‘Well, you know my dilemma,’ Mollie said. ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or what to say when people ask. I haven’t slept properly for days worrying about everything.’
‘And what does Greg say, when you talk to him about it?’
‘That’s the trouble, he won’t discuss it, not really. It’s just “I’ve switched political parties,” so what? Big deal. It’s like it’s got nothing to do with me, like my opinion doesn’t count. He doesn’t seem to realise it’s bizarre, being Labour one day and Tory the next. He used to be virulent about them, the Tories I mean. I’ve been listening to him for months saying what rubbish they are, how he despises everything they stand for. And now, overnight, it’s like “Dave this” and “Dave that” and how we’re twenty-three points ahead in the polls.’
Davina looked at her daughter, with her indignant, snappy eyes, and realised it was the first time for ages she’d seen her really angry. Since marrying Greg, Mollie had often seemed too much in his thrall, appeasing and subservient. But today she blazed with fury.
‘You know the most annoying thing? Well, one of the most annoying? I’ve spent two years of my life up in Droitwich, helping Greg nurse the constituency, weekend after weekend we’ve been up there, and sometimes midweek too, and you know what? I’ve enjoyed it. I really like the people, I’ve made loads of friends. Not just political ones, but teachers at the schools, people we’ve met out canvassing, local businessmen, hospital nurses—all sorts, really genuine people. And it’s so embarrassing, worse than embarrassing, it’s like we’ve kicked them in the teeth. I tried explaining it to Greg, but he couldn’t care less. He looked at me like I was mad. He just said, ‘Droitwich and Redditch will go blue next time anyway. They’re swing seats. No way will Labour hold them.’ He doesn’t care about our supporters. I keep thinking of new ones, like the Mayor’s sister, and the wife of the constituency chairman, Bev, I don’t even dare ring her up in case she won’t speak to me. I’ll have to, of course.’
‘Maybe Greg’s right,’ Davina said. ‘Have you considered that? That he can do more good inside the Conservative party than in Labour? It does rather look like they won’t win next time round, and you can’t achieve much in opposition. That’s what your father used to say.’
‘I wish I could believe that was the reason,’ Mollie said. ‘I don’t know what to think about Greg anymore. Not at the moment, anyway.’
But she did know: as an idealist, Mollie was outraged by his cynicism, by his lack of commitment, his vaunting ambition and opportunism. His political betrayal was far worse to her than if he’d had an affair with another woman, because her feelings of love and respect for her husband were inextricably connected to the pure flame of idealism she had always believed he had at his core. When he behaved rudely or carelessly towards her, or imposed upon her (as he did so frequently) or was disrespectful and dismissive, Mollie excused his behaviour, because she understood he was engaged on a higher, altruistic mission for the betterment of all mankind. How then could she reconcile herself to this casual treachery? It was as if everything he’d said previously about his commitment to socialism had been an out and out lie. The scales had fallen from her eyes.
It did not help, either, that she had come to find him physically repulsive. This was not something she had felt able to admit, even to herself, though she had been aware of a mounting reluctance to touch him, or to get too close to those blubbery lips and sweating face. It had been the sight of him on television, at one step’s remove, that brought it home to her: that he made her flesh creep.
‘Your father, at least, must be pleased,’ Davina said. ‘He was never happy having a Labour son-in-law. Personally, I thought it was rather good for him. But he’s going to like it much better having Greg in the party.’
‘I know. In fact, I think Dad must have had a hand in it. Greg hasn’t said anything, but it was one of the first things I thought. I mean, Mid-Hampshire, our own constituency.’
Davina smiled. ‘You know your father as well as I do, he adores plotting and planning. I can’t believe it happened without his involvement. Haven’t you talked to him?’
Mollie shook her head. ‘There was a message on the phone from his office, saying he’s arranging for someone to take me shopping for clothes. A “personal shopper,” whatever that is. For all the Conservative events he thinks I’ll be going to.’
‘Typical Miles. He was always trying to get me to see one of those.’
‘I can just imagine myself in a powder blue suit with power shoulders, like an airhostess. And lots of flowery frocks. And big hats. The new Mrs Ridley Nairn.’
‘And what about Greg? The Tory faithful of Hampshire are going to be a bit of a culture shock for him. They’re lovely people, but it is all a bit stuffy. I hope he realises. He was scarcely ever down at Chawbury before.’
‘He’s describing himself now as Hampshire born and bred, the local candidate. I heard him talking to the Andover Daily Echo on the phone, saying he spent all his teenage years there, and comes back as often as he can.’
‘You’ll have to find a cottage in the constituency, I suppose, unless you can stay with your father. Or with Ross, of course.’
‘Yes,’ Mollie replied, without much enthusiasm. ‘I’m sure that’s what we’ll do. Something like that.’
But, at that moment, an audacious and subversive idea was forming at the back of her mind.
Debbie was midway through a two-hour board meeting at Freeza Mart House when the Post-it note was brought in to her.
It was a particularly important meeting for which she had been preparing for several weeks, with six members of the Executive Board present, including her father, at the conclusion of which she hoped they’d finally make the decision to go ahead. If Debbie was to become MD of a new hospitality division, which was what she desired above anything else, then this meeting had to go brilliantly.
There had been so many different versions of the presentation over the past few weeks, and so many versions of the business plan, her abiding fear was that an old version would somehow get bound up in the Board packs by accident, or a redundant version get cached in her laptop which was linked to the plasma screen. The version she was presenting today was version seventeen. ‘So here goes,’ she hissed to her number two, Justin Briggs.
It was far worse presenting to your dad, Debbie had decided, than anything else on earth. It wasn’t like she was frightened of him or anything, it was just that he was so observant and clever. If a single market share chart was wrong in any way, or didn’t tie in with the financials at the back, he’d be certain to notice. That was the sort of brain he had. If he saw a number once, he never forgot it.
Debbie felt she’d been working on this presentation for months. In fact, it had been seven weeks but it felt much longer. Like everything these days, it all depended on what happened with the Pendletons takeover. The whole of Debbie’s proposition pre-supposed a significantly enlarged company, which was what made it so tricky to put together since you couldn’t get your hands on the Pendletons books and had to do it all by guesswork. Anyway, today’s presentation focused on the twenty-seven hotels located on Pendletons’s properties—mostly in service stations—plus the four hotels on existing Freeza Mart properties, and the nine new ones they hoped to take over in the coming months. This would make a total of forty hotels, mostly Travelodges and similar budget accommodation, which could be pulled together under a new FM Sleep hospitality brand. Debbie was massively excited but also nervous. The project was so huge, she felt slightly daunted. And the research reports based on dozens of focus groups conducted across the country, which Ross had already seen, were inconclusive, in Debbie’s opinion. For instance, 72 percent of haulage drivers said they didn’t particularly like their present budget accommodation and were open to change. But few were willing to pay more than £17 per room night. Debbie had spent weeks reviewing choices of soaps and toiletries for the en-suit
es, and seeking to upgrade meal choices in the all-day coffee shops. The economics of this project were entirely different to everything she’d done before. For a start, the forty hostelries had an average of 150 rooms each, 6,000 room nights every night of the year. Her idea of placing a posy of roses or sweet peas on each dressing table was a non-starter; it would cost millions and, anyway, the focus groups didn’t give a damn.
She had reached the most innovative part of the presentation about her DVD library concept, when the post-it was passed to her.
‘God,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so excited by this I just have to tell you. Pete Straker’s record has gone to number one. That’s the CD we’ve been playing in Freeza Mart, we’ve been pushing it. And now it’s top of the charts.’
There was a round of applause in the meeting room, Debbie clapping loudest of all.
Davina felt she couldn’t escape this takeover business which just seemed to drag on and on. Even though she had no personal involvement whatever, and didn’t normally have much interest in financial shenanigans, it intruded on her life from every side. For a start, the newspapers were full of it, not just the business sections but news and features pages too. Today, The Times had a big interview with Ross, laying out his plans and responding to some of the negative stories circulating about him. ‘Some of the stuff going round, I don’t know where they get it,’ he was quoted as saying.
Davina thought she could make a pretty good guess, and felt sorry for Ross. Having been married to Miles for twenty-seven years, she knew exactly how he operated.
And then, in today’s Daily Mail, was an extraordinary double page article about Dawn ‘the lady love of two warring supermarket tycoons.’ Poor Dawn. She had agreed to the interview to promote her Longparish Organics farm shop, but they’d scarcely mentioned it in the piece. Instead, it was all about why she’d chucked Ross, and what it was like living in a stately home with Lord Pendleton. Davina couldn’t believe her friend had said half the things attributed to her, it didn’t sound like Dawn and was toe-curlingly embarrassing. ‘My husband likes to see the table formally laid for dinner every night, regardless of whether or not we have invited guests coming over. And if the silver isn’t properly polished or there’s a chipped wine goblet, woe betide the servants. The only thing we ever disagree on,’ she went on, ‘is over our sweets. I enjoy dainty puddings—though I have to be careful about my weight—but Lord Pendleton likes his savouries and cheeses. Men do love their cheeses.’
Later in the article, Dawn refuted the accusation that her new relationship involved a move upmarket. ‘I wish people would stop making spiteful, ignorant comments. I’ve lived in spacious mansions all my life, there’s nothing new about it. We were very comfortable at Chawbury Park and previously I was fortunate enough to live in one of the most prestigious homes in Droitwich.’
Well, Davina reflected, Dawn couldn’t say she hadn’t warned her. When she’d asked her advice, Davina had told her friend, ‘Don’t touch it with a bargepole.’
‘That’s what Miles said too,’ Dawn had replied. ‘I don’t know why you’re all being so negative. I told Miles, “I’m passionate about my little farm shop. This is a golden opportunity, I can’t pass it up.” ’
Davina knew that Archie was also working on the takeover, which kept him at his desk from dawn to long after dusk, according to Gemma. She said she barely saw him, he was working so hard. From what Davina had read in the papers, things seemed to be going rather against Freeza Mart. At the beginning, everyone had been pro-Ross and saying what a good job he’d done. But lately there’d been lots of criticism, suggesting his clothing range was manufactured in sweatshops, and some of his supermarkets were dirty and employed illegal asylum seekers. Davina didn’t know whether the sweatshops bit was true, but she shopped at Freeza Mart Metro in Holland Park Avenue and it was always lovely and clean with an excellent flower stall inside.
What with one thing and another, her loyalties were totally divided. Archie and Samantha both worked for Freeza Mart, so of course she wanted them to do well, and she’d always liked Ross, right from the beginning. And Peter owed so much to Freeza Mart over his CD. Even this morning, when she’d dropped into the Holland Park branch for milk and orange juice on the way back from her jog, they’d been playing The Cormorant’s Cry over the loudspeakers. Davina felt so proud, she wanted to tell everyone she was Peter’s mother.
At the same time she felt dreadfully sorry for James Pendleton, who’d been a dear friend for years, it seemed terribly unfair if he ended up losing all his supermarkets. In Davina’s opinion, they seemed very well run and always full of lovely fresh produce, and she couldn’t see that the Pendletons deserved to have their family business taken from them. Ross surely had plenty to occupy himself with already, without Pendletons too. Privately, she thought there might be something in what they were saying in the press, that Ross was only going after it to get his own back at Dawn. How strange it was. Dawn was a sweet person and a loyal friend, but she wasn’t exactly Helen of Troy. Extraordinary she could inspire all this chaos.
And as for Greg coming out so publicly against his father and speaking up for Pendletons, Davina didn’t understand it. She’d seen Greg twice on the television news, and heard him again on the Today programme this morning insisting Freeza Mart was too big already and any merger should be blocked by the DTI and OFT. Mollie was rooting for Freeza Mart, because she said their food was less expensive, and this was another bone of contention between her and Greg. Davina was seriously concerned about the state of her daughter and son-in-law’s marriage. Mollie remained horrified by his political conversion and Davina didn’t know where it would end. She’d rung Miles that morning about it, because she was so worried, and it was the first time they’d spoken in three months. Hearing his voice brought him vividly back to her, both for better and for worse. She’d forgotten how charming he could be, how full of conviction and self-belief. She could feel his energy coursing down the telephone line.
‘Things are going splendidly this end,’ he assured her. ‘No way is Ross Clegg going to win this, not now. The city’s gone cold on him. I was speaking to Alistair Darling this morning and he agrees with me. Pendletons is a great British brand. It’s rock solid.’
Davina told Miles her concerns about Mollie and Greg, and wondered whether there was anything either of them could or should do to help. But Miles couldn’t see a problem.
‘Don’t worry about Mollie, she’ll make a perfectly sound Tory politician’s wife, once she’s got the uniform together. In fact, you could help her with that, Davina. That’d be the most useful thing you could do, take her clothes shopping. As for Greg, there was no point sticking with Labour, they’re a busted flush.’
After the conversation, Davina felt unexpectedly low, she didn’t know why. She felt flat and dispirited, as if she’d been unplugged from a source of energy.
Sometimes, her days had lately seemed rather empty and short on incident, and she wasn’t sure she liked it as much as she’d expected. Marriage to Miles had been exhausting, unrelenting, she had felt herself trapped on a treadmill which never let up, constantly pushed to look her best, be ready on time, make conversation with people she didn’t give a fig for. For years, part of her had longed for a smaller life without two big houses to look after, parties to organise, dinners every weekend. Now she’d got what she’d wished for, she felt a little lost. Her new life was calm and almost free of stress, but lacked jags of excitement. The people she saw—her yoga friends, the other teachers at school where she did her remedial reading—were kind and pleasant, but unambitious and happy with their little lives. Slow lane folk, as Miles called them. They lived in a different world to the one Miles and Davina had inhabited for so long. Angela Strawbetter from Freshfields rang her several times a month, cajoling her to sign the next round of documents on the road to divorce, but Davina found herself dragging her feet.
If she was honest, she was slightly missing her former life.
67.
It was part of Miles’s annual routine to take a table at the Grocers and Retailers Ball, held each June in the Great Room of the Grosvenor House Hotel. This gruesome industry function, a charity fundraiser in aid of a hospice and sheltered housing for needy retired shop assistants, was not something Miles normally anticipated with enthusiasm. It was not an event that drew the elevated social crowd he loved, the majority of tables being occupied by executives from the larger supermarkets and department stores. Nevertheless, Straker Communications felt an obligation to be there, to support the industry, to network and entertain executives from Pendletons and other relevant clients.
Tonight, however, Miles was rather in the mood for it all. The past two days had seen further excellent news for Pendletons, with a comment piece in today’s Financial Times questioning the business rationale behind the proposed takeover, and two Scottish pension funds coming out publicly against the Freeza Mart plan. Miles knew Freeza Mart had taken several tables at the ball, and that Ross himself was certain to be there. It would be satisfying to see him at close quarters, when he must be feeling wrongfooted and despondent.
Drawing up outside the hotel entrance in Park Lane, Miles saw the evening promised to be as ghastly as ever. Shockingly ugly women were tottering through the doors on white stilettos, with huge fat bottoms and wobbly arms, spaghetti straps and raw, sunburned backs from Spanish and Greek holidays. The men were if anything worse, and he flinched at the moustaches, white tuxedos, stick-up evening collars, red bow ties and impossibly naff, spiky, gelled haircuts. At events like these, Miles viewed himself as a godlike creature from a higher planet, dignifying proceedings with his presence.
His first act, on entering the area where the champagne reception was in full swing, was to confirm the location of the Straker Communications table on the table plan. To his satisfaction, it was dead centre in the Great Room where he expected it to be. He had once fired a PA when a Straker table had been disadvantageously positioned. Freeza Mart’s top table was right alongside his own, which meant a ringside view of Ross. Pendletons had brought five tables of guests tonight and there were tables for Tesco, Matalan, Sainsburys, Waitrose, Debenhams, House of Fraser, River Island, the Arcadia group and all the rest.
Pride and Avarice Page 50