A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  She was travelling alone, she said to Mike, so the cost would not be too prohibitive, and she was prepared to pay her own fare if he didn’t agree. They were in the eye of the storm, she said to Lara and Susie and Jonathan Tucker, the brand was created, the products formulated, the packaging designed. The website was being built, the faults overcome, the advertising campaign well under control, the PR exciting. There were no immediate crises, and if one arose there were phones, emails, texts, and a great many brains other than hers to deal with them. The owners of the other brains, aware they would not be allowed to deal with very much, nodded with faux enthusiasm when she pointed this out.

  And she would ask nothing of Patrick, she said, speaking to him across the icy wasteland where they were presently residing. Sonia and Karen were both moving in full-time, fully primed of possible problems, and neither Patrick, nor consequentially, Saul, need fear that they might suddenly find themselves possessed of a less than one hundred per cent capability to handle any global crisis that might present itself. And she would, at the end of this endeavour, this stupendously heroic odyssey she was embarking on, be fully possessed of all the knowledge required to bring about the small miracle that would be unleashed upon the world on June 1st 2012.

  Florence lay awake, night after night, her stomach churning, her head throbbing, alternating between panic and terror and disbelief at her own stupidity, until it was morning – when the day followed a similar emotional pattern. She felt sick, she couldn’t eat, she couldn’t concentrate on anything. It was dreadful.

  And she simply didn’t know what to do. There was no one to ask, nowhere to turn.

  Every time the phone rang, or the doorbell rang she jumped. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but Athina in an avenging fury was certainly one, and Bianca shocked and hostile another.

  She was still frail physically; the cycle set up by the sleeplessness and inability to eat was vicious indeed. And as day followed day she felt worse. She had a few visitors – Francine came, of course, concerned and anxious to help, and the lovely Jemima, bearing flowers and grapes and the offer to go food-shopping for her, but while she was initially pleased to see them, she found them tiring and irritating, and not the distraction she would have hoped. From Athina there came not a word, apart from a few solicitous calls from Christine who said she hoped she was feeling better and that Lady Farrell had asked her to let her know when she felt ready to see her. That, she felt, was horrifically coded . . . And the worst thing was the mystery of it all; how had the photograph made its way from her bedside table to the drawer of her small desk downstairs, carefully covered by her blotting pad? She had only found it on the third day of her illness, after searching its usual resting places in an increasing panic. Who had put it there and why? It seemed unlikely it had been Athina, she was not given to discretion, but then she might be feeling too shocked and humiliated to do more than retire and brood upon what she had discovered. Florence, aware of Athina’s emotional unpredictability, feared it was infinitely possible.

  She spent a lot of time reviewing the events of that dreadful morning, as she lay feverish and scarcely conscious; she did know the photograph had been on her bedside table, she could remember looking at it from time to time, like some kind of talisman, but the sequence of when each of them had arrived, Bianca, Athina, and the doctor, eluded her. She berated herself constantly: how could she have behaved in so incredibly stupid a manner, that an infinitely dangerous secret, that had been kept with such infinite care and discretion for over fifty years, was tossed into full and glaring view, and with the potentially most terrifying and painful consequences? And all for want of a little sentimental comfort? Florence Hamilton, you are the most incredible fool.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Dubai.’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Well, I’m here for about an hour.’

  ‘No, no, talk properly. Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Mirage. Or as they call it The One and Only Royal Mirage. And it is gorgeous. Only hotel in Dubai which isn’t fifty storeys high.’

  ‘I might fly out and join you.’

  ‘Saul, you can’t,’ she said, suppressing with an intense effort a rush of sexual excitement. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, I’m leaving tomorrow. Off to Singapore.’

  ‘I could meet you there. I suppose you’re staying at Raffles?’

  ‘I am. Is it wonderful?’

  ‘I have no idea. I always stay at one of the airport hotels.’

  ‘Well, why not talk now? What’s happened?’

  ‘She’s fighting back.’

  She should have known better than to think he wanted to talk about anything to do with them.

  ‘This man she’s talking about marrying, he’s a complete asshole. I put a private investigator on to him. I couldn’t allow Dickon anywhere near him.’

  Saul never used bad language. She imagined a wife beater, a drug addict, a bigamist.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s an adman. You know what that means.’

  ‘Er – not necessarily. What sort of adman?’

  ‘He’s what they call a creative director. Well, they’re the worst. Called Bernard French. Bernard! What a name. Divorced, of course. And he’s been offered this job in Sydney. I mean, who would want to live there – probably the only job he could get, he’s probably been fired.’

  If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be funny. ‘Saul, he doesn’t sound too bad.’

  ‘Of course he’s bad. Anyone proposing to take another man’s child out of the country, away from everything familiar to him, is bad.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Janey?’

  ‘Of course not. We’re communicating through our lawyers.’

  ‘Saul, it might help. Lawyers are awfully good at muddying the waters. And the more mud, the more’s in it for them.’

  ‘It’s pretty muddy without them. Where else are you going on this trip?’

  ‘Singapore,’ she said carefully omitting Sydney, ‘Tokyo, New York.’

  ‘I could come to New York. Talk to you properly. This really isn’t very satisfactory.’

  ‘I won’t be there for six more days. Everything could have changed by then. And anyway, then I’ll be back in London in eight days. It’s—’ Crazy she was going to say, then stopped. Saul was in a dangerous mood; calling him crazy wasn’t wise.

  ‘It would be nice to be in New York with you,’ he said, sounding rather wistful.

  It would, oh God it would. ‘Yes, maybe, but Patrick has my itinerary. What is he going to think if he knows you’re in one of these places at the same time?’

  There was a long silence; then, ‘No, you’re right. And I’d hate to upset him. He’s such a good analyst . . .’

  ‘So, has anything actually happened?’ she said carefully,

  ‘Well, my lawyers say I can take out an injunction and stop her taking Dickon out of the country immediately.’

  ‘But is she going to take him immediately? The very fact that she talked to you about it in the first place, in what sounded fairly reasonable terms—’

  ‘You weren’t there. How do you know they were reasonable?’

  ‘I’m merely playing back to you what you told me. That evening. I honestly think that if you want to drive Janey and Dickon to go to the nearest airport at high speed, then talking about injunctions is the way to do it.’

  ‘They couldn’t go if I took out an injunction.’

  ‘Saul, I’m speaking figuratively. Look, suppose the worst came to the worst and you did that, how do you think it would make Dickon feel? He’s too little to cope with something so drastic—’

  ‘He’s too little to cope with going to Australia.’

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘It’s not, Bianca. He’s nine years old.’

  ‘It’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘You just don’t understand,’ he said after a long silence. ‘I thought you did. I’m
disappointed in you, Bianca.’

  And the phone went dead.

  ‘Florence? This is Athina. How are you? Good. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s very important. I shall come tomorrow afternoon. I presume you’ll be in.’

  Florence was too frightened to hedge and say she wouldn’t be. In any case she wanted it to be over, to know the worst. Clearly Athina did know, had seen the photograph and had been wondering what to do and say to Florence ever since, although why she had put the photograph in the drawer . . . Maybe she had been too upset, or too shocked to replace it where it had been. If only Bianca was still here; but she was on some world-wide tour and she really didn’t feel it was a subject she could broach on the phone. What would she say? Did you see a photograph on my bedside table of me and Cornelius and did you then hide it in my desk?

  ‘Very well, Athina,’ she said, her voice still husky and rather feeble. ‘I shall look forward to that.’ No point in anticipating the form the interview would take. ‘I’ve got rather tired of my own company as you can imagine.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not coming for a cosy chat,’ said Athina, ‘rather the reverse. And don’t go getting some elaborate tea ready for me. I won’t have time for that.’

  Jess Cochrane was seriously fed up. It was all very well being hailed as one of the most promising actresses of 2011, and one of the faces of the year in 2010 but when you’d only done one proper film you needed to reinforce that, keep yourself in the public eye. And one film did not a film star make.

  She was one of the leads in a film that started shooting in September, a costume drama, based on a Georgette Heyer novel, but it wouldn’t hit the cinemas until autumn 2014 and between then and now was a yawning gap. Her agent had got her a TV series, which would have been perfect, but it had been cancelled; and there had been a stage production of an Alan Ayckbourn, which would have been perfect, very prestigious, but it clashed with filming and her agent, Freddie Alexander, had advised her to take the film. Which she knew was good advice and financially it was a no-brainer, but still left the gap. And when Freddie put her up for interviews in the glossies, most of them were already turning her down. ‘Let us know when she’s got something new to talk about,’ they’d all (more or less) said.

  What she needed was some kind of a story that would get her in the headlines now; but short of cycling on a high wire across the Thames or parachuting out of an aeroplane and landing in the courtyard of Buckingham Palace, every single column inch and nanosecond of airtime being devoted to the Diamond Jubilee, she couldn’t think how on earth she was going to do it.

  ‘Oh, Athina. Do come in.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. You look perfectly all right to me. I suppose you’ve had a lot of rest. Which is more than I have. I’m exhausted.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Let me put the kettle on . . .’

  ‘Well, just a cup, perhaps. Nothing else. There’s quite a lot to talk about, and I don’t have long.’

  Florence filled the kettle and reached for the teapot; she noticed her hand was shaking. Athina was wandering round her small drawing room, picking things up and putting them down again. Looking for further incriminating evidence, perhaps. She paused now, in front of the Lawrence Trentham.

  ‘Terribly overrated I always think, as an artist. Of course Cornelius always liked his work. Did he give you this?’

  Florence felt she might be sick.

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I suppose you’ll be telling me it’s an original, next. Or that he told you it was.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Of course it’s not, they’re worth a fortune. Do get the tea, Florence, we need to get down to business. No sugar for me, remember.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember, Athina.’ She went out to the kitchen, poured the tea, filled a jug with milk, put it all on a tray, stood gazing out of the window, delaying her return . . .

  ‘Florence! What on earth are you doing out there? Are you trying to postpone this conversation or something?’

  It was too much for Florence. She took the tray into the sitting room, set it down and said, ‘I’m sorry, Athina, I suddenly feel – feel—’ And fled into the small downstairs cloakroom where she was extremely sick.

  Jemima was tidying the cupboard that Bianca used as a wardrobe when she saw the Post-it note. It had fallen on the floor and was clearly, she realised, intended for her.

  URGENT it said in capital letters and then: Please call Florence and tell her not to worry about the photograph. And that I’ll call her the minute I’m back.

  Jemima stared at it in horror; it had clearly been there for at least two days, must have fallen out of Bianca’s pocket as she changed jackets. But if it was urgent, then two days was a long time. So should she still deliver it? A lot might have changed since then, and the photograph might now need worrying about. Or it might be too late. She decided she would have to call Bianca and ask her what she would like her to do. It might be a rather delicate matter, because Bianca didn’t often leave cryptic messages.

  Slightly nervously, she called Bianca’s mobile; which told her Bianca couldn’t come to the phone right now.

  She left a message asking Bianca to call her as soon as possible and returned to her task.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Athina.’ Florence emerged from the cloakroom, white-faced and shaking. Athina looked at her rather coldly.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be better?’ she said. ‘I do hope what you’ve got isn’t infectious. Now, if we could begin . . .’

  ‘I’ll just – just pour myself a fresh tea, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Jemima, it’s Bianca.’

  ‘Hi! How’s Dubai?’

  ‘It’s like landing on the moon – quite extraordinary, Now, I can’t be long, I’ve come out of a meeting, what is it?’

  ‘I just found a note which I think was for me. A Post-it, saying to ring Florence and tell her not to worry about the photograph.’

  ‘What? And you haven’t done that?’

  ‘Well no. How could I have?’ said Jemima, mildly indignant at this slur on her efficiency. ‘I only saw it because I was tidying your wardrobe. It was on the floor.’

  ‘The floor? Oh God! I was in a fearful rush and I must have just dropped it when I was looking for some gloves. Oh, dear, and it was so important!’

  Jemima said, ‘Shall I call her now?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Bianca, ‘I’ll do it myself. It will sound odd coming from you now. I’ll do it right away. If I can’t get through to her I’ll call you and ask you to do it.’

  ‘OK. Now do you want me to run through some messages?’

  ‘No, no, I absolutely don’t, I must do this and then I’m going to meet the woman who’s taken the franchise here and see the site she’s suggesting. It sounds most unsuitable, in something called the World’s Biggest Shopping Mall, but there certainly aren’t any tiny streets here. Well, there are, but they’re full of tatty jewellery stalls. Right Jemima, I must go; call me tomorrow first thing. Around seven, Dubai time.’

  This would mean Jemima rising at four, but she didn’t argue; Bianca was, after all, on a particularly exhausting mission and no doubt missing a great deal of sleep herself.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  ‘Right, I must go. I really have to speak to Florence. I don’t have to tell you that this is highly confidential, do I?’

  ‘No,’ said Jemima, allowing a touch of irritation to creep into her voice, ‘of course you don’t.’

  Florence had returned to the sitting room and sat down in one of the button-back chairs; Athina was sitting on the chaise longue which was considerably higher than the chair and therefore left Florence looking up at her in what was, under the circumstances, a rather unfortunate way.

  ‘Right,’ Athina said, ‘I think you can imagine what I’ve come to talk about.’

  ‘Athina, I would like to say before anything else that I – we – never meant to – to . . .’

  To what? Hurt her? Deceive her? When they had
been doing that for the best part of forty years, in the full knowledge it would be painful beyond all imagining.

  ‘I simply cannot understand it.’

  And then, blessedly, the phone rang; a stay of execution, Florence thought.

  ‘Don’t take that, please,’ Athina said. ‘I presume your answering machine is operating.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Florence, with perfect truth, ‘it isn’t. And I had asked Francine to call me, so it’s probably her and I think at the very least I should answer her and tell her I will ring her back. I’m sorry, Athina.’

  She picked up the phone which seemed rather heavy suddenly and said, ‘Francine?’

  ‘No,’ said Bianca’s voice. ‘It’s not Francine, it’s me, Bianca. I should have called you long before this, Florence, and I’m so sorry, but – well, better late than never. I’ll explain another time. I can’t talk now, but it’s really important you should hear what I’m about to say.’

  ‘Yes?’ Florence felt she might throw up again. Maybe they had already discussed things, Bianca and Athina.

  ‘It’s just that you’re not to worry about the photograph. The one on your bedside table. I put it away. No one else saw it. Now I must go – I have to meet the woman who’s bought the franchise out here. I do wish you were with me, Florence, but speak soon and I’m so sorry if you were worried.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Florence, and it was astonishingiy easy to sound careless and light-hearted, because she felt suddenly more careless and light-hearted than she had ever been in her entire life and had just time to admire the way the sun was shining through her window and dancing off the large vase of flowers that stood on one of the side tables in the most appropriate way, before adding, ‘Not worried at all. Well, maybe just a little, and thank you so much, Bianca, for calling. I wish I was with you too. Goodbye.’