A tall, dark woman who had been sorting out the make up on the big central desk smiled at them.
‘Hello, all of you, and welcome to FaceIt. Now, adopt a work station each, put your things down there and then I’d like you to introduce yourselves one by one – no need to be nervous, it’s the one thing a make-up artist can’t afford to be. When you’re doing the make up for London Fashion Week or a Paris show, you’ll have about two minutes to find yourself somewhere to work, sort out which model you’re working with, get a relationship going with her – very important – and start work. OK then, here we go. I’m Dinah Lawson, the chief tutor here, and this is Shona Parkin who’ll be at most of your lectures and demos, especially the ones that relate to hair. We have a lot to get through and not much time; this course is only seven weeks, as you know, with an extra two for the theatrical sessions. Which of you is doing that?’
Lucy and one other girl put up their hands. Dinah Lawson nodded.
‘Right. Well, we might as well start with you two. You are . . . ?’ she said, looking at Lucy. ‘Tell us just a couple of sentences about yourself, how old you are, why you’re doing the course, what you’ve been doing up till now.’
The only constant was their ages, all of them except one being very early twenties. Two were married, one had a young child, two came from abroad; there were two more dropouts from university, several had been beauty consultants in big stores, another had worked in an office and been bored out of her head.
‘It’s not wall-to-wall glamorous and fun in this business either,’ said Dinah. ‘It’s not all fashion shows and models, it can be making up some frankly very plain girls for a set of studio shots with a local photographer, or doing a bride’s make up, scary and very stressful, and you don’t get a second chance. Now then, we’re going to start today with absolute basics, cleansing the skin, getting it ready for make up, absolutely crucial. Right, now who’s going to be my model for the day? Not you, Lucy, because you’ve come sensibly barefaced – interesting name yours, incidentally, one of the make-up houses as I’m sure you know. I presume you’re not related to the family?’
‘Oh no,’ said Lucy hastily. ‘Just – just coincidence.’
‘Right, what about you – Fenella, was it? You’ve got lots of make up on – let’s have it all off and start again . . .’
Lucy liked the look of Fenella; she was one of the other uni dropouts, tall and thin with a mass of shining conker brown hair.
It was a very different world from that of Jane Austen and its possible Marxist connotations. But one Lucy felt already more at home in.
Lawrence Ford had enjoyed his eighteen years as marketing manager of Farrell’s. Athina still held him in high regard, he had a very reasonable expense account, a moderately good car, he dined and wined the trade and attended department store events conscientiously, and whatever his failings in other areas, he was very clever at spotting important new developments by other brands and talking about them rather as if they had been his own idea. His shortcomings were considerable, but he was gloriously unaware of them: he had a total lack of grasp of the advertising industry, his briefings on point-of-sale materials were very derivative and indeed retrospective, and his entire persona suggested someone from two decades earlier, with his formal suits, over-polished laced-up shoes, and insistence on being called Mr Ford by everybody in the company.
His wife, Annie, was a perfect corporate wife, loyal, admiring, always beautifully turned out and coiffed, and always over-wearing Farrell products. She had not worked since her son was born – she said it was a wife’s duty to support her husband in every way, and a career in itself.
The Fords lived in a four-bedroom house in a new development in Kent; it was immaculate as was the garden, and Lawrence Ford, unlike most of the company had been completely unconcerned by the takeover; he knew his value was considerable and he had nothing to fear.
Athina didn’t know quite what to do with herself. This was a new sensation and one she found disturbing and even frightening. All her life, every moment had been busy; her presence required constantly. She moved from office to boardroom to conference to department store to work-based social engagement, and very occasionally home – always appearing calm and in control. At even their worse crises – an entire batch of lipsticks wrongly formulated and growing something akin to mould, a national poster campaign cancelled because some absurd new regulatory body refused to pass its claim (that The Cream made skin grow younger every day) – she had gone resolutely on, minimising damage where possible, accepting inevitable defeat graciously, restoring faltering morale by sheer determination and courage. Now, suddenly, she felt close to redundant; her traditions rejected, her power reduced, her talents unused.
For the first few weeks, she had continued to call meetings, discuss products, approve advertising and publicity campaigns; slowly, then with gathering speed, these functions were all taken from her.
First it was: ‘Lady Farrell, may I join your meeting?’ then: ‘Lady Farrell, I think I would rather we called a halt to developing new products just for a few weeks’ and finally: ‘Lady Farrell, I think while the budgets are all under review, we cannot commission an advertising campaign.’
It was all done very courteously, always by Bianca Bailey personally, but the end result was that she found herself with almost nothing to do and at the end of each day she would arrive back at her flat knowing that she had accomplished nothing since she left it that morning. She had few friends and no hobbies, which she saw as rather silly work replacements. Now she was bored, lonely, and – though she would have died rather than admit it – experiencing the entirely unfamiliar situation of being unsure of herself. And, far worse, unsure what to do about it.
She decided to go and visit Florence in the arcade.
Florence was rather disconcertingly busy; Athina waited at first impatiently and then irritably as she dealt with a small but demanding queue of customers, and finally went upstairs and made herself some tea.
‘Athina, dear, I’m so sorry, everyone turned up at once. I’ve locked the shop for half an hour, so we can talk.’ Florence appeared at the top of the stairs, slightly out of breath.
‘I don’t know that that’s a very good idea,’ said Athina. ‘We can’t afford to turn away clients.’
‘They’ll come back,’ said Florence, ‘they always do. I used the sign of course.’
‘Mrs Bailey won’t like that,’ said Athina.
Bianca Bailey had already been confronted with this sign which said, rather quirkily, ‘Closed for thirty minutes for private consultation’, and had complained that the thirty minutes was open-ended, having no apparent start time, but Florence had argued that she knew her customers very well and they responded to it without complaint; when Bianca said mildly that new customers might not be so obliging, Florence had replied that new clients found it intriguing and had often told her so. At which, rather than point out that there might be a number of new clients who did not return, Bianca had apparently given in, which both Florence and Athina were learning meant nothing of the sort.
‘Well, never mind,’ Florence said mildly, ‘she’s either going to close us down or she’s not and a little respite now for half an hour will make no difference. What can I do for you, Athina?’
‘Oh Florence I don’t know,’ said Athina fretfully, ‘I just feel so – so impotent. Bianca Bailey clearly thinks I have nothing to offer and Caro’s resigned, says she feels totally disregarded. As do I, of course, but I don’t have that luxury. Someone has to keep a watchful eye on everything.’
‘Does her resignation affect our shareholding?’
‘No, no, not at all. But it does mean we have a less visible presence, which doesn’t help. I suppose Bertie will be gone soon – he has nothing to offer, far less than Caro – but I’m certainly not going to allow him the luxury of resigning and I’ve told him so. Anyway, I thought perhaps I might have a facial. I always enjoy talking to Francine, she knows more a
bout our customers than anybody.’
‘I’m sorry, Athina,’ said Florence, ‘but Francine is fully booked this afternoon. Tomorrow perhaps?’
‘Quite out of the question, I’m far too busy. Talking to the consultants,’ she added hastily, lest Florence might find this statement too much at odds with her earlier one.
‘Well, might you go and have a facial with one of the other brands?’ said Florence. ‘The Clarins treatments are quite wonderful, I hear.’
‘Well, perhaps . . .’ said Athina. ‘We always used to do that, didn’t we? Pick up ideas, check out the competition. I could go round several over the next few days.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Florence. ‘Ah, that’s the shop bell, so that will be Francine. Stay as long as you like, Athina, but she and I have things to discuss.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of holding you up,’ said Athina icily.
She left then, and soon Francine la Croix, who had been born Pauline Crossman, disappeared to her salon and her first customer, and Florence was left alone with her memories of another afternoon, forty years earlier, when she had closed the shop and put the sign on the door and the parlour had been filled with first sighs and then cries of pleasure as skilful hands had worked on her breasts – so wonderfully responsive – and moved down to her stomach, so strangely a source of pleasure also, and thus into the places beneath it, and the great tangle of pleasure that lay therein, sweet and lush and utterly engaging of every sense that she possessed, of sight and sound and smell and feel; and as the long bright afternoon passed, and the sunshine that filled the little room slowly faded, and the thirty minutes spoken of on the door were multiplied three, four, five times, she lay finally sated, smiling with pleasure, her hair fanned across the chaise longue that had served as a bed, her legs entwined with her lover’s, their eyes exploring one another and what the time had meant and done for them.
And then, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Little Flo. Not to be able to be more . . .’ And she had said she didn’t want more, that what he gave her was exactly what she needed; and then finally he was gone, and she was left only with the memory of the day, and for the time being, such had been her pleasure, her unutterable pleasure, that it was indeed happiness enough.
Patrick followed Jonjo along the corridor towards the trading room. He had never been in it before because Jonjo discouraged visits; but today, because he was almost part of it and Jonjo was in the vicinity, he was to be allowed in. It was exciting.
‘Right,’ said Jonjo, ‘follow me.’ And they walked into what seemed to Patrick a parallel universe. The sound was the first great shock, a wall of it, thuggish in its violence; he felt it physically, like a blow. And then the light, harsh, brilliant, coming from screens on the desks as well as huge banks on the ceilings, illuminating the large room filled with rows of desks facing each other, where people shouted and gestured, often obscenely, or stared fixated at screens, not just one to a person either, but stacks of six or eight to a desk. Phones were banged on those desks, fists were punched in the air, shouts of exaltation and at times, loud obscenities.
Every so often a roar would fill the floor; Patrick, imagining at first that it was because of some new multi-billion deal, suddenly realised that the vast TV screens, set at regular intervals along the wall, were showing not the latest trade figures or currency values, but a football match, and the roars and subsequent obscenities were greeting goals or some less satisfactory event.
‘When important investors come along we put Bloomberg TV on,’ said Jonjo, ‘but something vital like this match? Well, obviously it takes priority.’
The camaraderie was almost tangible; the relationships forged within this world were clearly close, generous and unquestioning, the bedrock of the whole apparently chaotic structure.
‘OK,’ said Jonjo, ‘come and sit here. Desk next to me. This is Ali,’ he said, gesturing towards the next chair. Ali nodded briefly, then returned to shouting unpleasantries at the person working opposite him.
‘How on earth do you concentrate?’ said Patrick in wonder.
‘We don’t,’ said Jonjo and Ali in unison.
‘OK,’ said Jonjo, gesturing at the screens on his desk, ‘this is how it works. We have our trading screens and our phone boards, and on the phone boards we have squawk boxes that we and the clients can shout into. It’s like an open line. On the left is information – what’s worth what – on the right, what’s happening. And here, emails coming through, and these keys, look, these put us through to clients. You just press the relevant key and you’re through and you shout. You don’t get an answer till you’ve shouted several times, louder and louder, and then they shout back. Hang on, Patrick, someone coming through . . .’ He leaned forward, spoke into a mike on his desk, said, ‘Got one week to go at 6.5 . . . I’m 6.0 bid for you, Matt, keep showing it round.’ He waited a moment, staring into the noise, sat down again, then flicked the switch and turned back to Patrick. ‘OK?’
Patrick smiled at him weakly.
The floor was peopled ninety-five per cent by males, with a smattering of extremely pretty girls.
‘They’re called screen girls,’ said Jonjo. ‘They go round the clients making sure they’re getting all the information they need and it’s coming through all right on their screens. Obviously, they’re not ill-looking,’ he added. ‘All our customers are extremely hairy blokes, so it’s nicer for them, the girls don’t mind at all, possibly need to be a bit thick-skinned.’
Patrick tried to crush any thoughts of what some of Bianca’s more feminist associates and friends might make of this statement.
And all the time the money, the lead role in the cast of this absurd theatre, hung over it. ‘Four trillion dollars done in a day,’ Ali said, ‘cash that is, the trades are done in a microsecond.’ Trillions of dollars, up for grabs, there for the taking – if you could only translate the script.
And thank God I don’t have to, Patrick thought, feeling himself quail in the face of it all; for he knew he was to be taken from here, to a quiet place, safe from this sound and fury but somehow, and God knew how, what he did there, if he took the job, would have a bearing, and possibly an important one, on what they did here.
He felt excitement and fear in almost equal proportions.
‘Right,’ said Jonjo, ‘let’s go and find Saul.’
Mrs Blackman, the First Mistress (as she was called, in an attempt to emphasise St Catherine’s bid for equality with St Paul’s and their High Mistress) did not like taking girls in the middle of the academic year; but Carey Mapleton was the daughter of a knighted, Oscar-winning actor father and an ex-supermodel mother, and the report from her former school – The International Academy in Paris – would have set any headmistress salivating: five star academic prowess plus considerable achievement on the sports field, the gymnastics class, and the flute. All this, plus an offer of input into the school’s drama department from Sir Andrew, and Carey was clearly a pupil not to be lost.
It was agreed that she should join the school after the Easter holidays, and should join Form 3X; this would put her, as it happened, into the same class as Milly Bailey.
‘They are a particularly gifted group,’ said Mrs Blackman. ‘I think Carey will fit in extremely well there.’
Sir Andrew and Lady Mapleton murmured their thanks and thought, not for the first time, that it was as well that they had bestowed upon The Academy sufficient funding to build the foundations of a new theatre and a drama scholarship, thus removing any fear of Carey’s slight – very slight – behaviour irregularities being mentioned in her report . . .
‘Mrs Bailey—’
‘Bianca, Bertie, please.’
‘Sorry! Bianca, could I have a word?’
‘Of course.’ Increasingly she enjoyed words with Bertie; he was so calming, so sensible, so nice. ‘Come in, sit down. Jemima, could we have some – what, Bertie? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Oh, coffee, please.’
Jemima disappe
ared in the direction of the kitchen and Bianca smiled at Bertie. ‘Now – what can I do for you?’
‘Well, just something I heard. I was at a drinks do last night – Nip’s annual knees up.’
Nip, as it was affectionately known, was a professional body – National and International Perfumiers.
‘Oh yes, I couldn’t make it. Thank you for going, Bertie.’
‘Oh, nice to be of service. Yes, well, it was all the usual, of course. But I did hear something that I thought might be helpful. The marketing director of Persephone is looking to move on – frustrated by the present management. Nice woman, not sure if you’ve met her?’
‘Very briefly. What’s her name, Lara something?’
‘Lara Clements. Now, forgive me, but I imagine you would be looking for a marketing person?’
‘Yes,’ said Bianca. ‘A marketing person is absolutely key. Lawrence Ford is – not quite up to snuff, as my grandfather used to say. So it would be good to talk to Lara Clements. In strict confidence, of course.’
‘Of course. So what I could do—’ Jemima had come into the room with the coffee and Bertie stopped abruptly, looked at her anxiously. Bianca smiled
‘Jemima is confidence. She knows more about the company and the people here and even me than I do. Goodness, Bertie, I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t produced her. I say that nearly every day, don’t I, Jemima?’
Jemima smiled modestly, poured the coffee and disappeared again.
‘Right, back to Mrs Clements?’
‘I was impressed by her, just felt instinctively she’d suit you. She’s divorced,’ he added, ‘about – oh, late thirties, early forties? I liked her . . . not that that’s important.’
‘I think it could be very important,’ said Bianca, smiling at him. ‘Thank you Bertie. I’ll get on to her. I don’t suppose you’ve got any details . . . ?’
‘She said she was going to see Meredith Cole over the next few days, the headhunters, you know – sorry, of course you do – anyway, if you want to avoid a big management fee, you might like to strike first. I – well, I took the liberty of taking her email. I hope that’s all right.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 13