To Be the Best. Barbara Taylor Bradford

him whenever he needed her.

      But on this scorching morning in August of 1981, Paula had no way of knowing any of this, and that sense of impending trouble – a foreboding almost – which she had experienced earlier had already been squashed by the force of her will. Also, like her grandmother before her, she had the enviable knack of pushing everything to one side in order to concentrate on her business priorities, and this she now did. Head bent, eyes riveted on the page, she fell deeper and deeper into her concentration, as always so totally absorbed in her work that she was oblivious to everything else.

      Twenty minutes later, Paula finally lifted her head, stapled her notes together, and put them in the folder along with the single sheet of paper; she then locked the folder in the centre drawer of her desk for safe-keeping over the weekend. Half smiling to herself, satisfied that she had thought of everything and was prepared for any contingency, she sat holding the key for a split second longer before placing it carefully in her briefcase.

      Pushing the chair back, she rose, stretched, walked across the floor, feeling the need to move around. Her body was cramped, her bones stiff from sitting – first in the Aston Martin and then here at her desk. She found herself at the window and parted the curtains, looked down into Knightsbridge below, noticed that the traffic appeared to be more congested than ever this morning, but then Fridays were usually wicked in the summer months.

      Turning, Paula stood facing the room, a look of approval washing over her face. From her earliest childhood days she had loved this office, had felt comfortable within its confines. She had seen no reason to change it when she had inherited it from her grandmother, and so she had left everything virtually intact . She had added a few mementoes of her own and photographs of her children, but that was the extent of it.

      The office was more like a drawing room in an English country house than a place of business, and this was the real secret of its great charm. The ambiance was intentional. It had been created by Emma Harte some sixty-odd years earlier when she had used valuable Georgian antiques and English oil paintings of great worth instead of more prosaic furnishings. Classic chintz fabrics on the sofas and chairs and at the windows introduced glorious colour against the pine-panelled walls, while antique porcelain lamps and other fine accessories lent their own touches of elegance and distinction. The decorative look aside, the room was spacious and graceful, and it had a beautiful old Adam fireplace which was always in use on cold days. The office never palled on Paula, and she was delighted when people entering it for the first time exclaimed about its beauty.

      Like everything else she did, Grandy got this room exactly right, Paula thought, walking across the priceless Savonnerie carpet, drawing to a standstill in front of the carved pine fireplace. She gazed up at the portrait of her grandmother which hung above it, painted when Emma had been a young woman. She still missed her, intensely so at times, but she had long drawn comfort from the feeling that Emma lived on in her … in her heart and in her memories.

      As she continued to stare at that lovely yet determined face in the portrait, she experienced a feeling of immense pride in Emma’s extraordinary achievements. Grandy started out with nothing and created one of the greatest business empires in the world … what incredible courage she must have had at my age. I must have her kind of courage and strength and determination. I must not falter in what I have to do … my master plan must succeed just as her plan did. Paula’s mind raced, leapt forward to the future, and she filled with excitement at the thought of what lay ahead.

      She returned to her desk, realizing she must get on with the day’s business.

      She flipped on the intercom. ‘Jill …’

      ‘Yes, Paula?’

      ‘My things were brought up from the car, weren’t they?’

      ‘Some time ago, actually, but I didn’t want to disturb you. Do you want me to bring everything in now?’

      ‘Please.’

      Within seconds Jill’s bright auburn head appeared around the door and she hurried through into Paula’s office, holding aloft Paula’s garment bag in one hand, a suitcase in the other. Jill was tall, well built, an athletic type of young woman, and she appeared to manage these items with the greatest of ease.

      ‘I’ll put these in your dressing room,’ she said.

      ‘Thanks,’ Paula murmured, and when her assistant returned to her office, she went on, ‘Sit down for a minute, would you, please, Jill? I’d like to go over a couple of things with you.’

      Jill Marton nodded, took the chair on the other side of the desk, sat watching Paula through warm and intelligent brown eyes. Jill had worked for her for over five years and she never ceased to admire her, forever marvelling at her extraordinary energy and stamina. The woman opposite her was a powerhouse – astute, inspired and frequently daring in business. Jill had never worked for anyone like her. Those at the store who had known the legendary Emma said that Paula was a chip off the old block. Jill suspected this was the truth, that the traits she so admired in her boss were inherited from the famous founder of the Harte chain. Yes, it’s all in the genes, Jill thought, continuing to observe Paula surreptitiously.

      ‘Ah, here it is … your memo about the Designer Salon,’ Paula said, picking up the piece of paper she had been searching for on the desk.

      Jill sat up straighter in her chair, looked at Paula with alertness. ‘I hope it makes sense to you,’ she said.

      ‘It does indeed. Your recommendations are excellent. I’ve nothing to add. You can put the structural alterations into work immediately and make the other changes as well. They’ll do wonders for the salon, Jill.’

      On hearing this compliment Jill felt vivid colour staining her neck and cheeks, and with a flush of pleasure she took the memo which Paula had slid across the highly-polished surface between them. She said, ‘I’m so glad you approve,’ and beamed.

      Paula returned her smile. ‘Send this telex to Madelana later, and here’s the morning mail … nothing important, as you already know. You can deal with it easily. I’ve initialled these purchase orders.’ She tapped them with a bright-red finger nail, then asked, ‘Now, did any of last week’s advertisements come up from the art department yet?’

      Jill shook her head. ‘But they’ll be on your desk immediately after lunch. I spoke to Alison Warren earlier, and they’re almost ready.’

      ‘Good. And speaking of lunch, did Michael Kallinski confirm? Or let you know where I’m supposed to meet him?’

      ‘He called a bit earlier. He didn’t want me to bother you, since you’d just arrived when he rang. That’s why I didn’t put him through. He’s picking you up at twelve-fifteen.’

      ‘Oh.’ Paula looked at her watch, rose and walked over to the dressing room, paused at the door, glanced down at her wrinkled cotton slacks. ‘In that case, I’d better change. I want to go out onto the floor, check a few things before Michael arrives, and I don’t have too much time. Excuse me, Jill.’

      ‘Of course.’ Jill scooped up the papers on the desk and headed to her own office. ‘Let me know if you need anything.’

      ‘I will,’ Paula said, closing the door behind her.

      The dressing area had been the filing room in Emma’s day, but Paula had revamped it, adding floor-to-ceiling closets with mirrored doors, excellent lighting and a dressing table. She sat down at this, freshened her make-up and brushed her hair, then she slipped out of the shirt, trousers and sandals she had worn for driving from Yorkshire.

      Within seconds she was dressed in the clothes she had brought with her in the garment bag: a black silk shantung suit, designed especially for her by Christina Crowther, classically simple, tailored and smart, worn with a white silk camisole, dark, very sheer stockings and high-heeled black patent pumps. The jewellery she added was equally simple but effective: a three-strand pearl choker with a diamond clasp at the front encircled her neck, and large mabé pearl studs ringed with diamonds glittered on her ears.

      Staring