‘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.’
‘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 fasci
nated 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.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 8
