Samantha was sitting alone at one of the pavement tables outside Tootsies on Holland Park Avenue, five minutes from the house, having a cappuccino and a fag, when she became aware of being watched. A lady kept staring at her, glancing away, then staring again. Whenever Sam caught her eye, she turned away, pretending she wasn’t looking. She was a woman in her late forties, Sam reckoned, slightly plump. It was kind of annoying.
After fifteen minutes of this, Sam was seriously considering saying something when the lady came over and handed her a business card. It said she was Marketing Manager of Freeza Mart plc and looked very official, with a wodge of phone numbers and email addresses.
‘Sorry to approach you like this, but I was wondering if you’re a model?’
‘A model? Er, no.’
‘So you don’t have an agency or representation? You do live in London?’
‘Mostly up in Scotland at the moment. But I’m sometimes down here. Why?’
‘We’re looking for potential models to appear in a campaign we’re putting together. For Freeza Mart superstores. We’re bringing out a fashion range and the concept is to use only “real” women in the advertising, which is why I needed to check you’re not a professional.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘That’s great. Obviously we need “real” women who could have become models but aren’t. And your look might really work for us. Obviously the casting director and photographer will need to see you. Would you be available to come along to a casting at all?’
‘Depends when it is.’
‘Thursday and Friday morning. The studio’s in Covent Garden.’
Sam shrugged. ‘If you tell me where to come, I’ll try.’
‘And there’s a fee of a hundred pounds for showing up,’ the lady added.
57.
Dawn’s decision to leave Ross, to end her marriage, to quit both the homes into which she had poured so much time and love, and to move into James’s houses, was not one she took lightly. Rather, it crept up on her, over many months of soul-searching. Having spent her entire adult life with Ross, and been through so much together, it was difficult to imagine life without him. And there was the reaction of the children to consider. She knew how unhappy they’d be about it, the girls especially. But they were all grown-up now and increasingly settled into their own lives. If ever there was a time to do something for herself, the time was surely now.
She told herself it was a long, long time since she and Ross had been truly happy. Their marriage had been drifting for years, they were no longer the same people they’d been when they’d met; she found it difficult to remember what they had been like in those far off days in Droitwich. She had read that people develop in life at different speeds, and felt that in many respects she had outgrown Ross, had left him behind. Of course, you had to admire the success he had made of Freeza Mart, and she did not underestimate the sacrifices she’d made for his career, relocating down south and seldom complaining about his business trips. Ross was a workaholic and the strain this placed on their marriage could not be overstated. But, beyond that, she saw herself as having grown as a person, intellectually, artistically, at a faster rate than Ross, until they no longer had much in common. Whole areas of her new life were closed to him. When she tried to describe exhibitions she’d visited, his eyes glazed over. When she filled their Holland Park house with her art world friends, he looked out of his depth, so she preferred to hold supper parties when he was overseas. On the infrequent occasions they had dinner alone together, they talked at cross purposes, she about art, he about the challenges of taking Freeza Mart into emerging markets. She convinced herself they had simply grown apart, as happened to thousands of couples their age, it was a very sad fact of life. Probably Ross felt the same way, if he was honest about it.
And, of course, she adored James, adored and mothered him. He was such an interesting, unusual man, as different from Ross as chalk and cheese. And he was so self-effacing, almost to a fault. He never pushed himself forwards. Left to himself, he would have sat at the worst table in a restaurant rather than announce himself as Lord Pendleton, one of the richest men in the land. But when she saw him in conversation with his curator, discussing some addition to his collection, or sitting with his financial people reviewing the performance of his different share portfolios, Dawn was filled with respect for his shrewdness and knowledge. And he was always so courteous and thoughtful. When he shyly gave her a small oil painting by Patrick Heron for her birthday, she felt deeply moved.
Instinctively she understood that James would never take their relationship to the next level unless she seized the initiative. He was too much the gentleman to make any move on a married woman, on any woman come to that. Laetitia once told Dawn that it was she who had suggested to James they become engaged, ‘otherwise I’d have been waiting forever.’ Dawn was sure it would be the same today, and she sensed he would be equally receptive to an overture.
One evening, with a deep breath, she talked about the state of her marriage to Ross for the first time, and how it was to all intents and purposes over. ‘It’s a very sad situation,’ she said, ‘but we’re different people with different interests.’ From here, it was a small step to declare how much James had opened up her eyes to the world, and how he had brought out a whole new side to her character that she could never share with her husband. She explained how, for the first time, she felt she’d become her own person, and not an appendage to Ross. James, visibly embarrassed by so much emotion and self-revelation, could only nod sympathetically, and agree how much more in common Dawn had with him. Forty-five minutes later, he had passively agreed it made sense she should become his second wife.
It was an indication of their naivety that neither James nor Dawn had any inkling of the public scandal they were about to bring down upon themselves. Dawn informed Ross one Saturday afternoon that she had decided to leave him, and promptly did so ninety minutes later, driving over to Longparish Priory in her car. Having had not the slightest premonition anything was wrong, Ross watched her go in stunned disbelief; it did not help that he was badly jetlagged from a seventeen-hour flight from Taipei via Singapore. None of the children being home that weekend, he sat alone in the kitchen, digesting the fact that his wife had asked for a divorce to marry Lord Pendleton. It was the craziest thing.
For a week he told no one, not the children, not anyone at work. It felt strange returning to the big white London house to find no Dawn. He still half expected her to return any day, he didn’t seriously believe she could stay with James Pendleton, it was a ridiculous idea. Although never a man to read magazine articles or novels about relationships, he had nevertheless heard about midlife crises, and this is what he assumed was happening with Dawn. He knew he hadn’t been paying her much attention lately, he could see that now, though you couldn’t always choose your workload at any particular moment. He left several messages on her mobile, but if she was picking them up she didn’t return his calls. He couldn’t bring himself to ring the Pendletons’ home.
Then, on the eighth day, fate forced all their hands. A story appeared in the Richard Kay column in the Daily Mail, saying Dawn had left the Freeza Mart tycoon for the recently widowed Lord Pendleton and moved into his house. A spokesperson for Pendletons declined to comment, but Dawn herself was quoted confirming the situation and requesting privacy ‘at this very difficult time.’ The item was headlined: ‘Supermarket Wars: Mrs Freeza Mart checks out for Pendletons.’ The story was full of puns: Ross had been frozen out, Dawn was headed for fresh aisles, billionaire Lord Pendleton had wooed and won his rival’s trolley dolly. Ross, who did not read the Mail, only became aware of it when the girls in his office, looking hideously embarrassed, pointed it out; he’d heard them whispering outside for twenty minutes deliberating on whether they should. Then Gemma rang up in hysterics, having seen it, and Ross left another furious message on Dawn’s mobile insisting she call him without delay, before telling first Debbie, then Greg. Dawn
finally called him at midday, sounding uncharacteristically subdued, saying how upset James was about the story, as she was herself, and how James had just informed his son Hugh as well as the Pendleton brothers. She added that Miles Straker was taking personal charge of the public relations strategy, and was very put out not to have been briefed about it in advance. He had ordered all participants not to speak to the press under any circumstances, including Ross, and she hoped he’d respect that. ‘I’ll speak to whom I bloody well please,’ Ross retorted. ‘It wasn’t me who got us into this mess, it was you, love. So you can tell Miles exactly where he can put his advice.’ But then he added, ‘Not that I’m planning on speaking to any journalists. It’s nobody’s damn business but ours.’
Afterwards, he felt almost more annoyed with Miles for muscling in than he did about losing Dawn to James Pendleton.
Samantha turned up for the initial casting in Covent Garden, and again the next day at the studio of a photographer in Clerkenwell. On the first day there had been several hundred ‘real’ women candidates of all shapes, sizes and skin colours, but at the second look-see there’d been only a couple of dozen. Polaroids were taken, then digital shots against a white paper colorama, and the photographer, his assistants, several people from the Freeza Mart marketing department and their advertising agency crowded around a computer screen to see the results. Sam’s must have come out ok, because at the end of the afternoon they asked if she’d be available for a full dummy shoot the following day, for which she’d be paid £600. And could she potentially be available to come into the office next Tuesday to meet the marketing director and some of the board.
And so it was she found herself arriving at Freeza Mart House with the, by now, six other remaining ‘real’ women. They were being escorted across the lobby towards a bank of elevators by a marketing assistant, when she came face to face with Archie.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Sam? Joining a harem?’ Archie stared approvingly at the blonde, brunette, Asian and Afro-Caribbean women who embodied the diversity of Freeza Mart customers.
Sam explained her mission and her brother nodded. ‘Yeah, I heard about this. It’s going to be a blatant rip-off of the Dove commercials. Using fat ugly dogs instead of proper models.’
‘Thanks, Archie. That makes me feel great.’
‘Sorry, not you obviously. But generally. And even you are a bit over the hill for a normal model.’
‘Archie, enough.’
They were herded into a meeting room on the ninth floor with views over the Thames, given coffee and name badges, and a woman called Jo briefed them on the concept for the campaign. As Archie had intimated, the idea was to give an illusion of random British women, in all their glorious variety and imperfection, wearing items from the inaugural Freeza Mart fashion range. Group photographs of Freeza Mart females would appear on thousands of billboards around the country, as well as across double-page advertisements in magazines. There would also be a sixty-second television commercial presenting the women as multi-cultural ‘girlfriends’ in different real life situations, such as shopping together in Freeza Mart, watching sports or attending a hen party. Furthermore, it was explained, the women weren’t expected to act as models for a single campaign, but become long term ‘brand ambassadors,’ giving interviews and endorsements and possibly cutting ribbons at store openings once they’d been successfully implanted in the public’s consciousness. ‘The agency envisages each of you developing as a distinct personality with your own style attributes,’ Jo said. ‘A bit like the Spice Girls did. I hope you’re all comfortable with the concept.’ Afterwards, the creative director of the advertising agency gave a long speech repeating what Jo had already said, and then Jo and her boss, Matt, wrapped up by summarising everything.
During the speeches, Sam noticed several senior guys in suits being ushered into the room, including Ross, who stood at the back while marketing assistants fetched coffee for him. These were evidently the Board, arriving to check out the ‘real’ women. Sam thought Ross looked rather drawn and tired, which was hardly surprising. She’d heard about Dawn leaving him.
Ross limped over to greet Sam when the presentation ended. ‘So it is you, Samantha. I noticed your name on the list and wondered. I hope you’re going to take part.’
‘Well, I haven’t actually been chosen yet. And it’s come out of the blue. I’ve never done modelling before.’
‘You’ll be perfect. At least that’s what my people tell me. I don’t get to choose the models myself, sadly. You lot here today are the final choices, if you’re up for it.’
‘God, that’s amazing. Do we get paid, do you know?’
‘A ruddy fortune. We’re going to have to sell millions of garments just to cover the model fees. I was complaining to our marketing folks about that. But you should do it, Sam. It’ll make you famous. Like those birds in the Marks & Spencer commercials.’
Sam laughed. ‘As if.’
‘Well, it’ll make your dad proud, anyway.’
Sam nodded, knowing it certainly wouldn’t.
58.
Behind a gritty carapace of normality, and an insistence it was business as usual, Ross was desperately unhappy. He missed Dawn’s presence far more than he’d ever have imagined. Their houses felt absurdly large and empty without her there, and he responded by throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, arriving earlier at the office, staying later, filling his weekends with store visits and overseas trips. By helicopter, he was able in a single Saturday to visit eight different Freeza Marts as far apart as Swansea, Exeter and Gateshead. He would pilot himself from city to city, landing in a specially-cleared area of car park or, if this was impractical, at a local airfield to be met by the Freeza Mart area rep. Although he tried not to allow his personal problems to affect his demeanour at work, his colleagues, and particularly his PAs, noticed him become less communicative and more short-tempered. Arriving at the office by six am, he insisted the trading reports for the previous day be waiting on his desk, and he reviewed them territory by territory, store by store, emailing questions and comments direct to managers before most were awake. A manager in Telford would receive ‘Cleggmail,’ as these came to be known, enquiring why sales of washing powder or a particular brand of cheese cracker had fallen short of forecast, or why sales of fuel at a Freeza Mart forecourt were growing at a slower rate than at a neighbouring Tesco forecourt. He became daily more obsessed by market share and particularly, it was observed, by Freeza Mart’s market share versus the market share of Pendletons. In those areas where Pendletons still outperformed Freeza Mart, Ross instigated aggressive promotion wars on everyday items, with discounted loss leaders. When Dawn had been resident at Chawbury, he’d had a rule of never catching a flight at weekends before Sunday evening, but now his secretaries were encouraged to put him on any flight they wished, because his weekends were no longer sacrosanct. With all this frenetic displacement activity, Ross tried to numb his sadness about Dawn.
His health deteriorated but he scarcely noticed, and either ignored the symptoms or took Paracetamol. And the pains in his legs returned, to a level he hadn’t experienced for many years. He would work incessantly, almost without stopping, for six weeks on end, then collapse, polaxed, and be forced to take a day off work.
Unaccustomed to spending time alone, he took to having supper with Gemma and Archie at the cottage in Roupell Street, arriving with a bag full of Freeza Mart ready meals. Gemma was only too glad to see more of her dad, and for Ross to see more of Mandy, and encouraged him to drop round whenever he liked. Of the three children, Gemma took her parents’ separation the hardest and Archie became quite bored with Gemma banging on about it. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s that terrible,’ Archie said. ‘Your mother has only run off with a multi-billionaire. He’s number eleven in the Sunday Times Rich List, you know.’
Debbie was also sweetly supportive of Ross, ringing him daily to check he was alright. Her temporary job at Freeza Mart headquarters evol
ved into something permanent in the property division, where she was busy learning about commercial leases and buy-backs which turned out to be a lot more interesting than she’d envisaged. Ross had recently decided the group should buy up as many brownfield sites as possible, even on the edge of towns where they already owned superstores, to prevent rivals from gaining a foothold. And they were gearing up to bid for grocery concessions at motorway service stations; a lot of Debbie’s time was spent monitoring footfall at Moto and BP convenience stores, estimating how Freeza Mart could grow those businesses. One of Debbie’s happiest days was spent travelling with her dad, just the two of them in the helicopter, from Chawbury to a service station near Warwick to check out potential. Afterwards, they had a cup of coffee in a Travelodge and Ross said, ‘If we win the grocery concession, the hotel comes too. Perhaps you could run a hotel chain for us, Debs. You’re the expert. We could build up a Freeza Mart hospitality brand.’
As for Greg, he scarcely ever rang Ross, but Mollie did, inviting him over for supper in Sudan Road. Ross had quickly become fond of his daughter-in-law, whom he considered impossibly nice to be a daughter of Miles Straker, but evenings at the house were never wholly satisfactory. Greg seldom missed the opportunity to lecture Ross on something—carbon emissions or some progressive new taxation on business Labour was about to introduce—and it always riled him. How Mollie put up with it, he didn’t know. Greg announced he thought he might have found a safe Labour seat to fight at the next General Election, a constituency near his birthplace in Droitwich. ‘I’m being sponsored by Millbank,’ he told his dad. ‘They’re keen to fast-track me into Parliament. Gordon’s people are fixing it.’
Pride and Avarice Page 44
