To Be the Best. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      Michael stepped back, tilted his head to one side, trying to ascertain how old Emma had been when she had sat for this portrait. Most probably in her late thirties, he decided. With her chiselled features, flawless complexion, reddish-gold hair and those extraordinary green eyes, she had been a great beauty as a young woman: there was no doubt about that whatsoever.

      Little wonder his own grandfather had been madly in love with her those many years ago, and ready and willing to leave his wife and children for her – according to Kallinski family gossip, at any rate. And from what he understood from his father, David Kallinski had not been the only man to fall under her mesmeric spell. Blackie O’Neill had apparently been bewitched by her, too, in their youth.

      The Three Musketeers. That’s what Emma had called them – his grandfather, Blackie and herself. In their early days together, at the turn of the century, they had been considered an unlikely trio … a Jew, an Irish Catholic and a Protestant. Seemingly they had not paid much attention to what people thought of them or their friendship, and they had remained close, almost inseparable, throughout their long lives. And what an unbeatable trio they had proven to be. They had founded three impressive financial empires which straddled half the world and three powerful family dynasties which only went from strength to strength with the passing of time.

      But it had been Emma who had been the real mover, the doer and the shaker, always pushing ahead with vision and enterprise, the two men following her lead. Anyway, that was the way his father told it, and he had no reason to disbelieve him. And he knew from his own experience of her that Emma had been absolutely unique. As far as the younger members of the three clans were concerned, she had certainly left her imprint on each one of them, himself included. Her indelible stamp, his father called it.

      Michael smiled to himself, remembering exactly how Emma had been thirty-odd years ago … rounding them up as children and carting them off to Heron’s Nest for the spring and summer holidays. They had called her ‘The General’ behind her back, and the house in Scarborough had been affectionately referred to as ‘the army camp’. She had put them through their paces and instilled in them her own philosophy of life, had taught them the meaning of honour and integrity, the importance of the team spirit and playing the game. And all through the years of their growing up she had given unstintingly of her love and understanding and friendship; they were better people now for having known her then.

      A look of love washed over his face, and he touched his hand to his forehead, gave the portrait a small salute. She had been the very best … just as her granddaughters were the best. A rare breed, the Harte women, all of them, and most especially Paula.

      The sound of the door opening prompted him to swing around quickly.

      His face lit up at the sight of Paula.

      ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting!’ she exclaimed, looking apologetic, hurrying forward to greet him.

      ‘You didn’t, I was early,’ he replied, going to meet her in the centre of the floor. He gave her a huge bear hug, then held her away, stared down into her face. ‘You’re looking wonderful.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the portrait, then brought his gaze back to hers. ‘And you’re beginning to resemble that legendary lady more than ever.’

      Paula groaned, gave him a look of mock horror as they drew apart.

      ‘Oh God, Michael, not you too! Please. There are enough people who call me the Clone behind my back without you giving voice to the idea.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s all I need from a dear friend …’

      He burst out laughing. ‘I sometimes think you’re all clones, actually. The lot of you … Emily and Amanda, as well as you.’ He swivelled to face the portrait. ‘And when was that painted, by the way?’

      ‘In 1929. Why?’

      ‘I’d been trying to figure out how old Emma was when she sat for it.’

      ‘Thirty-nine. It was started and finished just before her fortieth birthday.’

      ‘Mmmm. I guessed as much. And she was beautiful then, wasn’t she?’ Not giving Paula a chance to reply, he went on, with a small grin, ‘Do you realize that you and I would have been related if David had left my grandmother Rebecca and run off with Emma?’

      ‘Let’s not get into all that old history today,’ she said with a light laugh, moved rapidly towards the desk, sat down and added, ‘Anyway, I feel as if we are, don’t you? Related, I mean.’

      ‘Yes.’

      He followed her across the room and seated himself in the chair facing her.

      There was a brief silence, then he remarked quietly, ‘Blood might not be thicker than water as far as some families are concerned, but it is when it comes to the three clans. Our grandparents would’ve killed for each other, and I think their kind of loyalty has been passed down to our generation, hasn’t it?’

      ‘I should say so – ’ She cut herself short when the phone rang and reached to answer it. After saying hello and listening for a second she put her slim, tapering hand over the receiver, explained, ‘It’s the manager of the Harrogate store, I’ll only be a minute.’

      He nodded, sat back in the chair, waiting for her to finish her call, quietly studying her as he had studied the painting only a few minutes before.

      Michael Kallinski had not seen Paula for over two months, and because he had been away her uncanny resemblance to Emma had struck him more forcibly than ever when she walked in. Her colouring was different from Emma’s, of course. Paula had hair as black as pitch and eyes of the deepest darkest blue. She had inherited Emma’s clear, finely wrought features, though, and the famous widow’s peak, which was extremely dramatic above those large eyes set wide apart. With the passing of time the two women seemed to merge more and more, to become identical, to him at least. Perhaps it had something to do with the expression in Paula’s eyes these days, her mannerisms, her pithiness, the way she moved – swiftly, always in a hurry – and the habit she had of laughing at her misfortunes. These characteristics reminded him of Emma Harte, just as her attitude in business did.

      He had known Paula his entire life and yet, oddly enough, he had not really known her until they were both in their thirties.

      When they had been children he had not liked her one little bit, had considered her to be cold, standoffish and indifferent to them all, except for her cousin Emily, that roly-poly pudding of a child whom she had forever mothered, and Shane O’Neill, of course, whom she had always striven to please.

      Privately, Michael had called her Miss Goody Two Shoes, because she had been just that, a child who appeared to have no faults whatsoever, one who was always being clucked over, praised and held up as an example to them by their respective parents. His brother Mark had had his own name for her … Paragon of Virtue. He and Mark had secretly laughed at her, made fun of her behind her back, but then again, they had scoffed at all the girls from the clans, had never wanted to spend time with them, had preferred to be roistering around with the other boys. They had banded together with Philip, Winston, Alexander, Shane and Jonathan, who had been their boon companions in those days.

      It was only in the last six years that he had come to know Paula and he had discovered that this shrewd, hardworking and brilliant woman hid a deep emotional side behind her cool air and her inbred refinement. The aloof manner was merely an outward manifestation of her shyness and natural reserve, those traits he had so misunderstood СКАЧАТЬ