‘Lucy, I need to talk to you. Quite urgently. Can you come in tomorrow?’
This had to be serious, Lucy thought, for Bianca Bailey to demand – for that was what it amounted to – to see her at twenty-four hours’ notice.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m free all day. Recovering from London Fashion Week,’ she added, lest Bianca might think she was out of work or – worse in Bianca’s book she was sure, plain old-fashioned idle. And you did need to recover from it; her two days had left her so shattered, so drained, so over-excited that she hadn’t gone to sleep until five in the morning. The sheer effort of keeping calm in all that chaos was utterly exhausting. Her head still ached, almost a week later.
And she had never been so frightened either: the vast backstage area, filled with models – of course – but designers and PRs and other make-up artists, and hairdressers, all milling about, eyeing one another up. There was huge competition between the hairdressers and the make-up artists, and no love lost between them; each considering their job the more important. And they took up so much space with their dryers and curlers and tongs; and quite often an assistant too, and it was enraging when quite often all they seemed to be doing was a scraggy ponytail. Then there were the racks and racks of clothes, with the models’ names on them, and carefully stacked shoes – and it was all actually as ordered as a military operation, disguised as chaos. She really felt she had no place there at all, almost bolted.
What she had to do, she knew, was find a model. It was as random as that. Not one of the really big names, that was all done and dusted, but one of the others; some were already stars, or nearly, and had a look that was different, that had caught on; the make-up girls practically fought over them. The models were exhausted, had been hustled around from location to location, show to show; the young ones were bewildered, some of them hardly able to speak English, and Lucy made for a very young one, who was lovely but so far unspoken for; she appeared near to tears.
‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Lucy, and I’m going to do your make up. That OK?’
The girl nodded feebly.
‘Would you like to go to the toilet before I start?’
Another nod, this time a grateful smile as well. Very few people thought of that, apparently, they’d been told at FaceIt. It was almost barbaric. And the end result was tantrums and a lack of cooperation, all for want of a little thoughtfulness.
Sometimes there was a demo by the head make-up artist, of the look that was wanted, but not that morning; there was a face chart, that was all. She would just have to busk it. She studied the chart; it wasn’t the natural look, that was for sure, orange eyeshadow, absurd green eyelashes, painted on to the skin, white lipstick – not easy, she thought, praying the girl wouldn’t have any make up on, that her skin would be cool. A hairdresser arrived, his assistant (damn) set down his enormous bag and the girl came back, smiled gratefully again at Lucy, and accepted the bottle of water she gave her. The hairdresser started yanking her head about as he brushed her hair through.
‘I can’t work while you do that,’ said Lucy.
‘Has to be done, darling.’
They struck a deal; he could get the rollers in, then Lucy could have the girl to herself.
‘But we haven’t got long,’ he said, ‘really up against it.’
He was back in five minutes, claiming it was ten; Lucy struggled with the eyeshadow as he pulled rollers out, then had to order him off when one of the painted eyelashes smudged and he had a tantrum, complained to the dresser.
And then it was done and the dresser claimed the girl, and they disappeared into the throng and Lucy grabbed the next make-up chart and it all started again. No wonder she was exhausted.
‘Well, how about twelve thirty?’ Bianca was saying now. ‘I’ve got a lunch, but a late one, so that’ll give us half an hour. Which is all we need I think.’
Oh God. Was she going to tell her she didn’t want her working for Farrell’s any more? Or – and this would be as bad in a way – did she want the sessions with Milly to stop?
At twelve thirty precisely, Jemima called her up from reception.
‘Go in,’ she said. ‘Don’t look so frightened.’
Lucy went in.
Bianca smiled at her, briefly, then said, ‘I’m very worried about this business with Milly, Lucy. It’s not the make-up sessions; Milly loves them and it’s clearly making her feel altogether better. No, I’m worried about your friend the blogger and what she might write. I don’t need to tell you how powerful these things are. I appreciate it would be marvellous publicity, but Milly is only thirteen, and hardly representative of Farrell’s customers; or rather, the Farrell customer we want to attract. Had you considered that?’
‘Honestly, no,’ Lucy said, ‘but I can see your point. Well – we don’t have to do the blog. I can just tell her we don’t want to.’
‘That seems a shame. I hate to seem ungrateful. And of course Milly will be very disappointed. But . . .’
‘It’s a shame all round,’ said Lucy, and she felt very sad suddenly: more for Milly than herself. ‘But yes, obviously getting the image of the brand across is vital, I do understand. But I tell you what we could do: turn it into a sort of feature story. Fay Banks will do whatever we want – it’s a bit of a scoop for her anyway. We can play the Farrell card, and me being Lady Farrell’s granddaughter, and say something along the lines of how I kept running out of models and Milly and Jayce said they’d like to do it if it would help, and even though they are much too young, they’ve still got faces, something like that. That way we could still plug the Farrell name, get some nice publicity, and not disappoint Milly. What do you think?’
‘I think,’ said Bianca, smiling at her, ‘that’s a genius idea, Lucy. Really clever. Thank you. Thank you so much. Now I must go.’
‘Me too. I’m having lunch with Grandy – she wants to know about London Fashion Week.’
She was very different from her grandmother, Bianca thought; very very different. Of course, she was also Bertie’s daughter . . .
Athina greeted Lucy effusively.
‘Lovely to see you, darling. You look marvellous. I like your hair. It makes your face look thinner.’
‘Thank you, Grandy. I wasn’t aware it was fat.’
‘Not fat exactly, darling, just rather plump!’
Lara had had two dates now with the conference organiser whose name was Chris Williams. There was much to be said for him. He was good-looking, a natty dresser, prided himself on being a man about town and had taken her to the rather smart One Aldwych and on the next date Sheekeys, which she had told him she had always wanted to go to; his remembering this had made it even better. He was very generous, was fun and funny and always admired what she was wearing and told her it suited her. And although he had kissed her on the second date there had been no suggestion that he might be asking anything more significant any time soon.
He was forty-five, divorced, but amicably so, and had two teenage children with whom he seemed to get along very well. He was altogether, as she remarked to Susie, too good to be true. But he had one great failing, which she didn’t remark upon to anyone: he wasn’t Bertie. Who might as well have decamped to Birmingham already for all the contact between them, and she missed him dreadfully; his fondness for chatting, his self-effacement. She still felt proud of giving him just a little more self-confidence, of improving his sartorial taste, and encouraging him on his diet. His resemblance to his absurdly handsome father was increasingly remarked upon. She was actually almost looking forward to his leaving; once he had gone, she could cut any remaining emotional ties easily. Or so she told herself as she stood at the mirror in the ladies’, putting on fresh make up, smoothing her newly highlighted hair, checking her manicured nails, in readiness for her third date with Chris Williams. And wishing she felt more excited about it.
‘Mrs Clements, good evening.’ It was Athina. She smiled at Lara, a rather distant smile to be sure, but still an improvem
ent on the frozen expression with which she usually greeted her.
‘Good evening, Lady Farrell.’
Athina’s eyes swept across the array of make up on the shelf in front of Lara.
‘I hope you will forgive me, but I wonder why you are using that perfume, when it should be Passionate. We should all wear it at all times and get people’s reaction to it. Not that I would dream of altering so much as a note, but it would still be interesting.’
‘Indeed, Lady Farrell, and I was wearing it regularly but my supply has run out and the lab won’t let me have any more.’
‘Really? How odd. I shall speak to them. Mrs Bailey’s officious systems are to blame, no doubt. One seems to have to fill in a form in triplicate to get so much as a packet of envelopes from the stationery cupboard these days.’
This was grotesquely unfair, as Bianca kept any kind of regulation to a minimum, but Lara knew better than to argue with Athina.
‘Now, when you did wear it, did people admire it?’
‘Oh yes. Very much so.’
‘Men?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Did men admire it? That’s what we want. Given its name.’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, I think so.’
‘I would hope. Now, do you have a date this evening? With a man? You rather look as if you do.’
‘Well – yes.’ God, she was outrageous.
‘And what does he do? We really aren’t interested in the wrong sort of opinion. Is he a professional person?’
‘I think you could say that,’ said Lara, taking a deep breath. ‘He runs conferences. He ran ours, as a matter of fact.’
‘Oh, really? They were a slightly motley bunch I thought, but they did the job very efficiently. Clearly he knows what he’s doing. Now I shall go and get one of my bottles of Passionate, so that you can wear it. I was very pleased, incidentally, at that disgraceful presentation from the advertising people the other day, that you admired my own advertisement. Thank you. We should liaise regularly on that. I welcome your input and they are already late with any further kind of presentation. Do feel free to telephone or, indeed, visit my office at any time. It’s so agreeable to find a modern young woman with a modicum of taste.’
Lara thought she might faint.
‘Clever woman, Mrs Clements,’ said Athina, putting her head round Bertie’s office after delivering a small phial of Passionate to Lara. ‘A little tarty of course and that accent is not attractive, but she certainly knows her job and rather surprisingly has taste.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Bertie wearily, ‘and I’m sure she’d be very pleased to hear that. Although perhaps not the bit about her accent.’
‘Well, she can’t help that, I suppose. Although elocution lessons might be a good idea. Perhaps you could suggest them.’
‘I shall do no such thing,’ said Bertie, ‘and I would advise you not to either.’
‘Oh, nonsense. I would express my views very tactfully. Now, I hear from Christine that they have found a replacement for you. That didn’t take long. Well, it’s hardly a difficult post to fill. When – when might you be leaving?’ A sharp ear might have discerned a tremor in her voice.
‘Oh, in four weeks’ time. The new chap can join almost immediately.’
‘Really? Not really an accolade that, I would say. That his firm are so happy to release him.’
Bertie said nothing, There seemed little point.
‘And have you found somewhere to live up there?’
‘A very nice house with a big garden. That’s the attraction, of course. The house is really too big for me but I hope Lucy and Rob will be visiting frequently.’
‘I hope so too, but it’s a long way to travel.’
‘Not really. It’s two hours on the train.’
‘Yes, but rail fares are exorbitant these days. I wouldn’t bank on that, Bertie. Anyway, Mrs Clements is going out on a date, with the young man who organised our conference. I’ve given her some Passionate to test on him.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. She’s clearly out to impress him, rather too much make up to my mind, but there it is.’
Bertie felt as if he was having his teeth pulled, one by one. It was agonising.
‘Mother, you must excuse me,’ he said, standing up. ‘I too have a date. With my daughter. She’s taking me out to supper.’
‘How very kind. Well, do give her my love and enjoy your evening, Bertie. You won’t be seeing nearly so much of her in future.’
Bertie said he was sure he would, and left, trying not to think about Lara and how her wretched boyfriend would react to Passionate. Badly, he hoped.
‘Oh my God, that is incredible. So exciting. God. It’s amazing!’
‘It’s not quite done, of course. But glad you like it.’
‘I do. I really really do. Well, I more than like it. I love it! It’s the site to end all sites. Or it’s about to be. It looks totally wonderful!’ She looked back at the screen and smiled joyfully. ‘It’s so alive and so inviting and it makes you feel good, just looking at it.’
‘Well, this bit was Jack’s idea.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Refused to come in to see you, the bastard.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, something totally unimportant. His wife’s having a baby.’
‘What – now?’
‘Yes. This morning, I hope, so he’ll at least be here this afternoon. She insists on him being there, apparently, and he’s agreed. Now how unprofessional is that?’
‘I hope you’re joking!’
‘No.’ His expression was innocently puzzled. ‘Of course not. I said to him where’s your sense of proportion, Bianca’s coming in and he said – well I won’t even tell you what he said. No, of course I’m joking, don’t look at me like that! Anyway, this is his idea, and I love it. For launch moment, we thought why not have a little shot of each of the managers actually opening their doors. I mean in real time, not recorded. And saying welcome to the House of Farrell in whatever language it was.’
‘Can we do that?’
‘Bianca, I keep telling you, what you can do with technology now is only limited by your own imagination. Almost anything is possible. This is easy. I’ve checked it out with the geeks. We can film it beforehand anyway, that’d be easiest. And then, at the moment when God says “Let there be shops” there they’ll be.’
‘You mean Florence could be in the arcade, opening the door?’
‘She could and she will. And so will whoever is in New York, and Sydney and—’
‘Oh my God,’ she said, staring at him, ‘you two are such geniuses.’
‘Nah . . .’
‘You are, you are.’
‘Well – all right, maybe we are. But it was your idea first off, don’t forget.’
Bianca laughed. ‘I won’t, don’t worry. But I do think that’s wonderful. Now I must dash, I’ve got to go and see Mike and Hugh. You wait till I tell them about this! And let me know about the baby and give Jack my love.’
‘Oh, is that Susie Harding? Susie, this is Freddie Alexander. We talked the other day about your relaunch campaign. Well, we do represent a young actor who wants to meet you and discuss it.’
‘Oh!’ said Susie. She was so astonished that was all she could manage.
‘Her name is Jess Cochrane. You’ll know her, of course. She starred in A Little Bit Married. Very successful. She got an Evening Standard nomination for it.’
‘Yes,’ said Susie. ‘Yes it was amazing. She was amazing.’ This couldn’t be true. Jess Cochrane who had been the young actress of 2011, her lovely face everywhere: and who had since then hardly been seen.
‘Yes, indeed. She starts shooting a new film in the autumn, but as it happens, just at the moment she had a window.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ Resting in other words.
‘Of course she would need to be persuaded that the campaign would be right for her. You were reluctant to tell me a
nything about it last time we talked.’
‘Yes, well it’s very confidential,’ said Susie.
‘So you said. Anyway, I suggest you meet and you can do a presentation, so to speak. Would lunch tomorrow be any good? Obviously I shall come too.’
Susie would have cancelled lunch with the Duchess of Cambridge to meet Jess Cochrane.
‘Absolutely. Yes.’
‘Good. Jess likes Le Caprice. Shall we say twelve thirty?’
‘Certainly. I look forward to meeting you both. And the small fee? That’s not a problem?’
Freddie Alexander, clearly deeply uncomfortable with what she had been told to say, said, ‘Providing Jess is happy with the concept, and the exposure, then she is not too concerned about the size of the fee.’
‘I’m really sorry, Mark.’
Why did lawyers always say they were sorry when they so patently weren’t? And with that faint, slightly condescending smile. It must be a compulsory part of their training.
‘I’ve had the team go through this over and over again. There is nothing you can do. Except cough up. Or clear out. Which is it to be?’
‘Not up to me, thank God. I’ll see what the VCs say and get back to you.’
‘OK. Don’t leave it too long though. Every day makes it worse.’
Chapter 50
So he was dying. And she was not able, of course, to be with him. He had had a heart attack, suddenly, swiftly, without warning. It could have come any time, the doctors said; a lifetime of smoking and drinking had weakened the heart and clogged up the arteries, so that when the attack did come, it was brutal.
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