A Perfect Heritage (21 page)

He walked out of the room, leaving Bianca feeling rather unsure of herself suddenly. It was an unfamiliar sensation.

‘Bertie, I need to talk to you.’

Bertie was enjoying a quiet glass of claret in the garden after dinner; the air was full of birdsong and the problems with Marjorie Dawson and, indeed, everything to do with the office seemed just for the moment far away; he looked warily at Priscilla, advancing towards him down the path with two mugs containing what he knew to be herb tea on a tray.

She sat down beside him, took the glass of claret from his hand, and passed him one of the mugs. ‘Green tea. Very good for you. You really must cut down on the wine, Bertie, it’s bad for you and it isn’t helping your diet.’

‘Actually,’ said Bertie, ‘I’ve now lost well over a stone.’

‘Well, maybe, but you need to lose a lot more. Anyway, it’s very bad for your liver. At your age, it’s just stupid. Now, I want to talk to you about the house. We’ve had an offer I think we really can’t refuse – the American couple I told you about who loved the house and the garden, said it was by far the most beautiful they’d seen.’

‘Which is possibly why I don’t want to leave it,’ said Bertie.

Priscilla ignored this. ‘They’ve made a very good offer, the agent rang me this afternoon. And—’

‘Priscilla,’ said Bertie, ‘I don’t want to sell the house. I like it here, I don’t want to leave it. I don’t see how I can make things any clearer.’

‘Well, I can only say I hope you won’t regret it,’ said Priscilla, standing up and snatching her mug off the table.

‘I’m sure I won’t,’ said Bertie, and returned to his contemplation of his flowerbeds and the small victory behind him with some satisfaction. A month ago, he would never have stood up to Priscilla like that; clearly his new career suited him. Of course it was difficult and challenging, and he still felt terrible about the Dawsons, and his mother was making life completely impossible, and tomorrow evening he had to go and have dinner with her and Caro as she said she wanted to plan strategy for the next board meeting – and yet he seemed to be able to cope with it all.

‘Susie, I don’t mean to interfere and ignore me if you like, but you look terrible.’ Jemima’s large brown eyes overflowed with concern. Susie was so touched that she felt the tears rising again. The treacherous tears that she had tried so hard to hide from Henk, as he shouted at her, accusing her of ignoring his calls, and of trying to belittle him.

She had failed, of course, and was immediately at a disadvantage; he saw them, recognised her weakness, changed tack, went into wounded mode and said he thought she loved him, and before she knew what was happening was pushing her down on to the kitchen floor and wrenching off her pants.

‘Henk, please, no, not here!’ she said.

‘Oh what? Don’t be so fucking prissy. You liked doing it here once.’

‘I – I know.’ But it hurts, she was going to say, but he was already stabbing into her, his mouth crushing hers, his hands hard and claw-like, holding her buttocks, lifting her up, pushing her round him. She wasn’t ready and it did hurt, and it hurt her emotionally too that he could subject her to this violence. And she lay there beneath him, as he ground and thrust her into the hard floor, faking for all she was worth, just to get it over.

Only she did too well, and when it was over, he rolled off her, and turned his face to hers, smiling in a sort of triumph, and said, ‘That was more like it, babe, more like my Susie. Shall we continue in bed?’

Finally, after what seemed like hours of pain and misery, she felt him grow heavy beside her and fall into the deep, undisturbable sleep that sex always brought him. She crawled carefully out of bed and went into the bathroom and lay in a hot bath for a long time, sore and aching all over, her breasts literally bruised where he had bitten and sucked at her, and her thighs too, from his heavy, almost vicious, hands; and when finally she got out and looked into the mirror, she saw that her neck bore several bruises too, dark and unmistakable legacies of his violence that would take days to fade, and even her mouth was swollen and red.

She wrapped herself in a bathrobe, and, weeping again, went into the sitting room and curled tightly up on the sofa, wondering for the hundredth, the thousandth time why she submitted to it, and failing to find an answer. Finally, after several Nurofen and a cup of warm, sweet tea, she began to feel better, physically at least, and rather feverishly slept.

‘I – I’m all right,’ she said feebly now, longing more than anything to tell Jemima, and knowing she could not, and indeed that added to her misery, the impossibility of confessing to this ugly cycle of brutality and submission: ‘Just – just got my period. Slept really really badly. But thank you. I’ll be fine.’

‘Poor you,’ said Jemima. ‘Well, nice cup of tea then? And I have some really strong pills in my bag.’ And Susie loved her for that, for not pressing her inquiries when it was so clear that she believed not a word of Susie’s explanation, but respecting her reasons for giving it. And, ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘That’d be lovely, thank you.’

‘Bianca did want to see you,’ Jemima said, ‘to talk about the perfume a bit more, but I’m sure it could wait a while. Till the pills work at least.’

‘Oh – yes. Yes, OK,’ said Susie. ‘Yes, that’d be lovely, if it could be a bit later. But I don’t want to upset her plans, she’s always so busy.’

‘She actually has a fairly clear morning,’ said Jemima. ‘I’ll see if she could see you around twelve thirty, OK?’

‘Yes, that’d be wonderful,’ said Susie, ‘but Jemima, don’t tell her I’m feeling rough will you? It’s such a bad excuse.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re talking to Anna Wintour about an exclusive in American
Vogue
,’ said Jemima, with a grin, and then, seeing Susie’s expression, ‘Don’t worry, Susie, I’ll fix it.’

What she actually did was tell Bianca that she was worried about Susie, and that she clearly had some kind of problem, but the only thing to do was respect that and try to give her an easy time for a bit. When Jemima added that there were a couple of nasty bruises on Susie’s neck, too high to be covered even by the ruffled white shirt she was wearing, clearly not acquired by way of an altogether happy experience, she had said, ‘Fine, OK.’ And then added, ‘Keep an eye on her, Jemima, would you? She clearly needs some sort of help.’

Given Bianca’s absolute impatience with any form of weakness in her staff, and indeed herself, Jemima saw this as the huge concession it was and was able to tell Susie that twelve thirty would be absolutely fine.

Chapter 21

Hattie Richards did not look too much like anyone’s idea of a cosmetic chemist. She was tall and plain with a make-up-free face, mousey of hair, and wore a light brown trouser suit that did nothing for her colouring or her figure. The profession that she would seem most likely to represent was that of an old-fashioned nanny. Bianca smiled at her determinedly and signalled to her and Lara to sit down.

‘Thanks very much,’ Hattie Richards said, her voice the first surprise, being light and rather pretty. ‘So – tell me what you’re looking for,’ she said.

‘Well,’ said Bianca, slightly thrown by being cast as interviewee, ‘a chemist obviously. And Lara tells me—’

‘No, no,’ said Hattie. ‘I mean in the way of a range.’

‘Ah, well – well, it’s not exactly a range. Rather an offshoot of one.’

‘I’d call that a range,’ said Hattie Richards.

‘Yes, possibly,’ said Bianca, ‘but anyway, a range within a range, to be sold alongside the present one, spearheading our relaunch next summer. This is naturally very confidential,’ she added.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Hattie Richards. ‘And still in the mastige market, which is where you are at the moment, or further towards the prestige end?’

‘Oh, definitely more prestige. I’m looking for a product advantage that I can add to The Cream. Well, what I want to do is develop a new version of it. To go with the new range.’

‘I really don’t think you should do that,’ said Hattie Richards, ‘it would be madness. Your hero product? Madness.’

She didn’t lack self-confidence, that was for sure. Bianca didn’t know whether to be pleased or irritated by this.

‘Well, you may be right,’ she said, managing to sound polite, ‘but it is, as you say, our strongest product, something we can build on. I feel new ones should be built around it.’

‘Well yes,’ said Hattie, ‘around it. But not on it, OK? The Cream is a
wonderful
product. So . . . I would imagine five or so products initially? Something like day cream, toner, cleanser, mask or some such, and, of course, The Cream itself. Quite enough to start with, I’d say. Unless you did an additional version of The Cream, but I think that would denigrate the original, imply it was missing something.’

‘Well – yes.’ This was hugely irritating. Who was hiring who?

‘What you could do,’ said Hattie Richards thoughtfully, ‘is perhaps launch a SuperCream. To use for exceptional situations – you know, icy winter weather, flying, hotel living—’

‘What on earth is wrong with hotel living? When it comes to your skin?’ said Bianca.

‘Oh, Mrs Bailey, central heating, closed windows, air-conditioning – anyway, even that might not be the answer. I could think about it if you like.’

‘Well – maybe.’ Bianca wasn’t sure if she could work with Hattie Richards, but she was certainly extremely clever. ‘And then I think we need to do a few colour products.’

‘But the trouble is you can’t do a few colour products, can you? It’s all or nothing, twenty of everything. I’d advise against that.’

‘Well, it’s interesting to hear your views, as an outsider,’ said Bianca, struggling to retain control of the situation, ‘but I am of the opinion we need it.’

‘What I’d probably do,’ Hattie said, ‘is something you could call a lip treatment: basically a moisturiser for lips, and then five glosses, and a mascara. There’s something about mascara that makes it like skincare. Don’t you agree?’ she said, addressing herself to Lara, clearly assuming Bianca would be of the same mind.

‘Well – yes, actually, I do,’ said Lara. ‘I hadn’t thought of it before, had you Bianca?’

‘I don’t know that I agree, but—’

‘Well, the point is,’ said Hattie Richards, ‘you wouldn’t entrust your eyes to rubbish mascara, would you? You need to protect them. In fact, you could call it protective mascara. If the legals let you. Don’t see why not. I hadn’t thought of that before. Looking after your eyes for you . . . good product plus.’

‘Right,’ said Bianca, recognising the near-brilliance of this as a cosmetic concept, ‘well, we could certainly look at that. But the thing is, Hattie, much as I like your ideas, there are certain problems. I’m building a team from scratch—’

‘Why?’ said Hattie.

‘Because – well, because I feel we need a completely fresh start.’

‘Why?’ said Hattie again.

‘I think,’ said Lara, cutting in, ‘and again this is very confidential, Hattie, because the chemists we have aren’t quite in the league we need.’

‘But why?’ said Hattie. ‘They manage The Cream after all. And I know it’s been updated slightly in the last five years. Lighter, but just as rich.’

‘Yes, I know, but it’s basically a very old formulation.’

‘OK, but they still do it. Clever, that. Anyway, there’s no such thing as a bad chemist. Not really. It’s the briefing that’s bad. The briefing and the standards.’

‘You mean, you could work with our funny old team?’ said Lara, genuinely fascinated.

‘Of course – if they were willing, and that would be up to you. I’d provide the ideas, I’d brief them, I’d set the standards. How many people have you got, by the way?’

‘Er – three altogether. But soon to be down to two,’ said Bianca.

‘Well, that sounds about right. Anyway, what I was going to say is, as long as they’re reasonably competent, I could almost guarantee I could work with them. There’s a couple of good colour products in your range, like the Smudgeys – they’re gorgeous. The actual colours are just slightly off-key, in a couple of cases, but the concept and the formulation are great: they must have done those.’

‘Well – yes. Yes, they did.’

‘And the lab is here? What about the factory?’

‘Islington.’

‘Yes, well, that sounds fine.’

‘It is fine, but it’s expensive,’ said Bianca. ‘That’s why—’

‘You could move everything, offices, studio, the lot, lock, stock and barrel, maybe. Be good if the whole operation was in the same place—’

‘Look, Hattie,’ said Lara, seeing that Bianca was getting increasingly irritated by this reorganisation of her entire company, ‘would you just give us five minutes? We need to discuss something rather urgently, nothing to do with you. I just got a text from Sales. Then we’ll be back.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Hattie. ‘My husband’s picking up the children from nursery today. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

‘You’ve got children?’ asked Bianca. She struggled to sound interested, rather than astonished.

‘Yes, twins. Girls, three in a couple of months. I presume that’s not a problem?’

‘No,’ said Bianca. ‘Absolutely not. I have three children myself, and the sales team are a positive production line.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ Hattie smiled approvingly; she rummaged in her bag. She’s going to produce a photograph, thought Bianca, and if she does . . . but only a large linen handkerchief appeared, on which Hattie blew her nose rather loudly. ‘Well, I’ll wait here shall I?’ she said.

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. A drink? Jemima . . .’

A week later Hattie Richards was interviewed with Bertie in attendance, and the next day her appointment was confirmed. Maurice Foulds was told he might, if he wished, take early retirement and that he would be given a very large payoff. He was on the north side of fifty and had, unfortunately for him, complained vociferously for years about his health and the strain of the journey to and from Harpenden every day.

He accepted rather grudgingly, and the other two chemists were told they would be working with their new boss as from the following Monday.

Bertie had also discovered in Hattie a passion for gardening, and as he saw her off the premises, said he would be very interested to hear any ideas she had for treating honey fungus which was plaguing his privet hedge, and on which she revealed she had written a paper after leaving Oxford.

‘Oxford?’ said Bianca when Hattie was safely out of earshot, her own voice rising rather unattractively. ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Bianca Bailey,’ said Lara, laughing, ‘you are such a snob.’

It was the last day of the course and Lucy felt sad. She’d enjoyed it so much, learned a lot, made some good friends – and now it was Final Looks day, the girls’ own creations after two months of tuition. Most of them, she thought secretly, were either boring, or self-consciously wild and dramatic, but she had done something she’d called Creamy Dreams, a look that was literally all shades of cream and beige and brown – eyeshadows, liners, blusher, lips – and somehow it wasn’t the pallid nothing that it could have been, but dramatically interesting, vibrant and gentle at the same time. She had found a girl to model for her – they were allowed to do that, if it didn’t cost anything, and Lucy had found a junior in H&M with wonderful wavy chestnut brown hair which she’d made very big indeed, and was thinking, not for the first or even the hundredth time, what an incredible thing make up was. The girl had actually looked quite ordinary when she came in, but by the time Lucy had finished she was stunning. Make up and hair – they really did have some sort of sorcery to them, making the plainest face pretty, the pretty beautiful, and the beautiful quite extraordinary.

Over lunch that day they all talked about their futures – suddenly so real and so scary.

Fenella, who could have been a model herself, had just got a place at Central St Martins to study photography, but in the meantime had made friends with a local photographer who had offered her some steady work doing the make up for girls coming in for portraits; one of the other girls had got a job as an assistant at a local beauty salon, and Lucy had found a girl who was getting married and she was going to do her make up and had been asked to do all the bridesmaids too. That was her only assignment so far, but she’d been told that such jobs often led to many more.

Her job, if you could call it that, at Rolfe’s was going to last a little longer; Marjorie had been retained for another two months, while a scheme of her father’s was put in place, what he called ‘Roving Consultants’ – girls, newly hired, to move from store to store, working on promotions, doing demos, safeguarding the Farrell counter spaces, and keeping the lines of communication with the customers open. When the relaunch happened, there would be a further investment in new girls, but for the time being this met many of the problems caused by losing the girls altogether.

‘Florence! That is just such a brilliant idea!’

Florence smiled down the phone at Bianca. She liked her very much, especially when she responded to one of her ideas. Which seemed to be coming rather fast these days. And it was rather wonderful to be appreciated. ‘Yes, well, I thought it might work.’

‘Might! Florence it will. I’m sure. You’re a genius. Thank you.’

He had said that: exactly. She knew, as he said it, that she would always remember: and she had. Fifty years later. ‘You’re a genius. Thank you.’

He had insisted then that they should go to tea at The Ritz: ‘Just to talk it over a bit more.’

And there, among the palms, as the harpist played all the tunes from
Oklahoma!
, and they had champagne at Cornelius’s insistence, as well as Earl Grey tea – they went oddly well together – and smoked salmon sandwiches and scones and cream and tiny delicacies of cakes, they talked for a long, long time, first about her idea – that with every major new promotion, loyal customers at least should be rewarded with a small gift, in the form of a sample size of a product – and then of other things, how the company was growing, how well it was regarded, how it was written about endlessly in magazines and the women’s pages in newspapers; and then they moved on, to how Cornelius hoped that Florence was as happy as she could be, how wonderful it was to have her on board, how much he and Athina valued her. At which point the maitre d’ tactfully came over and said teatime was actually over and they realised everyone had gone, and laughing, apologised, and he said, no, no, it was an honour to see them enjoying themselves so much but if they would now like to move into the bar . . . ?

Whereupon Cornelius said how would that be? And she said she really shouldn’t, and he said why not? And suddenly she thought why not indeed, why not one last glass of champagne?

‘Or would you rather have a cocktail?’ Cornelius asked, and she said well, perhaps a champagne cocktail would be nice, and it had been ordered and she was sipping it, and actually, now, was really rather tipsy, but pleasurably so, and Cornelius was telling her what fun she was to talk to, she was so well informed about everything, both flippant and serious, and what did she feel about the much discussed affair between Princess Margaret and Group Captain Peter Townsend.

Florence said she really thought that if Princess Margaret wanted to have an affair with a divorced man she should have one, but perhaps rather more discreetly than she had hitherto done; ‘picking that bit of fluff off his jacket at the coronation, so very blatant – she was inviting the world to notice and to guess. Whether she should actually marry him, as all the women’s magazines keep hinting she will, is another matter altogether. I’m not sure that would be very good for the country. Or her sister,’ she added, ‘since she is the head of the Church.’

‘I see,’ said Cornelius. ‘So you are an advocate for the extra-marital affair are you, Florence? How very emancipated of you.’

‘I would hope I’m emancipated,’ Florence said. ‘It would hardly become any working woman with career ambitions to be otherwise, would it?’

‘Ah, so you do have career ambitions?’ said Cornelius.

‘Of course.’

‘And what form do they take? I mean, if it was a seat on the board you had in mind – and I have to tell you I would not oppose that, in the fullness of time – well, that would change the balance of power in the House of Farrell, just a little. Or perhaps you have your eye on another company, another board.’

‘I suppose – ultimately – I do. Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘For the reason you just gave: if I reached some lofty position in the House of Farrell, I would inevitably find myself pitted against you and Athina from time to time. Which wouldn’t do at all. Whereas, were I to go to Yardley, or Coty, for example, it wouldn’t matter. And I also think it would be hard for you to take me seriously enough.’