And she had thought that she would ask Bertie to dance, and he would say first no and then yes, and she would be able to hold him, and be with him, and talk to him and tell him how wonderful she thought he was and how she enjoyed being with him.
And what had happened? None of it. Defeated, demoralised, first by his wife and then his mother, he seemed hardly to be there. He had scarcely looked at her, certainly not spoken to her; he had kept apart from everyone.
Lara had tried, had brought him drinks, cracked jokes, praised his presentation, admired his dinner jacket – and for all the good it had done her she might as well have, in one of her own favourite phrases, farted into the wind. In the end she had lost her temper with him – not visibly, of course – and started flirting outrageously with one of the conference organisers, who was flattered by her attentions. They had drunk a lot of champagne, laughed and joked rather loudly through dinner, and then taken to the dance floor. And if there was one thing Lara could do well, apart from her job, it was dance. And she did the even more difficult thing, of making her partner able to dance well too. She danced every dance that night, with every man in the room.
And the only man who didn’t ask her to dance, who sat miserably trying not to look at her, was Bertram Farrell, the only man she really wanted to dance with.
God, what a dreadful experience it had been; Bertie, reliving the conference through the weekend, found it difficult to set it behind him. He had had such hopes of it, too; and of course, to an outsider, it had been a success. Sitting in the bar of the hotel before dinner he was relieved and amazed to hear all the appreciative comments, about the wonderful new products, the concept of the relaunch, but it had all faded into insignificance compared with the perfume and its story. And the telling of that story.
He had never been so shocked in his life, as when his mother had stood up, completely unannounced, and just taken the whole thing over. Or so sorry for anyone as he had been for Bianca. Who had been just as shocked, but had had the added ignominy of her own starring role being hijacked. It had been the rudest, most aggressive piece of behaviour he had ever witnessed. God, his mother was a nightmare, a brilliant, unscrupulous nightmare.
And he had had to sit by and watch as his boss, the woman he was really very fond of, and who had invested in him at considerable risk, was publicly humiliated by his own mother. It was almost unbearably painful.
The other near-unbearable thing had been Priscilla. She could hardly have humiliated him more. There, where his whole new future, his first tentative successes, were on display, where he was doing something well, for the first time in his life – to diminish him there, that was beyond forgiveness.
And Lara. Lara, who he had been foolish enough to believe liked him, spending the night flirting and dancing with that dreadful organiser fellow. Well, it served him right for being so foolish. She showed him her usual friendly warmth at the beginning of the evening, giving him a kiss in the bar, telling him how good she had thought his presentation had been, but he had been feeling too depressed, too numb to respond and watched morosely as she gave up and started working the room and felt like bursting into tears.
But mostly he felt ashamed and he knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, what he must do. And as he lay awake a second night, his resolve hardened, clarified. He had no place any longer with the House of Farrell or indeed the family; he must find somewhere else to go.
Afterwards, over and over again, she wondered what would have happened if Milly hadn’t dropped that pile of magazines on the floor and then refused to pick them up; and if she hadn’t been so depressed and lonely and frozen into the kind of torpor that makes you sit and read a catalogue about thermal underwear, or an article about ten new ways to get rid of limescale, simply because you cannot be bothered to so much as lift an arm and reach for something else to read. But anyway, as she slumped on to the battered sofa in the corner of the kitchen it had caught her eye, lying on the top of the heap, and she’d reached for it, and its content was, actually, much more interesting than thermal underwear or limescale. Or rather he was: Jay-Z, clever bloke, most successful rap artist of all time, worth countless millions, and married to one of the most beautiful and successful female musical artists in the world. She sat there reading it, drinking tonic water without gin because she couldn’t face getting drunk alone like so many saddo failures – and there it was. The idea. His idea. There for the taking. How he’d published a book he’d written on the rock industry and his own life within it, and on its launch had put every single page separately on billboards and truck sides and buildings every day for a month, so that his devoted fans could find each one, online, with the help of something like Bing, and download them, and . . .
‘Shit,’ said Bianca. ‘Fuck. Oh my God. Oh my God!’
Chapter 38
Tod Marchant was having a well-earned rest and, halfway through a second beer, was more than half inclined to let Bianca’s call go straight to voicemail. But she was a pretty major client, so, ‘Hi,’ he said and then, clocking that her voice sounded quite – odd, put down the beer and sat up a bit straighter and then: ‘Yes, of course I know about Jay-Z.’ And then, ‘Yes I do remember something like that, yes, but what . . .’ And then finally, ‘Holy fuck! Sorry, Bianca, but – Jesus wept, that is quite something of an idea! Can I come round? Like – now? Great. Yeah, I’ll just – Christ. Yes. See you in about forty-five.’
It was something of a miracle that he didn’t crash the car on the way from Fulham to Hampstead. Not because of the beer, but because his brain seemed to have been caught up in some kind of whirlpool, surging and crashing inside his head, and Bianca looked like someone he hardly knew when she opened the door to him: not her usual cool self, she was fiery, agitated, her grey eyes brilliant, her voice quick, the words falling over one another as she explained her idea over and over again, what she thought they could do.
And it was genius, that idea; there was no doubt. One in a million, stunning, gorgeous in its potential and breadth.
They talked for hours, drinking first coffee, then Coke, then finally wine. A girl child arrived home, complete with minder of some kind: she was greeted, hugged, kissed, listened to. He was impressed by Bianca’s ability to do this, while so clearly in entirely another place, another time. He supposed that was what women – or rather mothers – could do; he would have found it impossible.
The child went upstairs, with the minder, or rather the nanny, and was told Bianca would come up when she was in bed and have a cuddle; another, half-adult, half-child came in, unaccompanied, a beautiful hostile creature who managed a half smile at her mother and at him and then disappeared also. Bianca’s phone rang; she looked at it, and then at him, and said, ‘It’s my husband, ought to take it, sorry.’ ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘shall I . . . ?’ And she said, laughing, ‘Of course not, don’t be silly!’ And had a short, rather cool conversation. And every time she came back to him and the idea it was as if it excited her all over again, pushing her hair back, grinning, her eyes shining.
For the first time, seeing her like this, what she was about, what made her who she was, he found her sexy.
‘I tell you what though,’ he said, another hour later, washing down some of the pizza she had cooked for them both with yet more red wine, ‘we can’t do this with two or three piddling little shops, Bianca. This needs to go global. Dubai, Hong Kong, Tokyo, as well as New York and LA. Othewise, we’ll just be pissing in the wind.’
‘I know it,’ she said. ‘I know. And yes, it will. It’ll take me way over budget, but I’ll get some more money somehow . . .’
‘Great,’ he said. And he had no doubt that she would do so.
‘Bianca, no. I’m not even going to say I’m sorry. No. That’s it.’
‘But—’
‘Bianca, you heard what the man said.’ Hugh’s face was less stern than Mike’s but the solidarity was clear. ‘There is no more money. You’re overspent already, the cash flow looks bad – you’v
e a very long way to go before you can claim any extra expenditure is justifiable.’
‘Yes, I know, but – this is. It’s totally, utterly justifiable. It’s going to save Farrell’s, I know it is. Can I just run through it again – so you totally understand.’
‘Bianca, we do understand. And it’s a very clever idea. But it’s not quantifiable. You’re not promising to spend an extra two million and make another three. It’s all airy-fairy stuff. Promises, dreams, nonsense! Unlike you, if you will forgive the observation.’
She sensed she was at the end of the road with them and gave in. She could see that she was exasperating them. She could see she was being not like her. But then – the situation was not like her either.
Susie sat staring at Bianca; she, too, felt slightly dizzy with the excitement, the brilliance of the idea. Despite the considerable personal trouble she was in, she still found herself totally caught up in it, aware that this was the most amazing, most exciting thing her professional life had ever offered her.
‘My God,’ she said, ‘my God, Bianca, that is just – just amazing. However did you think of it?’
‘I’m not sure. It just sort of slithered into my head. You know how ideas do. Now, first thing: obviously, absolute and utter secrecy. This is really, really original. If any of the other houses got hold of it we’d be done for. And as for Lady Farrell, she mustn’t get even the faintest whiff of it.’
‘Of course. I understand.’
‘Tod says we have to work with the bloggers, first off. And only then at the last minute. And perhaps one, maybe two at the most, very key, very big journalists.’
‘He’s right. I need time to think, but it’s brilliant. You’re brilliant. But there is one thing, Bianca.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We can’t do this with just three shops. We have to go global.’
‘I know it,’ said Bianca with a sigh. ‘That’s exactly what Tod said.’
Susie went back to her office; she felt shaky and overanxious. Partly because of the brilliance of Bianca’s idea – it was genius – and how much of its successful execution would rest with her, but also because her mind was at least fifty per cent focused on her own problems. Which were considerable.
She and Jonjo had met again on the Saturday evening and it had been really very lovely, but there was a slight shadow drifting over everything, like the wispy clouds that start drifting across a previously cloudless sky, announcing an approaching storm.
They had gone to the cinema and then out to dinner, and talked until the waiters stopped smiling at them and began looking baleful.
‘I really love being with you,’ he had said, over pudding (Eton Mess), taking her hand and kissing it. ‘It’s just – well, lovely.’
She smiled at him foolishly, wishing she could think of something clever and witty to say and failing.
‘I only wish I’d met you before,’ he said. ‘I can’t wait to tell Patrick and Bianca. They’ll be so pleased.’
‘Really? Why?’
She had been rather daunted by the prospect of her entry into this small charmed triangle, one member of which was her boss.
‘Oh, that we’re having fun together. They’re very generous friends. And Patrick and I go back a long way.’
‘I’m sure. Did you enjoy school, boarding, all that stuff?’
‘Yes, I did. Even prep school. I was really good at games, you see, and that makes such a difference. You don’t get bullied and once my dad got married again, I was just so glad to be away from home.’
‘Was it that bad?’
‘Yup. She’s a horrible person. Worked quite hard at coming between us – my sister and me – and my dad. She was – still is, actually – very good at being what he wanted, a flashy, flirty bit of stuff.’
‘Yes, I see.’
He grinned at her. ‘You couldn’t, quite, not till you’d met her.’ He hesitated then said, ‘Will you come back to my place tonight?’
‘I – well, maybe not tonight.’
‘Oh – OK.’
That had been the first bit of wispy cloud; she could see it had hurt. Funny, how sensitive he was. She’d always thought those City boys must be tough, sexist shits; so wrong.
‘Any particular reason?’ he said now.
‘Well . . .’ What could she say? That she’d promised to spend the next day with Henk and she was going to tell him she didn’t want to see him any more? There was no way she could explain that to Jonjo. Not now, not when she’d already said there wasn’t anyone else.
‘I have a ton of work to do. I really need to start early on it, get it done.’
‘What, on a Sunday? That sounds suspiciously like you’ve got to wash your hair to me.’
‘It truly isn’t. Well, I might wash it, I suppose, when I’ve finished my work.’ Her voice sounded not quite right even to her. ‘It’s all about the conference. Bianca is having a huge debriefing on Monday morning.’
‘Oh, OK.’ He smiled at her, but she could feel him withdrawing from her. ‘You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, I suppose. Bianca is clearly a bit of a slave driver.’
‘Maybe I could come round in the evening?’
He looked immediately more cheerful; the sky cleared again.
‘Maybe. As long as your hair’s clean.’
‘It will be. Promise.’
He smiled, then said, ‘Susie, there’s something I should tell you. I’ve – well, I’ve finished with Guinevere.’
She felt, absurdly, a rush of panic.
‘Not just because of you, of course. But she was really getting to me. She is one spoilt cow. I told her I didn’t think it was working any more and I wanted out. So, result is I’m a free man!’
Susie smiled at him, as confidently as she could.
She had decided to talk to Henk in the flat; it was bound to become emotional, and it seemed unfair to expose him to the world as he wept, or raged, or both. She slept badly; a tender farewell from Jonjo had left her more strung up, not less. What was she doing, risking this lovely, potentially perfect thing, for a man who had abused her emotionally and physically. Was she quite mad?
Henk came as arranged, at ten, bearing flowers, and some perfect croissants.
She made coffee, squeezed orange juice, sat down at the table with him; her hand shook as she picked up her croissant, dipped it in the coffee; he noticed.
‘Hey, babe. What’s with the nerves?’
‘Oh – nothing. I . . .’
Go on, Susie, say it now, start, begin to get it over. But he was already munching on his croissant; better wait till he had finished. She managed a couple of bites, drained her glass of orange.
Her phone rang; she looked at it. Jonjo.
Best ignored. She could tell him she’d been in the shower.
‘Who was that?’
‘Oh – Mum.’
‘I have some news,’ he said. ‘I got a commission to do some pictures for the Sketch.’
‘Henk! That’s amazing. I’m so pleased.’ She was; it would help if he had something going right for him.
‘Yeah. Anyway, how about another coffee? Then we might go out for a walk? It’s a lovely day. And we might see a film later. What’s on?’
‘I have no idea.’
He fished out his phone and she went over to the coffee machine.
After this coffee she’d start. A shudder of fear rose in her throat, so strong she physically had to swallow it down again.
‘We could do – something else,’ Henk said.
She knew what he meant; another shudder. They hadn’t done it since he had left, having smacked her around and, oddly, he had accepted that. It was all part of the monumental effort he was making to please her, to show how much he had changed.
‘Let’s see,’ was all she said. ‘Look, Henk, I need to talk to you.’
‘Yeah? What about? Look. I’m not rushing you into me moving back in. You don’t need to get all stressed about that.’
‘No, I know. No, it’s not that.’
‘OK. So – what?’
‘I’ll tell you. I – I just want to have a pee.’
She went into the bathroom, sat on the loo, texted Jonjo. She felt a sudden need to be in contact with him, to gain the courage. Sorry was in the shower. I’ll call you vv soon.
No reply.
She went back into the sitting room; Henk was lounging on the sofa. He patted the seat beside him and she joined him reluctantly, took a deep breath, counted to five, then said, ‘Henk, we have – I have to finish with this. With us. I want it to be over, Henk. It isn’t – isn’t working.’
There was a long, throbbing silence. He stared at her, his expression puzzled.
Then, ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No, sorry. That just won’t do.’
‘What won’t do, Henk?’
‘That. That’s fucking nonsense. We’re just getting it together again. You can’t stop it now.’ He was looking at her very oddly, like a puzzled child, told something it didn’t understand.
A Perfect Heritage Page 43
