And then she had started talking voting rights, and for the first time a rustle of anxiety stirred in Pemberton’s brain. Voting rights, and their relevance were not something he could recall discussing in any detail.
Bianca sat in her study, playing La Bohème – she always turned to opera in times of crisis – assuaging the feelings of betrayal, rage and hurt. And the acute loneliness that was inevitably part of her job. People lower down the organisational scale could turn to one another, say isn’t it awful, you’ll never believe this or that or the other; and receive sympathy, empathy and advice. She, alone at the top of the mountain, had no such resource available to her. Every judgment had to be her own, each course of action settled upon personally, every criticism absorbed entirely without support. It was the price of success, of her professional satisfaction, her salary, her fame.
It required huge self-confidence to cope with it and Athina was robbing her of that, slowly and relentlessly. It was, quite literally, frightening. And she couldn’t see quite what she should do about it.
Mike and Hugh had taken her out for lunch and tried to give her a sanitised version of what had happened, saying that Lady Farrell had said she was unhappy with much of what Bianca was doing and that she would like to express that formally.
‘Cut the crap,’ Bianca said briskly, ‘I suppose it was a vote of no confidence?’
‘Well – yes. It was.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well, that company morale was low, that there was little progress being made in spite of some extremely drastic action, and in some cases deeply regrettable results.’
‘Lawrence Ford?’
‘Yup. Fraid so. And also that she happened to know that the sales figures were appalling and getting worse.’
‘How did she find that out?’
‘God knows. Anyway, Bianca, it’s perfectly all right. Because she can’t win, she has no grasp whatsoever of the structure of the board and the voting rights, thanks to that pathetic cave of dinosaurs she calls her lawyers. We told her we’re very happy with you, backing you all the way, as indeed we are, and she left in high dudgeon. We’re reconvening tomorrow morning. By which time, I imagine, Messrs Pemberton and Rushworth will have admitted negligence and taken a long walk off a tall cliff. Peter Warren’s been marvellous, tried to smooth her ruffled feathers, although I’m afraid she now sees even him as tarred with the same brush as the rest of us, since he told her he had a vote!’
‘Oh God,’ said Bianca, ‘what a filthy mess.’
‘No,’ said Hugh. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Hugh, the fact is, there’s a lot in what she says and it’s going to get a whole lot tougher now. I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here . . .’
‘Bianca! Pull yourself together.’
Hugh smiled at her; but she could tell from his expression that there was an irritation behind his bonhomie. It was enough; she stopped. This was bad. She couldn’t afford to display so much as a touch of self-doubt and frailty.
She stood up, smiled back at Hugh, and said, ‘OK. Let’s put the whole bloody thing behind us. You’re quite right. We can’t let her rock the boat, just as we’ve got it almost floating again.’
‘Indeed not,’ said Mike. ‘That’s better. Well done, Bianca. And you know, we’re totally behind you as always. As I said.’
‘I do know,’ she said. ‘And thank you.’
But now, quite, quite alone, Patrick away, the children asleep, she wasn’t entirely sure.
Patrick was waiting for his flight out of Munich when Bianca called him.
‘Hello, darling, how are you?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you know. Fine. I was hoping you might ring last night.’
‘I’m sorry, it was back-to-back meetings all day and then a lot of notes to write up when I returned to the hotel. Then Saul called with some other thoughts, and – well, suddenly it was midnight. And I knew you wouldn’t want me ringing you then. Are you all right?’
‘Oh – yes, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Everything all right there?’
‘Well, Milly had to be collected from school yesterday, she’d been sick, and Ruby’s probably got chickenpox, but I think that’s about it. Oh, and I’m just about to go into a board meeting, which was adjourned yesterday after Lady Farrell proposed a vote of no confidence in me.’
‘Really? Silly old trout. Well, she won’t get that through – they’ve got swamping rights, haven’t they, the VCs?’
‘Yes, Patrick,’ said Bianca, keeping her temper, ‘yes, they have. So it doesn’t matter at all.’
‘All right, darling, rotten I know, but I’ll be back tonight. And I haven’t forgotten about Milly, of course.’ His tone was carefully solicitous; he was obviously feeling guilty. ‘And don’t get chickenpox – that won’t go down well in Paris.
‘Oh, by the way, Saul’s going to be in Paris next week too, one of his horses is running at Longchamps. Maybe the two of you could have dinner together; be nice for him since he spends so much time alone and it’d be nice for you too, I expect.’
‘Patrick,’ said Bianca, keeping her voice level with a huge effort, ‘I’m taking Florence with me so it would be very rude to leave her alone for an evening. And I don’t think Saul would be too delighted with being lumbered with two of us.’
‘Well, just an idea. I’ll mention it to him anyway. And if he, well . . .’
‘Yes, all right, Patrick. If he turns up under my hotel window and serenades me, I’ll have dinner with him.’
‘Don’t be silly, Bianca. I’m just asking you to – to be courteous to my boss. That’s all. Oh, my flight’s been called, better go. See you later, darling.’
Bianca put the phone down with unnecessary force and stuck her tongue out at it. Then she laughed. This was absurd! Patrick pushing her into the arms of another man, urging her to spend time with him in Paris, of all places. Suppose, just suppose, she did fancy him? How would that look in a divorce court?
‘But your honour, I was just doing what my husband told me, trying to be a good corporate wife.’
Well, there was no way he was going to want to have dinner with her; pigs flying down Montmartre was infinitely more likely.
‘Oh, hello!’
‘Hello. I hope this is a good time. How are you?’
‘I’m – I’m fine.’
‘Good flight?’
‘We came on the train.’
‘Good idea. Much more civilised.’
‘I think so. And you?’
‘I drove, with George Barnes, my trainer. As did my horses, although in a different vehicle. Got two of them running tomorrow at Longchamps. You could come and watch.’
‘Saul, I can’t. I’m here to work. Much as I’d love to,’ she added quickly. She didn’t want to appear too rude.
‘You should take a day off occasionally. Very good for you. I do.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ she said briskly.
‘Oh, really. How do you know that?’
‘Well, there could be a clue in the fact that you call my husband at least three times every evening, more at the weekends.’
‘Oh, I don’t count phone calls. I just do that. You don’t mind, do you?’ he added, sounding interested, rather than concerned.
‘No, of course not. Although I must give you a note of our mealtimes. Best avoided, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘All right.’ He sounded serious.
‘Saul,’ said Bianca, half amused, half incredulous. ‘It was a joke.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well anyway, your husband told me you were here and he seemed to think we should have dinner together.’
Romantic proposal or what? How was she meant to respond to that?
‘You don’t have to. It was his idea.’
‘Yes, I see. Well . . .’
It was obviously the last thing Saul wanted to do. And she really didn’t want to have dinner with him. It would almost certainly be boring. A lo
t of silences. And she and Florence had already agreed to have an early dinner at the hotel.
‘Saul,’ she began again, ‘if you don’t mind, I am quite tired . . .’
‘Oh, fine,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
A very long silence while she wondered if she could just say goodbye and hang up.
‘I realise it’s short notice,’ he said finally. ‘It just seemed worth asking you.’
What did that mean? That he liked the idea? Possibly. He certainly didn’t have to, he wasn’t into pleasing Patrick. And she had said she’d do it if he turned up. And Patrick was at home now, dealing with a very fractious, chickenpoxy Ruby and she had warned Florence . . .
‘Well, as long as it’s – we’re – not too late, I’d love to,’ she said, struggling to sound as if she meant it.
‘Good. Yes. Well look, where is the Hotel d’Angleterre? I’ve never heard of it.’
He wouldn’t have, she thought. Not his sort of place.
‘In St Germain. It’s lovely. Small, used to be a house, very peaceful, very pretty. No public bar, no one’s allowed in if they’re not staying here.’
‘Very nice. I think I might move in.’
‘It’s full,’ she said, panicked, and there was a silence.
Then, ‘Bianca,’ he said, ‘it was a joke.’
‘Oh!’
‘I’m staying at the Crillon. The service is good.’
It seemed an odd reason to stay at a hotel so famous for its five-star, flamboyant luxury. But then he was – odd. ‘Anyway, we could eat there . . .’
She put the phone down and called Florence in her room.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that he’s Patrick’s boss and—’
‘It’s all right, Bianca.’ Florence’s voice was amused. ‘I understand. Bosses have to be looked after. I shall be quite happy, take a little walk – I love this area – and then perhaps have an omelette in my room. Where are you going?’
‘Don’t know. He said the Crillon, but I loathe those sorts of places.’
‘May I suggest Le Petit Zinc, just round the corner from here? Charming, and wonderful food.’
‘You may indeed, and thank you. I shall tell him. Of course you could join us – it would be nice . . .’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Florence. ‘And your Mr Finlayson would be appalled to be forced into a threesome by an old woman.’
‘Florence, I don’t think so,’ said Bianca, laughing, ‘but if you’re sure . . .’
She looked at Florence as she sat in the enchanting green garden courtyard, sipping the kir she had asked the waiter, in fluent French, to make with white burgundy, rather than champagne. ‘That is the only way, really,’ she explained to Bianca, who was drinking pastis. Bianca was impressed and intrigued; how had Florence, who had always worked for very modest pay, achieved such sophistication? Perhaps her family had been well-to-do? It would be rude to pry, but possible, perhaps, to find out over the next two days. Damn Saul Finlayson! How much nicer to dine with this charming, interesting woman, dressed with a chic that easily matched Parisian standards, a simple navy jersey suit (Jean Muir – or was it – could it be? Chanel?). It made her own white shift dress feel somehow a bit . . . obvious.
‘Please don’t worry about me, Bianca. And enjoy your dinner.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said. She was still feeling wounded and insecure after the vote of no confidence. The board meeting, reconvened, had ended comparatively amicably. Peter Warren had taken Athina aside beforehand and said he presumed she had now consulted her lawyers – a gracious inclination of her head – and that he imagined she would not want a confrontation in the boardroom.
‘So I propose, if it is acceptable to you, to say at the beginning of the meeting that we will forget the vote of no confidence, and ask Mrs Bailey to join us. We can then resume. I think there was very little business left on the agenda. Does that sound satisfactory?’
Athina, clearly realising that she was getting off very lightly, said it did sound as satisfactory as possible under the circumstances, and Peter Warren, grinning broadly, joined Mike and Hugh in the boardroom.
‘She really is something else. She managed to make me feel she was entirely in the right and it was very good of her to agree to drop the motion, so let’s crack on before she thinks of something else she can do to scupper things.’
And for the time being at least, Lady Farrell came quietly.
But it had been a very shocking experience; and Bianca had not fully recovered.
She smiled across the table at Saul. He had agreed to Florence’s suggestion and they were sitting in Le Petit Zinc, which was totally enchanting, an art nouveau treasure trove, all exquisite lamps and mirrors and bronze carvings and etched and stained glass, and waiters in the Paris uniform of long white aprons and black jackets. She waited for Saul to admire it, but he simply looked round, nodded briefly, then said, ‘Fine. Do you want a drink?’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘I really won’t. Some mineral water would be lovely.’
‘Fine. I’ll join you in that.’
‘We’re going to be a bit of a disappointment to the sommelier then.’
He looked at her blankly, then said, very seriously, ‘Does that matter? I wouldn’t have thought so.’
‘No, Saul,’ she said. ‘No it doesn’t. Of course. It was—’
‘A joke?’
‘Well, yes. Sort of.’
‘Sorry. I don’t have much of a sense of humour,’ he added, with one of his swift smiles.
‘Well, you have other qualities, I’m sure.’
‘I hope so. Look, let’s order, shall we? What do you like?’ He was clearly not into lingering over the meal.
‘I like fish,’ she said quickly. ‘And one of their most famous dishes is sea bass baked in clay. Which I would like, please. Florence told me all this.’
‘She must know the area well,’ he said.
‘Yes, she does seem to. She knows the whole place well, that’s why I brought her. Well, that and another reason which I won’t bore you with.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d bore me,’ he said. ‘Now, would I like the sea bass?’
‘Saul,’ she said laughing, ‘how am I supposed to know that? Do you like fish?’
‘Not much.’
‘What do you like?’
‘I don’t really take much interest in what I eat. It’s something I have to do, really.’
‘But you must like some things more than others.’
‘Well, I like steak. On the raw side of rare. Bleu since we’re in Paris.’
‘So, order that, then. Are you going to have a starter?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I might have a pudding, though. I quite like puddings.’
‘OK. They do the best profiteroles in the world here. You could have those.’
‘Now how do you know,’ he said, ‘that they are the best in the world? That’s very possibly an inaccurate statement.’
‘Er, just possibly,’ she said and then looked at him and saw he was actually grinning.
‘Joke?’ she said.
‘Sort of. Let’s order then, shall we?’
He launched into a stream of perfect French to the waiter. She looked at him, slightly surprised.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you thought I would just speak loudly in English, didn’t you? I was sent to Geneva briefly, by Chase, and decided I was going to get more out of it if I spoke all the languages properly. So I went to a private tutor the bank employed. I did French on Mondays and Wednesdays, German on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Italian on Fridays.’
‘Goodness! Didn’t you ever mix the days up, launch into Italian on a Monday or whatever?’
‘No, of course not. I just explained: different days were for different languages.’
Bianca gave up, then, as they waited for their food, his phone rang; he pulled it out, looked at it, said, ‘Excuse me’ and left the table to go out on to the street. He was gone for almost ten minutes; when
he came back, he looked at her awkwardly.
‘Sorry. It was Dickon. He rings me every night, to say goodnight, tell me about his day. I – well, I had to take it. I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you did.’ She was touched by this. ‘I spoke to all mine before I came out.’
A long silence while she consumed her gazpacho; then, ‘How’s it going? The job?’
‘Oh, fine. Yes – yes fine.’
‘Really?’ he said and she met his eyes and could see he was not deceived.
‘A bit less than fine,’ she said. ‘Since you ask.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘You don’t want to hear about my work.’
‘I do. And,’ he added, reading her hesitation, ‘I’m famous for my discretion. I have to be. And I would find it quite insulting if you didn’t tell me about it.’
That really would make it all pointless, insulting him. She’d have done better to stay in the hotel with Florence.
‘Bianca,’ he said, ‘go on. It might help.’
It might indeed, she thought. To be able to be honest about it; to discuss the situation, without putting a spin on everything – the only other person in the world she could do that with was Patrick. And he certainly wasn’t listening to her very much at the moment.
She told Saul everything.
He listened intently and then, when she had finished, said, ‘Right. Some observations. I like the shop idea. But I really don’t see why you’re looking for it yourself, wasting time away from the office. Someone else can surely do it for you?’
‘No, they can’t. These are hunch things, Saul, it’s totally essential they’re exactly, exactly right. Estée Lauder, with all her thousands of employees, still personally approved every piece of packaging, every lipstick colour.’
‘Oh, all right. I suppose I don’t understand your business. Anyway, back to the shops. But you must have enough. Not just one or two. They have to be everywhere that tourists shop seriously: Dubai, Sydney, Singapore, New York, LA – very important, LA.’
‘Yes, but Saul, I can’t afford all those places! My hope is that we can establish a small presence in France and—’
A Perfect Heritage Page 31
