‘I know, I know. But somehow . . .’ She trailed to a stop. ‘Anyway, the neighbours underneath me, lovely people, they’ve kept an eye on me ever since, told him to go away and he just did.’
‘Interesting,’ said Jemima, ‘that he should be so easily dissuaded.’
‘Is it? I wouldn’t know.’
‘I think so. So who’s this someone else?’
‘No one,’ said Susie, ‘any more.’ And burst into tears again.
‘I thought – well, I almost thought I’d found Miss Right,’ said Jonjo. ‘Bloody gorgeous Patrick, she is – well, you’ve met her – she was at Guinevere’s party.’
‘Well, she seems very sweet,’ said Patrick cautiously.
‘And I thought she was pretty damn perfect. We were doing so well . . .’
‘For how long?’
‘Oh, well, not that long. Actually. Only a few dates. But you can tell, can’t you?’
‘Sometimes,’ said Patrick.
‘Well, anyway, I was wrong. She’s bloody cheating on me. Got someone else.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard her talking to him. She was sitting in my bed, for Christ’s sake. I was in the shower, came in, there she was. Saying she was so relieved to hear his voice. I mean, you don’t imagine that sort of thing, do you?’
‘Not usually,’ said Patrick. ‘But you don’t know the background. Did you ask her?’
‘Course I didn’t bloody ask her! I didn’t want to hear any pathetic excuses. I just went to work. She left a little note, saying she’d like to explain, but – well, pretty hard to explain that sort of thing. Oh shit! Another of those? Or do you want to move on to something stronger?’
‘No, I’ve got to work later. In fact, I think I’ll go for Saul’s tipple. Tonic and tonic. It’s a really good drink.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous! Have a beer. You’re a bit obsessed with Saul, you know that?’
‘That’s what Bianca says,’ said Patrick, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘Anyway, I think you should have it out with her,’ he added, as Jonjo waved at the waiter, ‘ask her what’s going on. You never know, might be different from what you think.’
‘How?’ said Jonjo.
‘Well, might have been her dad or something. I just think you should presume innocence till proven guilty, that’s all. I admit it sounds a bit dodgy. But you don’t know. I’d go and see her if I were you. Talk to her.’
‘Patrick, I just couldn’t. I’d feel like the total loser I seem to be, listening to some half-arsed explanation. Look, let’s talk of happier things. How is Bianca?’
‘She’s fine,’ said Patrick, ‘but – excuse me.’ He looked at his phone. ‘Jonjo, I have to go. Saul’s back, waiting for me in his office.’
‘You know what, Patrick?’ said Jonjo. ‘You shouldn’t be quite so in awe of Saul. Drink up, he’ll wait ten minutes, he doesn’t own you.’
‘Yes he does,’ said Patrick, grinning. ‘Anyway, my advice still is, go and see her, try and sort it out. I must go, Jonjo. Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ said Jonjo. ‘And ask Saul to call me.’
He watched Patrick leave the bar and then downed his gin and tonic in a very few gulps. It made him feel better. He decided to have another before going home to his apartment. His extremely empty apartment. Where Susie had sat, in his bed, staring at him with huge frightened eyes, breaking his heart. Bloody women. Always causing trouble. Much better without them really . . .
‘Hello, Henk.’
He didn’t look too bad; in fact, he looked rather well, not gaunt and hollow-eyed as she might have expected.
‘Hi.’ He stood up, kissed her cheek, indicated for her to sit down.
‘Sorry I’m late. Hope you got my text.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I did.’
‘It was just that I had to—’
‘Work late.’ He grinned. ‘You know, that used to be the excuse of the errant male. Those were the days – when men had it all. What would you like to drink?’
‘Oh, white wine spritzer please.’
She could sip at that for a long time without getting drunk, and it didn’t look like she wasn’t drinking at all, which might seem a bit headmistressy.
‘So – how’s it going?’
‘Oh, fine, thanks. Yes. Work’s good. You?’
‘Oh fine. Yes. I’ve got a job as an assistant to a studio photographer.’
‘You have? That’s great!’
‘Yes. Doing some work of my own too.’
‘Good. How did the shoot for the Sketch go?’
‘You remembered! Fine. Yes. Cool. And they want me to do another one.’
‘Henk, I’m so pleased for you.’
‘Thanks.’
There was a silence. Susie sipped her drink.
‘Henk . . .’
‘Yeah?’
‘Henk, we need to talk properly.’
‘What about?’
‘You know what about. Your – your texts. It’s terrible for me, getting them, Henk, terrible.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. Look, I’ve been thinking and—’
‘You’ll finish with this bloke?’
‘That’s not what I was going to say! I – I think you need help, Henk. Proper, professional help, not just a life counsellor.’
‘No I don’t. I keep telling you. I just need you back. I’ll be fine then.’
God, thought Susie, he really is a bit mad. She must be very careful.
‘Henk,’ she said, as gently as she could, ‘I really am so, so sorry I’ve caused you such distress.’
‘It was all so good,’ he said, his voice almost plaintive. ‘We were so good together. I just don’t – don’t understand where it went wrong.’
Susie saw a possible strategy here. God, how she longed for Jemima. ‘Yes, well we were once,’ she said carefully, ‘but things have changed.’
‘But why? How? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, that’s why I think you need help. Because you don’t understand. And—’
‘Look, Susie, I feel how I do because you want to leave me. Nothing else. No shrink can change that.’
‘Henk, I know that, but I do think we should go and see someone, to talk about it. Together maybe. So you can understand. And – well, I can understand a bit better too.’
‘Do you think so, babe? Do you think that would really help?’
‘Yes, yes I do. Would you like me to try and find someone?’
A long silence. Then, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, possibly.’
Jonjo looked round the bar. It was almost empty. No one to talk to. And he needed to talk. Not about Susie, Patrick was the only person for those sorts of conversation and even that was a struggle. But he felt really lonely suddenly. God, if only he had Susie to talk to, she’d understand. Only – no, she wouldn’t, because it was down to her that he was so miserable and had no one to talk to. Which was terrible. Because, God, she was fantastic. In every way. So loving and fun and sexy and utterly gorgeous. Only she had someone else. But did she? He didn’t actually know for sure. It looked like it, but maybe Patrick was right. Clever old sod, Patrick. Always had been a good friend too. Maybe he should do what Patrick said, give Susie a chance. To explain things at least. He wouldn’t be any worse off, even if he was right and she was cheating on him. At least he’d know. Yes, he’d do that. He’d just have one more drink, and then he’d get in a cab and go over and see her. And talk to her. But he wouldn’t tell her he was coming, or she’d have a chance to cover her tracks if she was – well, if she really was carrying on with this other bloke . . .
Susie looked at Henk. They had been chatting fairly easily for about half an hour. She had persuaded him to tell her about his work, what he had to do. It was a bit menial, she could see that, but it was impressive he was doing it, and he said he was actually learning things, about lighting, reworking his portfolio. It all sounded rather sensible – and he seemed rather sensible too. If he would n
ow agree to see a therapist, even if she did have to go with him, maybe he would make real progress. Into what she wasn’t sure.
‘And this flat you’re in now, how’s that?’
‘Oh, bit of a tip but they’re all being very supportive.’
‘Of you?’
‘Yes. Of course. What did you think I meant?’
The aggression resurfaced suddenly and she shivered mentally.
She looked at her watch.
‘Henk, I have to go. I’m sorry.’
‘I thought you’d – we’d have longer.’
‘No, I broke off what I was doing, haven’t nearly finished.’
‘Oh, OK. So I have to be satisfied with my ration?’
‘Henk, please. Don’t spoil everything. It’s been so nice, hearing you talk about your work and everything, seeing you looking better than I expected – I was so worried about you, Henk.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something. That you cared whether I lived or died.’
‘Henk, of course I care about that, don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘that’s all right then. So – what do we do now?’
Suddenly she was frightened, out of her depth again. She didn’t know what to do or how she was supposed to do it; but she needed to get rid of him.
‘Well,’ she said and it took all her willpower to sound normal, ‘well, right now I have to go home. Sorry.’
‘OK,’ he said sounding genuinely regretful. ‘Fine. But we can talk again?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Well, thank you for coming. I’ll walk you home.’
‘Henk, no, there’s no need.’
‘No, but I want to. See you safely to your door, like a gentleman. Don’t worry, I won’t try to force an entry.’ He smiled at her, a genuine, rueful smile. He stood up, held out his hand to her. She took it reluctantly.
It was very cold outside; she pulled her coat round her, tied her scarf.
‘Right, let’s go,’ he said. He took her arm and she let him. It seemed harmless. They walked along together.
‘What – what are you doing tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Oh, big fashion shoot. Very humble role for yours truly. But it’ll be interesting. It’s for Now magazine.’
‘Really! I’m impressed. Wish I could come along.’
‘Well, you play your cards right and I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. He smiled at her and she couldn’t help smiling back.
‘Thanks for coming, Susie.’
‘It was fine. Honestly. And you will think about what I said. About – about seeing someone?’
‘I will. As long as you promise to come with me.’
‘I – I said I would.’
‘Thanks, babe.’ They’d reached her front door. She stopped, terrified he’d try to come in, but he didn’t. He smiled at her, let go of her arm, and bent and kissed her, very gently on the mouth. She tensed, tried to relax, and after a few moments pulled away.
‘Night, Henk,’ she said, ‘take care of yourself.’
And let herself into the front door, ran upstairs, and into her flat and double-locked the door, leant against it, her eyes closed in relief. She had done it; and it hadn’t been too bad. It might even have done some good.
Jonjo, whose cab had been travelling very slowly along the street while he tried to establish which house number 82 was, had suddenly seen Susie, leaving a wine bar with a man. He had told the cab to stop and then sat there, watching the man take her arm, watched them as they walked along, chatting and smiling at one another: and then watched as the man bent and kissed Susie on the mouth, and then unable to bear it any longer had half shouted at the driver to take him straight back to Canary Wharf.
‘Cost you a bit, guv. That’s all the way back where we been and more. Looking at, like, eighty, hundred quid. Want to give me something on account?’
Jonjo hurled a couple of twenty pound notes at him and sank back into the corner of the cab.
Henk walked down the street, smiling to himself. Silly bitch. Silly, silly bitch.
This could run and run.
Chapter 42
They were having the most terrible rows. Day after day, saying cruel, horrible things to one another, that neither of them deserved, things that could not and would not ever be forgotten; Cornelius felt more wretched than he could ever remember, abused, discarded, misjudged.
He knew why it was, of course; it was because the House of Farrell was failing. From being admired and copied, they were almost sneered at. Their counter space had been cut everywhere, there was less money for promotion, the staff were demoralised and Athina was in a permanent state of outrage.
Florence was the only good thing in his life, and he wondered frequently what he would have done without her. At the same time it was harder even than usual to find times when he could see her; but when he did, she was always happy, encouraging, and loving. She was an extraordinary person – so generous with herself, so undemanding, so supportive. He often thought that if he had not had her, he would have long left Athina; and would then reflect rather wryly on how that fact went against every theory, every philosophy of a successful marriage.
She was also extremely clever: one of the few successful promotions Farrell’s had done in that miserable decade, a double-textured lipstick, a firmer outer shell encasing a softer glossy one, had been her idea. She had ventured it in a product development meeting, and Athina had pooh-poohed it, later re-presenting it as her own. When Cornelius had rather boldly said he thought the idea had been Florence’s, Athina said of course it hadn’t and, most unusually, Florence had stood up for herself and said she distinctly remembered proposing the lipstick – by then named Soft-Hearted lipstick – whereupon even the sales manager supported her.
Athina was reduced to saying that it might have been something Florence said that inspired her, but it certainly had been her idea, as had been the name, adding witheringly, and illogically, that she was surprised that anyone should care whose idea it was, as long as it was successful. Cornelius managed to remain silent, knowing he would be lighting the blue touch paper for a very big rocket indeed if he defended Florence; but he managed to invent a store manager who needed taking out to dinner that evening and arrived at the little house in Pimlico with a huge bunch of red roses, and a declaration of love for Florence so clearly genuine that she told him, he hoped truthfully, that the whole miserable business had been worthwhile.
‘Beloved Little Flo,’ he said, kissing her tenderly. ‘You are so good a person, so true, so brave, I don’t know what I have done to deserve you.’
There was a general downturn in the Farrells’ personal fortunes as well: the Hove flat had finally been sold, as had some of the paintings that had hung on its walls and the extremely good furniture it had contained, Athina’s new clothes were no longer couture, but bought off the peg.
It was not a happy time; and into it came the threat of greater unhappiness still.
Athina, lying in the bath one night, discovered a lump in her breast. Wretched months of treatment followed, radiotherapy to shrink the tumour, followed by a partial mastectomy, followed by brutal chemotherapy. She was brave, of course, but her behaviour was otherwise impossible, for she regarded it as an outrage, meeting it and everyone near her with anger and vindictiveness. Cornelius, being the nearest of them all, fared the worst.
She shouted, she ranted, she abused him; and when he did see Florence, soothed and eased by her quiet, comforting presence, guilt consumed him to such an extent there was little pleasure in it for either of them. Florence was, for the most part, patient and understanding, but one particularly dreadful evening she told him that if all he was going to talk about was Athina and how brave and how impossible she was, she would like him to leave and not to come back.
‘I can see how hard it is for you, Cornelius, and we are all concerned for Athina, but I do not wish to hear, on the very few occasions when we manage to be together, exactly how many
things she has thrown at you in the past seven days, both literally and metaphorically. Nor indeed, does it give me any pleasure to hear how your admiration for her courage is beyond description.’
He did his best to placate her, saying he was under a great deal of strain and begged her forgiveness, but she said she was under considerable strain herself, and was getting nothing from him to make her feel it was worth enduring.
A row followed and he left in a state of rage and despair, pacing the streets for hours, unable to face either going home or back to Florence to ask her forgiveness. It was weeks before a truce was declared between them, and that because he not only begged for her forgiveness but told a journalist that the idea for Soft-Hearted lipsticks had not been Athina’s idea, or indeed his, but Florence’s. This found its way into the beauty pages – mercifully at a time when Athina was so weakened by her chemotherapy she was hardly reading or indeed taking anything in, but it assuaged Florence’s wrath as perhaps nothing else could have done. It also served to make her realise, with some surprise, that she was more competitive than she would ever have believed; she sought Cornelius out in his office, and not only thanked him, but apologised for her own recent hostility.
He left Athina’s hospital room earlier than usual and spent the rest of the evening with Florence; it was not only an emotional reunion but a physical one, and quite wonderful. They both admitted afterwards that not only had they not thought of Athina, they had felt no guilt whatsoever the entire evening.
There were other problems created by Athina’s absence; products had to be approved, copy written, showcards produced; Cornelius was doing his best, but struggling with much of it. Finally, but with considerable anxiety as to the ultimate outcome when Athina came to hear of it, he asked Florence if she would mind taking on some of the work. Florence accepted and, tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm, embarked on her new role.
She found a dreadful loss of morale; the decline of the company combined with a total lack of leadership was not only depressing but disturbing the staff.
Florence, initially only required to approve or reject, found herself increasingly looked to for decisions and inspiration, especially from the lab: Maurice Foulds, the chief chemist, took briefs and comment from her with relief, rather than resentment as she had feared, as did the design studio. The result was a more ordered and straightforward chain of command than anyone had known for years; Florence was instinctively communicative, partly as a result of her years in the shop, dealing with the public, and a meeting with her was not the complex, and frequently humiliating affair conducted by Athina Farrell. She spent an increasing amount of time in the Farrell offices, working at the temporary desk a rather tight-lipped Christine Weston had had set up for her in the boardroom; this gave her a status and authority greater than she had ever looked for and made Cornelius even more nervous, while thankful at the same time that his own job was considerably eased.
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