‘No, but Jonjo is our host, and she’s . . .’
There was a silence.
‘You’re right,’ he said then, surprising her, ‘I’m being rude. Right then, since I haven’t got long, how do you feel about your husband coming to work for me?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, smiling at him for the first time. ‘And of course he hasn’t made up his mind yet.’
‘I’m banking on it being yes. Look . . .’ He glanced at his watch, not the Tag Heuer she might have expected but a very unshowy Swatch. Which was probably as much of a pose as the other way round, she thought. Like Bill Gates flying Economy. ‘Look, I’ve only got about ten more minutes. I like your husband – I think he’d be an asset and I know I could work with him. Any more questions? Of your own, I mean.’
She hesitated.
‘It’s difficult. I know so little about what’s involved.’
‘I presume you mean in so far as how it affects his life. I can see that’s important to you. I’d pay him well. And – I believe he’s a family man. So am I.’ (Yes, and I’m Angelina, thought Bianca.) ‘Don’t think he’ll be working crazy hours. He won’t. He’ll be working at his own pace. That’s what I want. Jonjo may have to be on call, 24/7. I certainly do. Patrick doesn’t. You don’t have to worry.’
‘Saul,’ she said, anxious that he should not think Patrick was pussy-whipped, ‘there isn’t a problem with that. It’s the least of my concerns, I do assure you.’
‘Good. Well, that’s dealt with, then. So what’s the greatest?’ The green eyes were at once thoughtful and impatient.
‘I suppose – that he’ll enjoy it. He’s extremely clever but he’s led a sheltered life professionally. It’s a very harsh world, yours, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, extremely so, but it won’t affect him. Don’t worry about that. Well, look, I’ll talk to him again next week. Oh God!’
‘Saul . . .’ Guinevere was weaving towards him, holding a glass of sherry in one hand, pulling a short, balding man behind her with the other, ‘here’s your drink, it’s their very finest oloroso – El Maestro Sierra Oloroso Wine Extra Viejo. I insisted.’
‘I’m sure it’s very nice, but unfortunately I have to leave now; domestic pressures – I was just discussing them with Bianca.’ And he turned one of his nanosecond smiles on her.
‘What a shame. Well, can I have your email, I want to invite you to my next show, it’s in six weeks’ time in Paris. It’ll be a great party.’
She has the hide of a rhinoceros, thought Bianca; and what on earth might he say now?
‘I’m a complete philistine I’m afraid,’ said Finlayson. ‘I’d be a waste of a valuable invitation. But – thank you.’ This was clearly an effort. ‘So goodnight, Patrick, we’ll talk. Jonjo, see you on Monday. We need to discuss that European problem first thing and—’
‘European problem? Oh, you must mean Greece and the Euro,’ said Guinevere, her large eyes fixed on Saul again. ‘Saul, I know some very important German financiers, quite close to the Chancellor, I could help . . .’
God, she was a nightmare, Bianca thought. What was Jonjo doing with her?
‘Thank you. Very kind. Jonjo will let you know if we need them. Well – goodnight, Bianca.’ He turned, and the smile lived just a fraction longer this time. ‘It was – very nice to meet you.’
‘You too,’ she said, giving a half-smile back, and held up her hand to shake his. He looked at it, her hand, as if it was the last thing he might have expected, then took it and enfolded it rather than shook it, and his grasp was very warm, very strong. She felt odd, disconcerted, as if she was alone in a completely unfamiliar situation, not in the bar of a London restaurant with her husband and some friends.
He was gone then, out into the street. She found it hard to stop contemplating him and then shook herself mentally, smiled at Patrick, so wonderfully charming and reassuringly normal, and looking rather handsome, she thought absent-mindedly. And took a rather large gulp of Roederer to try and find normality.
‘God,’ said Bianca, when she and Patrick finally fell into a cab, ‘it feels like we’ve been there for ever. What a nightmare evening. She was grotesque.’
‘Well,’ said Patrick, as always anxious to be fair, ‘not altogether.’
‘Patrick! She was totally terrible. You must get Jonjo to see the light about her.’
‘Don’t think I can do that. Anyway, any light that surrounds her is coming right out of her rather beautiful bottom.’
Bianca stared at him. Then she laughed. ‘Oh, Patrick, that’s why I love you so much. You do see everything properly straight.’
‘Nice of you to say so. And what did you think of Saul? He seemed to be having quite a chat with you.’
‘Saul Finlayson doesn’t do chatting,’ said Bianca, ‘but I thought he was . . . all right.’
‘That’s not much of a testimonial,’ said Patrick, looking anxious.
‘Actually,’ she said, thoughtfully, ‘given what he could be like, I think all right is pretty flattering.’
‘Really?’ He looked more anxious still.
‘Yes. To say Saul Finlayson is ruthless is the understatement of the millennium.’
‘Oh, dear. So you think it could be a mistake, taking the job?’
‘I think it could be. I also think it could be absolutely fascinating. Patrick, you need to talk to him some more, get a bit more of a feel for it, what doing it would be like.’
‘But I can’t really tell that, can I? He’s not going to give me an hour-by-hour rundown of my day.’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Oh darling, don’t be ridiculous. And I think it might be irritating for him.’
‘Patrick, if you’re worried about irritating him at this stage,’ said Bianca, ‘you certainly shouldn’t be going to work for him.’
She spoke lightly, but she meant it. She was beginning to worry about the inroads Saul Finlayson might make into their life.
Florence was having supper with Athina in her flat; they did that occasionally on Saturday, if neither of them was otherwise occupied. Which Florence was more often than Athina; she was on the committee of a small local theatre and tried to see everything they put on. She had, of course, invited Athina many times, who always refused. ‘So kind of you, dear, and of course it’s marvellous what you do for them, but I really don’t admire suburban theatre.’
The talk this evening revolved round the theatre; Athina had seen Noises Off, the much-acclaimed new version of the Michael Frayn play.
‘It was excellent, dear, you would enjoy it. Very funny. I do enjoy comedy. Cornelius taught me that, of course, that great theatre doesn’t have to be all drama and tragedy. Would you agree? More champagne?’
‘Absolutely I would,’ said Florence, ‘and yes, please.’
‘Of course the theatre was one of the first bonds between you and Cornelius. I always remember you discussing it the first time we met, you’d both seen some Rattigan thing, and him saying afterwards that we really must employ you, you were so intelligent.’
‘Indeed,’ said Florence. ‘I don’t mean indeed I’m intelligent, although I suppose I am, but I do remember the conversation, of course. And how you interrupted it, Athina, because you said we had to talk business.’
‘Well, it was what we were there for,’ said Athina, ‘and we’d have been there all night if I hadn’t stopped you.’
‘It’s possible,’ said Florence. ‘Or at least until the bar closed.’
‘I – oh, excuse me,’ said Athina, as the phone rang, ‘I must get that. I’m sure it’s Margaret Potterton, calling about a dinner she’s giving next week, fundraising for the Friends. I’ll take it in the other room, so help yourself to champagne, dear.’
She was a Friend of Covent Garden, and very active; it was another comparison she made frequently with Florence’s aptly named Little Theatre.
And Florence poured herself a very full glass of champagne, and sat sipping it, al
lowing her mind to wander back to that first meeting with Cornelius in the cocktail bar at the Dorchester.
Very tall he had been, that was the first thing she noticed about him, well over six foot, and incredibly, if slightly showily, well dressed in a Prince of Wales suit and a Garrick tie. He had taken her small hand in his and shaken it very gently, as if he was afraid he might crush it, but it wasn’t a feeble handshake even so, it was firm and very steady and his eyes, smiling into hers, were steady too, not wandering round the bar, looking for more interesting or important people.
He ushered her to a seat, and then asked her what she would like to drink: ‘Sherry? G and T?’ His voice was quite light and actor-y, Florence noticed. She smiled at him and said could she have a Gin Fizz.
‘Of course. How very adventurous of you. Darling, what about you?’
‘Oh, I’ll just have a sherry,’ said Athina, clearly slightly surprised by Florence’s order (good, Florence had thought, point to me), ‘but very dry and on the rocks.’
‘And I’ll have a Gin Fizz, keep Miss Hamilton company. It’s a lovely drink and I haven’t had it for a while.’
Florence smiled at him and waited in silence while he waved the waiter over, gave the order.
‘Right,’ said Athina, ‘now, if we might get down to business—’
‘Oh, there’s no hurry, darling,’ said Cornelius. ‘And anyway, I think we should get to know Miss Hamilton a little first. I like to mix business with pleasure.’ He smiled at Florence again. ‘Tell us about yourself, what are you interested in, what you enjoy?’
‘Oh, I have many interests,’ said Florence, taking a cigarette from the silver case he was offering. ‘Music, tennis, the theatre—’
‘The theatre! We love it too. Do you like serious theatre, musicals, what?’
‘I like classic drama best,’ said Florence, ‘Shakespeare, Shaw, Oscar Wilde – if I can have some humour built in so much the better.’
‘Well, I’m with you there,’ said Cornelius Farrell. ‘I think The Importance of Being Earnest is the most perfect play that’s ever been written.’
‘Oh really, Cornelius!’ said Athina. ‘Better than Hamlet, or Romeo and Juliet?’
‘Well – let’s just say I’d enjoy it more,’ said Cornelius. ‘What would your perfect play be, Miss Hamilton?’
‘I think,’ said Florence, ‘She Stoops to Conquer. The plot is just perfection in my view.’
‘Good choice! Well done. Ah, our drinks. Goodness me, that was a good choice of yours.’ He raised his glass to her and smiled. ‘Cheers. Wonderful to meet you. What a good idea of yours, Athina. Is your sherry all right, my darling?’
‘Yes, it’s very nice, thank you,’ said Athina.
‘Good. Now – books, Miss Hamilton. Tell me, who are your favourite authors?’
‘Oh – Galsworthy. Trollope. I do like those family sagas so very much. And just now, Somerset Maugham.’
‘Isn’t he marvellous? I read one of his short stories every Sunday.’
‘Rather than the Bible?’ said Florence.
‘Oh, rather!’
‘Although there are some very good stories in the Bible. Cain and Abel, Lot and his wife, Adam and Eve . . .’
‘You’re right. David and Goliath, Samson and his unfortunate haircut . . .’
Florence laughed.
‘I think, perhaps, Cornelius,’ Athina’s voice was just a little cool, ‘we should discuss our proposition with Miss Hamilton. I’m sure she hasn’t got all evening and we certainly haven’t.’
‘I suppose you’re right. This is rather fun, though. Well, darling, you take over the talking now.’
‘Very well. Miss Hamilton, I’ve been observing you in the store and I’ve been very impressed with you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Florence quietly. This is a clever woman, she thought. My husband may be flirting with you, Athina had actually said in those brief sentences, but I am actually in control here, of you as much as him.
‘And I hear very good reports of you from the management. You seem to be more – how shall I put it? – more intelligent than most of the girls.’
‘Don’t suppose many of them watch Goldsmith,’ said Cornelius.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Athina, somewhat perversely Florence thought, ‘but – no, I agree it is unlikely. Anyway, what we were thinking about – and it is only an idea at the moment – was a little shop we’ve been lucky enough to have inherited the lease of in the Berkeley Arcade. You’ll know the arcade, of course?’
‘Of course,’ said Florence.
‘We see it as a sort of flagship for the Farrell brand, a perfect setting where women can go to browse the new colours and products and have a facial at the same time.’
‘I don’t think I could do that,’ said Florence, ‘not facials.’
‘Oh, my dear, of course not. There would be a beautician. What we are looking for is a manager, someone who can run it with style as well as efficiency, someone the customers feel they can communicate with. Someone more of their own class,’ she added with an emphasis on the ‘more’.
Florence stared at her, too excited to be distressed by the mild insult.
‘You mean – you’d consider me for such a position?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cornelius.
‘Consider, certainly,’ said Athina.
‘I am honoured,’ said Florence. She smiled at Athina expectantly. Instinct told her not to smile at Cornelius.
‘Well, that is excellent,’ said Athina, ‘but now I think we should learn a little more about your personal life. You wear no ring. And I’m sure you would understand that we couldn’t employ anyone about to get married and have children.’
‘I was married,’ said Florence simply, ‘but he was killed in the war.’
‘Oh, how sad,’ said Athina. She spoke rather as if Florence had told her a pet dog had had to be put down.
‘Thank you,’ said Florence, ‘but it was eight years ago. Time heals the deepest wounds and I find myself enjoying the single life. I certainly have no intention of marrying. I have never, in any case, met anyone who could hold a candle to my husband.’
‘Excellent,’ said Athina, and then realising that this was not an entirely appropriate response, said hastily, ‘I mean that the man you chose was so absolutely first-rate.’
‘He was,’ said Florence. ‘Absolutely. But now my career is of prime importance to me. And I would be very proud to work for the House of Farrell – by far the most exciting brand there is at the moment, in my opinion. The colours – quite wonderful.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cornelius, ‘that’s exactly what we want to hear. Isn’t it, darling?’
‘Indeed,’ said Athina. ‘Well, clearly, Miss Hamilton, we need now to discuss this between ourselves, consider one or two other candidates. But—’
‘But,’ said Cornelius, and his dark eyes on Florence were very thoughtful, almost probing, ‘but please, whatever you do, don’t take another position in the next few days. Wouldn’t you echo that, darling?’
‘I – think so,’ said Athina. ‘Yes, please don’t, Miss Hamilton. And now Cornelius, we mustn’t delay Miss Hamilton. I’m sure she is busy and we have a dinner party to attend.’
‘Yes, I should go,’ said Florence. ‘I’m going to the cinema. With friends.’ This was quite untrue, but she didn’t want the Farrells to see her as going home alone to a spinster-ish dwelling somewhere.
‘Are you indeed? What are you going to see?’ asked Cornelius.
‘Roman Holiday,’ said Florence firmly, pulling the title out of the air. ‘Have you seen it?’
‘Oh, it’s marvellous. Marvellous,’ said Cornelius. ‘That new girl, Audrey Hepburn – so very good. And simply beautiful. Well, enjoy it, Miss Hamilton. And we’ll be in touch.’ They all stood up, walked to the front door of the Dorchester. A line of Rolls-Royces stood in the small crescent outside, in between the taxis. A chauffeur leapt out of one of them and opened the rear doo
r.
‘Well, goodbye,’ said Athina, moving towards the car. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’
‘Thank you indeed,’ said Cornelius. ‘What a pleasure it was to meet you. I do hope we can work together.’
And he shook her hand again, with that same warm, gentle grasp. Florence looked up at him, and smiled.
‘I hope so too,’ she said.
Chapter 12
‘Yes! YES! Oh, my God! Yes, yes, YES!’
Mike put his head round the door and smiled at her.
‘All right, Bianca? You sound like Meg Ryan in that film.’
Bianca giggled. ‘Did I? Sorry. Yes, sooo all right! Mike, there is a God. Caro Johnson has just resigned. In writing. How amazing is that?’
‘Pretty amazing. How wonderful for you.’
‘I know. I had a bit of a showdown with her mother on Friday and it didn’t reflect well on Caro and – well, obviously she’s got more sense than I imagined. Fantastic.’
‘Fan-bloody-tastic indeed. Now – about these sales figures. They really are abysmal. How is your interim plan working out?’
Lucy felt absurdly nervous as she walked into the reception area of FaceIt. The eleven other girls had all arrived earlier and were standing in a group, looking rather alarmingly sophisticated with full, elaborate make up and carefully styled clothes. She had come as if for lectures at uni with scrubbed face, T-shirt and jeans.
She smiled at them and said ‘Hi’ before walking up to the desk and introducing herself.
‘Ah, Lucy, yes. Welcome. You’re the last.’
‘Sorry,’ said Lucy.
‘No, no, you’re not late. Everyone else was early. I won’t introduce you – our first lecture takes care of that. Follow me, girls, we’ll go over to the studio.’
They walked into a large, light room with long benches down three sides, carved into separate work areas. Each had its own dressing-room style mirror, surrounded with light bulbs, a large chair rather like a dentist’s and a towelling mat beneath each mirror, laid out neatly with a palette of lip and eye colours, a pouch of brushes of varying sizes, a range of foundations and powders and a set of electric hair rollers. In a corner stood a cluster of hairdryers on wheels.
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