A Perfect Heritage (8 page)

Chapter 8

The image was so hopelessly wrong. About Day One.

The image of some kind of dynamo rushing in, righting wrongs, firing people, hiring more, slashing budgets, cancelling campaigns, closing departments – all practically before lunch on Day One. What actually happened was you moved in quietly and slowly, finding out who was really there and what they actually did; talking to people, asking for things; studying reports and checking on status; getting a feel for and an understanding of the most important areas; gaining people’s confidence, grasping how they saw things. You had to find your core people, the ones with some insight, a few ideas; you had to find who was driving each department, and who was putting the brakes on it; you had to get your own handle on the politics and to take nothing at face value; you had to be respectful, patient, and extremely brave.

What Bianca found, on Day One, was a demoralised staff, and a slack work ethic. She found disinterest and self-interest. She found lethargy and cynicism. She found hostility and suspicion.

She sat in her new office, bland and beige as they always were, with a temporary PA, and an odd, dull silence outside it. Nobody was talking or laughing or shouting or arguing; they sat in a kind of siege condition, waiting for they knew not what. And for the time being they must go on waiting, for nothing very visible would happen at all. And certainly not on Day One.

The only thing that she always did on Day One was go home early.

Athina was perhaps the only person in the company not to expect huge change and dramatic action on Day One; mainly because she would not have allowed it, nor on Day One Hundred and One either. She had gone into the deal, recognising at last its inevitability, but determined to make things as difficult for her new colleagues – she refused to admit the word masters – as she possibly could. If they wanted changes, they must fight for them. Apart from anything else, she argued to herself, that would ensure those changes were truly necessary. Nevertheless, once the deal had become inevitable, she had forced herself to take a hard look at the House of Farrell, and she could see that the brand was indeed in a mess.

She more or less knew why: in a swiftly changing market, there was a loss within the House of Farrell of a sense of direction, and an ageing clientele – but there any certainty ended.

One of her major uncertainties was caused by, she knew, the fact that she didn’t really like much of what she saw of the new market and its prime customer: both seemed to her either rather tacky, or indulging in a mystique of pseudo-scientific jargon that she found rather irritating. When they had founded the House of Farrell, in a glory of fantastic colour promotions, posters lining all the main roads into London and other big cities, and adorning the sides of double-decker buses, a good quality, high-image skincare range – The Cream its star product – was the perfect counterpart. It hadn’t needed the added benefit of hyper-high, double-depth, super-charged ingredients developed in a laboratory; but then, nor had any of the others.

That was the difference. Skincare had been skincare then, vital but straightforward, as laid down in the immortal concept and routine of Elizabeth Arden: you cleansed, you toned, you nourished, and after that your well-fed skin would take its make up and look as good as it could. Now science had been smoothed on to the beauty counters in a big way, with talk of cellular levels, free radicals, ultra-hydration. Half the stuff the beauty editors wrote sounded like A Level biology papers. Did women really want that? Athina wondered, and if so, why?

Finding no satisfactory answer to that one, she faced down again her fears for the future of Farrell; too late now, she knew, but still she wondered – was it really going to be safe with its new masters? Would the new management team, led by the dangerously powerful and glossy Bianca Bailey, really understand what treasures there undoubtedly still were, lying within its admittedly old-fashioned packaging and clearly out-of-date marketing and advertising?

She half-liked Bianca – she represented too much that was disagreeable to her life to go further than that – but she did respect her. Moreover, she knew both those emotions were returned. And Bianca certainly seemed to understand the importance of charm; and charm went a very long way in cosmetics. The most dazzling colours, the most earth-moving perfumes counted for nothing without it. A cosmetic brand must, at the end of the day, have an aura of pleasure about it. Bianca, she felt, would bring that to the brand at least, and she must encourage her. But it wasn’t going to be easy. And she knew, moreover, that she couldn’t afford for one second of one day to lose one millimetre of whatever ground she had left.

‘I really would like to talk about this job,’ said Patrick. ‘Can we . . . ?’

He had his heavy expression on, a sort of brooding reproach. It was unusual, but Bianca had learned to respect it. Patrick’s breaking point was seldom reached; the last time had been when Fergie had broken his arm playing rugby and she had refused, initially, to cancel an overnight trip she was on to Edinburgh.

‘Darling, it’s a huge sales conference and my speech is top of the bill – I
have
to be here.’

A few well chosen words had her on the next plane.

‘Darling, of course we can,’ she said now, ladling pasta on to his plate. ‘I am totally at your disposal. So – are you more worried than excited by it? That’s how you felt at first. Excited, I mean. And if so – well, tell me why.’

‘Yes, well I did feel excited at first. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot more and actually it could be too exciting by half.’

Bianca reached for the Parmesan. ‘The thing is—’

‘Hi, Mum!’

‘Oh – hello, Fergie. I thought you were supposed to be getting ready for bed?’

‘I am, but I remembered I had to ask Dad something. Dad, can you play in the Parents’ Day cricket match?’

‘I expect so. But why on earth are you asking me now? It’s not even this term.’

‘I know, but I was meant to take the note back last week.’

‘What note?’

‘The one I didn’t give you. And Mr Squires gave me a bollocking and—’

‘Fergie, that’s not a nice word!’

‘Oh, Mu-um! Dad uses it.’

‘Well . . . anyway, Fergie, yes,’ said Patrick quickly, ‘of course I’ll play in the cricket match. Tell Mr Squires. Now off you go.’

Bianca looked rather helplessly at Patrick.

‘Now what were we talking about?’

‘My new job?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. Oh, God, Milly darling, what is it?’

‘Mummy or Daddy, I need you to sign off my homework.’

‘Milly, I asked you about that hours ago,’ said Patrick.

‘I know, but I hadn’t done it then. And Mummy, I really need a new denim jacket.’

‘Milly,’ said Patrick, ‘I’m sorry to be a boring old fart, but when exactly did you buy your last denim jacket?’

‘Last term.’

‘So it’s not too small?’

‘No, of course not. But it’s, like, the wrong sort of denim.’

‘Milly darling, that is not needing, that’s
wanting
. We’ve talked about this before.’

Milly raised her large brown eyes briefly to the ceiling, folded her arms and waited in silence.

‘I think,’ Patrick said firmly, ‘that since you now have about three denim jackets it should come out of your own allowance, not the clothes we buy for you. We’re not a bottomless money pit – and oddly, we do have other things to spend our money on.’

‘Well,’ said Milly, ‘it said in one of those articles about Mummy that she could command any fee she wanted. So—’

‘Milly,’ said Bianca sharply, ‘I’ve told you before, most things you read in the papers are total rubbish. That’s a silly remark put in by a silly journalist. And anyway, the sort of fee they’re talking about is what I might need for a company.’

This wasn’t quite true, but it seemed to deal with the situation.

‘No! It said your personal fortune was considerable.’

‘Well, I wish, is all I can say! Now, give me your homework and I’ll sign it and then you must go to bed. It’s late.’

‘But—’

‘Milly, I said bed!’ said Bianca.

Milly looked at her, half snatched the book and walked out, closing the door rather firmly behind her. Bianca looked at Patrick.

‘Do you think our little glow-worm is about to turn?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Well, it was nice while it lasted. Oh, God, I’m sorry darling—’

‘It’s quite all right,’ said Patrick, ‘but I do want to talk to you some more now. I know it’s not as important as your job, but . . .’

Bianca looked at him sharply. He didn’t often resort to such tactics. When it happened it was a shock.

‘Darling Patrick, don’t be silly. You know perfectly well our jobs are equally important.’

‘Are they?’ His tone was mild, but it had an edge to it.

‘Well, of course they are. It’s just that right now mine is being extra-demanding. But – I’m sorry, and I should have listened before. Let’s do it now. I meant it. I’m all yours. I’ll go and say goodnight to the children and you make us some coffee.’

Patrick was just pouring the water on to the coffee grounds when the gentle ripple of notes that has become the trumpet call of the twenty-first century, the text message signal, came from Bianca’s phone. He sighed. She was bound to check it when she came back; and looking at it, he saw it had come from Mike Russell.

‘It can wait,’ she said firmly when she saw it. ‘Mike knows not to contact me at this time. Let’s get back to your job. Tell me what you’ll actually be doing.’

‘Researching companies, looking into their accounts in huge detail, analysing things like – well, this is the example Finlayson gave me – let’s say it’s an international company: where they put their factories, what they pay for them, whether that really makes economic sense, or might it be a cover-up for some other expenditure, or does the wages bill seem a bit high—’

‘But Patrick, what you do now is pore over company accounts. This would be the same, surely?’

‘Yes, but suppose I missed it?’ said Patrick.

‘Missed what?’

‘Well, some vital bit of information. I’d be letting them down totally.’

‘But I just don’t think you would,’ said Bianca. ‘You’ve got a mind like an electric drill. You just go on and on till you’re satisfied every tiny thing is right. So you wouldn’t miss whatever it was, the high wages or whatever.’

‘Maybe, but—’

‘Well, it’s a huge move, I can see that. But it could be a terrific opportunity for you. You’re so understimulated at BCB.
And
underutilised, in my opinion. How do you feel about it? Do you want to do it?’

‘Well, in some ways,’ said Patrick. ‘But it’s just a bit daunting. And you know how I can’t bear to let people down. You’re right about the understimulation, though. I sometimes think if I died at my desk, it would be some time before anyone noticed.’

‘Patrick!’ Bianca felt remorseful. Spending most of her working life as she did, in a state of overstimulation, she realised she took the pleasure of that entirely for granted. ‘Is it really that bad?’

‘Not all the time,’ said Patrick more cheerfully. ‘I still quite enjoy it. But – if you think I should pursue this a bit further, I will. Only it does mean such changes in our lives. Like – well, like knowing the firm’ll be mine one day. That’s a pretty big thing to give up. We have huge commitments. Children, two properties, school fees—’

‘Darling, I know all that. I just think you being so understimulated is as dangerous in its own way. Tell me more about Saul Finlayson.’

‘Well, he’s been working for one of the big banks based in Switzerland. And he’s not exactly setting up on his own, he’s doing it with several others. Apparently a hedge fund isn’t just run by one guy, it can be ten different people running the funds in ten different ways.’

‘Yes, I think I knew that,’ said Bianca and then added, carefully tactful, as she tried to be when her knowledge and experience outstripped Patrick’s, ‘but it’s all a bit of a mystery, that stuff. What’s he like? As I person I mean.’

‘Odd. Awkward. Very direct. Apparently he’s famous for never telling a lie. Which can be awkward personally, and Jonjo says has caused some tricky situations but I guess makes people more likely to trust him in business. I did like him, I have to say.’

‘Well, that’s important.’

‘Indeed. The only thing I really grasped was that hedge funds need to make money every year and are judged on how often they do – not just do better than the market, which is what the pension funds do, for instance; and as we all know, that means they can end up not making money if it’s a bad year. Hedge funds actually have to make money all the time, day on day, no matter what. They just cannot lose. That’s a pretty scary proposition – incredibly stressful, apparently.’

‘And how do you think you’d cope with that?’ said Bianca. Patrick’s stress threshold was notoriously low. He started worrying about traffic jams the night before a journey and they had never arrived at a wedding or a flight less than an hour before they needed to. ‘And would that actually apply to what you’d be doing?’

‘Not sure. I should think so. And stress is pretty contagious, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Can be. Well, I think you should see him again at the very least, tell him your worries and concerns. He won’t expect you just to accept this job without exploring what it means pretty fully. If he does, you most assuredly don’t want to work for him.’

‘Yes,’ said Patrick.

‘And – hours, that sort of thing?’

She tried to keep the question casual, knowing how important it would be to her if the job made him unavailable to the family and its demands, hating herself for even glancing at, let alone probing into that facet of it.

‘Well, obviously it would be rather different. I couldn’t call my own shots, in that way, no doubt about it.’

‘Yes, well we can get round that I’m sure,’ she said briskly, knowing that sometimes they wouldn’t. ‘Away much?’

‘I – didn’t ask that.’