A Perfect Heritage (18 page)

‘You look wonderful,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, ‘really quite marvellous.’

‘Thank you, Cornelius. It’s very kind of you to take me.’

‘No, no, kind of you to come. I’m sure you had much better things to do.’

‘Not really,’ she said and laughed, ‘unless of course you count listening to a Paul Temple mystery on the wireless?’ She took the cigarette he offered from his silver case. ‘Tell me about your friends. I don’t want to arrive unbriefed.’

‘Ah yes. Jennifer and Geoffrey Millard. Geoffrey and I were at Malvern together. Became friends over a shared dislike of rugger. He went into the City, runs a big stockbroking firm. He’s been very successful. I think you’ll like him.’

‘I’m sure I will. And Mrs Millard?’

‘Jennifer’s very nice indeed. Salt of the earth. Does a lot of charity work.’

Florence could already imagine Mrs Millard. She thought she was probably overweight . . .

As it turned out both the Millards were overweight. They were pleasantly polite – and very dull.

The concert, Handel, was lovely, and mercifully short. They were outside again by eight forty-five. It transpired that a supper had been planned afterwards, but Jennifer disappeared into a telephone box in the foyer and came back, asking if they might be excused.

‘Sylvia, you know, our youngest, has chickenpox, not at all well. I think, Geoffrey, we should go back. If Cornelius and – er – Florence don’t mind.’ Her hesitation over Florence’s name clearly emphasised her below stairs status.

‘Of course, of course. I do hope she’ll be all right, poor little thing.’

‘She’s just very fretful, apparently. Nanny says she’s been asking for us.’

Florence would not have wished illness on any child, but given that poor Sylvia was already suffering, she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude.

They parted from the Millards and Cornelius looked at his watch.

‘I say, it’s jolly early. Do you know, there’s something else I’d like to do this evening, if you didn’t mind?’

Florence said she was sure she wouldn’t mind.

‘Friend of mine, Leonard Trentham, he’s a painter, got a private view tonight. I said I couldn’t go because of the concert, but I bet it’s still going. Would you mind if we popped down to Cork Street?’

Florence said again she wouldn’t mind. She hoped Leonard Trentham would be more interesting than the Millards. She asked what sort of paintings he did.

‘Oh, pretty conventional, landscapes, seascapes, things like that. But he sells pretty well. This exhibition is paintings he’s done in France. Quite a few of Paris apparently.’

‘How lovely,’ said Florence.

‘Indeed. Have you been to Paris?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but I would so love to.’

‘Now that is a small tragedy. If not a large one. Everyone should go to Paris. It should be compulsory.’

‘Sadly, not everyone can,’ said Florence briskly. ‘Money and even time will not allow.’

He looked at her rather directly, and said, ‘Of course. Stupid remark. I’m sorry. What I meant was that it should somehow be part of everyone’s education. A school trip.’

‘The sort of school I went to didn’t go on trips,’ said Florence.

‘What sort of school was it?’

‘A convent.’

‘Ah. So you’re a convent girl? Quite a reputation you all have.’

‘I know,’ said Florence, ‘but undeserved for the most part. Most of my friends were too frightened of hellfire to do more than hold hands with a boy. And all were very innocent when they married.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Cornelius easily.

Florence said, ‘But of course you’re right and I would love to go to Paris. Perhaps one day.’

‘I hope so, for your sake. Well, perhaps we can find a small painting at the exhibition which will serve in lieu for now. Until you can go for real of course.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said thinking that it would be most unlikely that she would be able to afford so much as the corner of a frame of one of Mr Trentham’s pictures.

‘It’s at the Medici – in Cork Street,’ said Cornelius, as the car wove its way down Bond Street. ‘Very nice gallery. Athina and I go there quite a lot. Do you know it?’

‘Not well,’ said Florence carefully. She was beginning to feel increasingly unsuited to the role she had been called upon to play this evening.

‘Ah. Anyway, you’ll like Leonard, he’s a very good egg. And he’ll like you, I can assure you of that. He’s got an eye for a pretty woman. I don’t know why he doesn’t paint them. I would if I were a painter.’

‘Well, I suppose you do in a way,’ said Florence. ‘You enable us to paint our own faces.’

He smiled. ‘I like that thought, Florence. Thank you. In fact, it’s given me an idea.’

The party was still in very full swing, and was occupying a large part of the pavement as well as the gallery itself. Florence had been afraid that Cornelius would be caught up in a crowd of friends when they arrived, leaving her to fend for herself, but to her surprise he was most solicitous, steering her towards a waiter bearing a tray of drinks. She took a glass of champagne and sipped it cautiously.

‘Isn’t this nice?’ he whispered in her ear.

‘It’s lovely, yes. But I have a weak head for alcohol. I have to drink it with great caution.’

She expected him to laugh, but he looked at her rather seriously and said, ‘How self-aware you are, Florence. It’s a very charming characteristic. Between you and me, it is not one that Athina possesses.’

She didn’t know how to respond to this; it seemed a little disloyal to her.

‘There’s Leonard. Leonard, congratulations old chap. Fantastic show, incredible turnout. Critics here?’

‘Oh, a few,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Thanks for coming, Cornelius.’

He was tall and very thin, and looked a caricature of an artist, wearing a linen suit with a floppy cravat.

He took Florence’s hand in his and smiled at her. ‘And you are?’

‘Ah yes, let me introduce you,’ said Cornelius. ‘Florence, Leonard Trentham, artist. Leonard, Florence Hamilton. Florence works with us, in the company.’

‘Well, how fortunate for the company. And you,’ said Leonard Trentham. He smiled at her, a wide, childlike smile. His eyelashes were very long and looked suspiciously as if they had mascara on them. She supposed he must be queer.

‘I’m so glad you could come Miss Hamilton,’ he said. ‘You grace our gathering. And where is the fair goddess this evening?’

‘Oh, not well. That’s Leonard’s nickname for Athina,’ he said to Florence, ‘after Pallas Athena, of course. The goddess of wisdom.’

‘Yes, I did know,’ said Florence, slightly cool, ‘and the patron goddess of Athens. But of course she spelt her name differently, didn’t she?’

‘Clever as well as beautiful, I see,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘And you have replaced Athina with an “I”?’

‘Only for the evening,’ said Florence.

‘Well, you’re a lucky man, Cornelius,’ said Leonard, ‘one lovely woman after another. Poor Athina. Well, now go and have a look at the pictures. I hope you like them.’

‘I know we will,’ said Cornelius, ‘Florence is specially interested in any you’ve done of Paris. Come along, Florence, let’s see what we can find for you.’

They wandered round the gallery; the pictures were lovely, representational but with a dash of impressionism. Trentham had a supreme talent for capturing light: you could tell at a glance, Florence thought, what time of day each one had been painted.

‘They’re lovely,’ she said, ‘really beautiful.’

‘Aren’t they? Now here is your Paris.’

Florence stood smiling at the collection, a view of the Sacré Coeur, painted from below, shining in the dawn; a streak of gold that was the Seine at dusk; a group of clearly chattering tables at midday on the pavement outside La Closerie des Lilas, her catalogue told her; and then some smaller ones, tiny streets, a flower market, a doorway half-open, leading into a paved courtyard, filled with trees and flowers at late afternoon.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘that is so, so lovely.’

‘Which? Let me see. Oh, yes, I agree. Perfect. That’s in – ah, off the rue de Buci, St Germain, my very favourite area of all.’

‘I feel I could open that door,’ said Florence, smiling, ‘and walk in.’

‘Indeed. So – is that your favourite?’

‘Yes,’ said Florence. ‘It makes me feel warm, with that sunshine, and really really happy.’ And then, seeing him examining the catalogue for prices, said anxiously, ‘Oh Cornelius, I couldn’t possibly possibly afford to buy it.’

‘I didn’t think you could,’ said Cornelius. And then, smiling, ‘If you could we would clearly be paying you far too much. But it is very lovely. And not sold. No red dot.’

‘No indeed.’

He looked at the picture and then at her, very intently, his dark blue eyes moving from one to the other and then back again.

‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘you suit one another very well, you and the picture. You should be together.’

‘I . . .’ She found her gaze, caught up in his, hard to pull away. He was standing quite close to her and she was very aware of him suddenly, as a man, an attractive, amusing, charming man, not a colleague, not the husband of her boss. She felt the moment freeze in time, as if the camera had clicked, holding them there together, staring at one another – a long, oddly dangerous moment. She stepped back, collided with someone, said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ It was Leonard Trentham.

‘Perfectly all right,’ he said, ‘I just wanted to make sure you had found the Paris collection.’

‘We have, thank you. They’re wonderful.’

She smiled at him, and then up at Cornelius, hoping he would approve of this; he was staring at her as if he had hardly seen her before.

‘Florence particularly likes the courtyard. In St Germain,’ he said into the odd silence that had formed. He seemed tense suddenly, his usual easy charm briefly deserting him.

‘She does?’

‘Yes,’ she said, equally tense, flustered. ‘Yes, it’s perfectly beautiful. It – it transports you.’

‘Yes, you both look a little transported,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Another painting, in fact. If I painted figures I would paint you looking at my painting.’

‘Why don’t you?’ asked Florence. ‘Paint portraits, I mean.’

‘Mostly because, you know, if you paint someone, you are alone with them for many, many hours, and you have to talk to them. I am dreadfully shy, I couldn’t possibly cope with that.’

Cornelius burst into laughter and moved further back into the room, lighting a cigarette.

‘Shy! Leonard, you don’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘That’s what you think,’ said Leonard Trentham. ‘Now – how about supper? A crowd are coming back to my place.’

Cornelius looked at Florence. ‘Florence, what do you think? Do you need to get home?’

There was a long silence; she stared at him, and felt suddenly that she was nearing some dangerous place . . .

‘I think I should go home,’ she said finally, reluctantly. ‘Cornelius, you stay.’

‘Oh, no, no,’ he said and she could hear the disappointment in his voice. ‘No, I should be going home. Duty calls. Poor Athina will be wondering where I am.’

‘
Quel dommage
,’ said Leonard. ‘How glad I am duty never calls me. But I understand.’

He took Florence’s hand and kissed it.

‘It has been a great pleasure to have you grace my gallery,’ he said, ‘I hope I shall see you here again.’

Cornelius drove Florence home in silence. She felt a little anxious, that he might think she was spoiling his evening, but every time she looked at him, he seemed to sense it and glanced at her, smiling.

‘I liked Leonard very much,’ she said finally.

‘Yes, he’s a wonderful chap. Queer as a nine bob note, of course, but I’m very fond of him.’

‘Yes, I thought he might be.’

‘You don’t mind that sort of thing?’ he said.

‘No,’ she said, ‘no of course not. Why should I?’

‘Unfortunately, many people do. Which is why, of course, it’s against the law.’

‘I know. So stupid.’

‘Well, it’s very good to know you think as you do. What a perfect person you are, Florence Hamilton.’

She said nothing, just smiled out of the window.

‘It’s been such fun,’ he said, when they reached her flat. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’ He jumped out of the car, opened the door for her, bent to kiss her on the cheek. It lasted just a fraction of a moment too long.

‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ she said, and smiled up at him. ‘Thank you, Cornelius. I won’t – won’t ask you in,’ she added, and the words, for all their innocence, sounded faintly provocative to her.

‘No, indeed,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t.’

And then he was gone.

Ten days later, early in the morning, there was a knock at the door; a young man was holding a large flat brown paper parcel.

‘Miss Hamilton?’

‘Yes?’

‘This is for you. Personal delivery.’

It was the painting. With a note attached. From Leonard Trentham.

‘I am bidden to send you this,’ it said, ‘a gift from a secret admirer. Who wishes to remain so. Please enjoy it. I am glad it is to be yours.’

And then a flamboyant signature.

She was sure, of course, who it was from. But she could not say so, could not thank him, for fear of compromising him. And, indeed, herself.

Chapter 18

‘It was amazing!’ Milly’s great dark eyes glowed with excitement. ‘Their apartment was just so cool. You went into, like a courtyard, and then into the building and up in a lift and there it was, right on the top, with a sort of garden outside and a lovely view over the rooftops. Sooo nice.’

‘Where was it, exactly?’ asked Bianca.

‘In St Germain,’ said Milly. ‘In one of the streets off the Boulevard. I can’t remember the name.’

‘Oh, lovely! My favourite area of Paris. So you went to the Café de Flore I would guess?’

‘Yes, we did. For breakfast every day. And Les Deux Magots. And we had dinner at the Brasserie Lipp on Saturday night.’

‘Did you, indeed?’ said Bianca. ‘You can’t get a table for love nor money there usually, unless you’re a regular.’

Milly looked rather complacent. She had come back just a little superior, slightly know-it-all. God, children were dangerous little creatures, Bianca thought. If three days with Carey had done that to her, what would a longer period do?

‘Well, jolly nice. And where else did you go? Up the Eiffel Tower?’

‘Nooo.’ The expression became more superior still. ‘Carey says that is so not cool, just what the tourists do.’

‘Right, I see. Silly me.’

‘But we went on that wheel, a bit like the Eye, only smaller, and that was fun; and we had cocktails at the Crillon.’ Her pronunciation, the French ‘r’, was perfect. ‘Carey says it’s one of the things you
must
do in Paris.’

‘I see. And they allowed you to drink them in the bar?’

‘No, but we went out into the garden, and Andrew brought them out to us.’

‘Andrew? Not
Sir
Andrew? You
are
well in.’ Patrick spoke for the first time.

‘Daddy, don’t be silly. I couldn’t have spent the whole time calling him Sir Andrew!’

‘Anyway, he brought you your cocktail. What was it?’

‘A Bellini.’

‘Milly!’ Bianca couldn’t help it. ‘Andrew Mapleton brought you a Bellini?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t have done.’

‘Mu-um! Don’t be so old-fashioned.’

‘Milly, you’re a child. You’re not allowed alcohol. How on earth did it make you feel?’

‘Fine. A bit dizzy. But it was only a tiny drop of champagne, he said. Nearly all peach juice. That’s what a Bellini is,’ she explained to her mother with a touch of condescension, ‘peach juice and champagne.’

‘Yes, I did know that, thank you.’ She was going to have to speak to Nicky Mapleton about this; it was too important to let go. ‘And what else did you do on this wonderful weekend?’

‘Oh, lots of shopping. We went to Galeries Lafayette which was really cool. And then we went over to the Marais, where there are lots of little shops. And on Sunday we went to the flea market and it was so cool. Nicola said she wanted to look at pictures and fabrics, so Carey and I went to an amazing part, called the Marché Malik, all retro stuff, and I got this denim jacket, it’s just gorgeous, got all flowers embroidered on it, so much cooler than some mass-produced thing from Hollister. I’ll go and get it.’

‘And there we were spending squillions on one from Hollister,’ said Bianca, ‘so uncool. Silly us not to know. I’m not sure about this friendship, Patrick.’

Patrick grinned at her.

‘It won’t last. They’ll probably fall out next term.’

‘And I really don’t like this thing of giving her cocktails. So irresponsible.’

‘. . . she had such a lovely time. She is writing to you properly—’

‘Oh, she doesn’t have to do that!’ Nicky Mapleton’s voice was amused. ‘I’m impressed she even knows about writing. Carey thinks writing means texting.’

‘Oh, well I’m a bit old-fashioned like that,’ said Bianca briskly. ‘Anyway, it was obviously a gorgeous weekend and she’s still talking about it. It was just so kind of you to take her.’

‘I’m glad she enjoyed it. She’s very sweet, Bianca, lovely manners.’

‘Well, we try,’ said Bianca. ‘Doesn’t always work.’

‘Oh my God, I know,’ said Nicky.

‘I’m sure you do.’ She paused, then said, almost casually, ‘but Nicky, and I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this, it just worried me a bit: Milly tells me she had a cocktail at the Crillon, a Bellini . . . I assumed it was non-alcoholic but she said it made her feel dizzy . . .’

Her voice tailed away and she felt absurdly as if it was her in the wrong.

‘Oh, my dear Bianca, I’m so sorry. We’ve been giving them to Carey for a couple of years now. We think it’s important for her to learn about alcohol, not regard it as something dangerous and forbidden. It was only the tiniest dash of champagne, of course, not a full blown Bellini.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Bianca, ‘and of course I do agree about the alcoholic education. But – I feel Milly is just a little young . . .’

‘Then we’ll never do it again,’ said Nicola. ‘Anyway, we love having Milly here, and Carey just adores her. She’s been a great help to her at school, you know, got her over the new girl hump.’

‘Good,’ said Bianca, ‘I’m so glad. And Carey must come for a weekend with us soon. We have a house in Oxfordshire . . .’

‘Wonderful,’ said Nicky Mapleton, ‘she’d love that. Well, bye Bianca, and so sorry you were worried.’

‘No it’s fine,’ said Bianca. ‘And thank you again.’

She put the phone down and sat staring at it, wondering if Nicky Mapleton would tell Carey about the conversation. She hoped she wouldn’t.

‘Bye then, darling. Have a good day. Don’t forget drinks with the Cussons tonight. Will you be late?’

‘Oh – no. Don’t think so.’

‘Good. See you around seven then?’

‘Yes. Around seven. Bye darling.’

Lawrence Ford shut the door behind him, got into his car, drove to the station and got on to the train. He felt rather sick. Another night when he couldn’t tell Annie. He’d sort of thought he could, tonight. But not after drinks with the ghastly Cussons.

And as if he’d be late; the days were endless as it was, moving from public library to coffee shop, choosing areas where he was unlikely to meet anyone he knew, places like downtown Hammersmith and Chiswick, whiling away the hours . . . He’d always thought he’d do something useful if he lost his job, a degree, or a course in carpentry, but that had looked so easy then, wrapped in the cosy self-confidence of a well-paid job that seemed utterly secure – where would the motivation for that be now? When he lacked the courage even to tell his wife he’d been fired?

God, how long could it go on? How stupid he would look when finally he was forced to confess and what would Nicky think of him – his bright, charming little boy who thought he was so wonderful – when he found out? He’d regard his father with something like pity, and that would be unbearable. OK then. Tomorrow. He’d do drinks with the Cussons tonight and tell Annie tomorrow night. Pretend it had only just happened. That would be – well, not all right, but better. And it would be over. Sort of.

She had hardly ever seen him other than cheerful, she realised. His courage had kept them both going over the years. It was certainly greater than her own. But . . .

‘What is it?’ she said, sitting down on the bed, taking his hand.

‘It’s got to come off,’ Terry said. The words, the ugly raw words made no sense to her.

‘What has?’ she asked, fear making her stupid.

‘My leg,’ he said. ‘My fucking leg! What do you think?’

He never swore either; it frightened her.

And he lay down, turned his face away from her; and unable to find any words at all that could even begin to make sense, she just sat there, silent, terrified at what lay ahead of them.

Trina Foster had only been working for the Human Resources department for a week; she had previously been a junior member of the IT team, which was currently being reconstructed but she was bright and ambitious and considered worth holding on to; Bertram Farrell needed a secretary and she was given a month’s trial. She determined to prove herself and win the job permanently.

One of her tasks to be completed before the weekend was to get the letters out to all the Farrell consultants, giving them their redundancy notices. Mr Farrell had told her that it was a top priority. Unfortunately, it had been a very hectic week and she hadn’t managed to do the letters and Mr Farrell had told her on the Thursday evening that he would be out of the office the following day on a course, and wouldn’t be able to sign the letters personally so they would have to wait.

‘It would look very harsh and discourteous to them – some of them have been with us a long time – they’ll have to wait till Monday.’

Well, at least she could get them ready. Trina spent part of the morning printing them and they were sitting on her desk in a neat pile when Bianca Bailey came into her office in the middle of the afternoon.

‘Mr Farrell not here?’

‘No, Mrs Bailey, he’s on a course. He said he’d try to get back, but he wasn’t too hopeful.’

‘Yes, I see.’ She looked at the letters. ‘Were you hoping he’d sign those?’

‘Yes, I was. He did say they were urgent, but he wanted to sign them himself. They’re going out with the redundancy notices to the consultants.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, look, I’ll sign them myself. I’m sure that would be all right. Presumably he’s approved them?’

‘Oh yes. It took him a long time to get them to his satisfaction. But they’re good to go now. Apart from the signatures.’

‘Fine. Well, give them to me, and I’ll sign them and Jemima will get them in the post. Don’t worry, I’ll explain to Mr Farrell on Monday. He said you’d coped very well this week. Keep it up.’

And she smiled her dazzling smile – she was so lovely, Trina thought, so friendly – and left the room, taking the letters with her.

Trina spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on emails and filing and it was only when she decided to give Mr Farrell’s desk a bit of a tidy that she saw the postcard, half buried under a pile of notes, in Bertie’s scrawling hand, and with a Post-it note stuck on it saying ‘to be included in Marjorie Dawson’s letter’.

Panicking slightly, Trina pulled off the Post-it and read the card.

My dear Marjorie,

I am so very sorry that we have to say goodbye to you. I hope you will understand the reasons, and I would like to thank you for all the years of loyal service you have given us. I do hope your husband is doing well, and I know you will continue to look after him in your inimitable and courageous way. I would also like to assure you that if a suitable vacancy does occur in the near future, you will be one of the very first in line. If you would like to discuss your situation with me personally, please don’t hesitate to call, or make an appointment with my secretary.

‘Oh my goodness!’ said Trina, grabbing the card and running along the corridor with it, bursting into Jemima’s office.

But Jemima had gone, as had Bianca, and so, clearly, had the post.

And indeed, when she went back to her office there was an email from Jemima saying
Don’t worry about the letters, I’m posting them personally when I leave – a little early as I have to go to the dentist. Have a lovely weekend
.

The only thing she could do, Trina thought, was post the card herself. Even though the Friday post had gone, Marjorie would get it on Monday, and surely that would be all right? She wondered what the matter with Mrs Dawson’s husband was; clearly he was some kind of an invalid. Very sad. Goodness, it was a hard world, Trina thought, and switched off her computer and went to meet her boyfriend, dropping the card into a letter box on her way.

Lucy arrived for her Saturday stint at Rolfe’s to find the counter unattended. She was a little surprised; Marjorie was always there long before the store opened, dusting, rearranging, doing anything that might entice the customers. Lucy had grown quite fond of Marjorie because she was always cheerful and helpful, went to a lot of trouble to explain anything Lucy didn’t understand, and she was very popular with the other consultants. Lucy whisked off the dust sheets and had just started doing her own bit of rearranging when the manager came over.

‘You’ll have to cope on your own today, Lucy. Marjorie’s just phoned, won’t be coming in. Said she was ill.’

‘Oh, OK,’ said Lucy. She smiled at him. She was sorry poor Marjorie wasn’t well, but it would be fun managing without her; actually give her something to do.

Next week was her last but one week at FaceIt: an exciting one. The big local hotel was putting on a catwalk show and the students were all going along as make-up artists. As a sort of graduation piece, they had to create what FaceIt called their final look, based on a mood board, an individual compilation of photographs of models, colour swatches – pieces of ribbon, lace, even buttons, building up the colour family they were using, plus fashion photographs, beauty and hairstyle shots – all resonating their own final creation, a make up and hairstyle on a model. A photographer would then come in, take photographs – and that would be the start of their portfolios.

Marjorie had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring with incredulity at the letter that had come that morning. A courteous, if short, note informed her that she was to be made redundant with effect from the end of August.

That will give you a little more than the statutory notice period. We would like to thank you for your loyalty and hard work for the House of Farrell over the years and we hope you will be able to find alternative employment in the near future. Please sign the enclosed form and return it in the stamped addressed envelope.

Yours sincerely,

Bianca Bailey

pp – Bertram Farrell, Director of Human Resources

Human Resources! When did it get to be called that? Marjorie thought savagely.
In
human more like it. How could they do it to her, just sling her out like a discarded tissue? Where was Lady Farrell now, with all her fine words and promises? Not exactly standing at her side.