She is amazing, thought Lucy, while realising her grandmother was doing something quite wrong, stealing Bianca’s moment, telling a story that might or might not be true; and she felt a stab of pride, despite this realisation, that the spirit of the family was by implication being handed to her.
‘She’s so cool,’ whispered Fenella, their model for the day. ‘What a lovely, lovely story. Want me to help pass the samples round?’
‘Please.’
Bianca had sat down again; it seemed the only thing to do. She was clearly not going to be invited on to the platform to share Athina Farrell’s glory.
‘Now, most wonderfully,’ Athina was talking again through the hum of appreciative noises as people sniffed at the tiny phials, ‘I have the formula for this fragrance, so we can create it in large quantities, although it will not be easy. It is handwritten in the old apothecaries’ measures, which are more or less indecipherable, written as they are by hand. But more wonderfully still, I have managed to find Monsieur Chagard’s son, also a perfumier, working in Paris, and he can convert it for us. It won’t be an easy task, for of course synthetics have replaced many of the animal products used then and the original ones will be, of course, very much more expensive. Some adjustments will need to be made. But I am sure we can re-create the original to a very great extent – and then think of the story we will have to tell. A fragrance that has, like the Sleeping Beauty, slept for many, many years and is only now being awoken, as lovely as ever for women – and men, of course – to enjoy.
‘Thank you so much for listening to me,’ she said. ‘I so enjoyed telling you my little story. And I shall enjoy seeing our Passion brought to life for the second time.’
She gave a modest bow and the applause broke. Everyone was smiling, clapping furiously, several people on their feet. It was an extraordinary moment, and in spite of her rage and sense of betrayal, Bianca was impressed, half swept along with it herself. And not a note had Athina needed, not the scrappiest piece of paper.
She looked at her, as she stood there on the platform, revelling in this, her triumph, her moment of infinite revenge, the bad fairy, the wicked godmother, the ice queen. But only to her, Bianca thought, only to the very few who knew. To everyone else she was the star of the day, spinning a tale of beauty and wonder for them that they could now turn, each and every one of them, to huge and unarguable success. For who could resist that story, Lara thought, and Susie too, and actually Jonathan Tucker as well; who could not wish to read about it and then to wear it. It was tough, almost unbearably so, on Bianca, and Athina had known exactly what she was doing, but actually . . .
So it was now open warfare; but her own tactics must be most carefully judged.
Chapter 37
More lies, more and more, how could she tell them so blandly, so successfully? She should have told the truth. And had it been rage confronting her, had it been the violence, she could and she would have done. But it wasn’t. It was bewilderment, hurt, tears even.
So how could she have said, ‘I’m sorry, Henk, but this time it’s really over, there’s someone else.’
It would have been a cruelty she wasn’t capable of. She must bide her time, pick her moment. That was the right way, the only way. Given what had happened, given that he had to know.
Not all of it, of course. Not that she had driven back to London, her heart feeling as if it was almost singing, as fast as she could that lovely sunny frosty morning, looking incredulously, whenever the road was straight enough to risk it, at her phone on the seat beside her, at his text that said I really want to cu, come whenever u cn and then rolling round in her head, his voice, listening over and over again to it: ‘I’ve really missed you, Susie. I’ve got the day off, any way you could possibly come to my place?’
And most wonderfully, she could. It was Friday, the conference over, proclaimed a triumph, and a group email had come from Bianca saying thank you and well done and take a day off, you’ve earned it. And if that wasn’t fate, wasn’t meant, wasn’t written in the stars, all those corny things – what was?
She’d got lost, of course, driving into Canary Wharf. The satellite connection died in the underpasses and she drove round and round, tearful with frustration, and finally saw a car park, not the right one, but at least she could use it, and came out and hired a cab which dropped her at one of the great towers and she walked in and into the lift and pressed the button for the twentieth floor, and when she got out, he was standing waiting for her, his eyes soft with pleasure, and he reached out and took her hand and kissed her quite formally on the cheek and said, ‘It’s lovely to see you, come on in.’
It was, quite simply, amazing up there; she stood in his living room, his huge, white, light, vast-windowed living room, with its white sofas and its bleached wood floor, looking out and around at the glittering, shimmering expanse of sky and glass and water that lay before and below her and then turned to him, and smiled, and he smiled back and that was it really.
The sex was staggering. A sweet, safe, dizzy discovery of one another, a swift, slow journey into pleasure so intense, so right, so sure, so gentle. There was no inhibition, no uncertainty, no concern, no thought of anything but pleasure and the pursuit of it and it was as if they had anticipated this all their lives, as if every other experience they had ever known had brought them to it.
He came with a great groan, she with a high, bright cry of joy, and ‘My God,’ he said, ‘Oh my God!’ and pulled her to him, his mouth in her tangled hair. And after a while she eased away from him, just a little, settled with a sigh of absolute contentment against him, her body eased, her head and her heart in a perfect, disorderly happiness.
It was still early, long before lunchtime, and the day assumed an endless quality: excellent coffee was drunk and they sat on one of his sofas and held hands and looked at one another, smiling slightly foolishly, and after a while, felt bound to return to the bed and the pleasure; a while after that they ate lunch, one that he had produced from an absurdly vast fridge, crusty bread and an Époisses cheese that threatened to crawl across the table away from them, and sparkling water and a bottle of perfectly chilled white wine, and most amazing of all, tomatoes that actually tasted of tomatoes. They listened to some music and she found, idly looking through his CDs that she owned many of the same, and the same with his DVDs, film after film they had both loved. Another return to the bed and then he suggested a little fresh air perhaps, as the blue and beautiful winter dusk began to drift in, and she said that would be nice, but could she have a shower first, and they stood in his twin-showered wet room together, the hot water beating down, laughing and beginning to sing foolish songs like ‘Singing in the Rain’, and then somehow it was actually dark and too late and clearly too cold to go out.
They settled down then, to a movie, The Artist, for which they both declared a passion, and which he had a copy of because a friend was on the BAFTA panel. There was a little more of the wine and holding hands, twisting, caressing, stroking hands, sexual desire and contentment intertwined, laughing at the absolute happiness of the day.
‘Like a present it’s been, a gift-wrapped present,’ she said smiling at him delightedly, and he kissed her and said how very poetic she was and he supposed she needed to be, doing her job, and she said there wasn’t much poetry involved in PR.
And then finally it was evening, proper evening, and he said, ‘Dinner?’ and she said that would be lovely, and he stood up and said, ‘I’ll go and put some clothes on.’ And she said, ‘Me too,’ thinking happily she could wear the black, slinky, slithery dress she had worn the first night at the conference, and went into what he had described to her as the guest room, and while she was there she got her phone out of her bag, for the first time in what seemed like many days, and was pulled with a lurch of shock back into real life. And she sat staring at five missed calls and six texts, all from Henk, who was waiting, she remembered now, in the wine bar, where they had agreed he would be when she got home fro
m work that evening, before taking her out to dinner.
Panicked, she looked at her watch: already seven and they were to have met at six. Sorry sorry sorry! she texted. Got held up, can’t make it, huge meetings, going on forever, and tried to believe that would work, would set her apart from it, from him, from reality. But it didn’t, it couldn’t; the day was spoiled, damaged, and whatever she did, however hard she tried, she could never regain it, return it to its pristine perfection.
Bianca walked very slowly up the steps of the house. It was early afternoon; she had actually gone in to the office that morning, to take stock not only of what had happened but her reaction to it, because she still felt physically shocked, as if someone had punched her hard, over and over again, completely unexpectedly.
Lunch, after that morning session, had been a nightmare. She sat at her table, chatting animatedly to anyone who approached her, watching Athina at hers, the star of the day, smiling, laughing, receiving kisses, compliments. Occasionally her eyes would meet Bianca’s across the room and she would smile graciously, incline her head just a little: ‘I’m winning now,’ that look said. ‘Don’t even think about trying to regain what you’ve lost.’ And then someone else would come up to her and she would turn to them, take their hand and say something and Bianca would be left feeling more alone than she could ever have imagined.
At one point Florence came up to her, her dark eyes concerned. She smiled and said simply, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and patted Bianca’s hand and there was no need for any more, and Bianca felt at once comforted and astonished that Florence, sweet, kind, gentle Florence could have withstood over fifty years of such treatment and survived. She was truly the most remarkable woman.
The afternoon session was actually rather good; the conference was fired up, loved the idea of The Shop and its heritage, its counterparts in other cities. It did, of course, blend perfectly with the perfume story.
Bianca spoke well, she knew, adrenalin driving her on, reclaiming some of the territory she had lost; talking about the shops, painting a picture for them of these precious ambassadresses for the brand, in London and Paris, telling their story, their heritage, their Englishness, at a time when the eyes of every country in the world would be fixed on London, admiring and envying them; it was a perfect pitch. Athina spoke again, of course, of the glory days of Farrell’s, of its birth in coronation year, of royalty visiting the arcade – funny how suddenly she was happy to speak about that, Bianca thought, when she had been so emphatically opposed to it before – but not for long, as if she was aware that she must not overdraw on her success. She was truly the most masterly tactician.
There was only one question, posed by one of the new salesmen, that clearly threw Bianca – how many more of the little shops would there be, would two really be enough to tell their story?
‘Let me put it this way,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘One in the centre of London is invaluable to us. We already know that. As will be the one in Paris. Especially from a PR point of view. And in time, of course I envisage many more of them. The journey of a thousand miles and all that sort of thing.’
But it wasn’t quite enough – and she knew it.
‘Great conference,’ said Hugh, raising his glass to her as they sat in the bar after dinner and the dancing began. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job. Bringing Old Mother Farrell on was brilliant – made all your stuff about heritage and so on sound a million times more interesting. Everyone seems really fired up. Seriously, Bianca, it’s been terrific. Well done. Oh, now look, that young designer of yours is having a good time!’
Tamsin was up on the stage with the DJ. She’d wrested the microphone from him and was dancing with it, only it wasn’t embarrassing, it was very funny. It was obviously an act she’d rehearsed many times.
‘Always a good sign when the hair gets let down,’ said Mike who had joined them. ‘I’m just debating whether I should ask Lady Farrell for a dance. She’ll need a slow number I suppose.’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ said Bianca. ‘Apparently, she does a mean rock and roll. Lucy, her granddaughter, told me.’
‘How terrifying. Think I’ll steer well clear.’
‘I would,’ said Bianca.
‘But she was superb, Bianca. Clever of you to give her such a star role.’
‘Well – if you can’t beat them, join them,’ said Bianca modestly.
This was clearly the line she was going to have to take. Somehow, in the most extraordinary way, Athina’s hijacking the conference had made it a great success. Or at least a greater one. Except for those few who knew it shouldn’t have happened. And even they seemed quite happy about it.
‘I know she’s a wicked old witch,’ Susie had whispered, squeezing her arm after lunch, ‘but it was magic, that story of hers. And I know the rest of the presentation will go really well. Don’t worry, Bianca. Just go for it.’
‘She’s an evil old hag,’ Lara had said, ‘but a very clever one. And at least we have a perfume – for now, anyway. A very beautiful one. Let’s make the most of it. And if we can get it manufactured – well, it’s a terrific story. Wonder why she didn’t mention it before?’
‘Oh, I can’t imagine,’ said Bianca.
Jonathan Tucker was beside himself with excitement, and so was Felix Bradbury, the new sales manager. As for the advertising boys: ‘Sensational,’ Jack Flynn had said, embracing her. ‘Marvellous story! And it’s going to fit in with our campaign perfectly.’
Bianca wondered briefly what they’d all be saying if it had been her and Ralph Goodwin on the platform. She decided it would be rather less effusive.
The thought had made her more miserable still . . .
She had given everyone the day off, largely for her own sake. She needed time to recoup her energy. Nothing had been as hard as this, ever. She had had, in her other companies, to gamble, to bluff, and at times to lie; she had spent weeks on end in a state of ongoing exhaustion and dread. She had been hated, feared, reviled even, but she had gone calmly, icily on, knowing exactly what she was doing and how it must be done. She had never felt as she did now – out of control.
She looked at her watch: only three. Too early for the children, so she would maybe call Patrick. He was in New York and it was morning there, the ideal time. He had sent her a couple of texts while the conference was on, wishing her well and telling her how much he was enjoying the project. She sat staring at those texts, resentful that he wasn’t at home, angry that he wasn’t safely there for her, the supportive, loving force in her life that he had always been. Now his entire energy-force, his every concern, seemed to be directed at bloody Saul Finlayson. Who had called her that morning to wish her well.
She was putting her large leather Gladstone bag, duly emptied, into the suitcase cupboard when she heard the front door, and ran down the stairs, calling, ‘Hi!’ It was Milly, standing alone in the hall, dropping her bag, pulling out her phone, pushing back her waterfall of dark hair all in one seamless movement.
‘Oh, hello.’
Her voice was flat, dull and she looked at her mother as if she hardly knew who she was, and cared less.
‘Good week? Sorry not to have called more.’
A shrug.
‘But – I’m back now, out of school like you. Want to do something, go shopping, maybe do a movie?’
‘No thanks. I’m going out.’
‘With?’
‘Friends.’
‘Anyone I know?’
Another shrug. ‘Don’t think so. Scuse me. I need to change.’ As she picked up her schoolbag, it flipped over and a stash of books and magazines fell out on to the floor; she looked at the mess as if it had nothing to do with her, turned away from it, and moved towards the stairs
‘Milly, darling, pick those up, would you?’
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it when I get back.’
‘Milly!’
‘Yeah, what?’ The dark eyes met her mother’s, absolutely hostile.
Bianca shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘OK.’
And she continued on her journey up the stairs and slammed the door of her room.
The door opened again: Fergie.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, thanks. Ollie asked me back to his house and to stay, that OK?’
‘Yes, of course. Where’s Sonia?’
‘Parking. Just got to get my stuff.’
‘Right. Well, don’t let me keep you.’ She smiled, a bright, affectionate smile.
‘OK.’
And he too was gone.
She went into the kitchen, made herself a cup of tea. Sonia came in.
‘Hello, Bianca. You’re early.’ She didn’t like Bianca entering her time: her time and her territory. ‘How did it go?’
‘The conference? Very well, thank you. Er – Karen? And Ruby? They about?’
‘Ruby’s got a playdate, won’t be home till bedtime and Karen’s gone to see her sister’s new baby.’
‘I see. Well – well fine.’
A new baby! These absent people who didn’t seem interested in her or to need her had been new babies once; defenceless, needy, trailing their own overpowering love.
Milly left; Fergie left; Sonia left.
Bianca picked up her phone and texted Patrick: after five or ten minutes, he texted back: Sorry on a conference call, will ring later. Hope you’re OK.
‘No, Patrick!’ she shouted at the phone. ‘I’m not OK. I’m really really not.’ For the second time that week Bianca started to cry: helpless, hopeless tears. And realised she had never been properly unhappy before.
Lara felt disappointed. She knew it was absurd, but she had set great store by that conference. And it had been wonderful professionally, and she was excited, inspired by its success. But she had hoped, while trying not to admit it even to herself, that with the strange potency of the whole conference thing, she and Bertie might move forward, and acknowledge that there was something between them and – well, who knew after that? Conferences were safe houses, freeing confidences, holding secrets. In the heady, highly charged atmosphere they ran on, you were released, however briefly, into a new and more reckless persona; you looked your best, you talked your best, you enjoyed your best. Other things helped, of course, ongoing proximity, alcohol, adrenalin, sex. Sex was just everywhere. She had seen funny old Hattie being chatted up by one of the salesmen, his eyes tipping into her straining cleavage, Jemima, saintly Jemima, dancing very closely indeed with Jonathan Tucker, Susie falling tipsily into the lap of Mark Rawlins and staying there, her lovely tousled head resting on his shoulder, and Tamsin, wonderful Tamsin, doing her dance with the microphone. None of it mattered, none of it meant anything – unless you wanted it to.
A Perfect Heritage Page 42
