B004D4Y20I EBOK

by Taylor, Lulu

  Jecca said nothing. She lifted her glass of water to her lips and took a sip.

  Poppy continued. ‘I think that awful scene at Spencer House was all part of your attempt to blackmail us into giving you what you want, wasn’t it? You got us precisely the kind of attention we didn’t want, revealing family secrets and dragging us into the tabloids. My theory is that you’re actually telling me that if we don’t agree to your demands, you’re going to start spilling more beans. Your claim that you’re Daddy’s daughter, for example. You could get some juicy coverage out of that one. Enough to put the launch of Tea Rose in the shade.’

  Jecca raised her eyebrows and shrugged lightly. ‘If I were a part of the business, I’d have no interest in doing anything that could threaten Tea Rose’s success. And you know, there’s lots I could do to help you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh huh. After all, I am fucking one of the most influential men in the luxury industry. Doesn’t that count for something?’

  Poppy winced with distaste. ‘Not in my book.’

  Jecca looked disconcerted for a moment, then her face darkened. ‘Still the same, aren’t you? Judging me. You Trevellyans always tried to make me feel second best. You waltzed round, oh so superior, treating me like dirt because I was some nothing little orphan. Do you think I’ve forgotten any of that? How you made me suffer all those years?’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Poppy whispered. ‘We were children. We would have welcomed you into our family if that was what you wanted. There was room for us all. But you never did want that, not from the very start. Nothing was enough for you. What you really wanted was everything for yourself. And you still do.’

  ‘Shut up!’ cried Jecca. Her fists clenched on the table and her eyes flashed. ‘Your family would be nowhere if it weren’t for mine. It was our talent that made you! Do you know how it killed me to see your mother dripping in her furs and jewels, revelling in her huge house, while mine lay dead in the ground? How do you think it felt to know my father had lost everything while yours sat on his stupid ass doing nothing, raking in the money the Farnese family had made for him? Everything should be mine, if there were any fucking justice in the world.’

  There was a long pause and then Poppy said quietly, ‘You’ve made yourself quite clear, Jecca. I think I understand now.’

  Jecca closed her eyes, taking a second to control herself. When she opened them, there was no trace of the rage that had just gripped her. Instead she smiled sunnily. ‘So will you consider my proposition? I think we could be a strong team, the four of us.’

  Poppy stared at her, amazed. Did she seriously think that they would want her anywhere near them, especially now that she had revealed the vein of bitterness and hatred that lay within her? She didn’t appear to notice anything inconsistent in her behaviour at all. Poppy grabbed her bag and stood up. The emotions coursed through her and she didn’t think she could keep her composure much longer. She had to get out of there. ‘I’ll tell the others. We’ll think about it and let you know.’

  ‘Good.’ Jecca smiled up at her. ‘Going already? Do stay and chat. I’d love to reminisce about old times.’

  ‘No, thanks. Bye, Jecca. I’ll be in touch.’

  48

  TARA LAY DOWN on the bed in her hotel room, exhausted. The heat in New York was intense: she’d forgotten what summers here could be like. No wonder people abandoned hot, sticky, smelly Manhattan and went to the cooler seaside, if they could. But at least her room had air-conditioning – bliss.

  She tried not to feel too depressed about the meetings she had had that day. People had been polite but brutal in their assessment of Trevellyan. No one in America really cared that much about the brand. It sold OK, on the back of its history and prestige. The new scent was nice enough. Was it a winner? No one really liked to say, the mind of the average perfume buyer was impossible to read. They all maintained similar expressions of bland uninterest and they all asked the same question that ended in an abrupt halt to the meeting. Who did they have to be the face of the scent? No one? Oh. OK. Thanks very much, we’ll think about it and let you know but to be honest, it’s unlikely. Sorry. Goodbye.

  Tara tried to stay positive. There’s still tomorrow, she thought. I’ve got two more meetings and I only need one bite on the line …

  She’d been thinking of trying to catch up with some friends this evening but after her long day, she didn’t feel much like socialising. Maybe she would just order room service and eat here in her room, watching some old movie. That sounded nice.

  But first, she decided, she’d go downstairs to the bar and treat to herself to a big, expensive cocktail, something to knock the edge off the day. Then she’d come back here and order herself a Caesar salad and eat it in her underwear.

  She changed from her business suit to a Matthew Williamson mini tunic dress in bright bold colours and slipped on a pair of high sandals – perfect for a drink in the hotel bar. Then she checked her reflection, reapplied her lipstick, brushed her hair and went downstairs.

  She made her way out to the Yard at the back, a bright, cheerful outside space where people were sharing pitchers of mojitos, margaritas and sangria while they munched on burgers and chicken skewers. The daytime heat had abated and now the evening was pleasantly warm and relaxed, as people began to revive in the cooler air.

  This is what I love about New York, she thought, looking about. It always seems so on the pulse, so intelligent. Hard working but hard playing too. You have to be special to make it here.

  She ordered a mojito and when it came, she savoured its sweet mintiness, exactly right for the summer evening, and watched New York’s cool urban youth talking, drinking, laughing and eating. How long ago was she a young woman with only herself to think about? How long since she’d whiled away an evening like that, looking so relaxed and so in control?

  Never, she realised with surprise. At Oxford, she’d spent her life working hard, encouraged by the intense academic atmosphere of her college. She hadn’t been able to understand how other students had time for partying, sport, acting or journalism; she was far too busy in the library, applying herself to her books. Desperately worried she wouldn’t achieve her potential, she developed an eating disorder and grew thinner and thinner even as her results got better and better. By the time she left university, she was neurotic, obsessed with her skinny, boney body, and in possession of a double first class degree. She was snapped up at once by a major bank and started her journey towards professional success, working hard as she always had. But there was no pretending she was happy. She never had the kind of easy confidence the people round her seemed to have. She began to think she’d never learn how to live. Then she met Gerald.

  She could see now that she just replaced one form of control with another. Gerald seemed to set her free with his love and devotion, but the reality was that he just erected a new kind of prison for her, one that looked deceptively like freedom. He found her a clinic to help her with her eating disorder, and encouraged her in her job and as a woman. He began to dictate how she should look and dress and how their houses should be decorated. He decided when they would have children, which in reality was before Tara herself felt she was ready, although she would never wish Edward and Imogen away in a million years; but by then, the habit of obedience was so ingrained in her that it was impossible to break it.

  Only Trevellyan had been able to set her free. Only when the challenge presented itself was she able to do something for herself, and that one act of rebellion had set off a whole chain of events that released her. It hadn’t even been a gradual process. One day she had been in Gerald’s thrall, still terrified of him and awed by his power. She’d let him physically humiliate her, for Christ’s sake! Then, the next, with the combination of her own success and his appalling failure as a businessman and husband, she was liberated.

  Now there was a new life to look forward to, she realised. A fresh start. She couldn’t wait to move to the new house, to an are
a where no one knew her, where she and the children could start being a normal family – well, as normal as they could be with Gerald’s trial hanging over them. And she would start to learn to please herself. After all, there was no one to crave approval from now: her parents were dead. Gerald was gone. Her sisters had begun to look up to her and respect her for the first time in their lives. Above all, she knew her children needed her to be a strong, capable, protective mother, and she finally realised she could be that.

  She felt a surge of strength and optimism. I can do it. I know I can. I have to make sure I find the balance, that’s all. I have to work, but not at the expense of my entire life. I need to care for the children, but not at the expense of my own sense of self. I need to discover what I love about being alive, besides work, success and all the trappings.

  She finished her drink and sighed happily. Then she turned to go back inside and up to her room.

  She saw him in the lobby, talking to a suited man, and stopped short. Could she pass him without his seeing her? He was deep in conversation. Perhaps if she just sidled past … or perhaps she should turn smartly on her heel and go back to the courtyard, order another mojito and wait until the coast was clear.

  She dithered too long. He glanced up and saw her. He recognised her instantly and was similarly confused. How should he greet her? The last time they’d met, she’d been three-quarters cut and had been less than polite. Then his innate sense of decorum took over and he smiled at her, excused himself and walked over.

  ‘Mrs Pearson,’ Ferrera said. ‘What an unexpected pleasure. What are you doing in New York?’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Ferrera. I’m here on business. And I’m Tara Trevellyan now.’ She tried to hit just the right note between cool and courteous. She was embarrassed to remember the party. She couldn’t recall exactly what she’d said now, but she had the feeling she’d implied Ferrera was a less than upright businessman or something similarly rude. Whatever she’d said, she’d certainly embarrassed herself by being drunk. Well, she would have been a hell of a lot ruder if she’d known what she knew now – that he was in partnership with Jecca and very probably funding her lawsuit against the Trevellyan sisters.

  ‘Tara Trevellyan. It has a nice ring to it – I can see why your parents gave you the name.’ Ferrera smiled. He looked very handsome, his cool Ralph Lauren linen suit setting off his dark skin, brown eyes and slightly spiky hair. Don’t let him charm you, Tara told herself sternly. She should walk away right now, turn her back on him and leave. She despised him after all: he was a man who had treated his ex-wife appallingly, destroyed the integrity of the businesses he had acquired and, worst of all, was literally in bed with the woman who was trying to bring Trevellyan to its knees. But her good manners were so ingrained in her, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead she said coolly, ‘What are you doing here in the Grand?’

  ‘Business, of course. What else is there?’

  ‘Don’t you ever take any time off?’

  ‘Sometimes I do.’ Despite his healthy appearance, Ferrera suddenly looked tired. ‘Actually, I’m due a break round about now. I’ve been working non-stop for months, overseeing our European expansion. It’s worth it, of course. And I care so damn much about this company, I couldn’t bear to think of it not being the success it should be just because I fancied going surfing.’

  Tara felt sympathetic despite herself. She knew that feeling of bone-crunching exhaustion, when rest was not an option. ‘But everyone needs to recharge now and then or they risk breaking down completely. And then what good are they?’

  ‘That’s more of a British mindset than an American one. We like to press on, keep going, never stop.’

  ‘No wonder you all have cardiac arrests and nervous breakdowns at fifty,’ Tara said tartly.

  Ferrera laughed. ‘You remind me of your sister. And I mean that as a compliment.’

  Tara stared at him and then said slowly, ‘Which one? My sister Jemima, or the woman you’re sleeping with?’

  Ferrera’s smile faded slightly. A spark of anger filled his eyes.

  I’ve gone too far, Tara thought. What is it about this man that makes me so antagonistic? Then, to her surprise, he laughed again.

  ‘You don’t have any compunction about being rude to me, do you? It makes a refreshing change. Do you have plans for dinner?’

  ‘As it happens – yes.’

  ‘What a shame. I was hoping to talk to you. Are they too important to be changed?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. My television may be disappointed if I don’t go back and eat my salad with it,’ Tara said wryly. Then she remembered herself and became cool again. ‘But I don’t think it would be right to have dinner with you.’

  ‘Well, naturally, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of an arrangement as special as that. But I’d really like you to consider my offer. I realise there are difficulties between us but I think it would be to both our advantages if we were able to have a sober, civilised talk.’

  Tara flushed slightly at the word sober, hoping it wasn’t a dig at her tipsiness the night they had met. There was no denying that Ferrera was charming, and she liked the fact that he wasn’t trying to flirt with her. Should she turn down this chance to find out more about him and his methods? After all, if he was in league with Jecca to take over Trevellyan, it might be useful to understand a bit more about how he worked.

  Ferrera sensed her weakening. ‘Come on. Salad is salad. I know somewhere very good we can go.’ He saw that she was still hesitating. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking. I’m your rival, as far as you’re concerned. How about we declare tonight off the record?’

  Tara looked sceptical. ‘Mmm. I’ll believe that when I see it.’

  Ferrera laughed again. ‘All right, let’s just do our best, OK? We’re both too obsessed by business to avoid discussing it completely. But please – I really think it would be a good thing for us to talk.’

  Tara thought for a second. Her empty room and the television suddenly seemed a lot less appealing, and she knew she should seize the opportunity to learn a little more about Ferrera. ‘OK. I accept. Where did you have in mind?’

  Poppy’s mobile beeped and she picked it up. ‘Neave? Are you back?’

  ‘You’d better believe it! I’m back and I’ve got some exciting news. Wanna go out and celebrate?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now! Strike while the iron’s hot. Besides, there’s something else I want to talk to you about.’

  I need something to cheer me up, Poppy thought. Neave had been doing a good job of making her feel better. The loss of George – or whoever he was – was beginning to hurt her badly. It wasn’t just the pain of betrayal and the questions that ran endlessly through her head day and night, it was that she missed him, plain and simple. In the months they’d been together, she had come to love his company and to rely on it. He had assuaged the loneliness that had gripped her after she’d lost Tom and then her mother. Now it was back with a vengeance and the worst of it was that no one understood how she felt: her sisters hadn’t even met George and she couldn’t bring herself to tell them what he’d done to her.

  The scene with Jecca had only added to her depression. Tomorrow she’d have to pass on the so-called offer to Jemima and Tara but she could guess what they’d have to say to it.

  She put on a vintage white sundress, a Panama hat and Ray-Bans. Then she headed for Soho to meet Neave.

  They met in a private club. This one was not like Poppy’s arts club: dingy, a bit grubby and full of poets, artists and literary types. Neave’s club thronged with the beautiful people – actors, actresses, models – and their supporting cast: the agents, stylists, publicists, hairdressers, make-up artists and nutritionists, plus various best friends and hangers-on. Film producers were hunched over tables, making deals with financiers. Directors were schmoozing journalists, trying to interest them in their latest releases. Ad-men were looking for inspiration in bottles of fine wine and pla
tes of nachos. Editors of newspapers were cutting deals for tell-all stories with ex-wives of popstars, while grungy bands were hanging out, making constant trips to the smoking terrace, drinking too much and eating too little.

  ‘Oh my God, what a place,’ said Poppy, blinking. ‘I think I’ve led a very quiet life. This is much more the kind of club my sister Jemima goes to. In fact, I think I can see a couple of her exes over there.’

  Neave looked unimpressed by the well-known faces everywhere. ‘I much preferred your joint. This is way too showy and pretentious for my tastes. I mean, there are three different bars, two restaurants and a private cinema. My agent put me up for membership and they let me in right away, so here I am. At least it’s somewhere I can hang out and not get bothered.’

  Poppy was unconvinced. Even the bored, spaced-out boy band in the corner perked up when they saw Neave, nudging each other and whispering loudly. The model looked heartstoppingly gorgeous as usual in tiny cut-off denim shorts, a plain white T-shirt and flat Prada sandals.

  ‘I don’t usually do this ’cos frankly, I’ve had enough of the stuff to last me a lifetime but I’m going to order champagne. When you’re celebrating, it’s obligatory. But let’s have the pink stuff to liven it up a bit,’ Neave said, clapping her hands with glee. Poppy was touched by the innocent enthusiasm that was written all over her face. She was so beautiful and sophisticated-looking it was hard to remember that only a couple of years ago she had been a shop girl in Dublin living with her parents.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  ‘Let’s get our drinks and then I’ll tell you.’

  When the flutes of Dom Pérignon Rosé were sparkling in front of them, Neave picked hers up and said in a dramatic, but hushed voice, ‘You are lookin’ at the new Bond girl!’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Poppy. She gasped and stared at Neave, astonished.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Neave, and she burst into merry giggles. ‘But you have to keep it a secret. No one knows officially yet. It’s going to be announced at a big press conference next week. They’re going to dress me in the most stunning green frock I’ve ever seen!’