A Perfect Heritage (19 page)

Marjorie decided to call her but the phone rang for a long time without an answer. Well, she would try again and keep on trying. She wasn’t going to let her hide behind a cloak of company formality. Meanwhile she had to go to the hospital – where she sat by Terry’s bed, her eyes fixed on him, willing all the drips that were going into what seemed like a great many veins to do their work and destroy the hideous infection that was threatening his life now, as well as his leg.

‘Hello, Looby Loo,’ said Bertie, looking up from his
Times
crossword as Lucy walked in. That was his nickname for her; she didn’t particularly mind, but Priscilla hated it and he knew it, which encouraged him to use it more than he would have done. ‘How many millions of ladies did you serve today?’

‘No millions,’ said Lucy. ‘No tens even, and hardly any units.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes, and Marjorie wasn’t there: she’s not well, the manager said.’

‘Oh dear, poor Marjorie. So what plans do you have for the rest of the day?’

‘Working at the pub tonight. Really looking forward to it. Not.’

‘You’re a good girl,’ said Bertie. ‘Well, I’m off to cultivate my garden. Know about Candide?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Lucy, slightly impatiently. Honestly, just because she’d left uni everyone seemed to think she was a complete airhead. ‘Really, Dad!’

‘Sorry, sorry! Oh, there’s the phone. Damn. I hope it’s not Mummy wanting reinforcements for her jumble sale.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Lucy, ‘and tell her you’re not here.’

She came back into the room, smiling.

‘It was Grandy. She wanted to speak to you. I said I’d see if you were here and she said don’t be ridiculous, of course he’s there. Sorry, Daddy.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Bertie with a sigh. ‘God knows what she wants but it can’t be worse than the jumble sale.’

Chapter 19

‘I am absolutely appalled. And disappointed. I have to say I actually find it hard to believe and I’d like to hear your defence – if you have one.’

None was forthcoming.

A long silence, then,

‘I’m horrified at both of you but more particularly you, Emily. Carey has at least the excuse of perhaps being not quite familiar with the school’s extremely high standards. You on the other hand,’ the ice blue eyes seemed to bore into Milly’s, ‘have had the very great privilege of having been here for almost two years. I would have expected far better of you. I shall have to tell your parents, of course. And devise a suitable punishment for the pair of you. Now go back to your classroom and apologise to Miss Sutherland for your absence.’

Outside in the corridor, Milly blinked back her tears; she was very upset and terrified of what her parents would say to her. Carey looked at her and smiled, not entirely kindly.

‘Mills, it’s not the end of the world. Just a bit of, like, bunking off. We did it all the time in Paris.’

‘Well, we’re not in Paris, are we?’ said Milly. ‘We’re in London. And St Catherine’s is very tough about that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, why did you do it then? One of the others would have come with me. You were well excited when I first suggested it.’

‘I know, but . . .’ Milly bit her lip, Hard to explain that an idea mooted in the giggly darkness of a sleepover hadn’t seemed so cool or such fun when she was sneaking out of lunch break and following Carey at the three minute interval they had agreed – no, Carey had
instructed
– out of the gate of St Catherine’s, half hoping someone would ask her where she was going. On the bus, of course, bound for Westfield, adrenalin kicked in and she felt hugely excited and clever and then Carey grinned, removed her tie and undid several of her shirt buttons, and started applying make up.

‘Well, we did it,’ she said.

‘We did,’ said Milly, grinning back. They exchanged a high five.

It was the perfect afternoon to choose – half the class did painting, the other half sculpture, followed by choir practice, which was not compulsory; girls not choosing it moving to the library for private study.

Milly had been a little sorry about missing choir practice because she loved singing and was a leading member of the middle school choir, but Carey had told her witheringly if she thought warbling away under the baton of Mrs Wharton could be even compared with doing Westfield she’d better go and warble. And of course, she did surrender entirely to Westfield’s vaulted splendours, and with two tops from TK Maxx, a new pair of Converse trainers, and some fake eyelashes, all hidden under her geography file, she walked into the house a little late, having first called Sonia to say she’d missed her bus, feeling very cool indeed. It was the first time she’d done anything seriously naughty and it was, she discovered, quite a heady drug.

Unfortunately, she was not to know that Mrs Wharton had decided to audition the more promising girls for solos at the end-of-term concert and finding, to her surprise, that Milly was not at choir practice, had sent someone to fetch her from the library . . .

Bianca, arriving back in her office from a not entirely happy meeting with the Porter Bingham people, was informed by Jemima that Lady Farrell was expecting her in her office.

‘She was very agitated about something.’

‘Happily agitated?’

‘I would say quite
un
happily,’ said Jemima.

‘Have you any idea what you’ve done?’

‘I’m sorry, Lady Farrell, you’ll have to tell me. Obviously if it’s something unfortunate—’

‘Unfortunate! I would say a great deal more than that. I feel thoroughly ashamed, on behalf of the company, and indeed of my family, since Bertie is also involved. I cannot believe you can have acted in so high-handed a way but then, I suppose it’s only to be expected, balance sheets being the only thing you care about, rather than people and their lives, however difficult.’

‘Lady Farrell, please tell me what your concerns are.’

‘My concerns, or rather my
concern
, is about Marjorie Dawson. Marjorie’s husband is at this very moment facing life threatening surgery. She was informed of this on Saturday morning – just as your letter arrived.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ This was quite serious. She could see that. On the other hand, she could hardly have known. ‘Well, I am so so sorry, but—’

‘The shock of receiving the letter might have been ameliorated had it been accompanied, as my son intended, by a personal note he had written. At least he still understands the importance of human relations. Rather than human resources, which is the ridiculous term extended to the new department you have set up. He was as appalled as I was that the note was not included in his letter.’

‘I see.’ Jemima had told her that Bertie had also wanted to see her that morning, but she was already in the taxi on her way to Porter Bingham. ‘Well, I am very sorry, but please tell me, what surgery is Marjorie’s husband undergoing? Do we have any news?’

‘Not yet. He is having a leg amputated.’

‘Oh, no!’ Bianca was genuinely shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘A little late for such regret. In addition, he has a very serious general infection and is quite possibly unlikely to survive the shock of the surgery. A terrible situation for any wife, but to have received this brutal dismissal from her employers of many years in the same morning – unbearable. I hope now you can see what harm you have done.’

‘I – I can only apologise for what is clearly a very unfortunate coincidence,’ said Bianca, ‘but—’

‘An unfortunate coincidence! Is that all you have to say?’

‘Well, yes. I am extremely sympathetic – it must be dreadful for Mrs Dawson – but I had no idea this extra letter existed, from Ber— Mr Farrell; how could I have done?’

‘In that case,’ said Athina, ‘I have nothing more to say to you. The secretary must be dismissed. Shocking carelessness. I’ve told my son that already.’

‘Of course she can’t be dismissed! It was a genuine mistake, Lady Farrell. And I do accept responsibility for telling her to send out the letters. For which, again, I apologise.’

‘Mrs Bailey . . .’ Athina rose to her feet. ‘Please leave me. I have things to do. And I plan to drive down and see poor Marjorie this afternoon. I do assure you that in future you will have a great deal of trouble enlisting my help with anything whatsoever you may wish to do with this company. Your methods appal me. I would far rather the House of Farrell had not survived than come under your control.’

Bianca turned and walked out of the room.

Mr Stevenson had told her it would be at least three hours, possibly longer, before he could give her any significant news; she knew what significant meant, even though her mind turned away from it. She did indeed go for a walk as he suggested, although where she could not afterwards have told you; and then returned to the hospital, and went up to the ward. Terry wasn’t there, of course, and they suggested she went to the coffee shop and had a nice drink. She wondered why all such conversations had to be so banal; she supposed it was an attempt to lessen the horror.

She was on her third cup of vile coffee when she heard an imperious female voice calling her name across the café. It was Athina Farrell.

‘You look terrible.’ Lara’s slightly husky voice cut into Bertie’s silent self-flagellation. He had had forty-eight hours of complete hell, taking in two attacks by his mother, a dressing down from his wife: ‘Well, I knew it was a mistake, that job, just not the sort of thing you should be doing . . .’ and this morning the news that Terry Dawson was undergoing surgery. Bertie had tried to work, but lunchtime had found him unable even to decide whether he wanted to see the prospective candidates for a marketing assistant vacancy in his office or in Lara’s that afternoon.

It was for this reason that Lara had come to find him; she was sorry to bother him, she said, but she needed to know. ‘Just so I can sort out a few things before they arrive.’

He tried to smile at her, said he thought her office would be better.

‘It’s tidier for a start.’

‘Fine. Well, I’ll tell reception.’ She looked at him, her intense blue eyes thoughtful. ‘Do we need to discuss anything first?’

‘What? Oh – no, no, I don’t think so. Sorry.’

That was when she suggested they went out and had a sandwich together.

‘You clearly need to get out of the office.’

She was looking particularly dazzling in a coral linen jacket and white skirt and her eyes on him seemed even more fiercely blue than usual. Bertie, surprised to be able to absorb such information, said perhaps it would but . . .

‘There aren’t any buts,’ said Lara, ‘and I don’t want you sitting in our meeting with your stomach rumbling. Come on, we’ll go to Pret.’

But seated obediently at a table in Pret A Manger he said he didn’t really think he could eat anything, just a coffee. He’d hardly swallowed anything since Saturday afternoon.

‘Course you can,’ she said, and went and brought a tray bearing mineral water, a carton of green salad which she said they could share, and sandwiches, and it did look rather appetising. He fumbled for his wallet; she waved it away.

‘Don’t be silly. Now, want to tell me what the matter is?’

Her directness was one of the things Bertie most liked about her.

‘Come on, Bertie,’ said Lara, ‘spit it out.’

Bertie managed to spit it.

‘I think I will go up to the ward.’ Athina’s voice was at its most unarguable. ‘They’ll give me the information, I’m sure. You have to be firm with these people, otherwise they treat you like complete idiots.’

Marjorie felt a new panic, overriding the agony she was already experiencing. She was fond of Lady Farrell and deeply touched that she had driven all the way to Guildford to see her, but she was finding her presence almost unbearable, with its determination both to distract her and to persuade her that the letter she had received from Bertie had nothing whatsoever to do with her. However, since no power on God’s earth could hold Lady Farrell from a course she had set herself on, there was clearly no point in arguing with her.

‘Now listen, Bertie,’ Lara had finished her lunch and was looking at Bertie with a mixture of exasperation and concern, ‘you really cannot blame yourself for what’s happened. It was an unfortunate coincidence, and of all the people involved, you are the least guilty.’

‘Really?’ said Bertie, his tone slightly hopeful.

‘Well yes. You’d taken the trouble to write the card; you’d put the note to Trina on it. Trina should have checked your desk when you’d gone, to make sure that there wasn’t anything important – but then, finding a needle in a haystack would be a doddle, given the state of your desk. It was a little high-handed of Bianca to offer to pp the letters but again, she was acting for the best. Perhaps Trina shouldn’t have agreed to it, but if the CEO makes a suggestion, you don’t usually argue with it. The one person who comes out of this completely blameless is you.

‘You’re feeling bad, of course you are, and poor Mrs Dawson is having a hideous time, but you know what? If my husband was having a leg amputated, redundancy would come way down my list of priorities. The thought of facing anything so hideous, and a life sentence of dealing with it, and knowing the poor chap was going to be feeling totally emasculated as well as ill and in pain – God, what’s a little thing like redundancy? She can get another job. He can’t get another leg. Please, Bertie, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. Well, not exactly, but well . . .’ She hesitated, then went briskly on, ‘I found out my husband was cheating on me the same week as I got a new, rather good job. Which do you think took priority in my emotions?’

‘I – I – well, I suppose the – the cheating,’ said Bertie.

‘Of course it did. Bertie, you’re only so upset because you are such an over-conscientious, kind person. Most HR directors in your position would have shrugged, possibly sent Mrs Dawson some flowers—’

‘Oh, God! Do you think I should have done that?’ said Bertie, his voice rising in anguish. ‘I didn’t think of it.’

‘Of course you didn’t. It would be sort of saying “sorry about that, but here are some flowers to make you feel better”. Crass. I’m just saying it’s what they’d probably do. Nothing on earth can help that poor woman at the moment, certainly not an overpriced offering from a florist. So please,
please
stop the self-flagellation. You’re doing this job really well but you’ve got to grow a bit of a tough skin. To protect yourself from your mother, just for starters. She is something else. Oh! Sorry, Bertie, I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry.’

‘No,’ said Bertie, and he actually smiled now, for the first time, ‘no, you should. All of it. You have made me feel better. Put it into perspective a bit. Maybe it wasn’t entirely my fault.’

Lara smiled. ‘Now – I’ve got another idea. It’s still only half past one, first applicant not arriving till half past two. I think a quick visit to the pub, drop of Dutch courage. Don’t look like that, Bertie! I’m talking about half of lager, not two double Scotches. Come on. And stay away from anyone holding a glass of red wine!’

‘Don’t cry, please. That isn’t going to do any good, is it? Now come on, sit down and let’s talk. It’s so unlike you and I want to know why – and how – did it happen? Was it your idea?’

‘No!’

‘Carey’s?’

She hesitated; then, ‘Yes. But I did agree,’ she added, clearly anxious not to be seen as a sneak.

‘Why?’

‘Because – because—’

‘What Carey says goes?’

‘No! No, really.’ She sounded defensive.

‘All right. Why then? Because it seemed exciting?’ Patrick’s eyes on her were thoughtful.

‘Yes. Yes, I s’pose so. It was exciting.’

‘What, wandering round Westfield? You do it often enough.’

‘Yes, but not when it’s not allowed. You don’t understand, I’m always so good! I mean—’

‘I do understand Milly. I was only teasing you. And you are always so good, you’re right. You do your homework, you get good marks, you pass all your exams, practise your music. Too good to be true, aren’t you?’