Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford

right in one sense, in that it wasn’t a runaway best seller like my books on Chinese Gordon or Richard III.’ She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You win a few and lose a few, I suppose. Anyway, to answer your question, the real reason I haven’t written another book in the past few years is simply because I haven’t found the right historical figure to focus on, but I expect I will come up with something eventually.’

      ‘I love your historical biographies, and I happen to think you’re equal to Antonia Fraser any time, even though she is a much bigger name. You know, in my opinion, you really are rather a good writer, my dear.’

      Although this was uttered with pleasantness there was a patronizing undertone to the words, which Francesca could not fail to miss. And she thought, with sudden acuity: Hostility is implicit in this woman. She may not be conscious of it, but I know she does not like me at all. Her guard went up.

      Estelle, who was so self-involved she was fundamentally oblivious to other people’s feelings, went on unperturbedly, ‘Oh dear, I see the tape’s run out” I’ll have to change it.’ Obviously the session was far from over in Estelle’s mind. It was almost six and it had grown dark outside, and the concert had not yet been broached. Francesca’s good manners were bred in the bone, and to be impolite or inhospitable to a guest in her home would go against the grain. Nevertheless, she felt disinclined to extend herself any further. She tightened her Ups in aggravation and admitted she would have to endure Estelle’s presence until she had talked about the charity, otherwise the whole afternoon would have been a disgraceful waste of time.

      Against her better judgment, Francesca now felt obliged to ask: ‘Would you care for a drink, Estelle? I thought I might have a glass of white wine, but there’s plenty to choose from, if you’d prefer something else.’ She waved her hand in the direction of the console table in the far corner. This held a large array of bottles, decanters and crystal glasses.

      ‘Oooh! What a lovely idea, my dear. I’ll have white wine too, please.’

      Francesca nodded, retrieved the tea tray and escaped to the kitchen. Within minutes she was back, carrying a silver bucket containing a bottle of white wine. She took this over to the console, poured two glasses and rejoined Estelle. She felt as thought she was on the verge of screaming.

      ‘Santé,’ Estelle said. ‘I do appreciate good wines. After all my trotting back and forth to France I guess I’m spoiled. What is this? It’s delicious.’

      ‘Pouilly Fuissé,’ Francesca replied with a thin smile, marvelling at her considerable patience. But it was dwindling fast.

      In the kitchen Francesca had finally resolved to seize control of the situation and bring the interview to its conclusion as rapidly and as diplomatically as possible. Adopting a businesslike tone, she plunged in: ‘I must talk to you about the charity, Estelle. It’s getting late and I have a dinner engagement. I’m sure your time is precious too.’

      ‘But I have more questions about – ‘

      ‘Please, Estelle, let’s be fair,’ Francesca interrupted firmly. ‘I have given you two hours already. I only agreed to this interview because I felt your story would be beneficial to a good cause, and help us with the concert, and this was made quite clear to you at the time. Normally I don’t give interviews of this type. I loathe personal publicity.’

      Estelle had her glass halfway to her mouth. She put it down and gaped at Francesca. ‘Don’t like publicity! You’re always in the columns.’

      ‘I can’t help it if I’m constantly being mentioned in the newspapers. It’s none of my doing, I can assure you of that. But don’t let’s digress.’ Francesca glanced pointedly at her watch. ‘I’ll have to bring our visit to a close very shortly, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Oh sure, that’s all right,’ Estelle responded affably. ‘Please go ahead, Francesca dear. I’d just love to hear about your charity.’

      Relieved that she had turned the discussion around to her advantage, Francesca launched into all the salient details of the elaborate star-studded concert she and the committee were planning. She spoke quickly, but articulately, for about fifteen minutes. Finally she concluded, ‘That’s about it. What can I add, but to say again that it is for a truly worthy cause, and naturally we’d appreciate any mention you can give.’

      ‘There’s no problem. I’ll give the charity a nice fat plug, right up front in the story.’ Estelle cleared her throat and added quickly, ‘I’d like to have a photographer come up next week and take a few candids of you, whenever it’s convenient. Can you give me a date and time, please?’

      ‘Oh dear!’ Francesca stopped, and began to finger her pearls. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d want to take special photographs,’ she said with a degree of hesitance. ‘Would next Wednesday at two o’clock be suitable? It’s really the only time I have free.’ She was not especially enamoured of this new development, but she knew herself to be trapped.

      ‘That’s fine. I’ll book our very best photographer.’ Estelle leaned forward and snapped off the tape recorder.

      Sitting back in the chair, Francesca permitted herself to relax. She felt exhausted and longed to be alone, but it seemed that Estelle was determined to finish her drink, and at her own leisure.

      ‘I have something to tell you,’ Estelle began, lifting her glass and regarding Francesca closely over the rim. There was a small pause before she said, ‘Katharine’s coming back to New York.’

      Francesca sat up swiftly and threw her an astonished glance, frowning. ‘Katharine?’ she echoed.

      ‘Yes. Katharine Tempest. The one and only Katharine,’ Estelle smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know who I meant!’

      ‘Naturally I knew. I was a little surprised, that’s all. Actually, I’d lost track of her. Why are you telling me anyway? It’s of no interest to me.’

      ‘Katharine wants to see you.’

      Francesca tensed. She felt her face stiffening and her eyes, opening very widely, brimmed with shock. She did not believe Estelle, but as she studied the other woman’s face in silence she knew from her gloating expression that it was indeed true. She was momentarily speechless. She managed to say, ‘Whatever for? Why would she want to see me?’

      ‘I can’t imagine,’ Estelle replied sardonically. ‘But she wanted me to request a meeting. Lunch, dinner, tea, drinks, whichever you prefer. Just give me a date. She’ll be arriving in about a week or ten days, and she expects me to have arranged it by then. When can you see her?’

      Anger was fulminating in Francesca. And she, who was never rude, said with unusual vehemence, her voice rising, ‘I cannot see her! I will not see her! I think you have – ‘

      ‘I know you two became drawn enemies,’ Estelle exclaimed peremptorily. ‘That’s why I can’t understand Katharine. She’s being very foolish, in my opinion. I don’t

      ‘I was about to say, when you interrupted me, that I think you have behaved in the most despicable manner!’ Francesca cried. ‘How dare you wangle your way into my home, on the pretext of doing an interview, when it’s patently obvious the real reason you’re here is to carry messages for Katharine Tempest.’ Francesca’s anger now spiralled into cold fury. ‘How devious and underhanded of you! You’re a disgrace to your profession. But then I suppose I shouldn’t have expected better behaviour from you, Estelle. You always were her lackey. I think you had better leave.’

      Estelle did not budge. She was enjoying Francesca’s discomfort. She gave her a slow derisive smile, and triumph flicked into the small brown eyes. ‘My, my, I never thought I’d see the day when you would display so much emotion.’

      Dismay had lodged like a stone in the pit of Francesca’s stomach, but she took firm control of herself. Recovering some of her self-possession, she said, in a steadier voice, ‘You may tell Katharine Tempest I have no wish to see her. Ever again. I have nothing