Peach (61 page)

In bed, with Claire beside him, he lay awake for a long time, planning his approach. It was no good pretending to be a conformist—he’d already proven that he wasn’t. And he knew Great Lakes Motors situation. They were in trouble, especially with the Japanese competition. But he had the answer to that—if they’d go for it. Noel tossed restlessly, only falling into a deep sleep as dawn finally broke over Motor City.

The phone was bleeping, a muted urgent sound, so that Claire felt it must have been doing it for some time. Yawning, she stretched out a hand, glancing at the clock. Jesus, it
was already seven. “Hello,” she said into the receiver. She looked at Noel sleeping soundly beside her. God, he was attractive, no wonder she couldn’t resist him …! “Hello?” she asked again.

After a pause a female voice asked distantly, “Is Mr. Maddox there?”

“Sorry,” yawned Claire, “he’s still sleeping. No, wait a minute, no he’s not.” Noel opened an eye and she handed him the receiver. “It’s for you, sleepyhead,” she said laughing.

“Hello,” said Noel lazily.

“Noel?”

He sat up with a jolt. “Peach! What are you doing calling so early? Is something wrong?”

There was silence on the other end and his eyes met Claire’s shocked ones worriedly. “Peach, are you there?” he called.

“Obviously I called too early for you,” Peach said distantly. “Oh Noel … how could you …?” The phone echoed emptily in his hand, the connection severed.

“Oh my God, Noel! I’m sorry,” said Claire. “I answered it without thinking—it’s a reflex …”

Noel climbed from the warm, crumpled bed. “It’s not your fault, Claire,” he said quietly, pulling a robe over his nakedness.

Claire eyed him anxiously as he paced to the window, and then she headed for the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Noel paced the stretch of polished wood floor alongside the windows that framed the city he’d always longed to conquer, wondering what to do. It was almost eight o’clock—he had two hours before he would call Great Lakes Motors. Two hours in which to sort out what had just happened. But how? What should he do? Lie to Peach? Tell her it was the new housekeeper? If that would hurt her less then
maybe that’s what he should do—a soft lie to cover a one-off night when he’d suddenly felt he was back at the bottom of the heap. Because how could he expect Peach to understand the truth? How could anybody understand him when he wasn’t even sure of his motives himself? Why was he always dissatisfied? And why did he always want to put himself on the line, push himself to the limits, strive for the next self-appointed goal? He had everything a man could wish for: acknowledged success in his field, more money than he’d ever wanted. He was married to the girl of his dreams and he had a son, a second-generation Maddox. Striding to the phone he dialled Paris. Oliver answered and gave him Lais’s number in Germany. Noel dialled again, waiting impatiently as the phone buzzed faintly, sounding a million miles away.

“Noel?” asked Lais, surprised. “What on earth is going on? Peach is packing, in floods of tears. She’s taking the next plane back to Paris.”

“It’s nothing, Lais, just tell Peach it was nothing—a mistake. Ask her to speak to me—please.”

“Well, I’ll try, Noel—but I get a feeling that whatever it is, for Peach it was drastic. Hold on and I’ll speak to her …”

Noel waited, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. Lais came back to him almost immediately. “No go I’m afraid, Noel. She refuses to come to the phone and when I gave her your message she just burst into tears again.”

“Jesus!” exclaimed Noel angrily. “What flight is she taking?”

“Whichever is the first flight out to Paris, she doesn’t care,” said Lais. “I don’t like to see her like this, Noel. I’m telling you that if I could, I would keep her here, but she’s determined to go home. You’d better get there as fast as you can.”

“Right. Tell her I’ll get a flight out tonight, I’ll be in Paris tomorrow. And thank you, Lais. I’m sorry for all this.”

“I’m not unfamiliar with the situation,” commented Lais wryly. “I can guess what it’s all about, Noel, although Peach isn’t saying. Of course you’re a fool—but then, aren’t most men?”

She rang off without saying goodbye and Noel replaced the receiver grimly. Claire emerged from the bathroom, smart in last night’s black dress and lace stockings, her hair neatly brushed and fresh red lipstick gleaming on her pretty mouth. He could smell her perfume from here—it was still the same one.

“I’ll be off then,” she said pulling on her silver fox jacket. “I’m truly sorry, Noel.”

She stood there looking dejected and he smiled ruefully. “It’s not your fault, sweet Claire.” He walked with her to the elevator. “Thanks for being there when I needed you.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips and stepped into the elevator. “We needed each other, Noel,” she said as the doors closed.

Standing under the blast of cold water in the shower Noel tried to sort out his thoughts. There was nothing he could do now about Peach except plan to get a flight out this evening. He would sort it all out when he saw her, long-distance explanations would do no good, he could see that now. And lies would only demean her further. He’d hold her in his arms, he’d confess, tell her the truth; she would judge him and forgive him and they would paper over the crack he’d created in their relationship. Meanwhile, he’d got to think out his approach to Great Lakes Motors.

Noel soaped his hard, wiry body, counting the things that would go against him—at his assumed age of forty-five, not to mention his real age, he was too young; he was an engineer first and a businessman second; he was a media “star,”
courted by the press as much for his marriage to a socially prominent heiress and member of one of the world’s great automobile families, as for his radical and outspoken viewpoint on Detroit and the status of the auto business today. Detroit liked to close ranks and present a united face to its shareholders and the press when times were rough, and they didn’t go in much for your non-conformist sharp-shooters. Unless, of course, they recognised that the trouble went so deep, only drastic reorganisation would stop the decline.

Then what were his assets? What was he selling? Comparative youth in an industry dominated by men in their sixties could be an asset presented in the right way; his media prominence could gain him an immediate tangible image to the customer, the man out there buying the car—better than some faceless corporation any one of which, like their cars, looked to Joe Public much like the other. A proven track-record, from his progress through Great Lakes Motors and US Auto, to the presidency of de Courmont; his previous success with the “Stallion”; his current success with a radical corporate re-structuring policy, and his outstanding success with the “Duke.” And, of course, his turn-around record, concept to production, of three years over their five.

Whistling cheerfully, Noel towelled dry and faced himself in the mirror, shaving away the dark growth of beard, all thoughts of Claire Anthony and the previous night dismissed from his mind. Peach would wait. He’d explain everything when he got there and she’d be so thrilled by what he had to say she’d forgive him his small mistake.

Paris sparkled under the October sunshine as Peach with little Charles on her knee stared out of the window of the taxi taking her from Orly Airport to the Ile St Louis; but the dark glasses she wore were to shade her swollen eyes from the world, not to protect her from the glare of the sun.

When she had called Noel there had been a warm, half-sleeping intimacy about the woman’s voice that left her in no doubt about what had happened, even if the woman hadn’t said what she did about Noel being asleep and then no he wasn’t. The shock had left her speechless at first, before the pain hit her. Oh God, nobody told her that it would hurt like this! It hadn’t been this way with Harry—but then she’d never put all her trust in Harry the way she had with Noel. She had just known that Noel would never betray that trust and on all his many trips to the States without her it had never once occurred to her to doubt him. The soft sound of the woman’s laughter rang again in her ears and Peach shook her head, gazing miserably at the engaging face of her son. He smiled, still chattering about the taxi excitedly. Charles loved being in a car—Noel always said that obviously he took after him.

Charles looked out of the window as the cab pulled into the courtyard of the Paris mansion, and he laughed with delight. “Home again, Maman,” he said beaming.

“Yes, we’re home, Charles,” said Peach, “or at least I think we are.”

She stared at the house that once had seemed so welcoming
and familiar. Its lofty hallways echoed with young Charles’s excited cries and a sound of voices came from behind the closed double-doors of the grand salon.

“It’s the seminar for selected dealers today, Madame Maddox,” explained Oliver.

Of course, she had forgotten about it! In typical fashion Noel had taken her concept of the house working for its living a step further by using it for salesmen’s conferences, dealer seminars, think-tank meetings with his executives. In fact, it was one of the reasons she’d gone away this week, to avoid the businessmen, even though, of course, she and Noel had their private apartments.

“Monsieur Maddox telephoned, Madame, from Detroit. He said to tell you he would call again this evening.”

And what would he say? wondered Peach. That she had got it all wrong, that the woman was a maid, she’d just brought him in his morning coffee? She could have come up with a dozen excuses for him herself—easy ways out—if she chose to believe them. But what would that achieve? Trust had been shattered and no matter what Noel said she felt as though the bottom had dropped out of her world.

She glanced at her watch. She would wait for his phone call. She wouldn’t question him, and she wouldn’t accuse. He was taking a flight out tonight and he would be here with her tomorrow. She’d just let him say what he had to say, because she loved him so much she still hoped it wasn’t true. And there was just a chance that it wasn’t.

Noel had met with Bill Masters, president of Great Lakes Motors, at eleven o’clock that morning and after a few mutually complimentary preliminaries Noel had stated his reason for being there.

“You’re an off-beat candidate, Noel,” said Masters, shaking his head. “The Board would take a lot of convincing—
and I must say so would I. Sure, you’ve proven yourself in France, and you’ve done a terrific job, there’s no denying that. But this is the States, Noel. The game-plan’s different. We’ve got Wall Street and all those shareholders breathing down our necks. Try to tell them you’re pouring money into new technology and that their dividends’ll be substantially lower for the next few years and see what happens. The shudder would be felt throughout the economy of the entire country.”

“It needn’t be that drastic,” countered Noel. “The way I see it, it could be done gradually. I’d like a chance to discuss it with you over lunch, and hopefully with the chairman?”

“Arthur’s in Washington today, he’ll be back late afternoon. But why don’t you and I treat ourselves to a decent meal and you can tell me what you’re up to?”

Noel looked at him guardedly. Masters had taken the first bite, even though he’d put down the idea. It was just a crack in the door, but it was enough.

Over lunch he told Masters, “The company’s profits are plummeting again; if you’re not careful they’ll be back on the same steep slippery slope they were in ’73. Sure, they’re up one half year and down the next, but we all know that Great Lakes Motors is in trouble and no amount of creative accountancy is going to fake the real situation for long. For once this industry has to face the long term. The shareholders have had a good ride for their money, it’s time for some input.”

Masters watched the waiter delicately filleting his grilled Dover sole, smiling as the man placed two perfect segments on his plate. A green salad with the special lemon dressing he liked was brought to the table and he waited while Noel was served his swordfish, sipping a glass of Perrier water. “I see you are cholesterol-conscious, too,” he remarked, “it’s the executive disease. You heard about Lance Anthony, of
course? Too bad, Lance is a good man! He might have been here in your shoes, Noel, if it weren’t for that.”

“It’s a bad break,” replied Noel cautiously.

“Lucky he’s got a nice wife and a happy family situation,” remarked Masters. “Early retirement is tough to face when you are that good at your job. Well then, Noel, tell me what you are planning to do to Great Lakes Motors.”

“Fillet it,” said Noel with a grin, “just like the Dover sole. Take out its backbone and give it a new one. Scrap the old half dozen divisions that produce their own cars and make them into just two—a big car division and a small one. Run them as self-contained companies and let them be accountable for their own cars. Get rid of the in-house engineering and manufacturing divisions, so that we can shop around the market place. Create a totally separate company to research and come up with the answer to the Japanese small car—
and
undercut its cost. Involve the workers more in their jobs: give them a labour contract with management by consensus like the Japanese do, so they don’t just feel like hired hands. And frontload the production with the designer and engineer working together the way we did on the ‘Duke,’ the aim being to turn around production in three years instead of five.”