‘Oh Florence,’ said Bianca, ‘what an amazing story.’ Her voice shook slightly, and her eyes filled with tears. She brushed them impatiently away. ‘Sorry. I – I thought I too had the perfect marriage. Until quite recently. But now I don’t know. Everything’s changed.’
‘Because of someone else?’
‘No,’ said Bianca, a little too quickly she feared. ‘It’s the job. Well, both our jobs, I suppose. But right now it feels mostly about Farrell’s, that’s our biggest problem. And it’s a huge one at the moment. I mean really huge.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Florence gently. ‘And if you ever want to discuss it further, then I’m here. But I suspect you’ll sort it out for yourself. You have a lot on your plate, Bianca. You’ll feel so much better when the launch is over and you can relax a bit.’
‘No,’ said Bianca, ‘no, I won’t. I’ve got something else to tell you, Florence. In fact, it’s actually why I’m here, there’s something dreadful which almost nobody else knows about – yet.’ And she burst into tears.
And Florence indicated to her to join her on the chaise longue and put her arms round her and Bianca, between sobs, told her the whole dreadful story of the lease and the needed two million, and that the launch, the wonderfully brilliant launch would have to be cancelled; and then, when finally Bianca had finished and was wiping her eyes and blowing her nose and saying how sorry she was, Florence said very quietly, ‘I think I might be able to help.’
‘Oh – hello!’ God, she was gorgeous. He’d almost forgotten . . .
‘Hello. Nice to see you.’ God, he was amazing. She’d almost forgotten . . . ‘Um – what are you doing here?’ Could he possibly, by the remotest chance, be looking for her?
‘I’m waiting for Bianca.’ So – no. Not. ‘She and Patrick are taking me to dinner,’ he said.
‘Oh really? How nice.’
‘Yes, well it’s my birthday.’
‘Oh goodness. Happy birthday, Jonjo.’
And was it perhaps a good sign he was spending it with Bianca and Patrick and not some hot blonde?
‘Thanks. Yes. Forty today. I was going to have a party but then, well, decided not to.’
Because he wasn’t feeling terribly sociable? Because he didn’t have anyone to throw a party with?
He smiled at her rather awkwardly. ‘And they felt sorry for me and said I must do something. So, yes, they’re taking me out.’
‘That is so nice. They are so nice.’
‘They are indeed. And—’
The revolving doors opened and a very pretty girl – blonde, big-eyed, very good legs, quite a short skirt, came in, flung her arms round his neck and said, ‘Jonjo, sorry I’m late! Happy birthday!’
‘Thanks. You look great. So pleased you could come. Susie, this is—’
But Jonjo never completed his introduction; he was interrupted midway as the main doors opened again and an incredibly cool-looking bloke – tall, dark, and pretty bloody handsome really, came in.
‘Hi, darling,’ he said, kissing Susie. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Look, shall we go to the wine bar down the street? I really need a drink!’
‘Sure. God, I’m pretty wrecked, after last night – amazing, wasn’t it?’
‘Amazing. Excuse us, Jonjo, nice to see you again.’
And Susie and the cool bloke were gone, into the street, leaving Jonjo feeling faintly sick, shocked to find how upset he felt, and wanting more than anything to run after them and punch the bloke quite hard in the solar plexus.
And Susie hurried away from the building, feeling intensely relieved that at least she didn’t have to smile at the girl and shake her hand when she wanted to draw her nails slowly down her face and possibly kick her shins as well.
‘Sorry about that.’ Jonjo looked faintly embarrassed.
‘Who was she? Very pretty. Bit odd, though.’
‘Yes, well, she was my girlfriend for a short time. We parted a bit badly and I suppose she felt awkward.’
‘Oh, I see. You and your exes, Jonjo. Time you found Ms Right.’
‘I wish. I thought I had.’
‘Her?’
‘Yup.’
‘Oh, dear. Well – oh, hi Bianca, so lovely to see you. Thank you so much for asking me along.’
‘Not at all. I always love our foursomes. You’re looking great, Pippa. Isn’t she, Jonjo?’
‘Yes – and she’s got a new job at just about the smartest lawyers in town.’
‘You must be very proud of your little sister.’
‘I am. Um . . . I just saw Susie.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes. With a rather flashy character, dark leather jacket. Is he the new boyfriend?’
‘No, no, that must have been Tod Marchant. He looks after our advertising. Nice chap. Very good at his job. He is a bit flashy, but really, really nice. We were all out last night at an advertising bash, and he and his partner, Jack, picked up three awards.’
‘I see.’ Jonjo felt a little better. ‘So who is her new bloke?’
‘She hasn’t got a new bloke. Or even an old one. I keep her much too busy here. Now come on, Patrick’s booked the table for eight, so we can have a quick drink somewhere here and then go over to meet him. We thought the Orrery in Marylebone High Street. That OK for you?’
‘Yes, great,’ said Jonjo. He was feeling slightly bemused, scarcely hearing what Bianca was saying.
‘Sounds wonderful to me,’ said Pippa. ‘Jonjo! Where are you going?’
Jonjo knew about timing. His instincts about it were very finely honed; a lot of his job was about it, and how crucial it was. A second’s delay on a deal could literally cost billions.
He ran out into the street looking wildly right and left; no sign. Fuck! If he went the wrong way, minutes, not seconds, would be lost.
‘Scuse me mate,’ he said to a passer-by, ‘where’s the nearest wine bar?’
The man looked at him and grinned. ‘You must be desperate. One that way, but it’s crap. There’s one the other way, bit further, about four or five minutes’ walk, but worth it. You could always run I s’pose.’
‘Thanks.’
He ran. Praying it would be right. Surely Susie wouldn’t go to a crap wine bar?
‘I’ll have a white wine, please, Tod. Bit hungover.’
‘Me too. Hair of the dog’s what you need, always works. I hit the vodka with my morning coffee. Felt great. Hey, don’t want to be critical, Suze, but this is hardly my idea of a wine bar.’
‘I know. But I just wanted to get away from that bloke. The one in reception.’
‘He looked quite cool to me. Don’t tell me he’s some kind of perve?’
‘No, but we had a – a bit of a fling and it all ended not very well.’
‘Oh, OK. Well, we’ll have one drink here and then go back to your office. Where I thought we were meeting anyway.’
‘Yes, we were. Sorry.’
They weren’t in the nice wine bar. However hard he looked, even venturing into the toilets, waiting for someone to come out of the ladies’, they weren’t there. Or rather she wasn’t there. Fuck fuck fuck! He’d lost her. Maybe the other wine bar was where they’d gone. He ran out into the street again, past Farrell House and on. Susie, Susie, I can’t lose you now . . .
The wine bar was empty. Shit. This was awful. Of course he could phone her, but he knew, he totally knew, that the time was now. Now would work, now contained her, in all her sexy, gorgeous rightness; later he’d have time to think, she’d have time to think. Minds might be changed, courage might fail, common sense prevail . . .
‘Jonjo, what the fuck are you doing?’ Pippa was on the pavement looking for him, pink with anger. ‘How could you be so rude? Bianca’s waiting and they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to give you a nice birthday, and you just run away. Without a word.’
‘Sorry.’ He raised his hands. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. I just – well, doesn’t matter.’
‘You being f
ilthy fucking rude matters. I’m so ashamed of you. Now will you please come back, apologise to Bianca and let’s try to have a nice evening. You’re very lucky Bianca hasn’t just gone home.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Come on then.’
They walked back into Farrell House; Bianca was looking amused.
‘It’s OK, Jonjo. Honestly. These things happen. But let’s cut the drink and go straight to the Orrery, shall we?’
‘Sure. That sounds great.’ It sounded awful.
There was a pause; then Bianca said, her face not entirely innocent, ‘Susie came back, by the way. If it was her you were looking for?’
‘She came back?’
‘Yes. About two minutes ago. They’ll be in her office. You could—’
‘Jonjo! I can’t believe this. Where are you going?’
Bianca put her hand on Pippa’s arm. ‘It’s OK. It’s very, very important.’
Susie and Tod had their back to the door when Jonjo reached the office, looking at some roughs she had tacked on to her board.
Jonjo stood there, staring at her, at the fall of streaky blond hair, the slender figure that still managed to contain a very sexy bum, the seriously excellent legs, the superbly sexy high heels and didn’t say anything, just stood there, drinking her in. Then he said, ‘Susie?’
And she spun round, her eyes huge and round and shocked, and said ‘What?’ really not very warmly at all. Jonjo took a deep breath, and spoke across the vast distance that seemed to separate them. Saying what had to be said, quickly, before it was too late. Before he lost her again. This was no time for small talk.
‘Susie, listen to me. Please, please listen to me. I – well, I’ve missed you. Really missed you. In fact I – well, I think I might love you. Something like that anyway. Oh, and the girl downstairs is my sister; her husband’s babysitting which is why she’s coming out with us. Ask Bianca if you don’t believe me. Please, Susie, can we just – just be together again? Please?’
And it was indeed the right time, the right moment, and he knew he had judged it perfectly, and he had caught it, and made a lot more than a billion. Deal done. For Susie stood very still just for a moment and then took one step forward and then another, and then half ran across the room and hurled herself at him and put her arms round his neck, and kissed his face over and over again, laughing and crying at the same time and not saying anything at all.
And Tod Marchant looked at them and then grinned and picked up his things and walked out, patting Jonjo lightly on the arm as he went.
‘I’ll leave you to it, mate. Never liked playing gooseberry. I’ll call you tomorrow, Suze.’
And Jonjo said, ‘Thanks, mate, cheers.’ And then returned to the rather more important task of kissing Susie, and then suddenly pulled away from her and pulled out his phone and said, ‘Sorry, Susie, but I have to do this, I’ve been quite rude enough already. How would you like to make up a fivesome for the evening? I’m sure Bianca would agree.’
‘I’d love to,’ said Susie. ‘It sounds wonderful.’
Chapter 52
Bianca faced Mike and Hugh across the boardroom table.
‘Listen. Both of you. Could I please have just a few extra days? Something – well, something extraordinary’s come up and I might have found a solution.’
‘What sort of solution?’
‘I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.’
‘Bianca,’ said Mike and his face was grimmer than Bianca had ever seen it, ‘if you think we’re going to risk hundreds of thousands of pounds, which is what it costs to keep that company going for a few days, without your giving us a sound economic reason, rather than some secretive twaddle that is frankly unworthy of you, we’ll know for sure what we’ve suspected for quite a long time. Which is that you have no idea what you’re doing any more.’
‘Oh what?’
‘I agree,’ said Hugh. ‘This is a business endeavour with an enormous amount of money at stake, not a soap opera. The answer’s no. Saturday midnight is your deadline.’
‘But I may not be able to deliver by Saturday midnight!’
‘Well, that is your misfortune. Either you explain what on earth you’re talking about, or we pull the plug.’
‘But I can’t do that. It would be betraying an enormous confidence if I explained. I simply can’t. I promised. You have to trust me. Just for a few more days.’
‘Bianca, no.’
‘Well, all I can say is, you could be very sorry.’
‘And then again, we could not. We’re not prepared to risk it. Let’s meet again on Friday and see where we – you – are.’
She pulled out her phone in the taxi and called Florence.
‘Is there any way we can speed things up?’
‘Well, I don’t think so, no. The solicitor is away until Sunday and I don’t have a mobile number for him. And nobody else knows about it. Literally. I’m so sorry, Bianca. So very sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s not your fault. They . . .’ she hesitated, ‘. . . they said if I could tell them what it was all about, they might consider a few extra days. I said I wouldn’t. And I won’t. Unless you say so. But you don’t think . . . ?’
‘No, Bianca, I don’t. I’m sorry. Too much is at stake. In human terms, that is. I gave you this information because I trust you totally. You cannot, indeed you must not, betray that.’ Her voice filled with anxiety suddenly.
‘Florence, I won’t. Of course I won’t! But – it’s so hard. We could – we will lose Farrell’s.’
‘My dearest girl,’ said Florence, ‘there are things in this life even more important than Farrell’s.’
She arrived home early; she hadn’t the heart to stay at the office and for the first time in her entire working life, she used illness as an excuse, told Jemima she thought she was developing flu.
‘Which I can’t afford to do, so I’m going to try and ward it off.’
Jemima looked at her sympathetically. ‘Good idea,’ she said, ‘and there’s nothing in the diary, so why not? And you need to be on form tomorrow, for Bertie’s leaving party.’
God, she was dreading that now. All the jolly speeches, the references to how much they would miss him, when everyone would soon be missing everyone. And of course she would know, as she made her own speech, that he was doing exactly the right thing, getting out while he was ahead. HR directors of bankrupt companies didn’t usually find it very easy to get new jobs. He had chosen, for some reason, a Thursday rather than a Friday to leave and in a way she was glad: the party wouldn’t turn into a Friday booze-up, and last half the night.
‘Anyway,’ Jemima said, looking at her watch, ‘it’s nearly five and most people wouldn’t consider that particularly early anyway!’
If only, Bianca thought, if only she was most people. Most people didn’t have a multi-million-pound company to rescue. Most people wouldn’t have run up an extra two million pounds on the investment in that company; and if they did they probably wouldn’t even care. Most people weren’t about to let an entire workforce down; most people weren’t about to look totally foolish and incompetent; most people weren’t about to lose an exceptionally high-profile, professional reputation for ever. And most people hadn’t been given an ultimatum that was impossibly awful by their husband and have to give him an answer within the next twenty-four hours.
She wished passionately she could become most people.
Patrick came in looking in a very black mood.
‘You look jolly,’ she said. ‘Drink?’
‘No, thank you. I think we should retain clear heads. You seem to have started,’ he added, with a nod at her glass of wine.
‘I – need it. I’ve had a hideous day.’
‘How unusual.’
She ignored this. ‘How about yours?’
‘It was fine. I’ll just go and change. You could make me a strong coffee perhaps.’
She made the coffee while checking her emails and texts. Hoping against absurd hope that there would
be something from Florence. Or the VCs. Or . . . anyone, really.
There was one text, but it was from Jack. They were desperate to show her the site; it was finished. It looked sensational. Could they come over in an hour or so?
Bianca texted back, grateful that she didn’t actually have to speak to them, lest they pick up something from her voice, and said she was sorry, but she was at home and really couldn’t be disturbed.
She added briefly, trying to sound light-hearted, Trouble with schools. Just you wait till it’s your turn for that.
Jack wrote back: OK. Tomorrow morning then? No time to lose, we’ve got to get going with the test site asap.
Yes, hopefully. I’ll let you know.
Thanks.
She could tell she’d disappointed him. ‘It’s going to get a lot worse than that, boyo,’ she said aloud to her iPad and closed it.
Her phoned pinged; an email from Florence. Could they have a talk? She was very worried about the way things were going and was beginning to regret saying anything about ‘the possible solution’.
‘Oh God,’ said Bianca, staring distractedly at the screen and reaching for her phone at the same time. She was scrolling through it for Florence’s number when Patrick said, his voice icy with courtesy, ‘I would be grateful if you would put your phone away. I would like to have a conversation.’
‘Oh Patrick, for Christ’s sake don’t be so pompous,’ said Bianca. ‘I have to call Florence, it’s terribly important.’
‘Please don’t,’ said Patrick. ‘We have something else I want to discuss. I realise it’s nothing to do with Farrell’s but I would like to think it mattered a little.’
‘Patrick, please let me at least make this call.’
‘Will it take long?’
‘It – could.’
‘Well, let it wait.’
‘But why, you’re home for God’s sake, we’ve got all evening.’
‘I have to call Saul later.’
‘Fucking Saul!’ she said. ‘Always fucking Saul and his fucking phone calls.’ While thinking how grotesquely unfair of her it was to blame Patrick for Saul’s behaviour when . . . ‘All right. Well, let me at least email Florence, tell her I’ll call her later.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 65
