Lady of Fortune Read Online Free
Author: Graham Masterton
âItâs like milk and moonlight, all mixed up.â
Even though eighty years had shrivelled her beauty away, Effie Watson still had the grace of a girl of 17; and when she was helped out across the pillared porch of her mansion two days later, she wore a cream summer dress with a cream straw hat and a billowing veil that, for a moment, disguised her age.
This was the woman whom Fortune magazine had described only three weeks previously as âthe dominatrix of Western bankingâ, and whose personal assets they had cautiously estimated at âwell in excess of $620 millionsâ. Her dress had been specially designed for her by David Emanuel, who had made the wedding-dress for the Princess of Wales, and her veil was sewn with hundreds of tiny crystals and seed pearls.
Her long-wheelbase Lincoln limousine waited for her in the California sunlight, parked beside the small shiny-leaved orange trees which lined the white Futura-stone driveway. A fat white dove had settled on the carâs V-shaped television antenna, and was warbling to itself contentedly. The chauffeur opened the car door, helped Effie to settle back in the pale blue velvet cushions in the back seat, and then neatly spread a cream tapestry rug over her knees.
âBeing a wayward girl again today, Miss Watson?â
Effie smiled. She knew just as well as her chauffeur that the doctor had advised her against going out on her own. So had her insurance company. But her chauffeur always tookextraordinary care of her â not as if she were some breakable and expensive vase, which most people did â but simply as if she were a woman of energy and brightness who, accidentally, had grown old. The chauffeur was young and broad-shouldered and tanned the colour of Ritz crackers. He had once been a walker for a fabulously cantankerous movie queen, but he much preferred Effie because she was indignant and amusing, and never patronised him, and because she allowed him whole free afternoons for windsurfing. She called him Carl, because she believed that all chauffeurs should be called Carl. His real name was Jerre.
The Lincoln glided away from Malibu and joined the Ventura Freeway towards Forest Lawn. Effie watched a video-tape of a Bruckner concert for a while, but then switched the television off. She wasnât in the mood for anything but her own deeply-concealed thoughts. She wanted no music but the quiet internal music of her own regret.
It still hurt when she thought of what Merritt had said to the television interviewers when he resigned from Watsonâs Interbank last month. âYou think this place is a bank? This place is a jacuzzi. The management is all wet, and all that keeps them bubbling is Effie Watsonâs hot air.â
My God, she thought, how much Merritt misunderstood me. But how little I tried to make him understand. I just feel too weary to make people understand me any more. If they donât know that everything I do is for the good of the bank, then I canât help them.
The only sad thing is, I have nobody now to whom I can pass on my fortune. I have millions of dollars in investments and trusts; I have a white-walled mission-style mansion with cloisters and courtyards and fountains; I have the finest collection of Gainsborough portraits outside Europe; I have Sèvres plates from which nobody now will ever eat.
If only I were younger. I have so much love in me, so much strength in me. I have so much capability, and the fierce desire to apply it. I should be thirty-seven now, instead of ninety-seven. I should be twenty-seven. Or seventeen again.
All those furious flickering decades of work and laughter and love and anguish, and what do I have to show for them? Dead lovers, and deserted friends. The experience of a whole life. A million meals eaten, a hundred thousand kisses shared. All gone. And no hope of handing any of it on to anybody.
They arrived at the cemetery. Under an unfocused midday sun, Carl
Even though eighty years had shrivelled her beauty away, Effie Watson still had the grace of a girl of 17; and when she was helped out across the pillared porch of her mansion two days later, she wore a cream summer dress with a cream straw hat and a billowing veil that, for a moment, disguised her age.
This was the woman whom Fortune magazine had described only three weeks previously as âthe dominatrix of Western bankingâ, and whose personal assets they had cautiously estimated at âwell in excess of $620 millionsâ. Her dress had been specially designed for her by David Emanuel, who had made the wedding-dress for the Princess of Wales, and her veil was sewn with hundreds of tiny crystals and seed pearls.
Her long-wheelbase Lincoln limousine waited for her in the California sunlight, parked beside the small shiny-leaved orange trees which lined the white Futura-stone driveway. A fat white dove had settled on the carâs V-shaped television antenna, and was warbling to itself contentedly. The chauffeur opened the car door, helped Effie to settle back in the pale blue velvet cushions in the back seat, and then neatly spread a cream tapestry rug over her knees.
âBeing a wayward girl again today, Miss Watson?â
Effie smiled. She knew just as well as her chauffeur that the doctor had advised her against going out on her own. So had her insurance company. But her chauffeur always tookextraordinary care of her â not as if she were some breakable and expensive vase, which most people did â but simply as if she were a woman of energy and brightness who, accidentally, had grown old. The chauffeur was young and broad-shouldered and tanned the colour of Ritz crackers. He had once been a walker for a fabulously cantankerous movie queen, but he much preferred Effie because she was indignant and amusing, and never patronised him, and because she allowed him whole free afternoons for windsurfing. She called him Carl, because she believed that all chauffeurs should be called Carl. His real name was Jerre.
The Lincoln glided away from Malibu and joined the Ventura Freeway towards Forest Lawn. Effie watched a video-tape of a Bruckner concert for a while, but then switched the television off. She wasnât in the mood for anything but her own deeply-concealed thoughts. She wanted no music but the quiet internal music of her own regret.
It still hurt when she thought of what Merritt had said to the television interviewers when he resigned from Watsonâs Interbank last month. âYou think this place is a bank? This place is a jacuzzi. The management is all wet, and all that keeps them bubbling is Effie Watsonâs hot air.â
My God, she thought, how much Merritt misunderstood me. But how little I tried to make him understand. I just feel too weary to make people understand me any more. If they donât know that everything I do is for the good of the bank, then I canât help them.
The only sad thing is, I have nobody now to whom I can pass on my fortune. I have millions of dollars in investments and trusts; I have a white-walled mission-style mansion with cloisters and courtyards and fountains; I have the finest collection of Gainsborough portraits outside Europe; I have Sèvres plates from which nobody now will ever eat.
If only I were younger. I have so much love in me, so much strength in me. I have so much capability, and the fierce desire to apply it. I should be thirty-seven now, instead of ninety-seven. I should be twenty-seven. Or seventeen again.
All those furious flickering decades of work and laughter and love and anguish, and what do I have to show for them? Dead lovers, and deserted friends. The experience of a whole life. A million meals eaten, a hundred thousand kisses shared. All gone. And no hope of handing any of it on to anybody.
They arrived at the cemetery. Under an unfocused midday sun, Carl
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