A Perfect Heritage (70 page)

Lara pulled herself together firmly. It wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t even
want
it to happen. It was unnecessary, unimaginable; she’d been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

She walked into Farrell House, went up to her office, switched on her computer – and Susie rushed in white-faced and wild-eyed.

‘Thank God, Lara, thank God you’re here. Something dreadful’s happened, really, really dreadful, and I just don’t know what to do.’

Lara’s mind raced over the range of possibilities: the factory going up in smoke taking the new range with it, the global website crashing beyond repair, a mass boycott by the beauty editors of the entire Farrell range . . . But what Susie told her seemed as bad as any of those. And as impossible to deal with.

‘She’s just so – so
angry
,
’
Susie said, so distressed that she was having trouble breathing. ‘I just don’t know what to
do
. What can I do? As if anyone could do anything. She’s so totally impossible.’

‘Susie,’ said Lara as gently as she could, for she was finding her distinctly irritating, ‘Susie, are you surprised?’

‘What – that she’s being impossible? No, of course not. But that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.’

‘What does Bianca say?’

‘She doesn’t know. She’s gone walkabout and I can’t get hold of her. She’s just not picking up – it is quite weird and so unlike her. Jemima can’t even get a response with their emergency signal.’

‘What’s that, for heaven’s sake?’ said Lara.

‘Oh, it’s something crazy like: I saw a really good film last night. No one could guess that, you see, and it protects her from outsiders getting hold of her. And we’re having lunch with Lord and Lady Brownley today, and Jess Cochrane and Tamsin at The Ritz. So you’d think . . . Anyway, it gets worse: Lady Farrell is having lunch with Lord Fearon, also at The Ritz! I mean, you couldn’t make it up.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Lara, ‘but why? Why is she having lunch with him?’

‘Well, they’re old friends. But you can bet your bottom dollar she’ll tell him all about it, not just the campaign, but how she’s been spurned, how she gets treated like a second-class citizen here, how nobody respects her opinion any more . . . you can see what a story it would make. With us as the villains, of course.’

‘Shit!’ said Lara. ‘So how did she find out?’

‘She stormed the citadel: first the agency and then here, frightening assistants and secretaries out of their wits. I was out, but by the time I got back, it was clear I’d have to come totally clean.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘Nothing. Just stalked out. Oh, Lara this is a nightmare. If only, if only we could get hold of Bianca! Short of her being in a car accident I can’t imagine what she can be doing.’

‘Oh, don’t!’ said Lara.

‘Jemima says it has to be something to do with the children.’

Jemima was, as usual, right.

Bianca had, on that volcanic morning, decided to drive Milly to school, where her form was responsible for school assembly.

‘I know how busy you are, the week before your launch and everything,’ Milly had said, ‘but it would be lovely if you could come.’

‘Darling, of course I’ll come. Nothing can go wrong at this stage and if it does, there’s nothing I can do about it. And I want to see your assembly. Are you doing anything on your own?’

‘Well, the theme’s the Diamond Jubilee, obviously, and we’re doing some songs and stuff. And I’m reading something, yes. It’s that piece from Shakespeare – you know, about the sceptred isle? It’s lovely, but I didn’t really want to because I’m still lying low, however, everyone voted for me. Funny that,’ she added, her voice suddenly sharper.

Bianca looked at her. She wasn’t the innocent, happy child of a year ago. She had grown tougher, cynical even, and her natural expression was slightly wary. She would never get over it and it had been a hideous experience for her; and Bianca knew she too would never be free of the guilt of not probing and pressing and trying to help. But on the other hand, Milly had learned a great deal, not least how to protect herself; her courage, everyone agreed, was remarkable. That much good, at least, had come out of it.

She dropped Milly outside the school gates, parked, and then walked in herself, switching off her phone altogether, not even putting it on mute; Milly was to have her full concentration this morning.

As she reached the front door, she heard someone behind her, calling her name: it was Nicky Mapleton.

‘Bianca! How nice to see you.’

‘Nice to see you too,’ said Bianca, her voice so cold that it would have permeated a skin even thicker than Nicky’s.

‘I’m sorry the girls haven’t socialised so much recently,’ Nicky said, ‘but of course this shy phase Milly’s going through is very common.’

‘Shy stage?’

‘Yes. Carey tells me she’s become paralytically shy, won’t go anywhere with anybody.’

‘Is
that
what Carey told you?’ said Bianca. ‘How fascinating. No, Milly’s fine, thank you. Not in the least shy.’

‘Oh – good,’ said Nicky Mapleton, looking rather less sure of herself. ‘And I hear she’s been doing some modelling, how exciting.’

‘Oh, only for a friend of the family,’ said Bianca, ‘and for a bit of fun. I certainly wouldn’t want her to take it any further. Such a horrible world that, I always think,’ she added, smiling sweetly at Nicky Mapleton, the one-time supermodel. ‘So many dreadful people.’

‘Perhaps a few. As there are in your world, I’m sure. Well, I must just go and say hello to a few people, if you’ll excuse me . . . I’ll catch up with you later. Milly must come round, if she’s really feeling better. We were so disappointed she couldn’t come to Paris for Carey’s birthday.’

‘Yes, it was a shame,’ said Bianca, ‘it sounded very exciting, but there was something else she wanted to do that weekend . . .’

Milly read very sweetly and Bianca developed, as always, a very large lump in her throat. There were the usual songs, tableaux, prayers (briefly) and then the girls filed out. Looking at them, pretty, sweet-faced, smiling little things, it was hard to believe that every single one of them had been involved in the conspiracy to make Milly’s life hell. Carey, extra pretty, extra confident, spotted her and blew her a kiss. Bianca looked extremely coolly back at her.

It was almost eleven by the time she had driven away, after ducking repeated invitations for Milly; for some reason she didn’t want to go into the office quite yet. If she did go in there would be some piffling panic that she couldn’t face. Her stress levels had been so high for so long that, having been pulled into a slightly more peaceful state, the thought of staying there a little longer was suddenly irresistible. So she
would
stay there for a little longer.

Moreover, she had a lot to think about – not least Patrick and the extraordinary thing that Saul had done – was it really only twenty-four hours earlier? She left her phone switched off; and, astonishing herself, made a detour to Peter Jones to look at curtain fabric and astonished herself still more by finding the process quite engaging, and was sitting in the café, sipping a fruit juice when she finally felt she must switch on her phone and was hit by a mass of messages and voicemails, the most alarming being from Jemima, telling her she had seen a fantastic film last night, and another from Susie, sounding extremely agitated, and saying she really really must speak to her.

‘God, it’s been the most ghastly morning,’ said Jemima when she finally got through.

Florence had been putting the final touches to the Jubilee window of The Shop when Athina rang.

‘Florence, I need to speak to you about something. It’s very important. I’m terribly upset and I’m sure you will be too when you hear about it. I’m coming down there immediately. I would get you to come up here but I’m having lunch with Lord Fearon at The Ritz, so it’s more convenient this way.’

The lifelong fear that had stalked Florence, ever since Cornelius had first kissed her in the taxi, so many many years ago, struck her with its usual intensity. Someone had told Athina that Cornelius and she had been having an affair; or they suspected this had been the case, and Athina should question Florence about it; or even that Athina had been told about the lease on the Berkeley Arcade and that Florence now owned it . . .

‘Very well, Athina,’ she said, ‘we can talk in the parlour.’

Florence was waiting upstairs when Athina arrived. She did look extremely upset.

‘Do sit down, Athina. Tea?’

‘What? No. Oh – well, perhaps. Thank you,’ she added in a clear attempt at sounding gracious as Florence handed her a cup. Florence was beginning to feel less terrified about the subject about to be discussed.

‘So – what is it, Athina? What has upset you?’

‘I can hardly bear to talk about it! Oh, Florence you’ve put sugar in this, you know I don’t like it.’

‘I’m sorry. Here, have mine.’

‘Yes, that’s a little better. Too weak, though. Now listen. I’ve just discovered that there is a major advertising campaign planned for the relaunch and that it will take place entirely on the net or whatever that ridiculous thing is called. An enormous amount of money is being invested in it, and – and this is the most shocking thing – I have been told absolutely nothing about it nor been consulted in any way.’

‘Oh,’ said Florence, ‘oh, I see.’

‘Yes, well I don’t think you do. You’ve always had trouble with the business side of things. This is very serious, Florence. What they’re saying is that my opinion is of no consequence. I’ve had to endure a great deal at the hands of these people, but nothing approaching this. Don’t they realise, don’t they understand that if it wasn’t for me there would be no House of Farrell? I don’t know when I’ve been treated with such contempt. Of course they tried to explain it away, said it had been kept from everyone except a few key people. Key people! Who could be more key than I am? What Cornelius would have to say, I cannot imagine . . .’

‘Well, I can see that it is rather upsetting for you, Athina. But I’m sure they know what they’re doing and the need to keep it confidential—’

‘Oh really, Florence!’ said Athina, putting down her cup. ‘Don’t tell me they know what they’re doing. Look at the shambles of the whole perfume business, just for a start. What would have come of that, and indeed the entire sales conference, without me? And who named The Collection, and who conceived the idea of the palettes? Oh, I can see I’m just wasting my time talking to you. Sometimes, Florence, I wonder if you understand
anything
about this business apart from stock levels in The Shop and how the windows look.’

‘Athina, that’s unfair. I understand a great deal about this business. I’ve worked for Farrell’s almost from the very beginning, and it is as much a part of me as it is of you.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Athina, ‘you seem to have a very inflated opinion of yourself and your role at Farrell’s. You’ll be telling me you know all about this ridiculous campaign, in a minute.’

‘Actually,’ said Florence, ‘I do.’

And fifty years of slights and insults and jealousy were eased and soothed away just a little, at the utterance of those three apparently innocuous little words.

Chapter 57

‘Florence, is she still with you?’ Bianca’s voice on the phone was unusually peremptory.

‘No. She’s headed off to The Ritz, Bianca, I’m so sorry—’

‘Florence, it’s not your fault; I underestimated her, as usual.’

‘Yes, but I think I made things worse. I should have pretended I didn’t know either. She was so angry.’

‘Well – maybe. But hindsight is a wonderful thing, and all those other clichés. But you’re sure she’s going to tell him?’

‘About the campaign? I’m pretty sure. The only thing that might save us is that she doesn’t quite understand it.’

‘Now
you’re
underestimating her.’

‘Maybe. But what she’s certainly going to talk about is how badly she’s been treated by you, accusing you of ignoring her, and the fact the company is her creation, that there would be no House of Farrell without her and – well, I don’t need to go on.’

‘Yes, I can see we won’t come out smelling of roses. It’s a wonderful story for one of Lord Fearon’s columnists. And she’ll wring every ounce of drama out of it. Oh God. Well – I’ll have to try and speak to her. As luck would have it, or rather
un
-luck, I’m having lunch there too, with the Brownleys. She’ll probably make great capital of that too.’

‘I think she’ll probably be there early,’ said Florence. ‘She left here in a huge bait, and stormed off down the arcade in that direction. She said she was going to walk there – it’s only about three minutes away – and she’s hardly likely to go shopping or have a coffee in Starbucks. I’d put my money on the Palm Court, or the ladies’. She’ll be skulking away there, working out exactly what she’s going to say.’

‘Now that, Florence, is really helpful. And don’t worry about telling her you knew about it. You’d have had to be a saint of mega proportions not to. It must have been a wonderful moment,’ she added.

Florence, who knew she would have total recall of Athina’s face at that moment for as long as she lived, said that of course it had been no such thing.

‘Liar,’ said Bianca.

There was a small flurry of photographers at the side door of The Ritz; presumably, Bianca thought, they had heard Jess would be there. Her profile had become very high since the announcement of the new film. God. Athina would probably see them too. Better find her fast . . .

She was not in the Palm Court; nor was she in the dining room. That meant the ladies’. Bianca took a deep breath and went down the small flight of stairs leading to it and opened the door cautiously. And there Athina sat at one of the dressing tables, applying a fresh coat of make up. She had obviously been crying . . .

‘Oh,’ Bianca said, ‘Lady Farrell. How are you?’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Athina said.

‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘I shall, however, have a great deal to say to Lord Fearon.’

‘About?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! About how appallingly I have been treated. About your arrogance. About how totally dismissed you have made me feel. About how you have chosen to ignore all my knowledge and experience, to oust me from my position, to make me look foolish—’

‘Lady Farrell, that was the last thing I intended.’

‘I find that hard to believe. You’ve made a very big mistake, Mrs Bailey, trying to capitalise on the past and Farrell’s heritage and ignoring the one person responsible for that. And, of course this ridiculous advertising campaign – I’m sure Lord Fearon will be
very
interested in that. And I want his readers to be the first to hear about it. Not that I consider it to be remotely suitable to a cosmetic launch but I can see it’s very innovatory.’

‘Lady Farrell,’ said Bianca, and never had she chosen her words with such discretion and care, ‘I am so very sorry you should feel like that, I really am.’

‘Well, what do you expect me to feel? When I think how my husband would have felt, how angry on my behalf – to see me reduced to . . .’ She hesitated, obviously not sure what she had been reduced to. ‘To this. He would not have tolerated such treatment, I assure you. And when Lord Fearon hears of it – and he was a great friend to both of us – I know he will be equally shocked. And please don’t think you can talk me out of this.’

She turned to the mirror, started applying blusher. She looked so marvellous, Bianca thought, dressed in white, her silver hair sleek, her diamonds flashing, not in the least like a grieving, wronged woman – and thought that when
she
was old, she would like to look exactly like her, chic, beautiful, confident. It was a much better role than – and at that very moment Bianca realised what she could do.

‘Lady Farrell, forgive me, but—’

At this point the cloakroom attendant appeared from the room beyond, which housed the row of cubicles; she cleared her throat, smiled at them and cleared the saucer of the few pound coins that had been in it.

‘What a lovely day, ladies,’ she said.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Bianca, smiling back while Athina gave the woman a look which would have brought silence to the Last Night of the Proms, and turned back to the mirror. Bianca looked at her watch. Twenty to one; she didn’t have long.

Two women came in, leather-coated and lacquer-haired, looked at them, and passed through to the cubicles.

‘Well, I wouldn’t stand for it,’ one called to the other.

‘I know,’ said the other, ‘but I do need him. He’s fairly essential, really.’

Now who could
he
be, Bianca wondered. A cook? A chauffeur? A husband? Anyway, no time to waste . . .

‘Lady Farrell,’ she said, ‘I really do wish you could see things my way. How much I have tried to work with you, how grateful I am for
Passionate
and your – well, your creation of the advertising campaign for it. And how I have longed to have you as a friend.’

Athina looked at her witheringly. ‘A friend?’ she said, in best Lady Bracknell tones. ‘A friend? Of
yours
?’

‘Well, yes. Because, you see, I admire you so much. Your style, your talent, your – well, you are a legend. When I first realised I was going to work with you, I was so excited I couldn’t wait to meet you. And I shall never forget the first time I saw you, looking so fantastic in your red jacket . . .’ God, she hoped it had been red; she really couldn’t remember. ‘And I thought I would like to be you, in your position, one day.’

‘I think that is highly unlikely,’ said Athina.

‘I expect it is. But you must be pleased about that, that you are such a figurehead.’

The two women came back, looked pointedly at the stools Bianca and Athina were sitting on, and, realising neither of them were going to move, were forced into sharing the remaining basin and leaning over one another to re-apply their lipstick. They left, depositing two fifty pence coins in the dish; the attendant whisked them away. Clearly she felt they would be an encouragement to others to leave so minimal a tip.

She sat down again, and pulled out some knitting.

‘For my granddaughter,’ she said, ‘my first, she—’

Athina looked at her. ‘Please leave us,’ she said.

The woman didn’t move. It was very hard not to laugh; Bianca studied her nails, her shoes, wondered what on earth she could do.

‘I asked you to leave,’ said Athina. ‘My colleague and I have things to discuss.’

‘But madam—’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do I have to call the housekeeper or whoever you report to? I merely ask for five minutes’ peace and quiet.’

The woman stared at her and then obediently left the room. Athina looked after her and then at Bianca. ‘You were saying . . . ?’

So she had her attention: that was something. It was a lot, actually.

‘Well, and if I were you, I wouldn’t want people seeing me as someone whose day had passed. Someone out of touch and not keeping up with the times.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘No, Lady Farrell, don’t misunderstand me. Of course you are none of those things. Look how you had everyone hanging on your words at the conference, how totally amazing they all thought you were. But just supposing this article by Lord Fearon, or one of his editors, the one you’re talking about, was misconstrued. People might get the wrong idea, think yes, that you had been treated badly, but perhaps with good reason? It is possible, you know. And instead of being regarded as a great power in the company and indeed the entire cosmetic world, someone wonderfully au fait with everything, one of the great forces – no,
the
force – behind the House of Farrell, someone people envy and are impressed by, imagine if they felt sympathetic and sorry for you – I know which I’d prefer.’

There was a long silence; Athina met her eyes, and there was the expression there that Bianca remembered from the very first meeting at Farrell House, an acknowledgement between two powerful women who each needed the other. There was a long silence.

Then, ‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Athina said.

It wasn’t until Athina came over to her table at half past two, with Lord Fearon in her wake, turning every head in the restaurant as she did so, and said, ‘Lord Fearon, this is Bianca Bailey, our managing director. We have worked together very closely on the campaign I have been telling you about . . .’ that Bianca knew she had won.

Patrick had gone home. He was missing the children, he was sick of hotels, and in the end, a five-star job overlooking Sydney Harbour and a Travelodge near Tower Bridge seemed much of a muchness.

They both were totally impersonal; the blandness with which they were furnished, whether luxurious or basic, was not what you would have chosen; you couldn’t open the windows to get some fresh air; and servility on any scale, however welcome initially, became irritating and wearing.

He was also tired of being on his own. Apart from the time with Saul, which had had its shortcomings to put it mildly, and Doug Douglas, he had been entirely alone for over a week. The first night of room service, so self-indulgent and pleasant (what could be nicer than a club sandwich, a half bottle of claret and all the episodes of
Mad Men
or
Borgen
you could wish for?) became sickeningly tedious by the fourth, only serving to emphasise your solitary state; and then what was air travel if not room service in another guise? More films, more claret, more servility – and more windows you were not allowed to open.

For the first time, Patrick was finding the solitude of his job a problem . . .

He arrived home just before midday; Sonia was politely unsurprised to see him, and offered to make him an omelette. The children were all at school, she said, then Milly and Ruby were both going to sleepovers, Fergie was going to the cinema with a friend and Bianca was going to be very late. So much for company.

Patrick refused the omelette, made himself a cup of coffee, and then went up to his study, flung the windows open as wide as they would go, and lay down on the bed. It was absolutely the wrong thing to do, he knew, after coming off a long-haul flight; he should be setting out on a brisk walk but there didn’t seem to be much to stay awake for. And anyway, he could read and . . . watch TV and . . . He was asleep in five minutes.

‘The thing is, I can’t go on employing him,’ Saul was saying, folding up the empty box that had held a Marks & Spencer BLT less than a minute before and turning his attention to a can of cola. They were sitting on a bench on the South Bank, the National Theatre’s great bulk looming over them; he had told her he needed to talk to her and they had agreed it was probably the most anonymous meeting place they could find.

‘Although why we need anonymity I really don’t know,’ said Bianca crossly. ‘It’s not as if we were having an affair.’

‘True. Sometimes I do wish we were though,’ said Saul.

‘Saul!’

‘Well, don’t you?’

‘Honestly? No.’

‘Well, that’s flattering.’

‘It was truthful. And anyway, we don’t have the time.’

‘That was my line,’ he said, and grinned at her.

‘Well, it’s a good one.’

‘I agree.’

‘And true. But I don’t see why you can’t work with him. He loves working for you, you say he’s the best research analyst you’ve ever had—’

‘Yes, and I’ve also slept with his wife and then lied about it.’

‘True. Yes of course.’

And she had slept with Patrick’s boss. And it really hardly troubled her at all. Which had to make her a bad person – cold, faithless, duplicitous. A seriously bad person. Somehow, maybe because it had happened in New York, maybe because she had had so much to do – reinforcing Saul’s original argument on the matter – it had remained for her utterly distanced from life. An hour or so of complete unreality, like watching an enthralling film, reading a fascinating book, and as emotionally unimportant as either, it had been frighteningly easy to do as they had agreed, just to draw a line and walk away. It wasn’t that Saul meant nothing to her; he did. He had become a valued friend and ally, almost a colleague, in her working life; she was fond of him, extremely so, enjoyed his company, admired his brilliant mind. But a lover he was not; for that one dizzy afternoon he had been, and then the book had been closed, the screen had gone blank and she had walked away, both literally and emotionally.

She never saw Saul, and she and Patrick had hardly spoken over the past few weeks. And Patrick had learned finally not to mention Saul unless it was absolutely necessary. The line had been easy to draw. But Saul saw him most days. Certainly talked to him every day.

‘I just didn’t think it through,’ Saul said fretfully. ‘It’s not like me.’

Bianca waited, without any hope whatsoever, for him to say she had been irresistible, that her attraction had been overwhelming, that he didn’t regret any of it . . .

‘It was an appalling mistake,’ he said.

‘Well thanks!’ said Bianca.

‘But I can’t fire him. And I can’t tell him I’m getting someone else in to help . . .’