‘All right, all right,’ said Bianca, ‘no one’s asking you to. Just to keep a sense of proportion.’
‘Which you always do?’
‘At least I try,’ she said, and got up and left the room.
She went upstairs slowly, and as she passed Milly’s door, she heard her talking.
She was worried about Milly; weeks after the holiday with the Mapletons, she was still subdued, slightly hostile, resistant to questioning about it. She knocked, and then, without waiting for an answer, went in.
The room was lit only by Milly’s bedside lamp. She was on the phone and switched off with ‘got to go’, then met her mother’s eyes defiantly.
‘Darling, what are you doing? It’s eleven o’ clock. You should be asleep and whoever you’re talking to should be asleep too. Was it Carey?’
‘No!’ said Milly, her voice fierce and defensive. ‘No it wasn’t.’
‘Well, there’s nothing – nothing wrong, is there?’
‘No!’ The same defiant tone. ‘Course not.’
‘All right. Good. Night-night darling, sleep well.’
She bent to kiss her and Milly offered a hostile cheek, then turned to face the wall. But not before Bianca had seen two things. A heap of tissues lay on the duvet, wet tissues. And Milly’s hairline was wet too, where the tears had clearly trickled down as she had lain on her pillows.
‘I can’t do that,’ said Bertie.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I totally don’t agree with you.’
‘Bertie, I do wish you wouldn’t try to talk like your children. It sounds so pathetic. Now look. We have to stand united otherwise there will be nothing left of the House of Farrell. I hope you are not going to betray everything the company that your father and I spent our lives creating stands for. Now listen to me . . .’
Bertie listened.
‘Marjorie, how are you dear? Oh, I’m so sorry. And of course you’re finding it hard. Now, there’s a board meeting later this month and your future is very much on the agenda. What? Yes, of course. And I shall come down and visit you again soon. Perhaps that will cheer you up a little. And I would like to see Terry, of course. Do give him my best wishes.’
‘Mrs Ford? This is Lady Farrell. Yes. Good morning. I just rang to see how you were getting on, it must be so very difficult for you – oh, my dear, I cannot tell you how much I sympathise with you, and of course having been widowed myself I do understand. I feel a great burden of guilt about your husband – no, no, my dear, I do. Although of course everything is out of my hands and has been for some time. He was such a loyal and really very clever man. So sad. So very sad . . .’
‘Ah, Jackie. Do come in and sit down, my dear. What a very pretty dress that is. Of course I usually only see you in the lab, in your white coat. I just wondered how you were finding the new regime. It must be rather different, I imagine. You must miss Maurice, being used to his way of working. You can speak quite freely to me, Jackie, this is a confidential discussion. I just like to keep in touch with our employees, see how they’re getting along in what must be rather difficult circumstances.’
‘Milly’s been crying,’ said Ruby, ‘ever since she got home.’ Her small round face was concerned. ‘You must go and sort her out, Mummy.’
‘Oh darling, that’s awful. Where is she?’
‘In her room. She won’t come out. Not even for tea. And it was meatballs,’ she added, as if to dispel any lingering doubt Bianca might have that things were serious.
‘I’ll go up straight away. Daddy’s not home, I suppose?’
‘No, he’s going to be late, he rang and told Sonia.’
‘OK.’ Bianca took a deep breath. Patrick had promised to be home by seven, so that she could get herself organised for the board meeting the next day and it was already half past.
‘Is Karen still here?’
‘No. She left ages ago. I was watching Shrek with Sonia so can I go back to it now, please? Now you can sort Milly out?’
‘Yes – well actually, I might have a word with Sonia first.’
Sonia was clearly anxious.
‘She’s very upset, Bianca. Just walked in and ran straight up to her room. I tried, of course, but she told me to go away and I thought – well – better to wait till you came in.’
‘Yes, of course. Where’s Fergie?’
‘He’s in his room, doing his homework. He’s fine.’
‘OK. Well, can you hang on a bit longer, Sonia? Till I’ve talked to Milly? Or Patrick gets home. Which he should any minute. Ruby’s a bit worried and I don’t want her left on her own.’
‘Well, only about another quarter of an hour.’
‘OK, fine. Won’t be long.’
She ran upstairs, listened a moment outside Milly’s room; it was very quiet. She knocked.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Mummy. Can I come in?’
‘Oh – all right.’
Bianca went in; Milly was lying on the bed, her face flushed, her eyes swollen. He mobile was clutched to her as if it was the teddy who had once comforted her in earlier griefs. If only it was still that simple.
Bianca sat down on the bed, stroked her hair back.
‘Darling, what is it? Please tell me.’
‘I – don’t want to.’
‘But how can I help, if you don’t?’
‘No one can help. You don’t understand!’
‘Well . . .’ Bianca hesitated. She remembered this situation from her own childhood, the absolute certainty that no one could understand or help with her problems. ‘Maybe I can’t. But sometimes just talking helps. I find that a lot. At work.’
‘Really?’ Milly looked at her doubtfully.
‘Yes, really.’
There was a long silence; then Milly said, as if taking an irrevocable decision, ‘No, I can’t. I really can’t.’
‘Milly . . .’ Bianca hesitated. ‘You haven’t been happy since you got back from holiday with the Mapletons. Is it anything to do with Carey? Something she’s doing?’
Milly shook her head listlessly.
‘No.’
‘Darling, I think it is. Did you fall out with her on holiday? Milly, please tell me. Please. I promise I won’t do anything you’re not happy with, but let me at least understand.’
‘I told you, I can’t.’ Then her small face crumpled and she said, desperation in her tone, ‘I can’t.’ And she started crying again.
‘Well – I have to respect that. But will you at least come down and have something to eat? With me? We can have an omelette together and watch telly in the snug. Ruby’s about to go to bed. And it’s Waterloo Road tonight, isn’t it?’
‘Oh . . . yes, all right. Thanks, Mummy.’
The thanks were clearly as much for not pressing her questions, as the offer of the grown-up supper.
‘Come down in fifteen minutes, OK? I’ll just sort out Ruby.’
As she went past Fergie’s room she heard him call her name and went in.
‘Hi.’
‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but that girl’s evil.’
‘Carey?’
‘Yup. I heard Milly on her phone, and she was saying “I didn’t, Carey” over and over again. And then Carey obviously cut her off, because she kept saying her name and then she realised I was there and came over and slammed the door.’
‘Hmm,’ said Bianca. ‘Well, thank you for telling me, Fergie. I don’t know how to help her. Milly, I mean.’
‘Nor me. Maybe Dad’ll have some ideas.’
In Fergie’s eyes, world peace could have been accomplished by his father any day before breakfast, no trouble at all.
Bianca looked at her watch; it was already after eight. Where was Patrick? Damn. He’d promised and they needed to talk about this; it was looking serious.
But nine came and then ten and still there was no sign of him apart from a couple of texts saying he’d been delayed. What was happening to them? Her fami
ly seemed to be falling apart before her eyes.
‘Mrs Bailey . . .’
Athina’s voice was treacherously sweet.
‘Yes, Lady Farrell?’
So far the board meeting had gone pretty well; they’d rattled through the agenda and she’d managed to put a fairly good optimistic spin on the figures, some new premises in Hammersmith looked promising and would save a lot of money, she’d been able to talk enthusiastically about the new range and its development so if the old witch tried to throw a spanner in the works now, not a lot she could do.
‘I wonder if I might ask you to leave the room?’
‘What?’ She was stunned. She looked at Athina whose expression was as sweet as her voice.
‘I’m so sorry, I obviously didn’t make myself clear. I wonder if you would leave the room?’
‘Oh. Yes. Very well.’
‘Thank you.’
She stood in the corridor for a few minutes, expecting to be called back in, then when that didn’t happen, went to her office.
‘Just having a break,’ she said in response to Jemima’s raised eyebrows. ‘Won’t be long.’
‘Oh, fine. Well, maybe you could just look at these letters, let me know if there’s a problem with any of them, and if not sign them. Oh, and your husband phoned, said he’d call from Munich.’
Bianca remembered her rage and frustration the night before, when Patrick had finally come in at midnight, too tired, he said, to talk about anything. He said he was sorry, but maybe the morning, first thing?
‘I have to be in very early, Patrick, I’ve got a crucial board meeting to prepare for. Couldn’t you—’
‘No, I really can’t. I need to sleep, I’m dropping.’
‘Patrick, it’s important. It’s about Milly.’
‘But not so important that you can’t delay your meeting?’
‘Of course I can’t!’
‘Then Milly and your concerns will have to wait. And may I suggest that they can’t be that pressing?’
‘That is so not fair! She’s very upset about something and—’
‘If she’s very upset, then isn’t that quite a pressing reason for you to delay your meeting?’
‘Or for you to stay awake for half an hour now?’
‘Darling,’ and never had the endearment sounded less genuine, ‘I’m sorry, I can hardly focus.’
‘Fine. We’ll leave it,’ said Bianca and walked out of the room.
‘I would like to put a vote of no confidence in Bianca Bailey,’ said Athina.
Hugh’s secretary, who was taking the minutes, looked round the room. The reaction was interestingly varied.
Mike and Hugh both looked completely astonished; Peter Warren’s face wore the bland, unsurprised expression that it could take on with the speed of light; Florence was looking startled; Caro was looking admiringly up at her mother – and Bertie was staring at his hands which were knotted together on the table, clearly relentlessly miserable.
‘May I ask why?’ said Hugh finally.
‘You may. There has been a complete loss of morale in the company since Mrs Bailey took over. Complete. We all know about the appalling tragedy of Lawrence Ford, a life lost, a family ruined, all for the want of a little patience.’
‘What does patience have to do with it? Acknowledging the tragedy of his case, he died as the result of a terrible accident—’
‘An accident that would never have happened had he still had his job.’
‘Lady Farrell, he was not up to his job.’
‘Oh, nonsense. He was loyal, clever and charming, everyone in the trade liked him, and all that was needed was perhaps a little training in the new ways of the company. No effort was made to do this. There are several other casualties: poor Marjorie Dawson, so cruelly and wrongly dismissed on the very day her husband was told he would need terrible surgery, the company driver, Peterson, most unhappy and struggling at his age to rebuild his life, and then there is Jackie Pearson in the lab who finds working under Mrs Richards extremely difficult: she is overbearing and critical, apparently, and has allowed no time for the existing staff to learn her methods. My own secretary, who has worked for me for over twenty years, reports a serious lack of morale among most of the original staff. They feel ignored and their skills disregarded. All these things may seem of little importance to you, Mr Bradford and Mr Russell, but believe me, a successful company needs a happy workforce. I find Mrs Bailey arrogant, unwilling to take advice or even to listen to the opinions of others who might well be able to arrange things more happily.’
‘Lady Farrell—’
‘Moreover, I have seen certain documentation that makes it very clear that the financial situation is not improved, rather the reverse; and I have therefore come to the conclusion that, far from saving the House of Farrell, Mrs Bailey is destroying it. That is why I move the vote of no confidence. Mrs Johnson seconds the motion and, obviously, Mr Farrell supports me as well.’
Here Bertie lifted his head and took a breath, seemingly about to speak. A look from his mother silenced him.
‘Well,’ said Hugh Bradford, ‘that is all most interesting.’
‘I thought you would find it so,’ said Athina. ‘The vote is only a formality of course; the Farrell family do hold the majority share.’
‘Lady Farrell,’ Mike’s face was as carefully courteous as always, ‘your input is much appreciated. However, there can be no question of our agreeing to Mrs Bailey leaving us. We think she is doing an excellent job.’
‘Well, you are in something of a minority,’ said Athina. ‘However, your views are of little import, since I insist it goes to the vote. And we have three votes to your two—’
‘May I speak?’ said Bertie.
‘Not now, Bertie, no. We will hear your views later.’
Hugh Bradford cleared his throat. ‘If I might make a point, Lady Farrell. I’m afraid what you say is incorrect.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are three votes on either side in this debate.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting Mrs Bailey has a vote? That would display a serious lack of awareness of company law.’
‘No, no, of course not.’ He met her eyes. ‘But Mr Warren has a vote.’
‘Mr Warren? Has a vote?’ Athina’s expression relegated Peter Warren to the level occupied in her mind by the cleaners and the much-lamented typing pool.
‘I do, yes. And he is of the same mind as we are about Mrs Bailey; he would vote with us.’
‘But you assured me his was a non-executive chairmanship!’
‘Which is quite true. But he does have a vote.’
There was a long silence. Then Athina rallied.
‘I can only say this was never made clear to me. I regard it as extremely duplicitous behaviour.’
Warren smiled a charmingly regretful smile.
‘I’m extremely sorry. Your lawyers were obviously remiss in not taking you through the structure of the company at the time of signature. But it is rather easy to miss these things, I’m afraid.’
‘Mr Warren, Pemberton and Rushworth are lawyers of the highest distinction, and have looked after this company since its inception in 1953.’
‘I’m sure. But the fact does remain that I do have a vote.’
‘And you would vote against me. Us?’
‘I would, Lady Farrell, I’m afraid. Yes.’
The secretary, looking again around the room, saw a most interesting expression on Bertie’s face: one of a slowly dawning relief.
Athina rose to her feet once more, swept them all with a look of acute derision, and said, ‘Well, none of this really matters very much, however disgraceful this last deception. This is a shareholders’ vote and clearly we will win. We own a fifty-one per cent share of this company, and that is something you cannot ignore. That is enshrined in law.’
Milly was sitting in one of the lavatory cubicles, leaning against the wall; her head ached and she felt sore all over. She cou
ld hear girls coming and going, and waited, longing for the silence that meant lessons had begun and which would release her. She wasn’t sure what she would do next; she had actually been sick and she supposed she could go to Nurse Winter, who would probably organise for her to be collected and returned home; but she knew Sonia was out until lunchtime having some complex dental work done, and the rule for girls who had been in the sickroom was that they must be escorted. So the only answer was to say she’d been sick and didn’t feel up to lessons; she emerged cautiously from the cubicle and looked at herself in the mirror. She did look awful, sort of white-ish green, her eyes all sort of black-ringed, so they were bound to believe her; she took a deep breath and opened the cloakroom door.
Carey was standing there, smiling.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ Bianca half shouted at the street below. ‘What the fuck is going on in there?’
The street did not reply; however Jemima, hearing her voice and the extremely rare expletive, hurried in.
‘Is everything all right, Bianca?’
Bianca hesitated, then, ‘No. Not really. I was asked to leave the board meeting, and I have no idea why and that was nearly forty-five minutes ago. The old witch is up to no good, I know it. And – oh, hello, Mike. Are you inviting me back in?’
Mike’s face was at its most bland and pleasant.
‘No, Bianca, I’m afraid I’m not.’
Chapter 29
This was a nightmare. Walter Pemberton was still awake, fully dressed at midnight, having spent the entire evening poring over the contract he had had so large a part in drawing up between the House of Farrell and Porter Bingham only a few months ago. It was true. He had missed this dreadful, dangerous point about voting rights, thus delivering Lady Farrell and the whole family into an unarguable loss of control of the company.
And there was no way out, no way at all; it was his fault. How could he have been so careless; how, how? It was unthinkable.
Which had been the very word he had uttered when Lady Farrell, her voice terrifying in its suppressed rage, asked him whether it was possible that the family did not, after all, have control of the company.
‘My dear Lady Farrell,’ he had said, mildly amused, ‘that is absolutely absurd. Quite unthinkable. You own fifty-one per cent of the company; your control of it is enshrined in English law. Of course I will go through the contract again, but I am perfectly confident about it.’
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