‘Yes, all right. Would you like another of those?’ Nodding at her glass.
‘Yes please. That is . . .’ better have her wits about her ‘. . . no, I’ll have a coffee please.’
He disappeared, she emailed Florence; sat back on the sofa, smiled nervously at him when he came back in.
‘Right. Do I have your attention?’
‘Yes, you do.’
The door opened; Milly looked in.
‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. Could you just look at these? I’m so excited. And they’re going to go on this girl’s blog next week. Oh, and this is Jayce. Doesn’t she look amazing?’
‘Yes, she does!’ said Bianca. She had been expecting something very different from this smouldering-eyed creature, with high cheekbones and slicked-back, short blond hair.
‘She had sort of long hair before, just bundled up in a messy ponytail. Lucy suggested she had it cut and she’s lost loads of weight already, about four kilos, and Lucy says it always shows on your face first. And look, here are the step-by-steps – it’s so clever – and then I’ll show you the little film, well actually it’s the stills speeded up, that was the photographer’s idea, she was really cool.’
Bianca and Patrick looked at them together, at the dozens of photographs, united briefly by seeing their daughter slowly transformed, little by little, from the near-child they knew so well into someone almost unrecognisable.
‘They’re lovely, Milly,’ said Bianca.
‘Absolutely agree,’ said Patrick.
‘You really think so?’
‘We really think so. And your friend – Jayce – looks great too.’
‘I think so. Cool. Um – I was just wondering if, well, if I could ask her here sometime. Maybe for a sleepover? I think she could cope with it now. Now she looks so much better.’
‘Of course. Of course you can. Or we could all have supper together maybe?’
‘Mum,’ said Milly, giving her a withering look, ‘we’re not children.’
‘No. No, of course not,’ said Bianca humbly.
‘I’ll ask her,’ said Milly. ‘We’re not going to the country this weekend?’
‘No,’ said Patrick and ‘We’re not,’ said Bianca, their voices equally adamant.
‘Cool,’ said Milly. ‘We haven’t been for ages. Not that I mind,’ she added hastily, ‘but – any reason?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Bianca, ‘but—’
‘No, no, it’s OK,’ said Milly. ‘You don’t have to explain.’ Her voice was slightly ironic and she grinned at them. She really was more herself, thought Bianca. At least something – a very important something – was going in the right direction.
Milly disappeared and Patrick looked at Bianca.
‘Right. It’s to do with—’
Bianca’s phone vibrated. She looked at it.
Florence.
‘Patrick, I have to answer this. I’m sorry.’
He sighed. ‘All right. But I do want to talk to you about our future and I have to say a message seems to be coming over rather loud and clear that it is of little interest to you, without your having to actually spell it out.’
‘I’m sorry. Truly. I won’t be long.’
Florence sounded excited, slightly breathless. ‘I can talk to the solicitor first thing tomorrow. He got my message, some secretary had taken pity on me and managed to contact him. He told her to ring me and . . .’
‘Oh my God, Florence, that is – that is amazing! Look, hold on a moment.’
She looked at Patrick. He was looking oddly resigned, almost patient.
‘Patrick, I do have to take this and it will take time. I’m sorry, and I’ll explain when – when I’ve talked to her. It really is desperately important. You’ll understand I promise when I explain . . . Florence, hello, don’t go away—’
‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Patrick, getting up. ‘I really have better things to do than sit here, listening to your phone calls. I think I probably have my answer, Bianca. There seems very little more to be said. If you have anything to add, I shall be interested to hear it, of course, but I find it hard to imagine it will be of much interest to me. Meanwhile, don’t let me keep you any longer from your extremely important work.’
Bertie woke up feeling absolutely terrified: that he was finally leaving Farrell’s, which meant the family, as much as the job. No point pretending he could have it both ways, work for someone else and still be part of this extraordinary, difficult, brilliant, demanding, and quite often unpleasant thing that was not just his family, not merely (merely?) his mother and his sister but a creative and commercial force, the thing their parents had created. And having created it, had forced all of them to live within its confines.
And there he had been judged and found wanting, not just by his parents, but by the company itself; he was not clever enough, not creative enough, not even efficient enough to contribute to it and its success. Never mind that his talents lay in quite different areas from the ones that the House of Farrell demanded; to pursue those talents was deemed not even worthy of consideration. He knew he would have enjoyed being, and done well as a teacher, say, or an architect, but as a member of the Farrell family that would have been of no account: he would not have been one of them, and in the future that would also be the case. He would be an outsider, dismissed, of no real consequence; dear old Bertie, poor old Bertie, and in the case of his mother, disloyal and unfilial Bertie.
It seemed a disproportionately large step, therefore, that he was taking; and although he was still sure it was the right one, increasingly terrifying.
Lara woke up feeling depressed. As she woke up at five, she had a great deal of time to feel it; she opened her curtains and lay staring into the slowly lightening sky, thinking about Bertie and how dreadfully she was going to miss him, wondering, for what must have been the hundredth time, what had gone wrong between them, and also how she was going to get through the party without crying and making a complete fool of herself. So many people had noticed their friendship over the months since she had joined Farrell’s; their sandwich lunches, their shared jokes, their rapport in meetings, and she knew were speculating upon its cooling. For this reason alone she was glad to have Chris Williams in her life to talk about, at least, and had arranged a date with him that evening: partly to distract her from her misery but also to have an excuse for leaving the party before it got too late. Otherwise, she knew, she would never have been able to tear herself away.
Bianca woke up feeling sick. And for the second time in her life, the first having occurred two days earlier, completely helpless. The point being there was no clear answer to the dilemma Patrick had put her in; however passionately she might love him and value their marriage, there could be no excuse in human terms, never mind professionally, for walking out of a company in the week it was quite possibly declared at worst, bankrupt, and at best, impossible to save. What did she say to them all, to her loyal, incredibly hard-working team? Sorry guys, but I’m leaving today, giving up work to spend time with my family and oh, by the way, there’s no more money, so there’ll be no global launch, no advertising campaign, and the company will probably go down, hope you’re OK with that.
And even if by some miracle – and it would be one – it didn’t go down, and the relaunch actually happened, she was the cornerstone of it, the face of it, to a large extent, directing it, driving it through. So either way she would fail them all utterly.
She had tried to put this to Patrick, begged for a bit more time – she seemed to spend her life doing that at the moment – but he had just looked at her in his new, distant way and said since she was still hesitating, then he felt he had his answer. She had said he had nothing of the sort, and she was simply not prepared to let him think so; he said he was sorry, but it was all very simple to him.
She felt extraordinarily confused; at the same time shocked at herself for not seeing her marriage as of prime importance in her life while wondering if, indeed, it was an
y more, angry with Patrick for what she saw as the ultimate emotional blackmail, desperately sad that they should have come to this, and, of course, anxious about the children, who had already endured enough at her hands and those of both Farrell’s and Saul.
There was no one she could talk to who was not already involved with one situation or another; it was, as Patrick had so forcefully pointed out, her decision. His small, sad statement when he first delivered the ultimatum, that he really didn’t mind very much which way that decision went had made her heart ache and her sense of guilt soar.
And given what had happened in New York, did she deserve Patrick? The new one perhaps, the cold distant, harsh one: but she had no right to the old one, the loyal, patient, supportive Patrick, who had been at the centre of her life for sixteen years or more and who had loved her and she had loved so very much. What had happened to them? she wondered again and again as she moved through those horrendous days, with not an hour of any of them happy. Where had they lost one another so totally, as it seemed, and how? Even facing all her wrongdoings – and she was merciless towards herself – she still couldn’t quite believe it had happened.
Athina woke up feeling, most unusually, nervous. This being Bertie’s leaving day, and this ridiculous party planned, she wasn’t at all sure how she was going to cope with it. Clearly she must attend; it would be seen as the most extraordinary breach of family as well as professional etiquette if she did not, but she longed to be able to stay away. She still felt that Bertie’s move from the firm was an appalling display of disloyalty and, in her opinion, arrogance as well, that he could think he was going to achieve success in a firm where he had no history, no reassuring inbuilt support. For the whole of his working life he had been sheltered from the consequences of his inadequacies; first Cornelius and then she had tolerated him as he bumbled his way along, first in sales, then admin and finally as financial director of Farrell’s, a job he would certainly not have been employed to do with any other company.
‘We’ve got excellent accountants,’ Cornelius said once, when she was complaining bitterly about Bertie’s most recent lapse, failing to put the rising rate of VAT into his financial forecast. ‘They’ll save us from really serious problems. And we have to give the boy a job. I for one don’t want to see him in another firm, doing something second-rate and failing even at that. He’s not over-bright, I know, but people seem to like him and that’s important.’
Athina said people liking Bertie wasn’t going to help the company if he continued to place them in financial difficulties, but Cornelius said she was exaggerating and that he was not prepared to move Bertie into another inferior position, and indeed it was one of his last requests in the days following his first heart attack, that she should remember Bertie was their son and doing his best, and she should never even consider that someone else take over his job.
Well, Bianca Bailey had done that very swiftly, and moved Bertie into that foolish position which anyone with even half his brain could have done; and what was the result? An inflated opinion of himself, and a distressingly public break from the family. She could never forgive him for that; and now she had to go along this evening and pretend with everyone else that he had done wonderfully at Farrell’s and he was a great loss. Well, hopefully it would soon be over. She had been approached for a contribution to his leaving present, but had declined, telling Christine that it would be inappropriate for her, as his mother, to do such a thing.
‘Whatever would people think?’ she said. ‘You might as well suggest I contributed to my own present when I leave.’
She failed to notice that Christine, usually so swift to agree with her every utterance, remained silent.
Bianca Bailey had asked her if she would like to say a few words, but she had looked at her in astonishment.
‘What on earth could I say that was remotely positive, when I feel so very strongly he is making an appalling mistake, and displaying considerable disloyalty to me and indeed to the memory of his father at the same time. I’m sure you’ll be able to find a few meaningless words suited to the occasion.’
But now that the day had come, she found herself surprisingly saddened at the prospect of her only son leaving the family as well as the firm, deny it as she might, and she rather dreaded showing this in public. Eyes would undoubtedly be on her and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself.
Well, no doubt it would all be over quite quickly. She decided she would arrive at the party early, since attendance was bound to be low and thus be able to leave after a very short time. She was keenly looking forward to that at least.
‘Good morning, Miss Hamilton. Simon Smythe here, Smythe Tarrant Solicitors.’
‘Good morning, Mr Smythe. It’s extremely kind of you to interrupt your holiday in this way.’
‘Oh, not at all. In any case, it was less of a holiday more of a break, if you follow me. And besides, this is an important matter we need to discuss. Certain things have changed since I set up the deed of gift for Sir Cornelius, with which I need to acquaint you. I was debating as to whether I should contact you, but Sir Cornelius was always emphatic that the first approach should come from you, and naturally I took my instructions from him. We spoke a day or two before he died, and he stressed that once again.’
‘Yes, and that was my wish also,’ said Florence.
‘Indeed?’ said Simon Smythe, audibly brushing aside any wishes she might have had in the matter as of little importance.
‘Yes. Very much so.’
‘I see. Well, as I say, I am merely following Sir Cornelius’s instructions. Now when can we meet?’
‘As – as soon as possible, please,’ said Florence. ‘The situation that has driven me to contact you is quite pressing.’
‘I see. Well, today is out of the question, I fear. I could see you tomorrow at our offices, which are in Guildford. Could you make your way there?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Excellent. Well, shall we say ten o’clock? And I would be grateful if you were not late. I have a very heavy schedule, first day back in the office . . .’
‘Ten would be splendid,’ said Florence, ‘and I do assure you I am not in the habit of being late.’
‘That’s what all the ladies say,’ said Mr Smythe and there was no hint of humour in his voice. ‘My experience is a little different.’
‘Mr Smythe, I will not be late. I am a working woman, I value time, my own and other people’s very highly. So. If you could just give me the address?’
‘Perhaps you could ask my secretary for that,’ said Mr Smythe. ‘She can give you directions as well, you’ll obviously need them . . .’
He clearly saw imparting such information as the work of minions. Preferably female ones. Florence said she would ring his secretary.
‘He is the most irritating man,’ she said to Bianca on the phone, ‘incredibly patronising. He sounded quite old. Entrenched opinions, no doubt.’ Florence always made it clear that she did not consider herself in the least old. It was one of the few things she had in common with Athina. ‘But he does seem to have something to tell me. Something important I mean.’
‘God, I wish I could come too. But I have to see Hugh and Mike. Which I can’t duck; they’re going to spell out the new terms, I’ll have to sign things, oh, God!’
‘I would have liked that,’ said Florence. ‘You could have asked all the clever questions I’ll forget. But I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be quite enough,’ said Bianca. ‘And anyway, Mr Smythe might not have liked it. What he has to say is probably highly confidential.’
‘Bianca, I am the client,’ said Florence firmly. ‘As such I can decide who to bring with me – although Mr Smythe clearly has difficulty with that.’
‘Oh really? Who does he think is the client then?’
‘Cornelius, clearly,’ said Florence, ‘even from beyond the grave!’
‘Good morning, Bertie. Big day today!’ Lara’s voice was c
arefully upbeat. There was no way she was going to allow Bertie to see she was even remotely cast down by his imminent departure.
‘Yes, indeed.’ He carefully avoided meeting her eye.
‘I’m looking forward to the party. I may not be able to stay too terribly long, I—’
‘Oh, it won’t be going on long,’ said Bertie, looking alarmed. ‘Just a few drinks and—’
‘A few speeches?’
‘Speeches? Oh, good lord no!’
‘Bertie, you must make a speech,’ said Lara, genuinely shocked, ‘I know Bianca’s going to.’
‘Oh, heavens!’
‘And everyone’s coming, absolutely everyone. They’ll expect it.’
‘What do you mean everyone? I thought just a small gathering was what was agreed . . . ?’
‘Everyone, Bertie.’
He looked at her, desperation in his eyes.
‘But what on earth am I going to say?’
‘Oh Bertie it doesn’t have to be a massive speech,’ said Lara, ‘just say goodbye and how you’ll miss everyone. And suppose there’s a presentation, which a little bird tells me there will be, you’ll have to at least say thank you for that.’
‘Oh no! Oh, dear . . .’ He looked so terrified she forgot about being cool and distant. ‘Poor Bertie, you mustn’t worry about it. D’you want me to help you think of what to say?’
‘Would you? I’d be so grateful.’ He smiled at her and suddenly it was the old Bertie sitting there. ‘Lara to the rescue once again. Well, it’ll be the last time, Lara. I’ll be out of your hair after today.’
‘I don’t—’ She stopped herself just in time from saying that the last thing she wanted was for him to be out of her hair. ‘I don’t mind at all, honestly. Now, let’s see. If I sit next to you, we can do it together and it’ll sound much more like you.’ She pulled a chair next to his, sat beside him. ‘Now then. The main thing is to say thank you for the – the present. Whatever it is. How much you appreciate it. And how much you’re going to miss everyone. That sort of thing. Right . . .’
A Perfect Heritage Page 66
