A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Right,’ said Patrick, ‘now I want—’

  ‘Mum, Dad!’ The door had opened; it was Fergie.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Patrick under his breath.

  ‘Yes, Fergie?’ said Bianca with exaggerated patience.

  ‘You going to be long in here? I’ve finished all my homework and I’ve got this really cool new game that Dan lent me, I want to try—’

  ‘Fergie! I cannot believe you have the nerve to even think of asking that,’ said Patrick. ‘The answer’s no. Now get out of here and up to your room and—’

  ‘Yeah, OK, OK, Dad. Hang cool.’ He was totally unfazed by his father’s wrath. ‘See you later.’

  ‘That is your fault,’ said Patrick, when the door closed.

  ‘What is my fault?’

  ‘Obviously you were far too lenient with him. Otherwise he would never have dared come in here, asking if he could play on the Wii. He’s got to understand what’s happened is very serious. Otherwise we’re on an extremely slippery slope.’

  ‘Oh, Patrick, do stop it,’ said Bianca, wearily. ‘I’m sorry if that’s the case. I’ll go and buy a cane tomorrow . . .’

  ‘I don’t think this is cause for flippancy.’

  Bianca looked at him; the cold, raw distance between them was growing by the day. It was terrifying what had happened to him, to the good-natured, gentle, funny man she had lived with until a year ago. Who had been the sweetest, most successful of fathers, the most understanding and generous of husbands. Who she had loved so much and been married to so happily. Where had he gone? Where had the marriage gone? And what had driven him away? Was it really her? Her and her job? But she had always had a job. A big job. This had never happened before. The odd tiff, perhaps, the occasional complaint. But then, none of the jobs had consumed her as Farrell’s did, had taken over her entire life, her heart, her very self.

  ‘Let’s just get on, shall we?’ she said, attempting to smile, to be pleasant. ‘What is this very important thing you want to talk about?’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t trivialise it.’

  ‘I am not trivialising it. If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me.’

  ‘I did think that once,’ he said, ‘now I’m not so sure. You’ve changed so much, Bianca, I hardly recognise you. Our relationship has ceased to exist, as far as I can see, and I can’t take much more of it. We never talk, even on the phone, you’re never at home—’

  ‘Oh, is that so? Patrick, I seem to recall you’ve been away, and worked late far more often than I over the last few months. At least I come home from trips when I say, not three days later, and I’m with the family every weekend.’

  ‘That’s unfair. I don’t go away at the weekend.’

  ‘You spend at least half of them locked into conversations with Saul Finlayson. I can’t remember when we had a meal at which he wasn’t present. Notionally, at any rate. You’ve become as rude and as work-obsessed as he is.’

  ‘I think you’re exaggerating. OK, it might have happened rather a lot recently, but perhaps you’ve chosen to forget that I spent at least seventeen bloody years of the eighteen of our marriage at your beck and call – or rather, your family’s beck and call – allowing you to devote yourself entirely to your fucking, self-aggrandising career.’

  ‘That is so bloody unfair! I do not devote myself to it – you know that. I’ve always put the children first!’

  ‘Oh really? I must have been out of the room when that happened. Is that why Milly is so happy and well-balanced and Fergie is working so hard, and—’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut the fuck up.’

  ‘I won’t. And if you put them first, how about cancelling your morning meeting and being here for Milly, taking her to school, it really helps her at the moment.’

  She should, she really really should. She knew. But the morning meeting was with the VCs and the lawyers, signing the new contracts relating to the franchises; they were already late, in danger of their losing some of the leases and . . .

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘I really can’t. I’ve got to sign these papers, see the VCs—’

  ‘I don’t care who you’ve got to fucking see. Your place is here, at home, caring for your daughter.’

  Guilt tore at her; he was right, it was. But then . . .

  ‘It’s you that’s changed,’ she said. ‘Ever since you’ve been working for Saul.’

  It was rash of her to bring him into it, she knew. But suddenly the truth seemed more important than anything.

  ‘Ever since I’ve been enjoying my work, actually,’ he said, ‘and how you resent that. It seems to me it suited you far better for me to be bored and miserable.’

  ‘That’s a filthy thing to say!’

  ‘It’s true. Your life was so much easier when I was running about at your beck and call, and the children’s.’

  ‘And I suppose you’re not running about at Saul’s?’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ he said wearily. ‘This is not what I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘Which is what? Exactly.’

  ‘OK . . .’ He took a deep breath – and her mobile rang.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll just ignore it. It’ll go to message.’

  ‘Just switch the fucking thing off,’ said Patrick quite quietly. Adding, ‘Please.’

  The please made his request more sane.

  ‘I will.’ But as she reached for it, she saw it was from Tod. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick, I just have to take this. Very quickly. Hello, Tod. Oh, no. Oh, God! Can they fix it? God, they have to, they absolutely do. Look, I’m sorry, I can’t talk now. No! I can’t. Tomorrow. I’ve got a very early meeting, can we talk after that? About nine? Yes, fine.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, putting her phone down. ‘It was Tod, about the site, the test one’s crashed, and—’

  ‘I don’t really want to know,’ said Patrick, ‘and will you now please switch that fucking thing off.’

  She did.

  ‘Thank you, Bianca.’ He stopped, then visibly took a deep breath and said, ‘I’ve had enough.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I could say the same.’

  He ignored this.

  ‘On and on it goes, the VCs, the budgets, the franchises, the fucking advertising campaign and how brilliant it is. When did you have time for me, my job? When did you listen to my problems, my concerns, never mind the children’s? Bianca, please listen very carefully to what I have to say.’

  She sat silent, frightened suddenly. He looked as she had never quite seen him, utterly determined, utterly still, his eyes fixed on her almost sadly.

  ‘I’m listening,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Because I want this to be very clear. Either you leave that company or I leave you. And, to be quite honest, I really don’t care which. But I’ve had enough.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going upstairs to my study. Let me know what you decide because I’d like to start making some plans.’

  He walked towards the door and when he got there he turned. ‘Oh, and I want your decision very soon. Within – what shall we say? – a week. Is that long enough for you? And I want you to leave the job pretty well immediately, by the end of the month. Not at some point in the future which never quite comes.’

  ‘But – that means – it means before the launch!’

  ‘Oh dear, the launch. The all-important launch. I’d forgotten that, just for a moment. How could I have? But you know what, Bianca, it doesn’t change a thing. This really shouldn’t be something you need to mull over. I hope that’s clear.’

  And he walked out of the room, shutting the door very gently behind him.

  Chapter 47

  ‘Susie? Babe, where have you been? I’ve been texting you all day.’

  Henk’s voice was plaintive. She could exactly visualise his face. OK. She was going to enjoy this. One of the more satisfactory phone calls of her life.

  One of the others had been at two this morning when he’d called a
nd she’d told him to get lost. She could feel his outrage down the line, smiled with pleasure, went back to sleep, her phone switched off.

  ‘I’m sorry, Henk. I was very busy. So – what can I do for you?’

  ‘Babe! You know what you can do. Meet me. I need to talk to you badly. I’ve been pretty low. I’d have thought you’d realise that from my texts. And last night – I don’t know how you could have done that, cut me off . . .’

  ‘Sorry. I was very tired.’

  ‘I can’t take another night, Susie, not like last night. I kept looking at the sleeping pills, wondering if I should take them all—’

  ‘I thought you said you’d stopped taking them?’

  ‘That was the anti-depressants. Look, what’s going on? You don’t seem to understand how desperate I am.’

  ‘Oh, I think I do.’

  ‘You’re not acting that way. Well, we can talk tonight.’

  ‘Henk, I’m sorry, I can’t see you tonight. I’m going out with a girlfriend.’

  ‘Not that cow from the other night? I could have killed her, why didn’t you tell her to fuck off?’

  ‘I don’t often speak to my friends like that. Oddly.’

  ‘Susie, I swear to God, if you don’t meet me tonight, I’ll take all those sleeping pills. I can’t go on like this, I feel like I’m going mad! Cancel that friend of yours, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Jesus!’ She could hear his voice change, anger taking over. ‘So you don’t give a fuck about me, what I’m going to do . . .’

  Right. Go on, Susie. Move in for the kill.

  ‘I’ve got one suggestion, Henk.’

  ‘I don’t want any fucking suggestions.’

  ‘Well, here it comes anyway. I think you should go out with Zoe instead. See how sympathetic she can be.’

  There was a complete silence. A very long one; she could almost hear him breathing. Her own heart was thumping and she felt frightened suddenly. Suppose she was wrong, suppose Jemima had been wrong, suppose Zoe was just a friend? She pictured the bottle of sleeping pills, saw them in Henk’s hand, being poured out, heard the call from the police the next day . . .

  ‘You bitch,’ he said. ‘You filthy, fucking bitch. Playing along with me, risking my life . . .’

  ‘I don’t think so, Henk.’ But she was still frightened.

  ‘Zoe’s just a friend. She’s helped me – more than you have.’

  ‘Well, that’s good. I’m glad. Tell her to keep it up.’

  Another silence: then it came, a tirade of filth. She felt sick, listened, stricken, for a minute or two, then said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to ring off. I can’t stand this any longer. And I’m busy.’

  ‘So you put your work above my life? Or rather my death?’

  ‘Henk, we both know this whole thing of you killing yourself is a farce. What you’ve been doing to me has been utterly cruel. I was desperate with worry, couldn’t think about anything else. Until I saw it for what it was. Not content with beating me up physically, you decided to attack me mentally. And it was very successful for a while. You’re a very good actor, Henk. And a good photographer. You’re just a lousy person. I’m sorry I ever met you.’

  And she switched off her phone. She was shaking violently and she felt very sick. And she was crying she realised, shocked, frightened tears. It had been the most hideous and terrifying thing she had ever had to deal with. Far worse than being beaten up. She would never forget it. But, she thought, blowing her nose, forcing herself to calm down, to control her tears, she could put it behind her now. It was over. Really and truly and properly over.

  The charter company that controlled the leases of all the shops in the Berkeley Arcade was a venerable one. Formed in 1820, when the arcade was built, it had remained impressive. It employed a firm of respected City lawyers, and another of rigorous accountants. Rents were reviewed regularly, regulations updated – although it was still possible for tenants to tether their horses to the posts at either end of the arcade, and to use candlelight rather than electricity, should they so wish. Planning laws were adhered to strictly.

  Farrell’s had always been exemplary tenants; they had paid their rent and the charges on the lease promptly, invariably grateful that they were not nearly as high as they might be, given the arcade’s situation.

  One morning in early March 2012, Mark Rawlins, the financial director of Farrell’s, received a letter from the directors of the charter company, informing him that the present lease was about to expire and had been reviewed. They suggested that he might like to come in and discuss the terms with them, as both the lease and the rent were to increase considerably and that they would require a sum of – and here Mark Rawlins had to blink, rub his eyes, and take a sip of coffee before realising that he had read correctly the size of the sum required – or alternatively let them have his company’s cheque for the full amount, which included a year’s rent in advance.

  He read the letter several more times, phoned to make an appointment with the charter company, and then returned to a slightly panic-stricken review of the financial state of the House of Farrell. Things were looking rather bad . . .

  Bianca was sitting at her desk, trying to deal with not just one, but a series of panics, when a text came through from Saul.

  I keep thinking about you and I’d like to see you but I can’t, it said.

  As lover-like notes went it would have won no prizes; but it made her smile and, albeit briefly, feel just a little better . . .

  Bianca sat on the plane and thought about marriage. About her marriage, mostly, but in general too, its nature, its requirements, its strengths.

  The one she and Patrick had created had, over almost two decades, always seemed to her successful. It had contained all the necessary ingredients: love, tolerance, good sex, mutual respect, and then children and a shared, passionate concern for them, a similar, if not identical view of the world, shared pleasures, and an agreement that those that were not shared should be partaken of singly. It was not, after eighteen years, constantly exciting – how could it be? – but it had a sturdy happiness to it that she had always assumed would survive in the face of no-matter-what assaults.

  But she had, she thought, been wrong. It had had a frailty, after all, the assaults made on it recently too much for it to withstand, and she should have recognised it, instead of blundering blindly on, pushing their joint tolerance to the limit. She had, she knew, taken it for granted, that happiness, that support for what she wanted to do; it had been a warm, comforting thing to return to after the storms and the difficulties of her days, an absolute, unquestioning security.

  It was an impossible thing that Patrick had asked of her; it was a denial of her very self, of what she was. Did he really think that she could turn her back on that self, or that great part of herself, did he honestly believe that so much of what he had fallen in love with, desired, possessed, promised himself to, could be removed from her and that he would love her still? Clearly he did. His ultimatum had not been a swift, impulsive thought, born out of a flare of rage, a flash of resentment; he had meant it, absolutely and totally, and the small, sad statement that he didn’t really mind what her decision was told more than anything.

  Of course she should have said, yes, of course our marriage, our family, are far more important than my job, my career; but she knew, even as she stared at his face, that new, hard, hostile face, that she couldn’t do that. And what did that make her? Some kind of self-seeking, hard-souled monster? Was that what she had become? Was that why he didn’t mind, didn’t care any more?

  That was a particularly hard thing to face; but she forced herself to, sitting there on that long night, staring out into the darkness as the plane roared on. For the worst, the very worst thing of all, was being forced to face herself and what really, genuinely, truthfully mattered to her. It was very painful that, very painful indeed.

  And Saul, this extraordinary interloper into
her life, was he in any way responsible? She decided not, in so far as their relationship was concerned. It had been a strange, sad evening, immensely revealing. She felt deeply sorry for him, intrigued by him, and sexually disturbed, but there it ended; whatever was or might be between them, had nothing to do with the breakdown of her marriage. He had a great deal to do with it as it related to Patrick, however: his ruthless intrusion on Patrick’s time and attention, and the intense pleasure and happiness he offered Patrick on a professional basis had changed Patrick almost out of recognition and with terrifying speed. And the domestic support she had always had from Patrick was gone; and that had changed both of them.

  Nothing had happened after that last text; she waited, teenager-like, watching her phone hawk-like for another, but it had been followed by a complete silence.

  When finally she texted him, because she was worried about him, saying simply Are you all right? he had texted back saying yes, he was fine, very worried about Dickon, and then as she read it, I am thinking about you. Thank you for your help.

  Which from Saul Finlayson was virtually a sonnet.

  She had at least won a little time. Twenty-four hours, not seven days, after Patrick’s ultimatum she told him that their marriage deserved surely more than a hasty review and an ill-considered decision. If he had to take that as a no, then so be it. She had to go away, she said, it was essential, and that would give them both time to think further, and to her immense surprise he had agreed.

  ‘But I do want a decision,’ he said, ‘and I have to tell you I am already disappointed.’

  Which was probably the most chilling thing he had ever said to her.

  She was on an insane, eight-day trip, taking in Sydney, Tokyo, Singapore, Dubai and New York. She was not to be dissuaded, she said firmly, and with increasing irritation, to everyone else who could not see the necessity of it either. How could she trust these people, these franchise holders to realise her vision, her precious duplicates of the House of Farrell? How could she know, without seeing for herself, what they had chosen, the right buildings in the right streets, with the right décor and the right staff, and even having done all that, create the right ambience. Her entire life, her whole reputation was at stake; how could she not give a week to ensure things were all as good, as close to perfect, as they could possibly be.