Lara pulled off her helmet and looked up at Foxhills’ tall windows, almost believing she might be able to see herself as a girl standing there, looking out in vain for her parents’ return. Nothing of course: just glass and reflections.
Lara had spent those first horrible few weeks with her grandparents here at the main house, but in accordance with her parents’ will, Nicholas was to be her legal guardian and she moved a quarter mile across the estate to Nicholas and Olivia’s farmhouse. It was just as well. Within the year, her grandfather Richard had died, by the time Lara got to the sixth form, Granny Rose had gone too – and the big house had passed down to Nicholas.
Lara shook off the memories and walked around the side of the house, slipping off her leather jacket and leaving it draped around a decorative urn: she was well aware how Olivia loathed her motorbike – it wouldn’t do to get off to a bad start, it was going to be difficult as it was.
She found Olivia Avery on the sun terrace at the rear of the house, her face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat as she bent to prune a rose bush. Lara would never say it to her face, but she had always admired her Aunt’s style. Even in her gardening gear, a crisp white shirt worn underneath a denim pinafore dress, Olivia looked as if she had stepped straight from the pages of a Vogue ‘gardens’ supplement.
‘Oh darling, you came,’ said Olivia, sweeping across for a vague embrace. ‘I hope your journey wasn’t too taxing.’
‘Quite the opposite,’ said Lara, looking up at the eggshell sky. ‘It’s a glorious day.’
‘It is, isn’t it? Actually it’s perfect, as I’ve been desperate to show you the Butterfly Garden. Can you believe it’s finally finished?’
Lara didn’t know Olivia had been creating a Butterfly Garden, but it didn’t surprise her at all. Over the past few years, her aunt had reinvented herself as a horticulturist. Tatler had called her ‘the new Bunny Mellon’, the famed American garden designer and socialite, which Lara was sure would have thrilled her.
‘I don’t know what keeps you in London in the summer,’ said Olivia, leading Lara through the walled garden, ‘Especially now you’re not working.’
Lara had to admit there was something in what Olivia was saying. There were numerous properties in the grounds of Foxhills and Lara had use of a small cottage, willed to her by her grandmother. It was beautiful, chocolate-box pretty, but it had never really felt like home. She looked out across the lawns and the trees beyond. All of it was so familiar, but all so loaded with baggage. Even now, Lara could remember the smell of fruit trees and tomatoes ripening in the sun and she still had fond memories of the original gardeners, Joan and Graham, an elderly married couple who always seemed to have Sherbet Lemons in their pockets. There had been happy times here too.
‘Are you feeling well my dear? You look tired.’
Lara couldn’t help blushing, thinking of her night with Stefan.
‘Busy night?’
Olivia said it as if she were reading her mind. Her aunt had always had an unsettling ability to pick up on Lara’s mood. She followed Olivia through a doorway in the garden’s flint wall and out into an open area. In her childhood, it had always been called ‘The Meadow’, but rather than a wide field, it had elements of an English country garden with stone-flagged paths criss-crossed by long beds of iris, pansies, tulips and foxgloves. She had learnt the names of these plants trailing after her grandmother on perfect summer days exactly like this. Rose Avery had also been a keen gardener, but Lara could definitely see how Olivia had curated the space and put her own unique mark on it. The brick walls were scrubbed and pointed so they looked like they were laid quite recently rather than 200 years ago, everything just so, every last petal and leaf swept away.
‘This is lovely,’ said Lara honestly.
Olivia gave a brief smile.
‘They say gardening is the pursuit for A-type personalities,’ she said. ‘It suits the perfectionist in me.’ Olivia reached over and dead-headed a purple iris, tucking the bud into her apron. ‘But the work is never done; try as you like, nature simply can’t be tamed.’
Lara looked curiously at her aunt. You had to know Olivia Avery to know how incongruous that statement was. Aunt Olivia was the epitome of the socialite tastemaker, impeccably turned out, tirelessly controlling every aspect of her environment, forging alliances and ousting enemies. Admitting weakness, even a small one, just wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Olivia gestured to the far corner of the garden where a round green table had been set up.
‘Let’s go and sit under the pergola, I’ll have some lemonade brought down.’
Olivia pulled out a phone and gave a few clipped instructions to an unseen lackey, then sat down opposite Lara, giving her the benefit of her cool smile. Olivia’s long neck and pale blue eyes gave her an elegance, but rarely warmth. As they waited for the refreshments, Olivia pointed out the various improvements she had made to the garden – the butterfly friendly-flowers and larval food plants she had nurtured: sweet Williams, forget-me-nots and sorrel. A housekeeper bustled over with a jug and poured the drinks into two hi-ball glasses before discreetly withdrawing.
‘So,’ said Olivia, carefully folding her hands in her lap. ‘Charlie told me what happened.’
She was straight to the point as always, but this time Lara refused to be brow-beaten.
‘And what did Charlie tell you exactly?’
Lara was pushing back, but she was also curious. Had Charlie really called up Olivia and said, ‘Mother, I’ve been caught shagging the Deputy Editor’s girlfriend’?
Olivia pursed her lips.
‘He told me that you have been spying on him, Lara. That you had taken photographs of him.’
She almost laughed at that: as if the invasion of Charlie’s privacy was the biggest issue here.
‘Not spying actually. I simply happened to see him when I went to his house to discuss a work issue.’
‘Really? It was my understanding you don’t actually work at the Chronicle at the moment.’
‘Does that really matter, Olivia? What matters is what I saw.’
Olivia raised her eyebrows a fraction.
‘What you thought you saw. You didn’t have the courtesy to actually ask Charlie what was going on, did you?’
‘No but…’
‘So instead you decided to start causing trouble.’
‘Excuse me?’ I’m the one making trouble here?’
‘Don’t play games Lara. You ran off and told Alex Ford that Charlie is having an affair with his girlfriend.’
‘Alex is my friend and if his girlfriend has been cheating on him, I think he deserves to know.’
Olivia exhaled loudly.
‘All very noble and selfless,’ she said bitterly. ‘And as usual with zero thought for the consequences.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Lara frowning. ‘Consequences for whom? For Charlie?’
‘For the newspaper,’ said Olivia impatiently. ‘And for your friend Alex.’
‘Olivia, I was trying to do the right thing.’
‘Right for who? You?’
Olivia shook her head, then looked away across the garden.
‘Lara, I am not your mother. I have never tried to replace her, but I do care about your well-being. When you make unwise choices, I feel it’s my duty to step in and say something. I’ve seen how you look at Alex. Lord knows, I don’t blame you. He is a smart, good-looking man, but he chose someone else. Don’t let your regret ruin other people’s lives.’
Lara’s anger boiled up.
‘Don’t make this about me, Olivia,’ she snapped. ‘So yes, perhaps I should have considered Alex’s position a little more, but this all comes down to one thing: Alicia was shagging Charlie behind Alex’s back. If Nicholas was having an affair I assume you’d want to know?’
‘Don’t be so naïve, Lara,’ she replied, with a haughty expression. ‘You say you’re trying to help Alex? He’s an ambitious man, highly capable and he’s going places. A fu
ture editor. Your ill-judged piety may have ruined all that.’
‘So you’re telling me the Avery board would actually pass over the best man for the job because your son can’t keep it in his pants?’ Lara barked out a laugh. ‘That’s a fine way to run a business.’
‘Alex is an employee,’ said Olivia, steel in her voice. ‘Charlie is family. It doesn’t matter how good Alex is, he will lose that fight.’
Lara knew that Olivia was only pointing out the obvious, but Lara wasn’t going to take it lying down. She owed Alex that much.
‘What are you suggesting Oliva? That morals don’t matter in this business?’
‘I didn’t say that…’
‘Well let me assure you that morals do matter. They matter more than anything else in a newspaper company. We can’t hold people to account if our own ethics are questionable and as a shareholder in Avery Media Group, I will do everything in my power to make sure our company adheres to the very highest standards.’
She expected her aunt to fire one of her disapproving looks, but instead Olivia put an elegant hand on Lara’s.
‘You’re just like your father,’ she said, with a gentle laugh.
Lara was too stunned to reply.
‘Oh, David was just the same. Impulsive, bull-headed, unshakably principled, irritating though that could be. The truth was all that mattered to him, it was as if he believed “the truth” was an absolute thing and he’d do anything to get it, he was utterly fearless that way.’ She looked away sadly. ‘Perhaps too fearless.’
Lara was completely thrown. She had never heard Olivia talk about her father before – and she certainly hadn’t expected to hear her speak so warmly about him. Before she could ask any more questions, Olivia stood and began walking back through the garden. It seemed Olivia’s ‘talk’ was over.
‘Come,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Shall we see if we can find some butterflies?’
Lara was too exhausted to quarrel. Instead, she followed in her wake, snaking through the shrubs, sending colourful insects fluttering though the air. Lara wasn’t an expert but she recognised cabbage whites, red admirals and a painted lady.
‘So did you enjoy the Chronicle party?’ asked Olivia, trailing her fingers along a long-stemmed white flower.
‘It was something of a success, wasn’t it?’
‘Everyone came,’ agreed Lara.
Lara gave a half-smile, the sight of the butterflies and the flowers softening her mood.
‘Is there anyone you don’t know?’
Olivia pretended to think about it and gave a mischievous shrug. ‘No, no one worth knowing anyway.’
Lara raised her eyebrows as a sudden thought occurred to her.
‘So you know Victoria Sachs?’
‘Victoria,’ said Olivia, wrinkling her nose slightly. ‘Of course.’
‘Was she at the party?’
‘No. She was invited: I received an invitation to her fundraiser, so I had ask her. Thankfully she was in New York. The numbers were getting out of hand.’
‘What fundraiser was this?’
Olivia waved a hand.
‘She’s hosting a benefit lunch at Claridge’s for her charity ImpactAid. It’s tomorrow actually. Victoria’s a little too pleased with herself, but it should be fun nevertheless. The auction is always hard-fought.’
A thought started to gain traction.
‘Can I come?’
Olivia turned to look at her.
‘Really?’ said Olivia, surprised. ‘I didn’t think you were interested in that sort of thing.’
‘Not usually, but after the month I’ve had, I could do with a bit of fun.’
Olivia nodded in agreement. ‘I won’t argue with you there. As it happens, I think Lavinia Dawson has dropped out, so there will be a place at our table.’
‘Do you mind?’
Olivia smiled – a real one this time, or perhaps as real as Olivia could manage.
‘Mind? I’d be delighted. Just two girls together, hmm?’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Lara. But that wasn’t all she was thinking. She was planning something much more interesting.
Chapter 32
Alex rapped on the door of the little office.
‘Harry, do you have a minute?’
Harry Grant jumped in his seat, looking up with a guilty start. ‘Sorry,’ he said, wrapping up the sandwich he was eating and pushing it into a drawer. ‘Just, you know, taking a break and I’ll get right onto the…’
Alex held up a hand to stop the stream of nervous babble from the business editor. The Chronicle’s business section was run from an office at the far end of the floor and Alex could understand how his unannounced appearance might make Harry anxious: he rarely came down this way especially for a one-to-one.
‘Relax, Harry, you’re fine,’ said Alex, sitting in the chair opposite the man. ‘I just need some information about a finance guy. Michael Sachs.’
‘You too, huh?’ he said, wiping some crumbs off his lip.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lara called me on Friday asking the same thing. Are you two working on something together again?’
‘I suppose we are.’
It was bending the truth a little, but it was also why he was here now. Charlie didn’t come into the office on weekends, which was a blessing in disguise, given the revelations about his affair with Alicia. It also meant that Alex couldn’t make his case for Lara’s reinstatement, but he still wanted to make amends with Lara and this was another way he knew he could help.
‘Is she coming back into the office?’
The business editor looked hopeful. Alex knew Harry liked Lara – everyone did – but he also knew the question was a loaded one. Alex had heard the word ‘redundancies’ muttered on more than one occasion since the Tait verdict and if Nicholas Avery was prepared to axe someone as brilliant as Lara, his niece, just to shave off a few editorial costs and satisfy the advertisers, then no job was safe.
‘Soon,’ he said vaguely. ‘In the meantime, what did you tell her about Sachs?’
Harry sat back in his seat, pushing it back toward the window.
‘In general? Michael Sachs is one of the biggest names in investment, very rich, very connected. Or are you asking about ClearView?’
‘ClearView?’
‘His monstrosity of a building project in Paddington.’
Harry quickly tapped on his keyboard and turned the screen so Alex could see; a photo of a tall modernist block on the north side of the park still under construction.
‘What is it, Sachs’s new office?’
‘Probably, but this is more about PR. There’s an arts centre and a theatre on the ground floor and a boutique cinema in the basement. It’s all going to be free or subsidised.’
Alex frowned. ‘I thought Sachs was a ruthless money man.’
‘Sure, but this is a twelve-storey monument to Sachs’s ego, setting himself up as a patron of the arts, Mr. Nice Guy giving something back to the people.’
Alex picked up on Harry’ sceptical tone.
‘So you don’t think Sachs is a nice guy?’
Harry raised a brow. ‘He’s generous with his philanthropy, sure, but you don’t get rich running a soup kitchen. Sachs’s a tough operator. There are certainly whispers about him being particularly nasty if you cross him, too.’
Alex immediately thought of Lara. That morning, he’d gone round to the houseboat with a bag of croissants as a peace offering, but Lara hadn’t been there. He’d assumed she was with Stefan and had kicked himself for speaking out against him. He knew what Lara was like – pig-headed and stubborn. If he voiced his disapproval about Stefan Melberg it was just like her to go and move in with him.
But if Lara’s love life was her own business, he could still be worried about her and he hated her dropping off the radar like this.
Harry carried on talking.
‘Sachs’s hedge fund is very successful, but he’s pivoting heavily into
real estate – lending money on property as well as developing it and investing in it. The big rumour I heard when I asked around is he is actively looking to sell Sachs Capital.’
‘Why the shift?’
Harry laced his hands behind his head. ‘Who knows? But Sachs has always been a genius at moving with the times. He’ll know what he’s doing. Besides, a sale of his company will be a major windfall. Maybe he just wants to quit while he’s ahead.’
Alex tried to process everything he’d been told.
‘Did you tell this to Lara?’
‘Not yet. I was going to call her tonight.’
He glanced at his chunky watch.
‘Speaking of which… do you mind if I push off?’
‘Course not,’ he smiled, remembering that Harry had a wife and three teenage boys. Just because Alex didn’t mind working on Sundays, it didn’t mean that other colleagues with families didn’t resent missing pub lunches, five-a-aside matches, park walks with friends and all the other things normal people did at the weekend.
Alex made another pit-stop before he headed back to his office. The picture desk was like the beating heart of the news room. More than ever, pictures generated stories, so this department was one of the busiest, with junior editors scanning the wires looking for images, fielding requests and acting as a conduit for snaps from paparazzi and the eagle-eyed public alike. And right at the centre of it all, like a craggy spider, was Gary McTavish.
He grabbed a couple of coffees from the machine and crossed over to Gary’s desk.
‘Urgent job for you,’ he said, handing him a cup.
The Chronicle’s Chief Picture Editor was one of Alex’s favourite members of staff. He was pushing sixty, but giving up a chronic addiction to Red Bull and taking up cycling had seen him lose some weight and look ten years younger. As one of the old timers, he was used to the right-now-if-not-sooner pace of the newsroom. If there was one person who put in longer hours at the Chronicle, it was Gary.
‘Thanks for the rocket fuel,’ he grinned, blowing on the hot liquid.
‘Shoot,’ he said.
‘Michael Sachs, high-finance guy. Currently building a huge development near Hyde Park called ClearView.’
The Yacht Party Page 23