The two women came back, looked pointedly at the stools Bianca and Athina were sitting on, and, realising neither of them were going to move, were forced into sharing the remaining basin and leaning over one another to re-apply their lipstick. They left, depositing two fifty pence coins in the dish; the attendant whisked them away. Clearly she felt they would be an encouragement to others to leave so minimal a tip.
She sat down again, and pulled out some knitting.
‘For my granddaughter,’ she said, ‘my first, she—’
Athina looked at her. ‘Please leave us,’ she said.
The woman didn’t move. It was very hard not to laugh; Bianca studied her nails, her shoes, wondered what on earth she could do.
‘I asked you to leave,’ said Athina. ‘My colleague and I have things to discuss.’
‘But madam—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Do I have to call the housekeeper or whoever you report to? I merely ask for five minutes’ peace and quiet.’
The woman stared at her and then obediently left the room. Athina looked after her and then at Bianca. ‘You were saying . . . ?’
So she had her attention: that was something. It was a lot, actually.
‘Well, and if I were you, I wouldn’t want people seeing me as someone whose day had passed. Someone out of touch and not keeping up with the times.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No, Lady Farrell, don’t misunderstand me. Of course you are none of those things. Look how you had everyone hanging on your words at the conference, how totally amazing they all thought you were. But just supposing this article by Lord Fearon, or one of his editors, the one you’re talking about, was misconstrued. People might get the wrong idea, think yes, that you had been treated badly, but perhaps with good reason? It is possible, you know. And instead of being regarded as a great power in the company and indeed the entire cosmetic world, someone wonderfully au fait with everything, one of the great forces – no, the force – behind the House of Farrell, someone people envy and are impressed by, imagine if they felt sympathetic and sorry for you – I know which I’d prefer.’
There was a long silence; Athina met her eyes, and there was the expression there that Bianca remembered from the very first meeting at Farrell House, an acknowledgement between two powerful women who each needed the other. There was a long silence.
Then, ‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Athina said.
It wasn’t until Athina came over to her table at half past two, with Lord Fearon in her wake, turning every head in the restaurant as she did so, and said, ‘Lord Fearon, this is Bianca Bailey, our managing director. We have worked together very closely on the campaign I have been telling you about . . .’ that Bianca knew she had won.
Patrick had gone home. He was missing the children, he was sick of hotels, and in the end, a five-star job overlooking Sydney Harbour and a Travelodge near Tower Bridge seemed much of a muchness.
They both were totally impersonal; the blandness with which they were furnished, whether luxurious or basic, was not what you would have chosen; you couldn’t open the windows to get some fresh air; and servility on any scale, however welcome initially, became irritating and wearing.
He was also tired of being on his own. Apart from the time with Saul, which had had its shortcomings to put it mildly, and Doug Douglas, he had been entirely alone for over a week. The first night of room service, so self-indulgent and pleasant (what could be nicer than a club sandwich, a half bottle of claret and all the episodes of Mad Men or Borgen you could wish for?) became sickeningly tedious by the fourth, only serving to emphasise your solitary state; and then what was air travel if not room service in another guise? More films, more claret, more servility – and more windows you were not allowed to open.
For the first time, Patrick was finding the solitude of his job a problem . . .
He arrived home just before midday; Sonia was politely unsurprised to see him, and offered to make him an omelette. The children were all at school, she said, then Milly and Ruby were both going to sleepovers, Fergie was going to the cinema with a friend and Bianca was going to be very late. So much for company.
Patrick refused the omelette, made himself a cup of coffee, and then went up to his study, flung the windows open as wide as they would go, and lay down on the bed. It was absolutely the wrong thing to do, he knew, after coming off a long-haul flight; he should be setting out on a brisk walk but there didn’t seem to be much to stay awake for. And anyway, he could read and . . . watch TV and . . . He was asleep in five minutes.
‘The thing is, I can’t go on employing him,’ Saul was saying, folding up the empty box that had held a Marks & Spencer BLT less than a minute before and turning his attention to a can of cola. They were sitting on a bench on the South Bank, the National Theatre’s great bulk looming over them; he had told her he needed to talk to her and they had agreed it was probably the most anonymous meeting place they could find.
‘Although why we need anonymity I really don’t know,’ said Bianca crossly. ‘It’s not as if we were having an affair.’
‘True. Sometimes I do wish we were though,’ said Saul.
‘Saul!’
‘Well, don’t you?’
‘Honestly? No.’
‘Well, that’s flattering.’
‘It was truthful. And anyway, we don’t have the time.’
‘That was my line,’ he said, and grinned at her.
‘Well, it’s a good one.’
‘I agree.’
‘And true. But I don’t see why you can’t work with him. He loves working for you, you say he’s the best research analyst you’ve ever had—’
‘Yes, and I’ve also slept with his wife and then lied about it.’
‘True. Yes of course.’
And she had slept with Patrick’s boss. And it really hardly troubled her at all. Which had to make her a bad person – cold, faithless, duplicitous. A seriously bad person. Somehow, maybe because it had happened in New York, maybe because she had had so much to do – reinforcing Saul’s original argument on the matter – it had remained for her utterly distanced from life. An hour or so of complete unreality, like watching an enthralling film, reading a fascinating book, and as emotionally unimportant as either, it had been frighteningly easy to do as they had agreed, just to draw a line and walk away. It wasn’t that Saul meant nothing to her; he did. He had become a valued friend and ally, almost a colleague, in her working life; she was fond of him, extremely so, enjoyed his company, admired his brilliant mind. But a lover he was not; for that one dizzy afternoon he had been, and then the book had been closed, the screen had gone blank and she had walked away, both literally and emotionally.
She never saw Saul, and she and Patrick had hardly spoken over the past few weeks. And Patrick had learned finally not to mention Saul unless it was absolutely necessary. The line had been easy to draw. But Saul saw him most days. Certainly talked to him every day.
‘I just didn’t think it through,’ Saul said fretfully. ‘It’s not like me.’
Bianca waited, without any hope whatsoever, for him to say she had been irresistible, that her attraction had been overwhelming, that he didn’t regret any of it . . .
‘It was an appalling mistake,’ he said.
‘Well thanks!’ said Bianca.
‘But I can’t fire him. And I can’t tell him I’m getting someone else in to help . . .’
‘Why?’
‘Because I couldn’t stand having someone else there. Anyway, I’d feel such a brute, he’d be so hurt.’
Not like he’d feel if you told him you’d slept with his wife, Bianca thought.
‘Anyway, something’s got to be done.’
‘Unless Patrick does actually leave me.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, that would solve it. Look, if you think of anything, just let me know, will you?’
‘Of course, Saul,’ she said briskly. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to hurry it al
ong a bit. A divorce, I mean.’
‘Oh, no, that would be unfair,’ he said, missing the irony as always. ‘It would have to be of his own volition.’
‘Yes, of course. Look, I must go. Unless you’ve got anything else to talk about. Oh, is there any news about Dickon?’
‘No. She’s playing a waiting game.’
‘Does Dickon talk about it?’
‘Sometimes.’ His voice was abrupt. ‘How are you feeling about the launch now?’
‘Petrified. Totally petrified. Can’t sleep, can’t eat, feel sick all the time. I know, I absolutely know, it’s going to flop.’
‘No it’s not. It’s going to be a huge, wonderful success. The earth will move for you. You and the House of Farrell. Almost literally, I suppose. And how are things with Patrick?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Bianca with a sigh. ‘I don’t know what to do or what to think. I don’t even know how I feel about him any more.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Saul, and he was looking at her in a way she hadn’t seen before. There was affection in that look – and something close to regret. ‘You love him.’
‘Saul, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh yes you do. No doubt at all. Take that from your one-time lover. Now, I must go.’
Patrick woke up with a splitting headache and looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. God, he felt terrible. He went downstairs to the kitchen; the house was silent and there was a note from Sonia.
‘Tried to wake you, failed. Fergie will also be out till tomorrow. He’s going back to stay with Giles after the cinema. Then they’re both going to football training in the morning and Giles’ dad will bring Fergie home. See you on Monday.’
Patrick sighed and fixed himself a bowl of soup. He had a beer, and then, because it semed like a good idea, another one. His head was no better.
He decided to go for a walk, and then realised he felt really weird and went back to the house where he sank down on the sofa in the snug, determined not to go to bed, and watched some absurd movie for an hour. He considered calling Bianca, but rejected the idea; he couldn’t face the excuses as to why she couldn’t come home.
The movie had made his head worse. It was now appalling. He’d have to take something for it; and then he might be able to stay awake . . . or even go to sleep.
He went upstairs, rummaged in his flight bag. Right. Paracetamol. What he really needed was codeine, but he tried not to take them, they were so strong and supposed to be addictive. He didn’t believe it for a moment, but Bianca was strict about that sort of thing, and scolded him if she found he’d taken any. Not that she was here to scold him now, probably never would again. He took two paracetamol and then, ten minutes later, as the pain intensified – more like a migraine, this – he took two more. They couldn’t do him any harm. That was all he had left anyway. The little brown bottle – he always decanted pills into them for travelling because they took up so much less room than those enraging blister packs inside cartons (getting at their contents was like playing pass the parcel) – was empty. He was beginning to feel very weird. Maybe he’d lie down again for a bit. He walked very unsteadily out of the bathroom and into their bedroom. He wondered if he should go into the spare room, but then that would feel more like a hotel again. And the room was a bit swimmy and he wasn’t sure he’d make it. He flung himself down on the bed, still clutching the paracetamol bottle and thought maybe he would ring Bianca after all. If only to warn her that he was home and in their bed. Their bed? Not really. Her bed. God, it was all so sad. He felt so sad.
‘Hi, this is Bianca Bailey. Please leave a message after the tone.’
Patrick cleared his throat. ‘Bianca, it’s me. I’m at home. Just to let you—’
And then his eyes closed, as if he’d been given anaesthetic, and he dropped down into a huge, black, sleepy hole . . .
Bianca was with Tod and Jack, working on the presentation for the launch. It had been decided that she would talk about the overall concept, the little shops all over the world, the tiny jewels in the Farrell crown, and then they would take over, first Tod and then Jack, explaining what everyone (everyone? One, maybe two, journalists . . .) was about to see, that it was a first, a unique experience, and then, back to Bianca, to do the final few sentences and then – then most probably the site would crash; or there would be a power cut, or the two journalists would say they had to go, or . . .
She didn’t hear her phone.
After three attempts, when she had fluffed her lines continually, said she didn’t like the music she had chosen and decided the Singapore shop was rubbish – ‘Look, it doesn’t look remotely like the arcade!’ – Tod told her she should go home.
‘You’re exhausted and we’re not getting anywhere. We’ll do it again in the morning. But Bianca, you can’t change the shops now, or the music, OK? Bianca – are you all right?’
She was listening to a phone message, a look of dismay on her face.
‘No. No, I’m not. It’s – it’s Patrick. Listen to this – he sounds terrible. I must go home straight away.’
Tod listened. ‘He does sound a bit – odd but it’s probably just jet lag. Yes, you go, of course. Do you want a cab?’
‘No, I’ve got my car thanks. I didn’t even know he was home, I—’
‘Should one of us come with you?’
‘No, no of course not. I’ll – I’ll let you know if – well, if I do need you. What’s the time? Oh God! He left this two hours ago. Shit. OK, I’m off. Bye, thanks.’
‘Sure you’ll be all right driving?’
‘Yes, fine.’
She sped through the streets, driving hideously fast, she knew. The needle shot up to eighty, ninety, a hundred and bloody hell, what was that flashing light behind her? Shit, it was the police, shit, shit, shit!
She pulled over and a cop who looked just a little older than Fergie peered into her window, another one standing on the other side of the car.
‘Good evening, madam. Do you realise the speed you were doing just then?’
‘Yes, yes I do.’
‘And would you like to tell me what it was?’
Sadist.
‘A – a hundred.’
‘And did you realise this was a built-up area?’
‘Yes. Yes I did, but—’
‘Have you been drinking, madam?’
‘No, I haven’t. Unless you count coffee. Look, I really need to get home. It’s urgent. My husband is – is . . .’ What was he? What could she say he was, that wouldn’t delay her still further? ‘Just back from a business trip,’ she finished.
‘You’re obviously very keen to see him,’ said the other cop. He exchanged a look with the first one. She knew what that meant. They thought she’d been with a boyfriend . . .
‘Look,’ she said, ‘can I please go now? I’m sorry about the speeding, and I’ll give you all my details of course, but—’
‘I’m afraid we have to breathalyse you,’ said the first cop.
‘But I’ve only been drinking coffee.’
‘We are still obliged to, madam. I’m sorry. If you could just step out of your car.’
She complied and stepped; it was easier.
She finally got home at two thirty; let herself in, calling his name, running from room to room. There was an empty beer glass in the snug, a soup carton on the sideboard in the kitchen. He did that, when he thought she wasn’t looking, heated it in the microwave, spooned it straight out of the carton.
She ran upstairs; along the corridor, looking first in the spare room and then into their bedroom. And there he lay, sprawled across the bed, apparently unconscious.
She went over to him, shook him, trying to wake him, totally failed; he was, and she shuddered at the cliché, dead to the world . . .
‘Patrick, Patrick, please wake up, please!’
And then she saw he was holding something in his hand; a small bottle, with – oh, God, no, no – ‘Sleeping pills’ written on it, on a small whit
e label, in Patrick’s handwriting. It was empty. Quite, quite empty . . .
Questions roared through her head. Why? Was he really that desperately unhappy? Why on their bed? Why fully clothed? How many had he taken? The bottle was hideously, unarguably empty. What did she do, ring 999, the doctor? She tried again, shaking him furiously, slapping his face, shouting his name.
Remorse flowed into her. Remorse and panic. Had she really made him so unhappy he had wanted to die? Had her refusal to give up Farrell’s for him broken his heart? Had he seen it as the rejection it undoubtedly was, a rejection of him and their marriage? And how could she not have seen it too, the coldness of it, the arrogance? Putting herself and her career and some bloody stupid company before him and their happiness and the happiness of their children? What kind of cold, calculating creature would do such a thing? Her kind, she thought, the Bianca Bailey kind, the self-centred bitch kind, and looked through her tears at him lying there on their bed, the bed that had seen so much happiness, so much closeness, so much laughter and so many ridiculous, laughing, clinging, shaking after-sex tears. She had driven him from that bed, as she had driven him from their marriage, and, indeed, from wanting to live any longer.
Crying openly now, she reached for her phone to dial 999. Berating herself was a self-indulgence, moments were crucial, it might already be too late . . . But even as she pressed nine the second time, miraculously it seemed, he did stir, open his eyes, stare blankly at her, half smile and say ‘Hello’ before lolling back again, and beginning to snore. She hurled her phone down, heaved him up on the pillows, grabbed the glass of water on the bedside table, tried to force it into his mouth.
‘Patrick, Patrick, don’t go back to sleep! Don’t, please! Here, drink this, come on, come on.’
‘Leave me . . . alone,’ he said, his voice heavily slurred. ‘Let me go – go to sleep . . .’
‘Patrick, how many did you take?’
‘Huh?’
‘How many sleeping pills did you take? You must tell me, it’s terribly important. How many?’
‘Not . . . not . . .’ his eyes opened again, tried to focus, then he managed, ‘not sleeping pills.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 74