Barbara Taylor Bradford’s 4-Book Collection. Barbara Taylor Bradford

was several shades too bright, and harsh.

      Drawing on her cigarette, Francesca glanced away quickly, chastising herself for her lack of generosity, and suddenly, being compassionate, she was touched by pity for Estelle. They had first met years ago in London when they were in their twenties, but the intervening years had not been kind to the woman sitting opposite her. Francesca was unexpectedly saddened. Poor Estelle. Her life was probably not half as glamorous as she pretended. It might even be a terrible struggle in so many different ways. Yet Estelle was a clever writer, and had been full of talent and promise in those early years. What had happened to her dreams of becoming a novelist? Quite clearly they had gone by the wayside. And then she thought: But who am I to criticize Estelle? Everyone did what they could in life, and hoped for the best. She had a particular distaste for those who constantly wanted to play God and passed judgment on their peers. She had always chosen not to indulge in that gratuitous pastime.

      ‘There, I’m all set,’ Estelle exclaimed and settled back comfortably.

      And so the interview began. Where did she get her clothes? Did she prefer French or American designers? What kind of entertaining did she like best? Did she give large or small dinner parties? Or cocktail parties? How did she cope with homes in New York, Virginia and Barbados? How many servants did she have? Did she decorate her own homes? Did she have any hobbies? What was it like being the wife of an ambassador? Did Harrison enjoy his new role as a presidential adviser? What was his state of health? Did she go to the White House frequently? Who were the people she entertained? Did she enjoy a good relationship with Harrison’s grandchildren? Did she prefer living in America to England, or other countries? And why? Did Harrison have any hobbies? How did they relax? What were their leisure activities?

      It seemed to Francesca that the questions were interminable. She answered honestly and with cordiality, pausing from time to time to freshen their tea or light a cigarette. But as Estelle probed and probed she grew steadily weary and a trifle impatient with this cross-examination of her life, began to see it as an intrusion into her privacy, and certainly not exactly what she had bargained for when she had agreed to the meeting. Furthermore, to Francesca’s growing unease, Estelle had not mentioned the charity once. She was just about to tactfully introduce this subject when the questions changed in character.

      ‘Do you think Teddy Kennedy will run for the Presidency in 1980?’

      Surprise flickered in Francesca’s eyes. ‘I never discuss politics. I leave that to Harrison.’

      ‘But you must have an opinion, and I’m interviewing you, not your husband. Come on, Francesca, you’re a bright, liberated woman. What do you think? Will he try to run?’

      ‘You really must respect my wishes, Estelle. I don’t want to discuss politics on any level.’

      ‘Well then, on to other subjects. Let’s touch on your career. You haven’t written a book lately. Is that because the one about Edward IV and the Wars of the Roses didn’t do very well? I really felt for you when I read the reviews. Personally, I didn’t think it was dull, long-winded or verbose.’

      Francesca stifled a gasp. Estelle’s expression was smoothly bland, revealing nothing. Maybe she doesn’t know she is being inflammatory, Francesca thought, and then laughed inwardly at her own naïveté. This was the new style of journalism. Being provocative to elicit angry or unthinking responses inevitably made for a better story. She was not going to fall into that trap. Conscious that journalists always had the last word when they sat down at their typewriters, she refused to take offence or to be chivied into losing her composure.

      ‘The reviews weren’t all bad. In fact, I had some excellent ones,’ she said. ‘And contrary to your impression, Estelle, the book did sell, both in hardcover and paperback. Of course, you’re right in one sense, in that it wasn’t a runaway bestseller 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 lips 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