Athina watched Bianca as she mounted the stage, stood smiling at the audience, the epitome of cool and confidence. She thought of their first meeting, almost two years earlier; she supposed she was slightly more kindly disposed towards her than she had been then, although Bianca’s apparent assumption that they were no longer enemies after the Ritz lunch annoyed and amused her in equal measure. She dressed well, that was for sure, always a point in anyone’s favour, and today was not an exception, she was wearing a silk print wrap dress almost certainly from von Furstenberg in blue and red, extremely high red Louboutins, her thick dark hair as always falling loose on to her shoulders. She was an attractive woman certainly, but arrogant, Athina thought, over-assured of her own ability; she deserved to be brought down just a little. And, hopefully, she would be able to do exactly that. She had deliberately avoided Bianca’s eye as she walked towards the platform, clearly seeking her out; and Susie’s tentative ‘Lady Farrell, would you like to . . . ?’
She shook her head, clearly dismissing them; she was taking this in her own time.
And talking of time, she hoped this would not take too long; standing at her age was harder work than it had been.
As if reading her thoughts, Jemima urged her to a gilt chair she had brought to her.
God, she was marvellous, Lara thought, staring at Bianca as she talked, first thanking the Brownleys for the use of their home, of course, then of her pleasure at being here. ‘I consider it the greatest good fortune that I have been able to work on the new Farrell brand that you will discover today.’ She talked of the history of Farrell, the brand that she had found when she joined and the one that she had created and that was being launched today. If she had been making that speech, it would have sounded over-enthusiastic, pushy even, Lara thought; Bianca remained as always restrained and, at the same time, confident in her own judgment. She talked briefly of the history of Farrell’s and how her dearest wish was to leave that history in all its wonderful Englishness and style, unspoiled and undisturbed, merely to move forward into the future with a new, equally lovely, but slightly more modern face.
‘We are lucky to have with us, not only today, but as we work, day after day, week after week, Lady Farrell, who founded the brand with her husband, Sir Cornelius Farrell, in coronation year; she is our primary inspiration, our mentor, setting ever higher guidelines for us. Lady Farrell, would you like to say a few words?’
But in response to her sweet smile and charming invitation, the encouraging clapping of the audience, Lady Farrell rose from her chair, shook her head, said ‘No, no, really, not now. I’m the past and you are the future.’ And she sat down, just a little wearily once more.
‘Well,’ Bianca said, ‘today the past is the future, Lady Farrell, so our heartfelt thanks. And now we will move on: into the future. You will, some of you, have been aware of our ticking clock, building into a picture of one of today’s great beauties and the new face of Farrell; before we discover who she is, I would like to thank Lucy Farrell, Lady Athina’s granddaughter, who is carrying on the family tradition, which is so very important to us all and which everyone who works for Farrell is so very proud of. She is the creator of our new look. Lucy, take a bow.’
Looking at her, his beloved daughter, standing on the platform, smiling into the applause, Bertie felt two things: one, a sense of huge pride and satisfaction, and the second, an odd sense of loss and regret that he had turned his back so resolutely on all this, the family and the company, with no representative of his generation, the only family left, indeed, being Lucy. His mother had perhaps been right: it was in his veins, literally, this brilliance, it was his heritage, and as such should not be thrown away. But . . .
Bianca was speaking again. ‘So now let us show you who our face, our fragmented face, belongs to. I think you will not be disappointed.’
And she pushed the screen, with the clock still ticking relentlessly on, forming its lovely image, and it swung round – and there was Jess, laughing, looking wonderful, blowing kisses, and the room erupted and everyone clapped and whistled and she moved across and kissed Bianca and then jumped off the platform as best as her heels and long, narrow dress would allow her and started kissing everyone, for she seemed to know them all, and cameras flashed and phones were at work, dozens of influential heads bent over them, fingers working overtime.
And then Bianca moved on to the stage again.
‘I’m sorry, but that is not the end of today. It is merely the beginning – as you have been promised. For we are about to do something very special, something that you will not have seen before – I think, at least – and ask you to watch. Our shop in the Berkeley Arcade has always been our signature, the jewel in our crown, and now, as part of our relaunch, we have opened many more, lookalike stores, sisters to the arcade shop, in most of the great shopping centres of the world, more little Farrell jewels, representing us all over the globe, and I cannot tell you how terrified I am at this moment, for we really are being hugely innovatory – and I’m just going to hand over to Tod Marchant and Jack Flynn, joint geniuses who run our advertising agency – Tod, Jack, over to you.’
And Tod smiled at her as he took the microphone and then said to the audience, ‘And if it does go wrong, then it’s her you should blame, not us. It was her idea, and completely original; she’s the genius, actually, not us. It’s been a huge privilege to work with her. So – if you just fix on a screen – that one’s London, that Paris, that one New York, then Sydney, and – where’s that one, Jack?’
‘Milan,’ said Jack. ‘And now you can watch them open, and you can see it’s live and for real, and who in their right mind would open a shop at eleven at night as we are. Although we have it on good authority there are customers waiting outside each and every one of them. OK, so now another countdown . . .’ and the theme from A Space Odyssey came onto the soundtrack with Jack’s voice over it saying ‘ten . . . nine . . . eight’ and down to ‘zero’ and he clicked on the controls and there was a long, long blankness on the screens, and Shit, thought Bianca, and Fuck, thought Tod, and Dear God, thought Lara and Bloody bloody bloody hell! thought Susie and even Pity, thought Athina.
The room was completely silent, everyone waiting, everyone willing something to happen. And then, suddenly it did, and the pictures formed and there was Florence, smiling outside Number 62 Berkeley Arcade, and there was the shop in St Germain, and there was, yes, Milan, all with their doors opening and, in most cases, people outside, waiting to be welcomed in.
This is too good to be true, thought Bianca. It can’t last.
But it did, for there was SoHo, lovely lovely SoHo – and she allowed her mind to dwell on that for just a moment, smiling at it – and there was the lovely Strand Arcade in Sydney, and Ann Siang Hill in Singapore, and now the sound level in the room rose and rose, as people actually cheered, all those cool, seen-it-all, been-there people, cheered and clapped, and suddenly it was too much for her and she started to cry. She had done it. It had all been worth it. And Susie, crying too, was hugging her, and then Lara, and Jess and Tamsin were both literally jumping up and down, and Lord Brownley was shouting and punching the air.
Even Athina was unable not to smile. And then found she really did need to go to the lavatory. She did feel a little odd, slightly confused even; she supposed it was the pressure that she now felt mounting in her, for her own moment had almost come, and besides, she needed to look at her notes, remind herself of the most salient points of what she had to say. She moved through the crowd, attracting, inevitably, attention, people smiling at her, shaking her hand, saying ‘well done’ and ‘what a triumph’ and just for a moment or two she faltered in her resolve, wondered if she should do what she had planned . . . but then yes, of course she should. It was absolutely the right thing to do – Cornelius would have thought so too, and after a few moments of sitting quietly, running over her notes, she felt better, emerged and made her way back. Bianca had just started to speak again, and when she saw h
er, she smiled and said,
‘Lady Farrell, do please come and join me, this is your day too.’
And Susie helped her on to the platform and she walked to join Bianca in the centre of the stage and Jess said, quite audibly from the front row of the crowd, ‘Oh my God, she is so amazing!’ And she stood there, displaying her usual immaculate timing, waiting for the complete silence she needed, very calm, very in control once more, wishing only that the room was less hot and . . . and . . .
And Bertie, watching her, saw it in the split second before anyone else, knowing her as he did so very, very well; one moment she stood there, erect and beautiful, in her red dress, her diamonds flashing, holding up her hand for silence, and the next the tiniest of movements, more a non-movement perhaps, a softening of her straightness, an easing of her pose: and the next she seemed to melt into herself, collapsed absolutely, her legs folding under her, and she fell on to the stage, and lay there helpless, motionless, and her heart, the great lioness’s heart that had fought so bravely and determinedly for what she wanted and believed in all her life, had fought off all comers, that had loved and hated in equal measures, and never troubled to disguise which, was first slowed and then stilled.
The indefatigable Athina Farrell was defeated, and the heart beat no more, and she died as she would have wished, in the full limelight, dressed in red, which did indeed prove to be very good on television, her diamonds still flashing in the lights. And it was Bertie, the son she had despised and diminished all his life, who climbed on to the platform and covered her tenderly with his jacket and closed her eyes, and whose tears fell on her as he did so.
Epilogue
It was what she would have wished. Everyone said so.
It was an appalling cliché (everyone also said) but it was undoubtedly true.
And had she planned it herself, it could not have been better. No long, final debilitating illness, no decline into old age, but a last public appearance, lauded, admired – as Susie Harding said, her voice awed, even as she wiped away tears of genuine sadness, ‘How did she manage that?’
It had been a massive stroke, followed by a heart attack, over in seconds, no apparent suffering: an ambulance was summoned and she was taken to hospital, but it was merely a formality.
And she did achieve her own ambition for the day: she stole the limelight from Bianca.
She had had her own plans for doing that: and Florence, entrusted with her handbag and jewellery while Bertie and Caro went to the hospital, discovered what they had been. She found notes for a speech, announcing her retirement from the House of Farrell – a small, mean gesture, given the occasion, Florence thought, and unworthy of her, but nonetheless it would have achieved a certain success; people would have said how sad it was that she was going, and how the cosmetic world would be the poorer for it, the last of the great grande dames, perhaps wonder if she had been driven to it by her new masters, concerned above all with finance, not image, and with stock exchange ratings rather than perfumes and products and advertising campaigns.
Florence tore the notes into minuscule pieces and put them into her recycling bin; it seemed rather appropriate. And then she sat down and wept for quite a long time, tears not of grief exactly, but of sadness and loss of a life companion.
She most assuredly did not love Athina – she had endured too much at her hands for too long – but she had admired her and she supposed been as fond of her as was possible, given her personality, and she certainly couldn’t imagine life without her. For Farrell’s and she were indistinguishable to Florence, even though she had become a little out of touch (although her performance at the sales conference belied even that); she had created it, breathed life into it, and driven it through the decades with a steely determination. Its personality might have become dated, but it had retained a certain quality, a reputation, even though it belonged in the past. And Bianca had recognised that, and undoubtedly restored it, but that had only been possible because of its heritage, Athina’s heritage. And Florence knew she would have to face a life alone within a company that would cease in time to value her; once this rebirth was accomplished – and she had already told her stories of the early days to endless journalists – she would become, slowly at first, increasingly unimportant, an old lady, Athina Farrell’s protégé, part of the old days which were over, however successful the new.
She must find an exit line of her own.
‘I suppose she’ll have a state funeral,’ said Lara, as she and Bianca sat among the debris of the Brownleys’ ballroom, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
Bianca smiled. ‘Of course. Oh, Lara, how incredible was that? Talk about perfect timing! Clever, clever old thing. And I do feel very sad, very upset in a way. Talk about the end of an era. They really don’t make them like that any more. It was ghastly really, when you think about it. I suppose we’re still in shock, it hasn’t hit me yet. It won’t be the same without her, that’s for sure.’
‘Certainly won’t,’ said Lara briskly.
‘Poor little Lucy was in floods. How’s Bertie, have you heard from him?’
‘Just briefly. He’s terribly upset. How baffling is that? When all she did was make his life a misery. Poor Bertie.’
‘Poor Bertie. Indeed. Such a tender heart.’
‘So tender,’ said Lara, and her own eyes filled with tears. ‘And—’
She was interrupted by Susie, who was walking towards them, phone clamped to her ear. ‘Yes, yes sure. Now? Well, give her an hour. In her office, yes. Four o’clock, Farrell House. OK, that was the News,’ she said to Bianca. ‘They want to do an interview – well, you heard. And then Woman’s Hour, and—’
‘OK,’ said Bianca, standing up. ‘I’ll come. I hope they don’t all just want to talk about Lady Farrell.’
‘I don’t think they will,’ said Susie, ‘they seem to love the global launch thing.’
‘I’ll just go and thank Lord and Lady Brownley and then I’d better tidy myself up. I must look like complete shit.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Lara, and ‘You look wonderful,’ said Susie.
And it was true; despite the horrific strain of the morning, far greater than they could ever have suspected, Bianca was looking very good again: happy, confident, almost – given the circumstances – relaxed.
Susie knew, and Lara hoped she knew, the reason.
Bianca’s phone rang; she looked at it, smiled, said, ‘Hello. Yes, it was wonderful, thank you. Well, most of it was wonderful. It worked brilliantly. Every single one. What? How do you know? Oh of course, you were watching online. With Saul? Goodness. But something else happened, very dramatic, very sad as well, I’ll tell you later. Or you could watch the six o’clock news. I’ll be on it, by the way. Well, yes, all right, I’ll tell you now . . .’
The entire country appeared to be red, white and blue. Patriotism and royalism had become intertwined. Every street, every tree, every hanging basket, was festooned with flags and ribbons and bunting and balloons; every window, of every shop, from the largest department store to the smallest boutique, from the grandest food store to the most humble corner shop, was adorned with more ribbons, more flowers, and expressions of loyalty and delight that the rather small, white-haired, sometimes stern-faced elderly lady who was Queen Elizabeth the Second, who had sat on her throne and reigned over her country for sixty years and been held in deeper and deeper affection with every one of those that passed.
And the four-day weekend, bestowed upon the country in which to celebrate, each day with its own schedule, had begun early and on the Friday, the capital, along with the shires, was in holiday mood. Tourists were arriving in droves; lunches were long; the afternoon short; nobody could talk about anything except the celebrations and how they were going to share in them.
Saul Finlayson was spending the Saturday at the Derby; he had no horse running and it wasn’t, on account of the razzmatazz as he called it, one of his favourite meetings, but this year was obviously going to be
special and Dickon was desperate to go and to take Fergie with them. ‘The Red Arrows are going to be there, Dad, they’re going to parachute on to the course!’ And forcing himself to recognise the fact that this could be the last time Dickon would be around for the Derby, he agreed that they should not only go, but, most unusually, he took a box.
When he’d picked up Dickon the night before, Janey had looked at him slightly awkwardly and said, ‘Saul, we need to talk.’
He knew what that meant. Or he thought he did. But he didn’t want his day spoiled. ‘Tomorrow evening, you here?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want Dickon involved.’
‘He doesn’t have to be. He’s having Fergie to stay the night. They’ll be perfectly happy, playing on the Wii. Come around eight. We’re going to McDonald’s for tea.’
‘After a box at the Derby? Honestly, Saul!’
‘What? It’s what they want to do, not go to some poofy restaurant. I agree with them.’
Janey said she’d be there at eight and rang off.
The Derby was wonderful fun; even Saul had to admit it. It was cold, but it became obligingly sunny just as the Queen arrived. God, or whatever superior power was in charge of such things, clearly wished that the Diamond Jubilee should have the sun shining upon it. The 150,000 strong crowd was in celebratory mood, the band of the Royal Marines played splendidly, the Red Arrows duly dropped in on their parachutes, trailing red, white and blue smoke, and deposited a vast Union Jack on the course, near the finishing post. Katherine Jenkins, the Welsh mezzo soprano and national treasure, dressed rather inappropriately for the occasion, Saul thought, in a long, skin-tight, strapless number, sang the National Anthem as the Queen arrived (dressed rather more appropriately in a warm blue coat), driving down the course with Prince Philip in the state Bentley.
Horses ran, races were won (and lost), a great deal of money was won (and lost) and when nineteen-year-old Joseph O’Brien won the rather cumbersomely rechristened Diamond Jubilee Cup, presented to him by the Queen, Dickon and Fergie vowed that one day they would race against each other in the Derby.
A Perfect Heritage Page 76
