A Perfect Heritage (9 page)

‘Maybe you should, just so we could put that into the equation. I think you still need to know a bit more before you make your decision.’

‘
We
make it, I hope,’ he said.

‘Patrick, it’s your job, your life.’

‘No,’ he said, his eyes on her, thoughtful. ‘It’s ours.’

‘Well, that’s very nice of you. And I’d like to meet Saul Finlayson, please.’

‘Of course. But only if you really think it’s a good idea.’

‘Let’s say I really think it might be,’ said Bianca. ‘How is Jonjo? I’d like to see him again. Ask him to dinner soon, will you?’

‘Yes, all right. He’s got a new girlfriend, some sculptor.’

‘A sculptor! God, he covers all the professions, doesn’t he?’

‘Literally,’ said Patrick and grinned at his own joke.

‘Maybe he and Mr Finlayson could come together. Is he married?’

‘Divorced. I should imagine, though, he spends weekends on his yacht or jetting somewhere in his private plane rather than attending suburban supper parties.’

‘Our supper parties are not suburban,’ said Bianca briskly. ‘Our life was described in the
Standard
last week as high-metropolitan, Patrick Bailey. I mean, how important is
that
?’

‘Terribly. And I’ll be sure to mention that when I meet Mr Finlayson,’ said Patrick. He leaned forward and gave her a kiss. ‘Thanks, darling.’

‘What for?’

‘Not underestimating me.’

‘I never do that,’ said Bianca. And it was true: she didn’t.

Just the same, alone in her study later, she thought further about Patrick’s possible career change. She would love him to have some glorious opportunity which would offer his excellent brain something to challenge him. Most of the time working at Bailey Cotton and Bailey seemed to her rather like a ramble in the park: comfortable, pleasant enough, but all on the flat with limited views.

If there was one thing more dangerous than an underutilised brain, it was an awareness of it. It rotted the soul and she could sense that he was beginning to acknowledge it and compare it with her own absorption. And she genuinely and deeply loved him and wanted him to be happy.

On the other hand – the present situation meant he was home at the same time every night and could give the children the sort of attention they needed. Which she really couldn’t. And working long, late, stressful hours, neither would he. At a stroke her life as well as his would be altogether different and more difficult.

She was also genuinely concerned that he might find himself out of his depth; he was unused to stress, to harsh decision-making; he would be very much out of his comfort zone. And his was a gentle soul; he would know much anguish if he felt he had failed.

She wished she knew more about the job and, indeed, more about Saul Finlayson. She googled him.

Saul Murray Finlayson, Wikipedia informed her, had been born in Glasgow, but his parents moved to Lancashire while he was still very small and he had attended Manchester Grammar School, one of the great launch pads for successful male careers, from the age of seven onwards. He then went to Durham, where he got a First in history while still making time to deal, with modest success, in antique coins. After a few years with UBS he went to New York and worked for Chase Manhattan and then moved to Zurich where he ran the trading division of a large investment bank. He was now joining with four others setting up a hedge fund.

He was divorced with one small son, aged eight, and had homes in London and Berkshire; his hobby was flat racing.

A ‘Twenty Questions’ interview in the
FT
elicited some further facts: his three best features he said were patience, attention to detail and decisiveness; his three worst a bad temper, intolerance and a tendency to over-acquisitiveness. The two lists seemed slightly incompatible. He said he never switched off his phone, his guilty pleasure was chocolate – ‘I know that’s usually one for the girls’ – and had he not been a banker, he would have liked to be a brain surgeon.

He sounded, depressingly, a cliché, apart from the chocolate; a photograph of him, presumably taken a few years ago, showed a shock of blond hair, a slightly gaunt face and a distinctly reluctant smile.

She wondered if the real thing might be a little more interesting or even engaging.

Florence was sitting at home, looking out some papers – her solicitor had told her to check something on her pension fund – and found herself drawn irresistibly to her stash of cuttings books on the House of Farrell. They went right back to 1953, when the company had just launched, before she had really known Athina, and when she was still working as a beauty consultant in Marshall and Snelgrove for Coty. She had met the already legendary Mrs Farrell when she presided over the counter of the new brand, coming in every week, sometimes to stand behind the counter, sometimes just to talk to the consultants. So elegant she had been, always perfectly groomed, in wonderfully tailored suits, and high-heeled court shoes with matching handbag, her nails long and varnished, her make up impeccable. The girls on the Farrell counter were totally in awe of her.

Florence was not so easily intimidated, but then she didn’t work for her. After a few weeks, Mrs Farrell would come over to her counter every time she came in, telling her how lovely it looked and admiring the products; she quite often bought something and would carry it away in the lovely flowery Marshall and Snelgrove bag. Florence knew perfectly well why she had done so (Coty’s were not the only products she bought); it was to compare them with the Farrell offering, to study the packaging and the leaflets, and possibly to find something she could imitate.

And then one day Mrs Farrell had come over to her counter and asked her if she would telephone her when she had finished work and gave her a card with her address and number on it. Intrigued, Florence had done so, and found herself invited to join Mrs Farrell for tea, ‘or a cocktail if that would be easier with your hours. We could meet at the Savoy, or the Dorchester; my husband would like to meet you, I know, and I might have a proposition for you, but we need to have a proper conversation and to get to know one another.’

Flattered but wary, Florence had said that would be delightful and agreed to meet the Farrells in the cocktail bar at the Dorchester the following Thursday. She spent a lot of time working out what to wear – her wardrobe was rather limited, as decreed by her modest income, but she felt this was so important she actually bought a Frank Usher dress and jacket in navy, trimmed with white, for the occasion. She wondered what exactly the glamorous Farrells might want to discuss with her – she could only hope it was employment, but it could be that they were simply trying to do some more espionage work. Whatever it was, cocktails at the Dorchester were not to be missed.

During the week, she did some research on the Farrells, and particularly Cornelius who was an unknown quantity. She was friendly with the press officer at Marshall’s who kept all the articles about the store in her office; having heard why Florence wanted to know about them, she sorted out a manila folder of cuttings for her.

‘He’s quite a dish, Mr Farrell,’ she said. ‘I wish
I
was having cocktails with him.’

Florence reminded her briskly that Mrs Farrell would be there too, and took the folder home to study it.

Mr Farrell, photographed at Mrs Farrell’s side at several functions and even with the two salesgirls in the store, was indeed quite a dish: tall and dark, with slicked-back hair and burning dark blue eyes, and wearing what were clearly very well-tailored suits.

It was hard to get much of an idea of what he was like, but he clearly laughed a lot, and he had given one interview to a paper on the brand: ‘We think we are giving our customers something a little bit special, very skilled advice at the counter.’ Cheeky, thought Florence, as if none of the other brands did that. ‘And we listen to them carefully and try to turn their ideas and what they want into products and colours for the next season.’

The interviewer had asked him how he had become involved with the rather feminine world of cosmetics and he had replied that his mother had been an actress and he used to watch her making up for her performances when he was quite a small boy and was allowed to go to her dressing room – ‘a very big treat’ – before a matinee. ‘It was wonderful to watch her eyes growing bigger, her lips fuller as I sat there. I’ve been fascinated by what make up could do for women ever since.’

Asked if he had ever thought of being an actor himself he had said, with what the journalist described as charming modesty, that he wasn’t nearly talented enough. ‘I thought I could succeed with cosmetics rather than on the stage. With my wife’s help, of course. No, a great deal more than help: she is the prime mover behind the House of Farrell. I want us to be regarded as a team.’

Florence liked that; it showed modesty and some rather up-to-date thinking. Her view of men was coloured by the distinctly bombastic ones who ran the store and treated the women who worked there with a condescension that came close to rudeness. She much preferred the rather flamboyant chaps who did the make up for special promotions, clearly homosexuals, although that was only hinted at, with reference to fairies and amidst much giggling in the ladies’. They were fun and gossipy and treated the girls as equals, admiring their hairstyles and their clothes and discussing films and music with them.

Cornelius Farrell clearly belonged to neither camp; he was a red-blooded man who not only admired women but liked them and valued them. Florence sat looking at his picture and rereading the article and thought how very fortunate Mrs Farrell was to have captured such an unusual example.

‘Daddy! Hello, it’s me!’

‘Hello, my darling.’ Bertie’s heart always lifted when he heard Lucy’s voice.

‘I’m – well, can I come home this weekend?’

‘Darling, of course you can. Want me to come and collect you?’

‘Um – that might be nice. If you really don’t mind.’

‘Sweetheart, of course I don’t mind. What time will you be ready?’

‘Well, actually . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m ready now.’

‘But it’s only Thursday. Lectures been cancelled?’

‘Um, sort of . . .’

‘Now what does that mean? You’re not cutting them, are you, Lucy? You know that’s not a good idea.’

‘Well, you see, Daddy, I’m not going to any more. I’m leaving uni. Now.’

‘Lucy, you can’t take that sort of decision on your own, there’s far too much at stake.’

‘Like – like what?’

‘Like your future.’

‘Dad, have you read the statistics lately? Half the graduates in the country can’t get decent jobs. They’re working in coffee shops. And that’s the lucky ones. I honestly don’t think a degree’s going to do me any good at all. Unless I wanted to be a teacher and I don’t. It’s different for Rob, he’s doing medicine and there’s a cast-iron job at the end of it. Not for me there isn’t. Honestly, I’ve thought about it really hard, and I know I don’t want to stay here. Some days I feel so bored and – and disillusioned I could cry. Oh, Daddy, I’d like to come home and explain properly. Try and make you understand.’

‘Well, of course I – we – will listen very carefully to what you have to say. But Lucy, it’s not even the end of term. Surely it would be better to see that out at the very least?’

‘Daddy, what would be the point?’

‘The point,’ said Bertie, ‘is that it might look just a little better on your CV. You have to think of these things, Lucinda. You’re not a child any more.’

He hardly ever called her Lucinda. It meant he was serious. If not actually cross.

‘Well, all right. I’ll – think about it. But – well, when can you come? I so want to see you.’

‘I’ll come on Saturday morning. As early as I can.’

Bertie put the phone down. He had a sense of frustration at the thought of what she was so wantonly throwing away, but she was touchingly interested in him. It was soothing, set against Priscilla’s uber-involvement in her charities and her slightly disdainful disinterest in him.

And Lucy would provide a most useful tool in the battle over the house – the valuation of it at two and a half million had sent Priscilla into overdrive. For a time at least Lucy would need her room, and besides she loved the house, would be horrified at her mother’s plan. And it would be lovely to have her at home, very lovely indeed. Apart from adoring and admiring his children, Bertie loved their company, they interested him and made him laugh and, perhaps most important of all, restored his faith in himself.

They were his greatest accomplishment, without a doubt: and actually, as he thought increasingly these days, his only one.

Chapter 9

‘Could I have a word?’

Bianca looked up; the person she most liked to see in the office – one of the very few people she
ever
wanted to see in the office – Susie Harding, stood in the doorway. So pretty, with her long blond hair, her rather remarkable grey eyes, so well-dressed, mostly in wrap dresses or shifts, her long, tanned legs – God, these girls must spend a lot on tanning products – her wonderful collection of high, high heels; so cheerful always, smiling that amazing smile of hers. She was a life enhancer of the very highest degree. Only right now she wasn’t smiling.

‘Susie, of course. Sit down. Glass of juice, water?’

‘No, no I’m fine. Sorry to barge in but your secretary wasn’t there—’

‘She wasn’t there because I’ve returned her to the agency,’ said Bianca. ‘She was depressing me. You don’t have a friend do you who’d like a very nice job as PA?’

‘I’ll put my mind to it, if you’re serious.’

‘Utterly. I want someone bright and calm and, above all, cheerful. And who doesn’t mind working late sometimes. And who finds the same things funny as I do. I mean, you’d do perfectly, but you’re overqualified and anyway, you’re already taken.’ She smiled at Susie.

‘Well – thanks. But it’s actually my job I’ve come about. I’m sure you’re going to brief me in due course and I know you’re terribly busy and—’

‘Don’t let’s worry about that.’

‘It’s just that I’m completely kicking my heels at the moment. The press aren’t interested in us at all, the way we are, and – well, it would be great to get some idea if there was anything I could do now. Instead of irritating all the journos and bloggers trying to interest them in – well, diddly squat.’

Bianca laughed. ‘I love that expression.’

‘You see, I just can’t wait to get to work. Relaunches are the toughest things of all, of course, but they’re also a huge challenge.’

‘You’re right,’ said Bianca, with a sigh. ‘We’re talking about taking something old and stale and difficult and untidy and making it vibrant and desirable and accessible all at the same time. On a fairly tight budget, I might add. Walking on water, easy by comparison.’

‘I know. And then there’s risking losing all the old customers, and finding enough new ones to make that worthwhile. But – goodness, you can do it if anyone can. And it would be huge fun.’

‘Tell me, Susie, if you were me, what would be your first line of attack? The first thing you did?’

‘The products. They’re ghastly, most of them. Too many bad, not enough good. Have you been down to the lab yet?’

‘No, I’m going on Thursday.’

‘Honestly, everyone is at least fifty. All hired by the Farrells decades ago, mostly briefed by Lady Farrell. Ghastly. No use repackaging, or re-advertising anything
they
make. Might as well try and tell people baked beans are strawberries. That’s not a very good analogy,’ she added. ‘Sorry.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. What products
do
seem right to you?’

‘The Cream,’ said Susie without hesitation.

‘Really? Even to someone as young as you?’

‘Yes. It’s just the best skincare product in the world.’

‘But it’s not very scientifically based. Surely in these days of free radicals and superdepth vitamin balance . . .’ She made a face at Susie.

Susie laughed. ‘No. But I think it just might be time for a bit less of all that stuff. The Cream is just a yummy, incredibly absorbent night cream. You can wear it to bed with your boyfriend without smelling like an old lady.’

Bianca grinned. ‘Oh, I wish we could say that! What wouldn’t that do for the brand!’

‘Well, you could sort of imply it I suppose,’ said Susie. ‘You couldn’t actually say it, because all the ladies who love it would be shocked, stop buying it and buy Estée Lauder or Clarins instead.’

‘They might not,’ said Bianca, ‘if it was done cleverly enough. But you’ll have to tread water a bit longer, I’m afraid, Susie. I’m still so much thinking, getting the feel of everything – but any ideas you have, let me have them. I need all the help I can get.’

‘OK, thanks. I just didn’t want you to think I was a complete waste of space.’

‘I certainly didn’t.’ Susie would make a brilliant member of a new team, Bianca thought. Also a key one. PR and the social networks were so clearly the way to tell people about the new House of Farrell. The advertising budget she had agreed with Mike was tiny, a guttering candle set against the huge arc lights of Lauder and Chanel. She was going to have to box clever; use brains rather than brawn. Well, that was what she was about. That was what the whole thing was about. Meanwhile, she had an appointment with Caro; a rather less promising team member . . .

Caro was clearly highly intelligent and hugely confident, but as far as Bianca could see, had entirely failed to make any kind of proper career for herself. Unless you counted being personnel director of Farrell’s, at which she was spectacularly bad. Of course she did have a very successful, high-flying husband, but they had no children. She could have been anything, Bianca thought, a lawyer, a banker, gone into commercial life . . . why settle for a job in a business with which she seemed to have no sympathy? Well, the obvious answer was that she was Athina Farrell’s daughter and did what was expected of her.

Bianca wondered, as she waited for Caro, what Cornelius had been like; obviously charming and good-looking to judge by the various photographs of him that still adorned the boardroom, and everyone seemed to have loved him, but there any real sense of him ended. Intriguing.

‘Ah, Caro,’ she said, standing up as her door opened. ‘Do come in. How are you? Coffee, tea?’

‘I am well, thank you. These are difficult times of course, everyone is in a state of slight anxiety—’

‘Really? I’m sorry. I can understand it, of course. Is there anyone in particular I should know about? Talk to them, perhaps?’

‘No, no,’ said Caro, looking rather edgy. ‘I can deal with it perfectly well. Thank you.’ In other words, I don’t need you to tell me what to do.

‘OK. Well, if anything changes let me know. Now, what I really need your help with is getting a handle on the report lines and I thought you, as personnel director, could help me.’

‘Report lines?’

‘Yes,’ said Bianca, smiling at her sweetly. ‘You know, who reports to whom. I’m finding it a bit baffling. The consultants, for instance, seem to be part of marketing. I don’t quite get that. Why not sales? Particularly as we don’t have a marketing director to report to.’

‘Well,’ said Caro, ‘we did. Until last year.’

‘And?’

‘Well, he clashed increasingly with my mother.’

‘I – I see.’

‘Perhaps you don’t,’ said Caro, her tone growing cool. ‘Marketing, in the sense we have always understood it here, product development, promotion, advertising, image, always came under the aegis of my mother. And my father, of course, when he was alive. They moulded Farrell’s, after all. And my mother has always felt the consultants, the face of Farrell, as we call them, should be her complete responsibility when my father died. Then, in the nineties, we decided that a marketing specialist in the field should be hired. The person we had, a woman, was extremely good and worked very happily and successfully, was responsible for many innovations and developments, but shortly after my father died she left. After that we had two more, both men, but my mother found them impossible to work with, whereas Lawrence Ford, the marketing manager, works well with her.’

‘And that’s why the consultants come under marketing?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ said Bianca again. ‘Now, how about IT?’

‘Well, each department has its own IT manager. So we have one for marketing, one for sales, one for the finance and admin.’

‘You’ve never envisaged having an IT department as such?’

‘Well, no. The support we have is perfectly adequate. It’s not as if we have a serious online presence.’ She felt rather proud of that phrase.

‘Not at the moment,’ said Bianca.

‘You surely wouldn’t contemplate selling Farrell online?’ said Caro, shocked. ‘My mother would never agree to such a thing.’

‘Caro, right now I’m contemplating everything and anything. And all the other houses have an online presence, as you call it. It’s an invaluable promotional tool, apart from anything else. Have you looked at the websites recently?’

‘Not . . . too recently,’ said Caro.

‘You really should. They’re impressive.’

‘I’ll try and find the time,’ said Caro. She clearly saw studying rival websites akin to reading glossy magazines. Which of course it was, in a way . . .

God, this place is a nightmare, Bianca thought, sinking into her chair. The financial meltdown, the falling sales, the disastrous marketing, the frankly lousy products, the incompetent management, the complete lack of morale – they were familiar demons, she had fought them before and won. But the infiltration of this family into every corner of the company, the power it wielded, this was new. She had realised, of course, that they must be taken on and that Lady Farrell was a powerful and difficult force, resistant to her very presence; but she had not reckoned with the breadth and depth of that force, and the unquestioning faith in its tenets. Everybody, at every level in every department, saw Lady Farrell as the unarguable authority on everything and believed that the failure of the company was simply an unfortunate fact that had been forced upon her and thus on them. And anyone who did not share that view must clearly be wrong.

In order to change the company, and make it work, Bianca was coming to realise, she had to overcome not only Athina Farrell but the faith of her followers and convert them to her.

Creating world peace looked rather simple by comparison.

‘You want to be
what
?’

‘Oh, darling! Waste all that very expensive education!’

‘Waste what’s a very good brain, anyway!’

‘. . . completely pointless existence . . .’

‘. . . find it terribly boring . . .’

‘. . . ghastly models . . .’

‘. . . training costs what???!!! . . .’

‘. . . you can just forget all about it, Lucy . . .’

‘. . . really quite worried about money at the moment . . .’

Lucy faced them down, her green eyes, her grandmother’s eyes, steady in the face of their horror. It was pathetic; anyone would think she’d announced she wanted to go on the streets.

‘You know what,’ she said, ‘you’re being ridiculous. It’s a great job, one of the most sought after there is these days, fun, and according to one lovely girl I talked to, being a make-up artist is more than fifty per cent psychiatrist, so whatever brain I do have would actually be used quite a bit. I think you’re dishing out some very old-fashioned prejudice and actually, seeing as the beauty industry is what’s supported all of us, and paid for the very expensive education you’re banging on about, I think you’re being a bit hypocritical. You should be grateful I’ve left uni – it was going to get a lot more expensive by the time I’d got my degree. And I’m sorry you think a course costing nine thousand pounds a year is out of the question. It seemed pretty reasonable to me.’

‘Well, if it’s so reasonable why don’t you find the money yourself?’ snapped Priscilla. ‘The London College of Fashion, indeed! It sounds little better than a finishing school to me.’

‘Oh stop it!’ said Lucy, her voice growing tearful. ‘You’re being so – so blind. And unkind. Dismissing what I really want to do, making it sound pathetic.’

‘Lucy,’ said Bertie, sounding nervous, ‘darling, don’t get upset.’

‘I
am
upset. I think you just showed how little you understand me. Well, I’m going to do it anyway, I’ll find a way, just you see. I’ll talk to Grandy.
She
won’t think it’s a – a – what did you say? A pointless boring existence. She might even think it’s a bit odd you thinking it would be.’

‘Lucy –’ said Bertie nervously. His mother would accept anything Lucy told her, however distorted or far from the truth. ‘Lucy, don’t be silly—’

‘It’s you who’s being silly,’ said Lucy witheringly, and walked out of the room.

That was a lie, Bianca thought, watching and listening. Told with much conviction and an earnest smile.

‘This is a very lovely product, madam, and in some new shades for summer . . .’ The consultant’s voice, as she attempted to make a sale, trailed off. The product did have some lovely shades, to be sure, but the product – a new foundation, in colours that were old-fashioned and a texture that belonged twenty years back – was appalling. She had tried them, tried all the products, day after day, growing increasingly dispirited. These products were years out of date, not just months. The consultant was talking again. ‘Let me put it on the back of your hand – there! How does that look? Too heavy? Ah, well we do have a lighter one, let me just see . . .’

She rummaged in a drawer under the counter and while she was doing it, the customer walked rather self-consciously off, drawn to a rival display across the hall. Bianca had been there for almost an hour now, occasionally moving to a different part of the department, observing the ebb and flow of customers to the Farrell counter. Not that flow exactly described it; in that hour, only three women had stopped for long enough for the consultant to approach them, the rest hurrying past with an apologetic ‘not now thank you’. Of those three, one had bought The Cream, of which she was clearly an aficionado – the consultant had seemed to know her. The other two had bought minor items – lipsticks and eyeshadows, and now this one was being pressed into trying the new summer foundation. Actually more suited to an Arctic winter . . .

But at least they were potential customers; and that was what Bianca was doing here, standing in a rather quiet corner of this hugely busy department in White & Co Chemists in Birmingham, studying them, doing her own personal survey. Like most of its sisters, the concession in Birmingham was haemorrhaging money.