Fire in the Wind Page 9

  Jake was obviously well-read and he explained things clearly and understandably. But he was politically cynical, and he could not help imparting his idea of things along with the recital of facts she had requested. Although he did not care which of the three major political parties formed the government, he did not like the present prime minister, and he was passionate on the subject of police powers and the erosion of civil liberties in the country that seemed to her as free as her own.

  "The laws are there," he told her. "If the police invoked all the laws half the country could be in prison tomorrow."

  Vanessa could neither believe what he said nor believe that he was lying. "Well," she said consideringly, thinking of the locks on the door of her mid-Manhattan apartment, "I know I feel freer here, Jake. I mean, think how free we were in Stanley Park the other night."

  He shrugged. "True. No doubt I'm biased at the moment because the government ruled a couple of weeks ago that if Conrad Corporation went through with a takeover of Carvers Cartage it would have to divest itself of Conrad Trucking. As well as losing a sizeable chunk of money on the deal I now have to sit back and watch a takeover of Carvers by a foreign firm."

  "The reverse takeover you were looking at last night," she queried, "was that a Canadian company or a foreign one?"

  "A British Columbia firm, as it happens," Jake said. "Fraser Valley Helicopter has the largest fleet of helicopters in the world. They do everything from helicopter logging to ferrying workers to offshore oil rigs."

  "Does that mean I should run out and buy shares in Fraser Valley Helicopter?" she asked lightly.

  Jake smiled crookedly. "You should buy shares in Conrad Corporation," he said, and his eyes locked with hers, and Vanessa's heart skipped a beat.

  At the foot of Grouse Mountain it was possible to rent a helicopter for a five-minute over-flight of the mountain and the city, and as they crossed the parking lot after leaving the cable car on the downward trip, Vanessa stopped and gazed across at the helicopter landing pad and the sign announcing the ride.

  "I'd like to do that, I think," she said to Jake.

  "Do what? Oh." He followed the direction of her gaze. "You won't get much of a thrill in five minutes," he said. "If you're free tomorrow morning I'll take you up in the company helicopter instead. All right?"

  As it happened she was free all day Friday. The showing of accessories—bags, shoes and hats—was scheduled for the afternoon, and that was the last show. The evening was given over to another cocktail party that would close the week's events.

  "I'd enjoy that very much." Vanessa smiled, moving again in the direction of the car. "If it's not going to be too much trouble." Jake had been spending a lot of time with her, and he must be a very busy man.

  "It's not going to be too much trouble," Jake said, smiling down into her eyes, and just then there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—some depth of purpose far beyond anything she could have imagined him feeling—so intense and so brief that in the moment she opened her lips in a gasp, it was already gone.

  * * *

  Vanessa stayed backstage for the skirt and slacks showing that night. Although she had managed to get a replacement for Louisa, who had worked the show for a lingerie manufacturer and who was therefore probably experienced, she didn't feel confident enough to sit in the audience.

  In the dressing room an extra pair of hands was usually welcome, though with four models working, no one was very rushed. Vanessa became indispensable, however, by virtue of being there. So she brushed lint off skirts and adjusted clasps on earrings and handed the models their accessories and inspected make-up, on command. And when Alison put a large run in her pantyhose and a panicky search around the dressing room did not bring to light the box of spares, Vanessa sat down and calmly stripped off her own and passed them over.

  After the show she went around to the TopMarx hospitality suite, where the buyers had a chance to look at the garments again and place their orders.

  Tom was sitting alone, looking glum. "You know," he said, "I've been wondering why we didn't book to go home tomorrow. We may as well have. I was nickeled and dimed to death this morning. The big orders come in after the show or not at all." Vanessa recognized this as a disguise for the worry he felt after every show that there would be no orders.

  She said, "They're just having a drink, Tom. They'll be along." She moved over to the racks to straighten a few of the model garments.

  "Speaking of flying home," she said abruptly after a moment, "I'm staying in Vancouver over the weekend and flying back Monday. I'll be back in the office Tuesday." Inwardly she was amazed and apprehensive. When had she decided on this, she wondered—and what other decision might she have made without knowing it?

  "Yeah? Why?" Tom asked. He seemed taken aback by her directness and Vanessa felt a little thrill of power. Why on earth hadn't she taken this assertive attitude with him ages ago, instead of asking for permission all the time like a junior filing clerk?

  "This is a very beautiful country, Tom. I want to see something of it, now that I'm here."

  "Yeah?" Tom shuddered. "I wish you luck." Tom hated everything foreign and didn't care who knew it.

  But Vanessa didn't intend to argue with him. Instead she asked, "What are the orders like?"

  Tom pulled out a notebook in which he had noted down style numbers and running totals. They were good without being overwhelming and after she had looked them over Vanessa picked up the folder of the actual order forms and glanced quickly but expertly through them.

  There was absolutely no doubt that the Canadian buyers went for the beiges, browns, soft pinks, russets and reds. In some cases, she noted, Tom had taken large orders for items in colours that he hadn't planned on offering at all. Vanessa flipped back and forth through the orders, calculating.

  "You realize we haven't got any wool-mix tweed in russet on order for the bomber suit?" she asked. "And what's this order for 6703 in the dusty-rose wool blend? We've only ordered that for the 5203 skirt and the jacket trim. And the same—"

  It was the same for half a dozen fabrics in colours that Tom had refused to believe would sell. Tom had the grace to look uncomfortable.

  "Yeah, well, that can be fixed."

  Vanessa looked back through the file. "You've got some pretty early delivery dates for some of these large orders. Aren't you worried about not getting the fabric on time?" If the fabric manufacturers didn't have on hand the colours Tom hadn't previously ordered there might be a long delay while they made them up.

  "Ah, we'll be okay," said Tom with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  It was obvious that the orders vindicated her on the issue of colour, and only a little less on style. The items that Tom had included in the fall line only because of Vanessa's arguments had gone down well with many of the large buyers—and almost without exception with the small buyers, she noted with wry amusement. Tom would not be exactly thrilled over that, but Vanessa was. The small stores had to compete very hard to survive beside the large chain stores. Every item in stock had to be chosen with an eye to its power to take away a sale from the chain stores.

  In her room shortly afterwards Vanessa took her airline ticket out of her purse and stood a long time looking down at the phone.

  It's only a simple decision, she told herself. It doesn't mean anything except what I told Tom—that I want to see some of the country before I go back. But as she reached for the receiver she could hear Jake's cynical voice saying, little hypocrite.

  Tom would not be happy to be left to fly home alone. Air Canada was the only airline that flew between Vancouver and New York without a change of planes, and she had induced him to fly on the country's national carrier much against his will. Tom was as unadventurous in travel as he was in business and he was afraid of things foreign. But Vanessa had wanted to experience as much as she could of the country that had so nearly been her adopted home, and so they had flown on the big red-black-and-white Air Canada jet.

&nbs
p; "What the hell is that?" Tom had demanded irritably when, after the stewardess had welcomed them in English over the public-address system, she obviously began to say the same thing in another language.

  "Oh, Tom, it's French," Vanessa had said, suddenly thrilling to the strangeness of it. She had been on many business trips with Tom, but all of them had been in the continental United States. Although she was greatly attracted to the thought of foreign travel, her marriage to Larry and his long demanding illness had prevented her doing anything about it. They had honeymooned in Puerto Rico and that was her one and only trip abroad. Until this one.

  "French? What the hell are they speaking French for?" Tom had looked threatened, as though he expected to be pounced on at any minute. "It's an English country, isn't it? Besides, we're still in New York!"

  "Tom, it's a bilingual country," she'd said. "They speak French, too. Haven't you ever heard of Quebec?"

  "Yes, I've heard of it," Tom said. "I still don't know why they want to speak French. English is a perfectly good language. What do they need with two?"

  Since Vanessa hadn't known the answer to this she'd fallen silent and then become aware that the man on the other side of her in the aisle seat was laughing silently.

  Sitting on her bed beside the phone remembering now, Vanessa laughed, too. They must have sounded like a comedy duo, she and Tom. "Who's on third?"

  "No, Who's on first."

  "I dunno...."

  When the man had stopped laughing he had admitted to being Canadian and had answered her questions about his country. "Why do I see Spanish on signs in New York?" he asked, and Tom had answered for her that there were a lot of Hispanics in New York. "Well, the stewardess speaks French because there are a lot of French-speaking people in Canada," the man had explained, "not because everyone speaks two languages. In fact, the French are French and the English are English and rarely do the twain ever meet."

  She'd heard a little in recent years about the twain not meeting. Many people in the province of Quebec wanted to separate and form their own country, she knew that. "Where did the French come from?" she asked the stranger, whose name was Bill and who was a teacher in a remote school in northern British Columbia, the province where they were going.

  He told her that the French had come from the Old World to settle the New, just as the English had, and that there had been many battles between the two countries for supremacy in the colonies. Finally, in 1759, the Battle of the Plains of Abraham had given supremacy in North America to the British. But for many years after that another battle had raged, a political one: what to do about the French settlers. Some people had wanted to stamp out the French language and law and Roman Catholicism; others had not. Then, when the thirteen colonies to the south had begun to show disaffection, it was decided that Britain needed a loyal stronghold on the continent. All the rights that had been taken away from the French after 1759 were given back in 1774, and the French were given sovereignty over a vast tract of land that extended right into the Ohio Valley.

  The move failed. Not only did it fail to win the loyalty of the French settlers, but it further disaffected the thirteen colonies, with what results every American knew, Bill said. But the principle of allowing the French to maintain their own language, religion and laws persisted under attack until it was enshrined in the law about a hundred years later. The descendants of those early settlers still spoke the language of their ancestors, just as did the English of both Canada and the States.

  Vanessa had never before realized that the history of the two countries was so connected. As she sat on her bed now, waiting for Air Canada to answer the phone, it occurred to her that it was no wonder they were so similar. Both countries had had the same parents, the same early influence.

  When the quiet-voiced Air Canada agent answered the phone, Vanessa changed her flight booking from Saturday to Monday morning.

  She hadn't heard the last of this from Tom, she knew. But it wasn't Tom's reaction she was thinking of now, but Jake's, when he learned she was staying over the weekend.

  * * *

  In the morning Vanessa waited for Jake in the coffee shop, as agreed, lingering over her breakfast and a second cup of coffee that was doing nothing to calm her nerves. In spite of almost ten years of marriage she was far too inexperienced with men. How could she tell him she was staying over the weekend without having him think she was agreeing to become his lover? Did she even know whether or not she was agreeing to that?

  It was a relief when he came striding over to her table, wearing a grey three-piece summer suit that made him look very dark in contrast and very business-like.

  He was preoccupied. With little more than a nod to her he pulled out a chair and sank into it, signalling a distant waiter in sign language for a cup of coffee.

  "Where's the helicopter?" she joked. "On the roof?"

  He looked at her, startled. "Oh," he said, "the helicopter. I forgot. I want to talk to you."

  He waited while the waiter filled his cup and her own, then took a quick sip of coffee; Vanessa would have sworn he was nervous.

  "I've got a proposition for you," he said abruptly, setting his cup down and looking at her intently. "How would you like to come and work for me?"

  Chapter 6

  Vanessa choked on her drink. "What?" she asked incredulously, setting down her cup and reaching for the napkin in her lap. She coughed into the napkin, staring over it into Jake's steady gaze. "What?" she repeated.

  "I would like you to come and work for me." Now, suddenly, he was very calm, like a psychiatrist working with a child.

  Vanessa laughed shortly. "What as?" she asked with real curiosity. There was no saying what he might have in his mind.

  "What as? As a designer of women's clothing! What else?"

  Elbow on the table, Vanessa cupped her chin in her hand.

  "You had me wondering," she said with a half-smile. She was leaning half over the table towards him, as though he were a magnet that drew her physically. When she realized that she was wishing that he would lean over, too, and kiss her mouth, she drew back.

  "Do you want to hire me at Designwear? Is somebody leaving?"

  Jake set his drink down on the table. "I want you," he said, "to design a line of women's ready-to-wear I will be backing. You would have complete artistic control. You would be answerable only to me, and to me you would be answerable only in terms of profit." He paused. "Although of course you would be free to consult with me should you wish."

  It took her breath away. It was everything she had ever wanted in her career, the chance to put all her ideas to work. Vanessa stared at him.

  "Are you serious?" she whispered.

  "Yes," said Jake, watching her.

  "I could do what I liked as far as design and production go?"

  "As long as you're showing a profit you may do whatever you like."

  "What happens if I don't show a profit?"

  "You get fired."

  Well, that was straightforward enough. Vanessa took a deep breath and felt her confidence in her own ideas waver.

  "I... I'm not very experienced with the business end of things," she said, thinking frantically that she didn't know one end of a profit-and-loss statement from the other. Jake sat looking at her, not speaking, and suddenly she was disgusted with herself for being so feeble. Everything she wanted was being offered to her on a plate! Suddenly, like a coal that had been smouldering unseen, the idea caught fire in her.

  "I can really run it however I want?" she asked him, her eyes alight.

  He nodded. He was watching her closely, as though he had missed nothing of her progress from fear to conviction.

  "When would you want me to begin?" she demanded.

  Jake paused. "As soon as possible. As soon as you're ready."

  Ideas were bubbling over inside her head as though the lid had suddenly come off a pressure cooker, and Vanessa tried to curb her excitement.

  "There are a lot of things we would ha
ve to discuss before I could make up my mind."

  Jake smiled as though at a secret thought. He pushed back his chair, "Of course," he said. "I'd like you to come to the office now and talk to my accountant. I'd like to have your answer before you leave tomorrow."

  She wasn't leaving tomorrow; she wasn't leaving till Monday, but for some reason Vanessa was more nervous now than ever about telling him so.

  "That's not a lot of time, Jake," she protested. "Why so soon?"

  "Well, all right," he said. "Shall we say a week today?" His tone was faintly patronizing, as though she were being too cautious and cowardly, and she wondered if someone with more confidence would have jumped at this, when privately she felt that even a week was scarcely enough time to decide.

  She shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, that would be all right."

  Jake initialled the bill with a casual scrawl and rose. "Ready?" he said, and she wasn't ready; she would have liked a few more minutes just to sit there and absorb the idea. But it was obvious that in business Jake didn't waste any time, and so she got up and followed him out of the coffee shop.

  "We're going to the office now?" she asked, catching up with him outside the door. Jake nodded. "I'm not dressed for it," Vanessa said, indicating the blue jeans and sneakers she had put on in anticipation of the helicopter ride.

  "Never mind that," Jake said impatiently. "It doesn't matter."

  But here she had the strength to put her foot down. "It does to me," she insisted. "I won't be ten minutes."

  She changed as fast as she could, somehow infected by Jake's impatient hurry, suddenly afraid of irritating him with delay. She pulled on stockings and a light grey suit and shirt and threw the contents of her large navy shoulder bag into a smart grey bag that matched her shoes.

  "If it weren't for the slow elevators in your hotel," she smiled at Jake as she stopped beside him, "I'd have made it in five."

  But he didn't get the joke. "Eight minutes is fine," he said, glancing at his watch, then guided her out to the car waiting at the curb.