A Perfect Heritage (16 page)

‘Some wine,’ said Athina, ‘and perhaps a dry sherry?’

‘Of course.’

Athina sat quietly while Bianca ordered the food and the wine and, to her intense amusement, the water. Of all the modern trends she found the custom of spending money on bottled water one of the most baffling. Caro had told her that in New York several of the top restaurants had water sommeliers, to advise on which brand of water would go best with which course.

‘Right,’ said Bianca, raising her glass of San Pellegrino to Athina, ‘I do, of course, have a reason for wanting to talk to you over lunch where we can be private. So – first question – how do you feel about Bertie’s appointment?’

‘Well, since you ask, I think it’s a mistake. A great mistake. It seems odd to put him in a position of which he knows so little.’

‘But my job is to utilise talent where I see it,’ said Bianca, ‘and I think Bertie has a great talent for people and for spotting their potential. And a very sure instinct for who will work best with whom, and how.’

‘Well, of course you have a right to your opinion,’ said Athina.

‘Indeed. Now, I hope you agree with the relaunch plans so far.’

‘Some of them,’ said Athina.

‘Good. Where are your reservations?’

‘Well, I don’t approve of your suggestion that we pull out of the stores.’

‘Lady Farrell, I’m simply proposing that we get rid of the less-productive consultants, for the time being at any rate. We simply can’t afford them, as things are.’

‘Yes, well, that is a matter of opinion. Incidentally, I have told Bertie that some employment must be found for Marjorie Dawson. I imagine that is the sort of thing that will fall within his aegis.’

‘It is,’ said Bianca, ‘although he will be concerned with rather weightier matters. Anyway, I am aware of the importance of finding employment for Marjorie Dawson and of her difficult personal circumstances and I do assure you I will do my best. But—’

‘Mrs Bailey, Marjorie needs
certainties
and I wish to assure her of them.’

‘Lady Farrell, I’ve just told you that I’ll do all I can. We will, if necessary, put this to the vote at the next board meeting. Along with other new appointments. How would that be?’

‘I think that is an acceptable solution,’ said Athina graciously. She felt pleased; the family after all still held the majority share, and therefore the casting vote, and so Marjorie’s future was absolutely assured. She would tell her this afternoon. The lunch moved slowly on.

‘Now,’ Bianca said, as they reached consideration of dessert, ‘timing is crucial and difficult, but because of the importance of the heritage of the brand, and the story is so wonderful – your first launch in coronation summer, this one in the Diamond Jubilee – I’m determined we shall manage it. Well, we have to. And I do really want to work with you – and closely – in certain areas.’

‘I’m very surprised,’ said Athina, ‘since you’re changing everything we’ve ever done.’

‘Lady Farrell, we’re not changing everything. We’re updating, we’re relaunching, but we’re building on the past glories of Farrell in a big way, on its connotations of quality and glamour – and the Britishness, of course, and sheer imaginativeness. The House of Farrell still has a magic; we just need to bring it up to date, without destroying all the things that are good about it.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, that’s – that’s good to hear.’ Athina heard her voice quaver and cleared her throat, took a sip of the Chablis Bianca had ordered.

‘Is that a yes? You will work with me – us?’

‘I will, of course. I can’t guarantee I will always agree with what you are doing . . .’

‘No, I don’t suppose you will,’ said Bianca. ‘Anyway, disagreement is healthy as I’m sure you’d agree.’ She smiled at Athina.

‘So, I assume you mean I am to be involved in product development? That was always my forte. And the colour promotions, of course.’

‘Well,’ Bianca took an near-imperceptible breath, ‘well, Lady Farrell, perhaps not directly on the products, no.’

Athina’s green eyes became diamond hard.

‘Perhaps you would like to tell me why not?’

‘Because . . .’ Bianca took a deep breath, ‘because product development is something I prefer to handle myself, together with the marketing department. So that product concepts, campaigns, promotions are all rationalised. Working with the lab, of course.’

‘I find that a rather extraordinary idea,’ said Athina. ‘You have no experience of cosmetics. None whatever.’

‘I would have to argue with that.’

There was a silence; finally, Athina said, ‘So what would you like me to work on?’

‘Publicity,’ said Bianca.

‘Publicity? But you’ve just promoted the Harding girl to do that.’

‘Bear with me. Of course we can’t start talking about the new range to the press for many months, or our plans for the new shops, but we do want to keep Farrell’s name very much alive, and so what Susie Harding has suggested, and I think it’s an excellent idea, is that we do some personal publicity.’

‘And what precisely do you mean by that?’ said Athina. ‘Not, I trust, a spread in a gossip magazine saying how happy we are, or all that Twittering nonsense.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ said Bianca, ‘although Twitter might come into it . . . No, I would very much like to see some stories in the other magazines –
Vogue,
for instance, and
The Times
magazine, any of the glossy newspaper supplements, actually – about the history of Farrell’s, how you and your husband started it, the early struggles and successes, the Berkeley Arcade and the part it’s played in the story, perhaps some famous customers there.’

‘But what would be the point?’ said Athina. ‘We want to publicise the products, not the people behind it. That sort of thing is so vulgar. We’ve had royalty in the Berkeley Arcade, as you know.’

‘Perhaps we could do a story about that.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so! That would be a serious betrayal.’

‘I see. Well, we could hint at it. High society, that sort of thing.’

‘I would prefer not.’

‘In that case, can you imagine any publicity about the family, its history, possibly even your husband, that you
would
be happy with? That you would be prepared to talk to a journalist about?’

‘Not really, no.’ Athina gave her a brief, cool smile.

‘Oh, dear. That
is
a shame. Susie is tremendously keen, thinks it would bridge the gap between now and the launch. Perhaps we could come back to it a little further along the road.’

‘You could,’ said Athina with an emphasis on the ‘could’, and then aware that this might sound a little rude, ‘but yes, we could discuss it again. I really see little prospect however of changing my mind.’

‘Very well. Maybe Florence could help. She’s been with you from the beginning, after all.’

‘No, that’s not correct. The brand was extremely successful before she joined us. And her views on publicity are totally in accord with my own.’

‘Really? I had got a slightly different impression. Well, we shall see. Now, there’s something else I’d like your opinion on and that I would like your involvement in. I’m thinking of including a perfume to go with the new range. I know it will be expensive, but it will raise our profile and if it’s clever enough and classy enough, will justify the cost. What do you think?’

‘Oh, my dear, don’t even think about it,’ said Athina, ‘it’s the equivalent of pouring your money straight down the drain. You cannot launch a perfume on a shoestring. We did consider it once and decided we couldn’t do it. And that was when we were at the very top of our game. Buyers and store managers and so on all advised against it, said the investment would be huge. Cornelius decided it would be a waste of our time and resources, and he was right.’

‘I see. You didn’t start work on any formulations, I suppose?’

‘Mrs Bailey, a successful perfume launch is ninety-nine per cent about money. Please believe me. I know.’

As if, Athina thought, sitting and raging in the car on her way home, as if she was going to share anything with Bianca Bailey that would help her. Especially as she had been so firmly dismissed from the area of product development.

Back in her office, Bianca called Lara.

‘Lara, do you know – yes, of course you do – people who develop perfumes, and might do one for us? What? Well, let’s just say I’m thinking about it. Absolutely top secret of course. But if you could draw me up a little list . . .’

Chapter 16

‘Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.’

Really? Bianca thought. Was it really that simple? No, not really. God might have meant you to be someone very very humble and self-sacrificing. Would that set the world on fire? And if you were pushy and driven, which possibly would set the world on fire, God probably wouldn’t like it at all.

‘How clever!’ said Gerald Wood.

‘What, Daddy?’ She hauled herself back to the present and the television coverage of the Royal Wedding. Her father had been invited to watch it, had come reluctantly, and was now, as she had known he would be, enjoying the whole thing.

‘Of the Bishop of London. To use a quotation from another Catherine. That quotation was by St Catherine of Siena, and it’s her festival today. He must have worked pretty hard to find that. My word,
she
looks jolly nice. Who is she?’

‘Carole Middleton, mother of the bride.’

Patrick came into the room, bearing champagne. ‘Champagne, Gerald?’

‘Oh, how very nice, thank you.’

Bianca returned her attention to the screen and wondered if Kate had really done her own make up that morning, as the PR story went. If she had, she could have a great future as a make-up artist . . .

Lucy was also studying Kate’s make up. She’d have made Kate’s eyes a bit softer and smudgier and given her a bit less blusher. Otherwise, it was pretty well perfect.

She looked across at her father; he was watching, as instructed by her mother, who took royalty very seriously indeed. Her main ambition was to be involved in a charity that had a strong royal connection. Her father was clearly not concentrating, though.

Her brother, Rob, who’d come home from uni for a few days, was totally absorbed in making arrangements for the evening on his phone.

It was lovely to have him home. They’d been discussing their father the night before in the pub and agreed he seemed much happier these days and how great it was he had this new job.

‘And he’s looking much better,’ Lucy had said. ‘Better, as in thinner, all his clothes are hanging off him.’

‘Well, we have to thank Mum for that, I guess,’ said Rob. ‘She’s been very strict with the diet.’

‘Yes, but she’s tried before and failed. He obviously suddenly feels it’s worth it. Want another?’

Lawrence Ford was watching the wedding with his wife and nine-year-old son, Nicholas, who was texting his friends about how boring it was.

Later they had to go and join some neighbours for a wedding party; and the next day, someone else was having a barbecue. He wasn’t looking forward to either. Every social occasion was a hideous challenge suddenly; indeed, every day was a hideous challenge. And he just didn’t know what to do about it.

He should have told Annie immediately; told her he had been made redundant, told her everything had to change, but somehow he hadn’t been able to. It had been such a shock when Bianca Bailey and Bertie Farrell told him, such an awful, dreadful blow, physical in its violence. He’d never imagined he’d be out on his ear, even if it was with two years’ salary, tax-free and the company car his to keep.

‘We shall miss you,’ Bianca said, ‘and your department will miss you too. But hopefully, with your track record, you will find another job quite quickly and I do assure you that we will give you very good references.’

Lawrence thought that if he could have very good references he might well still have the job.

It had been agreed that he should leave almost at once.

‘This coming weekend being the royal wedding, with the extra day’s holiday, will give you time to adjust, talk to your family and so on.’

After which he’d left the meeting and the building and gone and sat in the pub and wondered what on earth he would do; he knew he should tell Annie straight away, but until he had sorted out his story, it seemed quite impossible, he simply wanted to go home and go to bed and take a sleeping pill and not talk to anyone. It was a nightmare, a bloody awful, unjust nightmare. And he really didn’t feel he could go on sitting here, pretending to care about this absurd carry-on any longer.

He turned to Nicholas, who was kicking the coffee table, albeit with his socked feet and said, ‘Tell you what, old chap, I’m not really enjoying this much either. Let’s go out on our bikes, shall we? I’m sure Mummy won’t mind, will you darling?’

‘No,’ said Annie, smiling at him. ‘Not really boys’ stuff this, is it? And you do look very tired, darling. You work so hard and they rely on you too much, they really do. Yes, go on, and I’ll see you later. Oh, this music is lovely . . .’

She turned back to the television and Lawrence went upstairs to put his tracksuit on and wondered if perhaps he could possibly tell her before the barbecue tomorrow at least . . .

Florence had agreed to watch the wedding with Athina and now she was regretting it. In the first place, Athina’s television had a rather small screen – she said large ones were vulgar – and, in the second, she was finding Athina’s constant sniping at Bianca increasingly irritating.

Florence liked Bianca; she found her straightforward and courteous and she did admire her ideas for the House of Farrell. She had been deeply touched that Bianca had taken the time to come and talk through her plans for The Shop; she had laughed when Florence had asked rather tremulously if she really wanted her to stay on.

‘Florence, of course I do! You’re a vital member of the team and part of our history, it’s
vital
you’re involved. I don’t want some young manager who doesn’t understand the legacy and the history of the place; I want
you
there – if you’re willing, of course. I might change the treatment set-up, indeed I know I want to, and I’m sure Francine’s facials are perfectly lovely, but they are very old-fashioned. And she did hint to me that she was finding it all rather tiring. I’d love your ideas about new treatments and which ones would suit us. I mean, do you think we could extend beyond facials, and do massages and so on?’

When Florence had said she did and she had thought so for some time, but Lady Farrell had been very opposed to the idea, Bianca had simply said, ‘Well, we must try to persuade her,’ and asked her to make a list of which treatments Florence thought would be suitable.

Florence had said she would email her with some ideas and Bianca had clearly been a little surprised to hear Florence talk about emailing, although she had simply thanked her and said she would look forward to hearing them. Florence had sent her a short list, which included Hot Stone Massage, Personalised Aromatherapy (‘It would be wonderful if we could formulate some essential oils of our own, we could call them Farrell Bespoke or something like that’) and Head and Neck Massage.

Bianca had emailed back immediately and said she liked all those ideas, especially the bespoke oils and that she would get back to her with more ideas.

Florence had even become slightly less opposed to personalised publicity. ‘I suppose, after all, many of our early clients are long dead, so we’re not giving away any secrets and we had some very big names – the Duchess of Wiltshire, Lady Aberconway, the Countess of Jedburgh – and they all signed our visitors’ book.’

Bianca had been very excited about the visitors’ book and asked if she might see it and she and Florence had spent a marvellous hour poring over the legendary names, some from the aristocracy, many showbiz. ‘And no one’s going to tell me those sorts of people would mind,’ Florence said, ‘if they’re still alive – which is quite unlikely I’d say. Those musical comedy actresses, Dulcie Fleming, look, and Aurora Chanelle, she was one of Ivor Novello’s favourites, you know . . .’

Bianca had asked her to draw up a shortlist and asked her if she would mind if Susie Harding came in to discuss it; Florence said of course not, she was increasingly impressed by Susie.

On the whole, Florence felt her life to be considerably improved by the arrival of Bianca Bailey.

So sitting and listening to Athina criticising her constantly wasn’t really very agreeable; especially as it had drowned out first the commentary on the arrival at the Abbey which was always so interesting, and now it was the service and she wanted to be able to listen to the couple making their vows, not a long diatribe against Bianca Bailey’s publicity proposals.

When Florence said that she thought the stories about clients and customers over the years, confining it to those who had long since shuffled off their mortal coils, was a good idea, Athina looked at her witheringly and said had she not thought of the descendants of those clients and how they might feel about it.

‘They might even sue. I really would not advise it.’

Florence said she thought it was very unlikely anyone would sue for reading about their beautiful grandmother and that it could do Farrell’s nothing but good.

‘Well, of course they could sue, Florence,’ Athina said. ‘You never have thought things through properly.’

Florence decided she had had enough.

She stood up; Athina was still talking loudly over the Archbishop.

‘I’m sorry, Athina dear, but I thought we were here to watch the wedding? If you don’t want to do that, I shall get a taxi home. Which would mean my missing the rest of the ceremony live and that would be a pity, but I’ve set my TV to record and I think I should enjoy that rather more.’

At which Athina looked very startled and said she was extremely sorry in a voice that made it plain she wasn’t at all, but she did stop talking and went to fetch a bottle of champagne which she opened and poured a glass for them both in a rather tense, but very welcome, silence and they made it up over an extremely nice lunch.

Susie was watching the wedding alone. Henk was out working. He had said that of course it wasn’t what
she
would consider work, as he wouldn’t be earning any money, but he wanted to catch the mood of the day on camera, and in order to do that he needed to be on his own.

She had gone home the day of the meeting, determined to tell him it was over and that she wanted him out, but as she opened the door, delicious cooking smells wafted towards her and he appeared, bearing two glasses of champagne, a rueful smile on his face.

‘Decided you were right and I should work a bit harder for my keep,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘How was the meeting? Did you shine?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said, determinedly cool. ‘I was almost late.’

‘Oh no! Well, I’m sure you did brilliantly just the same. Come on in and recover. I’ve cooked a tagine, your favourite.’

He’d been on his best behaviour for a few days, but gradually he was slithering back into his old self, awkward, lazy, touchy . . . And had left quite early, without so much as a farewell kiss. Well, good. It was great having him out of the flat – for a bit.

He had come into her life via a thirtieth birthday party for one of her oldest friends – God, she hated they were all that old! – all brooding good looks and cool clothes. He’d told her she was gorgeous, made her laugh, and they’d left the party as soon as decently possible and went home to bed. He hadn’t been in London long, had grown up in Yorkshire but talked Estuary English – she’d never quite known why. He’d christened himself Henk, although his real name was John, and was struggling to make his name as a photographer. He was a good photographer but he didn’t have the spark to make it really big. Still, she enjoyed being with someone who spoke her language.

Henk made her laugh – although that didn’t happen very often now, she reflected as she made herself a bacon butty and a cup of coffee – and he was also an extremely good cook, another skill that didn’t get much of an airing. He was also very good in bed, so they had been fine for about three months, then the novelty had worn off. Henk’s income had remained at zero and she couldn’t help, just occasionally, referring to the fact that he wasn’t paying her any rent, or even buying any food; whereupon a rather nasty temper had manifested itself and the rows had begun.

Marjorie poured herself a second glass of cava and settled back on the sofa; what a wonderful day. She was a great royalist. And Kate, although she was a commoner, was really very lovely and William was charming, just like his mother, and they were both deeply in love. And she felt so much happier now that she knew her future with Farrell’s was guaranteed; clearly Bianca Bailey had been no better at overruling Lady Farrell than anyone else.