A Perfect Heritage (7 page)

‘I don’t understand you. Run the board in what way?’

‘Primarily at board meetings. Which, as you will remember, will be held monthly. He will control the agenda, the debate at the table and so on. The official jargon is that he will force structure, compliance and good governance on the board.’

She looked at him witheringly. ‘It sounds to me rather insulting to suggest that we need such – such discipline.’

And so it went on, day after painful day, with what seemed to Athina endless concessions; she was exhausted by it, not just the actual discussions but the emotional strain, as she felt the control of Farrell’s slip irreversibly away from her.

They were painful and desolate, those days; and more than once she considered sending them on their way, her tormentors, choosing death rather than dishonour for her life’s work. On those occasions, surprisingly, it was Bertie, rather than Caro who helped her stand firm, who told her it was what Cornelius would have wanted, that it was worth anything, anything at all as long as the House of Farrell lived on.

‘But Bertie, it won’t
be
the House of Farrell,’ she said. ‘It will be some other bastard brand, not the thing that Cornelius and I created.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know it’s hard, I know there is much change, but we shall still have ultimate control and I think, too, we can trust Bianca. She will see us and Farrell through.’

‘Well, I can only say I do hope you are right.’

‘I hope so too,’ he said.

Chapter 6

‘So – yes. I am interested. Of course.’ Patrick smiled at Saul Finlayson. ‘It sounds like a fascinating opportunity.’

That was, he knew, a rather understated response to Finlayson’s proposition, conveyed via Jonjo, that Finlayson, one of the biggest movers and shakers in the City of London, and runner of a very successful, fairly new hedge fund, was looking for someone with Patrick’s qualifications and experience to work for him personally as a research analyst. And that was a dizzying prospect, of possibly finding himself in the heady uplands of a market that he hardly understood, let alone where he might have something to offer.

Jonjo had arranged for them to meet in the Blue Bar at the Berkeley Hotel, near Finlayson’s office, so that he might meet the man and hear his proposition first hand. ‘I think you’ll like him, extraordinary fellow,’ Jonjo had said, ‘but you must make your own mind up about that.’

Finlayson smiled back at him now; but so briefly that a blink would have obscured it. It was one of his trademarks, Patrick discovered, that brief smile, unnerving to anyone who didn’t know him. He had other unnerving habits; he spent a lot of time during a conversation with his fingertips together, staring up at the ceiling, and he ate and drank with extraordinary speed. His plate was often empty before his companions had so much as picked up their knives and forks and he was leaning forward again firing questions, demanding answers, generally making a mealtime as uncomfortable as it could be. Fortunately for Patrick they were not having a meal, merely an early evening post-work drink; Finlayson had ordered a tonic on the rocks and downed it in one, while Patrick and Jonjo were taking preliminary sips of their martinis.

‘Well,’ said Finlayson, ‘I don’t know about the fascinating, but it’s important. Now, you are a chartered accountant, and one of the things you do, or are trained to do at any rate, is look at the accounts of a company in huge detail. That sound right to you?’

‘Yes, it does. But—’

‘OK. So you can be given an annual report that’s two hundred pages long, look at it for two days, and then come back with stuff most people couldn’t possibly find out or know in a month of Sundays. You are someone who can look into what I call the weeds of the company, who knows how and where to look for possible problems, someone who has a sort of instinct about something that doesn’t seem to quite add up. Because to my mind –
our
minds – that’s where genuine ideas can come from. About what might happen to that company and what it’s actually up to. All right?’

‘Yes, I . . . think so,’ said Patrick. He felt increasingly edgy. ‘I don’t know that I’m your man, not if you want ideas.’

‘No, no,’ said Finlayson impatiently, ‘the ideas would come from your reports and observations, not you. Most people don’t have time to do that sort of in-depth stuff, and don’t employ anyone who does, either. But to me it’s essential. Jonjo suggested you, so do you think you have that sort of ability? To trawl endlessly through stuff and spot anything that – well, asks a question. I’ve always maintained,’ he added, ‘a really good accountant would have spotted that Enron was fudging their accounts.’

‘Really?’ said Patrick. ‘Good God. Well, you really should know that the stuff I’m involved with at the moment is pretty tame by anyone’s standards. I really don’t know that I’m high-powered enough for that sort of thing.’

‘That’s for me to judge,’ said Finlayson. ‘Look, it boils down to this: if I feel you’re the right man for the job, then you probably are – and I’d like to take it on to the next stage.’

Patrick felt a mild sensation of panic.

‘Well . . .’ he said. ‘Well, I’m deeply flattered but I’d like to think about it a bit more, talk to my wife about it, that sort of thing . . .’

‘Yes, yes, OK,’ said Finlayson. He seemed to find this understandable but irritating. ‘And on that tack, you should therefore point out to her that even though you’d be doing familiar work, it would be a much more demanding environment than you’re probably used to and you’d work pretty long hours. Think she’d be up for that? You’d probably have a few uneaten dinners, that sort of thing.’

‘My wife’s very realistic about all that,’ said Patrick, hoping this was true. ‘She works pretty long hours herself.’

‘Of course. I googled her. Clever girl. Well, have a think, and so will I. The package should be pretty attractive but we can discuss that when you’ve made up your mind. I get the feeling we’d work OK together and Jonjo thinks so too. Want another of those?’

‘No, no, thank you,’ said Patrick.

‘OK. Well I’ve got to go – dining with a client, God help me.’

And he was gone. Jonjo sat back in his seat and said, ‘I think he liked you. Up to you now, I’d say.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. Whether you think it’s your bag, whether you can work with him.’

‘Bit hard to say,’ said Patrick, ‘after . . .’ he looked at his watch . . . ‘twenty-five minutes.’

‘That’s a long time in his day, believe me. I think you’d enjoy it, you know. Only thing is, it would be pretty stressful. You’ll be working longer hours and you won’t get home to see the children nearly so much. Better spell that out to Bianca. She might get a bit of a shock.’

Patrick was so used to his orderly existence, it was hard to imagine getting home late from time to time, and not being able to play his role of semi house-husband quite so devotedly. He could see he might even be unable to attend some crucial parents’ meeting while Bianca sat in all-night financial sessions or jetted off to New York at little more than a moment’s notice. For some reason – and he was shocked at himself as he realised it – it was a rather intriguing notion.

Lucy Farrell was leaving university. She was leaving, however, not in a cloud of glory, with a First, but in the middle of her course. With no degree of any size whatsoever.

She was hating the course. English literature – or certainly the way it was being presented to her – was a load of crap. Like the last essay, ‘the Marxist view of Jane Austen’, indeed. What could be less relevant to Jane’s work than that, for God’s sake? There’d been loads of others, just as hideously stupid, and almost two more years stretched ahead of her. She just couldn’t face it, wanted out. And she’d taken a deep breath and said so to her tutor. And he’d said she should take time to think about it and she said she didn’t want time, she was quite sure. And he’d been really very nice about it and said well, if that was how she really felt, then perhaps it would be better, and asked her politely, clearly not really wanting to know the answer, if she had any other ideas about her future.

She’d said no, and it wasn’t true, but she knew that if she’d told him, he wouldn’t even begin to understand. He would have certainly thought it wasn’t a proper job, think she was only doing it because, given that her family was in the cosmetic business, she could just walk into a job, no problem at all.

She wanted to be a make-up artist. She had read lots of articles about it, had watched a programme on the fashion shows, showing the make-up artists working in the chaos of the Paris collections. It looked like hard work, but huge fun. And she would be good at it, she knew that. She loved doing her own face, painting it all kinds of wonderful ways for parties, and had a bit of a reputation for doing her mates’ as well. And, while she didn’t think she’d ever want to work at Farrell’s, and had always resisted any idea of going into the business on a managerial level, there were lots of people there who’d be able to advise her how to go about this plan at least. She’d read in the article that you had to do a course somewhere, but that’d be fun, and if her father wouldn’t pay for her, she could fund it working at bars and stuff like that.

She was a bit worried about her father; he might not like her new plans. But he could hardly argue about them, when the cosmetic business was his whole life. Not that he particularly liked it being his whole life; in fact, he never seemed to enjoy it very much.

Hopefully Grandy would be pleased. Lucy was very fond of her grandmother. She found her more fun – and in many ways she seemed years younger – than her mother. Grandy was still quite incredibly glamorous, took her to lunch at The Ritz every year on her birthday, and quite often they went (mostly window) shopping in Bond Street. Lucy had tried to persuade her to go to Westfield, but Grandy said she hated shopping malls.

And then they’d go and have tea in the Berkeley Arcade with Florence – she was allowed to call her Florence once she was sixteen, before that it had been Miss Hamilton – Grandy was very strict about things like that – up in the little room at the top of The Shop.

She’d loved Grandpa too, and she’d been terribly upset when he died; but the good part of it was that it meant she could see a bit more of Grandy because she was suddenly alone a lot at the weekends. Well, she would see lots of her now; that would be fun.

But first she had to break the news to her father that she was leaving uni . . .

John Ripley, who was working for Pemberton and Rushworth on a vacation placement, had been given the draft contract between the House of Farrell and Porter Bingham, Venture Capitalists to read.

‘Interesting one, this, John,’ Walter Pemberton said, ‘we’ve worked very hard on it. You could learn a few things from it.’

Ripley did indeed study it very carefully, and when he had finished wondered why nobody had raised the question of voting rights. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered. He thought perhaps he ought to raise the subject with Mr Rushworth, but the question seemed to him to represent something of a criticism of Mr Rushworth’s legal skills and he didn’t want to alienate him in any way. He was hoping to get a training contract with the firm, and they were pretty thin on the ground these days.

He decided finally that it was impossible they could have failed to discuss it, and let the matter rest.

Chapter 7

Athina called them all into the boardroom before the final formal signing: the family, of course, all the key people who worked in the offices, and some extraneous ones as well, such as senior consultants and sales reps, and talked to them about what was going to happen. She explained that the deal had not been reached without considerable heart-searching, that they had struggled to find a different, independent solution, but that had, in the end, proved impossible. The arrangement with Porter Bingham had been essential for the House of Farrell, for the family . . .

‘And for you. I am aware that without the help we have now secured, some of you would have lost your jobs. These are hard times; many companies more stable than this one are failing every day. I am deeply grateful to the people at Porter Bingham for providing a chance for us but I cannot pretend to you that things will be the same. I fear, and I use the word advisedly, they will not. In spite of absolutely retaining for ourselves a majority share of the company, my family and I will have to make concessions and accept change, and I know we shall have to ask the same of you. But at least the House of Farrell will live on; I think and hope that is what we would all most wish for it. Certainly I know my husband would have done.

‘Thank you for your loyalty, for your hard work over the years, and for sharing our vision of the company; I assure you I have never, and will never, take any of it for granted.’

She stopped then. Susie Harding, watching her intently, felt her heart lurch as the clear, precise voice suddenly trembled, and the brilliant green eyes shone with tears. The House of Farrell would be no longer hers, and that would be hard, so hard for her, for the company was part of her, as she was part of it, and now the two must be wrenched apart . . .

Bertie Farrell thought he had never admired his mother more.

And Florence Hamilton, standing close to Susie, thought what a great loss to the stage Athina had been.

And there it was, next morning, on the front page of the
Financial Times
, lest anyone might not realise how important it was, and also, Susie thought, how important the part Porter Bingham would play. They had ensured it would be there, she and the PR guy at Porter Bingham, who she had actually found rather sexy in spite of his rather condescending attitude, and it was he who had managed to coerce Lady Farrell into what was actually a very generous quote. There was no doubt about it, Athina Farrell much preferred the opposite sex to her own.

The Prufrock column in the
Sunday Times
also had a lead item on the story.

Bianca Bailey, ex-CEO of toiletries firm PDN, which was sold under her aegis for £40 million, is seen here arriving at the Berkeley Arcade shop that is the showcase for the cosmetic company House of Farrell. Bailey, 38, who has just been appointed CEO of Farrell, following a deal signed this week between the Farrell family and Porter Bingham, Venture Capitalists, said she was ‘excited and daunted in equal measure’ by her new job. ‘The House of Farrell is such a marvellous brand and I am so fortunate that Lady Farrell, who founded it with her husband in 1953 – coronation year – still plays such an incredibly active role in it. She is truly a living legend, and it will be wonderful to work with her – particularly in the next twelve months, with all the excitement in London created by the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee and, of course, the Olympics.’

Bailey went on to say that several members of the royal family had visited the shop over the years – ‘although not, alas, the Queen herself but maybe we can tempt her now!’

‘Living legend indeed!’ said Athina, hurling the
Sunday Times
across the room. ‘Why not just say very, very old and be done with it. And she’s looking forward to working with me, is she? I find that a little condescending. And there’s another piece in the
Telegraph
about the Porter Bingham people, saying how marvellous they are and how successful they’ve been over the past ten years. If this is an indication of how things are going to be in the future, I feel even more depressed.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Bertie, mildly, ‘you know what they say about all publicity being good—’

‘Bertie, this isn’t publicity for Farrell’s,’ said Caro, ‘it’s for them, Bianca Bailey and the venture capitalists. They could at least have got a picture of Florence at The Shop . . .’

Had Susie Harding been there, she would have told them that both she and Bianca had tried to persuade Florence to pose outside The Shop with Bianca, and that Florence had said she couldn’t, not without Lady Farrell there as well, and that endless requests for interviews with Lady Farrell had come in from the diary pages – all of which she had refused, saying she had no wish to court what she called irrelevant publicity.

It had all been rather agonising.

Patrick had seen the papers heaped up on the kitchen table of the Oxfordshire house, clearly intended for Bianca to read when they were back in London that night. He never failed to be impressed by her ability to compartmentalise her life; the weekends were, as much as humanly possible, for the family, they had both agreed that and she never did anything for the media at the weekends, not even Radio 4 who were always asking for her. And while she periodically checked her emails and her messages, she only acted on them if they were truly urgent; the rest waited till they got home on Sunday evening, when she did disappear into her study. Supper, and getting the children ready for school, was Patrick’s job – those were the house rules, drawn up long ago.

Just the same, he couldn’t help flicking through the top two papers while Fergie sank into his Nintendo and Milly her phone and clocked very nice pictures of Bianca on the front of
Mail on Sunday Money
and at the top of Prufrock. As usual, the captions made her sound like a single, or, rather, a divorced woman, unless it was a woman-focused piece which went overboard about the children and the houses and her ‘wonderful, life-support accountant husband’, but he’d got used to that. He hadn’t had much choice.

Which brought him back to the one matter that he
did
wish to discuss with her, and fairly urgently. So far she had eluded him three times, pleading meetings, the children, or her own exhaustion; tonight – no, tomorrow night, when she would definitely be home early – he intended to insist on at least broaching the subject. It was too important to be postponed indefinitely, bringing changes as it would, into both their lives, of considerable proportions.

Patrick felt a little nervous about her reaction, to say the least.