Hi Mills,
I’ve missed you. We all have. Time to make up. Come for a hot chocolate after school. Friends reunited, huh? Sorry if we’ve been a bit mean.
Of course what she should have done was rip it up, look coldly at Carey, say no, sorry she was busy; but it was like – well, getting out of that dreadful cold pool and walking into a gorgeously warm one, with the sun shining down on her after months of dark skies, and she sat there, smiling foolishly at the note, and when Carey came in and smiled at her, and then all the others, she smiled back and it was as if none of the misery and loneliness had ever happened.
‘Starbucks after school, yeah?’ said Carey. ‘We’ve got to do something first, so not till four thirty. We’ll all be there.’
‘Cool,’ said Milly.
The afternoon dragged; she had fixed to see Jayce, but cancelled her. She knew it was mean, but she could make it up to her . . .
She hung around in the library and then arrived, carefully not even a minute early, at Starbucks in the Fulham Road, her heart thumping, wondering what she would say to them all, because it was actually a little bit difficult – she had no idea what had brought about this sudden change, but something had, and all she felt was gratitude. No doubt they would tell her in due course.
Starbucks was almost empty at half past four; she frowned, went in and walked all round, in case they were hiding under a table or behind a pillar, ready to say ‘surprise, surprise!’. But there was nobody else there, apart from a couple of mothers with small children and a man working at his laptop. Milly walked out again; waited for a very long ten minutes and still nobody came. Finally, thinking Carey must have been held up, and having checked her phone for the umpteenth time, she went in again and sat down at one of the tables. Whereupon one of the Starbucks’ staff came out from behind the coffee machine, walked over to her and said, ‘Are you Milly?’
Milly nodded.
‘Your friends asked me to give you this. Said they’d had to go.’
She ripped open the envelope.
Hi Mills,
Can’t believe you fell for that. Did you really think we’d be seen dead in Starbucks with you? You might have brought your fat friend and how gross would that have been? Best go home now and get on with your homework like a good little girl.
It was so absolutely brutal, like getting a slap across the face when you were looking the other way, that Milly burst into tears and sat there for quite a long time crying, her head on her arms, until the girl who had given her the note came over to her and said awkwardly, ‘You OK? Sorry if it was bad news. Can I get you a hot chocolate or something?’
And Milly, unable to bear even such detached kindness, shook her head and ran out and down the road, all the way to the tube station, while dreading that one of them would be waiting for her in a doorway, to do some other horrible thing.
Only they weren’t, and she finally arrived home so white-faced and exhausted that Sonia decided she must be ill, and sent her up to bed, and then called Bianca to say exactly that and that if Bianca could come home early, that would be nice, but if not she could hold on until Patrick arrived.
But Bianca’s phone was on message and Sonia rang the office number and got Jemima, who said she wasn’t expecting Bianca back, that she’d gone out to a meeting; and then added awkwardly that Patrick wasn’t coming back for another two days, he’d been held up in New York.
Sonia said icily, which she knew was unfair because it was hardly Jemima’s fault that no one had told her and that she couldn’t stay indefinitely and if Jemima heard from Bianca could she please tell her to call her immediately and that Milly really wasn’t well.
Bianca had been looking forward to seeing Patrick; he’d been away for over a week now and it had been uncomfortable and stressful. She’d missed him on a personal level too, but so swiftly was he changing from the old Patrick, from the loving, attentive person she thought she knew, into this strange, distracted, remote creature, that this hardly entered the emotional equation when he called to say that Saul wanted him to stay on and dig a bit deeper into an engineering company. ‘He’s fired up over this one, Bianca, I really have to stay on.’
Asked to list them in order of importance, those emotions, she would have put rage, indignation and frustration well below a hostility towards Saul Finlayson so strong, that if he had walked into her office now she would have thrown the rather large and heavy flower arrangement that resided on her desk at him and hoped it would deal a fatal blow.
As she slammed down the phone, her mobile rang; it was Saul Finlayson.
‘I’m sorry about Patrick,’ he said, walking into her office five minutes later. ‘Very sorry. I can see how annoying it must be for you . . .’
‘It’s more than annoying,’ she said, eyeing the flowers, wondering if she was strong enough to throw them, and deciding, regretfully, she was not. ‘It’s quite serious. I was totally relying on him this evening, I have a meeting with the VCs, Sonia can’t stay on to look after the children, he’s already two days late and—’
She stopped, realising this was not perhaps quite the message that she should be sending to Patrick’s boss: that her main reliance on him was as childminder.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘So why are you here?’
‘To say I’m sorry. You did sound quite – cross. And I was nearby, so it was easy to come in, not as if I had to make a special journey of it.’
‘I’m so pleased about that,’ she said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t have come otherwise, obviously. But this thing he’s investigating for me could mean millions, and all the difference between losing them and winning them. I thought I should explain that.’
‘Well, I can see how important it is, but he had promised to be back—’ Stop it, Bianca, stop sounding like a whingeing wife, it’s not clever.
‘Bianca – I did warn you about this sort of thing. Maybe it’s time you stopped relying on Patrick for domestic backup. He’s not working for the family firm any more.’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘You must give me your views on other aspects of my personal life some time.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t presume to do that,’ he said, so seriously that she started to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t meant to be funny.’
‘I know, but it was.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘do you really have to cancel your meeting with the VCs?’
‘Yes, I do. Of course it isn’t really very important. Just about a few millions, actually. Not as important as yours of course.’
‘Would it have taken very long?’
‘Probably all evening, and now I only have about half an hour.’
‘I see. Well, would that leave you enough time to have a coffee with me? Before you go home?’
‘No,’ she said, anger rising again. ‘No it wouldn’t.’
‘Well, that’s a pity. I wanted to know how your plans were coming along. And about how the conference went.’
‘I’m surprised you should remember something so unimportant as my sales conference,’ she said, adding briskly, ‘Patrick always comes to my conferences, for the dinner and so on. He had to miss it, for the first time ever.’
‘I know. And I’m sorry about that too.’
‘Did Patrick tell you?’
‘No, of course not. He never mentions his personal arrangements. But I remembered your talking about it at Christmas.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She felt stunned, as if he had said he remembered her birthday.
‘I wondered if you managed to get round the perfume problem?’
‘Not exactly perfectly,’ she said, and she felt as if she might lose control now, being hideously near tears. She managed a bright, tight smile.
‘What happened?’
‘I – oh, you don’t want to know.’
‘I do. I’ve told you before, I find you, and what you do, very interesting. Look, are you sure you don’t have time for a coffee? Befor
e you go home and after you’ve cancelled your meeting?’
‘Oh God,’ she said, smiling at him suddenly, ‘you really are not like anyone else, Saul.’
‘So I am told,’ he said. ‘But I don’t see what that has to do with it.’
Sitting with him in Starbucks – Starbucks, of all places, not some cool lounge of some cool hotel – drinking coffee, her meeting cancelled, Mike and Hugh audibly annoyed, texting Sonia to say she would be home in an hour and to give Milly some paracetamol, she sipped her double espresso and found herself telling Saul not only about the conference and Lady Farrell’s intervention, but her own brilliant idea. She was surprised to hear herself telling him this, but suddenly it seemed oddly comforting and reassuring. And there was no way he would talk about it to anyone.
‘That is extremely clever,’ he said, staring at her. ‘I’m impressed. You really do have a very good brain, you know.’
‘Thank you. Just lately, it hasn’t felt like that.’
‘No, probably not.’
There was a silence, then he said, ‘I do hope you’re not even thinking about squandering that on just one or two outlets?’
‘I might have to.’
‘Well, that’s pure stupidity.’
‘Thanks. The alternative is finding a few more millions. Oddly, they’re not always entirely easy to find.’
‘Well, of course they’re not,’ he said, slightly impatiently, ‘I thought you’d realise that.’
She sighed. ‘You don’t have a great sense of humour do you, Saul?’
‘No, everyone says that,’ he said. And then, after a pause, ‘Was that what your meeting was about?’
‘Yes. And of course you’re right. Everyone who knows about this, which is about three people—’
‘That’s good,’ he said.
‘Yes. Anyway, everyone says the same thing. I have to go global. Unfortunately that means more money. A lot more.’
‘And the VCs say no?’
‘They do.’
‘Fools,’ he said. And then, looking at his watch, ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’d love to stay but I do really have to go. And you have to get that money. You really do.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ she said.
‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘any time, just call.’
And then something quite extraordinary happened as they waited outside looking for cabs; he suddenly moved towards her and gave her a hug. A slightly tentative, brief hug, but a hug just the same; his arms went round her and pulled her close and instead of resisting him, as she would have expected herself to do, she moved into him, closer still, and turned her head and rested it on his chest, and felt a thud of emotional, rather than sexual, excitement and a sense that something important had happened, without having any clear idea why.
And then, while she waited for some tender, or even affectionate words, she felt him release her and his arm go up and his voice shouting, ‘Cab!’ And she started to laugh, because it was the only thing to do.
‘Why are you laughing?’ he said, and his face was quite hurt. ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’
‘I am,’ she said, ‘and thank you.’
And then she reached up and kissed him, just very lightly, on the mouth and before he could begin to react in any way, climbed into the cab and waved him goodbye.
A minute later she got a text from him: Try not to worry. It’ll be all right. Call me if you want to.
She would have liked to think there was some romantic, or even sexual double entendre to this but she knew there was not. Just the same, as the cab made its way to Hampstead, she sat back and looked out of the window, smiling. And wished, she realised rather unsuitably, that there was.
It had to be said, had to be done. He would never respect himself again if he didn’t. It was hard. For over half a century he had kept silent, not arguing, accepting criticism, turning the other cheek when ridiculed, turning a blind eye to her excessess her rudeness to everybody when she chose to give it, wishing his father would do it, speak up, confront her. But he never had and Bertie had decided, after considering other options, that his father was a coward. A charming, handsome, rather lazy coward. He did what he had to do, what Athina required him to do, in order to ensure Farrell’s success, and to keep her from haranguing him constantly; and where there was an option, an easy option, he took it. It was quite ugly sometimes, watching Cornelius not stand up to her, allowing her to insult people, belittle them, ignore their feelings.
It had always been thus. He could remember disagreements over buying the flat in Hove, a new nanny who he and Caro hated, his being sent away to school at eight, all things he knew his father was against but never opposed. He had tried himself to get his support over school, had gone to him in tears, said he was very unhappy, that he was homesick, wetting the bed, being beaten. He didn’t mention the worst thing, because he couldn’t even find the words, but anyway: ‘Oh, don’t be silly, old chap,’ Cornelius said, ‘I didn’t like my prep school much either at first, but I got used to it. Didn’t do me any harm, I can tell you that.’
‘But will you think about it, Daddy, please? And talk to Mummy?’
His father had said he would, and clearly had, for it was Athina who came to talk to him: what was this nonsense, she said, about leaving St Peter’s? It was such a fine school, the headmaster was a charming man, and Bertie’s housemaster absolutely sweet. ‘He’s not sweet, he’s horrible!’ Bertie shouted at her and burst into tears, and she’d looked at him witheringly and said that if he was a cry baby at school it was no wonder he did so badly, nobody would respect him or have time for him; and so he’d just given up, didn’t say a word about the housemaster and the horrible things he did. For how would she understand anyway?
No one had ever stood up to Athina and she’d just got worse and worse, saying and doing whatever she chose, and even humiliating Cornelius in the boardroom, delivering some withering criticism of him. Bertie, forced to watch and listen, would find himself most vividly back in Mr Keith’s study, knowing he was entirely helpless to do anything to stop it.
Only now suddenly he felt he could.
He phoned her to make an arrangement to go round to the flat one night when he was sure she would be on her own and concentrated, in the meantime, on looking for another job and a solicitor who might be able to handle his divorce.
Apart from that, he kept his head down and his office door shut, working extremely hard and avoiding everyone, particularly Lara. He knew that one word of kindly curiosity from her as to whether he was all right would render him unable to maintain his silence. And after a while, rebuffed several times over offers of lunch, drinks, and even coffees, Lara withdrew. There was no way she was going to expose herself, especially within the company where she had her position to consider, to either ridicule or pity, as a divorcee of a certain age chasing after an openly disinterested man. She’d seen it happen several times herself and it was not a pretty sight.
He didn’t mean it, of course he didn’t. Everyone knew that. Of course he wouldn’t kill himself, the people who said they were going to never actually did. It was just a cry for help. And designed to frighten her, to get a response. He was mad. Or at least unhinged.
It had started the very next day: after she’d got back to her office after talking to Bianca about her idea.
A text: If you shut me out now, I’ll kill myself. I mean it.
She stared it, bile rising in her throat; she ran to the loo, threw up. This was hideous, terrifying. She heard another text arrive, flinched. But it was from Jonjo.
Hi. You free tonight?
She texted back, Sorry no. Tomorrow?
She just couldn’t do it tonight, not with this nightmare going on.
Only it would still be going on tomorrow, wouldn’t it?
Back in her office she stared fearfully at the screen as an email arrived.
She suddenly felt she knew how it felt to be stalked . . .
They had had somethi
ng of an altercation that morning, following Milly’s refusal even to allow her into her room the night before.
Milly had come down to the kitchen this morning and she looked dreadful. She was clearly exhausted; white-faced, heavy rings under her dark eyes. And she was very thin. She hadn’t properly noticed that Milly’s blazer practically hung off her. What sort of a mother did that make her? God, don’t say she was developing anorexia. She was exactly the age . . . Milly smiled at her now, almost imperceptibly, said goodbye, made for the door.
‘Darling, have some breakfast.’
‘I don’t want any breakfast.’
‘Sweetheart, you must eat something. How about a waffle with maple syrup?’
‘I said I didn’t want anything. Didn’t you hear me? Let me say it again.’ She raised her voice: ‘I don’t want anything! OK? I’m going now. Bye.’
As the front door slammed, Bianca jumped up to call her back, then realised it would be pointless. She looked out of the window, and her heart turned over; Milly was trudging along the street, in the slightly pigeon-toed walk of girls her age, her head drooping. She must do something to help her, Bianca thought, stabbed with fresh remorse. But how was she going to even begin?
If she was being subjected to a bullying campaign, then the school would surely know about it – they made such a performance about it all, assuring parents that they were absolutely on the alert for it, and had a zero tolerance policy. Maybe she should have made her own inquiries, but she’d been so busy. Later today she’d email Mrs Blackman, demand a meeting but right now, she had to get into work . . .
Milly walked dutifully to the bus stop and waited. But as the bus arrived she saw the smirking faces, the fake waves of two of her tormentors, and simply turned and walked away. She couldn’t face another day, another hour, even another minute at St Catherine’s. They had broken her; they had won.
A Perfect Heritage Page 46