A Perfect Heritage

by Penny Vincenzi

  Dozens of builders and shopfitters were working on the shops all over the world; The Collection itself, large numbers of it, was formulated and packaged and looking wonderfully classy, waiting in the warehouse; space was booked in the July issues of the major glossies . . . God it was amazing, Bianca thought, as she walked briskly down Holborn to her meeting that sunny March morning, all that agonising and misery, all that stress and exhaustion, all so so worth it. It was going to be all right, she knew, it was, it was . . .

  ‘Hi,’ she said, grinning happily at Mike and Hugh, who were waiting for her in Mike’s office, ‘I can’t tell you how well it’s all . . . is something the matter?’ she asked, the joy and confidence draining out of her, slowly taking in that Mike’s face was extremely grim and so was Hugh’s.

  ‘Sorry, Bianca,’ Mike said, ‘but I’m afraid it is. We’ve just had some rather bad news . . .’

  Two million, the landlords had said. Upfront, if they wanted to renew the lease. The lawyers had been through it all with them and were unable to help.

  ‘Well – well that’s terrible. They’ve got us over a barrel, I can see that. But what choice do we have?’

  ‘Er – not to pay?’

  ‘But we have to, surely. Otherwise they’ll sue.’ She looked from one to the other of them, smiled uncertainly. They didn’t return the smile.

  ‘Yes, of course they will,’ said Mike.

  ‘Absolutely right,’ said Hugh.

  ‘So – look, I don’t understand. Where’s the dilemma? We have to find the money.’

  ‘Well perhaps you’d like to do that,’ said Hugh, and his voice was very hard, ‘because it’s not coming from us.’

  ‘What? But – I don’t understand. Is there an alternative?’

  ‘There is, I’m afraid, and it’s the one we have to go for,’ said Mike. ‘We have to get out of the arcade fast. There’s no question of finding another two million, Bianca, I’m sorry.’

  ‘But we can’t stop now! It’s unthinkable. It’s crazy. What about the global campaign, what about the ticking clock, that’s already started? People are talking about it!’

  ‘It will have to stop or change. We cannot find another two million pounds, Bianca. That’s what’s unthinkable.’

  She stared at them. ‘I just don’t believe this. You can’t do this, not now.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have to. Look, we’ve already put in two extra million. Over and above the original money. We’ve listened to you and been persuaded by you many times. But we can’t do any more. The brand is haemorrhaging money. Every day it costs more and sales are down to virtually nothing.’

  ‘But we’ve hardly begun. The campaign is only just starting. You know how revolutionary the idea is, you know the excitement it will create . . .’

  ‘And it will cost us two million pounds. That’s two million off any potential profits, don’t forget. It’s not going to be cancelled out just because the launch is successful. It’s money gone for ever. I’m sorry, Bianca, but that’s our last word. No more money.’

  There was only one person she wanted to talk to, who might be able to help; and he was the only person totally out of reach. Contact between them was ended: absolutely and unarguably. It would be dangerous beyond anything. They had made a pledge, that day in New York, that extraordinary afternoon, and it could never be broken.

  For of course, she had gone back down the street to Saul, and followed him into the hotel – there was no question of doing otherwise. Had she not turned, had she not seen him calling to her, then perhaps there might have been; but she had and a bright, brilliant certainty possessed her and she knew not just what she would, but what she must do. He had not taken her hand, lover-like, or even kissed her, as she reached him, and she didn’t even expect it; she was getting to know him a little at least.

  And as she had known it would be, it was quite extraordinary; not merely sex, not merely a fusing of her body with his, of his mouth on hers, her skin with his, a fervent concentration within her, seeking, asking, and then finding, not merely a progression, a mounting of pleasure, not merely an explosion of violent release, but of absolute physical joy and at the end of it, perfect peace and a sweet tangled confusion.

  And there were other things too: a sense of timelessness, of removal from reality, a freedom from time and place. And astonishingly, she felt no guilt. And even more astonishingly she didn’t cry . . .

  But she did cry then, that dreadful morning, in the taxi travelling back to Farrell House; and could never remember feeling so alone: and so helpless.

  And Patrick Bailey, at the same time, hurt and angry beyond anything, and with insidious demons whispering of infidelity and circumvention ever louder in his ear, looked back in wonder at the happiness that he had known less than a year ago and wondered if it was even remotely possible that he could return to it.

  Lucy too could never remember ever being so miserable. And this was miserable misery. Hopeless, aching, unsolvable misery.

  Her father had called to invite her to dinner; she had actually had something else on, but she cancelled it. He wasn’t going to be around to take her to dinner much longer.

  He told her about the house he’d found in Birmingham, and how it was big enough for her to visit and he hoped she would often and bring her friends.

  She said she would, of course, and thanked him, but she knew it wouldn’t be very often, it couldn’t possibly be, and hated to think of him all alone in a clearly much too big house.

  ‘I’ll miss you so much,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, nonsense. That career of yours is taking off, you won’t have time to miss your old dad.’

  ‘You don’t need time to miss people,’ she said rather sadly and was surprised when he went quiet and looked out of the window and said he knew that.

  ‘So – when are you leaving Farrell’s?’ she said, more to break the silence than because she wanted to know.

  She had actually tried not to think about it. Always, all her life, he had been at Farrell’s; every single thing in her life was changing, along with his. The Esher house had been sold; her mother had bought a flat, not in the Barbican, which she couldn’t afford, but a house in Fulham which she almost couldn’t either. Lucy was to live with her for a few weeks, while she found somewhere of her own. She couldn’t even contemplate living with her permanently; she had become increasingly unpleasant, angry with Bertie, at odds with everyone else in the family, furious with Lucy for not wanting to share her new, tiny house. As if, Lucy thought, looking at her sour face. She had also quarrelled with Athina who seemed now to blame her for the break-up, and therefore for Bertie having to leave Farrell’s, and with Caro, who seemed to hold the same view.

  ‘And the job?’ she asked him. ‘That still looking good?’

  ‘Yes, pretty good. They are extraordinarily nice people. It might seem rather quiet after Farrell’s, but that could be considered a positive.’

  ‘And how do you feel about moving somewhere so totally different?’

  ‘Oh, fine. I’m not exactly a social animal, as you know. I’ll be fine hunkering down on my own in the evenings, me and the telly, and I’ll have the garden, of course. That’ll be very exciting.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It didn’t sound very exciting to her; but then he wasn’t twenty.

  ‘I’m leaving on Friday fortnight,’ he said, answering her original question.

  ‘Having a leaving party, I hope?’

  ‘Oh good Lord, no. Why should I do that?’

  ‘Dad, you must! People will feel very hurt if you don’t; you’re part of Farrell’s, literally, it will look like you don’t care. I’ll help you organise it, if you like. Jemima and I could get together on the catering and so on. Go on, be brave. It doesn’t have to be a rave, you could just have a drinks do in the boardroom. I really think you should.’

  ‘Do you?’ He looked seriously alarmed. ‘God, how terrifying.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You know how everyone
there loves you.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he said and his voice was very sad again.

  Lucy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Yes, they do. I know they do.’

  The country, that spring, was gripped with Jubilee and Olympiad fever; indeed, the extremely funny television series 2012 with its constant references to the Jubolympics did not overstate it. Plans were everywhere for street parties, pageants, on both river and village green, concerts both grand (at Buckingham Palace) and modest (in village halls), the lighting of beacons, the composition of songs and symphonies. Companies managed to extend their wares, however unlikely, to formulate Diamond Jubilee or Olympic products (although this was officiously stopped for no reason and to no benefit that anyone was able to see), the extra bank holidays were in place and the royal family was seen to be enjoying a period of public affection unsurpassed since the marriage of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer. Republicans muttered and wrote letters and were awarded airtime on the Today programme and even occasionally Newsnight and found themselves almost ruthlessly silenced by what appeared to be a tsunami of royalism. Every magazine, every newspaper, produced Jubilee supplements, every publisher produced books on the Queen’s sixty glorious years. William and Kate became the most popular double act since Morecambe and Wise, Harry’s stature changed from Playboy Prince to National Treasure-in-Waiting and even the Duke of Edinburgh was forgiven for decades of tactlessness and gaffes and became the beloved patriarch.

  And against this background of patriotism and heritage and world interest in all things British, Bianca Bailey should have been finalising her plans for relaunching the House of Farrell. Building to a large degree on the incomparable bonus of its having been founded in the year that the now elderly and beloved matriarch had been a young and beautiful girl at her coronation.

  Only she wasn’t; she couldn’t. Due to the absence, within company funds, of two million pounds.

  It was agony: one day she had had everything going for her, the next nothing. Hugh and Mike had given her one more week; after that, they said, they were pulling the plug. ‘We can’t risk it, Bianca. We’re getting deeper and deeper in and that’s exactly what we said we wouldn’t do.’

  She had tried to get a bank loan, secured by her shares. They had checked with the venture capitalists, who had, not too surprisingly, said no. Her contract forbade her going to another set of VCs. Mark Rawlins suggested that she should cause the business to crash, and put it into administration.

  ‘That way you could buy it back with some new VCs who would fund this lease crisis.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, Bianca, not really.’

  Every time she thought about the company going under, she felt like screaming. She thought of all the incredibly hard work that had gone into getting where they were; and not just hard work, but loyalty and, in many cases, a genuine love for the House of Farrell.

  People like Susie, who was working eighteen-hour days, releasing information slowly and tantalisingly to a chosen few journalists, promising exclusives in return for absolute discretion. She simply said, when Bianca thanked her, that she was enjoying every moment: ‘It’s all so dangerous, and so exciting.’

  And Lara, raring to go with countrywide mini conferences, the week of the launch, and Jonathan Tucker, winding up his sales force, promising them they’d be wetting themselves if they knew what was coming, and with a whirlwind tour of his own planned for the Thursday and Friday before launch. People like Hattie Richards and Tamsin Brownley (who had casually remarked one day that her father was Lord Brownley, which had interested no one particularly except Athina, who had known Tamsin’s grandmother when they were debs) came to see her together – an odd pair, they were to be sure – to tell her how excited and proud they were about the launch and how grateful to her for enabling them to be part of it. Tears in her eyes, she told them it was she who should be grateful and that they didn’t know the half of it yet, and would be a lot more excited when they did.

  And Tod and Jack of course, who were living the project 24/7 now, Jack’s baby taking second place to it most of the time – indeed, his wife had said crossly perhaps he would like the baby to be called Farrell; and dear Lucy, creating dazzling look after dazzling look.

  And of course Athina, who still had no idea about the global launch but was desperately excited about the rest of it, deny it as she might, particularly her perfume and the advertising campaign, which did indeed bear a very close resemblance to her own. Her rage and humilation if that did not survive would be savage; as would the scorn which she would pour upon Bianca, having been entrusted with her beloved House of Farrell and allowing it to fail. And all the other people, the secretaries, the marketing assistants, the girls in reception – they had all been caught up in it, the excitement, knowing that something wonderful was going to happen, and that they had, in however small a way, been part of it too. The thought of telling them all, disappointing them, letting them down was almost impossible to contemplate and she felt not only sad but ashamed of herself, that she had presided over something that would not be, after all, a triumph, but, at very best, a modest success and at worst nothing very much at all.

  With two days to go, she decided to go and see Florence at The Shop. She would need to know before anyone.

  Florence, almost fully recovered although still rather pale, promptly put the ‘closed’ sign on the door and took her up to her parlour.

  ‘We have things to talk about,’ she said firmly, ‘and we must not be interrupted. Tea, Bianca?’

  ‘Oh please, that would be very nice. But, Florence, there is really no need for you to – to talk about anything.’

  ‘I think there is,’ said Florence, ‘and I would feel happier if we did. I know I can rely on your discretion and I owe you a great deal for what you did that day, cannot thank you enough.’

  ‘Florence, it was nothing.’

  ‘It was not nothing. It was everything to me. And it was kind and – and enormously generous of you. I really want to acknowledge that.’

  Bianca said nothing.

  ‘I don’t intend to go into great detail,’ said Florence. ‘That would be both unnecessary and embarrassing. But I wouldn’t want you to think it was some sleazy one-night stand.’

  ‘I would never think anything you did could possibly be sleazy, Florence,’ said Bianca. ‘The word associations with Florence Hamilton are things like style and class.’ She looked at Florence and smiled at her suddenly. ‘And besides, how could any union that was blessed by Chanel jackets be anything else?’

  ‘Well indeed,’ said Florence, blushing slightly, ‘and it was blessed by other things too. Like love. True love. I have to stress that, it’s terribly important you should understand. And happiness. And faithfulness,’ she added. ‘An odd thing to say about an adulterous affair but it was. We kept faith with one another for over fifty years.’

  ‘And she never knew?’

  ‘She never knew. She never must. It would destroy her.’

  ‘You’re very loyal to her, Florence. When she’s not very nice to you, a great deal of the time.’

  ‘Oh, I know. But she doesn’t mean that, it’s just her way.’

  ‘A difficult way,’ said Bianca, ‘I would say.’

  ‘To you, of course. But you see, we’ve been friends for a very long time. She is actually extremely fond of me. Ironic, isn’t it, when I was having an affair with her husband for half a century, but there it is. She is actually,’ she added, looking at Bianca, ‘quite fond of you.’

  ‘Me! Don’t be so ridiculous, she loathes me.’

  ‘Oh no, she doesn’t. She respects you, she admires your courage, and the other day she said you had a certain style.’

  ‘Goodness me!’

  ‘Of course it’s very hard for her; you came in, picked up her most precious possession and ran away with it, doing what she saw as dreadful things to it as you went.’

  ‘Of course. I can see t
hat. But most of the time she’s extremely rude to me.’

  ‘She’s rude to everyone,’ said Florence. ‘You should have heard her with Cornelius.’

  Bianca digested this; then she said, ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Oh – charming. Clever. Generous. Extremely courteous. All the good things. And some bad ones too. A tremendous egotist. Stubborn. Very quick tempered.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And, of course, absurdly good-looking. Well, you’ve seen his portrait and the photographs – so, a little vain. The clashes between him and Athina were frightful at times. She liked to diminish him, you see.’

  ‘But their marriage survived?’ said Bianca.

  ‘It did. And I think I helped do that. I know that sounds very conceited and it’s a very unfashionable view, but – well, I’m not going to try and justify it, of course I can’t. But for us, the three of us, it was a wonderfully successful – what shall I say – scenario. They needed one another in many ways. He would never have left her and I would never have allowed him to. It would have broken her entirely.’

  ‘It must have been so hard for you,’ said Bianca, staring at her in a kind of awe.

  ‘It was, but think of my life without him. Very, very bleak.’

  ‘Was – forgive me for asking this – was your first marriage happy?’

  ‘So happy. We were absolutely suited, in every way. I suppose that led me to the relationship with Cornelius. Who wasn’t in the least like Duncan, but he provided me with the same complete fulfilment.’

  ‘And, forgive me again, but this is so – so fascinating. Didn’t you ever meet anyone else? All the time you were with Cornelius?’

  ‘Only once, and that was a temptation, I have to say. He was so extremely nice. I was older by then, well into middle age, and beginning to worry about the future. He wanted to marry me. But he wasn’t quite . . . enough. Enough to make me give up Cornelius. That’s the only way I can express it.’