‘Then it won’t work. The shop device, I mean. You’re playing the English heritage card here, right? Doing a Burberry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right now, with the English thing flying, and more so next year with the Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics, you should go global with that. Might take a bit of time, but we’re not talking a block of Fifth Avenue, or Rodeo Drive. It’s the presence you need. To give you the publicity.’
‘Well, yes. But the shops will all need staff, attention. And the tiniest rent is huge in those places.’
‘It’ll be worth the investment. Bianca, this is a very clever idea. Tell them, your VCs, that you need more money. Tell them that if they don’t get it, they’ll lose what they’ve given you and then some. They’ll come round. I know these people, I spend a lot of time with them. You should have made sure they’d go with you all the way.’
‘So it’s my fault?’
‘To a degree, yes. Anyway, you must keep going. Keep going and don’t look down. And don’t worry about all the other stuff, Lady whatshername and the dead marketing manager. Sounds like a bad detective story,’ he added with a grin. ‘None of that is your fault.’
‘It – it feels like it.’
‘Well, it isn’t. And you mustn’t let it distract you.’
‘I know, I know. You’re right. I’ve never felt like this before, uncertain and even—’ she stopped.
‘Even?’
‘A bit scared.’
‘Oh, now you can’t be scared,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t even think about being scared.’
‘Don’t you get scared?’ she asked, curious.
‘Sometimes. But I just fight it off. I decide what I’ve got to do and then do it.’
‘And is that ever wrong?’
‘It can be. Losing is bad, but I mostly win, so it’s OK. So, what exactly are you planning to do tomorrow?’
‘Find these shops. With Florence. She runs the Berkeley Arcade shop, has done from the day it was opened, way back in 1953.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t realised. Then that was a good idea, to bring her. I wish you well. I wish you well altogether. And don’t be scared, Bianca. Don’t look down.’
He walked her back to her hotel, keeping a clear distance from her, and when they arrived he didn’t even kiss her on the cheek, merely said, ‘It’s been a very nice evening.’ And he turned and walked swiftly up the street. He was – odd. She kept trying to find another adjective for him and failing. He was just extremely – odd.
All the same, she felt much happier; it had, in its own, odd way, been a very nice evening. As he had said. She was very glad she had gone. And Patrick would be pleased.
Examining that thought she found that she didn’t give a toss about whether Patrick would be pleased or not. The evening had been about her. Her and Saul.
Athina was also, at that moment, feeling a bit scared. Well, if she was honest, very scared. She had thought briefly – very briefly – of resigning, but that idea was gone before it had a chance to take hold. It would be cowardly, apart from anything else, and she still intended to win, to retain the House of Farrell as her own creation; she was not going to allow these people to take it over, change it beyond recognition, but she seemed to have increasingly few weapons at her disposal. She could create difficulties, she could cause delays and frustrations, but that was not enough. Indeed, it risked destroying Farrell’s altogether. Bianca had the wherewithal to do what she wanted, she had money and power at her disposal, while Athina had neither. But it was not the first time she had had her back to the wall. She suddenly remembered one of Cornelius’s doctrines. ‘If you can‘t beat them, join them,’ he used to say, ‘and then beat them after that.’
It suddenly seemed the answer now. Maybe a charm offensive should replace the overt hostility; she could manage that, indeed she was very good at it.
Abandoning any idea of sleep, Athina made herself a pot of strong coffee and settled down to some very intensive thought.
Chapter 30
‘Excuse me. Would you forgive me if I just checked my emails?’
‘Of course. I can then read the newspaper without appearing rude. It is an excellent paper, Le Figaro. I enjoy it so much.’
‘Your French is awfully good,’ said Bianca, seeing her chance for a little prying,
‘Thank you,’ said Florence, ‘I just – improved, over the years. I love Paris and I came here whenever I could. Just a week or so here or there, you know.’
Which didn’t explain how she had been able to afford to do so, Bianca thought.
‘Lucky you,’ she said.
‘Yes indeed. Lucky me.’ She disappeared into the newspaper. She was looking even more chic this morning, Bianca noticed, in a simple navy jacket and skirt, in her preferred mid-calf length, with a white silk T-shirt, her slender feet clad in the ubiquitous pumps. Bianca, who had chosen jeans, a thin leather biker jacket and some red Prada trainers, felt suddenly a bit crass. She was wondering whether she might go and change, when her attention was hauled into a group email. From Athina Farrell. It was headed ‘Confidential’ and sent to what seemed like most of the company. Bianca felt sure that if she could have reasonably included the receptionist and the catering team, she would have done so.
I would like to propose a name for the new Farrell range it said. Very good, Lady Farrell, let everyone who might catch sight of this know what we’re doing, so confidential that it even has a code name. (TC 2, as in The Cream 2 – she had been rather pleased with that.)
It is The Collection.
It seems to me to encapsulate all our ambitions for the range: it has fashion connotations, it echoes the product names, particularly The Cream, of course; it defines and describes it perfectly. I would be most grateful for comments, naturally, but I think it will be very hard to improve upon.
Old witch. Bianca looked at her watch; it was only seven in England. How had she done that? She would have no truck with emails, ever, sending out old-fashioned typed memos which had to be delivered by hand by Christine, painstakingly, office by office. Of course she could see why it was by email. It had had to be done this way, so that no one could possibly fail to know that the name had come from ‘The Office of Lady Farrell’ as all her stationery read.
Bianca felt outclassed and outflanked; she kept hearing Saul’s voice saying ‘Don’t look down’, but the precipice she was clinging to looked suddenly a lot steeper.
But it was a good name. Such a good name. She turned to Florence who was pulling apart her croissant, eating it plain, small piece by small piece.
‘So sorry to interrupt your reading,’ she said, ‘but could I just ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘I – I just had an email from Lady Farrell. About the new range.’
‘Oh really? I wonder if she’s sent it to me.’
She pulled out the iPhone that had astonished Bianca on the train the day before. ‘Well, one must keep up,’ she had said then. ‘Nothing more ageing than not being able to communicate properly.’ She tapped at it, studied it intently.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘it is a very good name. What do you think, Bianca?’
‘I think it’s excellent,’ said Bianca and never had a remark cost her more. ‘Really excellent. But I’m a bit surprised. Mostly because it’s sent by email. I always thought Lady Farrell had no truck with emails.’
‘Lady Farrell has truck with whatever suits her,’ said Florence, smiling very sweetly at Bianca. ‘And this must be annoying for you, because she should have told you about it first. That would have been more . . . professional.’
‘It would,’ said Bianca carefully, ‘but I’m just delighted she’s cracked it. Which I do think she has.’
‘Christine will have done the email for her,’ said Florence. ‘Athina often gets her out of bed at seven, or even earlier, to do things. Or used to. Dictating endless memos over the phone. Poor old Christine, she works her very har
d.’
‘It would seem so. Goodness, a reply from Susie’s just come in. And Lara. And . . . everyone likes it. And Mark Rawlins. Oh, and Jonathan Tucker.’
All these people, fawning around Lady Farrell, she thought, somewhat unfairly, and busy showing off how early they were attending to their emails. Jonathan Tucker, the new sales director, had only started that week.
‘Good. Well, more coffee? Or shall we go?’
‘I think we should go,’ said Florence, ‘we have a lot of ground to cover. Literally. How was your dinner?’ she added. ‘I’m sorry, I should have asked.’
‘It was all wonderful. The place, the food, thank you!’
‘And the company?’
‘Even that was better than I hoped.’
‘I’m so pleased.’
‘Now, I’ve hired a car for the day,’ Bianca said, ‘but I think, this being the area we agree is the most likely to offer what we want, we should walk the streets here first. If you don’t mind, that is.’
‘Of course not! There’s only one way to see Paris and that is on foot. Anything else is sort of second-hand, out of focus.’
‘Good. And then we can head over to the Marais after that. Pity it’s so misty.’
‘Mist suits Paris,’ said Florence.
‘Oh Grandy, hello. How are you?’
‘I’m very well, darling. We’re going to be working together this Saturday. At Rolfe’s. I need to do a bit of research into our customers.’
‘But Grandy, we don’t have a proper counter there any more. Just a stand.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But this Saturday – and possibly the next – is an exception. I fixed it personally with the manager. He was delighted with the idea. We’ll have fun. Anyway, darling, I’ll be there well before nine and so must you. And I have a small favour to ask: I want to be introduced to the girls on the Brandon’s counter.’
‘Oh Grandy, I don’t think you’d like them very much.’
‘Nonsense. Why on earth not? Now no more objections, Lucy, please. I need your help.’
Bianca and Florence set off down the tiny, pretty streets of St Germain. ‘It’s lovely,’ said Bianca, ‘it really is. Perfect.’
They kept finding them, over and over again: tiny jewels of places, exactly right for their purpose, and then felt it had been too easy, agreed they must go on and on peering down alleyways, walking down narrow streets, glancing into windows. It was a paradise for their quest, the small, colourful galleries, the tiny bookshops, the minute antique sale rooms.
‘This is perfect!’ Bianca would cry and then, ‘No, this is better!’ Florence would call a moment later.
Miraculously there were even two for rent, one selling rather modern jewellery, another books and prints. The prices were high, but not impossibly so.
‘I thought we’d find it here,’ Florence said happily, as they made their way back to the car, parked at the bottom of the rue de Seine. ‘Just felt it in my bones.’
Bianca heard Saul’s voice suddenly, echoing from the night before, as they walked back to the hotel: ‘Don’t look down.’
If she could find the perfect shop, she thought now, make that work, it would make up for Athina christening the range. ‘Now, you think the Marais next?’ she asked Florence.
‘Yes, indeed. Slightly less charming, but it’s becoming very fashionable, and it’s undoubtedly cheaper.’
The Marais – or the part of it that they were interested in – was charming, all cobbled streets, arcades, endless cafés and fashion boutiques, similar to St Germain, but more commercial-looking and touristy.
‘It is lovely,’ said Bianca, ‘but I still think St Germain has it.’
‘Me too. Oh, look,’ said Florence, pointing up at a charming house, ‘that is where the Marquise de Sévigné lived.’
‘And she was?’
‘Renowned for her letter writing. She was married to Henri de Sévigné, who was mortally wounded in a duel over his mistress. He died two days later and she moved back to Paris. Her daughter, to whom she was devoted, was married to the governor of Provence, and moved to live there. Mme de Sévigné wrote to her every day. And her descriptions of Parisian life in the letters were copied and circulated. She was, if you like, the blogger of her day.’
‘How wonderful,’ said Bianca.
‘Indeed. The letters were published later, over a thousand of them, by her granddaughter.’
‘Goodness. I must read them. How do you think I could get hold of a copy?’
‘I have one,’ said Florence. ‘I will lend it to you.’
Hi Milly! What are you going to wear to Carey’s Halloween party? Or aren’t you going?
Milly sat staring at her phone. And the text. From Sarajane. Surely, surely she wouldn’t be joining in? She was her friend. Had been her best friend. Only – well, she supposed she had dropped her, rather. Which hadn’t been very nice of her. But that was what being Carey’s friend entailed. She had to come first.
Talk – or rather whispers – about the Halloween party had been going on for a few days now. Elaborate invitations had been delivered by hand, on to people’s desks. Not everybody’s desks. Just the chosen, as with the royal wedding. But more, far more. Only three people weren’t invited.
Rose, who was, well, pretty overweight. Lottie, who had terrible spots. And Milly.
Planned for the day before Halloween, Sunday, it was starting with a special ghost tour at Ham House, followed by a drive in two stretch limos to a ‘spooky supper’ and ghost hunt at the Mapletons’ house in the Boltons and there would be a prize for the best costume.
Flic Barton, who had been heard to remark just a bit too loudly, ‘Guess who’ll win that? Not the party girl, surely?’ was promptly told her invitation had been a mistake.
Well, at least she’d had an invitation, Milly thought, looking at the text through blurred eyes. There was no question of Carey sending one to her, even to cancel it.
She would never have believed how much her life could have changed in the space of three months. At the beginning of the holidays she had been popular, happy, successful, endlessly enjoying parties and sleepovers, a year of being form prefect behind her, a lovely summer ahead. Her report had been glowing, and she had won the music prize. The only worry had been the holiday with Carey and her Facebook page was full of selfies of her having fun; her phone was full of pictures of herself, giggling, her arm round one or other of the same friends. The huggy-kissy farewells to everybody as they broke up took for ever.
Now she hardly dared look at Facebook, or her phone; the ripple announcing a text was terrifying. She hadn’t been to a sleepover or a party for weeks, and she had been reduced to going out on her own at weekends, telling her mother, if they were in London, she was meeting friends and then wandering about on her own for hours, killing time. The thing she most dreaded was meeting Carey and her friends somewhere; once she saw them all looking at her and giggling from the other side of a jewellery stall in Covent Garden, and fled to the public lavatory where she sat in a cubicle for ages in case they hadn’t left, or worse, came to find her.
Recently Carey had taken to texting her late at night, so even if she was asleep it woke her up. The texts were apparently innocent, in case they fell into grown-up hands; saying things like So sorry you can’t come on Saturday or What a pity you won’t be at Annabel’s on Sunday.
The most awful thing was the way everyone had joined in. That hurt most of all, the joining together in the sly texts, the whispers, the passed notes when they were sure she was looking.
How had Carey done that? Sometimes Milly thought she must have magic powers, something close to witchcraft. She was so horrible, and obviously always had been, but Sarajane and Annabel were nice, kind and generous. Now they were just all Carey clones.
What frightened her most, of course, was the photograph; the one of her topless on the boat, that Carey had on her phone. Quite early on in the term she said she was thinking of putting it on her Faceboo
k page.
‘Carey, you can’t!’ Milly had said, terror making her stomach turn over. ‘You can’t, everyone will see.’
‘What? See your teeny-weeny, flat little tits? Wouldn’t have thought you’d mind – they’re like a ten year old’s.’
‘Well, I would mind,’ said Milly, tears starting in her eyes, ‘and it’s so unfair of you. I didn’t want you to take that picture!’
‘And I think it was quite unfair of you, sneaking off with Ad like that. When he just so didn’t want to.’
‘I didn’t sneak off with him! He – he made me. You know he did. He called me into his cabin and I—’
‘No, I don’t know. And he said you were all over him, he was quite embarrassed.’
‘He’s a liar!’ said Milly. ‘I tried to get out, I—’
‘Mills, it’s you that’s the liar. And you tried to spoil things between me and Ad, on my parents’ boat, on my holiday. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it. And if you’re not very careful, if you go running to those over-controlling parents of yours, this picture goes on Facebook, OK? And YouTube.’
‘Carey! You couldn’t!’
‘Just watch me.’
And so it had begun, Milly’s torment. And there was no way, no way at all, she could get out of it . . .
‘She’s cool, your gran. Really cool.’ Jade Harper looked across the Rolfe Beauty Hall at the temporarily reinstated Farrell counter, where Athina was rather imperiously informing a woman that if she didn’t start using The Cream shortly, she would regret it for the rest of her life.
‘I know,’ said Lucy.
‘I mean, founding the whole range and still working on it, sixty years later. She said she was still involved in product development. I mean, well cool. And selling products to the royal family, in that shop. I must go and see it next time I’m in town. She says she works there sometimes as well.’
As far as Lucy knew her grandmother hadn’t stood behind the counter at the Berkeley Arcade shop for decades, but it would clearly be unwise to tell Jade that.
A Perfect Heritage Page 32
