Bianca had emailed back immediately and said she liked all those ideas, especially the bespoke oils and that she would get back to her with more ideas.
Florence had even become slightly less opposed to personalised publicity. ‘I suppose, after all, many of our early clients are long dead, so we’re not giving away any secrets and we had some very big names – the Duchess of Wiltshire, Lady Aberconway, the Countess of Jedburgh – and they all signed our visitors’ book.’
Bianca had been very excited about the visitors’ book and asked if she might see it and she and Florence had spent a marvellous hour poring over the legendary names, some from the aristocracy, many showbiz. ‘And no one’s going to tell me those sorts of people would mind,’ Florence said, ‘if they’re still alive – which is quite unlikely I’d say. Those musical comedy actresses, Dulcie Fleming, look, and Aurora Chanelle, she was one of Ivor Novello’s favourites, you know . . .’
Bianca had asked her to draw up a shortlist and asked her if she would mind if Susie Harding came in to discuss it; Florence said of course not, she was increasingly impressed by Susie.
On the whole, Florence felt her life to be considerably improved by the arrival of Bianca Bailey.
So sitting and listening to Athina criticising her constantly wasn’t really very agreeable; especially as it had drowned out first the commentary on the arrival at the Abbey which was always so interesting, and now it was the service and she wanted to be able to listen to the couple making their vows, not a long diatribe against Bianca Bailey’s publicity proposals.
When Florence said that she thought the stories about clients and customers over the years, confining it to those who had long since shuffled off their mortal coils, was a good idea, Athina looked at her witheringly and said had she not thought of the descendants of those clients and how they might feel about it.
‘They might even sue. I really would not advise it.’
Florence said she thought it was very unlikely anyone would sue for reading about their beautiful grandmother and that it could do Farrell’s nothing but good.
‘Well, of course they could sue, Florence,’ Athina said. ‘You never have thought things through properly.’
Florence decided she had had enough.
She stood up; Athina was still talking loudly over the Archbishop.
‘I’m sorry, Athina dear, but I thought we were here to watch the wedding? If you don’t want to do that, I shall get a taxi home. Which would mean my missing the rest of the ceremony live and that would be a pity, but I’ve set my TV to record and I think I should enjoy that rather more.’
At which Athina looked very startled and said she was extremely sorry in a voice that made it plain she wasn’t at all, but she did stop talking and went to fetch a bottle of champagne which she opened and poured a glass for them both in a rather tense, but very welcome, silence and they made it up over an extremely nice lunch.
Susie was watching the wedding alone. Henk was out working. He had said that of course it wasn’t what she would consider work, as he wouldn’t be earning any money, but he wanted to catch the mood of the day on camera, and in order to do that he needed to be on his own.
She had gone home the day of the meeting, determined to tell him it was over and that she wanted him out, but as she opened the door, delicious cooking smells wafted towards her and he appeared, bearing two glasses of champagne, a rueful smile on his face.
‘Decided you were right and I should work a bit harder for my keep,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘How was the meeting? Did you shine?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said, determinedly cool. ‘I was almost late.’
‘Oh no! Well, I’m sure you did brilliantly just the same. Come on in and recover. I’ve cooked a tagine, your favourite.’
He’d been on his best behaviour for a few days, but gradually he was slithering back into his old self, awkward, lazy, touchy . . . And had left quite early, without so much as a farewell kiss. Well, good. It was great having him out of the flat – for a bit.
He had come into her life via a thirtieth birthday party for one of her oldest friends – God, she hated they were all that old! – all brooding good looks and cool clothes. He’d told her she was gorgeous, made her laugh, and they’d left the party as soon as decently possible and went home to bed. He hadn’t been in London long, had grown up in Yorkshire but talked Estuary English – she’d never quite known why. He’d christened himself Henk, although his real name was John, and was struggling to make his name as a photographer. He was a good photographer but he didn’t have the spark to make it really big. Still, she enjoyed being with someone who spoke her language.
Henk made her laugh – although that didn’t happen very often now, she reflected as she made herself a bacon butty and a cup of coffee – and he was also an extremely good cook, another skill that didn’t get much of an airing. He was also very good in bed, so they had been fine for about three months, then the novelty had worn off. Henk’s income had remained at zero and she couldn’t help, just occasionally, referring to the fact that he wasn’t paying her any rent, or even buying any food; whereupon a rather nasty temper had manifested itself and the rows had begun.
Marjorie poured herself a second glass of cava and settled back on the sofa; what a wonderful day. She was a great royalist. And Kate, although she was a commoner, was really very lovely and William was charming, just like his mother, and they were both deeply in love. And she felt so much happier now that she knew her future with Farrell’s was guaranteed; clearly Bianca Bailey had been no better at overruling Lady Farrell than anyone else.
Chapter 17
‘Oh yes! How cool is that? Sounds great. I’ll just ask – hold on. Or shall I call you back? Yeah, OK. No, no, of course, really soon. What? Oh, I’ll tell her. Thank you so much!
‘That was Carey,’ said Milly, switching off her phone, her great eyes shining, ‘she says can I go to Paris with her next weekend?’
‘Paris!’ said Bianca.
‘Yes. With her and her parents.’
‘Well – I don’t know,’ said Bianca. ‘I mean . . .’
She felt mildly worried without knowing quite why. Except Milly was rather dazzled by Carey and had come back from the wedding party goggle-eyed at the size of Carey’s house, and her personal sitting room and walk-in clothes cupboard; but she seemed a very nice child, had been for a sleepover with Milly since and behaved very nicely, had charming manners . . .
‘Oh, Mummy! You’re not going to say no, are you?’
‘Um, well, I’d like to know a bit more about it.’
‘There isn’t any more,’ said Milly, her voice heavy with exaggerated patience, ‘she’s going to Paris with her parents, they’ve got to see about letting their flat, and Carey wants to have a friend with her. She says we can go shopping!’
‘I see. Er – Patrick, did you take that in?’
Patrick looked up from the Financial Times. ‘Sort of. Carey wants to take Milly to Paris. Very smart. How long for, Milly?’
‘Oh – just the weekend. Please don’t say no, please.’
‘Well, I think perhaps we’d like to know a bit more about it.’
‘But why?’
‘Darling, we’ve hardly met Carey’s parents. It seems a bit – I don’t know, extreme.’
‘Oh, what! What’s extreme about it? We’re not going to the moon on our own. We’re going on Eurostar with her parents. It’s no big deal.’
‘No, of course not. But—’
‘Oh, you’re both so pathetic! You just don’t want me to have a good time. Well, I’m going anyway, and that’s that!’
The last word was accompanied by a slammed door; and then another from the floor above. Bianca and Patrick looked at one another.
‘What did we do?’ said Patrick.
Ten minutes later Milly reappeared, swollen-eyed.
‘You are so horrible,’ she said. ‘Carey says if I don’t reply straight away she’ll take some
one else.’
‘Milly,’ said Bianca, gently, ‘tell Carey to go and speak to her mother.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have just had a conversation with her and she said of course she was going to ring us and Carey wasn’t supposed to invite you until she had, OK?’
‘Oh. So can I go?’
‘Yes, darling, you can. But another time, just wait for a few minutes before you go into the attack, will you? Good lesson for life altogether.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, all right.’ A sheepish smile had appeared on her face and she moved forward and hugged first her mother then her father. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Patrick, ‘just don’t go asking us for extra spending money.’
‘But Dad! Dad, it’s Paris!’
He grinned at her.
‘Just joking. Of course you can have some. You’ll have to earn it though.’
‘How?’ She looked half surprised.
‘You can start with cleaning your room.’
‘But the cleaner does that . . . I mean, yes all right. Course. Thank you.’
She kissed them both and skipped out of the room.
‘I think we should watch that friendship a little bit carefully,’ said Bianca. ‘A manipulative little person, is Carey Mapleton.’
‘Bertie, I need to talk to you about Marjorie. It was agreed we should discuss what might happen to her at the next board meeting, that she was a special case—’
‘I think that was what Mother wanted. I’m not sure that it was actually agreed, Caro, and I’m also not sure it’s a matter for the board. But—’
‘It hasn’t taken you long to join the enemy, has it, Bertie? Bianca’s blue-eyed boy. Yes Bianca, no Bianca. Just because she’s given you a job. My job. Now could you please see that Marjorie’s situation is put on the agenda for next Thursday, because it’s not there at the moment – if it’s not beyond your extremely limited remit . . .’
‘Goodbye, Caro.’ Bertie put the phone down and sat staring at it. His entire family, with the exception of his children, seemed hell-bent on putting him down. It was – well, it was totally humiliating. Suddenly more than anything in the world he wanted a bar of chocolate. Just a small one. He’d go and get one and it would make him feel better. It was nearly lunchtime anyway.
He walked into the corridor and towards the stairs.
‘Bertie! Hello.’ It was Lara Clements. ‘Look, would this be a good time to buy you that drink? Or are you on your way somewhere important?’
‘Er – no, no,’ said Bertie. ‘No, I was just – just popping out.’
‘Right. Well, we can’t be very long because we’ve got those interviews to do this afternoon, but it might be nice to have a quick chat about them out of the office.’
She smiled at him, and she had a very nice smile. It had a sort of engaging, conspiratorial quality, as if she was saying, ‘Wouldn’t you agree life is really rather nice?’
He smiled back at her. ‘Well, that would be . . . would be . . .’
‘Good. Where would you like to go?’
‘Oh, there’s a very nice pub just along the road. Or don’t you like pubs?’
‘I love pubs. Much prefer them to swanky bars, as a matter of fact. Yes, let’s go there. Lead the way.’
The pub was still quiet and it was a lovely day.
‘Let’s sit outside, shall we? Now, what can I get you, Bertie? What’s your poison?’
‘Chocolate,’ he said and laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to weaken and buy a bar just now. My wife’s got me on this very strict diet and—’
‘Well, I don’t think they serve that here. How about a nice red wine instead? Or a spritzer, even better. Nothing I don’t know about dieting.’
‘Really? You could have fooled me. You’re so slim.’
‘Only because I never stop counting calories. And have the statutory fat picture of myself at university on my fridge. Now – red or white, which is it to be?’
‘I do confess to hating those spritzer things.’
‘I’ll get two glasses of red, shall I?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ said Bertie. ‘Thank you.’
She reappeared with the drinks, sat down opposite him and raised her glass. ‘Cheers, Bertie. Thanks so much for putting me forward for this job.’
‘Honestly I hardly did anything,’ he said. ‘Feel like a bit of a fraud actually, taking this off you.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. Feel a fraud, I mean. Bianca would never have heard of me without your help.’
‘I think she would, but anyway – how’s it going?’
‘Oh, I love it. Bianca is so great to work for, so good about just leaving you to it once she’s satisfied you’re going in the right direction, and so inspiring. If anyone can turn Farrell’s round, she can. I love her ideas.’
‘They’re great,’ said Bertie. ‘My mother would never let us so much as think about any of them, of course. Like being on the internet. She said it would be disastrous for our image.’ He sighed. ‘And of course, that’s one of the many reasons we got into the pickle we’re in.’
‘Yes, well I’m sure there were many, many strengths that she brought to the brand as well,’ said Lara carefully. ‘It must be very difficult for you. Divided loyalties and all that.’
‘A bit,’ said Bertie carefully.
There was a silence; then, ‘So – you have a wife, I know that, because you told me of her dietary disciplining. Children?’
‘Two. Daughter, Lucy, who lights up her old dad’s life, and son Rob. He’s at medical school.’
‘And what does Lucy do?’
‘Oh. Well, she was at uni, reading Engish Literature. Now she’s – well, she’s learning to be a make-up artist.’
‘Good for her. And why the hushed voice?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Bertie! You looked as if you were confessing to her being on the game. What’s wrong with being a make-up artist? Damn sight better than being an unemployed graduate.’
‘That’s what she says.’
‘Well, she’s very smart.’
‘I’d just rather she’d finished her course.’
‘I think you should get with the programme as they say,’ said Lara briskly. ‘It sounds to me like your daughter’s got her head screwed on. And you know, make-up artists are big stars these days, earning big money. Not all of them, but the best. And it’s a great life zooming round from fashion show to photographic studio, London to New York.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said Bertie, ‘but—’
‘Bertie! Come on. What does your mother think?’
‘Oh she thinks it’s quite a good idea,’ said Bertie.
‘I bet she does. Now there’s a lady who knew where she was going, all those years ago. No, I think you should be very proud of your Lucy. She sounds great. And when she’s finished, who knows? She might be able to work for us. Now, we ought to just review the candidates.’
‘Of course,’ said Bertie. He raised his glass to her. ‘And thank you, Lara, for this.’
‘My pleasure. I – whoops! Oh God, Bertie, I’m so sorry.’
A man had walked past them and jolted her arm, sending her red wine all over Bertie’s linen jacket. The man said, ‘Sorry mate!’ and disappeared into the pub.
Lara dabbed rather ineffectually at the jacket. ‘Oh, God, and it’s such a nice jacket. Shit!’
‘Wasn’t your fault,’ said Bertie.
‘I know but – and God, it’s gone over your shirt too. Oh, I feel terrible. And we’ve got those interviews . . .’
‘Oh that doesn’t matter,’ said Bertie. ‘Who’s going to look at me? As my nanny used to say.’
‘Nanny was wrong. Lots of people are going to look at you. Six to be precise. Oh, bloody hell! Look – come on. We can just make it.’ She raised her arm, hailed a taxi.
‘M&S Oxford Circus, please. Pronto!’
‘But,’ said Bertie, ‘but we can’t—’
‘Yes, we can. We’ve got to. I’m not interviewing some of London’s brightest with you smelling like a bar at closing time. Unless you’ve got a spare shirt in the office?’
Bertie shook his head.
‘We’ll start with a shirt,’ Lara said. ‘Blue stripe? Or check?’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Right, we’ll get both. Or – oh look, that’s lovely, the pale blue linen. That’s the one. OK, size?’
‘Seventeen,’ said Bertie miserably.
‘Bertie, you are not a seventeen. You might have been once, but all your shirts gape at the neck. I’d say sixteen. OK, jackets – there, the very fine check linen. See, in blue and beige? Here, hold it up . . . yes, great. And it’d look fantastic with the shirt. Right, that’s it. Let’s go!’
And thus it was that at precisely two forty, the first young (female) graduate from Manchester was shown into Lara Clements’ office and was interviewed with great skill and insight. Not only by the woman she immediately longed to be her boss, bright and sassy and tough, but the HR director, a charming, gentle and clearly very clever middle-aged man, who asked her what were definitely the more difficult questions. She noticed that they seemed to have quite a rapport going between them, and that, oddly, he was wearing a rather stylish shirt and jacket, but his trousers were baggy and far too big for him.
‘Florence, dear, I’m so sorry, but I’m not well.’ Athina’s voice sounded genuinely weak. She was no stranger to the diplomatic illness, as Florence knew, but . . .
‘I’m sorry, Athina, what is it?’
‘Oh, migraine, I suppose. You remember how I used to suffer from them? Anyway, it’s quite appalling. So I won’t be able to join you this evening. I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s perfectly all right. I’m sorry too, but there will be another evening. Let me know if I can do anything, won’t you?’
‘Yes, yes.’
Athina put the phone down and walked over to her cocktail cabinet, mixed herself a gin and Dubonnet, still one of her favourite drinks. She couldn’t face another session with Florence telling her how busy she was and how she was enjoying working with Bianca – it was so very disagreeable when she herself had nothing to do.
A Perfect Heritage Page 18
