmother with delight, enjoying their bit of repartee. There was no one like her Gran when it came to the caustic jab which got right to the heart of the matter.

      Emma said, ‘Knowing your mother, he undoubtedly has an uncertain character, not to mention a dubious title. What’s this one’s name?’

      ‘Marc Deboyne. You might have read about him. He’s always in the gossip columns. And you’re right on target, regarding his character. But he doesn’t have a title, dubious or otherwise.’

      ‘That’s a relief. I’m sick to death of all these counts and princes and barons with unpronounceable names, grandiose ideas and empty wallets, whom your mother unfailingly collects. And invariably marries. Deboyne is a playboy though, isn’t he?’

      ‘I’d categorize him as IWT, Gran.’

      ‘What on earth does that mean, dear?’ Emma asked, her brows lifting, expressing her puzzlement.

      ‘International White Trash.’

      Emma guffawed. ‘That’s a new one on me. And whilst I get the implication, explain further, please, Emily.’

      ‘It’s a term for men with murky backgrounds, even questionable backgrounds, who have social aspirations which they can only hope to fulfil in another country. I mean a country not their own. You know, where inconsistencies won’t be spotted. It could be an Englishman in Paris, a Russian in New York, or, as in this instance, a frog in London.’ Emily made a disagreeable face. ‘Marc Deboyne has been flitting around Mayfair’s fashionable drawing rooms for years, and I’m surprised Mummy got involved with him. He’s so transparent. He must have managed to dupe her somehow. Personally, I think he stinks, Gran.’

      Emma frowned. ‘Have you met him then?’

      ‘Yes, and before Mummy too.’ She stopped short, deciding not to mention that Deboyne had made a pass at her first. That would really be inflammatory to her Gran. She finished, ‘He’s quite ghastly.’

      Emma sighed, and wondered how much this one was going to cost her daughter. For cost her he would. That type of man always came expensive – frequently emotionally, but always financially. Dismally she thought of the million pounds she had given Elizabeth last year. Cold cash, too. Most of it had probably been frittered away by now. Still, what that foolish woman did with the money was no concern of hers. She had only been interested in buying Elizabeth off, and in so doing, protecting Alexander, Emily, and the fifteen-year-old twin girls. Emma said, with some asperity, ‘Your mother is impossible. Impossible. Where are her brains, for God’s sake? Don’t bother to answer that, Emily. In the meantime, out of curiosity, whatever happened to the current husband? That lovely Italian.’

      Emily stared at her in disbelief. ‘Grandy!’ she shrieked. ‘What a switch! You always said you thought he was a gigolo. In fact, you were usually quite unkind about him, and I was certain you detested him.’

      ‘I changed my mind,’ Emma replied loftily. ‘As it turned out he wasn’t a fortune hunter, and he was nice to the twins.’ She stood up. ‘Let’s go into the parlour and have a drink before lunch.’ She tucked her arm through Emily’s companionably, and steered her across the floor. She asked again, ‘So, where is Gianni what’s-his-name?’

      ‘He’s around. He’s moved out of Mummy’s flat, of course. But he’s still in London. He’s got himself a job with some Italian importing company, antiques, I believe. He often telephones me to ask about Amanda and Francesca. He’s rather attached to them I think.’

      ‘I see.’ Emma disentangled her arm and lowered herself on to one of the sofas. ‘I’d like a gin and tonic, Emily, instead of the usual sherry. Do the honours, please, dear.’

      ‘Yes, Grandy. I think I’ll have one myself.’ Always in a tearing hurry, Emily dashed across the room to the Georgian table which held a silver tray of bottles and Baccarat crystal