And the ticking clock countdown and the competition was an incredible success. People were coming for the day, it was announced, to stare at it, and they had already a handful of suggestions for the model’s identity. As only Jess’s hair, an eye and eyebrow and her neck (apart from the dress) were so far revealed, they were inevitably fairly wide of the mark, including one valiant effort of, ‘I think it’s Marilyn Monroe.’
Susie was pestered endlessly about that too: exactly who was this new face of Farrell, was she a model, an actress, some other kind of A-lister, and how did she fit in with the global launch? She fielded the questions only by saying they must be there, and it was an incredibly exciting event, like nothing that had ever been done before. ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t come, that’s all I can say!’
A week before the event, a handful of the news crews were to be invited to attend, with the two-pronged promise not only of an A-list presence, but a launch that was an online breakthrough. Susie knew the response would be very non-committal; nevertheless she was fairly confident, barring an announcement that Kate Cambridge was giving a press conference, previewing her clothes for the entire weekend, or some comparably impossible event. ‘Again it’s so marvellous we’ve got the Brownleys’ home as a venue – soooo much more intriguing.’
They had a great stroke of luck as May proceeded; the producers of Jess’s new film had found their male lead. Dan Fleming was not only one of the current new heart-throbs and absurdly good-looking, he was also a very good actor and had been nominated the year before for a Golden Globe. His agent was keen to announce the whole package, the film, the stars, the location (Regency London) and, given the excitement about everything that was happening in twenty-first century London, it seemed ridiculous not to. There was a press conference at the Savoy and Dan’s and Jess’s faces were in every paper next day and on several news programmes that evening.
‘Brilliant!’ said Bianca. ‘Our guardian angels are working overtime for us at last.’
The whole thing should get tweeted immediately, Susie thought (notionally crossing her fingers), make the later editions of the Standard and the major blogs and online press by evening and the printed papers the following day. If it all caused enough of a stir, they should make the weeklies, but there was considerable competition that week for column inches.
The only thing they still hadn’t cracked was exactly how Athina, arguably one of their greatest treasures, was going to be brought into it all. As she didn’t know anything about it still (Bianca was going to take her out to dinner the week before and do a complete presentation), this was not an easy one. Florence was not alone in fearing that, plan as they might, Athina’s reaction was utterly unpredictable and could be dangerous. Very dangerous.
It was definitely, definitely getting better. Milly could feel it in the air, almost literally; walking into the classroom no longer felt like braving an icy wind, more of a mild, gentle breeze. A few girls even smiled at her rather uncertainly; she stared them out: she wasn’t falling for that. But the day when she knew it had got round, that someone had seen the blog and the pictures, was when Carey passed her a note in registration. She longed not to look at it, to tear it up very obviously, but somehow she couldn’t. She was fairly sure she knew what it said; and if it did, that would be the moment she had dreamed of through all the torturous, endless months, her revenge, come at last. And so she opened it, and yes, it did, she was right, wonderfully, incredibly right.
Hi Mills,
Think it’s time we made up. Hot chocolate after school? For real, this time, promise.
Carey xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
And she had felt her eyes fill with tears and blinked them furiously back. There was no way Carey was going to see them. And she met Carey’s simpering smile very coolly, refusing to return it, and then she tore a piece of paper from her file.
And wrote on it:
Thanks, but I’m really really busy.
And pushed it back to Carey. Who looked first startled, and then oddly nervous. Maybe she was afraid of recrimination at last. Well, it didn’t matter.
For many years after that, when people were discussing what their most wonderful memory was, debating it endlessly, Milly would smile and say she knew exactly what hers was, and then, always, refused to reveal it. Everyone would then imagine all kinds of exotic and romantic things; but she knew there had never been a more wonderful moment than that morning in the classroom, with Carey looking totally disconcerted, and Milly knowing she had finally won.
Patrick looked rather uncertainly at Jonjo. Who had invited him for a drink at the self-same bar where his new career had started over a year ago. It was all exactly the same, the black and white décor, the sexy music, the huge sofas, the designer drinks. Only he felt rather different. Not excited, not anxious even, just – depressed. Deep down, wearily, monotonely depressed. Too depressed to pretend. Well, certainly to Jonjo. He looked at him bleakly as his friend raised his glass.
‘Cheers,’ Jonjo said. A bit too brightly. And smiled.
‘Cheers,’ Patrick managed. And didn’t smile.
‘You OK?’
‘Look, Jonjo, you know I’m not OK. So let’s cut that particular crap for a start, can we?’
‘Oh! All – all right.’
‘And if you want a long heart to heart, you’re not going to get one. It’s not my style.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it at all?’
‘About what?’
‘Well – you and Bianca?’
‘No, I don’t. Nothing to do with you and nothing to say. Only one person can help and that’s Bianca. And she isn’t going to. So . . . I appreciate your kindness, asking me out, but you should find a more deserving recipient.’
‘Yeah, OK. Well, I just thought I might – you know—’
‘You might what?’
‘Be able to help. If only listen. You were pretty good to me when I – well, when things went wrong with Susie.’
‘Jonjo, with respect, you’d known Susie for a week or so at that time. I’ve been married to Bianca for sixteen years and we have three children; it’s just slightly more complex.’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry. I just – well, you know, I think you’re such a great couple. I’ve always admired you both, the way you’re such – such a team. The way you share the admin and the children and everything. It’s really, really great. I only hope I can do it as well one day.’
‘Yes, well . . . Well, it isn’t easy,’ said Patrick heavily. ‘I can assure you of that.’
‘I’m sure it’s not. But – well, anyway, seems I can’t help. But I certainly didn’t want you to think I don’t care.’
‘I’d never think that, and I’m grateful. But really, there’s nothing anyone can do. Except Bianca, as I said. And she’s decided not to. So I think we should have this drink and then I’ll go home, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Yes, of course. Er – where’s home right now?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ said Patrick. ‘I was afraid you were going to ask me that. It’s the same hotel I was in the last time we spoke, very near Tower Bridge. A Travelodge. It’s clean and it’s functional and it has nice river views. And before you tell me I should be staying at some fancy joint or other, let me tell you I don’t want to. I’m very happy where I am. Well, I’m not very happy, but it has nothing to do with what hotel I might be staying at.’
‘You don’t want to stay with me? For a bit? I do have a spare bedroom—’
‘Jonjo, again I appreciate your concern, but no, actually, I don’t. And I believe you have another – occupant at the moment. To whom you have just become engaged. Congratulations. She’s a sweetheart. And I’m sure it’s all very nice but not what I need, I’m sure you can see that. Anyway, I think I told you that I’m about to go on a trip to Sydney for at least a week. Meeting Saul there. So it’s not for long, the Travelodge lifestyle. Which, as a matter of fact, I quite like. It has an anonymity I find rather
charming. And at the weekend I go to the country. I really am fine.’
‘That’s . . . good. Splendid,’ said Jonjo.
Chapter 56
Athina was reading one of her favourite Sherlock Holmes stories, ‘Silver Blaze’, when it hit her. She was very fond of Sherlock Holmes generally, as had been Cornelius, but this, which contained the famous reference to the dog in the night-time was her favourite. She had been feeling uneasy for a week or so now, without having the faintest idea why; everything seemed all right, the new HR director was duly deferential (having been most carefully briefed by Bianca), she was getting on better with Bianca herself – who had clearly taken her advice and was working feverishly, all the hours God sent, the perfume campaign was beautiful, and . . .
And it was the coincidence of this thought about the ads and Holmes remarking to the Scotland Yard Detective, Gregory, that what was curious about the incident of the dog in the night-time was that the dog had done nothing, that made her realise something rather curious about the campaign for the relaunch generally. There wasn’t one.
This continued to cause her increasing unease as she tried to return to Dartmoor and the missing horse; why on earth was there not? With Farrell’s about to relaunch as a brand, with the maximum marketing excitement, the highest profile it could reach, how could there not be? Why had not that rather scruffy-looking, albeit handsome young man – in her day, no decent advertising executive would have dreamed of attending board level meetings without a tie – why had he not been in and out of Farrell House constantly, with creative presentations, media proposals, proofs to be signed off, for the past two months? All she had seen were her perfume ads; surely they weren’t trying to rush the rest of the campaign through without her approval? If they were, they had some explanations to give. If they weren’t, then what were they all thinking of: did they really think they could launch – or relaunch – a cosmetic brand without extensive promotion? Clearly this needed her attention! She put aside ‘Silver Blaze’ and started combing through her diary. When – apart from the Passionate ads – had she seen anything at all? Her diary confirmed her suspicions: she hadn’t. She must investigate this without delay . . .
To say the weeks following the conversation with Bianca were the most dreadful of Patrick’s life was an understatement of dramatic proportion. He felt, indeed, that he was standing at the very portals of hell; lonely, angry, bewildered, with no hope of an escape in any direction. He went to the country that first weekend to try to take in what had happened to him, and begin to think what to do. He felt destroyed and betrayed, sixteen years of happiness and love and family wiped out in one dreadful, shocking hour. How could she do this? Be this selfish, this cruel, this blind to what really mattered?
It couldn’t just be the job; he was increasingly certain of that. She had done other jobs, just as big, just as demanding. It seemed to him increasingly and horribly clear – he had been right in his early suspicions, his analysis of the change not only in her but her attitude to him, to the family, to everything.
She was having an affair.
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. She’d always been a free agent, they both had, they’d always trusted one another – but suddenly it felt different.
And it had clearly been going on for some time. Increasing overnight absences, minutely detailed explanations for them, which never seemed strictly necessary, long, mysterious phone calls in the evening, always taken in another room – what else could it all mean? And that absurd world tour – so unnecessary, strictly speaking, in these days of computers and googling and Skype and conference calls – and that first time she’d been out almost all night, with the rather feeble explanation of being with the advertising boys.
But then – how much did it matter? In absolute terms. When the marriage was so hopelessly over anyway, when she had refused to do what he really wanted, give up her job for him? Although she was still insisting she hadn’t refused, that she still needed time. Time to decide, time to be able to leave Farrell’s without causing too much disruption. Which was nonsense. She didn’t need it. Or she shouldn’t. There should be no struggle between a marriage and a job, as he had pointed out to her repeatedly. They simply could not be equated; it was as simple as that. And the more she delayed, the more surely he knew what her answer was: which was why he had pre-empted it.
On the other hand, their marriage had survived the savage demands of her career before. They had rallied, recovered, their wounds had healed; she had had a few months off, devoting herself to him and the children, and they had learned to be together again. This time, it was an affair: her infidelity, her being in love with someone else, having time for someone else, for sex with someone else, even when she had none for him – that had dealt the truly fatal blow.
He became swiftly obsessed with who it was; he suspected that smooth, handsome bugger at the advertising agency, or the new financial director – she spent an inordinate amount of time with him; or one of the VCs even – or was it someone else entirely? Someone he didn’t know, or even know of, stealing into their lives unrecognised, unsuspected, seducing, persuading his wife, his beloved wife – for he did love her so very much – away from him.
Patrick was a mild man, patient, trusting, equable; but he knew that if he should ever meet this man, this man stealing his wife, his children, his whole existence, he would be able to kill him, quite easily, with nothing but his empty hands as weapons.
Bianca, equally wretched, consumed with guilt, did what she always did in times of crisis: worked. With three weeks to go, terrified by the imminent launch and the ever-present possibility of failure, she stalked the Farrell offices, demanding, arguing, complaining. She was haunted by the global launch going unmarked, envisaging the vast room at Lord Brownley’s devoid of journalists, bloggers, TV cameras, while the representatives of the House of Farrell and of Flynn Marchant stared at screens offering only pictures of empty streets and arcades around the world, and the doors of the Berkeley Arcade replicas that stood in them hopelessly unattended. The whole relaunch followed by a few desultory articles in the press over the next few days about the imminent bankruptcy of House of Farrell and the entirely misplaced faith that had been placed in its chief executive, Bianca Bailey.
At night, when she went home, and after the childen were in bed, she became more wretched still, unable to eat or sleep, worrying desperately about Patrick, missing him dreadfully, and she would sit at her desk into the small hours, trying to work and checking her phone constantly, hoping against all odds he would finally have replied to her endless texts and calls and emails. He never had. His hostility towards her was clearly absolute; he didn’t, he couldn’t, love her at all.
She was even beginning to wonder if she did still love him.
Saul was in his room at the Langham Hotel, Sydney – formerly known by the rather more romantic name of the Observatory, charmingly low-storeyed and a wonderful contrast to the great glass monsters that were its neighbours – when Bianca’s text came through. He was drinking tea and looking out of his window at the view which was truly glorious. The only hotel he could think of that offered a view as stunning was the Crillon in Paris, and its gift of the Place de la Concorde in all its absurd, breathtaking grandeur. This was not exactly grandeur, but it was equally beautiful in its own way: both the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge, one so brilliantly white, the other so dark, both so absolutely familiar, carved out of the intense blue sky, and beyond it the wider water, teeming with ferryboats and water taxis and of course the endless sailing boats, white wings flying before the wind.
He had been there before, of course, but inevitably, for fleeting, rushed visits, so he had never paused to take it in. If Dickon were to come to live here, and it seemed increasingly, terrifyingly, likely – then he needed to learn the place, every aspect of it, what it might have to offer. Not just basic things like where the best neighbourhoods were, where Dickon might live, what kind of school h
e might go to, what the price of property was, not merely what it looked like, even, but the feel of the place, its people, its pleasures – in short, its very soul.
The text distracted him from Sydney’s soul; he had not expected to see her name on his phone again. Since that day in New York, he had thought of her often, and in many different ways: she was a woman such as he had seldom known. And certainly seldom spent time with. Saul’s view of women was for the most part misogynistic; he had little faith in their brains, their skills, their ambitions, however impressive they might be, for they were tempered and affected in his experience, as well as his opinion, by their biology. You would not have persuaded Saul Finlayson to deny the existence of the glass ceiling; it was not a figment of women’s imagination, that ceiling, he knew. It was there for a good reason, which was the male distrust of the female and her ability to put the job first.
Most women put the job second to their children: entirely right and proper, he would say, children should be put first because they were the future, and must be nurtured at all costs. And for women, almost all women, that nurturing could not – and indeed should not – be set aside, delegated to an inevitably less satisfactory substitute, a nanny, say, or even a grandmother, so that the job, the firm, the deal, the patient, might take prime position in all circumstances. And however much he was assured by prospective employees that this was the case, he knew that the illness of her child, the unhappiness of her child, the sudden absence of the carer of her child, would mean the prime position was re-allotted to that child. Mothers were never, could not ever, be totally reliable in the workplace, and total reliablity was what he required, demanded, indeed and he would not hear to the contrary; nor would he employ them, or consider their right to be employed by him.
A Perfect Heritage Page 71
