A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  And after that things just got better and better . . .

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Bianca, staring at the site; ‘that is just amazing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Tod struggled to look modest. ‘We are seriously pleased with it. But now look, here’s the final refinement, pick your shop – here’s the list, look, under outlets – scroll down . . . that’s . . . right, Paris, New York, Milan – OK, now click and there you are. Isn’t that great? God, they’ve worked fast, those franchise people of yours.’ It was indeed great, a replica of The Shop, in that lovely cobbled street in SoHo, with the tall trees, with the two steps leading up to the glass-paned front door . . . She lingered on that for rather too long, smiling, remembering that street, that day, then moved on, clicked on Sydney.

  ‘And then you see, we go down here, and then here it is, the inside, and then the invitation to go shop – you like?’

  ‘Oh, Tod, I do like. It’s amazing. I totally love it. It really is as good as I ever dared hope, no, much much better. Singapore? Oh, my God, that is lovely! Look, that street is just perfect, we were so lucky to get it, and the little shop too – this is just so exciting, Tod.’

  ‘I know. And so when we do the global switch on—’

  ‘The global switch on . . .’ Bianca looked at him, thinking over the past few days and how nearly there had been no global switch on, no relaunch, no shops, no House of Farrell even, and how devastated he would have been, they all would have been, and sent up a small prayer of gratitude for Florence and the fact that Cornelius Farrell had been so in love with her he had bequeathed this incredible legacy. More incredible than he realised, of course, but that was fine, it meant they could all share it.

  Florence’s generosity was boundless. She had told Bianca she must regard the money, or rather the facility to borrow the money, as the company’s own. She said life would hold very little for her without the House of Farrell, and there was very little she wanted that would require a large – or even a small – loan.

  ‘Except perhaps a couple of Chanel jackets . . .’ And she smiled.

  ‘Well, tell you what,’ said Bianca, ‘two things: I shall personally ensure you have a large salary hike, if the global launch is the success it deserves to be—’

  ‘Not if, will be,’ said Florence firmly.

  ‘And then you and I will go to Paris together and to Chanel, and I will help you, if I may, choose the two most beautiful jackets in the collection.’

  ‘You may indeed,’ Florence said. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more – unless, of course, it was Cornelius himself. But I would still like you to be there, Bianca. My word, he would have liked and admired you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, of course. He always said working was what made women three dimensional. The other sort were only two.’

  ‘That’s really nice,’ said Bianca. ‘I like that. I don’t know that Patrick would agree with him – at the moment, anyway. He’d like me very much two-dimensional, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Florence, ‘a few weeks and he’d be bored to tears.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, dearest, most generous Florence, I must go. I have so much to do.’

  ‘Of course. But there is one thing: we still have to be sure that Athina doesn’t have the first idea about any of this. That is the one condition of my doing this. Presumably we can spin some cock-and-bull story about where the money’s come from?’

  ‘Florence,’ said Bianca gently, ‘remember only four of us – five, if we count your Mr Smythe and he’s bound by his professional code not to reveal it – anyway, only five of us ever knew there was a problem. Athina certainly didn’t. No explanations therefore need to be given, all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Florence and the smile she gave Bianca was beatific in its happiness and relief. ‘That had not occurred to me. How wonderful! Thank you, Bianca. I was still a little worried. No, very worried.’

  Bianca kissed her and saw her into a taxi, taking her home to Pimlico – ‘you’ve had such a traumatic day, even if the ending was so happy’ – and then made her own way in the direction of Cavendish Street.

  And thought how extraordinarily sweet a person Florence must be, that she remained so completely determined that no breath of her relationship with Cornelius should ever be suspected by anyone, least of all Athina. Athina, who spent most of her life both belittling Florence and aggrandising herself at Florence’s expense.

  And then had the slightly cynical thought that everyone loved Florence and considered her wonderful and that view might well change if it was known that she had been conducting an adulterous affair with Cornelius, directly under Athina’s nose, for over half a century.

  And that made her love Florence even more.

  Bianca felt completely exalted; she felt that if she opened the window she could have flown home. As it was, she sat smiling rather foolishly at everyone who came in and she confined herself to rather mundane tasks, aware that if anyone asked her for a rise, or an increase in budget or even suggested a change in the packaging, she would agree to whatever it was. Only when everyone had gone home, did she allow herself the luxury of relishing the joy and the triumph and the sweet, sure knowledge that it was all going to happen, that Farrell’s would be safe, that the campaign would happen, and looked back on to the terror of the last week, worse than the worst of bad dreams, and consigned it to history.

  She realised something else too; something that she had always known, if she was truthful, how much her work in general, but with Farrell’s in particular, meant to her; that it was indeed so intrinsic a part of her that to ask her to part with it would be like asking her to part with a limb, or indeed her voice. She didn’t know quite what that made her, clearly a dreadful mother, and quite possibly an appalling wife as well, and she could see also that once Farrell’s was safe, she should perhaps leave and do something less consuming. But for now, it was her responsibility, as much as her own children were, and she had to see it through, and to fail it and everyone who worked for it, would be dreadfully irresponsible and even wrong. She should not, perhaps, have taken it on in the first place, should have seen the dangers of what it might do to her life; but she had not known then that Patrick would be no longer absolutely behind her, and caring for the family when she could not. Such assumptions were wrong; she should have considered him more. But they were where they were, as Patrick so frequently said, and, under the present circumstances, immovable.

  And she would have to tell him that, and she quailed from it. Until now, until today with all its extraordinary happenings, she had still not seen things with quite the necessary clarity. But she had told him now that she had made a proper decision and they had agreed they would talk that evening . . .

  To distract herself just a little she returned to the happiness, the new happiness that was the House of Farrell. She logged on to the site, the magical site that had so nearly been wasted and made a tour of her beautiful shops, her own private global tour. Saving until last the one, set two steps up from a cobbled street, in SoHo New York, the one that would always be her favourite, and lingered there for a long time, staring at it, and remembering the time that had followed, that long, astonishing afternoon and knowing with absolute certainty that it had had no bearing on her decision whatsoever.

  Afterwards, on that very special day in New York when finally it was done, when they were done, she had looked at him, and he smiled and spoke for the first time since they had entered the room.

  ‘I knew it would be like that,’ he said.

  She had felt little guilt later; it had been so absolute an experience, removed from reality, snatched out of time, and acknowledged by both of them as such, never to be repeated, never referred to. She remembered it, of course, and she always would, but it had nothing to do with the stuff of her marriage, it trailed no responsibilities, no promises, no love, merely carnal pleasure of the most extraordinary kind. There could be no comparison with the lifelon
g affair between Florence and Cornelius, for example, so filled with love and loyalty which was a marriage in its own way. No comparison either, with some careless one-night stand, devoid of humour, charm, and any kind of emotional intimacy. It had come and it had gone again, never to return, a meteor hurtling through their lives, leaving only a brilliant memory. Indeed the only guilt she felt, and was amused by the observation, was that she felt none.

  Milly sat gazing at the blog that Lucy’s friend Fay delivered to her thousands of followers every day and literally had to dig her nails into the palms of her hands to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. For those eyes, those wide, heavily lashed eyes were hers, and so were those lips, glossy and peachy, and the dark smouldery eyes and dark lips were Jayce’s, and what made the pictures fun, and interesting, and had persuaded Fay to use them, and Bianca to agree that they didn’t break any embargoes, was that they weren’t serious step-by-step pictures; Lucy’s friend Fenella had snapped away as she and Jayce and Lucy all worked on each other, laughing and clearly enjoying themselves hugely and Fay had written about her friend Lucy, make-up artist for the House of Farrell, and granddaughter of its founder, working with some young friends who’d volunteered as models, on some of the new looks she was creating for the brand’s relaunch in June. ‘Such a cool story,’ the blog went on. ‘The brand was launched in the Queen’s coronation year, and is relaunching almost sixty years later, as the Queen celebrates her Diamond Jubilee. I’m not giving away any more now, but believe me, you’re going to want to wear these looks. And watch this space – there’s an amazing story to come.’

  Tomorrow the blog would be published online and possibly, probably, well certainly, Lucy said, someone from school, probably via their big sisters or mothers would see it. ‘And then let’s see what happens, shall we?’

  She heard her mother come in; heard her running upstairs. There was a knock at her door.

  ‘Hi, darling. Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Mum, look at these. It’s amazing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ She looked at the blog and smiled. ‘And you and Jayce look so lovely. How exciting. Nice publicity for Farrell’s too.’

  ‘Yes, it is. Well, when the launch is a great success, I’ll expect a big raise in my allowance.’

  ‘If it’s a great success.’

  ‘Mum, don’t be silly. It’s bound to be. With you doing it. That’s what Lucy said anyway.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Bianca, reaching out and touching Milly’s cheek.

  ‘Lucy says you’re a complete star.’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Yes. And she says her grandmother really admires you. And she says that doesn’t often happen.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Bianca. ‘Well, she has a funny way of showing it, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Well, she is very grand,’ said Milly, ‘and terribly important. Anyway, I felt really proud of you. Oh, listen, there’s Dad just come in. Do you think he’d like to see this?’

  ‘Of course he will. But possibly not just now, if you don’t mind. We have stuff to discuss, very important.’

  Bianca gave Milly a kiss and went downstairs to have what she knew would be one of the most important conversations of her life.

  Chapter 55

  ‘Mrs Bailey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Athina Farrell. I wonder if I could have a word with you.’

  Terror and guilt in equal measures struck Bianca. Had she heard something about the online campaign? Had she confronted Florence? Had she been on to the VCs?

  And how, on a completely different tack, had she known that this was the worst possible moment for her to call, with Patrick having just left the house in a mood of such black rage and misery that Bianca feared for his safety. She had only answered her phone because she thought it might have been him, despite the fact he was most unlikely to have called at all and even less likely that he should do it on the landline. But, she thought, snatching it up, it could be the police or a hospital or—

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t know. It’s not the most convenient time.’

  ‘It’s not very convenient for me either, Mrs Bailey. But I have been very busy and I have also tried several times and found you out of your office.’

  ‘You could have called my mobile.’

  ‘Mrs Bailey, I detest mobile phones. Nobody ever concentrates on what anyone is saying, and they intrude on the most important situations.’

  Not like you are doing now, thought Bianca, and on my landline. And why should you think I am going to concentrate on anything you say now, with my husband leaving me and my marriage over?

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, perhaps if it could be quite brief. I’ve got various problems with the children and—’

  ‘Can’t your husband deal with them? I thought that was what men did these days. Unnatural, in my view, but it seems to be considered quite normal.’

  A very large lump seemed to be rising in Bianca’s chest, making speech difficult; she crushed it as best she could.

  ‘He – he isn’t here just now.’

  ‘I see. Well, I will keep it brief. I just wanted to say how much I appreciated your speech at Bertie’s leaving party yesterday. It was very – generous.’

  Short of Patrick walking back into the room and begging her forgiveness, nothing could have astonished Bianca more. She said nothing.

  ‘He – well, he was always a disappointment to us. But I think perhaps that was partly our own fault. We didn’t always recognise where his talents lay. You seem to have done rather better.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see. Well, I – we – are all very fond of Bertie. And sorry to see him go.’

  ‘That is why I am calling you. I wondered if you had tried to persuade him to stay?’

  ‘Well – of course. But he was quite clear. He didn’t want to. For many reasons.’

  ‘I think he might want to now,’ said Athina. ‘I think you should ask him again.’

  ‘Lady Farrell, I really don’t think that would be the right thing to do. Bertie has accepted a new job, he’s bought a house, he is – forgive me for mentioning it – getting divorced. For all those reasons I think it better for him to go and for us to respect his decision. Oh dear – excuse me, Lady Farrell . . .’

  For the lump had now risen too high for her to deal with it any longer because Patrick’s last words to her had been that he respected her decision even if it did mean their marriage was over . . .

  ‘Mrs Bailey, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You sound rather – odd.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I – well, perhaps I’d better go.’

  ‘You’re crying, aren’t you?’ said Athina, her tone more accusatory than sympathetic.

  ‘No. Not really. I mean, well – I—’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Of course not, you silly old witch. I often cry when nothing’s wrong. And then she remembered how she always cried when she and Patrick had just had sex, and they hadn’t had sex for so long she couldn’t remember when, and then, to her utmost astonishment, she heard herself saying, ‘A bit wrong, yes. My husband and I – we – well, we just had rather a bad row.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Athina said, in tones that were not in the least sympathetic. ‘But it must be a regular occurrence, surely?’

  ‘Not very, no.’

  ‘How extraordinary. Cornelius and I rowed all the time.’

  ‘Really?’ Bianca said politely, while thinking the Farrell marriage was hardly an ideal parallel.

  ‘Oh yes. It’s a good sign, I always think, means at least you care enough to bother. Although it is an appalling waste of time and energy. I used to resent that.’

  She was right, of course, Bianca thought: all she felt fit for now was going to bed, when she had all manner of things to do, emails to write (and read, that was the downside of the franchised shops), a final media schedule to study an
d sign off . . . And then wondered what on earth she was doing discussing her marriage with someone who had gone out of her way for over a year to make her life as near to impossible as made no difference. She’d be telling her Patrick had left next.

  ‘You’re right about that certainly,’ she said. ‘I do feel exhausted. And I can’t afford that. With the launch and everything.’

  ‘Well, of course you can’t. You concentrate on your work, that’s my advice. You can’t afford not to, not at the moment. I presume he hasn’t actually walked out?’

  Was this possible, this conversation? No. It couldn’t be. She—

  ‘Well, even if he has,’ said Athina, reading her silence correctly, ‘he’ll be back. He’ll get over it, they always do. It’s hard for them, I do see that—’

  ‘For who?’

  ‘Men, taking second billing. With wives more successful than they are. It’s pathetic, of course, but I suppose it’s natural.’

  ‘Patrick is – very successful,’ said Bianca firmly.

  ‘Well, he may be in his own world. But you’re the star. I mean no offence of course.’

  ‘Er – no. Of course not.’

  There was clearly little point in discussing this one.

  ‘But surely,’ Bianca said, fascinated against her will by this insight into the Farrell marriage, ‘but surely you and your husband had – well – equal billing?’

  ‘We did in a way, but he knew I was the driving force, the person everyone respected, no getting away from it. And I fronted the company, of course. Well, I’m sorry you don’t feel you can approach Bertie about staying on.’

  ‘I – I really don’t, I’m afraid. And I don’t think he would, for anyone.’

  ‘I must say you were rather my only hope. I suppose I have to accept it. He is an adult, after all.’

  ‘He is indeed,’ said Bianca. ‘And now, Lady Farrell, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take your advice and do some work.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, don’t worry about your husband, Mrs Bailey. He’ll be back, one way or another. Goodnight.’