Driving home later that morning, Izzie had time to think for the first time after all the frantic activity of the last few days. Reordering the materials they needed would make a heavy dent in the mail-order money they had already deposited into Maddy’s bank account. It was all getting very confusing. Just how much money did they have exactly? All the checks were for £27.99, which didn’t seem that much, but they must have banked four hundred checks already. She did a mental calculation.
“Fuck me sideways!” Maddy shouted when Izzie phoned her on the mobile. “Over eleven grand? Are you sure? We’re in the money, babe! If we ever manage to wash the smell of this stuff out of our hair, we should go out and treat ourselves—oh and the kids, natch!”
Half an hour later, with Pasco asleep in the buggy, they sauntered into the bank and Maddy withdrew four hundred pounds, then handed Izzie a wad of notes. “Here you are. All of Ringford at your feet. Where do we start?”
They stood outside the bank, gazing around hopefully. “This is scary—normally I can spend money for England, but looking round, I can scarcely contain my indifference!”
At a loss to find a single thing for themselves, they spent the next half hour in displacement activity, and indulged the kids at Woolies. “How come it doesn’t count if you spend money on your children?” asked Izzie, from behind an armful of Action Man and Animal Hospital boxes.
Maddy pulled down a huge pack of Stars Wars LEGO. “Same as when there’s no calories in their leftovers at tea.”
Armed with huge bagfuls hooked over the handles of the buggy, they made their way back to the car. “God!” Izzie stopped in her tracks. “I’ve forgotten Marcus.” Leaving Maddy with the car keys, she dashed back to the chemist and, in her haste, she grabbed the simple option—a gift pack of Clarins for Men, on special offer with a rather dinky little black toilet bag. He’d like that!
When she unloaded the spoils at home after school, the kids were delirious, and within minutes the boxes were ripped open and she was unwinding those maddening plastic-coated wires that were wrapped around Action Man’s unfeasibly meaty thighs. Marcus, when he got in, was soon caught up in the atmosphere. Whisking Izzie into a frenetic and totally inept tango round the kitchen, with the children whooping enthusiastically, he seemed genuinely pleased at her excitement and kissed her with unexpected ardor. Later she caught him poring over his new skin care, reading the instructions with the greatest attention. Maybe this was going to be the answer to everything!
Next morning, after very little sleep, Izzie was at Maddy’s bright and early to make up for bunking off the day before, unable to wipe the grin off her face. Maddy looked a little puffy eyed, and Izzie suspected that bringing home treats for the kids had reminded her of far happier times. She rubbed her friend on the shoulder. “Okay?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah—fine. Really. I had a bit of a bawl last night after the kids were asleep. I wanted to get something for Simon. Silly really—”
The phone rang. Damn, they hadn’t switched the answer phone on! But Maddy looked pleased. “Pru! Did you speak to those Mail people? What did they say?”
She listened quietly as Pru spoke, frowning slightly, then glanced up at Izzie, strapping on a clean apron in readiness for the day’s boiling and stirring. “Yes, of course. If you really think we need to. I mean, things are going fine here. We’re more or less managing to keep up . . . Well, of course. Will next week do? Oh all right then . . . Yes, we’ll come as soon as we can!”
“Now, as I understand it from what you’ve both said,” concluded Pru, looking down at the sheets of paper in front of her, “you want to keep a low profile and just tick along as you are.” She leaned back in her office chair and put her pen to her lips ponderingly.
Maddy looked at her and was nervous. This wasn’t a Pru she was used to. This was Professional Pru, and she didn’t like the look of her at all. Suddenly she realized that things had changed dramatically. Izzie and she had become a brand, a client, a brief.
“I think,” Pru said finally, leaning forward over the desk and twiddling her pen with both hands, “that you are wrong.”
Izzie glanced at Maddy, alarmed, but Maddy could only look quizzical.
“I believe,” Pru went on slowly, “that the press have focused in on this earth mother message. The cream itself works wonders, that we can’t deny, and the fact that it does is what will keep it selling. But it’s a tough market out there, and you are not the first to put together a natural cosmetic product. Let’s face it, the country is awash with natural products.” Maddy and Izzie sat like children listening to her, both with a sense of foreboding about what she was about to say. “But there’s another side to the story of Paysage Enchanté, and that’s you two and Old Granny Luce.”
Izzie and Maddy looked at each other again. “Go on,” said Maddy hesitantly.
“The Daily Mail reporter rang me back twice after interviewing you both, wanting to know more details and to check facts about Luce’s journal. And it got me thinking that our best hope of success—real success—is to major on you both and the earth mother element.” She took in their bemused faces, before carrying on. “You are both mothers living in the countryside. Maddy is coping on her own—big sympathy vote—”
“Now hang on a minute,” Maddy interrupted, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable indeed. “You’re not exploiting—”
Pru held her hand up to stop her. “Not exploiting, no. I just think we can get some mileage out of you both as women who run your own families and have good traditional values. If we put the right spin on it, we can turn you into the Luces of the twenty-first century, with your farmhouse kitchen, chickens, and hordes of children all with blooming health and rosy cheeks.”
Maddy wasn’t sure whether she liked the idea of Rhode Island reds running amok around her Mark Wilkinson cabinetry.
Izzie had, at last, seemed to find her voice. “Well, didn’t we talk to the Daily Mail about that already? Won’t that do the trick without . . . without . . . ?”
“Izzie, I don’t really think it’s enough.” Pru sounded quite gentle with her, and Maddy wasn’t sure whether this was out of sensitivity to Izzie’s natural shyness or, and she was ashamed for feeling so cynical, a deliberate ploy to make sure Izzie went along with what she had to say.
“I had a request this morning from Country Lifestyle. They want to do a profile of you both with lots of luscious vegetable garden shots, children playing in the orchard, dew on the grass—you know the sort of thing. And they want to do it soon to get it in the May issue. In fact—” she paused and referred to a sheet in front of her “—they are dropping a feature to put you in.” She looked up. “In PR terms, girls, that’s dynamite. But you are both going to have to play up the back-to-nature card. You know, dress down a bit, bake lots of cakes . . .”
Izzie glanced at Maddy and they both smiled. “Izzie’s your woman for that!” She laughed, lighting a cigarette.
“Izzie, those low-slung combats are too now. You’re going to have to wear skirts, be feminine, a bit vulnerable but basically strong and capable. Maddy, those highlights are going to have to go, and, this is the hard bit, so are the fags.”
Maddy blew out a plume of smoke. “Oh for goodness sake, Pru!”
“Exactly, goodness is what it’s all about. You have got to be wholesome, good, pure.” She warmed to her theme. “When Anita Roddick started the Body Shop, she lived and ate the environmental be-kind-to-animals message and that was half the secret of her success. When this Country Lifestyle journalist comes up—I’ve said Wednesday, if that’s okay—you two are going to have to be as handmade and wholesome as the healing balm. Those women who slap it on every night have to believe that it will magically make them finer people, that, thanks to you, they will be better mothers and wives, they’ll be superb cooks of organic wholesome foods to send their angelic children off and out, happy and fulfilled. They will have crisp, fresh linen dancing on the line, a permanent smile on their face, a baske
t full of flowers over their arm.”
“All right, all right, we get the message.” Maddy laughed, stubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Save your prose for the press release. Okay, let us know when this woman wants to come, but this had better be a one-off.”
Pru looked serious. “I don’t think it will be. I have to say that the press response to this product is unprecedented in my experience. You are getting little mentions all over the place, and where the papers lead others will follow.”
“Can I smoke in here?” Maddy leaned forward fifteen minutes later to address the cabdriver through the glass.
“Sure, love. Just don’t stub the butt out on the seat.”
“Maaaaddy,” said Izzie, reproachfully. “You heard what the guru said.”
“Oh sod it. No one’s going to see.”
The cab pulled away from the curb and joined the queue of traffic. “Now where did you young ladies say you wanted to go—Marylebone, was it? You know, you two look a bit familiar. Have I seen you on the telly? Or was it . . . ? I know, it was in the paper, wasn’t it?”
“Nooo,” said Izzie loudly, her face creasing into a huge smile as she looked at Maddy. “Think you must have muddled us up with someone else.”
“I’ve had an idea,” said Maddy suddenly, and she leaned forward again to talk to the cabdriver through the glass. “Can you take us to Sloane Street instead?” She sat back in her seat. “Let’s not go home straight away. Pasco’s with Janet and we’ve plenty of time before we need to get back. Let’s go and have some fun. We’ve still got most of that money we took out—and the rest is in my account—so lunch is on you via me! Here begins the missing link in your education. You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the delights of the GTC café.”
Maddy dragged her through the door and made a beeline for the café at the back. Izzie looked around her at the exquisite bags, furniture, silk throws, and chinoiserie as if she had entered a different world. “My mum used to despise this place. Said it was the playground of the ladies who lunch, but I think secretly she desperately wanted to come here.”
“Oh, it’s still full of ladies who lunch. You’ll see.”
They were early enough to secure a table quickly and, like a child on a treat, Izzie gazed around at the faces of the women seated around them, all with Peter Jones bags tucked by their feet. She leaned forward to Maddy conspiratorially.
“How come they all look so bloody healthy?”
“Courcheval, darling, or perhaps Mauritius. Where else?”
“It’s all so . . . entitled,” marveled Izzie, “in a sort of understated way. I bet you had your wedding list here.”
“Only part of it, darling. Peter Jones for the essentials, of course, and Les Galeries Lafayette in Paris for the French rellies!”
It took some persuading to get Izzie to have the two-course lunch (“look at the price!”), but after a bowl of soup, mountains of sun-dried tomato bread, a dainty little salad, and a glass of wine each, they both felt more relaxed, and listened in intently to the conversations going on around them.
“So how are the Northops?” brayed the sleek, tanned brunette beside them.
“Oh, busy as ever,” replied her friend, trying to get a piece of recalcitrant rocket salad into her mouth without smearing the dressing down her chin and her cream polo neck. “Camilla’s going to Cheltenham, I hear.”
“Was she at Tarquin’s party? Victoria said Ben was so drunk he threw up all over the Crucial Trading seagrass carpet in the hall. Alco-pops I suppose. God, they’re only thirteen!”
“In our day it was straight vodka,” whispered Izzie. “Or Lambrusco ’cos you didn’t need a corkscrew!”
“Maddy? It is Maddy, isn’t it?” Maddy felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Daisy Smythe-Mayhew, prize-winning school bitch and wife of one of Simon’s old work mates. They air-kissed each other on each cheek. Mwah. Mwah. “I hardly recognized you, you look so much . . . darker. How’s everything in the shires?”
“Oh, muddling along thanks, Daisy. This is my friend Izzie, who’s from the shires too actually. We’ve just come up to town for a shufti.”
Daisy briefly looked Izzie over and dismissed her. “And how are you coping?” She lowered her voice. “So sorry to hear about Simon and everything. Charles said things had been going so well for him.” No he didn’t, thought Maddy, stiffening, I bet he hadn’t got a kind word to say, the pompous old bastard.
“It’s been difficult, but the children keep me sane. We’ve just set up a little business venture, Izzie and I.”
“Always a good idea to have a bit of pin money. Listen, I’ve got to dash—couple of things to do before I collect the sprogs—but do come and see us, won’t you? We’d love to hear your news.”
They air-kissed again, said their farewells, and they watched as Daisy left the café like a ship in full sail, bearing GTC and Trotters carrier bags fore and aft.
“Cor! Small world, hey?” said Izzie.
“No. As Giselle would say, ‘thin upper crust.’”
“I’ve never seen you in action like that before.” Izzie was wide-eyed with admiration. “Do you really want to go and see them?”
“No, I bloody don’t,” Maddy hissed through her teeth. “Nor does she want to see me. She’s not just a cow, she’s as thick as shit and the only person stupider is her husband! Simon loathed him. Now come on, my girl”—she tucked some cash in under the bill and picked up her bag—“lesson two in how the other half live, and this time it’s strictly for us.”
An hour later, and they were waiting for a Circle Line train at Sloane Square station, Izzie gripping on to her stiff White Company carrier, into which she had stuffed the new pillowcases in their Peter Jones plastic bag, too shamefaced to display the temporary deviation from her usual left-wing tendencies.
“You shouldn’t have taken me into Jo Malone,” she said, as though it had been all Maddy’s fault she’d parted with thirty-odd quid for some body cream. “That was deliberately cruel.”
“Think of it as research and put it on expenses,” laughed Maddy. “We have to see what we are up against. Did you notice how all the staff in these shops wear black suits with white T-shirts? It’s sort of gear de rigueur. I think, old girl, it should be our mission to make sprigged cotton the new black.”
“How many mail-order requests will there be when we get home, do you suppose?” Izzie said later when they finally found a seat and the train pulled out of Marylebone. “If yesterday’s post was anything to go by, we’re going to be inundated.”
“Have we bitten off more than we can chew?” Maddy gazed out of the window and into the back gardens of the houses beside the railway line. She felt light-headed after the wine at lunchtime and despondent as she always did when she had to leave London behind. Kilburn, Dollis Hill. Neasden. How weird to think that the people who lived here, with their busy individual lives, might actually have read about them in a paper too, written out a check, and put it in an envelope to send to her house. Okay, maybe not Neasden.
“Without a doubt,” replied Izzie, leaning back in her seat and sighing. “But in a way it’s fun. It’s actually the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
“Yes, but if we’re not careful it’s going to run away with us.” Maddy leaned forward in her seat. “We’ve never done this kind of thing before and we need to get ourselves sorted out. We’re going to need people to help to get the pots out.” She counted the list on her fingers. “Money to pay them, money to buy the raw materials, premises. And the children? Who’s going to look after them when we’re busy? I don’t think Pasco is quite up to sticking on labels yet.”
“When you put it like that, it’s a bit scary, isn’t it? I really think we ought to try and nab Lillian full-time. She’s fun, she’s efficient, and she hasn’t—yet—got a permanent job. Do you think she’d come and help?”
“It’s definitely worth a try. At least she knows how it all works. But we need to think about the business
side of it.” She glanced out of the window again. “We need someone who could advise us—not a bank manager type. They’re too terrifying and we wouldn’t know which words to use.”
“Oh I don’t know. I’m quite good at ‘can I extend my overdraft?’”
“Do you know, Izzie”—Maddy looked down at her hands sheepishly—“until now, I’ve never, ever been short of money in my life.” She plucked up the courage to look up and check Izzie’s reaction. She was smiling in disbelief. “Until Simon died and left us with nothing, I had never been in a situation where I couldn’t really buy whatever I wanted. Not yachts and diamonds, but if I set my heart on something, I pretty much got it. The best furniture, designer fabrics, nice clothes.”
“I’d noticed!”
Maddy smiled. She wasn’t sure Izzie believed her, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit how much she’d had to sell. “But there’s probably only so many jumpers and scarves Lillian will accept, and I’m not sure Tods and clam diggers are quite Crispin’s scene. His diggers are more JCB . . . No, I don’t like not having cash in the bank. I’m a spoiled brat really, and this situation is just not me. I want to sort this whole business thing out so I never have a scare like that again. I want to know that we’re handling the money right and that we make what we should.”
“Okay, let’s get some help. Who do we know? My parents are even vaguer about bills than I am and Marcus is a ‘creative’ so we can forget him.”
They both looked idly at the fields and farms that now flew by past the window. It struck Maddy that Izzie never really discussed the balance of her marriage, and she wasn’t sure, despite how much she had revealed about herself, just what she knew about Izzie. Her response to Jean Luc had not been quite what you would expect from a married woman. The mere mention of his name made her behave like a teenager. I might think Marcus is a jerk, she thought, but if Izzie thinks he’s so great, there must be something about him to admire.
Goodbye, Jimmy Choo Page 17
