Power Games

Satisfied in that knowledge, she fell fast into a deep and dreamless sleep.

5 (#ulink_98e1e2f3-6fb0-5912-aa0d-24ea5efa1c33)

Boston

Angela Silvers hated to fly. She had always possessed an irrational fear of airplanes. She hated the roaring take-off, the jumps of turbulence and the way that every sound and shudder convinced her they were about to fall out of the sky.

She closed the blind, shutting out the sprawling blue and floozy clouds.

‘Excuse me?’ She smiled at a passing attendant.

‘Yes, Ms Silvers?’

‘Would I be able to get a drink, please? A martini?’

‘Coming right up.’

Noah would tease her. Angela had a fleet of jets at her beck and call—why not make the trip in luxury? But there was something ugly about jumping on a plane for one as easily as if you were hailing a cab. Besides, her father’s aircraft were way too light for her liking: at least on a 737 it felt as if there were something between her and the ground. Her drink arrived and she threw it back in one.

She hoped the liquor might knock her out, but while it took the edge off it wasn’t enough to relax her completely. The knack was to focus on something else, anything to detract from the fact they were 35,000 feet up in the air in a rattling tin can. Normally the promise of landing was enough to pull her through—thoughts of arriving at her hotel, taking a long soak in the tub, ordering room service, slipping into bed and Skyping Noah—but today, the flight was just the beginning.

Angela was heading to company HQ, the house in Boston where she had grown up. She intended to thrash it out with her father once and for all.

‘I’m taking this moment to announce my retirement,’ Donald had proclaimed at the FNYC launch. ‘As of tonight I plan to step back from the front line and apportion duty between my two gifted sons, Orlando and Gianluca …’

Two weeks after the event Angela still couldn’t believe it.

Never mind the fact that her father had stolen her thunder—this had been her night, her project, her triumph, and instead of crediting her as he should have done he had snatched the attention right back onto the boys—his words had shaken her to her core. The injustice was breathtaking.

My two gifted sons? It had to be a joke. But as Orlando and Luca had paced proudly up to claim the prize, the grim reality had become clear.

All the while Angela had worn a rigid smile of congratulations, bitten her way through countless toasts and declarations of, ‘Yes, they will be wonderful, won’t they?’ and crushed wave after wave of hot, irrepressible anger.

In the days that followed, Angela had turned Donald’s decision over in her mind. Forget about it being unfair, it was simply illogical to give the reins to her brothers. She had stepped up time and time again to work alongside her father, drawing up proposals, putting forward solutions, re-organising budgets, but none of it came to any use: she was, and always would be, at a disadvantage because of her sex.

She would stand for it no longer—and her father wouldn’t know what hit him.

The pilot’s voice came on the PA system. They had begun their descent.

She braced herself for impact.

Logan International was packed. Angela was escorted through Arrivals, her head bowed against the burst of attention her appearance sparked, and was relieved when they emerged into fresh air. Paparazzi surged as she approached the BMW. In black Ray-Bans, skinny jeans and a coral blazer, her spike heels punching the tarmac, it was clear this was no pleasure trip. Angela Silvers had landed on business.

Eternally the paps fished for a bout of reckless behaviour that would give them the money shot and cement her role as spoiled heiress—a bad attitude, a crabby pooch or, best of all, a wardrobe malfunction, anything to prove she had succumbed to type. But with Angela it never came. She understood her position and carried it with grace, stopping to sign autographs for fans, which she delivered with a flourish and a smile. If the press weren’t so desperate to capture the first fall—for surely at some point it would come, it did for the best of them—they would have given up long ago.

As her car joined the Mass Pike, she tried calling Noah. He was on location, shooting a romantic comedy whose script they had giggled over in bed.

‘Hey,’ he’d kissed her tenderly, ‘so when are you gonna be my leading lady?’

She wished it were that simple. Noah was Hollywood royalty, the industry’s most sought-after bachelor. Every project he took he was ambushed by female co-stars, and while it wasn’t Angela’s style to be jealous it couldn’t help but sting.

‘I only want you,’ he told her every time, and while she wanted to trust him, she was no idiot. Noah had been a player from the moment they’d met.

She was scared of getting hurt again. Giving herself to him totally, risking it all. At the same time, he wouldn’t wait for ever.

After her father’s revelation, she wondered why she bothered concealing it from him at all. Donald had no intention of empowering his daughter with muscle in the business, now or ever. What difference did it make who she dated?

But the itch remained: Tell him this and it’s over for good.

Donald hated Noah. He hated everything Noah stood for. He hated Noah’s past. He hated Noah’s family, where he had come from and where he had wound up. Countless times Angela had promised her father that the friendship was at an end.

To confess the betrayal would be kamikaze.

Noah’s cell went to his machine. She listened, just to hear him; her heart lifted at his voice but she decided against leaving a message. In any case, he’d advised her against the Boston trip—he himself never returned to their childhood ground, the place owed him nothing and the memories were raw—and would be frustrated that she’d come. Donald needed time, he had promised, to realise the mistake he’d made. Angela was amazed at Noah’s reluctance to take sides, at his fairness. After all Donald had thrown against him, still he didn’t resort to cheap shots.

‘I love you, and you love your father,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

She ended the call as they pulled onto Bourton Avenue. Hers was a majestic neighbourhood, lined with giant Victorian brownstones, grand porticos and gated driveways. Sunshine glinted on the Charles River. There was the Amity Street Church where Angela had spent reluctant Sunday mornings as a child, the Preston Historical Institute where many a school trip had wound up, and the Clemency College of Dance, where she had made out once on the steps with Henry Lambert. So much was unchanged, yet Angela didn’t feel the same. Boston was her heritage, but now its magnificence seemed outlandish and silly. Coming in past the flagship Silvers Hotel, its peaks like turrets on a castle and its doormen tipping their caps, and the inaugural store her great-grandfather had founded, here, at least, they were royalty.

Commonwealth House was the most splendid on the street. The car eased through and Angela stepped out, thanking her chauffeur and breathing the old air.

She was home.

‘Hello?’

Inside, the hall was vast. Her enquiry echoed, bouncing off the marble chequered floor. A staircase that wouldn’t have been out of place in the world’s most celebrated museum divided beneath a portrait of her great-grandfather, stern in his suit, his black walking cane in one hand. Cabinets housed relics from their schooldays—sporting trophies, certificates and photographs. In one portrait, a teenage Orlando and Luca were suited for their aunt’s wedding. Angela stood between them, scowling because Orlando had told her she couldn’t come camping at the weekend. Another was a still from Angela’s tenth birthday party—she’d been a pain in the ass in those days. All the guests were in pink frilly frocks apart from the birthday girl, who wore a Back to the Future T-shirt and denim shorts, and was sticking her tongue out.

‘In here!’ Her mother’s voice drifted through from the kitchen.

Angela emerged into a bright, richly scented space. The kitchen faced out onto rolling lawn, at the foot of which shone a serene lake, a rowing boat tethered in the reeds. It smelled of warm bread and rosemary and the spice of a cooking oven. Isabella was prepping salads, joined at the counter by Angela’s nonna, and on the veranda a bunch of her extended family were drinking wine and mingling.

Angela kissed the women. ‘You know I’m not staying for dinner?’

‘Of course you are,’ said Isabella.

‘My return flight’s booked—it leaves at nine.’

‘And your father isn’t home until this evening, so you’ll have to cancel.’ Isabella slapped her hand away from the just-baked ciabatta. ‘Eh, smettila, Angela!’

‘Is Orlando here? Luca?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Isabella clicked her tongue. ‘I wish you three would not fight all the time.’

‘I wish for a lot of things, Mom.’