A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Mu-um! Don’t be so old-fashioned.’

  ‘Milly, you’re a child. You’re not allowed alcohol. How on earth did it make you feel?’

  ‘Fine. A bit dizzy. But it was only a tiny drop of champagne, he said. Nearly all peach juice. That’s what a Bellini is,’ she explained to her mother with a touch of condescension, ‘peach juice and champagne.’

  ‘Yes, I did know that, thank you.’ She was going to have to speak to Nicky Mapleton about this; it was too important to let go. ‘And what else did you do on this wonderful weekend?’

  ‘Oh, lots of shopping. We went to Galeries Lafayette which was really cool. And then we went over to the Marais, where there are lots of little shops. And on Sunday we went to the flea market and it was so cool. Nicola said she wanted to look at pictures and fabrics, so Carey and I went to an amazing part, called the Marché Malik, all retro stuff, and I got this denim jacket, it’s just gorgeous, got all flowers embroidered on it, so much cooler than some mass-produced thing from Hollister. I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘And there we were spending squillions on one from Hollister,’ said Bianca, ‘so uncool. Silly us not to know. I’m not sure about this friendship, Patrick.’

  Patrick grinned at her.

  ‘It won’t last. They’ll probably fall out next term.’

  ‘And I really don’t like this thing of giving her cocktails. So irresponsible.’

  ‘. . . she had such a lovely time. She is writing to you properly—’

  ‘Oh, she doesn’t have to do that!’ Nicky Mapleton’s voice was amused. ‘I’m impressed she even knows about writing. Carey thinks writing means texting.’

  ‘Oh, well I’m a bit old-fashioned like that,’ said Bianca briskly. ‘Anyway, it was obviously a gorgeous weekend and she’s still talking about it. It was just so kind of you to take her.’

  ‘I’m glad she enjoyed it. She’s very sweet, Bianca, lovely manners.’

  ‘Well, we try,’ said Bianca. ‘Doesn’t always work.’

  ‘Oh my God, I know,’ said Nicky.

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ She paused, then said, almost casually, ‘but Nicky, and I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this, it just worried me a bit: Milly tells me she had a cocktail at the Crillon, a Bellini . . . I assumed it was non-alcoholic but she said it made her feel dizzy . . .’

  Her voice tailed away and she felt absurdly as if it was her in the wrong.

  ‘Oh, my dear Bianca, I’m so sorry. We’ve been giving them to Carey for a couple of years now. We think it’s important for her to learn about alcohol, not regard it as something dangerous and forbidden. It was only the tiniest dash of champagne, of course, not a full blown Bellini.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Bianca, ‘and of course I do agree about the alcoholic education. But – I feel Milly is just a little young . . .’

  ‘Then we’ll never do it again,’ said Nicola. ‘Anyway, we love having Milly here, and Carey just adores her. She’s been a great help to her at school, you know, got her over the new girl hump.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bianca, ‘I’m so glad. And Carey must come for a weekend with us soon. We have a house in Oxfordshire . . .’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Nicky Mapleton, ‘she’d love that. Well, bye Bianca, and so sorry you were worried.’

  ‘No it’s fine,’ said Bianca. ‘And thank you again.’

  She put the phone down and sat staring at it, wondering if Nicky Mapleton would tell Carey about the conversation. She hoped she wouldn’t.

  ‘Bye then, darling. Have a good day. Don’t forget drinks with the Cussons tonight. Will you be late?’

  ‘Oh – no. Don’t think so.’

  ‘Good. See you around seven then?’

  ‘Yes. Around seven. Bye darling.’

  Lawrence Ford shut the door behind him, got into his car, drove to the station and got on to the train. He felt rather sick. Another night when he couldn’t tell Annie. He’d sort of thought he could, tonight. But not after drinks with the ghastly Cussons.

  And as if he’d be late; the days were endless as it was, moving from public library to coffee shop, choosing areas where he was unlikely to meet anyone he knew, places like downtown Hammersmith and Chiswick, whiling away the hours . . . He’d always thought he’d do something useful if he lost his job, a degree, or a course in carpentry, but that had looked so easy then, wrapped in the cosy self-confidence of a well-paid job that seemed utterly secure – where would the motivation for that be now? When he lacked the courage even to tell his wife he’d been fired?

  God, how long could it go on? How stupid he would look when finally he was forced to confess and what would Nicky think of him – his bright, charming little boy who thought he was so wonderful – when he found out? He’d regard his father with something like pity, and that would be unbearable. OK then. Tomorrow. He’d do drinks with the Cussons tonight and tell Annie tomorrow night. Pretend it had only just happened. That would be – well, not all right, but better. And it would be over. Sort of.

  She had hardly ever seen him other than cheerful, she realised. His courage had kept them both going over the years. It was certainly greater than her own. But . . .

  ‘What is it?’ she said, sitting down on the bed, taking his hand.

  ‘It’s got to come off,’ Terry said. The words, the ugly raw words made no sense to her.

  ‘What has?’ she asked, fear making her stupid.

  ‘My leg,’ he said. ‘My fucking leg! What do you think?’

  He never swore either; it frightened her.

  And he lay down, turned his face away from her; and unable to find any words at all that could even begin to make sense, she just sat there, silent, terrified at what lay ahead of them.

  Trina Foster had only been working for the Human Resources department for a week; she had previously been a junior member of the IT team, which was currently being reconstructed but she was bright and ambitious and considered worth holding on to; Bertram Farrell needed a secretary and she was given a month’s trial. She determined to prove herself and win the job permanently.

  One of her tasks to be completed before the weekend was to get the letters out to all the Farrell consultants, giving them their redundancy notices. Mr Farrell had told her that it was a top priority. Unfortunately, it had been a very hectic week and she hadn’t managed to do the letters and Mr Farrell had told her on the Thursday evening that he would be out of the office the following day on a course, and wouldn’t be able to sign the letters personally so they would have to wait.

  ‘It would look very harsh and discourteous to them – some of them have been with us a long time – they’ll have to wait till Monday.’

  Well, at least she could get them ready. Trina spent part of the morning printing them and they were sitting on her desk in a neat pile when Bianca Bailey came into her office in the middle of the afternoon.

  ‘Mr Farrell not here?’

  ‘No, Mrs Bailey, he’s on a course. He said he’d try to get back, but he wasn’t too hopeful.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’ She looked at the letters. ‘Were you hoping he’d sign those?’

  ‘Yes, I was. He did say they were urgent, but he wanted to sign them himself. They’re going out with the redundancy notices to the consultants.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, look, I’ll sign them myself. I’m sure that would be all right. Presumably he’s approved them?’

  ‘Oh yes. It took him a long time to get them to his satisfaction. But they’re good to go now. Apart from the signatures.’

  ‘Fine. Well, give them to me, and I’ll sign them and Jemima will get them in the post. Don’t worry, I’ll explain to Mr Farrell on Monday. He said you’d coped very well this week. Keep it up.’

  And she smiled her dazzling smile – she was so lovely, Trina thought, so friendly – and left the room, taking the letters with her.

  Trina spent the rest of the afternoon catching up on emails and filing and it was only when she decided to give Mr Farrell’s desk
a bit of a tidy that she saw the postcard, half buried under a pile of notes, in Bertie’s scrawling hand, and with a Post-it note stuck on it saying ‘to be included in Marjorie Dawson’s letter’.

  Panicking slightly, Trina pulled off the Post-it and read the card.

  My dear Marjorie,

  I am so very sorry that we have to say goodbye to you. I hope you will understand the reasons, and I would like to thank you for all the years of loyal service you have given us. I do hope your husband is doing well, and I know you will continue to look after him in your inimitable and courageous way. I would also like to assure you that if a suitable vacancy does occur in the near future, you will be one of the very first in line. If you would like to discuss your situation with me personally, please don’t hesitate to call, or make an appointment with my secretary.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ said Trina, grabbing the card and running along the corridor with it, bursting into Jemima’s office.

  But Jemima had gone, as had Bianca, and so, clearly, had the post.

  And indeed, when she went back to her office there was an email from Jemima saying Don’t worry about the letters, I’m posting them personally when I leave – a little early as I have to go to the dentist. Have a lovely weekend.

  The only thing she could do, Trina thought, was post the card herself. Even though the Friday post had gone, Marjorie would get it on Monday, and surely that would be all right? She wondered what the matter with Mrs Dawson’s husband was; clearly he was some kind of an invalid. Very sad. Goodness, it was a hard world, Trina thought, and switched off her computer and went to meet her boyfriend, dropping the card into a letter box on her way.

  Lucy arrived for her Saturday stint at Rolfe’s to find the counter unattended. She was a little surprised; Marjorie was always there long before the store opened, dusting, rearranging, doing anything that might entice the customers. Lucy had grown quite fond of Marjorie because she was always cheerful and helpful, went to a lot of trouble to explain anything Lucy didn’t understand, and she was very popular with the other consultants. Lucy whisked off the dust sheets and had just started doing her own bit of rearranging when the manager came over.

  ‘You’ll have to cope on your own today, Lucy. Marjorie’s just phoned, won’t be coming in. Said she was ill.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ said Lucy. She smiled at him. She was sorry poor Marjorie wasn’t well, but it would be fun managing without her; actually give her something to do.

  Next week was her last but one week at FaceIt: an exciting one. The big local hotel was putting on a catwalk show and the students were all going along as make-up artists. As a sort of graduation piece, they had to create what FaceIt called their final look, based on a mood board, an individual compilation of photographs of models, colour swatches – pieces of ribbon, lace, even buttons, building up the colour family they were using, plus fashion photographs, beauty and hairstyle shots – all resonating their own final creation, a make up and hairstyle on a model. A photographer would then come in, take photographs – and that would be the start of their portfolios.

  Marjorie had been sitting at the kitchen table, staring with incredulity at the letter that had come that morning. A courteous, if short, note informed her that she was to be made redundant with effect from the end of August.

  That will give you a little more than the statutory notice period. We would like to thank you for your loyalty and hard work for the House of Farrell over the years and we hope you will be able to find alternative employment in the near future. Please sign the enclosed form and return it in the stamped addressed envelope.

  Yours sincerely,

  Bianca Bailey

  pp – Bertram Farrell, Director of Human Resources

  Human Resources! When did it get to be called that? Marjorie thought savagely. Inhuman more like it. How could they do it to her, just sling her out like a discarded tissue? Where was Lady Farrell now, with all her fine words and promises? Not exactly standing at her side.

  Marjorie decided to call her but the phone rang for a long time without an answer. Well, she would try again and keep on trying. She wasn’t going to let her hide behind a cloak of company formality. Meanwhile she had to go to the hospital – where she sat by Terry’s bed, her eyes fixed on him, willing all the drips that were going into what seemed like a great many veins to do their work and destroy the hideous infection that was threatening his life now, as well as his leg.

  ‘Hello, Looby Loo,’ said Bertie, looking up from his Times crossword as Lucy walked in. That was his nickname for her; she didn’t particularly mind, but Priscilla hated it and he knew it, which encouraged him to use it more than he would have done. ‘How many millions of ladies did you serve today?’

  ‘No millions,’ said Lucy. ‘No tens even, and hardly any units.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes, and Marjorie wasn’t there: she’s not well, the manager said.’

  ‘Oh dear, poor Marjorie. So what plans do you have for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Working at the pub tonight. Really looking forward to it. Not.’

  ‘You’re a good girl,’ said Bertie. ‘Well, I’m off to cultivate my garden. Know about Candide?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Lucy, slightly impatiently. Honestly, just because she’d left uni everyone seemed to think she was a complete airhead. ‘Really, Dad!’

  ‘Sorry, sorry! Oh, there’s the phone. Damn. I hope it’s not Mummy wanting reinforcements for her jumble sale.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Lucy, ‘and tell her you’re not here.’

  She came back into the room, smiling.

  ‘It was Grandy. She wanted to speak to you. I said I’d see if you were here and she said don’t be ridiculous, of course he’s there. Sorry, Daddy.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Bertie with a sigh. ‘God knows what she wants but it can’t be worse than the jumble sale.’

  Chapter 19

  ‘I am absolutely appalled. And disappointed. I have to say I actually find it hard to believe and I’d like to hear your defence – if you have one.’

  None was forthcoming.

  A long silence, then,

  ‘I’m horrified at both of you but more particularly you, Emily. Carey has at least the excuse of perhaps being not quite familiar with the school’s extremely high standards. You on the other hand,’ the ice blue eyes seemed to bore into Milly’s, ‘have had the very great privilege of having been here for almost two years. I would have expected far better of you. I shall have to tell your parents, of course. And devise a suitable punishment for the pair of you. Now go back to your classroom and apologise to Miss Sutherland for your absence.’

  Outside in the corridor, Milly blinked back her tears; she was very upset and terrified of what her parents would say to her. Carey looked at her and smiled, not entirely kindly.

  ‘Mills, it’s not the end of the world. Just a bit of, like, bunking off. We did it all the time in Paris.’

  ‘Well, we’re not in Paris, are we?’ said Milly. ‘We’re in London. And St Catherine’s is very tough about that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, why did you do it then? One of the others would have come with me. You were well excited when I first suggested it.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ Milly bit her lip, Hard to explain that an idea mooted in the giggly darkness of a sleepover hadn’t seemed so cool or such fun when she was sneaking out of lunch break and following Carey at the three minute interval they had agreed – no, Carey had instructed – out of the gate of St Catherine’s, half hoping someone would ask her where she was going. On the bus, of course, bound for Westfield, adrenalin kicked in and she felt hugely excited and clever and then Carey grinned, removed her tie and undid several of her shirt buttons, and started applying make up.

  ‘Well, we did it,’ she said.

  ‘We did,’ said Milly, grinning back. They exchanged a high five.

  It was the perfect afternoon to choose – half the class did paint
ing, the other half sculpture, followed by choir practice, which was not compulsory; girls not choosing it moving to the library for private study.

  Milly had been a little sorry about missing choir practice because she loved singing and was a leading member of the middle school choir, but Carey had told her witheringly if she thought warbling away under the baton of Mrs Wharton could be even compared with doing Westfield she’d better go and warble. And of course, she did surrender entirely to Westfield’s vaulted splendours, and with two tops from TK Maxx, a new pair of Converse trainers, and some fake eyelashes, all hidden under her geography file, she walked into the house a little late, having first called Sonia to say she’d missed her bus, feeling very cool indeed. It was the first time she’d done anything seriously naughty and it was, she discovered, quite a heady drug.

  Unfortunately, she was not to know that Mrs Wharton had decided to audition the more promising girls for solos at the end-of-term concert and finding, to her surprise, that Milly was not at choir practice, had sent someone to fetch her from the library . . .

  Bianca, arriving back in her office from a not entirely happy meeting with the Porter Bingham people, was informed by Jemima that Lady Farrell was expecting her in her office.

  ‘She was very agitated about something.’

  ‘Happily agitated?’

  ‘I would say quite unhappily,’ said Jemima.

  ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lady Farrell, you’ll have to tell me. Obviously if it’s something unfortunate—’

  ‘Unfortunate! I would say a great deal more than that. I feel thoroughly ashamed, on behalf of the company, and indeed of my family, since Bertie is also involved. I cannot believe you can have acted in so high-handed a way but then, I suppose it’s only to be expected, balance sheets being the only thing you care about, rather than people and their lives, however difficult.’

  ‘Lady Farrell, please tell me what your concerns are.’