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 at herself in the mirror, eyeing her reflection critically, Paula decided she liked the way she looked. The suit was crisp and businesslike without being overly severe and was therefore perfect for the store; it was also chic enough to go to lunch at an elegant restaurant. And no doubt they would be going somewhere smart. Michael always took her to the best places.
The staff elevator carried her rapidly down to the main floor.
Paula crossed the jewellery department and headed in the direction of cosmetics and perfumery, looking about as she did.
The store was crowded this morning.
But then it was generally thronged with shoppers from the moment it opened its doors at ten until it closed them at six. Over the decades it had become a famous landmark in London, and people from all over the world flocked through its great portals, to walk around its renowned halls and simply look as well as to buy the merchandise.
Paula loved the bustle, the activity, the crowds, the high-pitched buzz of the voices, so many of them foreign, the excitement that seemed to hang in the air. She usually experienced a small thrill when she returned after an absence, however short it had been, and this morning was no exception. The Yorkshire shops were important entities in the chain, just as those in Paris and New York were, but this was the flagship, and the one she loved the most.
Emma Harte had opened it in 1921.
In three months they would be celebrating its sixtieth anniversary. And what a celebration she had planned. It would be a tribute to her grandmother, one of the greatest merchant princes who had ever lived, as well as a salute to sixty years of superlative retailing and a record unchallenged by any department store, in any city, in any country in the world. Harte’s of Knightsbridge was the best. The only one of its kind. A legend.
A sense of exhilaration at being back on this very special territory, her favourite bit of turf, brought an extra spring to her step as she walked into perfumery and drew to a stop.
Eagle-eyed as always, she stood seeking out imperfections but found none. This pleased her. The area had recently been redesigned under her close supervision and even though she said so herself, the results were smashing.
Glass panels etched in the manner of Lalique, many mirrors, masses of chrome and silver accents, crystal chandeliers and wall sconces … all these elements combined to create a shimmering effect that was stunning. The scheme made the perfect backdrop for the eyecatching displays of cosmetics, perfumes and beauty products. Opulent, glamorous, inviting, the department was designed to lure women into spending tons of money, and it had succeeded brilliantly, just as she had known it would when it was still on the drawing board.
Good merchandising and marketing, that’s what it’s all about, Paula thought, moving on briskly, making a detour through lingerie on the way to the Rayne-Delman shoe salon. She was revelling in her morning walk through her store … the finest department store in the world. It was the seat of her power, her strong citadel, her pride and joy. In fact, it was everything to her.
For the second time that morning the portrait of Emma hanging in Paula’s office was undergoing a close and fixed scrutiny.
The man who had just drawn to a standstill in front of it was in his late thirties, fair-haired with light blue eyes and a summer tan. He stood about five feet eight, but appeared taller because of his lean, trim build. Also, his clothes added to the illusion of height. He wore a white shirt and a burgundy silk tie, and his dark blue suit, made of the finest imported raw silk, was so flawlessly cut, so unerringly tailored, it hung on him perfectly, was obviously a work of art from Savile Row.
His name was Michael Kallinski and he stood examining the alluring face captured in oils on the life-sized canvas, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he ruminated on the formidable Emma Harte.
It suddenly struck him as quite curious that a woman who had been dead for over a decade – eleven years to this very day to be exact – was always spoken about as if she were still alive, and by most people at that, not merely her immediate family. He supposed that someone of Emma’s charisma and brilliance, who had made such a vivid and powerful impact in her lifetime, would be
