Three Weeks in Paris. Barbara Taylor Bradford

corner where she could curl up, forget where she really was, and dream.

      A great deal of her childhood was spent dreaming, and she found solace in her dreams. She could escape the impoverished, gloomy world she occupied and go to another place, any place she wished. It made her young life more bearable.

      And she always dreamed of beauty…flower-filled gardens, picturesque country cottages with thatched roofs, grassy meadows awash with wildflowers, and grand open spaces with huge, canopied green trees where trilling bird-songs came alive. And sometimes her dreams were of pretty clothes, and ribbons for her hair, and sturdy black shoes, shining with boot polish, for Sandy; and a beautiful silk dress for her mother…a pale blue dress to match her eyes.

      But as she grew older Kay’s priorities changed, and she began to replace her dreams with a new-found focus and concentration, and it was these two qualities, plus her talent, which helped to make her such a great success in the world of fashion.

      Now, as she sat at her desk, thoughts of Ian lingered, nagged at the back of her mind. But eventually she let go of her worries about her marriage and became totally engrossed in her work, as she usually did.

      In many ways, she loved this old day nursery here at Lochcraigie more than her busy, high-tech studio in Edinburgh, not least because of its spaciousness and high ceiling, but also because of the clarity of the light which came streaming in through the six soaring windows.

      After looking through a few sketches for her autumn collection, which she had just finished, she rose and went over to the swatches of fabric hanging on brass hooks attached to the opposite wall. The vermilion wool she had focused on a short while before attracted her attention again, and she unclipped it, carried it over to the window, where she scrutinized it intently.

      Suddenly, a smile flickered in her eyes as she remembered Sophie’s comment a short while ago. Smoochy, she had called the colour, as in a kiss, and Kay knew exactly what her assistant meant. It was a lovely lipstick shade, one which reminded her of the glamorous stars of those old movies from the fifties.

      As often happened with Kay, inspiration suddenly struck out of the blue. In her mind’s eye she saw a series of outfits…each one in a different version of vivid vermilion red. She thought of cyclamen first, then deep pink the colour of peonies, pale pinks borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas, bright red lifted from a pot of geraniums, and all of those other reds sharpened by a hint of blue. And mixed in with them she could see a selection of blues…cerulean, delphinium and aquamarine, as well as deep violet and pansy hues, a softer lilac and the lavender shade of hydrangeas.

      That’s it, she thought, instantly filling with excitement. A winter collection of clothes based on those two colours–red and blue–interspersed with other tones from these spectrums. What a change from the beiges, browns, greens, taupes and terra-cottas of her spring season.

      Turning away from the window where she still stood, Kay went over to the other fabric samples and searched through them quickly, looking for the colours she now wanted to use. She found a few of them and carried them back to her desk, where she spread them out. Then she began to match the samples to the sketches she had already done for her winter line, envisioning a coat, a suit or a dress in one of the reds, purples or blues.

      Very soon she was lost in her work, completely oblivious to everything, bubbling inside with enthusiasm, her creative juices flowing as she began to design, loving every moment of it.

      At twenty-nine Kay Lenox was one of the best-known young fashion designers on both sides of the Atlantic. In London her clothes sold at her boutique on Bond Street, and in New York at Bergdorf Goodman. She had a boutique in Chicago and one in Dallas, and another on Rodeo in Beverly Hills.

      Her name was synonymous with quality, stylishness and wearability. The clothes she designed were elegant, but in a relaxed and casual manner, and they were extremely well cut and beautifully made.

      The fabrics Kay favoured gave her clothes a great sense of luxury…the finest light wools, cashmeres, wool crepes, soft Scottish tweeds, suede, leather, crushed velvet and a heavy silk which she bought in France. Her flair and imagination were visible in the way she mixed these fabrics with each other in one garment–the result a look entirely unique to her.

      Kay worked on steadily through the morning, and so concentrated was she that she almost jumped out of her skin when the phone next to her elbow rang.

      Picking it up, she said, ‘Lochcraigie,’ in a somewhat sharpish tone.

      ‘Hello, darling,’ her husband answered. ‘You sound a bit snotty this morning.’

      ‘Ian!’ she exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘Sorry. I was lost in a dress, figuratively speaking.’

      He chuckled. ‘Is your designing going well then?’

      ‘I’ll say, and I had a brainstorm earlier. I’m doing the entire winter collection in shades of red running through to palest pink, and blue going to lilac to violet and deep purple.’

      ‘Sounds good to me. Did John phone by any chance?’

      ‘He stopped by, actually. He wanted you to know that the septic tanks at the Home Farm are under control.’

      ‘That’s a relief.’

      ‘Did you find a gift for Fiona?’

      There was a moment’s hesitation before he said, sounding vague, ‘Oh, yes, I did.’

      ‘So you’re on your way home now?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ he replied, clearing his throat. ‘Er, er, I’m a bit peckish, so I’m going to have a spot of lunch. I should be back about fourish.’

      The brightness in her vivid blue eyes dimmed slightly, but she said, ‘All right then, I’ll be here waiting for you.’

      ‘We’ll have tea together,’ he murmured. ‘Bye, darling.’

      He hung up before she could say another word, and she stood there puzzled, staring at the receiver in her hand, and then she went back to work.

      Later that afternoon, when she had eaten a smoked salmon sandwich and drunk a mug of lemon tea, Kay put on a cream fisherman’s-knit sweater from the Orkneys, thick woollen socks and green Wellington boots. In the coat room near the back door she took down her dark green coat of quilted silk, pushed her red-gold hair under a red knitted cap, added a matching scarf and gloves, and went outside.

      She was hit with a blast of freezing air, and it took her breath away, but her clothes were warm, the coat in particular, and she set out towards the loch, in need of fresh air and exercise.

      This was one of her favourite walks on the estate, which in its entirety covered over three thousand acres. A wide path led down from the cutting garden just beyond the back door, past broad lawns, and thick woods bordering one side of the lawns. In the distance was the narrow body of glassy water that was Loch Craigie.

      At one moment Kay stopped and stood staring across at the distant hills, partially obscured this afternoon by a hazy mist on their peaks and lightly covered in snow. Then her eyes settled on the great stone house where she lived, built in 1559 by William Andrews, the new laird of Lochcraigie. From that time onwards, the eldest son had inherited everything through the law of primogeniture, and fortuitously there had always been a male heir to carry on the Andrews name. An unbroken line for centuries.

      Ian was the laird now, although no one ever used that old Scots name any more, except for a few oldtimers from his grandfather’s day who still lived in the village.

      Apart from these vast lands, the Andrews family had many other interests, primarily in business, including manufacturing, publishing and textiles. Everything belonged to Ian, but he was a low-profile millionaire content to lead the quiet country life.

      Kay began to walk again, striding out at a steady pace, her eyes thoughtful as she contemplated her own past. She couldn’t help wondering what Ian would say if he knew of her mean and poverty-stricken beginnings. He would be horrified, shocked, perhaps even disbelieving…