‘My concerns, or rather my concern, is about Marjorie Dawson. Marjorie’s husband is at this very moment facing life threatening surgery. She was informed of this on Saturday morning – just as your letter arrived.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ This was quite serious. She could see that. On the other hand, she could hardly have known. ‘Well, I am so so sorry, but—’
‘The shock of receiving the letter might have been ameliorated had it been accompanied, as my son intended, by a personal note he had written. At least he still understands the importance of human relations. Rather than human resources, which is the ridiculous term extended to the new department you have set up. He was as appalled as I was that the note was not included in his letter.’
‘I see.’ Jemima had told her that Bertie had also wanted to see her that morning, but she was already in the taxi on her way to Porter Bingham. ‘Well, I am very sorry, but please tell me, what surgery is Marjorie’s husband undergoing? Do we have any news?’
‘Not yet. He is having a leg amputated.’
‘Oh, no!’ Bianca was genuinely shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘A little late for such regret. In addition, he has a very serious general infection and is quite possibly unlikely to survive the shock of the surgery. A terrible situation for any wife, but to have received this brutal dismissal from her employers of many years in the same morning – unbearable. I hope now you can see what harm you have done.’
‘I – I can only apologise for what is clearly a very unfortunate coincidence,’ said Bianca, ‘but—’
‘An unfortunate coincidence! Is that all you have to say?’
‘Well, yes. I am extremely sympathetic – it must be dreadful for Mrs Dawson – but I had no idea this extra letter existed, from Ber— Mr Farrell; how could I have done?’
‘In that case,’ said Athina, ‘I have nothing more to say to you. The secretary must be dismissed. Shocking carelessness. I’ve told my son that already.’
‘Of course she can’t be dismissed! It was a genuine mistake, Lady Farrell. And I do accept responsibility for telling her to send out the letters. For which, again, I apologise.’
‘Mrs Bailey . . .’ Athina rose to her feet. ‘Please leave me. I have things to do. And I plan to drive down and see poor Marjorie this afternoon. I do assure you that in future you will have a great deal of trouble enlisting my help with anything whatsoever you may wish to do with this company. Your methods appal me. I would far rather the House of Farrell had not survived than come under your control.’
Bianca turned and walked out of the room.
Mr Stevenson had told her it would be at least three hours, possibly longer, before he could give her any significant news; she knew what significant meant, even though her mind turned away from it. She did indeed go for a walk as he suggested, although where she could not afterwards have told you; and then returned to the hospital, and went up to the ward. Terry wasn’t there, of course, and they suggested she went to the coffee shop and had a nice drink. She wondered why all such conversations had to be so banal; she supposed it was an attempt to lessen the horror.
She was on her third cup of vile coffee when she heard an imperious female voice calling her name across the café. It was Athina Farrell.
‘You look terrible.’ Lara’s slightly husky voice cut into Bertie’s silent self-flagellation. He had had forty-eight hours of complete hell, taking in two attacks by his mother, a dressing down from his wife: ‘Well, I knew it was a mistake, that job, just not the sort of thing you should be doing . . .’ and this morning the news that Terry Dawson was undergoing surgery. Bertie had tried to work, but lunchtime had found him unable even to decide whether he wanted to see the prospective candidates for a marketing assistant vacancy in his office or in Lara’s that afternoon.
It was for this reason that Lara had come to find him; she was sorry to bother him, she said, but she needed to know. ‘Just so I can sort out a few things before they arrive.’
He tried to smile at her, said he thought her office would be better.
‘It’s tidier for a start.’
‘Fine. Well, I’ll tell reception.’ She looked at him, her intense blue eyes thoughtful. ‘Do we need to discuss anything first?’
‘What? Oh – no, no, I don’t think so. Sorry.’
That was when she suggested they went out and had a sandwich together.
‘You clearly need to get out of the office.’
She was looking particularly dazzling in a coral linen jacket and white skirt and her eyes on him seemed even more fiercely blue than usual. Bertie, surprised to be able to absorb such information, said perhaps it would but . . .
‘There aren’t any buts,’ said Lara, ‘and I don’t want you sitting in our meeting with your stomach rumbling. Come on, we’ll go to Pret.’
But seated obediently at a table in Pret A Manger he said he didn’t really think he could eat anything, just a coffee. He’d hardly swallowed anything since Saturday afternoon.
‘Course you can,’ she said, and went and brought a tray bearing mineral water, a carton of green salad which she said they could share, and sandwiches, and it did look rather appetising. He fumbled for his wallet; she waved it away.
‘Don’t be silly. Now, want to tell me what the matter is?’
Her directness was one of the things Bertie most liked about her.
‘Come on, Bertie,’ said Lara, ‘spit it out.’
Bertie managed to spit it.
‘I think I will go up to the ward.’ Athina’s voice was at its most unarguable. ‘They’ll give me the information, I’m sure. You have to be firm with these people, otherwise they treat you like complete idiots.’
Marjorie felt a new panic, overriding the agony she was already experiencing. She was fond of Lady Farrell and deeply touched that she had driven all the way to Guildford to see her, but she was finding her presence almost unbearable, with its determination both to distract her and to persuade her that the letter she had received from Bertie had nothing whatsoever to do with her. However, since no power on God’s earth could hold Lady Farrell from a course she had set herself on, there was clearly no point in arguing with her.
‘Now listen, Bertie,’ Lara had finished her lunch and was looking at Bertie with a mixture of exasperation and concern, ‘you really cannot blame yourself for what’s happened. It was an unfortunate coincidence, and of all the people involved, you are the least guilty.’
‘Really?’ said Bertie, his tone slightly hopeful.
‘Well yes. You’d taken the trouble to write the card; you’d put the note to Trina on it. Trina should have checked your desk when you’d gone, to make sure that there wasn’t anything important – but then, finding a needle in a haystack would be a doddle, given the state of your desk. It was a little high-handed of Bianca to offer to pp the letters but again, she was acting for the best. Perhaps Trina shouldn’t have agreed to it, but if the CEO makes a suggestion, you don’t usually argue with it. The one person who comes out of this completely blameless is you.
‘You’re feeling bad, of course you are, and poor Mrs Dawson is having a hideous time, but you know what? If my husband was having a leg amputated, redundancy would come way down my list of priorities. The thought of facing anything so hideous, and a life sentence of dealing with it, and knowing the poor chap was going to be feeling totally emasculated as well as ill and in pain – God, what’s a little thing like redundancy? She can get another job. He can’t get another leg. Please, Bertie, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. Well, not exactly, but well . . .’ She hesitated, then went briskly on, ‘I found out my husband was cheating on me the same week as I got a new, rather good job. Which do you think took priority in my emotions?’
‘I – I – well, I suppose the – the cheating,’ said Bertie.
‘Of course it did. Bertie, you’re only so upset because you are such an over-conscientious, kind person. Most HR directors in your position would have shrugged, possibly sent Mrs Daws
on some flowers—’
‘Oh, God! Do you think I should have done that?’ said Bertie, his voice rising in anguish. ‘I didn’t think of it.’
‘Of course you didn’t. It would be sort of saying “sorry about that, but here are some flowers to make you feel better”. Crass. I’m just saying it’s what they’d probably do. Nothing on earth can help that poor woman at the moment, certainly not an overpriced offering from a florist. So please, please stop the self-flagellation. You’re doing this job really well but you’ve got to grow a bit of a tough skin. To protect yourself from your mother, just for starters. She is something else. Oh! Sorry, Bertie, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.’
‘No,’ said Bertie, and he actually smiled now, for the first time, ‘no, you should. All of it. You have made me feel better. Put it into perspective a bit. Maybe it wasn’t entirely my fault.’
Lara smiled. ‘Now – I’ve got another idea. It’s still only half past one, first applicant not arriving till half past two. I think a quick visit to the pub, drop of Dutch courage. Don’t look like that, Bertie! I’m talking about half of lager, not two double Scotches. Come on. And stay away from anyone holding a glass of red wine!’
‘Don’t cry, please. That isn’t going to do any good, is it? Now come on, sit down and let’s talk. It’s so unlike you and I want to know why – and how – did it happen? Was it your idea?’
‘No!’
‘Carey’s?’
She hesitated; then, ‘Yes. But I did agree,’ she added, clearly anxious not to be seen as a sneak.
‘Why?’
‘Because – because—’
‘What Carey says goes?’
‘No! No, really.’ She sounded defensive.
‘All right. Why then? Because it seemed exciting?’ Patrick’s eyes on her were thoughtful.
‘Yes. Yes, I s’pose so. It was exciting.’
‘What, wandering round Westfield? You do it often enough.’
‘Yes, but not when it’s not allowed. You don’t understand, I’m always so good! I mean—’
‘I do understand Milly. I was only teasing you. And you are always so good, you’re right. You do your homework, you get good marks, you pass all your exams, practise your music. Too good to be true, aren’t you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘I was like you,’ Patrick said, after a pause. ‘Always top of the class or near it, picked for all the teams, captain of cricket, never did anything wrong. The worst was smoking a quick fag behind the art block.’
‘Daddy!’
‘Oh, I know. Then a new boy arrived, rather glamorous – his dad was a maharajah or something like that, and everyone thought he was wonderful. Bit like your Carey I suspect. Anyway, he had access to some whacky baccy. I think you’d call it weed. Hash. Marijuana, anyway. He used to sell it, and if you didn’t buy it and smoke it with him, God help you. He was a vicious little so and so.’
‘He sounds awful. Carey’s not like that,’ she added quickly.
‘Well, not exactly. I tried it of course, the hash, but it had an awful effect on me, made me sick and gave me awful headaches. And I said I wouldn’t do it any more; he wasn’t very pleased, and his little gang were pretty nasty to me. And then he got caught. Someone – not me – sneaked, and he was expelled. And it all settled down again. But I felt really bad about it. Crazy, isn’t it? As if I’d missed some kind of opportunity. For not joining in, being part of the bad gang.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. So you see, I do understand how these things happen. But it doesn’t make it right, Milly. More importantly, it isn’t sensible. You’re such a lucky girl, and you have such a head start in life. If you go further down that route, get a bad reputation, it could all go horribly wrong. Mrs Blackman’s pretty tough about these things. And you don’t want that, do you?’
‘No.’ Milly’s eyes met her father’s. ‘No. But – but I really like Carey. She’s fun. More than my other friends. It’s not just going to Paris, just the things she says and knows about – her dad is just so cool, and the people they know—’
‘And you don’t?’
‘Well, you and Mum, no offence, but you, our lives, are not exactly exciting.’
‘Well, I’m sorry we’re so boring—’
‘Daddy, you’re not boring,’ said Milly, her large dark eyes anxious. ‘I just meant your jobs were.’
‘I know. But anyway, the important thing about all this, Milly, is that I wanted you to know that we, Mummy and I, are always there for you. Whatever happens you can come to us to help sort things out. But that doesn’t mean we’re going to think everything you do is OK. And if this sort of thing happens again, which I hope it won’t, you might find us all a bit less tolerant. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’ The voice was subdued again. ‘Yes, I do. What about Mummy, what does she think?’
‘I – I haven’t had time to talk to her about it properly yet, she’s away till tomorrow night.’
That sounded lame, he thought, putting Milly’s behaviour into a different perspective, something that didn’t qualify for immediate attention. But it was true. ‘And then she’ll want to discuss it with you too.’
‘But is she – is she very cross?’
‘More disappointed, I’d say.’
This was an overstatement; Bianca’s reaction to the news, in a quick break between sessions at a conference, had been distracted.
‘Milly? Bunking off from school? Heavens! But it doesn’t sound too serious. We’ll have to watch it, though. It’s that Carey, of course, she’s trouble. Patrick, I’ve got to go now, sorry, I’ll call you later tonight, discuss it properly.’
Only later that night there’d been a dinner and she’d been exhausted and said could it wait till she’d got home.
After Milly had left him, with a kiss and a ‘Thank you, Daddy, I promise I won’t do it again’ he went for a walk and thought about his own life: his own indisputable dullness, as he saw it, his dutiful career path – and the chance he had with this new job to seize some excitement, success. Saul Finlayson was his own Carey Mapleton, offering him some brilliance, some danger even; and he wanted to do it more than he could remember wanting anything. Except Bianca, of course, and she had seemed pretty exciting.
Well, not much longer. Fortunate that this little hiccup with Milly had happened while he was still with BCB.
Terry had survived the surgery.
‘His heart stood up to it,’ Mr Stevenson said, ‘and his vital signs are good. Early days, of course, and we won’t be able to relax for forty-eight hours, but I’m very hopeful.’
‘So he’s still alive?’ she said, stupid with relief. ‘He’s all right?’ And burst into tears.
Mr Stevenson put his arm round Marjorie’s shoulders and proffered her a handkerchief with his other hand.
She took it and wiped her eyes and then smiled at him.
‘Thank you very much. You’ve been so kind and I’m grateful to you. Thank you.’
‘That’s what we’re here for,’ he said.
Florence felt quite anguished for Marjorie. She was very fond of her, and indeed of Terry, who she had got to know over the years; he reminded her of her own long-dead husband, with his cheerful courage and sexy flirtiness. Of course, Duncan had been a rather different social class, but . . .
One of the worst things, of course, had been not knowing for a long time how Duncan had died; only that it had happened right at the end of the war, in Operation Varsity, meant to secure three bridges over the River Issel. It still haunted her, the thought that he might have lain in agony for hours, with no one to comfort him, let alone relieve his pain, for something that perhaps hadn’t made any difference at all. She would wake in the night crying out, not just from grief but from what were truly terrible dreams. And she had been hugely comforted when a fellow officer came to see her and told her what had actually happened.
‘He was so brave, Miss Hamilton, so brave, gathering his men after the
drop, making sure they knew what to do, where to go. There were dead men everywhere and the Germans kept on firing. Duncan was – was lucky for a long time, and then a shell hit him. I know it’s army policy to tell you that people died instantly, but he really did. Just like that. I saw it. He couldn’t have known a thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Florence, and it was almost as if he had told her Duncan hadn’t actually died at all, so sweet and refreshing was the relief. ‘Oh, thank you so much. That is so good to know.’
‘Yes, well I wanted to tell you. And I think he managed to see what we were doing as an adventure. Well, you know what he was like.’
‘Yes,’ said Florence, ‘I do.’
Three months later she had a letter from the war office, commending Duncan’s courage and saying he had been posthumously awarded the military cross . . .
Now she wrote Marjorie a note, saying how sorry she was about Terry, and how she would love to visit them both when he was a little better . . . ‘and I was so sorry too to hear that you had been made redundant. These are very difficult times for all of us but to have it coinciding with your husband’s illness must seem so hard. I shall miss you and if ever you feel like a free facial at The Shop, then you have only to ask.’
She didn’t make any optimistic remarks about Marjorie’s future; she felt Athina was doing quite enough of that – and possibly hindering, rather than helping, Marjorie’s cause.
Chapter 20
Susie looked as surreptitiously as she could at the text that had just arrived: Where r u?
Not surreptitiously enough; Bianca had noticed. Her forehead contracted very slightly and Susie was still on probation, she knew, had been ever since being late for the advertising presentation. She switched her phone right off and turned her attention one hundred and one per cent back to the discussion.
They were in a meeting with Bianca, she, Lara, the perfumier who had yet to arrive, and rather surprisingly, Florence. Susie might have been less surprised had she known that while Lady Farrell had been extremely opposed to the idea of the perfume launch, Florence was extremely in favour. She had voiced this view to Bianca on one of her visits to The Shop, and did so again now.
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