A Perfect Heritage (23 page)

‘She wouldn’t have cared about that. She was very non-materialistic So was – is – my dad. He’s an academic, lectures in medieval history, lives in another world. Which is good in a way, of course, he doesn’t miss Mummy as much as he might, but he can’t make me out at all. Sometimes it quite hurts.’

She stopped, feeling absurdly emotional. She bent down, picked up another pebble.

‘Let me try again . . .’

‘No, don’t. Take your father’s advice. Leave it to those who can. Here I go.’ He threw. The stone bounced obediently. ‘Perfect six. One more.’

A five.

‘It’s been nice,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I don’t often talk. Do you think,’ he said suddenly, ‘talking to women is important? Making them happy, I mean? Do you and Patrick talk a lot?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘to both questions.’

‘Yes, I see. And – have you enjoyed talking to me?’

The question was so childlike she laughed.

‘Yes, of course. And I’m flattered that you have. Talked, I mean.’

‘Yes, well . . .’ He stopped, was completely silent for a long moment, then, ‘Yes, well, it’s time we got back.’

‘OK,’ she said, surprised by the change of mood.

But he didn’t move, just stood there staring at her, in silence. Finally he said, ‘You’re very attractive, Bianca. Patrick’s a lucky man.’

And then he was ahead of her, striding back to the house, silent the entire way.

‘So, are you coming or not? I’d like to know.’

‘Well, I – I’m not sure yet.’

‘Oh for God’s sake! Why not? I want to get it settled.’

Milly looked at Carey and tried not to feel panicked. It wasn’t that she still hadn’t dared ask her parents; nor that she was terrified they’d say no; more that she was half scared they’d say yes.

Of course she wanted to go, anyone would. It had sounded wonderful – at first. Two weeks on a yacht, sailing round the Greek islands. But then Carey had told her about the other people coming. Somehow she’d thought it’d be just the two of them and Carey’s parents. ‘Two other adults, best friends of my parents, and their two sons. Boys, Mills, boys! Really cool, and one of them is a serious
god
. Sixteen, I sooo fancy him.’

‘Oh – oh, how exciting.’ Milly struggled to sound enthusiastic. She really didn’t like that idea; Carey would spend the whole time pursuing the god, and she would be left with . . . ‘And the other one?’ she said.

‘Oh, he’s a baby. Thirteen. Quite fun, but . . .’

‘Cool,’ she said.

She had seen Carey in action pursuing boys a couple of times now; she was obsessed. And a weekend in Paris was one thing, a fortnight on a boat quite another. She almost wanted an excuse to say no.

‘I’ll make sure to get an answer tonight,’ she said. ‘But they’ve got some family holiday planned as well. I – I think the dates might clash.’

‘You didn’t say that before.’

She hadn’t, because it wasn’t true. Nothing had been planned. Her parents just kept saying they must sort something out, but they were both so engrossed in their jobs it never seemed to happen.

But her father was working late every night that week and her mother was distracted, said she hadn’t had time to plan a holiday. ‘But we will, darling, we will, promise. I thought maybe a villa somewhere, just the five of us, be nice wouldn’t it?’

Sort of nice, Milly thought, sort of boring too. Not like sailing round the Greek islands. But – not scary. No god to worry about.

‘Well?’ Carey said next day.

‘Sorry, Carey, they were both out. My mum’s going to be home tonight, she promised, so I can tell you in the morning.’

‘Well, mind you do. Otherwise I’ll have to ask someone else.’

That did it for Milly. The thought of someone else taking her place on this magical, privileged holiday was far worse than worrying about going on it.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right. I mean, they haven’t got anything booked yet, I was wrong about that, so . . .’

‘I don’t want you letting me down,’ Carey said. ‘Your parents are a bit controlling, aren’t they? Look at all that fuss about you and the cocktail. Your mum ringing mine. I mean, how old are you? Ten?’

Milly felt torn between embarrassment and defending her parents.

‘Well, tomorrow’s the deadline, OK?’ said Carey. ‘I know Bea would love it.’

‘Yes, OK.’

But her mother didn’t come home until after eight and she looked tired and distracted.

‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry. You’ve been on your own all this time? I’m sorry. I forgot about Daddy being late and I need to do a bit more work, I’m afraid.’

‘Mummy, Carey’s asked me to go on holiday with them. For two weeks.’

‘Oh, really? Where?’

‘A yacht in Greece. They’re hiring one.’

‘Sounds fun. Do you want to go?’

‘Course,’ she said, crushing the doubt.

‘I’ll call her mother. Talk about it.’

‘When? Carey really wants to know.’

‘I’ll call her now.’

The Mapletons were out, the Filipino housekeeper informed her.

‘Oh, Mummy! That’s awful. What am I going to say to Carey?’

‘That I’ll talk to her mother. Milly, I need to know a bit more, before I agree.’

‘Yes, of course. But – you do think it’ll be all right?’

‘Oh, Milly, yes. I just said I did.’

So: ‘It’s cool,’ she said in the morning to Carey. ‘My mum was fine about it. She’s going to call yours.’

‘Cool,’ said Carey. ‘God, I can’t wait till you see Ad. He’s primo.’

‘Cool,’ said Milly dutifully.

She hoped it was going to be all right.

‘Patrick, hi. How’s it going?’

Patrick was really pleased to see Jonjo.

‘Jonjo, I was wondering when you might appear. Really good to see you.’

‘You too. Wondered if you’d like to come for a drink?’

‘Well . . .’ Patrick hesitated. ‘I’ve not really finished here.’

‘Let me tell you, old chap, you never will. It’s not that sort of job. How’s it shaping up, so far?’

‘Oh, good,’ said Patrick. ‘Yes. I’m enjoying it. Really fascinating. I wouldn’t have believed quite how fascinating, actually.’

‘Great. Well look, I think you should leave it for a bit and come for a drink. All work and no play and all that. And contacts – very important in your game, I’d have thought.’

‘Possibly,’ said Patrick, grinning. ‘Yeah, OK, why not?’

He felt rather good suddenly; able to converse with Jonjo on equal terms – as someone who was doing something fascinating and living on his wits rather than just marking time until the partner above him retired.

The first day Saul Finlayson had come in to say hello and that he was sorry, he was flying out to Geneva in half an hour, but it was really good to have him on board and he hoped he’d enjoy it.

‘I’d like you to get stuck into this,’ he said, handing Patrick a slender file. ‘It’s a fertiliser company, offices mostly in Africa, but one in the Middle East as well, profits look good, but I want to know why they’re paying so much for their factories when their wages bill is so low. See what you think. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Cheers!’

It was enthralling work, he could see that, and that he could become very good at it; the only thing was it was rather solitary. But during those first few weeks he had not once felt bored; his brain felt as if it had been put to work in the gym, stretched, honed, tautened. He felt, for the first time since he had left Oxford, that he was not just in the right place at the right time, but in the very best place he could possibly be. It was extremely nice.

‘OK. Let’s go.’ Jonjo looked at him and grinned. ‘Corney and Barrow round the corner, good as anywhere, I think. See much of Saul?’

‘No, not much,’ said Patrick, ‘although he came to lunch in the country the Sunday a week before I joined.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘No. Why?’

‘Because he never does anything social, like that. Good God. But workwise?’

‘He just throws files at me and then vanishes again. And so far hasn’t complained about anything. He seems quite happy.’

‘You’d know if he wasn’t,’ said Jonjo. ‘He doesn’t mince his words. And you know what? You look about five years younger already. Clearly suits you.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick, hearing the pleasure in his own voice. ‘Yes, I really think it does.’

Chapter 23

‘This is great, Hattie! So much along the right lines. I’m really, really pleased.’

‘Good,’ said Hattie Richards, ‘I’m glad you like it. I don’t think we can improve on it much.’

Just as well she did like it then, Bianca thought; it was hard to imagine arguing with Hattie. She looked at her, at her plain face, her mousey hair, clearly uncombed since she had left the house that morning, her distinctly unflattering clothes – and marvelled at what Hattie had set down before her: a skin tonic, so pretty to look at, palest swimming pool blue, so fresh smelling, so cooling on the skin.

‘What I really wanted to ask you was, do you think we could instruct them to keep it in the fridge? That way it would always be cool and make it feel so much more refreshing . . . even if it wasn’t.’

‘Well, we could. I don’t suppose they’d do it, but that would be their problem. It’s a nice touch.’

‘I thought so,’ said Hattie. ‘The other thing I wondered was, could the bottle look like a little tonic water bottle? Although, of course, that could mean tooling up specially . . .’

‘Hattie,’ said Bianca rather feebly, ‘I think you should be doing my job.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Hattie. ‘I really wouldn’t enjoy it.’

She was distinctly lacking in a sense of humour.

Bertie looked at the email that had just sprung on to his screen. It was from Lara.

‘Call me if you’re still there.’

He called her. ‘Hello, it’s me,’ he said cautiously.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to anyone. He’d been engrossed in what he called his legal homework on employment law – it was complicated and he preferred to do it in the office, particularly as Priscilla refused to leave him in peace, but interrupted him constantly with questions about the house and if he had changed his mind yet. And she and Lucy had declared more or less total war, and squabbled constantly.

‘Look, I’ve had one hell of a day, and so I suspect have you, and it’s quite late. I fancy a bite to eat and we could just whizz over those contracts for the two new marketing people. What do you think?’

Bertie hesitated. ‘I shouldn’t really. I’m totally embroiled in—’

‘In what?’

‘In my legal studies.’

Lara went into a peal of laughter.

‘Bertie, it’s after nine and any normal person would be desperate for an excuse to get away! Come on. I’ll pick you up in five. I want to try that new place in Marylebone High Street – it’s not much more than a wine bar, really, but the food looked pretty good last time I was there. See you.’

Bertie closed his files. It would be fun, having supper with Lara, and there was no arguing with her. She was like a Force Nine gale when she got an idea into her head. Added to which, it would be very pleasant to be with someone who didn’t treat him with total contempt . . .

And it was a very nice evening; she was such good company. Funny and friendly and so – well, so encouraging. She told him she thought he was doing brilliantly, that the company already felt a different place from the one she had joined, that the new marketing team – she and her two assistants – were working together like a dream. ‘You were right about that funny little chap, and I was wrong, he’s a minefield of ideas. Bottle of white, shall we have? Or do you want red? And let’s see . . . I fancy the monkfish, what about you?’

Bertie said he would have the puttanesca. ‘Or tart’s spaghetti, as I believe it’s called.’

‘Bertie, that’s the most risqué remark I’ve ever heard from you!’ She grinned at him. ‘You know, you really are doing very well with your diet. Your face has completely changed shape since I arrived.’

‘For the better?’ asked Bertie anxiously.

‘Well, of course for the better. I wouldn’t have said anything otherwise.’

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ he said and was so not angling for compliments that she laughed aloud.

‘You really are amazing, Bertie. Where does it come from, this rather low opinion of yourself?’

‘I suppose because there’s never been much reason for a high one. Parents like mine – lot to live up to. And my mother isn’t exactly easy in her judgments.’

‘How about your dad?’

‘Well, he was a bit gentler. But he was so perfect, so handsome and charming and clever, and my mother was always drawing unfavourable comparisons. I suppose that was it.’

‘Well, I’d say you’re beginning to look more like the portrait of your dad every day. The one your mother insists on keeping in the boardroom.’

Bertie was torn between astonishment and defensiveness on his mother’s behalf.

‘It’s important to her,’ he said, ‘that picture. And as she always says, the company wouldn’t have happened without him.’

‘Yes, sorry. I’d no business saying that.’

‘It’s OK. Anyway, I really don’t think I look remotely like him.’

‘You do. My dad was a bank manager, very good-looking and charming, and the ladies of Edgbaston all adored him. But the difference was, we got on really well, and he’d tell me how lucky I was to be young and how the world was my oyster. He was very proud of me. And he encouraged me to go to uni, told me he’d always regretted not going himself.’

‘Well, you’re very lucky,’ said Bertie.

‘I know,’ said Lara, sitting back, starting on her wine with great enthusiasm, ‘very lucky.’

‘And what about your husband?’ Bertie didn’t usually ask personal questions, it seemed to him to border on rudeness, but he was intrigued by this background of love and supportiveness, so different from his own.

‘My husband? Oh, he was just an out-and-out bastard. Cheated on me, went out of his way to diminish me whenever he could. He told me I lacked class – that was his favourite. He’d been to boarding school and I was a comp girl and he teased me about my accent. But he was very sexy.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Bertie. Of course. That would matter to her. He took a large gulp of the wine.

‘And he had a bit of money.’

Bertie felt slightly depressed by this account of Lara’s husband.

‘He used to do all the right things in the early days, send me flowers, bought me champagne, took me on amazing trips – Paris for the weekend, South of France for my birthday, Maldives for our honeymoon. That was amazing.’

She looked at her wine contemplatively. ‘And then, once he was married, he didn’t have to bother any more. Always going out drinking with his mates, and we were both working for the same company, and he’d be making up to all the girls in the pub and at sales conferences, and when I said I didn’t like it, he told me I was just a little suburban girl and he wasn’t going to be a suburban husband. He liked to show me off, but he behaved as if we’d only just met and I was just one of his girls for the evening.’

‘He sounds dreadful,’ said Bertie. He felt hugely indignant on Lara’s behalf.

‘Then when I began to do better than him in my career, he didn’t like it, he was jealous. He got this idea we should have children, and I knew why, he wanted me at home, with nothing to do but look after him. I refused, and that was when the cheating began. But – oh, I’m sorry Bertie, you don’t want to hear all this!’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Bertie. He wasn’t sure that he did, but it was telling him a lot about Lara.

‘Of course he was very remorseful, and I decided to go along with the baby thing, and actually got pregnant, but then I lost it. Yeah, it was awful,’ she said, seeing Bertie’s agonised half-embarrassed sympathy, ‘but, you know, life’s tough. Just get on with it, that’s my motto. I began to recover, got a new job and he was angry and – well, it all started again. Big time. So I left him. I was doing very well in my career, and then I had a really nice fella and I was very happy with him. We were going to get married, and then he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, just like that. Dead in six months.’

‘Oh, Lara!’ said Bertie. ‘That is the most dreadful story.’ Fate seemed to have been quite kind to him by comparison.

‘Oh, it’s OK. Honestly. I survived. As you see.’

His phone rang. ‘Sorry,’ he said looking at it. ‘It’s my wife, better take it.’

He turned away from the table.

‘Priscilla, hello. Any problems? Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry, but I had to work late this evening, thought I’d told you? I’m having a bite to eat with a colleague. What? Oh, I see. Well, perhaps tomorrow . . . no don’t wait up for me, we’re going over some contracts here – yes, all right. Yes, I am sorry. I said so, several times. Bye Priscilla.’

He ended the call and looked at Lara rather shamefaced.

‘Sorry. And now I’m well in the doghouse. She’d kept supper for me.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Lara. ‘Well, should we just whizz over these contracts before we’re both properly drunk and then we can turn our minds to other things? Like . . . your marriage.’ She looked at him, her big blue eyes dancing.

‘Oh, don’t think there’s anything to be said about that,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s a perfectly normal, happy marriage. Few ups and downs, but, nothing to talk about, really.’

‘Oh really?’ said Lara. ‘Well, that’s good.’

It was late when they left. They had drunk at least half of a second bottle of wine and Bertie was feeling a little confused. He was helping her into her coat at the door when she turned and smiled at him and said, ‘I’ve had such a nice evening. Thank you, Bertie. And you really do look like your dad.’

And somehow – and the old Bertie, even the sober Bertie, would never have done such a thing – he felt suddenly completely happy, and he smiled back at her and then bent down and kissed her – very gently – on the mouth.

‘I’ve loved it too,’ he said. ‘Thank you. It was your idea.’

And she looked at him, slightly startled, then gave him a hug and it was all completely and perfectly innocent. Of course.

And so very very enjoyable.

It was heady stuff this. A love affair it could be called. First-thought-in-the-morning-last-thought-at-night stuff. Missing meals, too excited to sleep, unable to concentrate except on the beloved; he could hardly recognise himself.

And all because of a job. Ridiculous really. But – undeniable. And making him very happy.

‘Hi, mate! Coming for a drink?’

It was Jonjo.

‘Can’t. Too much to do. Have work to finish tonight.’

‘Blimey! You really are hooked.’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Patrick, very seriously. ‘It is totally fascinating. I only have to see the words “exceptional profits” and I’m off. And I’ve spotted a few things.’

‘Great. I’ve clearly unleashed a great new talent into the financial world. Not feeling lonely?’

‘No. I get so absorbed, I hardly know if it’s morning or night.’

‘Excellent. And what about your parental duties?’

‘You know what?’ said Patrick and the smile was not apologetic at all now, ‘I’ve handed them over for a while. It’s not my turn.’

‘I never thought to hear you say anything like that,’ said Jonjo. ‘Well, cheers mate. See you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, great,’ said Patrick. He had never thought to hear himself say anything like that either.

He had had several – well, not rows, disagreements – with Bianca about it. The most recent had been a talk at Milly’s school, marked ‘High Priority’ in the email; Bianca had said she simply couldn’t go, and he’d have to; Patrick said he simply couldn’t go either so what was to be done? They’d had a straightforward, adult conversation about it, affirming that they must agree on priorities which hadn’t got them anywhere, followed by a rather brisk discussion disagreeing on priorities which hadn’t got them anywhere either, and finally a tense talk agreeing on priorities but disagreeing on which of them should meet them and when, Patrick making the point that he had been meeting them for the past thirteen years and maybe it was Bianca’s turn, and Bianca the point that she was signed up to a new project that was non-negotiable in terms of commitment, and Patrick pointing out that the same could be said of his.

The event went unattended, followed shortly by another – a swimming gala of Fergie’s. This had never happened through their entire parenthood. Milly was shocked, and even Ruby was upset by proxy and cried all through her bedtime story. Fergie had arrived home with a medal for winning the Under Twelves’ freestyle, which he threw into the bin and retired to his room, most unusually, in tears. When Bianca arrived home, she went up to see him and he refused to talk to her. She went downstairs, upset, started clearing up the children’s supper things and was confronted by Milly, who had retrieved the medal. ‘You should have been there for him!’ she said and flounced out of the kitchen and upstairs, slamming her door behind her. Patrick, arriving home a little later, found Bianca – also most unusually – in tears.

‘It’s just – just wrong,’ she said, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, smudging her mascara. ‘It’s not their fault, they need better than this.’

‘I totally agree,’ said Patrick.

‘Well, what are we going to do about it?’

‘By that, I suspect you mean what am
I
going to do about it.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t.’ But there was a note of bravado in her voice.

‘Bianca, I’m sorry, but I’ve done it for at least twelve years. Been there, whenever
we
were needed.’

‘That’s not fair. I’ve done my share, whenever I could.’

‘Yes, and when you couldn’t, you didn’t have to give it a moment’s thought. Patrick can go, you thought, that’ll be fine, and off you went, to New York or Edinburgh or Manchester. It was very very easy for you.’

‘That is so unfair! We
agreed
that was how we’d play it. You know we did. It’s not my fault you had a totally flexible job and I didn’t.’

‘Indeed not. But it suited you very well.’

‘Patrick, this is a ridiculous conversation. Our whole family structure was based on that.’

‘But – don’t you think, sometimes, there has to be flexibility in these things? I was quite happy at work in those days. I became very unhappy—’

‘Oh, don’t give me that! You were not
very
unhappy.’

‘And how do you know that? Did you ever think to inquire? As you rushed from one terribly important job to another, did you think “maybe I’d better make sure this is all right with Patrick first”?’