‘There probably isn’t much to thank us for,’ said Mike. ‘I’m afraid we remain somewhat sceptical. Meanwhile, so we can act fast, which is essential, we’ll get the lawyers on to drawing up a few agreements, both between you and us, and the company and the franchisees. I’ll send over a draft of our emails to our contacts later, so you can make sure we haven’t missed anything crucial. A photograph of the shop in the Berkeley Arcade would probably help. I’d say you might add its annual turnover, but I don’t think that’s going to tempt anyone to part from their capital. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Bianca. She found herself rather alarmingly near to tears. ‘I’ll – I’ll look forward to receiving those. And of course I’ll send over some shots of The Shop. Do you want a brand policy statement, strategy, anything like that?’
‘Nah,’ said Mike, ‘much too soon. Now look, we’ve got another meeting we’re already late for, so . . .’
‘Yes, yes of course. I’m off.’ And suddenly she did something she had never done before, in her entire working life. She went over to them and hugged first one and then the other, wiping her hand impatiently across her eyes at the tears that were so determinedly making themselves felt, sniffing and laughing at the same time.
‘Sorry,’ she said, standing back, seeing their almost shocked expressions. ‘I’m so sorry, very unprofessional of me . . .’
‘Bianca,’ said Hugh, and he was smiling now, and so was Mike, ‘don’t worry about it. This is actually not a very professional decision!’
Come on, come on, answer, answer, please, please.
But the answerphone wasn’t having any of it.
Well she could try.
‘Hi Jonjo, this is Susie. Look, I really need to talk to you. Whatever you heard yesterday morning wasn’t what you think. Give me a call, and let me explain properly. I’m so sorry if you’re feeling bad, which I guess you are. I – well, just call please and let’s arrange something. I . . .’ She hesitated. She couldn’t say ‘I love you’ although she longed to; but she wanted to let him know how badly she felt, how much she cared. ‘Miss you,’ she finished, hoping it wouldn’t sound too pathetic.
She clicked off her phone; that was all she could do for now. If he called, if she could just speak to him, maybe she could talk him round. But if he didn’t . . . She sighed, and decided all she could do now was wait. And distract herself with work.
She had told Jemima about her meeting with Henk, in as much detail as she could. It had assumed surreal qualities, especially the walk along the street, his taking her arm, his kissing her. Henk doing those things, when it should have been Jonjo. God, what a mess.
Jemima was sympathetic, clearly intrigued on a professional level. She’d said it was good that Henk hadn’t been totally opposed to seeing someone, asked how he’d seemed, calm, hostile?
‘Quite calm, actually. And very sure of himself, in control. Is that a good sign, do you think?’
‘I’m sorry, Susie, I don’t know what to think. It’s all so complicated. Everyone’s different, so there aren’t any rules. Was he hostile to you, in any way?’
‘Only a bit. He just seemed – normal. Nicer than normal, even.’ She managed a smile. ‘So – what do I do now?’
‘Wait, I’m afraid. The hardest thing of all. See what he does next. I’m afraid he’s not going to just go away.’
‘No,’ said Susie, with a rather feeble smile, ‘no, I’m afraid so too.’
There was no reply from Jonjo all day. No call, no message, no text. Just silence. And it was horrible. She did all the things everyone did; checked her phone constantly, phoned it from the landline on her desk to make sure it was working, charged it just in case, checked her texts over and over again, and began to hate everyone who called because they weren’t Jonjo. And at the end of the day, she left early – Bianca was tied up with the VCs and there was no one else to notice – and hared home to check her landline. The answering machine had three messages: two were from her mother, one from an old friend. Well, had she really thought he would phone her on that?
Was it possible that he hadn’t got the message? Possible, yes of course. Maybe she could text him, just say Hope you got my call. Let me know if you didn’t. It sounded a bit desperate, but she was feeling desperate. And things could hardly be worse. Before she could debate it any further, she sent the text. She had hardly pressed send, when the phone rang. This was amazing. He hadn’t got it! Thank God she’d sent the text! Shaking, weak with relief, smiling, she picked up her phone. ‘Hi,’ she said, struggling to hold her voice steady. ‘Hi, lovely to hear from—’ And then, too late, far too late, looked at the screen.
It was Henk.
Chapter 43
‘You can sell the house,’ said Bertie. His eyes, hard and cold as they so seldom were, met Priscilla’s across the sitting room. She was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by papers, working on her next big charity event; she stared at him.
‘You agree?’
‘I do agree, yes.’
‘Well that’s – that’s very good news. I thought you’d come to see it was best in the end.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I think, if we can act quickly, those Americans are still around. I’ll tell the agent in the morning. In fact I’ll send an email now. Well, this is excellent.’
‘I’m glad you think so. And they were offering – what?’
‘Three million. So that should get us a nice flat in town and then we shall have a fair bit over to put in our pension fund.’
‘I’m afraid you have to think in terms of half that, Priscilla,’ said Bertie.
‘I’m sorry?’ She looked at him and then half laughed. He hated that half-laugh. She did it a lot. ‘Agents’ fees and stamp duty aren’t that high, Bertie. No, we should clear at least two eight.’
‘We won’t be clearing anything, Priscilla.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
He found, with a slight sense of shock, that he was enjoying himself. Good. He’d had very little pleasure recently.
‘I mean you’ll clear half of whatever we make, and I the rest.’
‘Bertie, I hope you haven’t got some crazy notion about separate finances, to save tax or something.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
‘I mean I’m leaving you.’
She was silent, staring at him for a moment; then, ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I was leaving you. It’s quite simple. I want a divorce, Priscilla. I’ve got a new job, a very nice job actually, nothing to do with Farrell’s.’
She gave another of the half-laughs.
‘Don’t be absurd, Bertie. You can’t leave Farrell’s.’
‘I can leave Farrell’s, and I’m looking forward to it. My contract holds me for three months, but I daresay Bianca will let me go as soon as she finds a replacement for me. And then I’m off.’
‘Off where?’ For the first time she was looking uncertain; even a little pale.
‘Physically, the Midlands. I’ve always rather liked the Midlands, they’re much maligned in my view. Some of the country is lovely and of course I shall be able to buy an extremely nice house.’
‘And – what does this company do?’
‘It runs garden centres. Big growth area, garden centres, if you’ll forgive the pun. MD’s a very nice chap, we hit it off rather well. Quite a big chain, twenty or so. There’s one near Basingstoke, you might even have been there.’
‘What a ridiculous idea!’ She was moving back into her default position of superiority, of belittling him. ‘And what are you going to do for them? You don’t know anything about garden centres.’
‘I spend quite a lot of time in them, Priscilla. If you’d ever taken any notice of what I did in my spare time, you’d have realised that. I love gardens – especially this one, of course. I shall be sorry to leave it – I’ve put twenty years or so of care into it – but it will be good to start again. And I certainly kno
w a lot about gardens, and why people love gardening. It’s the Englishman and his home being his castle, or rather, the castle grounds. Anyway, my job will be in personnel, which I do seem to have a talent for, recognised by Bianca, of course. I shall miss Bianca.’
‘Bertie . . .’ Priscilla was looking less sure of herself. ‘Look, I don’t think you can have thought this through properly.’
‘I’ve thought it through very properly, I assure you.’
‘But you can’t move up there alone. You’ll have to look after yourself, for the first time in your life.’
‘On the contrary, Priscilla, no one has ever looked after me. Certainly not you, if that’s your implication.’
‘Oh, don’t talk such nonsense,’ said Priscilla. ‘Of course I’ve looked after you. Who do you think prepared your meals, washed your clothes, cleaned your house?’
‘You did do those things, of course,’ said Bertie, ‘but you never seemed to think your duties encompassed things like encouragement, thoughtfulness, consideration, support – the more basic qualities one would look for in a marriage. The nearest I came to being looked after in that sense came from Lucy, who seems to have a clearer understanding of my needs than you ever did. Anyway, none of it matters any more. Our marriage is over.’
‘Bertie . . .’ She was beginning to look mildly anxious now. ‘Bertie, we should talk about this properly. It’s not right for you to leave Farrell’s, you’re part of it and—’
‘I’m not really part of it,’ said Bertie. ‘My mother and my sister have always made it plain I was only there on sufferance. I have enjoyed my new role there, and I shall always be grateful to Bianca for realising my potential. But the three of you have continued to belittle and criticise me relentlessly. I want to get away from the whole thing, make my own way. It’s as simple as that. As for our marriage, that is beyond redemption. I’ve been very aware of its shortcomings for a long time, but it was the sales conference, and your incredible rudeness both to and about me, and to the people I work with—’
‘I suppose you mean that rather tarty woman. I could see she’d got her talons into you!’ She stopped, her expression suddenly rather sharp. ‘She put you up to this, didn’t she? You probably seemed a rather good catch to her. Part of the set-up that employs her, on the board, clearly well off – what will she have to say about this new job of yours, I wonder? Rather less glamorous, and certainly less secure.’
‘Priscilla,’ said Bertie, his face white now, ‘never, ever talk about Lara Clements in those terms again. She has been a very good friend to me, and has helped to give me confidence in myself, which God knows wasn’t easy. She knows nothing about my future plans, but she was deeply shocked by what happened at the sales conference, my mother’s behaviour in particular, and unfortunately, that has affected her attitude to me.
‘I’m going to my study now, to start sorting out my affairs; I suggest we find a solicitor about a divorce, I think we need someone specialised. I will break the news to Lucy and Rob if you like.’
‘You will not,’ said Priscilla. ‘I don’t want Lucy getting some garbled version about all this and your extremely distorted view of our marriage. And besides, I haven’t agreed to anything whatsoever. We have a great deal of talking to do before we make any kind of decision.’
‘There is really nothing to talk about,’ said Bertie, ‘except financial arrangements and we can do that with a solicitor. Of course, if you want to oppose a divorce, then it will all take much longer and become rather more unpleasant, for you in particular. I would advise you to take the line of least resistance and you can then present things however you wish to your friends. But that is your decision. I am very anxious, naturally, for you to have exactly what is due to you. Now, if you will excuse me . . .’
‘Bertie, this is madness! We’ve been married for almost twenty-five years, perfectly happily.’
‘I grant you the twenty-five years,’ said Bertie. ‘But any happiness enjoyed together, even of a most imperfect kind, is a figment entirely of your imagination.’
She was great. Dead sexy; and clearly gagging for it. And fancied him. A much better proposition than that neurotic cow.
She’d come in for a casting, had clearly thought he carried a lot more weight than he actually did, and it had been a pushover, the whole thing. He’d asked her for a drink and the very first evening they ended up in bed. She was amazing, did everything he wanted and more. He lay watching her in the morning as she got dressed and rushed off to another casting, thinking that for the first time in his life he really was having it all. He could enjoy her; and continue torturing Susie. It was a very happy prospect indeed . . .
‘Bianca? This is Lucy Farrell.’
‘Oh, hello Lucy, what can I do for you?’
‘It’s about Milly.’
‘Oh really?’ She could hear her own voice sounding wary. ‘And what about Milly?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you realised, but we talked quite a lot that day. When I took her off to Starbucks. She told me about school and bullying and stuff and it sounded so dreadful. And – well, I was bullied at school. It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me and I really would like to do something for Milly. She’s so sweet, and so brave. So forgive me if I seem to be interfering, but I had an idea. Which just might help.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. You see, the only thing with bullies is to beat them at their own game. And all this pretending you don’t care really doesn’t help at all.’
‘Lucy, we know all this. We’re not ignoring the problem. Not now we know about it . . .’
She felt ashamed of herself for being so hostile and defensive. But the conversation was irritating her profoundly.
‘No, of course not. I realise that. But what Milly needs is something of her own, that she can talk about at school, that the others would envy her for.’
‘Well, I daresay it is. But I don’t see—’
‘Bianca, Susie’s asked me to work on your idea of some different looks for the launch, that we can use in promotions and so on. And that’s very difficult, without a model. And most people don’t want to spend their evenings and weekends having make up piled on to their faces endlessly. But I know Milly would. She kept saying what a wonderful job I had, how she’d like to do something like that. And she has a friend too, Jayce—’
‘Lucy, I don’t know if you’ve met Jayce, but she doesn’t sound to me an ideal model.’
‘You know what, it really doesn’t matter. It’s a face I need, not a model’s face. Think of a blank canvas—’
‘I believe Jayce has spots,’ said Bianca coldly. You cow, she thought, why are you being like this?
‘Even that doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. The point is it all sounds rather glamorous. Something Milly could just mention casually at school. And I may be wrong, but I think it would get those girls regarding her rather differently. It would change her into something a little bit special. You know how all these girls want to be models . . .’
‘Well, of course they do. But – and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful, of course I am – but Milly is, as far as I can make out, completely friendless. Nobody talks to her. There’s no one to mention anything to.’
‘Well, they look at her Facebook page, we know that. If only to put horrible things on it. She could just mention it on that. I could even photograph her and she could put that on.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Bianca quickly. ‘I think that could be asking for more trouble.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. They could criticise her, and how she looked.’
‘Well, they could. But it’s unlikely in my view.’
‘Lucy, I really appreciate this, of course,’ said Bianca, ‘but I think it’s a rather risky plan. And Milly is very busy, she has a lot of homework and you want to do this at the weekends.’
‘Ye-es . . .’
She could hear Lucy withdrawing, sounding embarra
ssed even.
‘Well, I’m sorry. I just thought it would be something we could do together. Even if it didn’t help at school, I do genuinely need a model and it would be a bit of fun for her, cheer her up. But if you think it might actually do more harm than good—’
‘I do, I’m afraid. But thank you anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lucy, I’m already late for a meeting.’
‘Of course. I quite understand. Goodbye, Bianca.’
You, thought Bianca, looking at the phone after ringing off, you are a complete cow. Here is this extremely nice girl, caring about Milly, wanting to help Milly and what do you do? Tell her to piss off. And it could help; it was an ingenious idea. And even if it didn’t work at school, it would be very good for Milly, give her something else to think about. So why?
She knew perfectly well why. It was all part of the guilt. And her sense of failure as a mother. She should be able to help Milly, solve her problems. That was the only thing that was going to make her feel better. She didn’t want some stranger doing it. Especially – and she knew this was at the heart of it – not a stranger called Farrell, the granddaughter of her enemy, the person who had already humiliated her beyond endurance. She could imagine Lucy talking about it all to Athina, and Athina pouncing on this new faultline in her, imagine them laughing about it.
‘Not only is she failing with the company,’ Athina would say, ‘she can’t even run her own family.’ And she would quite likely use it, bring it up, in her brilliantly barbed way, ask after Milly, say how upset and sorry Lucy had felt about it. It would be awful. Terrible.
And how much does that matter, Bianca Bailey? she asked herself. And answered: not in the very least. The only person who matters here is Milly; Milly who still cries in her room at night, Milly whose once sparkling little face is haunted and heavy, Milly who has no power whatsoever to put things right by herself, Milly who needs, as Patrick said, grown-up help.
And here some grown-up help was, and what did she do? Turn it away. It had been an appalling piece of behaviour. She had failed Milly a second time; only this had been worse than the first, because she had done it knowingly. And how could she possibly climb down now? Did she say, oh, sorry, Lucy, I think it’s a great idea after all, I was wrong, why don’t you come round to supper one evening so we can all discuss it? Yes, that’s what she ought to do. But Lucy would no doubt find that rather pathetic, would probably tell her grandmother that too . . .
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