by Taylor, Lulu
‘How are things here, Alice?’ Poppy asked, sipping her tea.
Alice shook her head. ‘Quiet, miss. Most of the staff have left now. It’s just me and Tony in the lodge now and I understand we’ll need to be out once the house is on the market.’
‘Have you got somewhere else to go?’
‘Yes, yes. A new position with a lovely family in the North. They’re big in shipping, I believe. We’re planning to take a little break on the coast with my brother’s family before that, and then we start in the summer.’
‘You’ve been such a wonder here, Alice, looking after Mother right to the end.’
‘Least we could do,’ Alice said gruffly. ‘Your mother wasn’t easy but she was fair and we were very touched to be remembered in her will.’
‘We’re going to wander about, Alice. You mustn’t worry about cooking for us tonight – we’ll look after ourselves. The same goes for tomorrow morning.’
‘Very well. I’ll pop in and tidy up tomorrow afternoon. I believe the agents are coming?’
‘Yes, they want to take photographs before the house is emptied.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Hard to believe there’ll be no more Trevellyans at Loxton.’
‘I know. But everything has to change some time.’ Poppy looked about the kitchen, where she had spent so many hours as a girl, making toast or hot chocolate or just chatting with Alice. ‘I’m sure a new family will be very happy here. And you know what? I think this place deserves a change.’
They spent a happy afternoon, wandering about the house. Poppy gave George a grand tour, showing him everything from the plush ground-floor reception rooms to the dusty attics full of rubbish.
‘There must be all kinds of treasures here!’ George exclaimed, looking at the trunks, suitcases and boxes of books, knick-knacks, photographs and old toys. ‘Look at that funny little pedal car!’
‘That was mine, when I was a toddler.’ Poppy smiled. ‘Funny, it used to be much bigger than that.’ She laughed. ‘Or so it seemed to me.’
‘You’re not throwing all this stuff out, are you?’
‘What else can I do with it?’
‘Oh no, you mustn’t. You’ll regret it.’ He looked at her, his face fervent. ‘You must store it.’
Poppy put her hands on her hips and made a face. ‘But look at it all! I’ll never have the time to go through it.’
‘One day you will. Then you’ll be glad you’ve kept it.’
‘Mmm.’ She looked at the dusty boxes. ‘Maybe. Well, let’s get on and I’ll think about it.’
The afternoon passed by as they went from room to room, Poppy putting bright yellow stickers on the items to be valued and then sold by the auction house.
You’re putting stickers on everything!’ said George, watching as Poppy stuck yellow circles on pictures, lamps, china, furniture and antique books.
‘We need the cash. Anything that can go for a decent sum has to go. It’s not like we want these things. I don’t even like most of them.’
‘Do you really need the money?’ George looked disbelievingly. The effect of seeing Loxton and everything inside had obviously made him regard the family as hardly short of a shilling.
‘We really do,’ said Poppy firmly. She stood in front of her mother’s great portrait for a moment, gazing up at the idealised smooth skin, glittering eyes and great swoop of hair. Yolanda’s floor-length gown was a mist of floating chiffon, the jewels at her throat and wrist seemed almost a third bigger than their real-life models and her waist at least a third smaller. The painted equivalent to airbrushing, she thought. Her mother had never looked like that. She had just wanted to.
Poppy leaned forward and pressed a yellow sticker on to the frame, pushing it down hard to make sure it stuck. There, she thought. Goodbye to all that. It’s time to look ahead now.
The press did not seem to be losing interest in the Pearson story. By seven o’clock in the morning, photographers were camped outside, waiting for Tara to emerge from the house so that they could take pictures of her.
She had been on the phone to Gerald’s lawyers and to her own, trying to find out what the situation meant for them all. Gerald’s lawyer, Harold Jamieson, told her that the most likely outcome was that Gerald would return voluntarily to South Africa and turn himself in. There was a further development: Gerald’s company had launched a suit against him for the return of funds they claimed he’d stolen. His assets would be frozen while the case was decided.
‘You’re going to have a complicated few months,’ Harold told her. ‘How entwined are your finances with Gerald’s?’
‘Thankfully not too much. He’s never involved me in his business and I’ve never involved him in mine. Most of the properties are in single names – the Cape Town house, the Scottish estate, the New York property are all in Gerald’s name. The City flat and the bungalow in the Bahamas are mine. This house is joint property and so is the Cotswold house.’
‘Obviously any assets that can be shown to be yours will remain your own. Joint assets may need to be sold and the money divided, just as in a divorce.’
‘How handy. Two birds with one stone,’ said Tara drily.
‘Sorry?’
‘Gerald and I have separated. I’m sure he’s told you. I’ll be seeking a divorce in due course.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Tara,’ said Harold soberly. ‘Are you sure? This is going to put an enormous strain on Gerald. A criminal trial at the same time as losing his wife and family …’
‘He really should have thought of that, Harold, before he decided to raid the company piggy bank, shouldn’t he? It’s a bit late to start saying how sorry he is. I suspect he’s only very, very sorry he got found out.’
‘I see. Well, have your solicitors send me the appropriate correspondence in due course.’
‘Thanks, Harold. I will.’
It was a Saturday and she was determined to enjoy it. No work today, she decided. She would take the children out. They would go to the park with their bikes, play at the playground and have an ice cream in the sunshine. Then somewhere nice for lunch and in the afternoon, perhaps she’d see about taking them to the pictures, or rowing on the Serpentine, or skating in Hyde Park. There were so many lovely things to do. She pushed the thought of Gerald out of her mind.
They had to face the press when they came out of the house but with John making a path for them and the children holding tightly on to Tara’s hands, they got past them without much trouble. The presence of the children seemed to make the journalists hold back a little.
They would usually have walked to the park but to shake off the press, John drove them there in a circuitous way. Then they were free to enjoy the spring sunshine. The children ran off, delighted, to the playground while John unloaded the bikes from the boot.
‘Have a great day, ma’am,’ John said sincerely.
‘Thanks, we will.’
And they did. Imogen had just learned to ride her bike with the stabilisers on but she was still a bit wobbly and tried to keep up with Edward, who whizzed away on his little two-wheeler, proud that he could ride it without help. Tara walked along behind them both, enjoying the sound of their piping voices and merry laughs.
‘Come on, Mummy!’ shouted Edward. ‘Try and be faster!’
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ cried Imo, ‘I can’t see!’ Her helmet had slipped forward over her eyes and she was pedalling slowly towards the edge of the path and a large rhododendron bush. Tara darted over and rescued her, laughing as Imo’s big blue eyes were revealed from under the helmet.
‘I got lost,’ she explained.
‘Don’t worry, darling, I found you,’ Tara said, dropping a kiss on her head.
This is good, she thought, as Imo pedalled off again, her tongue poking out with the effort of making the bicycle go the way she wanted. We need more of this. Hell, I need more of this. They’re not babies any more. They’re growing up so fast. I can’t miss all of it. I just can’t.
&
nbsp; That night, when the children were in bed, exhausted after a wonderful day full of treats, Tara sat down at her computer and began to search through property websites.
34
‘GOODNESS, LOOK AT this! It’s not what I expected.’
‘What did you expect?’ enquired Claudine. She and Jemima were standing in the door of her office.
Jemima frowned. ‘I suppose I imagined a sterile laboratory and you sitting there in a white coat, mixing potions from glass bottles.’
‘I have some essences.’ Claudine gestured to a row of small phials on her desk.
‘Yes, but – apart from that, it looks just like an ordinary office. The desk, the books, the computer …’
‘The computer is now our most essential piece of equipment,’ said Claudine solemnly. ‘I use it to create my formulae. Then I email it to the lab down the hall, the technicians mix me a sample of what I’ve created and send it to me to smell. Then I’ll make some changes to the formula and start again.’
‘But where do you keep the smells?’ asked Jemima, surprised. ‘How do you know what to put in?’
Claudine smiled and tapped her head. ‘In here. I know a great, great deal about scent, about what molecule smells like what and what its properties are – how it reacts, how long the smell will persist, what will degrade or damage it. I spent years at the Givaudan school analysing scents, learning them off by heart. I know in my sleep how to create the basic recipes for scents. I can mix you the smell of chocolate with two molecules. At school, I learned to construct new smells. “Create me a violet frozen in ice!” our tutor would say. Or he wanted the smell of a coffee drunk on a summer’s morning in the place de la Bastille. Or the scent of grey clouds massing over a mountain. Building is part of it, breaking down another. He would ask us to find the constituent parts of a strange scent we had never smelt before. It was like learning a language, the vocabulary, the grammar, the rules … That is why I know what to put in my formulae.’
‘Amazing,’ breathed Jemima. ‘What an incredible skill.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Claudine. ‘Incredible.’
‘And have you come up with something for us today?’
‘I have begun to build something,’ said the French woman cautiously. ‘I have a sketch I am happy with. But I will need to continue tomorrow. I will bring at least three essais for you to try.’
‘How exciting. I can’t wait. Is there really nothing I can smell now?’
‘No,’ replied Claudine bluntly.
‘What about those little bottles?’ pressed Jemima.
Claudine glanced at them and relented. ‘Very well. You may smell one. They are essences and absolutes: refined, essential smells, the building blocks of fragrance. Some are natural, some synthetic. Natural essences are obtained by using heat and natural absolutes are the result of cold extraction, using solvents. Synthetics, of course, are developed in laboratories.’
‘We want only natural ones in our scents,’ said Jemima quickly.
‘Why?’ asked Claudine icily.
Jemima was taken aback by her reaction. ‘Well … Natural is good, isn’t it?’
‘Suddenly you are an expert on perfume?’ demanded Claudine irritably.
‘No –’ She had forgotten for a moment how sensitive Claudine could be about her area of skill but she had learned not to take any of the crossness to heart. She found Claudine’s highly strung nature rather funny, though she tried not to show Claudine that as it would only make her even more prickly. The best way round it, she had discovered, was to remain sunny and charming, and Claudine’s irritation would melt away.
‘Then please allow me to be the judge. As it happens, synthetic molecules can be the most divine of fragrances. The very first were created here in France over a hundred and twenty years ago and some of the greatest perfumes in the world have been built with them. In fact, I believe that when synthetics were discovered, the creation of perfume truly began. Some synthetics are superior to the natural version, and often far cheaper not to mention more friendly to the environment.’ She stared at Jemima. ‘Or would you prefer all the precious sandalwood forests of India to be destroyed so you might wear your favourite scent, huh? Or the sperm whales murdered, so you can have natural ambergris?’
‘Of course not –’
‘Synthetic molecules can be cheaper, more stable, more persistent, less prone to warp or degrade in different formats. But if you, Madame, believe they are inferior, then perhaps I ought to throw away my synthetics! Despite the care, love and skill that has gone into refining them, they are not good enough for you!’ Claudine’s voice was rising and she put her hands on her hips.
Jemima burst out laughing. ‘Honestly, Claudine, you’re so touchy! You must ignore me, I know nothing. If you say synthetics are good, then they absolutely must be.’
Claudine huffed a little but she was obviously mollified. Her irritation vanished as quickly as it had come. Jemima picked up a small phial. ‘Now, can I smell this?’ She took off the lid and sniffed. Her face changed as she registered the intense purity of the smell. ‘Oh my God, it’s incredible. It’s the smell of violets. So strong, so … distilled!’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ Claudine looked pleased at her reaction.
‘But should you be putting violets in? We’re trying to make a rose scent, aren’t we?’
Claudine began to look cross again, then she laughed. ‘You will still try and tell me my art? It is something I’m experimenting with, to do with achieving the scent of tea, if you must know.’
‘Oh! How clever …’
‘Now, I think we should get out of here. I’ve had a long day. Are we going to dine tonight?’
‘Yes, I’d love to.’
‘Good. I’d be honoured if you would come back to my apartment and I will cook for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Jemima smiled at her. ‘That sounds lovely.’
They took the train into Paris and then the Metro to the Marais district. Claudine’s flat was in a stunning eighteenth-century building that had once been the town house of a French aristocrat.
‘No one too rich or powerful,’ said Claudine as they went up in the little lift. ‘They built on a more fabulous scale than this.’
‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I like it.’ She led Jemima into the apartment. It was simple, restrained and stylish, decorated in earthy colours of stone, grey, warm brown and honey. The only bright colours came from the large works of abstract art on the walls.
‘What a beautiful flat,’ said Jemima sincerely.
‘Thank you. Now please make yourself comfortable. I will fetch you an aperitif for you to enjoy while I prepare dinner.’
Five minutes later, Jemima was stretched out on the sofa, a Campari and soda on the table next to her, leafing through French Vogue. Funny how quickly my French is coming back, she mused. Although today was quite a baptism of fire.
She had met senior managers of three of Paris’s most prestigious stores. It had been hard work interesting them in the Trevellyan brand.
‘There are new launches every day, Madame,’ explained one, a man in a grey suit and brown-rimmed glasses. ‘The public are becoming difficult to interest in new perfumes. There is too much on the market.’
‘This is a luxury scent, not just another celebrity-endorsed run-of-the-mill fragrance.’
They had shrugged. They were French and not about to take lessons in luxury from an English woman. Luxury was French by its nature – the world knew that.
‘What is the story of your perfume?’ asked someone at one of her meetings.
‘It’s the new version of what was an old classic. A reworking into something entirely new for the contemporary woman.’
‘What will it smell like?’
‘Like a tea rose but very sophisticated, fresh and modern.’
‘No, I mean, which successful perfume?’
‘Oh … I don’t know.’
‘Mmm. Well, send us a sample when you have it,
and details of your campaign. Your current scents perform decently for us – nothing extraordinary though.’ The managers seemed bored by her. She was determined to grab their attention and get their support.
At her last meeting, disheartened by another lukewarm reception, she said impulsively, ‘You will be very impressed, messieurs, by our campaign. We intend to launch simultaneously all over the world. We have someone very famous lined up to be the face of Tea Rose.‘
There was a flicker of interest. ‘You have?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘That’, declared Jemima, ‘is a secret until the very last minute. But you will be extremely excited when you discover who it is.’
‘An actress?’ They looked eager. ‘A Hollywood star?’
‘I can’t say any more.’ Jemima tried to look mysterious and yet fully in control.
‘Stay in touch, Madame,’ said the manager as he showed her out. ‘We will be interested to find out more in due course.’
It was the most positive meeting she’d had all day.
Now Jemima leafed through the magazine, mentally crossing out all the actresses who had already been signed up to front other brands. Scarlett Johansson, Jennifer Lopez, Keira Knightley, Nicole Kidman, Kirsten Dunst, Chloë Sevigny, Charlize Theron, Kate Winslet, Uma Thurman … anyone with any style was taken, or so it seemed.
She was struck by a fashion spread in the middle of the magazine. It was that same model, the one her attention had been caught by before. What was her name? Her looks were unmistakeable; the curvy lusciousness, the dark hair and the startling green cat’s eyes. Neave. That was it. The stunning new Irish star – no doubt her name, Niamh, had been changed to a spelling more friendly to the American market on the recommendation of her management. She was truly gorgeous. It was no wonder that everyone seemed so captivated by her.
Jemima picked up the magazine and rushed through to the kitchen. ‘Look at this woman, Claudine. Isn’t she fabulous? So stunning! Look at those legs, those hips. You don’t see many models like this, do you?’