B004D4Y20I EBOK

by Taylor, Lulu

  ‘L’Espadon? It means swordfish, doesn’t it?’ A waiter pulled a chair out, and Jemima sat down elegantly at their table. Ferrera took his place opposite.

  ‘Yes. Charles Ritz loved to go deep-sea fishing for swordfish with friends like Ernest Hemingway. When he wasn’t out at sea with the real things, he liked to practise his fishing by casting a line down the grand staircase here. So they renamed the restaurant in honour of his favourite catch. Do you speak French?’

  ‘It’s almost all I’ve got to show for two years at finishing school. That and the fact I’m rather good at skiing. And skiing instructors, come to that.’

  Ferrera laughed. ‘You are disarmingly frank.’

  ‘About some things. It’s an English habit, I think, to enjoy shocking people just a little.’

  ‘I can’t pretend to understand the English, or your country. It’s a very confusing place. America, however, is much more straightforward. Your background, be it Italian, Irish, Jewish, African American or, like me, Mexican, whatever, pretty much dictates the kind of home cooking you like. But it’s what you achieve in life, what you choose to do with your talents and abilities, that defines you. That’s what gets you respect, not your heritage. It doesn’t seem that way in your country.’

  ‘You mean we’re obsessed with class?’ Jemima shrugged. ‘Maybe. But show me the society that isn’t. Don’t forget our society is a few centuries older than yours, so we’ve got a lot more subtleties and nuances – plus titles, of course – to contend with.’

  ‘Maybe. It just seems that are more chances to make something of yourself in the States.’

  ‘That, if you don’t mind me saying, is crap. It’s the same everywhere. Money will buy you advantages in life. It isn’t fair, and we all have a duty to try and sort out the inequalities in our societies so that every child has an equal chance, no matter what background they come from. But the truth is, a child born into the underclass in America has as big a mountain to climb as one born poor in Britain.’

  Ferrera smiled at her. ‘Maybe you’re right. I can see we both have our corners to fight. But it’s too early in the evening and the night is too beautiful for such a serious debate. Tell me what you are doing in Paris.’

  ‘I will, right after I look at this divine menu. I’m starving.’

  They ordered their food, the sommelier brought the wine Ferrera had selected, and then they were free to chat.

  ‘I’m here on business too,’ Jemima said.

  Ferrera raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? What business is that?’

  She played for time, taking a sip from her wine glass. How much shall I tell him? she wondered. ‘We’re looking at our distribution here in France. I’m meeting with some of the major stores tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh? Are you planning new moves?’

  ‘Just building on our success, of course,’ Jemima said in a careless tone. ‘It doesn’t do to become complacent.’ Ferrera nodded in agreement.

  Their starters arrived – foie gras with a rhubarb chutney for Ferrera, asparagus in a froth of hollandaise with tiny poached quail’s eggs for Jemima.

  Ferrera cut a small sliver of foie gras. ‘I have heard that dramatic changes are happening at Trevellyan. Many of your directors have left and some are making a big noise about how unhappy they are. They say that you and your sisters know nothing about the perfume business and are bound to fail.’

  ‘They would say that, wouldn’t they? They’re the failures. They just don’t want anybody to think that. Much more convenient if they make out that we are the useless ones. But everyone will see the truth in due course.’ Jemima picked up an asparagus spear and dunked the top of it into the soft yolk of an egg.

  ‘Fighting talk.’ Ferrera smiled. ‘Erin de Cristo tells me that she has lost a valued member of staff to you.’

  ‘Yes, we’re thrilled that Donna Asuquo has come to us. She’s top notch.’

  Ferrera waited for her to say more but she simply smiled and said, ‘It’s charming here, isn’t it? I can’t help loving the dear old Paris Ritz almost as much as our London one.’

  ‘So,’ he prompted, ‘are you launching something new?’

  ‘You know I can’t possibly tell you anything about that,’ purred Jemima. ‘All very highly confidential. But everything will be revealed in due course.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’ Ferrera pushed away his plate. He had eaten fast but with impeccable manners. ‘You know, I’ll come straight to the point. I know your company is in trouble. I know you need funds, badly, especially if you’ve got plans for a new perfume. What would you say if I was to make you an offer to buy Trevellyan?’

  ‘You mean, become a partner?’

  ‘No, I mean, own the company outright. I could keep you and your sisters on to run it – if your performance were satisfactory, of course. You would still be at the helm, but it would belong to me. Just think’, he said quickly, ‘of what you’d be able to do with the kind of money I’d be willing to pay for Trevellyan. With that sort of cash injection, you’d be able to realise all your dreams for the company, and retain a financial interest in it.’

  Jemima frowned. ‘It’s an interesting proposition,’ she said slowly. ‘But of course I’m in no position to tell you if we’d be open to that or not. I’d have to speak to my sisters and we’d have to consider it very carefully.’

  ‘Of course. This is not a business discussion. This is simply idle chat that might plant a seed – a seed that could grow into something very exciting and profitable for us all.’

  Their main courses came: stuffed veal sweetbreads for Ferrera, and medallions of lamb for Jemima.

  ‘Oh, yum,’ breathed Jemima, gazing at her delicious-looking dinner. ‘Let’s tuck in.’

  Ferrera laughed loudly. ‘I can’t imagine an American girl saying such a thing!’ he said. ‘It’s very refreshing.’ He eyed her plate. ‘Are you going to eat that potato?’

  ‘Why? Do you want it? Hands off, buster, it’s mine.’

  ‘It’s carbohydrate, though.’

  ‘Excellent major food group.’

  ‘No American girl I know would touch it, particularly not in the evening.’

  ‘Bugger that. We were brought up to eat what’s on our plate.’ Jemima shrugged. ‘There’s no point in fetishising food – it just makes you obsess about it. Banning something is a sure fire way to make you crave it. I just try to be moderate in all things.’

  ‘Sensibly said.’

  ‘Besides, as long as you work off the calories with some intense physical activity, the kind that raises the heart rate and leaves you gasping … well, everything’s fine.’ She looked at him flirtatiously under her lashes.

  He leaned in towards her and said softly, ‘I know a wonderful place not too far from here. It has fantastic music, old-time swing. We could go there later, have a drink, dance a little. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds great. I’d love to.’

  After dinner, they walked through the atmospheric Paris streets to the nightclub. It was in a basement and inside it was all faded glamour: rubbed red velvet, a battered wooden dance floor, waiters with long white aprons round their middles carrying small trays of drinks: Pernod, Scotch, Ricard. This was a club for serious, late-night drinkers. On the raised stage, a small band of elderly men in drooping bow ties played beautiful songs from the thirties and forties.

  They sat at a table in the near-darkness, a small tealight providing their only illumination, and Ferrera ordered drinks: a fine cognac for each of them. The band played ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’.

  Jemima sang along and then said, ‘Only it doesn’t any more, does it? The smoke. Once this place would have been filled with a fug of Gitanes. It doesn’t feel quite French without it.’

  ‘I know what you mean. But I prefer the fresher air. Would you like to dance?’

  He led her on to the dance floor where they joined a few other couples. He held her close and they swayed to the soft sound of the music.

  Je
mima felt the thrill of the physical contact. How long was it, she thought back, since that man at mother’s funeral? She felt a sudden yearning for comfort, for a man’s arms around her, to be caressed, touched, made love to.

  Could I? she wondered. This man isn’t like the others. She sensed vaguely that she could be out of her depth with Ferrera, that he might not be as fleeting as the men she casually picked up, enjoyed and then never saw again. But lust was creeping inside her. It was the feel of his powerful muscles beneath his perfectly cut Armani suit, his rock-hard thighs moving against her as they danced. He was the exact height for her – Harry had always been too tall – and his smooth hands held hers justly firmly enough. She could smell his fresh, citrus scent and see the softness of the brown skin of his neck just below his ear. Sensing the strength and power in him was an aphrodisiac. As the brandy soaked into her bloodstream, she felt her resolution not to get too close to Richard Ferrera waver. Could it hurt? One night? God, I need a damn good shag.

  She pushed gently against him, to let him know that she was responding physically to his nearness. He looked down at her, his dark brown eyes inscrutable, and they carried on dancing.

  It was after one in the morning when they emerged from the club. Jemima knew she was drunk, but she was high on it and happy. Here I am in Paris, with a gorgeous man. It’s perfect.

  They walked down to the river and looked at the lights of the city twinkling on the surface of the Seine.

  ‘You’re a very enigmatic man, Mr Ferrera,’ she said dreamily, resting her head on the soft wool of his jacket.

  ‘Please call me Richard,’ he murmured. ‘I’d hoped we’d got past the formalities by now.’

  ‘So had I. But even if I call you Richard, I won’t feel as though I know you any better.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’ve listened to me chatter on all night and hardly said a thing yourself. You’ve talked about business, of course, and what you think about the President’s foreign policy, and how you’re learning to understand London society … but there’s not much about the real you.’

  ‘What is it you want to know?’ Ferrera looked down at her and smiled.

  ‘Oh … where do I start?’ She sighed happily. What she really wanted to know was if he was thinking the way she was: that there was only one way for a romantic evening like this to end. For the whole evening, she’d been drawn to his quiet poise and the sense of great passions swirling just below the surface. Surely he must feel some attraction for her, or why were they here? ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No. I was married once. Let’s just say I’m very happily divorced.’

  They drifted over to the edge of the water near a lamp-post. Ferrera stared out over the river and said nothing for a such a long time that Jemima began to worry she had offended him by asking him if he was married. Perhaps it was too personal – but they’d been flirting discreetly all night.

  ‘It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?’ she said at last. ‘Paris is so romantic.’

  ‘It certainly is. It’s a city for lovers, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled to herself. So she had been right – this evening was a long flirtation. She felt a quivering anticipation. Will he kiss me now? she wondered, eager for him to turn and touch that handsome mouth to hers as they stood close together, watching the dark water ripple past. But he didn’t.

  ‘Shall we go back?’ he asked after a while, and they walked on, Jemima trying to hide her disappointment and still hoping that he might make his move when they were closer to the hotel.

  At the place Vendôme, he walked her to the door of the hotel and dropped a kiss on her cheek but did not attempt anything more.

  ‘Good night,’ he said. ‘It’s been a wonderful evening. What a lucky chance it was to meet you.’

  ‘I think so too,’ she said softly, seductively. ‘Would you like to come upstairs for one last drink?’

  He stared at her for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. ‘I must go back to the Ritz. It’s very late and I have a breakfast meeting. Listen, I’m throwing a big party in London in few weeks, to celebrate a business acquisition. I’d love you to come. And your sisters too, of course. You’re all welcome.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a small sigh of regret. She knew the chance had been and gone. ‘You know where to reach me. Good night.’

  She turned on her heel and walked into the hotel.

  Ferrera went upstairs to his suite. When he opened the door, he saw a beautiful woman in a yellow silk gown standing at the window, her back to him. Hearing him come into the room, she spun round, her eyes furious.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ she spat.

  ‘I told you. I took her to dinner.’

  ‘That was hours ago! Where have you been since then?’

  We went dancing …’

  ‘Oh how very fucking romantic!’ She strode about the room, flinging her arms about dramatically. ‘While I wait here all alone! Dumped, for that bitch.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s business. It had to be done. You will see the results, I promise.’

  ‘Did you kiss her?’ she hissed, whirling about to stare at him, her dark eyes blazing.

  ‘Of course not,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Do you think I’m lying?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe! She’s capable of anything …’

  ‘Jecca.’ He walked towards her and held out his arms. ‘You mustn’t let your personal feelings interfere like this. We want to achieve our goal, don’t we? I’m doing this for you, after all.’

  She pouted sulkily and let him take her in his arms. ‘I know … I know. It just makes me sick, that’s all. Knowing that you were with her. You don’t know how she treated me in the past. She bullied me all through my childhood, because I wasn’t good enough to be in her precious family.’

  ‘I know what they made you suffer,’ said Ferrera quietly. ‘Believe me, I’ve not forgotten.’

  33

  POPPY SPREAD OUT the Pantone colour cards on the table in front of her and stared hard at each one.

  ‘Which one do you think?’ she demanded.

  ‘Eh?’ George looked up from the window seat where he was buried in a book. ‘What did you say?’

  Poppy frowned in mock crossness. ‘I can’t believe it. We’ve been going out for only a week and you’re already ignoring me!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, putting down his book and getting up. He went over and hugged her. ‘I couldn’t ignore you if I wanted to. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m trying to choose a colour for our new signature fragrance. I’ve narrowed it down to this range of pinks. I want to show the others the perfect colour at our next meeting – but I ought to take three possibles at least.’ She pointed at her current favourite: a matt pink with the faintest hint of pearl and beige. ‘What do you think of this one?’

  ‘I’m no judge, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘And I don’t think I’m your target market either, so my opinion doesn’t count for much.’

  ‘Hmmm. You’re right. Well, I’ll take this and this and this.’ She scooped up the colours she’d chosen and filed them in her drawing pad, where she had the working sketches for the final bottle design. ‘All ready for work on Monday.’

  ‘So what shall we do for the rest of the day? It’s a gorgeous sunny morning. I thought we could go to the zoo …’

  Poppy put her arms round his neck and kissed the tip of his nose lightly. ‘That sounds lovely but actually I have another plan. I have to go to Loxton – my parents’ house. It’s going up for sale and I have to deal with some things there. I wondered if you’d like to come with me. We could stay the night. It might be the last time I’m there.’

  ‘Wow. I’d love that. I feel honoured.’ George smiled at her.

  ‘You are. But you also have a car.’

  They drove down to Loxton, taking an hour to clear London and its heavy traffic, but once
they were free of it, they sailed on into the countryside and made good time to the house.

  ‘This is some house!’ said George as they approached the red-brick mansion. ‘Is this really all yours?’

  ‘For about five minutes it is. We have to sell it to clear the mortgage and the death duties. But it’s where I grew up.’

  They pulled up in front of the house and went in. It was exactly as Poppy had last seen it. Nothing had changed. But she knew that someone had been to value the contents so the lawyers and taxmen could assess the duties payable. Goldblatt Mindenhall were still sending her serious-looking letters every few days to keep her abreast of developments.

  ‘Crikey!’ said George, looking at the marble floor, heavy antique French furniture and the staircase swirling away to the upstairs. ‘Who’s that?’ He was looking at the life-sized oil painting of Yolanda.

  ‘My mother,’ said Poppy softly. ‘The matriarch. The one who got us into this mess. I still don’t understand why she didn’t get the inheritance properly sorted out after Daddy died so we wouldn’t have to foot such a massive tax bill. It makes me think that for some reason she changed her mind about the whole legacy at the last minute. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to get Loxton originally.’ She shrugged. ‘We’ll never know, I suppose.’

  ‘She looks quite a character.’

  ‘She was.’

  ‘How did she make her hair stay up in that huge bouffant?’

  ‘Industrial quantities of hairspray. I’m not joking, she was a walking fire hazard. Now, let’s go and grab a cup of tea and then I can get to work.’

  They found the housekeeper in the kitchen. She made them tea and put out slices of homemade cake.

  ‘I got your letter, Miss Poppy. The bed in the green bedroom is all made up.’ The housekeeper glanced at George, whom she had clearly not been expecting. ‘I hope I’ve got enough food in.’