A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  And how merciful, they said, that he had been at home, rather than driving, or on a train, had been sitting at the dining table, extolling the virtues of the Époisses cheese he was eating, opening the second bottle of red wine he said it deserved. And that Athina had been with him, and could summon the ambulance, get him to hospital without delay.

  And how merciful, Florence thought, that he had not been with her, in her home or, God forbid, in her bed; that it had not been her who had had to summon the ambulance, get him to hospital without delay: and then had to call Athina, explain why and where she had been with him.

  She hadn’t even known about the heart attack for thirty-six hours; Athina had seen no need to inform her until the diagnosis had been made and active treatment declared pointless. She was not, after all, a relative, not entitled, as were his children and grandchildren, clustering round his bed; a mere friend and colleague, whose presence would have been superfluous.

  Not for her the consolation of being there for the last hours, the comfort of the last words, of the last I love you, the relief of seeing the suffering ended. Not for her the last embrace, the last kiss, the last look. That was not her territory, not where she had any right to be.

  It had been Bertie, kind, gentle Bertie who had rung her at home and told her what had happened, who asked her if she was all right for, try to disguise it as she might, she was audibly shocked and distressed.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘I’m all right. Don’t worry about me, Bertie, really. It is a shock of course, we have been close for so many years –’ adding hastily ‘all of us’, aware even in her stunned grief that she must watch every word, every reaction.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bertie. How is – how is your mother?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘She has told the doctors that she wants him home; they said it was unwise, the care would be better where he was, but she faced them down. Unless he has a second attack before then, which would anyway be . . . be fatal, he’ll go home tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad. He’ll feel happier there. Which is important.’

  ‘My mother said,’ he added, humour briefly in his voice, ‘that no husband of hers was going to die in a hospital bed and certainly not a hospital gown.’

  She had had a brief conversation with Athina when she herself phoned with the news, and had said she would like to come and see Cornelius if he was well enough.

  ‘But you must be the judge of that.’

  ‘I will be, Florence. He is extremely ill; there is no question of his recovering. He is scarcely lucid much of the time and I cannot imagine any purpose could be served by your seeing him.’

  ‘I would like to – to say goodbye,’ said Florence staunchly. ‘We have been friends for a long time.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can see that, but as I say, he is hardly conscious. And if all his life-long friends came to see him, there would be a queue round the block. He finds any visitors very tiring, even the children. And I have always considered these lingering farewells so sentimental, and really rather unnecessary.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ Desperation drove her on. ‘Even so—’

  ‘Florence, please! When and if Cornelius asks to see you, then I will let you know. He wanted to see Lawrence Trentham, I can’t imagine why – I had a lot of trouble getting hold of him.’

  Jealousy hit Florence with appalling violence. Lawrence Trentham! How could Cornelius have asked for him, wasting his failing strength, his dwindling hours, when he could have seen her? She felt sick and dizzy; it was hard to speak.

  ‘Well – he, like me, is a very old friend,’ she managed, in a last feeble bid.

  ‘I suppose so. I must go, Florence, I have a great deal to do. The nurse I’ve hired treats me rather like a skivvy, demanding this, that and the other non-stop.’

  Good for the nurse, Florence thought, putting the phone down. No one else had ever accomplished such a thing.

  All she could do was think about him. Was he thinking about her? Probably not. He was too ill. She felt disconnected from reality, could think only of Cornelius and the lifetime of joy and sorrow they had shared, saw the love she had shared with him slipping away from her exactly as he was, its ending unmarked, unacknowledged.

  She was dozing in front of the television when the call came; it was six in the evening. Athina’s voice was peremptory.

  ‘You’d better come. He’s asking for you.’

  She arrived at the Knightsbridge flat oddly calm. She had talked herself into this state of mind on the journey, knowing that an excess of emotion, any emotion, would enrage Athina, who opened the door looking tired and drawn but immaculate in a white dress and jacket, her hair freshly done, her make up flawless.

  ‘Do come in,’ she said. ‘I will take you in to him. He is very tired and so you mustn’t stay long.’

  ‘No, no of course not.’

  She felt frightened suddenly, of what she might see, of a Cornelius so changed it would have been better to have left him safe in her memory, handsome, laughing, charming.

  ‘Miss Hamilton has come to visit my husband,’ said Athina to the nurse, opening the door into the marital bedroom, with its overlarge bed and heavy furniture, transformed horribly into a sickroom by its accessories lying on a table by the bed, a stethoscope, thermometer, blood pressure gauge, oxygen cylinder and mask, and, Florence noticed, quickly averting her gaze, something that looked horribly like a bedpan.

  The nurse, fully uniformed and starch-faced, looked suspiciously at Florence.

  ‘He is very ill,’ she said severely, ‘please don’t tire him.’

  Florence wondered wildly what she expected she might do: demand he tell jokes, or dance, perhaps?

  ‘I have already explained that to Miss Hamilton,’ said Athina. ‘She is a very old friend of ours.’

  ‘Very well. But his pulse is very weak. I—’

  ‘Nurse Billings,’ said Athina, ‘please leave us.’

  The nurse left the room. And Florence turned her gaze on Cornelius, on her love, the love of her life, about to leave her for ever.

  In some ways he did not look so very different. He had not been ill for long enough to have lost much weight; he was still a large, solid shape in the bed, full-faced, his white hair thick and strong. But in others he had changed; his skin had a sallow, almost dingy look, his eyes were dull, the hands that lay outside the bed covers veined and limp. His breathing was laboured and loud, his voice soft and hoarse. But he still managed to smile, to reach for her hand, to take it briefly, to turn his head to her.

  ‘Florence,’ he said. ‘How kind of you to come.’

  ‘Not – not at all,’ she said, and then, in an effort to lighten the conversation, ‘How kind of you to invite me.’

  He smiled; slowly, almost, as if it hurt him.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he said, indicating a chair at the side of the bed. Florence sat. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh – very well. Yes, thank you. And you – how do you feel?’

  ‘Tired,’ he said, ‘that’s all. Can’t sleep very well.’

  ‘That’s nonsense, Cornelius,’ said Athina, ‘you slept for twelve hours last night.’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember.’

  ‘I assure you, you did,’ said Athina. ‘I envied you. I am finding it very hard to sleep.’ She said this almost reproachfully, as if it was Cornelius’s fault. ‘I have had to move to the guest room,’ she said to Florence, ‘for the time being.’ This seemed tactless, even coming from her. ‘The bed in there is far less comfortable.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Cornelius, with a flash of his old mischief, ‘perhaps we should swap.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ said Athina. She had taken up a position on the other side of the bed from Florence and sat ramrod straight, her eyes fixed on Cornelius. It was oddly touching, Florence thought, the first sign of the grief that she must be experiencing.

  There was a silence; Cornelius’s eyes
closed. Then with a great effort he said, ‘Athina, could I have a cup of tea? And I’m sure Florence would like one.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll ask the nurse.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t. I don’t want her and her peevish face back in here. And she makes disgusting tea. Could you possibly make it yourself?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Athina said, getting up reluctantly. As she reached the door, a phone started to ring.

  ‘Bloody thing, never stops,’ said Cornelius, ‘and she will insist on answering it. Never mind, gives us a bit more time. Shut the door, Florence, for goodness’ sake.’

  Florence looked at him, startled; and saw a sparkle in the faded blue eyes, a half smile on the pale lips.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said, ‘you look lovely. I always liked that dress.’

  ‘I know,’ Florence said, ‘that’s why I wore it.’ And she smiled back at him, and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘That’s my girl. Now listen, we don’t have very long. Athina’s a bit suspicious, I think. I asked Leonard Trentham as a sort of false trail. So it wasn’t just you I wanted to see. But there are a few things I need to say. Hold my hand, would you? I’m a bit scared, to be honest. Unlike Peter Pan, I don’t see dying as an awfully big adventure. I’d rather go on doing some dull living.’

  ‘Hardly dull, Cornelius.’

  ‘Well, maybe not. Anyway, first of all, you are to make sure you use my gift to you. I don’t want any sacrifices with you living in penury.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Cornelius, but it would cause such problems. Such trouble. Hurt Athina so much.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. Think of all the lies we’ve both told, and so successfully. This is just one more.’

  ‘Bit more complex than the others.’

  ‘You’ll manage. Oh – oh God!’

  He winced and held his chest. She looked at him, frightened suddenly.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not so much now.’ The husky voice was strained, weaker. ‘It did. Christ, it was like being kicked in the chest by a very large horse. They’re giving me something for it now. So – you promise? You know what to do? Those lawyers I found – they’ll sort it out for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, afraid of his becoming agitated. ‘Yes, I promise.’

  ‘Good. Now – a few more things.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, the most important of all is this. I love you, Florence. I’ve loved you all these years and I always will. I shall sit down there, up there if I’m lucky, loving you.’ He smiled at her, raised her hand to his lips. ‘My beloved. My beloved Little Flo . . .’

  Florence closed her eyes briefly; it was all she could do not to cry out, so intense, so violent was her pain. But then she heard her voice, level and gentle, and she smiled at him and said, ‘Thank you for all those years, Cornelius. I love you too. So much. So very much. It’s been lovely. Happy and lovely. Enough to keep me happy even now, even without you.’

  That, at least, she could give him, she thought. Not just her love, but courage and a sense of joy. Nothing else would be appropriate; nothing else would do.

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ He smiled at her, lay back on his pillows. ‘You look so – so beautiful, Florence. What a picture to take with me to eternity. How lucky I am. How lucky I have been . . . Oh, Jesus!’ His face distorted again. ‘This isn’t – isn’t too good. I feel awfully cold suddenly. And a bit sick . . . maybe you’d better get that chilly creature in. Oh Christ!’

  She stood up, alarmed and he reached for her hand, pulled her near to him again.

  ‘If – if this is it – goodbye, dearest Little Flo. Thank you . . .’ The husky voice was growing more laboured. ‘Jesus . . .’

  She looked at him, terrified, then ran to the door.

  ‘Athina! Nurse! Come quickly!’

  He died two hours later; again, Bertie called her to tell her.

  ‘I heard you were here, when he had the second one, and I knew you’d want to know. It was – it was very peaceful in the end.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’

  And she was. And she had, almost, been there.

  She sat for hours that evening, completely unaware of time passing, not even grieving yet, but thinking, remembering, reliving. Fifty years had separated the first kiss, in the taxi, after the heady flirtation in the bar at The Ritz, and what she now knew had been the last that day, and the time between, the lovely, loving times came swiftly back to her, making her smile, keeping faith with him. Their first night together in Paris, in the small, charming pension and the dinner at Brasserie Lipp that had made it so inevitable; their apartment, on the edge of Passy, and whole weekends spent there in bed; shopping at Chanel, Cornelius lavishly generous, the glorious days in Grasse, dining at the Colombe d’Or, and Cornelius’s promise to her; long, gloriously dangerous afternoons in her parlour in the Berkeley Arcade. She set aside the other, less happy memories, the lonely days and weeks without him, the baby, her romance with Timothy Benning, allowed herself the great, albeit guilty, savouring of her raised profile at the company, her elevation to the board, while Athina fumed; reliving all the fun, the excitement, the sheer delight in so many ways that he had brought her: Cornelius, her love, her great, true love.

  She remembered every Cornelius that night, not just the charming, brilliant, generous Cornelius, risking everything so that they might spend an evening or a day together, sitting smiling at her across a room or a table, or a bed, telling her how lovely she was and how much he loved her, but the frequently irritable, sometimes pompous, occasionally morose Cornelius, railing against business, marital and even extra-marital problems, managing at the most extreme of these moods to blame her for many of them.

  And through them all, all the memories, she knew she had been more lucky than many many women, who had been married to men they did not really love, or even like, mean men, dull men, impotent men. The man she had shared her life with, and certainly the very best of her life, had made it richer, more exciting, more full of joy. She had felt loved and valued and enjoyed; that had been his gift to her, and no one could take it away; and now, even as grief began to move in on her, cold and dreadful, she knew she would not have changed a moment of any of it.

  Chapter 51

  It turned out to be a match made in heaven, Jess Cochrane and Farrell’s. Susie could see it would be from the moment she was shown to their table, just from the clothes she was wearing, not some flashy dress, but jeans, a pale pink crêpe shirt with huge sleeves, and high-heeled boots. She had a mass of blond hair, falling straight over her shoulders, what had once been called a rosebud mouth, that curved into large dimples when she smiled, and enormous green eyes, with extraordinarily long eyelashes which were, astonishingly, real.

  She must have been aware, Susie thought, that the entire restaurant was staring at her, pointing her out, but the first thing she said, in the most unluvvie-like way, was, ‘Hi Susie. I’m Jess,’ as if Susie might not have known. And then, as she sat down, she said, ‘I am just so, so excited to meet you and hear about this.’

  So as well as being seriously beautiful, she was nice. That was probably the most important thing after the beauty. Freddie Alexander, on the other hand, overglossed, dressed almost entirely in black, with only a massive gold necklace dangling into her cleavage, was clearly not nice. And then Jess was hugely intelligent, and up for anything and full of ideas. Maybe that was the most important thing.

  In fact, without her idea, Susie had to admit, the whole campaign would have been a lot less exciting.

  Talking her into the campaign had been a breeze; she jumped at it.

  ‘I love it,’ she said, to Freddie Alexander’s clear disapproval, before they had even ordered, ‘love, love, love it. It’s perfect. I’d adore to do it.’

  ‘Jess,’ said Freddie Alexander, with a venomous glance at Susie, ‘surely we need to discuss it, you need to think about it a bit more—’

  ‘I don’t want
to discuss it and I don’t need to think about it. I love it.’

  Susie felt she was falling in love with her herself.

  Two days later, she came into the office to meet Bianca.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘lovely to meet you. I hope Susie’s told you how thrilled I am about this?’

  ‘She certainly has,’ said Bianca, ‘and I can tell you I’m as thrilled.’

  ‘It’s going to be really, really fun. And I just love the thought of being projected on to the front of your building, it’s so cool. But . . .’ She looked at them and smiled her ravishing dimpled smile, ‘I had an idea. I think it would be even more wonderful.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I wondered about a competition? Guessing whose face it was, building up, day by day. And then revealing it at your launch. How about that? Of course if you don’t like it . . .’

  Susie and Bianca looked at each other and spoke in unison: ‘We like it.’

  ‘And then I thought, but it would have to be shot in profile, and maybe a bit of the rest of me as well, so it wasn’t immediately obvious, and I don’t know how you’d feel about that?’

  Susie and Bianca felt pretty good.

  It was all too good to be true.

  And so it was all beginning to happen. Fragments of Jess’s lovely face, shot in profile, as she had suggested, her back turned to camera, dressed in a long, sequinned sheath dress, her hair draped simply over her shoulder, the fragments slowly forming the image as the clock ticked away the seconds; the message on the website and in the press and innumerable tweets that something beautiful was going to happen at the House of Farrell; and telling them also, that if they cared to go along to the House of Farrell and look at its frontage, they would see it slowly come alive; a press release and leaflets on all the Farrell counters (and, of course, the website) announced the competition and that the lucky winner would be invited to the launch of the new Farrell’s and meet the owner of the face; and Susie called all her favourite journos and bloggers, telling them they should go along and look at the clock. ‘And this is only the first part of our incredibly exciting launch, for Farrell’s is being reborn, so don’t write it off as a brand of the past’ and tweeted endlessly day after day saying ‘Have you seen the Farrell clock yet?’ or ‘Are you entering our amazing competition?’