A Perfect Heritage (12 page)

‘Saul Finlayson doesn’t do chatting,’ said Bianca, ‘but I thought he was . . . all right.’

‘That’s not much of a testimonial,’ said Patrick, looking anxious.

‘Actually,’ she said, thoughtfully, ‘given what he could be like, I think all right is pretty flattering.’

‘Really?’ He looked more anxious still.

‘Yes. To say Saul Finlayson is ruthless is the understatement of the millennium.’

‘Oh, dear. So you think it could be a mistake, taking the job?’

‘I think it could be. I also think it could be absolutely fascinating. Patrick, you need to talk to him some more, get a bit more of a feel for it, what doing it would be like.’

‘But I can’t really tell that, can I? He’s not going to give me an hour-by-hour rundown of my day.’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Oh darling, don’t be ridiculous. And I think it might be irritating for him.’

‘Patrick, if you’re worried about irritating him at this stage,’ said Bianca, ‘you certainly shouldn’t be going to work for him.’

She spoke lightly, but she meant it. She was beginning to worry about the inroads Saul Finlayson might make into their life.

Florence was having supper with Athina in her flat; they did that occasionally on Saturday, if neither of them was otherwise occupied. Which Florence was more often than Athina; she was on the committee of a small local theatre and tried to see everything they put on. She had, of course, invited Athina many times, who always refused. ‘So kind of you, dear, and of course it’s marvellous what you do for them, but I really don’t admire suburban theatre.’

The talk this evening revolved round the theatre; Athina had seen
Noises Off
, the much-acclaimed new version of the Michael Frayn play.

‘It was excellent, dear, you would enjoy it. Very funny. I do enjoy comedy. Cornelius taught me that, of course, that great theatre doesn’t have to be all drama and tragedy. Would you agree? More champagne?’

‘Absolutely I would,’ said Florence, ‘and yes, please.’

‘Of course the theatre was one of the first bonds between you and Cornelius. I always remember you discussing it the first time we met, you’d both seen some Rattigan thing, and him saying afterwards that we really must employ you, you were so intelligent.’

‘Indeed,’ said Florence. ‘I don’t mean indeed I’m intelligent, although I suppose I am, but I do remember the conversation, of course. And how you interrupted it, Athina, because you said we had to talk business.’

‘Well, it was what we were there for,’ said Athina, ‘and we’d have been there all night if I hadn’t stopped you.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Florence. ‘Or at least until the bar closed.’

‘I – oh, excuse me,’ said Athina, as the phone rang, ‘I must get that. I’m sure it’s Margaret Potterton, calling about a dinner she’s giving next week, fundraising for the Friends. I’ll take it in the other room, so help yourself to champagne, dear.’

She was a Friend of Covent Garden, and very active; it was another comparison she made frequently with Florence’s aptly named Little Theatre.

And Florence poured herself a very full glass of champagne, and sat sipping it, allowing her mind to wander back to that first meeting with Cornelius in the cocktail bar at the Dorchester.

Very tall he had been, that was the first thing she noticed about him, well over six foot, and incredibly, if slightly showily, well dressed in a Prince of Wales suit and a Garrick tie. He had taken her small hand in his and shaken it very gently, as if he was afraid he might crush it, but it wasn’t a feeble handshake even so, it was firm and very steady and his eyes, smiling into hers, were steady too, not wandering round the bar, looking for more interesting or important people.

He ushered her to a seat, and then asked her what she would like to drink: ‘Sherry? G and T?’ His voice was quite light and actor-y, Florence noticed. She smiled at him and said could she have a Gin Fizz.

‘Of course. How very adventurous of you. Darling, what about you?’

‘Oh, I’ll just have a sherry,’ said Athina, clearly slightly surprised by Florence’s order (good, Florence had thought, point to me), ‘but very dry and on the rocks.’

‘And I’ll have a Gin Fizz, keep Miss Hamilton company. It’s a lovely drink and I haven’t had it for a while.’

Florence smiled at him and waited in silence while he waved the waiter over, gave the order.

‘Right,’ said Athina, ‘now, if we might get down to business—’

‘Oh, there’s no hurry, darling,’ said Cornelius. ‘And anyway, I think we should get to know Miss Hamilton a little first. I like to mix business with pleasure.’ He smiled at Florence again. ‘Tell us about yourself, what are you interested in, what you enjoy?’

‘Oh, I have many interests,’ said Florence, taking a cigarette from the silver case he was offering. ‘Music, tennis, the theatre—’

‘The theatre! We love it too. Do you like serious theatre, musicals, what?’

‘I like classic drama best,’ said Florence, ‘Shakespeare, Shaw, Oscar Wilde – if I can have some humour built in so much the better.’

‘Well, I’m with you there,’ said Cornelius Farrell. ‘I think
The Importance of Being Earnest
is the most perfect play that’s ever been written.’

‘Oh really, Cornelius!’ said Athina. ‘Better than
Hamlet
, or
Romeo and Juliet
?’

‘Well – let’s just say I’d enjoy it more,’ said Cornelius. ‘What would your perfect play be, Miss Hamilton?’

‘I think,’ said Florence, ‘
She Stoops to Conquer
. The plot is just perfection in my view.’

‘Good choice! Well done. Ah, our drinks. Goodness me, that was a good choice of yours.’ He raised his glass to her and smiled. ‘Cheers. Wonderful to meet you. What a good idea of yours, Athina. Is your sherry all right, my darling?’

‘Yes, it’s very nice, thank you,’ said Athina.

‘Good. Now – books, Miss Hamilton. Tell me, who are your favourite authors?’

‘Oh – Galsworthy. Trollope. I do like those family sagas so very much. And just now, Somerset Maugham.’

‘Isn’t he marvellous? I read one of his short stories every Sunday.’

‘Rather than the Bible?’ said Florence.

‘Oh, rather!’

‘Although there are some very good stories in the Bible. Cain and Abel, Lot and his wife, Adam and Eve . . .’

‘You’re right. David and Goliath, Samson and his unfortunate haircut . . .’

Florence laughed.

‘I think, perhaps, Cornelius,’ Athina’s voice was just a little cool, ‘we should discuss our proposition with Miss Hamilton. I’m sure she hasn’t got all evening and we certainly haven’t.’

‘I suppose you’re right. This is rather fun, though. Well, darling, you take over the talking now.’

‘Very well. Miss Hamilton, I’ve been observing you in the store and I’ve been very impressed with you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Florence quietly. This is a clever woman, she thought. My husband may be flirting with you, Athina had actually said in those brief sentences, but I am actually in control here, of you as much as him.

‘And I hear very good reports of you from the management. You seem to be more – how shall I put it? – more intelligent than most of the girls.’

‘Don’t suppose many of them watch Goldsmith,’ said Cornelius.

‘We don’t know that,’ said Athina, somewhat perversely Florence thought, ‘but – no, I agree it is unlikely. Anyway, what we were thinking about – and it is only an idea at the moment – was a little shop we’ve been lucky enough to have inherited the lease of in the Berkeley Arcade. You’ll know the arcade, of course?’

‘Of course,’ said Florence.

‘We see it as a sort of flagship for the Farrell brand, a perfect setting where women can go to browse the new colours and products and have a facial at the same time.’

‘I don’t think I could do that,’ said Florence, ‘not facials.’

‘Oh, my dear, of course not. There would be a beautician. What we are looking for is a manager, someone who can run it with style as well as efficiency, someone the customers feel they can communicate with. Someone more of their own class,’ she added with an emphasis on the ‘more’.

Florence stared at her, too excited to be distressed by the mild insult.

‘You mean – you’d consider me for such a position?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Cornelius.

‘
Consider
, certainly,’ said Athina.

‘I am honoured,’ said Florence. She smiled at Athina expectantly. Instinct told her not to smile at Cornelius.

‘Well, that is excellent,’ said Athina, ‘but now I think we should learn a little more about your personal life. You wear no ring. And I’m sure you would understand that we couldn’t employ anyone about to get married and have children.’

‘I was married,’ said Florence simply, ‘but he was killed in the war.’

‘Oh, how sad,’ said Athina. She spoke rather as if Florence had told her a pet dog had had to be put down.

‘Thank you,’ said Florence, ‘but it was eight years ago. Time heals the deepest wounds and I find myself enjoying the single life. I certainly have no intention of marrying. I have never, in any case, met anyone who could hold a candle to my husband.’

‘Excellent,’ said Athina, and then realising that this was not an entirely appropriate response, said hastily, ‘I mean that the man you chose was so absolutely first-rate.’

‘He was,’ said Florence. ‘Absolutely. But now my career is of prime importance to me. And I would be very proud to work for the House of Farrell – by far the most exciting brand there is at the moment, in my opinion. The colours – quite wonderful.’

‘Thank you,’ said Cornelius, ‘that’s exactly what we want to hear. Isn’t it, darling?’

‘Indeed,’ said Athina. ‘Well, clearly, Miss Hamilton, we need now to discuss this between ourselves, consider one or two other candidates. But—’

‘But,’ said Cornelius, and his dark eyes on Florence were very thoughtful, almost probing, ‘but please, whatever you do, don’t take another position in the next few days. Wouldn’t you echo that, darling?’

‘I – think so,’ said Athina. ‘Yes, please don’t, Miss Hamilton. And now Cornelius, we mustn’t delay Miss Hamilton. I’m sure she is busy and we have a dinner party to attend.’

‘Yes, I should go,’ said Florence. ‘I’m going to the cinema. With friends.’ This was quite untrue, but she didn’t want the Farrells to see her as going home alone to a spinster-ish dwelling somewhere.

‘Are you indeed? What are you going to see?’ asked Cornelius.

‘
Roman Holiday
,’ said Florence firmly, pulling the title out of the air. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘Oh, it’s marvellous. Marvellous,’ said Cornelius. ‘That new girl, Audrey Hepburn – so very good. And simply beautiful. Well, enjoy it, Miss Hamilton. And we’ll be in touch.’ They all stood up, walked to the front door of the Dorchester. A line of Rolls-Royces stood in the small crescent outside, in between the taxis. A chauffeur leapt out of one of them and opened the rear door.

‘Well, goodbye,’ said Athina, moving towards the car. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’

‘Thank you indeed,’ said Cornelius. ‘What a pleasure it was to meet you. I do hope we can work together.’

And he shook her hand again, with that same warm, gentle grasp. Florence looked up at him, and smiled.

‘I hope so too,’ she said.

Chapter 12

‘Yes! YES! Oh, my God! Yes, yes, YES!’

Mike put his head round the door and smiled at her.

‘All right, Bianca? You sound like Meg Ryan in that film.’

Bianca giggled. ‘Did I? Sorry. Yes, sooo all right! Mike, there is a God. Caro Johnson has just resigned. In writing. How amazing is that?’

‘Pretty amazing. How wonderful for you.’

‘I know. I had a bit of a showdown with her mother on Friday and it didn’t reflect well on Caro and – well, obviously she’s got more sense than I imagined. Fantastic.’

‘Fan-bloody-tastic indeed. Now – about these sales figures. They really are abysmal. How is your interim plan working out?’

Lucy felt absurdly nervous as she walked into the reception area of FaceIt. The eleven other girls had all arrived earlier and were standing in a group, looking rather alarmingly sophisticated with full, elaborate make up and carefully styled clothes. She had come as if for lectures at uni with scrubbed face, T-shirt and jeans.

She smiled at them and said ‘Hi’ before walking up to the desk and introducing herself.

‘Ah, Lucy, yes. Welcome. You’re the last.’

‘Sorry,’ said Lucy.

‘No, no, you’re not late. Everyone else was early. I won’t introduce you – our first lecture takes care of that. Follow me, girls, we’ll go over to the studio.’

They walked into a large, light room with long benches down three sides, carved into separate work areas. Each had its own dressing-room style mirror, surrounded with light bulbs, a large chair rather like a dentist’s and a towelling mat beneath each mirror, laid out neatly with a palette of lip and eye colours, a pouch of brushes of varying sizes, a range of foundations and powders and a set of electric hair rollers. In a corner stood a cluster of hairdryers on wheels.

A tall, dark woman who had been sorting out the make up on the big central desk smiled at them.

‘Hello, all of you, and welcome to FaceIt. Now, adopt a work station each, put your things down there and then I’d like you to introduce yourselves one by one – no need to be nervous, it’s the one thing a make-up artist can’t afford to be. When you’re doing the make up for London Fashion Week or a Paris show, you’ll have about two minutes to find yourself somewhere to work, sort out which model you’re working with, get a relationship going with her –
very
important – and start work. OK then, here we go. I’m Dinah Lawson, the chief tutor here, and this is Shona Parkin who’ll be at most of your lectures and demos, especially the ones that relate to hair. We have a lot to get through and not much time; this course is only seven weeks, as you know, with an extra two for the theatrical sessions. Which of you is doing that?’

Lucy and one other girl put up their hands. Dinah Lawson nodded.

‘Right. Well, we might as well start with you two. You are . . . ?’ she said, looking at Lucy. ‘Tell us just a couple of sentences about yourself, how old you are, why you’re doing the course, what you’ve been doing up till now.’

The only constant was their ages, all of them except one being very early twenties. Two were married, one had a young child, two came from abroad; there were two more dropouts from university, several had been beauty consultants in big stores, another had worked in an office and been bored out of her head.

‘It’s not wall-to-wall glamorous and fun in this business either,’ said Dinah. ‘It’s not all fashion shows and models, it can be making up some frankly very plain girls for a set of studio shots with a local photographer, or doing a bride’s make up, scary and very stressful, and you don’t get a second chance. Now then, we’re going to start today with absolute basics, cleansing the skin, getting it ready for make up, absolutely crucial. Right, now who’s going to be my model for the day? Not you, Lucy, because you’ve come sensibly barefaced – interesting name yours, incidentally, one of the make-up houses as I’m sure you know. I presume you’re not related to the family?’

‘Oh no,’ said Lucy hastily. ‘Just – just coincidence.’

‘Right, what about you – Fenella, was it? You’ve got lots of make up on – let’s have it all off and start again . . .’

Lucy liked the look of Fenella; she was one of the other uni dropouts, tall and thin with a mass of shining conker brown hair.

It was a very different world from that of Jane Austen and its possible Marxist connotations. But one Lucy felt already more at home in.

Lawrence Ford had enjoyed his eighteen years as marketing manager of Farrell’s. Athina still held him in high regard, he had a very reasonable expense account, a moderately good car, he dined and wined the trade and attended department store events conscientiously, and whatever his failings in other areas, he was very clever at spotting important new developments by other brands and talking about them rather as if they had been his own idea. His shortcomings were considerable, but he was gloriously unaware of them: he had a total lack of grasp of the advertising industry, his briefings on point-of-sale materials were very derivative and indeed retrospective, and his entire persona suggested someone from two decades earlier, with his formal suits, over-polished laced-up shoes, and insistence on being called Mr Ford by everybody in the company.

His wife, Annie, was a perfect corporate wife, loyal, admiring, always beautifully turned out and coiffed, and always over-wearing Farrell products. She had not worked since her son was born – she said it was a wife’s duty to support her husband in every way, and a career in itself.

The Fords lived in a four-bedroom house in a new development in Kent; it was immaculate as was the garden, and Lawrence Ford, unlike most of the company had been completely unconcerned by the takeover; he knew his value was considerable and he had nothing to fear.

Athina didn’t know quite what to do with herself. This was a new sensation and one she found disturbing and even frightening. All her life, every moment had been busy; her presence required constantly. She moved from office to boardroom to conference to department store to work-based social engagement, and very occasionally home – always appearing calm and in control. At even their worse crises – an entire batch of lipsticks wrongly formulated and growing something akin to mould, a national poster campaign cancelled because some absurd new regulatory body refused to pass its claim (that The Cream made skin grow younger every day) – she had gone resolutely on, minimising damage where possible, accepting inevitable defeat graciously, restoring faltering morale by sheer determination and courage. Now, suddenly, she felt close to redundant; her traditions rejected, her power reduced, her talents unused.

For the first few weeks, she had continued to call meetings, discuss products, approve advertising and publicity campaigns; slowly, then with gathering speed, these functions were all taken from her.

First it was: ‘Lady Farrell, may I join your meeting?’ then: ‘Lady Farrell, I think I would rather we called a halt to developing new products just for a few weeks’ and finally: ‘Lady Farrell, I think while the budgets are all under review, we cannot commission an advertising campaign.’

It was all done very courteously, always by Bianca Bailey personally, but the end result was that she found herself with almost nothing to do and at the end of each day she would arrive back at her flat knowing that she had accomplished nothing since she left it that morning. She had few friends and no hobbies, which she saw as rather silly work replacements. Now she was bored, lonely, and – though she would have died rather than admit it – experiencing the entirely unfamiliar situation of being unsure of herself. And, far worse, unsure what to do about it.

She decided to go and visit Florence in the arcade.

Florence was rather disconcertingly busy; Athina waited at first impatiently and then irritably as she dealt with a small but demanding queue of customers, and finally went upstairs and made herself some tea.

‘Athina, dear, I’m so sorry, everyone turned up at once. I’ve locked the shop for half an hour, so we can talk.’ Florence appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath.

‘I don’t know that that’s a very good idea,’ said Athina. ‘We can’t afford to turn away clients.’

‘They’ll come back,’ said Florence, ‘they always do. I used the sign of course.’

‘Mrs Bailey won’t like that,’ said Athina.

Bianca Bailey had already been confronted with this sign which said, rather quirkily, ‘
Closed for thirty minutes for private consultation
’, and had complained that the thirty minutes was open-ended, having no apparent start time, but Florence had argued that she knew her customers very well and they responded to it without complaint; when Bianca said mildly that new customers might not be so obliging, Florence had replied that new clients found it intriguing and had often told her so. At which, rather than point out that there might be a number of new clients who did not return, Bianca had apparently given in, which both Florence and Athina were learning meant nothing of the sort.

‘Well, never mind,’ Florence said mildly, ‘she’s either going to close us down or she’s not and a little respite now for half an hour will make no difference. What can I do for you, Athina?’

‘Oh Florence I don’t know,’ said Athina fretfully, ‘I just feel so – so impotent. Bianca Bailey clearly thinks I have nothing to offer and Caro’s resigned, says she feels totally disregarded. As do I, of course, but I don’t have that luxury. Someone has to keep a watchful eye on everything.’

‘Does her resignation affect our shareholding?’

‘No, no, not at all. But it does mean we have a less visible presence, which doesn’t help. I suppose Bertie will be gone soon – he has nothing to offer, far less than Caro – but I’m certainly not going to allow him the luxury of resigning and I’ve told him so. Anyway, I thought perhaps I might have a facial. I always enjoy talking to Francine, she knows more about our customers than anybody.’

‘I’m sorry, Athina,’ said Florence, ‘but Francine is fully booked this afternoon. Tomorrow perhaps?’

‘Quite out of the question, I’m far too busy. Talking to the consultants,’ she added hastily, lest Florence might find this statement too much at odds with her earlier one.

‘Well, might you go and have a facial with one of the other brands?’ said Florence. ‘The Clarins treatments are quite wonderful, I hear.’

‘Well, perhaps . . .’ said Athina. ‘We always used to do that, didn’t we? Pick up ideas, check out the competition. I could go round several over the next few days.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Florence. ‘Ah, that’s the shop bell, so that will be Francine. Stay as long as you like, Athina, but she and I have things to discuss.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of holding you up,’ said Athina icily.

She left then, and soon Francine la Croix, who had been born Pauline Crossman, disappeared to her salon and her first customer, and Florence was left alone with her memories of another afternoon, forty years earlier, when she had closed the shop and put the sign on the door and the parlour had been filled with first sighs and then cries of pleasure as skilful hands had worked on her breasts – so wonderfully responsive – and moved down to her stomach, so strangely a source of pleasure also, and thus into the places beneath it, and the great tangle of pleasure that lay therein, sweet and lush and utterly engaging of every sense that she possessed, of sight and sound and smell and feel; and as the long bright afternoon passed, and the sunshine that filled the little room slowly faded, and the thirty minutes spoken of on the door were multiplied three, four, five times, she lay finally sated, smiling with pleasure, her hair fanned across the chaise longue that had served as a bed, her legs entwined with her lover’s, their eyes exploring one another and what the time had meant and done for them.

And then, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Little Flo. Not to be able to be more . . .’ And she had said she didn’t want more, that what he gave her was exactly what she needed; and then finally he was gone, and she was left only with the memory of the day, and for the time being, such had been her pleasure, her unutterable pleasure, that it was indeed happiness enough.

Patrick followed Jonjo along the corridor towards the trading room. He had never been in it before because Jonjo discouraged visits; but today, because he was almost part of it and Jonjo was in the vicinity, he was to be allowed in. It was exciting.

‘Right,’ said Jonjo, ‘follow me.’ And they walked into what seemed to Patrick a parallel universe. The sound was the first great shock, a wall of it, thuggish in its violence; he felt it physically, like a blow. And then the light, harsh, brilliant, coming from screens on the desks as well as huge banks on the ceilings, illuminating the large room filled with rows of desks facing each other, where people shouted and gestured, often obscenely, or stared fixated at screens, not just one to a person either, but stacks of six or eight to a desk. Phones were banged on those desks, fists were punched in the air, shouts of exaltation and at times, loud obscenities.

Every so often a roar would fill the floor; Patrick, imagining at first that it was because of some new multi-billion deal, suddenly realised that the vast TV screens, set at regular intervals along the wall, were showing not the latest trade figures or currency values, but a football match, and the roars and subsequent obscenities were greeting goals or some less satisfactory event.

‘When important investors come along we put Bloomberg TV on,’ said Jonjo, ‘but something vital like this match? Well, obviously it takes priority.’

The camaraderie was almost tangible; the relationships forged within this world were clearly close, generous and unquestioning, the bedrock of the whole apparently chaotic structure.

‘OK,’ said Jonjo, ‘come and sit here. Desk next to me. This is Ali,’ he said, gesturing towards the next chair. Ali nodded briefly, then returned to shouting unpleasantries at the person working opposite him.

‘How on earth do you concentrate?’ said Patrick in wonder.

‘We don’t,’ said Jonjo and Ali in unison.