Luck is running with me. And seemingly all the way. At least, so far this year.
First and foremost, and of the greatest importance to me, is my relationship with Robin Dunley. It has never been better in my entire time with him, even going back to our childhood. We are completely in step and in tune. And we have never been more in love. I absolutely adore him, and he feels the same. I know that very well. It is a meeting of the minds; we think alike, speak alike, and, in fact, sometimes he takes the words right out of my mouth, or we say something in unison. It is so uncanny, and so pronounced some people think we have rehearsed beforehand. How silly that is, yet I understand why they do think that.
He has my best interests at heart, just as his are foremost in my mind and heart. There are secret moments, when I am alone, or he is sleeping and I am awake, that I wonder what it would be like to have his child … a small adorable Robin to love, to care for and cherish and watch growing up to become the man his father is …
There is no man like my dearest Robin, not in my estimation. He has the kindest heart, a most loving nature, and his thoughtfulness knows no bounds. And yet he is strong-willed, impetuous, sometimes temperamental and often bossy. A tough negotiator when it comes to business, he always says that when he’s doing business, it’s my business he’s doing. All he wants is to make the best deals for me and to protect me in every way he can.
He makes me laugh, and occasionally he makes me cry. Only he can calm me down when I am angry, or upset, and I suppose, now that I think about it. I run the gamut of emotions with Robin. We are sexually attuned, have the same desires and needs and appetites, and being with him is sheer bliss.
He is the centre of my existence, just as I am the centre of his, and if ever there was a marriage made in heaven this is it. Because I do think of our relationship as a marriage. What else can one call it? We are partners in every way. No piece of paper do we need. He does not mention the legality of our union any more. Nor do I. He’s as happy as I am, just the way it is.
I am happy on another level because of Grace Rose. Ever since she told me last September that I am her heir, I have been walking on clouds. She has left me the one thing I want most of all – additional shares in Deravenels.
It never occurred to me that she would do such a thing, because she has a great-nephew. Nor did I realize she owned ten per cent of Deravenel shares. That afternoon she explained everything to me. Her first shares were given to her by Edward Deravenel; these were boosted by shares from her special friend, Amos Finnister, who worked for Edward. He was the man who found Grace Rose in a cart in the East End when she was a child of four, and he had remained devoted to her all his life. After the death of Vicky and Stephen Forth, who brought her up, she inherited another two and a half per cent which created a grand total of ten per cent altogether.
Grace Rose went on to further explain that she had made various other bequests in her will, to charities and staff, and including paintings and jewellery to her great-nephew, Patrick. He was the grandson of Maisie Morran, Charlie’s sister, who had married an Irish aristocrat when she was a star on Broadway. They had had one son who had died in his early forties, and Patrick was the only child, and sole heir to the title, the lands, and considerable money. In Grace Rose’s opinion, Patrick had everything he could ever want or need, but she had left him the two Post-Impressionist paintings he had always admired, along with a few pieces of Cartier jewellery for his wife-to-be. ‘The rest is yours, Elizabeth,’ she had finished that day and had immediately changed the subject.
Many of our business ventures have come to a happy conclusion, and this has made Cecil, Robin and myself feel a degree of satisfaction that our considerable efforts have proved successful. I should include Ambrose here, because it is Robin’s brother who has created our most beautiful resort. In Marbella. It was opened in March and we went to Spain for this important event. And even though I say so myself, success is stamped all over it. We know we have a winner.
Another thrill was the opening of my spas in April … in London. Paris and New York. I have Ambrose’s wife Anne Dunley to thank for that. She is in charge in London and Paris; Anka Palitz in New York. Because of Anne, who helped with the negotiations, Anka runs our spas across America. Six of them used to be hers. We bought her company in December, with the understanding that she would remain with Elizabeth Turner Spas for five years. She agreed and sold us her spas, and now she is my American partner.
At the beginning of May I met with a Russian, Alexander Maslenikoff. He was one of five people interested in buying the house in Chelsea. I knew he was a tough cookie, but he seemed the most likely candidate to pay what I wanted, and so I persisted with him. I won in the end. I asked for eighty million pounds; he offered fifty-five; I said thank you, but no thanks. And I walked away. I was confident that he wanted my beautiful house so badly he would increase his offer. He did. A day later he came back and said his final price was seventy million pounds sterling. Not a penny more, he added. I took it. Once we had agreed on the price, he was easy to do business with. After an immediate inspection by his surveyors and engineers, he signed on the dotted line, and handed me a cashier’s check for seventy million. It cleared immediately. Now my beautiful house of bad memories is his and the money is mine … money to keep Deravenels safe, if needs be.
Robin keeps saying that I can’t put a foot wrong, that 1998 is my year. Let’s hope that he’s right, let’s hope that Lady Luck keeps running with me …
It was Tuesday May twenty-sixth, and tonight would be the first of the Sotheby’s auctions … The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings of the Deravenel–Turner Collections were going on the block. Robin had gone to fetch Grace Rose, and Elizabeth knew she must finish dressing. She was wearing a purple silk cocktail dress by Chanel and the gold medallion which had belonged to Edward Deravenel which she had inherited. As she stared at herself in the mirrored closet door in her dressing room, she realized how wonderful it looked against the purple silk.
As she turned around, the sculpture which Robin had given her for Christmas caught her eye and as always it brought a smile to her face. It was placed on a table against a back wall, where it was shown off to perfection, and it depicted a bed split down the middle diagonally. One half of the bed was made of bright-red silk roses, the other was composed of nails, nail heads down, sharp tips pointing up.
It was by the sculptor and painter Edwina Sandys, Winston Churchill’s granddaughter, and a friend of Robin’s. Most appropriately, it was called The Marriage Bed, and it appealed to Elizabeth’s sense of humour just as much as it had to Robin’s when he had first seen it.
‘Here they are, Elizabeth,’ Blanche Parrell said, hurrying into the dressing room. ‘They were in the shoe closet in the bedroom. The evening bag must be in here though.’
‘Oh, thanks, Blanche dear, and yes it is. I just saw it a moment ago.’ After stepping into the high-heeled silk pumps, dyed purple to match the dress, Elizabeth went on, ‘What time is Thomas picking you up?’
‘He’ll be here in a few minutes, with Kat. He went to fetch her first. I told him to wait downstairs in the car. You don’t have time to be socializing right now.’ Stepping away, Blanche now eyed Elizabeth appraisingly.
‘Do I pass muster?’ Elizabeth asked, smiling at this warm and loving Welshwoman who had been part of her life since her childhood. ‘Obviously not. Why are you frowning, Blanche?’
‘Earrings,’ Blanche answered. ‘That’s what you need. Those gold hoops set with diamonds. I’ll go and get them. Back in a jiffy.’
Elizabeth found the purple silk evening bag by Prada, put in a lipstick, tissues, then went to take out the purple silk stole which matched the dress. When Blanche returned with the hoop earrings she took them from her and put them on and said, ‘I’m ready, and so are you, I see. You look lovely, Blanche, I’ve always liked you in navy blue.’
Blanche beamed at her. ‘Thank you. I bet you’re excited, aren’t you? Tonight’s the big night. On tenterhooks too, I suppose?’
‘You’re correct, Blanche, I’m excited, nervous, apprehensive and shaking inside, actually.’
‘Well, if it helps you, you look as cool as the proverbial cucumber. No sign of nerves, or any other emotion for that matter.’ Blanche laughed. ‘You always were an actress, even when you were little. I often used to say to Thomas, “Let’s not forget she’s an actress, and she’s a good one.” You could have been on the stage, you know.’
They laughed together like the conspirators they’d always been as they went out of the dressing room, and Elizabeth suddenly said, ‘Certain people think Sotheby’s won’t get the high prices tonight, and that some of the paintings might not even sell. The art business suffered at the beginning of the 1990s. There was a bit of a chill in the air because of the recession. Which everyone had predicted, of course. However, Cecil Williams believes that it’s levelled off and the art market is now back to normal. He’s very confident the prices are going to go high tonight.’
‘Cecil knows what he’s talking about,’ Blanche remarked. ‘But then you know that without me having to tell you.’
The intercom buzzed and Elizabeth went to answer it.
Robert said, ‘I’m here, darling, with Grace Rose. And Thomas has just arrived to pick up Blanche.’
‘We’ll be right down,’ she answered.