‘What? What then? Patrick, don’t go back to sleep, what did you take?’
‘Para . . . para . . .’
She sat back, looked at him lying on the pillows. Paracetamol? Was that what he had taken? And was that better or worse? She knew paracetamol caused fearful liver damage if it was left in the system. He could die of that as easily as the sleeping pills . . .
‘Patrick, are you sure? Sure it was paracetamol?’
‘Paracetamol. Yes. I said. In the bottle. Bianca . . .’ And then he was lost again.
‘And – how many?’
‘Four. Very very bad – bad headache.’
Suddenly she realised what might have happened. He travelled with his various medications in those little brown bottles pills used to come in, labelled by himself. Had he taken the wrong one out of his bag, thinking it was paracetamol? He’d had two beers, he was jet-lagged, he always drank a lot on the plane, he’d have been exhausted and possibly confused. She looked round; his flight bag was on their bathroom floor. She rummaged in it furiously, hurling things out of it. Nothing. She checked his toilet bag, nothing in that, then tried the pockets of the bag, and, yes, here it was! Another little brown bottle, labelled – yes, thank God, thank God, ‘paracetamol’. She was right. He had mixed them up. She sat down on the bed next to him, shook him again; this time he surfaced just a little more easily.
‘Patrick. Are you sure, quite sure, you only took four of those pills? It’s important, Patrick, it’s so important.’
‘Four, yes. Head terrible. Sorry. Knew you’d be cross.’
‘Oh Patrick, darling, darling Patrick!’ She put her arms round him, laying him back on the pillow, crying and laughing at the same time. ‘Oh Patrick, I’m not cross, I love you, I love you so, so much.’
‘I . . .’ But he was gone again, lost to her, and she sat looking at him, stroking his hair back, kissing his face, his hair, his hands, her tears falling on to him, so weak with relief she could scarcely sit up.
Her phone rang; not the police, please, please not the police. It was Tod.
‘Bianca, you all right? Patrick all right?’
‘Oh Tod, yes, yes, thank you, we’re both fine,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘Just a silly mistake.’ And then a thought struck her. ‘Tod, do you know if four sleeping pills would be all right? I mean, taken all at once, would it do you any – any real harm?’
Tod’s father was a doctor so Tod was a mine of useful medical information.
‘Four? Nah, shouldn’t think so. But I could ask my dad if you like. Sounds like it could be important.’
‘Your dad? But Tod, it’s nearly four in the morning!’
‘Oh, he’s used to being woken up in the night. Old school GP, you see. He’ll be round in his PJs under his overcoat, doctor’s bag in hand, if you’re not careful.’
‘But—’
‘I’ll call you back.’
He rang within five minutes.
‘No, four’s absolutely fine. He said Patrick would have a nasty head in the morning, but nothing worse. Get him to drink lots of water. As long as you’re sure it is only four?’
‘I am. I’ll ask him again, just to make sure, but I am pretty sure. Thank you, Tod so, so much. You’re the best advertising man in the world.’
‘Yes, I’d agree with you there,’ he said. ‘Night, Bianca.’
‘Night, Tod.’
She shook Patrick again, asked him again, was he sure it was four?
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ he said and there was a touch of irritation in his voice now. ‘Took two, then two more. Now can I go back to sleep?’
‘You can sleep, my darling, darling Patrick,’ she said. And went downstairs and filled a jug of water and then lay down, very carefully, beside him; looking at him, hardly daring to take her eyes off him, restored to her in all his dear self, Patrick, who she loved so very much and had so very nearly lost, and reliving all the memories, the most joyful, most important memories – the first time they had made love – and she had cried – the night he had asked her to marry him, nothing specially romantic, just turning to her as they were walking together along the Embankment one Sunday afternoon, ‘Because you are so dear to me that I can’t imagine living without you.’ Then the wedding, when he had told a vast marquee full of guests how much he loved her, and her father, afterwards, more quietly, how he would always take care of her and see it as a privilege; the birth of Milly, their first child, their immortality – all the brilliant, shining moments, interwoven into the stuff of real life, the more mundane stuff, the stuff that mattered just as much, given total importance by the rest.
And she thought two things: that he would probably be very bad-tempered and miserable in the morning, and that she must be very patient and understanding, and that she must have been insane to think that Farrell’s was more important to her than he was and that she must convince him of it and resign the very next day.
Well, the very next day after the launch, anyway . . .
Chapter 58
It was today. Launch Day. And she still didn’t know how to play it. She hadn’t decided. It had given – was still giving – her enormous pleasure, holding back, keeping her counsel, seeing them trying not to ask her, desperate to know. She wondered if she would have told them if she knew herself. Probably not. This way was much more fun.
What Bianca Bailey wanted was for her to join her onstage as she made her first presentation, and for her to say a few words. She didn’t entirely like that idea; she knew what the words should be, because Bianca had outlined them, carefully casual: ‘You know, something like how much you’ve enjoyed working with the new team, and how pleased you are with the relaunch, And perhaps a little bit about the birth of the company in coronation year, your memories of that.’
Of course she was obviously hoping for something more fulsome, describing her delight at the whole thing, and how much she had enjoyed working with Bianca, and her confidence in the future of the House of Farrell. Well, she wasn’t going to get that.
She had kept faith with Bianca, after the lunch with Lord Fearon (who had assured Bianca of his absolute discretion and certain support from his papers in due course), and had not spoken about the online launch to anyone, even Caro or Florence. Certainly not Florence. She was still so angry with Florence; not only for keeping the information from her, but for being considered as more trustworthy than she was. She’d been toadying up to Bianca ever since she arrived and it really hadn’t been the prettiest sight. Well, she’d got her reward of sorts. She had been made part of the Bailey inner circle. And lost a lifelong friendship along with it. Probably the best, certainly the most important friendship she had ever had. Poor Florence. Well, Bianca Bailey would be moving on, and Florence would be left very high and dry indeed, Athina thought; she would see to that.
Anyway, in the meanwhile, what should she do today? She’d attended the run-through the day before, at the Brownleys’ house and there didn’t seem a great deal of scope for her. Make the insipid little speech Bianca Bailey was hoping for? Bianca, who had three speeches herself, written into the procedure. It was a fairly unappealing proposition. Make a more fulsome one, claiming credit for the global launch itself? She liked that better, but she was still not entirely confident about the technical details; she could get asked awkward questions.
What she really wanted to do was a sort of rerun of her performance at the conference, seizing the limelight, becoming centre stage . . . that would be fun, she might do something like that, but she couldn’t quite work out precisely what. But she would, she most certainly would. A small, barbed speech at the right moment would do, but she would prefer something more dramatic. Well, she had a few hours yet; the moment and the method would both present themselves.
She was wearing red. It was so good on television, a brilliant, dangerous red crêpe dress by Valentino that she had had for two decades at least, all her diamonds, even clips in her hair, which her hairdresser was coming in to fix shortly.
She looked at the clock; she only had an hour. Bertie, who had, of course, been invited, had said with his usual perfect manners that he would like to escort her to the reception, and was picking her up at ten thirty. So if she was to think of something, she didn’t have long.
And then she did. The answer, the perfect answer. That would do it: that would turn the event on its head, throw a perfectly manicured spanner into the works. That would take the edge off Bianca Bailey’s triumph beautifully.
She sat down at her dressing table with a pencil and sheet of paper; the speech would have to be impromptu, but a few significant notes now would help . . .
Florence was intensely nervous about her role in the launch; there she would be, online globally, standing at the door of The Shop as she had been, notionally at any rate, for sixty years. It was terrifying. Suppose she tripped, or sneezed, or was sick? She felt the last was the most likely, she’d been feeling dreadful for days. She’d asked Bianca what she should wear, and Bianca had said firmly, ‘Chanel. The navy one. And the white camellia. It’ll present exactly the right image, even if people don’t recognise it as such, classic style and all that sort of thing. God knows what Athina will wear,’ she added and sighed. ‘A crown, probably.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past her,’ said Florence. ‘Has she agreed with you what she’s going to do or say?’
‘No, not yet. Hopefully not much. Now Florence, do try not to worry. And you know you’ve only got to stay for five minutes after all; then we move on to the virtual shopping thing, and I want you over here to enjoy the party and my wind-up speech. There’ll be a car waiting for you at the end of the arcade and it’s only a five-minute drive, ten at the most.’
‘May I say, I cannot wait to be in that car,’ said Florence.
Susie arrived at the Brownleys’ home at nine and went into the ballroom; the boys were already there, putting up their huge screens and setting up a sound system; another man and a girl – ‘Techies,’ said Tod with a grin – were working with them. The walls of the ballroom were studded with pictures of The Shop taken every decade or so; beginning with a life-size one of Athina and Cornelius cutting the ribbon at its formal opening, Cornelius incredibly handsome, Athina dazzling, both of them laughing into the camera. A podium had been erected at the far end, complete with lectern, and the revolving stand which would bear the image of the clock on one side, Jess on the other.
The caterers were setting up in a side room; florists were filling vases . . . it all looked horribly imminent. Susie stood there, taking deep breaths, wondering what she would do if it all bombed. Kill herself, she supposed: it would be the only thing to do.
‘Jolly exciting, isn’t it?’ said Lord Brownley, who had come in behind her. She smiled at him bravely. He was a dear, she thought, and rather small – Lady Brownley stood at least a head taller than him – and handsome, with piercing blue eyes and a nose that used to be described as patrician.
‘Excuse the scruffy gear,’ he added. ‘I’ll change later, of course, don’t want to let you down.’
‘As if you could,’ said Susie, smiling at him, noting the scruffy gear which was an immaculate blazer and perfectly pressed grey flannels. ‘And anyway, Lord Brownley, if it wasn’t for you we’d be doing this out on the pavement, I should think.’
‘Oh, nonsense, my dear. It’s the greatest pleasure for me, fascinating all this. Janet’s at the hairdresser, but I can’t tell you how thrilled she is. She’s been fussing over what to wear, threatened her tiara, but I said I thought that was a bit OTT.’
‘Goodness,’ said Susie, ‘perhaps a bit . . .’
She half hoped Lady Brownley would wear her tiara; it would certainly trump Lady Farrell’s diamonds.
She had hardly slept for several nights, sharing Bianca’s nightmares over blank screens, empty shop fronts, no-show journalists – although the omens on that were good, her ring-round yesterday had been very promising, almost everyone saying they were coming, and even the film crews, promised an A-list actress on the clock face and intrigued by the venue, had been very positive, said they hoped to send someone. And it wasn’t raining. Yet.
She’d had a bit of a battle with Bianca about the internal guest list; Bianca felt it should be limited to directors: ‘That cuts out any petty squabbling, and I do hate those company functions with more hosts than guests.’
But Susie had said that wasn’t entirely practical: ‘We have to have Tamsin, obviously, and we can’t not have Hattie, the entire range is down to her, Caro and Bertie are coming, neither of them are directors any more—’
‘Yes, but they’re family,’ said Bianca.
‘OK. And Lady Farrell’s said she can’t possibly be expected to attend without Christine, God knows why not. And then there’s Mike and Hugh—’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Bianca fretfully. ‘I suppose if no one comes, there’ll at least be a few people to drink the champagne.’
Jess arrived, sequinned dress under wraps; Lucy was doing her make up. ‘So exciting,’ she said, ‘looks amazing. Freddie wanted to come, but I said she couldn’t.’
‘I think I’m in love with Jess Cochrane,’ said Susie to Lucy as Jess spotted Lord Brownley and went across the room to greet him. They’d got on amazingly at the Ritz lunch and Jess had agreed to draw the raffle at a charity ball the Brownleys were hosting in a few weeks’ time.
‘Hello, Mother, you look marvellous,’ said Bertie.
‘Thank you, Bertie. I don’t want to let Bianca down – such an important day for her.’
Bertie looked at her sharply. When had his mother ever wished Bianca well?
‘Have we time for a coffee?’ he said. ‘I’m parched. It’s a long drive from Birmingham.’
‘Yes we do. Two white coffees,’ she said to her Polish cleaner, rather as if she was in a restaurant. ‘In fact, Bertie, I’m not absolutely ready – I have my speech to polish a little. You’re early, you should have warned me.’
‘Sorry,’ said Bertie humbly, adding: ‘I thought we’d get a taxi there – we’ll never park in Knightsbridge.’
‘No indeed. And I wouldn’t want to be seen arriving there in that car of yours anyway. They’d think we were staff.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Bertie. ‘Right. Well, I’ll book a cab, shall I?’
‘Do what you like, all I ask is a few minutes’ peace.’
‘Right oh,’ said Bertie.
Not for the first time in the past few weeks, he thought he was glad to be out of the company. Although . . .
Although he did miss the glamour of it all, he realised, walking into the ballroom just after eleven. The new place was nice and peaceful and he was enjoying it, but every day was very much like the next and the people he worked with lacked a certain colour. And it certainly didn’t bring him into contact with people like Susie, or Jemima, or Bianca, or, obviously, Lara. Lara was white-faced and tense; she hugged him briefly, and said she’d chat to him later.
‘Bertie! How lovely to see you. We’ve missed you so,’ said Bianca, kissing him. ‘Lady Farrell, you look beautiful. That dress is amazing. Can I offer you anything? Some coffee, or a champagne cocktail, even? It’s a little early, but I’d have one myself if I hadn’t got to spend the next hour sounding coherent.’
‘I don’t know why you think I do not,’ said Athina. ‘I’ll have – well actually, I think I’ll have a glass of water.’
This was unlike her; Bianca looked at her. Beneath the perfect make up, she was a little pale.
‘Do you feel all right, Lady Farrell?’
‘Perfectly all right, thank you. Why should I not?’
‘Well – I don’t know. Sorry. Er, have you decided when you would like to speak? I mean, before we unveil Jess, or after the on-screen launch?’
‘Oh, I’m still not sure,’ said Athina. ‘I’m still working on my little speech. But it won’t matter, will it? No one’s going to want to listen to me.’
‘Lady Farrell, of course they’ll want to liste
n to you. More than ever, I’d say. Well, as long as I know before I get up to speak. Now I must go and get Jess into position, everyone will be arriving soon.’
‘All right, my dear?’ It was Lord Brownley, now wearing a suit of superlative cut, and his wife, magnificent in emerald silk, a notional tiara at least on her head, so unmistakably aristocratic the pair of them, that Bianca felt quite dazzled.
‘Oh – yes, thank you. Fine.’
She certainly didn’t feel all right, of course; she felt shaky with terror. She couldn’t believe it was finally happening, that it was no longer a brilliant idea, a glorious plan, something wonderful that was going to happen on some distant date, but a reality, an untested reality moreover, that would, within an hour, be a great success, or an appalling failure and revealed, moreover, in one of those two guises hideously publicly, in front of quite literally millions, which it was possible not to think about, but also a hundred or so of a hugely critical audience, who would be standing in front of her, witnesses to whatever dreadful – or glorious – outcome there might be, and who she most certainly could not ignore. Not for the first time, she wished profoundly she was someone else, somewhere else, and at some totally other time.
But she smiled and said yes, fine, of course and how lovely to see him and had he got a drink and would he excuse her now? And moved off to supervise the settling of Jess on the stand.
It was resolved none too soon; the early-comers, the second row-ers, as Susie called them, the slightly less starry editors and bloggers (although even they were pretty starry), were already arriving, anxious not to be late, followed by the major glossy editors and beauty editors, all quite happy, if not actually hoping, to be late . . .
‘My God,’ said Bianca to Susie as they filed relentlessly in, phones at the ready. (‘It’s called Tweet and Greet,’ said Susie irreverently.) ‘Well, that’s one fear proved groundless, Susie.’
‘And two to go,’ said Susie. ‘And oh my God, it’s Sky News and lovely Kay Burley! I must go and greet her . . . OK, Bianca, you’re on.’
A Perfect Heritage Page 75