A Perfect Heritage (60 page)

Chapter 51

It turned out to be a match made in heaven, Jess Cochrane and Farrell’s. Susie could see it would be from the moment she was shown to their table, just from the clothes she was wearing, not some flashy dress, but jeans, a pale pink crêpe shirt with huge sleeves, and high-heeled boots. She had a mass of blond hair, falling straight over her shoulders, what had once been called a rosebud mouth, that curved into large dimples when she smiled, and enormous green eyes, with extraordinarily long eyelashes which were, astonishingly, real.

She must have been aware, Susie thought, that the entire restaurant was staring at her, pointing her out, but the first thing she said, in the most unluvvie-like way, was, ‘Hi Susie. I’m Jess,’ as if Susie might not have known. And then, as she sat down, she said, ‘I am just so, so excited to meet you and hear about this.’

So as well as being seriously beautiful, she was nice. That was probably the most important thing after the beauty. Freddie Alexander, on the other hand, overglossed, dressed almost entirely in black, with only a massive gold necklace dangling into her cleavage, was clearly not nice. And then Jess was hugely intelligent, and up for anything and full of ideas. Maybe that was
the
most important thing.

In fact, without her idea, Susie had to admit, the whole campaign would have been a lot less exciting.

Talking her into the campaign had been a breeze; she jumped at it.

‘I love it,’ she said, to Freddie Alexander’s clear disapproval, before they had even ordered, ‘love, love, love it. It’s perfect. I’d adore to do it.’

‘Jess,’ said Freddie Alexander, with a venomous glance at Susie, ‘surely we need to discuss it, you need to think about it a bit more—’

‘I don’t want to discuss it and I don’t need to think about it. I love it.’

Susie felt she was falling in love with her herself.

Two days later, she came into the office to meet Bianca.

‘Hi,’ she said, ‘lovely to meet you. I hope Susie’s told you how thrilled I am about this?’

‘She certainly has,’ said Bianca, ‘and I can tell you I’m as thrilled.’

‘It’s going to be really, really fun. And I just love the thought of being projected on to the front of your building, it’s so cool. But . . .’ She looked at them and smiled her ravishing dimpled smile, ‘I had an idea. I think it would be even more wonderful.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I wondered about a competition? Guessing whose face it was, building up, day by day. And then revealing it at your launch. How about that? Of course if you don’t like it . . .’

Susie and Bianca looked at each other and spoke in unison: ‘We like it.’

‘And then I thought, but it would have to be shot in profile, and maybe a bit of the rest of me as well, so it wasn’t immediately obvious, and I don’t know how you’d feel about that?’

Susie and Bianca felt pretty good.

It was all too good to be true.

And so it was all beginning to happen. Fragments of Jess’s lovely face, shot in profile, as she had suggested, her back turned to camera, dressed in a long, sequinned sheath dress, her hair draped simply over her shoulder, the fragments slowly forming the image as the clock ticked away the seconds; the message on the website and in the press and innumerable tweets that something beautiful was going to happen at the House of Farrell; and telling them also, that if they cared to go along to the House of Farrell and look at its frontage, they would see it slowly come alive; a press release and leaflets on all the Farrell counters (and, of course, the website) announced the competition and that the lucky winner would be invited to the launch of the new Farrell’s and meet the owner of the face; and Susie called all her favourite journos and bloggers, telling them they should go along and look at the clock. ‘And this is only the first part of our incredibly exciting launch, for Farrell’s is being reborn, so don’t write it off as a brand of the past’ and tweeted endlessly day after day saying ‘Have you seen the Farrell clock yet?’ or ‘Are you entering our amazing competition?’

Dozens of builders and shopfitters were working on the shops all over the world; The Collection itself, large numbers of it, was formulated and packaged and looking wonderfully classy, waiting in the warehouse; space was booked in the July issues of the major glossies . . . God it was amazing, Bianca thought, as she walked briskly down Holborn to her meeting that sunny March morning, all that agonising and misery, all that stress and exhaustion, all so so worth it. It was going to be all right, she knew, it was, it was . . .

‘Hi,’ she said, grinning happily at Mike and Hugh, who were waiting for her in Mike’s office, ‘I can’t tell you how well it’s all . . . is something the matter?’ she asked, the joy and confidence draining out of her, slowly taking in that Mike’s face was extremely grim and so was Hugh’s.

‘Sorry, Bianca,’ Mike said, ‘but I’m afraid it is. We’ve just had some rather bad news . . .’

Two million, the landlords had said. Upfront, if they wanted to renew the lease. The lawyers had been through it all with them and were unable to help.

‘Well – well that’s terrible. They’ve got us over a barrel, I can see that. But what choice do we have?’

‘Er – not to pay?’

‘But we have to, surely. Otherwise they’ll sue.’ She looked from one to the other of them, smiled uncertainly. They didn’t return the smile.

‘Yes, of course they will,’ said Mike.

‘Absolutely right,’ said Hugh.

‘So – look, I don’t understand. Where’s the dilemma? We have to find the money.’

‘Well perhaps you’d like to do that,’ said Hugh, and his voice was very hard, ‘because it’s not coming from us.’

‘What? But – I don’t understand. Is there an alternative?’

‘There is, I’m afraid, and it’s the one we have to go for,’ said Mike. ‘We have to get out of the arcade fast. There’s no question of finding another two million, Bianca, I’m sorry.’

‘But we can’t stop now! It’s unthinkable. It’s crazy. What about the global campaign, what about the ticking clock, that’s already started? People are talking about it!’

‘It will have to stop or change. We cannot find another two million pounds, Bianca.
That’s
what’s unthinkable.’

She stared at them. ‘I just don’t believe this. You can’t do this, not now.’

‘I’m afraid we have to. Look, we’ve already put in two extra million. Over and above the original money. We’ve listened to you and been persuaded by you many times. But we can’t do any more. The brand is haemorrhaging money. Every day it costs more and sales are down to virtually nothing.’

‘But we’ve hardly begun. The campaign is only just starting. You know how revolutionary the idea is, you know the excitement it will create . . .’

‘And it will cost us two million pounds. That’s two million off any potential profits, don’t forget. It’s not going to be cancelled out just because the launch is successful. It’s money gone for ever. I’m sorry, Bianca, but that’s our last word. No more money.’

There was only one person she wanted to talk to, who might be able to help; and he was the only person totally out of reach. Contact between them was ended: absolutely and unarguably. It would be dangerous beyond anything. They had made a pledge, that day in New York, that extraordinary afternoon, and it could never be broken.

For of course, she had gone back down the street to Saul, and followed him into the hotel – there was no question of doing otherwise. Had she not turned, had she not seen him calling to her, then perhaps there might have been; but she had and a bright, brilliant certainty possessed her and she knew not just what she would, but what she must do. He had not taken her hand, lover-like, or even kissed her, as she reached him, and she didn’t even expect it; she was getting to know him a little at least.

And as she had known it would be, it was quite extraordinary; not merely sex, not merely a fusing of her body with his, of his mouth on hers, her skin with his, a fervent concentration within her, seeking, asking, and then finding, not merely a progression, a mounting of pleasure, not merely an explosion of violent release, but of absolute physical joy and at the end of it, perfect peace and a sweet tangled confusion.

And there were other things too: a sense of timelessness, of removal from reality, a freedom from time and place. And astonishingly, she felt no guilt. And even more astonishingly she didn’t cry . . .

But she did cry then, that dreadful morning, in the taxi travelling back to Farrell House; and could never remember feeling so alone: and so helpless.

And Patrick Bailey, at the same time, hurt and angry beyond anything, and with insidious demons whispering of infidelity and circumvention ever louder in his ear, looked back in wonder at the happiness that he had known less than a year ago and wondered if it was even remotely possible that he could return to it.

Lucy too could never remember ever being so miserable. And this was miserable misery. Hopeless, aching, unsolvable misery.

Her father had called to invite her to dinner; she had actually had something else on, but she cancelled it. He wasn’t going to be around to take her to dinner much longer.

He told her about the house he’d found in Birmingham, and how it was big enough for her to visit and he hoped she would often and bring her friends.

She said she would, of course, and thanked him, but she knew it wouldn’t be very often, it couldn’t possibly be, and hated to think of him all alone in a clearly much too big house.

‘I’ll miss you so much,’ she said.

‘Oh, nonsense. That career of yours is taking off, you won’t have time to miss your old dad.’

‘You don’t need time to miss people,’ she said rather sadly and was surprised when he went quiet and looked out of the window and said he knew that.

‘So – when are you leaving Farrell’s?’ she said, more to break the silence than because she wanted to know.

She had actually tried not to think about it. Always, all her life, he had been at Farrell’s; every single thing in her life was changing, along with his. The Esher house had been sold; her mother had bought a flat, not in the Barbican, which she couldn’t afford, but a house in Fulham which she almost couldn’t either. Lucy was to live with her for a few weeks, while she found somewhere of her own. She couldn’t even contemplate living with her permanently; she had become increasingly unpleasant, angry with Bertie, at odds with everyone else in the family, furious with Lucy for not wanting to share her new, tiny house. As if, Lucy thought, looking at her sour face. She had also quarrelled with Athina who seemed now to blame her for the break-up, and therefore for Bertie having to leave Farrell’s, and with Caro, who seemed to hold the same view.

‘And the job?’ she asked him. ‘That still looking good?’

‘Yes, pretty good. They are extraordinarily nice people. It might seem rather quiet after Farrell’s, but that could be considered a positive.’

‘And how do you feel about moving somewhere so totally different?’

‘Oh, fine. I’m not exactly a social animal, as you know. I’ll be fine hunkering down on my own in the evenings, me and the telly, and I’ll have the garden, of course. That’ll be very exciting.’

‘Yes.’

It didn’t sound very exciting to her; but then he wasn’t twenty.

‘I’m leaving on Friday fortnight,’ he said, answering her original question.

‘Having a leaving party, I hope?’

‘Oh good Lord, no. Why should I do that?’

‘Dad, you must! People will feel very hurt if you don’t; you’re part of Farrell’s, literally, it will look like you don’t care. I’ll help you organise it, if you like. Jemima and I could get together on the catering and so on. Go on, be brave. It doesn’t have to be a rave, you could just have a drinks do in the boardroom. I really think you should.’

‘Do you?’ He looked seriously alarmed. ‘God, how terrifying.’

‘Don’t be silly. You know how everyone there loves you.’

‘Hardly,’ he said and his voice was very sad again.

Lucy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Yes, they do. I know they do.’

The country, that spring, was gripped with Jubilee and Olympiad fever; indeed, the extremely funny television series
2012
with its constant references to the Jubolympics did not overstate it. Plans were everywhere for street parties, pageants, on both river and village green, concerts both grand (at Buckingham Palace) and modest (in village halls), the lighting of beacons, the composition of songs and symphonies. Companies managed to extend their wares, however unlikely, to formulate Diamond Jubilee or Olympic products (although this was officiously stopped for no reason and to no benefit that anyone was able to see), the extra bank holidays were in place and the royal family was seen to be enjoying a period of public affection unsurpassed since the marriage of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer. Republicans muttered and wrote letters and were awarded airtime on the
Today
programme and even occasionally
Newsnight
and found themselves almost ruthlessly silenced by what appeared to be a tsunami of royalism. Every magazine, every newspaper, produced Jubilee supplements, every publisher produced books on the Queen’s sixty glorious years. William and Kate became the most popular double act since Morecambe and Wise, Harry’s stature changed from Playboy Prince to National Treasure-in-Waiting and even the Duke of Edinburgh was forgiven for decades of tactlessness and gaffes and became the beloved patriarch.

And against this background of patriotism and heritage and world interest in all things British, Bianca Bailey should have been finalising her plans for relaunching the House of Farrell. Building to a large degree on the incomparable bonus of its having been founded in the year that the now elderly and beloved matriarch had been a young and beautiful girl at her coronation.

Only she wasn’t; she couldn’t. Due to the absence, within company funds, of two million pounds.

It was agony: one day she had had everything going for her, the next nothing. Hugh and Mike had given her one more week; after that, they said, they were pulling the plug. ‘We can’t risk it, Bianca. We’re getting deeper and deeper in and that’s exactly what we said we wouldn’t do.’