A Perfect Heritage (22 page)

‘Oh, now that’s not fair. I think we take you very seriously – and may I say, I could hardly bear to contemplate your leaving us?’

‘Oh, really?’ She had had enough champagne now to become flirtatious. Something that so far she had resisted. ‘Why?’

‘Why? Well, because your ideas, your vision of The Shop, your whole philosophy of the company are so totally in line with our own.’

‘I see.’ She felt foolishly disappointed; but not for long.

‘And,’ he added in his musical voice, leaning forward and looking into her eyes. ‘I would miss you on a personal level. Very much. I – well, I have grown rather fond of you, Florence. I might even say, very fond. Very fond indeed.’

And he leaned forward and put out his hand, and started to stroke, very gently, one of hers.

This, she knew, was the infinitely important, crucial moment: when she could have refused what she recognised as an invitation, turning it lightly, easily into a piece of foolish flirtation. Or accepted it, welcomed it and shown that she would like to pursue whatever might come next.

It was a long moment that she sat there, her great dark eyes fixed on his brilliant blue ones, leaving her hand where it was, beneath his.

A casual observer, seated also in the bar, would have seen and been charmed by this tableau of a lovely woman, dressed with a certain chic, being propositioned, however mildly, by an extraordinarily handsome man, and might have wondered as to their circumstances and indeed, what was the outcome to be.

What the observer could not have seen was the almost imperceptible tightening and mingling of the fingers of their two hands, before the woman sat back and picked up her cocktail once more and sipped it, only the hint of a smile on her lovely mouth. Nor could he have seen, after they had left – quite soon after that – a really rather hasty entry into a taxi, and a brief moment as they sat in opposite corners, still smiling at one another quite calmly, before literally falling forward into one another’s arms, and exchanging hungry, greedy, almost desperate kisses.

Chapter 22

Well, this was it, Patrick thought. His leaving party from Bailey Cotton and Bailey. It felt quite extraordinary, as if he was walking out on his family. Which of course he was, in a way.

His father had come up from Wiltshire to attend; his two uncles had booked the superb, leathery, woody Bank of England Room, at Green’s in the City, and an incredible feast was being served round the huge oval table.

‘Pity it’s not the oyster season,’ one of his uncles said, ‘but never mind, we can still do you proud, young Patrick.’

He ate rather mechanically and suddenly a spoon tapped on a glass. A stillness in the roistering, bantering room. And then his senior uncle got to his feet: ‘Gentlemen – and Patrick (much laughter). Accustomed as I am to public speaking, I still intend to keep this short. Mostly because there’s not a lot to say.

‘Simply: good luck, Patrick. We’ll all miss you. We wish you weren’t going, but you probably need a challenge. You’re too young and too bright to be in a rut, however comfortable. It’s brave what you’re doing. So you’ve clearly got courage as well as your other virtues. I won’t list your vices (more laughter).

‘Of course Bianca and the family are behind you – I just wanted you to know that we are too.

‘And – goes without saying, really – if it doesn’t work out don’t come running to us (huge laughter).

‘Now. You’re too young for a gold watch but since you are venturing into the unknown, here’s a different variety. It’ll take you full fathom five, or rather, to be precise, thirty foot in depth, although I wouldn’t like to test it out personally!

‘It comes with our love and best wishes. Enjoy wearing it, enjoy your new life – and come and see us occasionally. Gentlemen – Patrick!’

‘Patrick!’ roared the room.

Don’t, Patrick, don’t don’t cry. Don’t even let on you might be worrying about crying.

‘Thank you. So much. So generous, all of it. I’m not only gutted to be leaving I’m pretty fucking terrified.’ Laughter. ‘But – a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Unfortunately, perhaps. Anyway, this has been a great evening, and the one certainty in my future is that I’ll be back. Often. Hopefully not begging for my job back –’ More laughter – ‘but to see you all. Can’t imagine life without you. Right. That’s quite enough of that. Carry on drinking, gentlemen. I believe there’s sticky toffee pudding coming up, and again, thank you.’

Applause. Slaps on the back. Cheers as he put the watch on. It was a superb thing, an IWC Aquatimer, with the famously exclusive blue face and one blue, one yellow hand.

Even louder cheers for the sticky toffee pudding.

Later, coming out of the lavatory, he bumped into his father.

‘Oh – hi, Dad. Fancy meeting you here!’

‘Indeed. Patrick, just wanted to say I agreed with every word Ian said. Admire what you’re doing very much. Wish I’d had the guts myself.’

Shit. Now he was going to cry. Well, he had tears in his eyes. Bloody hell. His father would think he was some kind of wuss. And what had he meant by the last bit? He asked him.

‘Oh, not to be anything different in the City. A friend offered me a job in his advertising agency. Thought I could make a copywriter. Really wanted to do it.’

‘So?’

‘I thought it would endanger all our futures. Not so much money, lot more risk. You don’t have that sort of problem, of course, you’ve got Bianca. Anyway, you’ll make it work I know you will. And – if you don’t like it – well. You can always come back, you know. You mustn’t feel you can’t. Now excuse me, old chap, need to go and water the roses. Old waterworks not quite as well built as they were.’

Patrick stood aside, smiling; and then noticed that his father’s blue eyes as he looked at him were undoubtedly moist. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ was all he said. But he felt better about what he was doing.

It wasn’t until he was almost home that what his father had said sank in. ‘You don’t have that sort of problem . . . you’ve got Bianca.’

He had Bianca: more successful than he and with so much money she could support him and the family for ever if needs be. If this new life didn’t work out, and even if he didn’t feel he could go back to BCB, no one would suffer for it. Not materially, anyway. And that wasn’t entirely comfortable. Was that how everyone saw him? As the lesser weight in the partnership? A potentially kept man?

It had never properly worried him before, although of course he had been aware of it. Now it did. So he
had
to succeed.

‘That’s a very good idea. Thank you.’

Bianca smiled rather uncertainly at Saul Finlayson across the lunch table. He induced uncertainty in her and she wondered if he did it to everyone, wondered indeed if it was something he had developed in order to conduct his extraordinarily successful life more easily. She had never known anyone so completely self-confident. He had brought Dickon for Sunday lunch in the country at Patrick’s rather tentative suggestion, had accepted with surprising alacrity.

‘Very good’ was high praise, his mode of expression being so extremely economical. But – he was actually smiling at her. Or had been. It had been the usual fleeting affair.

‘Yes, very good idea,’ he said again.

‘Well – I’m glad you think so.’ It seemed to her that it hadn’t really been a very clever idea at all, rather simple indeed: that Dickon might enjoy the judo classes Fergie went to on Monday after school. Saul had been complaining that he didn’t do enough after school.

‘Just goes home and mucks about as far as I can make out.’

‘I think there’s quite a lot to be said for that,’ said Patrick. ‘They have too much direction these days, not enough time to get bored.’

‘Really?’ said Saul, looking at him in astonishment. ‘You think it’s OK to be bored?’

‘Yes, I do. You need to be bored to develop inner resources. I was bored a lot as a child, and that was when I discovered how much I liked reading.’

‘Oh, I don’t want Dickon spending his evenings with his nose in a book,’ said Saul. ‘Bad as being hunched over some game on his computer.’

‘Saul! That’s a terrible thing to say,’ said Bianca, laughing.

‘Why? He needs something physical. He’s got too much energy.’

‘So, what did you have in mind?’ asked Patrick. ‘Something like swimming?’

‘No, he hates swimming,’ said Saul, ignoring the shouts of joy that were coming from the pool area. ‘And anyway, he does it at school.’

Which was when Bianca made the suggestion, because Fergie’s judo classes were in Hampstead and Dickon’s mother, Janey Finlayson, with whom he lived during the week, was in Highgate.

‘Good. I’ll tell her to organise it.’

Bianca wondered if she shouldn’t feel rather sorry for Janey.

‘Right,’ said Patrick, ‘I think I might have a swim myself. Want to join me, Saul?’

‘No thanks. But you go ahead, Patrick, I’ll read the papers. Lot to catch up on.’

‘Oh – OK. Bianca, what are you going to do? Fancy a swim?’

‘No, I might go for a walk. I haven’t moved all weekend.’

‘I’ll join you,’ said Saul, and then, like a child told to mind its manners, ‘if that’s OK?’

‘Of course,’ said Bianca. The prospect was not entirely pleasing, but she managed to smile at him.

‘Right, well enjoy,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll see you at teatime.’

‘Keep an eye on the kids, won’t you?’ said Bianca.

‘Of course,’ he said and then, ‘Don’t I always?’ His tone was unmistakable and she looked at him sharply.

‘Yes, you do. Of course. Thank you.’

She led Saul Finlayson to the edge of their land and through the five bar gate that went into the wood. It was cool in there, and dark: a lovely contrast to the brilliant day.

‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘I don’t really like the sun.’

‘I suppose you burn? You’re very fair.’

‘Yes, I do, but I just don’t like being hot. I keep trying, but it doesn’t work.’

She laughed. ‘No need to try, surely. You’re over twenty-one. As they say.’

‘True.’ He pondered this and then said, ‘You’re right. Trouble is, a lot of the things I do like take place in the sunshine.’

‘Like what? I’d put you down as an English climate man. Racing – not ideal in the heat. Working – likewise. And I don’t know any of your other pursuits.’

‘There aren’t many. I spend most of my life working. I presume that’s what you meant. Like you, I imagine,’ he added, in a clear attempt to make polite conversation.

‘Yes, it is. And then my children take up a lot of what you’d call hobby time. I love being with them, doing things with them.’

‘I can see. I’m surprised.’

‘Why?’ She felt defensive. ‘I hope I don’t seem like one of those awful, power-crazed workaholics?’

‘No,’ he said, looking at her very seriously. ‘But I don’t know how you accomplish what you do, without being one of them.’

‘I’m a very good delegator,’ she said.

‘Says?’

‘Me. Oh, and everyone who works for me. Every journalist who interviews me.’ She smiled. ‘Who am I to argue?’

‘I’m lousy at it,’ he said. ‘Absolutely hopeless. Of course, it’s very hard, delegating what I do. If a client rings me at three in the morning, I have to be there. Not physically, obviously, but mentally – absolutely. I enjoy it, though. Wouldn’t have it differently.’

‘It’s not about the money then?’ she said, suddenly bold.

‘Of course not. It’s about what I do, knowing I can. That’s what it’s about, isn’t it? You must know that.’

‘I – well, yes.’

‘You make money on your wits and your skill and your knowledge in my business,’ he said after one of his silences. ‘It’s a war of nerves. If you run a hedge fund, you’re taking on the world. No text book tells you how to do it, there are no guarantees. It doesn’t matter what anyone else is doing, it only matters if you’re doing it right.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry, I don’t usually talk this much.’

‘No,’ she said, with a smile at him, ‘I had noticed.’

‘But – you invite confidences,’ he said, suddenly. And the swift smile flashed at her, and was gone. ‘I suspect that is one of the reasons for your success. I like you,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘I like being with you, talking to you. I don’t often talk.’

She smiled at him, unable to think of a response.

‘And your children are nice. A credit to you. I worry about Dickon,’ he added after a long silence.

‘Of course you do. But he’s a dear little boy. Not spoiled at all, as far as I can see.’

‘Of course he’s spoiled!’ he said and he sounded irritable. ‘How could he not be?’

‘Saul, I don’t mean he doesn’t have a lot of life’s goodies. But he’s not a brat. He’s really grounded.’

‘I hate that expression,’ he said. ‘Grounded. What does it mean?’

‘I’m sorry.’ She withdrew from the conversation; walked on in silence. He looked at her.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said after a long pause. ‘That was rude. What did you mean?’

‘I meant he had his feet on the ground, he’s happy and self-confident. And nicely mannered.’

‘Well, we have his mother to thank for that. The manners, I mean. Although I do try. I’ve tried very hard today.’

‘And you’ve done very well,’ she said and laughed. ‘So – in what way do you think Dickon is spoiled?’

‘Bianca! He has two warring parents fighting for his favours. He’s not stupid. Of course he’s spoiled. And it’s going to get worse. As he grows up. He’ll use that, he’ll get manipulative—’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Oh, he will. His mother’s very fair though, she doesn’t do that “Daddy’s mean to Mummy” stuff. She’s a very nice person. I often wish I was still with her,’ he added.

In the face of all this revelation, she felt brave enough to go on.

‘So – why?’

‘Oh, it was all my fault. I’m impossible to live with. Impossible. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I’m glad you like Dickon.’

‘I do. Very much.’

‘And your husband joins the firm next week. How do you feel about that?’

‘Oh – delighted, of course.’

‘No, really, how do you feel?’

‘I’m delighted,’ she said firmly again. ‘He needed a change, a challenge. Of course I’m anxious. Not that he won’t be able to do it, he’s terribly clever. But that he won’t like it. He’s very gregarious and I think it sounds rather solitary, what he’ll be doing for you.’

‘So – did you encourage him?’

‘Yes,’ she said, unsure if she was speaking the truth. ‘I thought it would be . . . good for him.’

He laughed suddenly, a rather childlike, spontaneous laugh.

‘And I hope for me.’

‘I hope so too.’

They had reached a lake, a flat, calm lake. Saul bent down, picked up a few pebbles, threw one. It skimmed across the water five times. She smiled at him.

‘You’re very good.’

‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’ve practised. When I was a little boy, endlessly. Making bets with myself. If I get it to hop three times, I’ll get picked for the cricket team, five times and I’ll get into Oxford, six times and—’ He stopped.

‘Six times?’ she said. ‘What did six times do for you?’

‘Oh, I’d moved on to girls by then.’

‘I see. So, seven times and you got the girl?’

‘Sort of.’ He looked slightly embarrassed.

She laughed. ‘What’s your highest score? Eight? What would that do for you?’

‘I’ve never managed eight,’ he said. And he looked down at her, very intently.

She felt awkward, almost flustered, bent down and picked up a pebble herself. ‘I’m going to try,’ she said. ‘I know the theory, my father tried to teach me. He could do about three. But I never could.’

‘OK, try. It’s not that hard.’

She couldn’t do it – every stone sank immediately.

‘Your father was obviously a bad teacher.’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ she said, stung. ‘He was wonderful.’

‘OK, what else did he tell you?’

‘Don’t take no for an answer, don’t follow the pack. The most important thing of all he said was to only do what I was good at, not to struggle with the rest.’

‘That’s very good advice. Is he still alive?’

‘Yes, he is. My mother died when I was nineteen, so she didn’t see me married, or her grandchildren.’

‘Or your success?’