by Taylor, Lulu
‘They’ve got you,’ Poppy said softly. ‘You adore them, they know that.’
‘Yes, but I’ll be providing for them on my own for a while at least. This puts a serious spin on what we’re doing. I’ve got no safety net, no funds to draw on if Trevellyan needs them.’
‘We’re all in the shit now.’ Jemima grinned. ‘We’ve got nothing and everything to lose. We have to go for it.’
‘Of course we do. And if I thought for one minute that we couldn’t make it, I’d be out of here, begging Eric for my old job back. But we can.’
‘You’re being very strong,’ said Poppy, holding her sister’s hand. ‘I admire you.’
There was a knock on the door and Donna came striding in.
‘Well done, Tara. That was exactly the right note. Everyone seemed very reassured and happy in the boardroom. Now, we’d better get going. We need to make some big decisions today.’ She sat down and waited until the others were seated as well, then tapped her pen in a businesslike way. ‘Right, first things first. We’re all agreed that our focus initially has to be Trevellyan’s Tea Rose. It’s our most famous scent, it’s what we’re known for. But first off, we have to change the name. Don’t be offended, ladies, but Trevellyan is not as sexy a name as, say, Gucci or Guerlain or Hermès … any of those high-end foreign names. Trevellyan says quality, robustness, time-honoured tradition, and all that. But it doesn’t say sex, and if we want to reach a new audience, that’s what we have to say. The emphasis today is on sex appeal.’
‘When wasn’t it?’ said Jemima drily.
‘Exactly. Now, Fuchsia Mitchell got back to us with the results of the focus group. It won’t surprise you to learn that people view this company as “reliable but unexciting”. They might consider buying its products for an elderly relative, someone very traditional. They found it “comforting” and didn’t want to see it disappear, but weren’t keen on buying its products themselves. The group consisting of twenty-something women, the single ladies with relatively high disposable incomes, and a strong interest in fashion, beauty and their own attractiveness … well,’ Donna made a face, ‘they’d barely heard of our brand. It doesn’t feature in any magazines they read, any images they see, it’s never mentioned. That crucial customer base is entirely missing. The focus group of older women, mid-thirties to fifties, mothers looking to treat themselves … they’d heard of Trevellyan, considered it high quality and appreciated its prestige, but had no interest in it for themselves. They saw it as more of a “tourist” brand – something very British that was now aimed more at those visiting from abroad.’
‘It’s good to see it all down on paper,’ commented Tara, ‘but I think we could all just about guess this from the start.’
‘Right – but it helps us focus. We need to raise the profile – that means advertising, courting the press, holding events, coordinating a launch. We also need to come up with a look that will appeal to our target audience. Which brings me back to the name.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ asked Jemima.
‘We have to drop the Trevellyan part of Trevellyan’s Tea Rose. At the very least it has to be Tea Rose. The question is, do we change it further, to indicate that the perfume has been redesigned?’ Donna looked at Poppy. ‘What do you think?’
Poppy frowned. ‘You mean, like Tea Rose Two, or something?’
‘Or … Vintage Tea Rose?’
Poppy shook her head. ‘We already have Vintage Lavender. And Antique Lily.’
‘Tea Rose Revisited?’ put in Jemima, then said quickly, ‘No, that’s wrong.’
Tara had a try. ‘Beyond Tea Rose … New Tea Rose … After Tea Rose …’
Jemima giggled. ‘After Tea Rose. Sounds like it can only be worn after tea!’
‘When Estée Lauder wanted to recreate White Linen, they called it Pure White Linen. Dior add a different word in front of Poison, so it’s now Midnight Poison,’ Donna explained.
‘Pure Tea Rose,’ muttered Poppy. ‘No, it’s just not working … You know what, I think we should just stick with Tea Rose.’ Before she could be interrupted, Poppy carried on, surprising herself with how assured she suddenly felt about her ideas. All that research was finally paying off. ‘English perfume names never sound as good as French ones, so I don’t think we should try to get all fancy with ours. If we drop Trevellyan, then we’ve got a new name and it’s pretty. Let’s do the rest of the talking with the design – the bottle, the box – and the advertising.’ She looked at the others almost nervously. ‘Actually, I’ve already been thinking about what the new Trevellyan colours should be. We all agree, I think, that the navy blue and gold have had their day. Those colours are more regal than sexy. Fashionable women today treasure femininity, but not girlishness. They look for sophistication rather than something twee. Now if Tea Rose is our signature scent, that’s where we need to start. So … I took a trip to a rose breeder and I came back with these.’ She bent down and lifted a box from beside her chair and placed it on the table. Opening the box, she carefully lifted out some long stems, each one with an exquisite rose bloom on the end of it. ‘These are tea roses.’
The others exclaimed at the gorgeous flowers, which came in hues of soft pinks, dusky roses, pale yellows and ivory whites. Their formations varied from strong, traditional-looking, furled-back petals to soft, bunched, crinkled petals folding in on a yellow heart.
‘They come from an original variety that was supposed, not surprisingly, to have a fragrance reminiscent of tea. They are a great favourite of rose breeders, considered by some to be the most superior of flowers, both in beauty and fragrance. They’ve been bred and interbred for well over a century, and there are stunning varieties, as you can see. Just about every shape and colour you can imagine. But the gardener I spoke to told me that they are best in the colours of the dawn – those rosy, gold-tinged pinks. Look at this, I love this …’ Poppy picked up a stem. The rose was creamy white with the faintest hint of a mauvey pink at its heart. The petals in the centre were tightly furled, rolled in like tiny shells. Around them, another row gathered protectively, the valley in the centre of each petal hiding pinkish shadows, and then another, until the rose opened out into a beautiful pillow of petals. ‘This is called the Devoniensis, or more commonly, the Magnolia Rose. You can see why, with these waxy white petals tinged with the merest breath of purple.’
‘Exquisite,’ agreed Donna.
‘Look at this one!’ Jemima picked up another flower. ‘This makes me think of old-fashioned country gardens. It’s like a Dog Rose that’s been stretched out.’ Her rose was wide and flat like a saucer, its delicate petals yellowy pink with a hint of apricot, a nest of golden stamens at its centre. She smelt it. ‘Oh, that’s gorgeous.’
‘I love this,’ Tara said softly. She reached for the rose. It was the palest, most delicate pink, its outer petals curling back to display a mass of smaller folded petals, like the lightest tissue paper scrunched up and held in a cup of wafer-thin porcelain. ‘It reminds me of weddings and … yes, like the other one, of country gardens, and summer days.’ She sniffed. ‘I really can smell tea in this! I’m sure I can. Oh, it’s lovely.’
‘That’s a Gloire de Dijon,’ Poppy explained. ‘I like it too.’
‘So do I.’ Donna took the stem from Tara and observed the flower carefully. ‘We’re going to have to be careful if our inspiration is to come from these roses that we don’t end up going too girly and English country garden about the whole thing. We can’t come out looking sickly or saccharine. We have to get that balance exactly right, especially if we’re considering using pink as our signature colour.’
Poppy looked over at the Gloire de Dijon. ‘You’re right, but taking that flower as our inspiration, I think we could go as pink or as white as we wanted. Obviously we want to avoid a pastel pink or anything remotely Barbie. That would be all wrong. But a kind of off-white-pink might be feminine without being garish.’
Jemima looked thoughtful. She was looking at th
e mass of stems and the mixture of colours they produced. The room was full of a strong rosy fragrance. ‘If we’re too subtle, we’ll go the other way and achieve nothing. Look, pink is pink is pink. It says one thing – girl. Female. It’s also one of the colours of the rose, so it’s suitable for a scent called Tea Rose. Obviously, we’re going to go with pink but I think Poppy’s right. Anything pastel or too chalky will be all wrong. We want subtle, soft and yet strong …’
‘How about a nude pink?’ suggested Poppy. ‘Something that has almost a beige or grey base, rather than a creamy white one?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Tara said. She nodded. ‘Yes, I like that. It sounds more sophisticated.’
‘So we take this slightly country wedding look,’ Poppy was enthusiastic now, able to see the colour she meant inside her head, ‘and give it a slick of urban grime, grey it up a bit, make it look like it’s lived. An off-pink pink, closer to the colour of skin …’ She glanced at Donna and blushed. ‘I mean, of white skin, obviously.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Donna said lightly. ‘I know what you mean, it’s fine. I really like your idea. You’re right that we need something strong. It’s going to be the colour we use in the shop, perhaps on our packaging, our stationery, everywhere … we need a good colour.’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure about dirtying it up, though. This is going to be a home of beauty and hygiene. We don’t need sparkling white, but we definitely need to be saying “fresh and clean” and not “a bit grubby”.’
‘Don’t worry, we will. I’ll get some colour swatches to show you what I’ve got in mind.’
‘It’s a shame Claudine isn’t here,’ Tara said. ‘She could smell some of these lovely flowers.’
‘I’m meeting her later at Saint Pancras,’ Jemima said, picking up the Gloire de Dijon. ‘Why don’t I take her this for her inspiration?’
‘Good idea.’ Donna looked at Poppy. ‘And that was a brilliant idea, actually getting tea roses. Well done.’
There was a knock on the door and one of the receptionists came in. ‘Mrs Pears … Sorry, I mean, Miss Trevellyan. I thought I should let you know that I’ve been getting a lot of phone calls for you while you’ve been in your meeting.’
‘Really? Who from?’
The receptionist looked apologetic. ‘It’s the press, I think. And I’d better warn you there seem to be quite a lot of reporters and photographers outside.’
They all jumped up and rushed to the office window. Sure enough, below them was a small crowd of reporters in macs and leather-jacketed men carrying cameras.
‘What do you think they want?’ asked Poppy fearfully.
‘I’m afraid it’s not Jemima this time,’ Tara answered grimly. ‘I think it’s me. The news must have broken about Gerald. God knows how long this little story is going to enthrall them.’ She looked round at the other three. ‘Well, we wanted interest in Trevellyan, ladies. It looks like we’ve got it.’
31
TARA WAS RIGHT. The news had broken that the South African authorities had issued an arrest warrant for Gerald Pearson. He’d come out to face the press that morning, accompanied by his lawyer. Bulbs flashed and television cameras recorded him making his statement – if there was one thing the media loved, it was the sight of a wealthy and powerful man toppling off his pedestal.
When Tara left Trevellyan House that afternoon, she had to run the gamut of the press.
‘What’s your reaction to your husband’s imminent arrest, Mrs Pearson?’ shouted one reporter as photographers pushed their cameras into Tara’s face.
She blinked in the light of the flashes and said nothing. The questions kept coming.
‘How do you feel about the prospect of your husband going to prison?’
‘Is it true you’ve thrown him out?’
‘Is that any way for a loyal wife to behave? Most women would stand by their husbands in times of crisis, wouldn’t they?’
Don’t let them get to you, Tara told herself, gritting her teeth. Using all her willpower not to shout back that these strangers knew nothing the hell about her life, she forced her way through them to the pavement, where John was waiting with the car. He helped her in, pushed back the photographers and journalists and managed to get into his own seat.
‘Quite a fuss there, ma’am, if I may say so,’ he said, glancing at Tara in his rear-view mirror.
‘You can say that again. And it’s just the start.’
She was right. At home, another posse of cameramen and journalists were waiting. When they saw the car arriving, they rushed towards it, holding out microphones and jostling for a position close to her.
‘What have you got to say?’ they shouted. ‘Give us a comment! Did you know about your husband’s activities? What do you think about his arrest?’
The barrage of questions hit her like a hail of stones. Television cameras shone lights in her eyes. She felt panicked as she emerged among the crowd.
‘Hey, get off her. Make way! This lady needs to get inside to her children,’ bellowed John, as he pushed reporters out of the way and guided Tara through to the house. Viv was waiting to open the front door and let them both in before slamming it shut in the faces of the prying press.
‘Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you, John,’ Tara gasped.
‘You’re welcome, ma’am. Honestly, they’re like beasts, aren’t they? How would they feel if it was them being hounded like that?’
‘They’re all trying to earn a living, I suppose,’ she said, shrugging off her coat. ‘Now, please stay here for as long as you like. Viv will make you something to eat. I’m going to see the children.’
She went up the stairs, feeling an amazing sense of liberation. The fear and tension that usually filled the house was gone. Gerald was gone. His brooding, dominating presence had left them. She felt three inches taller.
But this is only the start, she reminded herself. There’s still a long way to go.
Later, she watched the ten o’clock news on her own in the sitting room. The children had had a happy day, though Robina said that there had been a couple of wobbly moments.
‘Edward knows something’s happened to his daddy, but he’s not sure what,’ Robina had told her, so at bedtime, Tara had talked very softly and reassuringly to her son, telling him that Daddy loved him very much but had had to go away for a while. They would see him soon, she promised. Edward seemed content with that, and went happily to sleep.
But while she was revelling in the freedom of being able to put her dirty supper plate on the coffee table and leave it there, the news Tara had been dreading all day came on to the screen.
‘Today, a warrant was issued for the arrest of press tycoon Gerald Pearson. He is suspected of fraud and is accused of diverting millions of pounds of his company’s money into his own pocket,’ intoned the news presenter over archive footage of Gerald in black tie, attending a grand dinner where the Prime Minister was present. ‘South African authorities have threatened to seek his extradition if he does not return there voluntarily and face questioning. Police in this country are understood to be investigating aspects of Mr Pearson’s business interests here, along with his property acquisitions.’
The screen showed Gerald emerging from Tara’s flat, his lawyer standing discreetly behind him. He looked drawn but he smiled bullishly at the cameras and said loudly, ‘I’m utterly innocent of this outrageous charge and I look forward to proving it in court.’
There’s no fool like the fool who fools himself, Tara thought. Can he really believe he’ll get away with this?
It was strange to see him on the screen and to realise that only twenty-four hours ago, he’d been here in this house.
Never again, Tara resolved. Never again will he step foot in this house. Maybe we’ll leave here. I’ve never liked it. This was Gerald’s house, not mine. Too beige. Too boring. Too immaculate.
She was startled to see herself on the television, her face screwed into a grimace, p
ushing her way through the press.
‘Mr Pearson’s wife, Tara Pearson, one of the well-known Trevellyan sisters and heiress to a large fortune, had no comment for reporters but it has been rumoured that she and Mr Pearson have recently separated.’
‘Large fortune?’ she said out loud. ‘I bloody well wish! Well … I suppose we’ll always be the heiresses, even if we lose everything.’
She sat back on the sofa and thought hard. She’d have to decide what she’d do now that Gerald was to be arrested. He was still Edward’s and Imogen’s father and they needed him. That tie would bind them together for ever, no matter how much she wished to be free of it.
Jemima was rather thrilled by the novelty of not being the focus of attention for once. When she left Trevellyan House, the cameramen took a few snaps of her and then lost interest and she was soon striding down New Bond Street, passing all the delectable shops and wondering if she dare go shopping.
But what’s the point? I’m going to Paris this afternoon, the capital of shopping!
She felt cheerful and upbeat. Today’s meeting had achieved a lot of things. Donna had been supportive of all their ideas. The shop below would be completely refitted, with a beautiful, light airy room at the front, displaying the fragrances and other products. Behind this would be some treatment rooms and a perfumery, where customers could explore scent, commission their own fragrance or experiment with mixing essences for themselves.
They agreed that the old gold script had to go, and that the new Trevellyan font would be simple, stylish and modern. Donna had immediately rung up some designers she rated highly and asked them to come up with ideas for the new look. She’d also set up meetings with fitters to commission designs for the shop and treatment rooms.
She’s so can-do! marvelled Jemima, as she admired a pair of tight black trousers in the Gucci window. She makes things happen. It’s inspiring.