‘Oh God,’ she said aloud, as she helped her mother clear the lunch table.
‘What was that, dear?’
‘Oh, sorry. Nothing. I just – just remembered I hadn’t called someone. I’ll do it later.’
‘All right dear. Now, are you coming in for drinks with the Raymonds this evening? I know they’d love to see you.’
And because she was feeling so bad about herself and the way she was behaving, Susie said yes, of course, because she knew it would please her parents and some sort of penance might help a bit. She heard her phone go from the sideboard where she had left it; she looked at it.
Happy Christmas! it said. How’s yours? Wish u were here. Jonjo. And then a kiss. God. She could feel that kiss, just looking at it on the screen. He was an amazing kisser. He had given her another spectacular sample on the night of The Ivy, as she thought of it. They’d sat there for hours, getting drunker and drunker and then he’d suggested they had dinner: ‘To make up for the one we didn’t have.’ So they did, and then he suddenly looked at his watch and said, ‘Jesus, it’s one o’clock! Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take you home. I’ve got to be in the office by five, don’t ask why.’
‘Jonjo,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to take me home, I’ll just get a cab.’
‘Sure? I’ll call you one. I feel really bad, but—’
‘No, no it’s fine,’ she said. And she meant it, although she couldn’t help feeling just very slightly disappointed, but then when the cab came and she climbed into it after kissing him briefly on the lips, he said, ‘Oh shit’ and climbed into it beside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, drawing her to him, his lips already in her hair, ‘but I can’t deny myself half an hour in a taxi with you.’
And the half hour was an amazing rollercoaster of kissing and stroking and longing and wanting and just sheer sexual excitement, so violent that when they finally reached her street she could hardly move for it.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Susie, you are amazing. Extraordinary. I cannot tell you how much I want to – well, you probably worked that out for yourself. But I just have to go home.’
Which was just as well, she thought, as she gave him a last, comparatively brief kiss, as there were, without doubt, traces of Henk in the flat, like his dressing gown hanging beside hers on the bathroom door. It had annoyed her, that, and he promised every time to take it away again, but he hadn’t yet.
‘Next time, you must come to mine,’ Jonjo said. ‘I’m a terrible cook, but I have several very good takeaway arrangements. I’ll call you. Goodnight. Thank you for a really lovely evening.’
And he banged on the window of the cab and it carried him away.
Only time ran out and it was Christmas and they both had to leave London, so it was down to a quick drink, and a brief snog, and he said, ‘I’ll see you soon. I’m kind of booked up for New Year and I’m sure you are too.’ And she said, yes, she was, of course. Which she wasn’t, except for Henk booking her without saying what for, and she could have cancelled that without a qualm – but maybe she could use the occasion to finish things with him . . .
‘Coffee, darling? said her mother.
‘Dad! I just heard your phone. You’ve got a text. Oh, wow you’re so cool.’ Lucy leaned over in the middle of cracker-pulling and gave her father a kiss.
‘A text?’ said Priscilla. ‘Who on earth would be sending you one of those things, in the middle of Christmas lunch?’
‘No idea,’ said Bertie, thankful that his phone was in his trouser pocket, rather than left on the hall table. ‘I expect it’s a charity or something. Or from Orange. They’re always telling me I can look at my bill online or some such nonsense.’
‘Well, aren’t you going to look?’
‘No, of course not. Why should I?’
‘Well, most normal people would – it’s such an odd time to do it.’
‘Mum,’ said Rob, ‘leave him alone.’
Rob had arrived home late on Christmas Eve, after a heavy evening drinking with his mates, too late to go to Midnight Mass which was one of Priscilla’s absolute traditions. Such was the degree of favouritism he enjoyed, he had already been forgiven and his interjection now saved Bertie. Priscilla sighed heavily, but then returned to dishing up the Christmas vegetable platter that was the spécialité of her maison: parsnips and sprouts were joined by carrots, tenderstem broccoli, baby courgettes and squash. In another bowl was red cabbage and in yet another, potatoes mashed with grain mustard. Then there were the pigs in blankets, the roasted potatoes, the— Bertie, who already had indigestion, asked to be excused, went into the loo, and looked at the text. It was from Lara.
Happy Christmas Bertie. Hope you’re having fun. Love Lara and then a whole row of kisses. And although he knew she was probably drunk, and that everyone put ‘love’ on their texts, the row of kisses did seem a little bit special and he sat smiling at it, filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the Christmas spirit and everything to do with something happy and filled with promise and far removed from Priscilla’s indignant, red-faced Christmas exhaustion. Although promise of what he could not imagine.
Much against his will, he deleted the text, for Priscilla was bound to return to the subject, and went back to the table, to be reprimanded for not serving the cranberry sauce, which he had made and which was his particular job. But the warmth, and indeed the happiness, stayed with him for the rest of the day.
Christmas Day had been all right, Bianca thought. Better than she’d feared. She wondered if the heady, magical quality it had once had was gone for ever, and tried to be grown up about it.
Milly had managed to stay cool and sulky until she opened her main present, an iPad, whereupon she got very excited. Bianca was slightly shaken by the modest presents Milly gave her and Patrick, a DVD of Downton Abbey for her, and one of The Killing for Patrick; Milly usually put an enormous amount of thought into her gifts and these were a bit of a non-event. But she gave lovely things to the others, a new riding whip for Ruby, and two new computer games for Fergie.
Saul only called twice on Christmas Day, one of them to fix a meeting place for Kempton, and Patrick and she called a truce and actually had some very good sex late on Christmas night when the children had gone to bed, which was a long-time tradition of theirs. It was the first time for weeks and she thought of mentioning the fact, but decided not to, mostly because afterwards, when she had finished crying, Patrick told her how very much he loved her and gave her another present – also part of the tradition – a very beautiful silk scarf from Alexander McQueen in the most wonderful muted colours which would go with almost everything in her wardrobe.
Even Boxing Day was all right. Saul, Patrick, Fergie and Dickon arrived home soon after five, and Saul, clearly working very hard at being communicative, talked quite a lot over an early supper and revealed, in a rare piece of soul-baring, that he was completely gutted that his horse hadn’t done better at Kempton that day.
‘She’s done so well recently, three firsts in a row. George, my trainer, decided a couple of months ago she’d do better held at the back of the field for longer, very successful until today and the going was perfect for her, but anyway . . . and I had such hopes for her at Cheltenham.’
Bianca thought it was the longest speech she had ever heard him make.
He brought a couple of bottles of superb claret for Patrick and some vintage Bollinger for her and Dickon was sweet, trailing round after Fergie who was not altogether displeased with the adoration, and they all played charades with the children in the evening. Saul was worse at charades than anyone Bianca had ever known, stiff, unimaginative, embarrassed, but then confounded them all in his third go when he suddenly took off and staggered in, falling over his own feet, the trilby hat he had worn to the races dangling rakishly over one eye, drinking straight from a bottle of whisky, and said he was the Christmas spirit.
As they left, he kissed her on the cheek, and said it
had been the best Christmas he could ever remember, which she thought was a sad reflection on all others, and said he hadn’t forgotten her shop problem and how was it going?
She said very well, and he asked if she’d persuaded the VCs to give her some more money for the shops; she said no, she hadn’t, and he said more fool them.
Patrick asked her, when Saul had gone, why he was so well-informed about the Farrell relaunch and she said, slightly irritably, that she had discussed it with him over dinner in Paris. ‘We had to talk about something, and he was very perceptive.’
Whereupon Patrick said Saul was one of the most perceptive men he had ever met, and then thanked her for giving him and Dickon such a nice evening, and he was extremely grateful to her. And they went and sat on the sofa and held hands and watched the Downton Abbey DVD. Fergie and Milly came in and saw them and Fergie said, ‘Look at them, they’re holding hands, yuk or what?’ and Milly told them to budge up and sat down with them to watch as well, snuggled up to her father, her hand reaching across him for her mother’s. Which was the best moment for Bianca of the whole two days.
Perhaps, she thought, perhaps everything was going to be all right.
Athina had spent Christmas with Caro and Martin at their house.
They exchanged stocking gifts in the morning, then went to church and for a walk and returned for a very nice meal which Martin had cooked – pheasant and then syllabub – and then exchanged proper gifts. Caro presented her mother with a piece of sheet music of ‘Let’s Fall in Love’, actually signed by Cole Porter, and Martin did rather well, giving her a framed cover of Vogue dated June 1953, which of course was not only the year of the coronation, but the year Farrell’s was launched and it contained a glowing review of the new brand. Athina found herself near to tears by the thoughtfulness of these gifts and Caro, noticing, put her arm round her mother’s shoulders – an unheard of event – and said how very brave and wonderful she thought Athina had been over the takeover and that the brand would still be nothing without her mother’s style and instinct. Martin then nodded off over his port and Caro and Athina got out some of the old press cuttings and spent a very happy two hours reminiscing and saying that really Bianca Bailey didn’t have the slightest idea what she was doing.
There was a very charming photograph of Athina and Cornelius tying a huge red Christmas bow on the door of The Shop in the Berkeley Arcade and another of Cornelius dressed as Father Christmas inside with Florence, of all people, perched on his knee, his arm round her, she planting a very perky kiss on his cheek.
‘How sweet!’ Caro said.
‘Yes, well, I often thought she had a bit of a crush on him,’ said Athina. ‘He was always so good to her, of course, so courteous and considerate.’
‘She was very pretty, wasn’t she?’ said Caro thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t you ever worry she might actually make a play for him?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ said Athina. ‘And even if she had, she was so absolutely not his type. He saw Florence for what she was, which was just a little shop girl, when all was said and done. Poor Florence, what a sad, unfulfilled life she has led.’
She should never have allowed herself to think everything was going to be all right. It was fatal.
But she’d checked and re-checked everything, rehearsed herself, rehearsed everyone else, foreseen problems, worked round them and even Athina seemed rather sweetly agreeable. Bianca looked at her watch: forty-eight hours to go to the start of the conference, the meet and greet. Everything seemed in order. Except – well, except she still didn’t have the perfume samples. But Ralph Goodwin had called her to reassure her that they would be with her in the morning. He was bringing them up himself, he said, and wanted to talk her through the fragrance. Bianca had said, slightly testily, that she wanted to smell the fragrance, not be talked through it, and he had said of course, of course, he just wasn’t one hundred per cent happy with it yet, but they were very nearly there. She tried not to worry about it; it would be all right, of course it would.
The hotel, a flashily over-impressive pile (but that was what you wanted for a conference) converted from the original Victorian Gothic mansion, with amazing grounds, was ready for their arrival, the ballroom converted into a conference hall, its doorway (at considerable expense) mocked up as the entrance to the Berkeley Arcade shop. Jemima was there now supervising things together with Jonathan Tucker.
Dinner on the first night would be an informal buffet, attended by everyone from the highest to the lowest and absurdly, Bianca felt – but she had had no option but to agree – including the family’s personal driver, Colin Peterson, who Athina now rather grudgingly paid herself, and his wife.
‘Mrs Bailey, they are to drive me down; how can I possibly turn them away at the door? They can go home in the morning.’ The entire Farrell family was to attend, again at Athina’s insistence: ‘This is still a family firm, and it’s important that all the new people should see that for themselves.’
There were a lot of new people, sharp salespeople, newly hired, sassy young beauty consultants, bright young IT people, and this would be their first impression of the company en masse; they needed to be impressed. In rather different ways according to whether the viewpoint was Bailey or Farrell, but impressed nonetheless.
Caro’s husband Martin, who rather enjoyed a good sales conference, said that would be very nice, but Priscilla said she was far too busy to give up two whole days and would simply arrive for the meet and greet and the buffet supper and leave after breakfast the following day.
Bianca was to open the conference briefly in the morning, then pass on to the various departments, via Bertie. It was felt that he, as a Farrell, would carry an important link with the past.
Susie was, of course, to do a spot. ‘I’ll have to blag it a bit,’ she said, ‘but PR’s always so pie in the sky and people love hearing about the beauty editors and bloggers and we can flash endless covers and pages on to the screens while I’m talking.’
She smiled radiantly at Bianca – who thought what a different creature she was from only a few weeks ago. She glowed with sexy confidence, had gone blonder, bought a lot of new clothes, and would clearly, for the men at least, be one of the conference’s highlights. Bianca wondered vaguely what had wrought this change and presumed there must be a new boyfriend. She wished, rather wearily, that she could resort to so simple a solution but at the moment she felt the opposite of either sexy or confident and didn’t like it.
Tod Marchant and Jack Flynn were coming, of course, and would do a spot, talking about the campaign, with special reference to the perfume launch.
Lara was privately alarmed by Ralph Goodwin’s failure to produce any perfume samples. There should have been several along the way for them to try and there had only been one, and it was way off the mark.
She knew Bianca was worried too, just not admitting it. But even if it wasn’t perfect, she told herself, he’d do a great job. And the bottle, which they were basing on a fifties Arpège one, was being mocked up to something very close to the real thing.
Lara appeared in Bianca’s office now, flushed and slightly breathless.
‘The show cards have just arrived and they look wonderful! Have you got time to look at them?’
The showcards were indeed beautiful: glossy, classy, the model’s lovely face reflected in a mirror with the products set in front of it. The mirror stood on a counter that just hinted at the Berkeley Arcade; it had been tricky to do, but the agency had masterminded the shot and their eye-watering bill was, Bianca felt, entirely justified.
‘Lovely,’ said Bianca, ‘well done, Lara. You’ll unveil them during your bit, I presume, and then I will talk about the perfume. And I thought the model could take it round to them, and that’s the practical stuff done, perfume being the icing on the cake, the magic so to speak, and then lunch. In the afternoon I’ll talk about the heritage stuff, and The Shop of course, then let Athina have her bloody go – she’ll be wonderful, of course �
�� and that’ll get them all wound up. Add lots of music and stuff and they’ll all be on their feet, cheering. Well, awake at least. Then tea, a few fun and games, and into dinner. It all seems pretty straightforward.’ She stopped suddenly and Lara saw the fear in her eyes, put out a hand and touched her arm just briefly.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said, ‘best conference I’ve ever done, that’s for sure.’
‘Oh God, I hope so. Everything’s riding on it, Lara.’
‘Of course. But you’ve done a fantastic job, Bianca—’
‘I hope so. Now all I need is Ralph Goodwin here with his samples and I’ll be a completely happy woman. The perfume is so sooo important.’
Goodwin finally arrived after lunch. He was flushed, nervous, and much of the over-smooth charm had gone.
‘I’m so sorry, Bianca, to have let it get so late in the day. But at least we have it now.’
‘I hope so,’ said Bianca briskly.
‘Bianca, we do. You’ll love it. It’s Billie Holiday in a bottle, smokey nightclub and all.’
He opened his briefcase, took out one of many small phials. ‘Now remember, you have to let it mature a little before making a judgment.’
‘Only a little I hope. If people don’t like it straight away they’re not going to hang around waiting. You said yourself that top notes were crucial.’
‘Of course. But a perfume as rich as this does take a little time.’
‘Just bring it on,’ said Bianca, holding out her wrist. ‘Or rather put it on.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 39
