B004D4Y20I EBOK

by Taylor, Lulu

  Harry.

  She stared at it, feeling faintly sick. So this would be the moment of truth. No doubt he was going to ask for a divorce. What else could he do? The two of them had a laughable marriage. They barely spoke, almost never saw each other. It was all over, they both had to face that.

  So why did it make her so miserable to think about it?

  I suppose I don’t like failing, she admitted to herself. That’s what this will look like.

  She got up and wandered into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Perhaps divorce was for the best. Harry could marry Letty. She was young and pretty and no doubt would give him the parcel of children he wanted …

  She clasped the bench suddenly, bending over it, surprised by the sudden jolt of pain that shot through her stomach. Breathing slowly, she tried to overcome it, and then it was gone. She hadn’t realised that just thinking of what had happened could still affect her like this.

  When she had recovered and drunk her tea, she went back to the computer.

  Hi, Harry.

  Yes, I’ll come down this weekend. I’ll arrive on

  Saturday morning before lunch.

  See you then.

  Jemima.

  37

  GEORGE RAN HIS nose along Poppy’s neck, sniffing her appreciatively.

  ‘So this is the new scent, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, this is it. Do you like it?’

  ‘I’m not much of a fan of perfume generally. Can’t bear women who are drenched in the stuff. They make me sneeze. But I like this …’ He sniffed again. ‘It’s not too strong. And not too floral. I hate perfumes that smell like a giant bouquet. What’s that shop where they make all those natural soaps and bath things? The ones that look like giant cakes of fudge? Can’t bear the smell of that place. Just walking past it makes my stomach turn.’

  Poppy laughed. ‘So you’re obviously very discerning! At least it gets past your stringent quality test.’ She lifted her wrist to her nose and sniffed it. ‘I’m getting fonder and fonder of this scent. It’s like the original Trevellyan’s Tea Rose, and yet different. It has its own character and identity. The other one smelt old-fashioned, you couldn’t get away from that, even when it was properly made. But this is just what women today want to wear.’

  ‘Then it looks as though everything’s going to work out, doesn’t it?’

  They were lying in bed, relishing the warm sunshine coming through the skylights in Poppy’s bedroom ceiling. Above them the blue sky blazed and wisps of white cloud floated slowly across the windows. It was going to be a hot day.

  Poppy sighed. She picked up George’s hand and twisted her fingers through his. ‘I love your hands, do you know that?’ She kissed his knuckles in turn. ‘They’re so large – but not hairy or rough. Just capable and strong.’

  ‘I’m delighted you approve.’ He pulled her close to him so that she could smell the warm muskiness of his skin. ‘But tell me how things are going – does it look as though everything will work out?’

  ‘I had no idea you were so interested in the perfume business.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m interested in you. And this is taking up just about every waking thought for you, isn’t it? It’s obviously crucial to you. I’m anxious about you, that’s all.’ He stroked her hair softly.

  ‘There’s just so much to cope with.’ Poppy was quiet for a moment and then said, ‘Once, I went walking in Snowdonia with some friends. We were going to climb Snowdon – it’s the highest peak in Wales. When we got there, I looked up and thought, “It’s really surprisingly small. This shouldn’t be much trouble at all.” So we started to walk up this mountain and as we went, I realised that what we were climbing wasn’t the mountain itself – it was just one of the foothills. The higher we got, the more I could see that beyond our little hill was a great mountain, going up and up. That was really where we were heading. It’s like that now. When we started, it seemed quite simple and straightforward. Launch a new perfume, give the company look a shake-up, job’s done. But of course, it’s not that simple at all, and the further we go along, the harder the climb appears.’ She sighed. ‘Tara’s just been in touch to tell me that we’ve been refused planning permission for our refit, because the wood panelling in the shop is protected. I’m sure we’ll get round it somehow – our designers are terrific – but it’s just another problem to cope with. Nothing seems to run smoothly no matter how well we plan. Then there’s Tara herself. I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Why?’ George stroked her arm tenderly. ‘From everything you say about her, she seems like a tremendous coper.’

  ‘She is – but imagine how hard all this is, especially with what’s happening to Gerald. I never much liked him, but I don’t wish all this on him, even if he is a crook. The press are ripping him to pieces and they’re trying to take Tara with him. It makes me so furious – as if she knew anything about it! There’s no one in the world as straight and honest as Tara!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ George soothed her softly. ‘I’m on your side, remember? And Tara’s come to that.’

  Poppy smiled. ‘Sorry, darling. I just worry about my big sister and how much she can take before she breaks. Donna told me that Tara left early the other night to meet an agent who was seeking properties for her. She’s only planning to sell her house and buy another at the same time as all this is going on.’

  ‘Maybe she needs something to take her mind off the business.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Poppy sighed. ‘I just can’t see a way out of our main problem and I don’t think Tara can either. We need money – big money – to make this work, and we haven’t got it.’

  ‘Can you borrow some? Surely there are venture capitalists out there who’d like to invest?’

  ‘Tara says it would be difficult. There’s a much less benign financial climate these days. It’s getting harder to borrow and our results are so poor and we’re so inexperienced that people are going to be wary of investing in us. That’s why any money left over after the sale of Loxton’s contents has to go to the business – it’s our only way of getting some cash.’

  ‘All your inheritance?’ George said. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Poppy said, a flicker of anxiety in her voice. She had never been so happy as she was since she had met George. There was something about him that made her feel utterly relaxed and comfortable, totally accepted for herself. He had never seemed interested in knowing how much money she had, or who her glamorous friends were. All he wanted to do was spend time with her, just the two of them, talking. He never wanted to go to fancy restaurants or glitzy parties. He was happiest eating toast with her and reading the papers together, talking and laughing about the silly things they’d noticed that day. And he was completely supportive of her Trevellyan work, never bored or uninterested by it. He was always ready to listen when she moaned about what was happening in the office, or came home too shattered even to smile. But was he really interested in her money after all?

  George picked up on the note in her voice and grinned. ‘Oh, darling, please don’t think I’m worried in case you end up poor and I have to dump you! You couldn’t ever be much poorer than I am, and I’m perfectly happy. I don’t care how much money you have.’ He looked in her face, staring deeply into her eyes. ‘I know it hasn’t been long. We’ve only been together a few weeks …’

  ‘Six weeks, four days,’ whispered Poppy.

  ‘… I’m glad you’re keeping track. But it’s long enough for me to know that I love you.’

  She’d been longing to hear it and hoped it was true. Now she knew it was. A huge smile broke across her face and she hugged him impulsively. ‘Do you? Do you? I’m so happy! I love you too!’

  He laughed. ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, oh yes. I’ve never been so happy.’

  He kissed her softly, lingering on her lips for a long time. Then he said gently, ‘I don’t care if you’re Poppy Trevellyan or Poppy Put-the-kettle-on or
whoever. You’re you. The girl I love.’

  While Poppy was making the most of her morning before heading to the office, Jemima had already been up for hours, keen to make her appointment at Goldblatt Mindenhall.

  ‘Lovely to see you again, Lady Calthorpe,’ said Ali Tendulka as Jemima was shown into his office by the secretary. He gestured to the leather armchair in front of his desk. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Do call me Jemima. I think we’re on … intimate enough terms for that, aren’t we?’ She sat down, crossing her legs elegantly and seductively.

  Ali Tendulka sat opposite her in his chair and leaned back, pressing his fingertips together, smiling at her. ‘Very well. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Jemima?’

  Jemima glanced about the office, with bookshelves crammed with legal reference books and files, the desk and its mountainous in-tray and computer. ‘I need to ask a favour.’

  ‘You do surprise me. Of course I’m happy to help you in any way I can – provided it’s within the law, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jemima smiled at him, lowering her lashes flirtatiously. ‘The favour is entirely legal, I promise you that. It’s the small matter of my mother’s will.’

  Ali raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘The small matter? I got the impression it created quite a stir.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. It did. But we need to be absolutely sure about the conditions of the will. I’d like you to look at the small print for me and find out what provisions there are for selling the company, if that becomes a necessity.’

  ‘You’re planning to sell …?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Jemima said quickly. ‘But we need to know exactly what constraints we’re acting under. The terms of my mother’s will are hardly predictable, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘Absolutely. In fact, it’s the oddest will I’ve ever had dealings with.’

  Jemima leaned forward, giving Ali a clear view of her plunging cleavage in the tight, low-cut white shirt-dress she was wearing. ‘There are a couple of other things. I want you to double check when the will was signed and dated. And if there are specific mentions of my mother’s jewellery. We thought the jewellery was included in the contents of Loxton, but it’s not there and no one has been able to locate it. Obviously it’s worth quite a lot. We want to find out where it’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t think that should be a problem.’

  ‘Good. Perhaps we can meet for a drink when you have the answers. Always so much nicer to mix business and pleasure, don’t you think?’ Shooting him one last dazzling smile, Jemima stood up. ‘I look forward to hearing from you soon.’

  The photographs lay in neat rows on the desk. Most of them showed Tara Pearson, usually with a large pair of dark glasses on and a grimace of distaste twisting her mouth, heading from her home to her car, or from her office to her car. One showed Jemima Calthorpe, an insouciant smile on her face, striding proudly away from the photographer, self-confidence almost rippling in her wake. Another was of Poppy Trevellyan, her green eyes startled, her chin pressed down towards her chest as she tried to avoid the prying lens.

  Flick Johnson made a noise of irritation. She fidgeted and rubbed her hands together. She was desperate for a cigarette but never had time to make the trip from the newsroom downstairs to the outside world for a puff. The result was that she was giving up smoking against her will and fighting constantly against her craving. She scanned the pictures of the Trevellyan sisters again.

  ‘Why the fuck are you bringing me these, Ben?’ she snapped.

  Ben, a tall, gangly young reporter who’d been at the paper only six months, came over to have a look. ‘It’s those Trevellyan girls, innit?’

  Flick grimaced. ‘I’m perfectly aware of that, I’ve run enough pictures of ’em in my time. I’ve had it up to here with the bloody Heiresses. Everyone banging on about how much money they were going to get when their parents popped their clogs.’ Flick picked up the photograph of Jemima and scowled at it. ‘Look at this one. Pure arrogance. I hate this kind of pampered princess. She’s got no idea how the world really works or how much misery ordinary people have to deal with. I bet she doesn’t so much as have to pull her own knickers up after she’s taken a piss.’ She sniggered. ‘Though I’ve heard she’s very good at getting them down.’ She pushed herself away from the desk and said, ‘The point is, why the fuck are these pictures on my desk?’

  ‘One of our regular paps sent them in, in case we want to run them.’ Ben pointed at the pictures of Tara. ‘This is the one in the news, innit?’

  ‘She was in the news, several fucking weeks ago. She’s no use to me now, unless something happens. Her husband’s not even in the country much longer. When he comes to court, it might be worth trying to get some pics but until then – the story’s dead, mate.’

  ‘Oh right.’ Ben nodded. He was an adolescent mixture of confidence and self-doubt, obviously terrified of Flick, who was an old hand in papers and had no fear of speaking her mind and administering a good tongue lashing when she felt like it. ‘I’ll tell the picture desk. Fuckin’ morons,’ he added, to pass off responsibility for wasting Flick’s time.

  Flick leaned forward again. She put one hand to her dark blonde ponytail and started whirling the hair round her fingers in the habit she had when she was thinking. She stared at the pictures. ‘The old one. Tara. She’s not looking happy, is she? I suppose that’s what it’s like when it turns out your old man’s up for grand theft and facing a stretch inside.’ Flick examined the pictures a little more closely. ‘But the funny thing is, she’s not doing the usual rich wife thing of standing by him. I mean, he’s only stolen some money, he hasn’t buggered any farmyard animals or anything – not as far as I know, anyway. Most wives would do their best to keep their bloke out of prison, wouldn’t they?’ She became thoughtful. ‘And now these girls have actually got their hands on the family millions, they’re not looking too happy about it, are they? Pretty damn miserable, if you think about it.’ She turned to the young reporter. ‘What do you notice about most of these pictures, Ben?’

  ‘Errr …’ Ben gazed at them all intently as if thinking hard but his mind was obviously blank. ‘Errr … dunno.’

  ‘Wanna be an investigative journalist, do you, kiddo? Try turning on your fucking brain. Nearly all these pictures have the girls entering and leaving the same place. Their family company.’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘So these rich bitches have never had to do a day’s work in their lives! OK, apart from the oldest,’ Flick conceded, ‘she’s a banker or something. But the other two … wafting through life like a couple of pretty butterflies sucking the nectar. And here they are, going to work every day almost like normal people.’

  Ben frowned. ‘So what?’

  ‘So what? So I get the feeling there might be a story there, you great bloody numbskull!’ Flick sat back in her chair. ‘Remember when the blonde one went out with that rock star? No one could get enough of her. Then she went and married some lord, their wedding pictures were all over the place, supposedly they lived happy ever after. You don’t see ’em together much, though, do you? Well, I think it’s time we all found out what happened next to the Heiresses, don’t you?’

  Ben nodded, smirking.

  38

  ‘LORD HARRY’S BEEN called away this morning,’ the housekeeper said frostily. ‘Something to do with estate business. The new manager.’

  ‘OK, Teri. Thanks.’

  The housekeeper turned and stalked away, leaving no doubt as to her lack of pleasure at seeing Jemima back at Herne. As for mentioning the new manager … well, Jemima knew exactly what kind of point Teri was trying to ram home. She could forget it. There was no way Jemima was going to let any sly little digs get to her.

  She left her bag in the hall, a long stone-flagged room with high mullioned windows and a large fireplace, big enough for a man to stand up in, at either end. Over each fireplace hung a vast portrait of one of Harry’s ancestor
s. One was a florid, Regency buck, in a tight scarlet jacket, buff breeches and high buckled shoes. From his white stock rose a plump red face, the dark hair on top brushed forward in the neo-classical fashion of the day. He was painted against a torrid background of grey clouds and distant fields and villages, no doubt supposed to represent his large estates. The other painting portrayed a Cavalier and his wife, the lord in a suit of blue satin with a high lace collar of intricate work and long boots, his lady with similar rich lacework at the bosom and sleeves of her flowing silk gown, her fair hair falling in short, pretty ringlets round her forehead and over her ears. Her hand rested on the jewelled collar worn round the neck of an elegant greyhound.

  For how many centuries had Harry’s ancestors enjoyed wealth and influence? How many Lord Calthorpes had strode across this hall, warmed themselves in front of these fireplaces, and talked about the political issues of the day? Jemima smiled wryly to herself. How many had made their poor wives miserable?

  She had been dreading this trip to Herne. It felt as though she were about to get some bad news, a negative prognosis. Something that would change her life yet again. She didn’t want to face it.

  As she’d driven down the long drive towards the house, she’d been struck again by the beauty of Herne. How different it was to London, with its hot pavements and dusty roads and millions of people. Here, it was peaceful and cool. Early summer, she felt, must be the most beautiful time of the year in England. The park was clad in fresh lime greens, the trees dressed in new leaves, the grass young and juicy. The countryside was alive with activity and mad with life: birds darted in the hedgerows, chirruping madly, bees buzzed lazily in the warm air, eddies of tiny summer flies whirled about after their own strange devices. Amongst all this, the house sat, ancient, benign and almost heartstoppingly beautiful.

  She had filled with sorrow as she took all this in. It could have been her home, the place where she belonged. But that would never happen now. It was becoming clearer and clearer that Harry couldn’t forgive her for what had happened. She wasn’t even sure she could forgive herself.