A Perfect Heritage (50 page)

‘I’m so sorry, Bianca, but it’s – well, it’s Saul Finlayson. He says he has to talk to you right now, that it’s really, really urgent. I’m so sorry.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Bianca. She was struggling to look cool, Lara thought: interesting. ‘I’ll – I’ll take it in there.’

Jemima followed her out of the room, closing the door with an apologetic smile to everyone. They all tried to appear not to be listening but it was difficult, because Bianca’s voice was getting increasingly loud, saying, ‘What? Oh what? I don’t – you can’t – Oh. My. God! That is just so incredibly amazing! Yes. Yes, of course. Yes. Fantastic! Just – just hold on a minute, would you?’

And she appeared back in her own office, flushed and brilliant-eyed and clearly near to tears.

‘We’ve found our Revlon,’ she said, her voice shaking slightly, ‘resident in Singapore. Wants to open a Farrell shop like yesterday – well, on June 1st of course. Just try and stop us now!’

Susie was horribly aware of not having been very impressive at the meeting; she was so terrified about the imminent meeting with Henk and what she was going to do about it, not just this evening but longer term, that she could hardly have told Bianca her name, never mind come up with some brilliant idea. She simply couldn’t go on with this; it was too much for her to handle and she found it difficult to think of anything else. More than once she’d seen Bianca looking at her with a particular expression of hers, a kind of watchful impatience that everyone was afraid of, far more than open criticism. She knew she already wasn’t performing up to standard, and it could only get worse as time went on.

She had suggested a wine bar midway between Farrell’s and Jemima’s college to Henk, which he agreed to and Jemima had promised to be there within ten minutes of getting an SOS. Just the same, she got ready in a state approaching terror, and when Bianca’s face appeared behind her in the mirror of the ladies’, she started shaking and had to make an excuse to rush out of the room.

Henk was late; over half an hour, and she was just about to give up on him when he finally appeared, looking rather sheepish, saying he was sorry, he’d been held up.

‘You could have called me,’ she said almost crossly, and then remembered she wasn’t dealing with someone in a normal state of mind, and apologised.

‘It’s OK. You got a drink?’

‘Yes thank you.’

He looked at her spritzer, then said, ‘Shall I get a bottle of the house white?’

God, Susie thought, he was clearly envisaging a long evening.

‘I – that sounds rather a lot. I’m not supposed to be drinking at all, I’m on antibiotics.’

He shrugged. ‘OK. I’ll just get a beer.’

When he sat down next to her he said, ‘Good day?’

‘Yes, thanks. Yours?’

‘Lousy. Susie, let’s not play games, it’s too important. I told you how bad I was feeling.’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. Henk, did you think about what I suggested, you know, about – about seeing someone? Someone professional who could—’

‘Not really. I just don’t see the point. Only one thing’s going to make me feel better and that’s being with you again. I
told
you.’

‘Yes, but Henk, you’ve just got to – got to—’ Go on Susie, say it, ‘Got to understand that – well, that isn’t going to – to happen.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t understand. It
has
to happen, Susie, we were so good together and I don’t see the problem. You’re not with anyone else now and . . .’

Susie suddenly felt she was going to scream. This was
Groundhog Day
, playing for real, the conversation going round and round in the same setting, even to the half-drunk white wine spritzer on the table in front of them. Was she ever going to get away? Was she going to have to spend the rest of her life in a wine bar with Henk?

‘Excuse me,’ she said, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking, ‘I just need to go to the loo.’ And sat there, crying frantically, texting Jemima:
Please please come, please as soon as you can.

Poor Jemima, she thought, trying to clean off the streams of mascara – how come tears made it dissolve so easily and tap water didn’t? – she was probably in the middle of a lecture. But she had promised . . .

It took her quite a long time to calm down, to get back in control, and when she finally got back to Henk he was staring moodily across the room.

‘You took your time,’ he said. ‘Trying to get away from me, are you?’

‘No, Henk, of course not. I’m sorry.’

‘OK. So, what are we going to do? Stay here, find something to eat?’

‘I – well, I can’t be—’

‘Can’t be what? Don’t tell me you’ve got some important meeting to go to, Susie, it’s getting a bit monotonous. We need time together, to sort things out, to get to know each other again. Come on!’

The panic was rising again; she felt sick, shaky, sat staring at him, trying desperately to think of what to say.

‘Babe! Hello? I’m here. Come on, what shall it be, stay here a bit longer, maybe they do food.’

‘I – I’m not—’ Not hungry she was going to say, while hopelessly aware that it was no excuse at all, certainly wouldn’t satisfy him. Then . . .

‘Susie! Oh my God, it’s so great to see you. How are you?’

Jemima! Lovely, lovely Jemima, standing in front of them, smiling at them. She could have hugged her – and actually did. Picking up on Jemima’s script, she stood up, hurled her arms round her, said, ‘What a coincidence! You look amazing! How are you?’

‘I’m good, thanks. Working at the same old thing, medical secretary.’

That was clever, Susie thought, giving her background.

‘And you? How’s the PR business going? Bit more interesting than hearing about people’s bones – was I working for the orthopaedic surgeon last time we met?’

‘No, I think whoever it was then was in stomachs,’ said Susie, and then giggled, partly with relief, partly at her own turn of phrase.

Jemima smiled back, then said to Henk, ‘I’m so sorry, you must think I’m terribly rude, but I just had to say hello to Susie, we haven’t met for yonks – must be three years, Susie, yes?’

‘At least. Henk, this is Jemima, Jemima Pendleton. Jemima, Henk Martin.’

‘Hi, Henk. I do hope I’m not ruining your nice quiet evening – I know how annoying that could be.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, managing to smile, clearly with a great effort. ‘You go ahead. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No, thank you, I’ve probably had one too many already. Husband’s away on business and I’m out on the razz with another girlfriend – well you know – actually just going home.’

‘Well, we’re about to go and have a meal,’ said Henk, ‘so—’

‘A meal!’ said Jemima, smiling at him ecstatically. ‘Oh my goodness, now that does sound tempting. Soak up some of this alcohol. But are you sure? I don’t want to gatecrash?’

God, she was a good actresss, Lucy thought. She had got it to perfection, her role, and how clever to choose the thick-skinned friend, misunderstanding, imposing herself where she was so clearly not welcome.

‘No, that wasn’t what—’ But Henk stopped, floored by the impossibility of not sounding rude, and looking at Susie for a possible escape.

And she, aware that she must tread carefully, not overplay the situation, said ‘Well, the thing is, Jemima, we’ve got a lot to talk about, me and Henk, and—’

‘Well, look, why don’t I just have a starter or something and then leave you to it. But it would be so nice to have just half an hour catch-up, Susie. Gosh, what a bit of luck spotting you! So, Henk, what do you do? It must be something creative if you know Susie. Let me guess, something creative – you have such a creative aura! I know, advertising. I can just see you dreaming up some wonderful campaign!’

‘No,’ said Henk, scowling at her. He was getting really pissed off, Susie could see.

‘OK. So what?’

‘I’m a photographer,’ he said.

‘A photographer! Oh, how exciting! What, fashion photos for
Vogue
and
Tatler
, that sort of thing? Or do you do celebrity pictures, people like George Clooney and David Beckham? Anyway, you can tell me about it over our meal. Where should we go? Do you fancy Greek or Italian or Indian, maybe?’

‘Look,’ said Henk, ‘count me out.’ He was looking really angry now, glaring at Jemima, avoiding Susie’s eyes. ‘You two go off and enjoy yourselves. I’ve got work to do.’

‘Oh, now I feel really terrible. Look, you two go off. Maybe you could both come round to mine one evening later in the week? That’d be fun and I could get to know you, Henk. In fact, how about tomorrow?’

‘No, no, much better this way. I’ll see you tomorrow, Susie. Call me first thing to fix something, OK? Without fail.’ It was a menacing phrase. ‘Nice to have met you,’ he said to Jemima, pulling on his coat, ‘enjoy your meal.’

And he was gone, without even kissing Susie goodbye. She looked after him, panic-stricken. ‘Jemima, that was a bit much. Poor Henk! He’s in such a state! Maybe I should follow him?’

‘Susie,’ said Jemima, ‘Henk is
not
in a state. He’s fine, sane as you and me.’

‘How do you know, how can you tell?’

‘Because I’ve been watching him. I got here before you texted, just in time to see you go to the loo. I stood in the doorway, watching him. Honestly Susie, the minute you’d turned your back, he looked round, then got out his phone, called someone up, started laughing and chatting, totally OK. I couldn’t hear anything he said, of course, except I could see at one stage he was kissing into the phone. You were ages and he went on and on, chatting away, nodding, looked at his watch, nodded again – he was having a really nice time. Then as the loo door opened he said something very brief, switched off his phone, pushed it into his pocket, slumped down in his seat, and went all moody-looking. He’s a bastard, Susie, a good old-fashioned bastard. He’s playing games with you, and I think you should have a really serious check on him. Like go to the studio where he works, something like that—’

‘Jemima, I couldn’t!’

‘But I actually don’t think it’s necessary. I’m one hundred per cent convinced he’s just leading you on, and it’s just outrageous and so cruel. Do you have the numbers of any of his friends?’

‘Well – yes.’

‘OK, call one of them up and say you’re really worried about him, he seems so miserable or something like that.’

‘I – I don’t know,’ said Susie. ‘I’d feel dreadful if they said yes, that they were worried too . . .’

‘Well, I will then,’ said Jemima impatiently. ‘If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, switching from fun guy to depressive in the course of a nanosecond, I wouldn’t be so confident. But I am, totally. He’s a very good actor, Susie, that’s all – well, apart from being devious and sadistic and all kinds of other nice things.’

‘You’re not so bad at acting yourself,’ said Susie. She was beginning to believe Jemima, to feel a relief so intense she felt almost physically lighter, rather silly even. She giggled. ‘I was beginning to find you quite irritating myself!’

‘Yes, well, I was quite good at acting at school,’ said Jemima modestly. ‘Even played Juliet. OK, so how are you feeling now? Still want to go after him?’

‘No way!’ said Susie. ‘Tell you what, I think we should actually go off and have a meal and lots to drink, and talk about your creative aura. How about that?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Jemima. ‘God, Susie, you look so different already.’

‘I feel it,’ said Susie, smiling at her. ‘Totally different. Although a bit scared still. I hope to God you’re not wrong.’

‘I’m not wrong,’ said Jemima, ‘and I don’t often say that. Come on, let’s go. I’m starving.’

‘You know what?’ said Susie. ‘So am I. For the first time in weeks.’

Chapter 45

‘I wondered if I could buy you a drink this evening. If you’re free . . .’

‘What for?’

It was not the most enthusiastic response to an invitation. Clearly she’d read more into that hug than she should have done. She’d thought he was – well, becoming human. Not making a pass, obviously, as if, and how awful that would be – well, it would . . .

‘Well, to say thank you,’ she said. ‘And I’d like to hear a bit more about this person you’ve found. It is so kind of you.’

‘It really wasn’t at all kind. I just mentioned you to someone. He thought it was a good proposition. He wouldn’t have offered otherwise. I certainly didn’t go looking for him. Or indeed anyone else.’

‘Yes, I see . . . well, I’m very grateful, however it happened. Whether it was kind or not. So I’d like to – and tell you where we’ve got. With the campaign and so on.’

‘That would be interesting. But it would have to be another time. I’m busy this evening.’

‘Oh.’ She really hadn’t expected that, had somehow thought he was always free, on his own, apart from his phone and its demands. ‘I see. Right. And – are you doing something nice?’

‘Not particularly.’

She gave up.

‘OK. Well, another evening then.’

‘Yes. When your husband is back, perhaps the three of us. I think that would be best.’

Talk about a put-down! Did he really think she was trying to make a move on him?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, into the silence. ‘That sounded rude. I didn’t mean it to.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘Anyway, I don’t drink.’

This was so ridiculous she laughed aloud.

‘Why is that so funny?’

‘Well, because – because it’s such a stupid excuse. Buying someone a drink has nothing to do with alcohol. It’s a social gesture.’

‘I don’t really go along with social gestures,’ he said, ‘as you know.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, I do. OK, I won’t make any more. Not to you anyway. Have a nice evening, whatever it involves.’

‘It won’t be nice,’ he said. ‘I have to go and see my ex-wife. She wants to talk to me. I have no idea why. It might be about Dickon.’

‘I see. Well, it might be nicer than you think. I hope so. Meanwhile I have to go home and get on with my project.’

‘What, the campaign?’

‘No. Georgian architecture. It’s for Ruby,’ she added, into the silence.

‘Ah. A school project?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I quite like those,’ he said, ‘I’d like to do more. But my wife does most of them. Although she did allow me to get involved in one recently. It was about astronomy. I’m quite interested in that. It puts us in our place, I always think.’

‘Indeed. Well, goodbye. Hope it’s OK.’

‘Thank you.’

And so she went home, had a brief chat with Sonia, waved at Fergie who was in position in front of the games console and acknowledged her with a vague nod, tapped nervously on Milly’s door, then put her head round it.

‘Hi, darling.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

She was usually Mum now, not Mummy. Milly was cool, no longer actually hostile, but not the Milly she knew. She seemed to have grown five years older and made her feel awkward, nervous even. Which was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

‘Lucy Farrell called me today,’ she said. ‘Have you spoken to her?’

‘Not – not really.’

‘Ah. Well, she’s had an idea, Milly. Do you want to hear about it? It concerns you, partly.’

‘Me!’

‘Yes. Although actually I think it would be better if she explained it. Why don’t you call her? She’s expecting to hear from you.’

‘Really? I do like her, you know. She’s so nice.’

‘She’s extraordinarily nice,’ said Bianca. ‘Do you have her number?’

‘Yes. She put it in my phone that day.’ It wasn’t necessary to spell out which day.

‘Well, give her a call. Or text her. I’ll be interested to hear what you think about her idea. You don’t have to tell me, of course,’ she added hastily.

‘OK. I’ll text her.’

‘Well, I’m off to get to work on Ruby’s project.’

‘Oh, yes, Georgian architecture, isn’t it? Good luck!’

She retreated, went down to the kitchen where Ruby was having her supper with Karen.

‘Ready when you are, Ruby.’

‘OK. Mummy, when can I have a mobile? Lots of my friends are getting them.’

‘Are they? Well—’

‘Don’t say you’ll see. That just means no. I’d rather you said not for a year. Or five years. Or ten.’

God. Even Ruby was getting stroppy now! And later, when she was ensconsed with John Wood the Younger in Bath, Ruby read the latest Jacqueline Wilson, and occasionally looked up at what was on the computer screen and said in a kindly tone, ‘That’s great, Mummy.’ Bianca didn’t remonstrate with her; it didn’t seem worth it because the project was getting done and, right now, that was what mattered.

After an hour Ruby went up to have her bath and Bianca sat on the edge of the bath, laughed at a couple of Ruby’s jokes – she loved jokes, said she wanted to be a stand-up – and then offered to read her a story.

‘No, it’s all right, Mummy.’ She waved the Tracy Beaker book. ‘This doesn’t really go with being read aloud. But thank you,’ she added, dutifully polite.

Bianca felt very thoroughly dismissed. And there had been no sign of Milly. Well, Lucy was probably out. Or working.

‘OK. Well, I’ll be up in half an hour to say goodnight.’

She went back downstairs, poured a very large glass of wine, cut herself a slab of cheese, and went to her computer. Somehow, Georgian architecture wasn’t quite distracting enough and almost against her will she went back to the rough visuals Tod had shown her and immediately felt better. That was the thing about work: it didn’t fail you and it more or less progressed, if not predictably, controllably. Not like relationships with men or children.

She and Florence were going to Milan in two days’ time to look at areas that might be suitable for shops and she was just embarking on finding them on screen when there was a ring on the bell. She frowned. Too late for Milly’s friends, and it wouldn’t be anyone from work . . .

It was Saul. He stood and looked at her, his face shocked and tense.

‘Hi,’ she said struggling to sound unsurprised and normal. ‘Everything all right?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s all right. My wife’s moving to Australia. Getting married again. And she wants to take Dickon with her. Can I – can I come in?’

Florence was packing for the trip with Bianca – which she was looking forward to enormously – when she realised she wasn’t feeling very well. Her throat was sore, and the cough, which at supper had been irritating and tickly, seemed to be sinking into her lungs, causing a rough, rasping pain. She frowned. How terrible if she was about to be ill; she had only been to Milan once and that only for an uneasy twenty-four hours with Cornelius during the period of Athina’s illness. Bianca’s company, she now knew, was fun, curious and generous.

Well, she had forty-eight hours. She could go to the doctor in the morning and get some antibiotics and knock whatever bug she had on the head; meanwhile, it was probably sensible to go to bed instead of folding up underwear in tissue paper and checking on the contents of her sponge bag. She got ready for bed, made herself a hot toddy – Cornelius had sworn by the medical virtues of the hot toddy, and passed his enthusiasm on to her – and took herself and the
Telegraph
crossword to bed.

She fell asleep with the light on and two hours later woke, feeling worse, feverish, and disoriented; scarcely aware of what she was doing, she pulled from her bedside table drawer, where she normally kept it, safe from prying eyes, the framed snapshot of herself and Cornelius, arm in arm in front of their courtyard, smiling at the obliging stranger who had taken it, and lay looking at it, reliving that magical, most wonderful of all the days that over the years they had shared.

‘I – don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.’ Bianca was genuinely shocked by the raw grief Saul was displaying. It was as if Dickon had been diagnosed with some terrible illness rather than moving to somewhere which, distant as it might be, was hardly inaccessible, especially to someone of Saul’s huge wealth. And then immediately chided herself for thinking in so simplistic a way: how would she feel if Patrick moved to Australia, taking the children with him, away from her, changing month by month into people she would have to struggle to know and understand, leading and learning a way of life she had no concept of?

‘It’s just totally wrong,’ he said, not for the first time. ‘She has no right to do it. To take him away from me. He’s mine. He’s all I have. She can’t think she has any right to do this. She’ll have a new husband, other children possibly – how can she expose Dickon to that? To having to share her with some half-sister or -brother, who will take all her time and attention?’

‘Saul, most children have to learn that. It – well, it can be quite good for them.’

He turned on her, half angry. ‘You don’t understand. Dickon has always had our entire attention, all his life. That’s what gives him his security, makes up, as I see it, for the other losses in his life. And these will not be his siblings, they will be children of another man, who is not me, not his father.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And that’s another thing. He’s old enough, or about to be, to be able to think, to understand what’s going on between his mother and this – this person.’ His tone implied Dickon’s putative stepfather was some kind of inferior being. ‘Nine is a delicate age, on the cusp of puberty.’

She felt, even in her sympathy, astonished. Not so much at what he was saying, as that he was saying it at all: Saul, so conversationally dysfunctional, so emotionally stilted.

‘I won’t let her. I have to stop her. I’ve spoken to my lawyer, of course. I have to call him back shortly. In ten minutes.’

Bianca looked at her watch: at nine thirty? Yes. Of course at nine thirty – at two in the morning if he so wished. That was what powerful people could do. Did. But could the most astute, the most skilful legal strategist in the world stop Janey Finlayson – who after all had joint custody – from taking her son away to live with her, in what could well seem to the judge a more satisfactory household, a family with the possibility of more children? While the alternative was not a family, but a lone father, famously solitary – and an opposing lawyer would make much of this – working impossible hours, often out of the country? It would be at best a hideously bitter battle, at worst one that Saul would lose.

She felt a savage wave of sympathy, not for Saul but for Dickon, so gentle a child, so devoted to his father. ‘My dad says . . .’ prefaced many of his utterances, interspersed with, ‘I can’t wait to tell my dad!’

Of course his dad was the treat person, with offerings from some magical kingdom: horses, private aeroplanes, fast cars, an obsession with making and keeping Dickon happy. It was a dangerous mix. And yet Dickon was not a greedy child and Saul did not over-endow him. He and Dickon enjoyed the most ordinary of pleasures, went fishing, dinghy sailing, watched the school cricket team, all of which he loved; yes, Saul took him skiing, and deep-sea fishing and to Disneyland, but so did a thousand, a million fathers, and he was strict about manners and obedience and even modesty. Bianca had never heard Dickon say, as he could and with truth, that his dad had a dozen racehorses or a Maserati or that they’d been to New York for the weekend. Clearly, that was partly his mother’s influence but she knew, had seen for herself, it was Saul’s too.

‘What do you think?’ he was saying now, looking at her with his intense green eyes. ‘Do you think she has a right to do this, do you think she can?’

‘Saul, I don’t know. I’d love to come out with lots of comforting platitudes, but it would be terribly wrong of me. What I do know is that I feel desperately sorry and sad for you. I really do.’

‘He’s all I’ve got, you see,’ he said again, ‘the only thing I’ve ever really loved.’

That was interesting, that word: ‘thing’. A lawyer would make much of it, implying that Dickon was merely another of Saul’s possessions, but she knew what he meant. Which was that Dickon was the centre of his world, his universe, of an inifinite concern, object of a passionate, desperate love. And she found herself saying, yes she knew that (without actually knowing it at all, for what knowledge did she have of Saul’s private life, of his feelings, of his women, his friends?). Presumably he had loved Janey once, had desired her, had decided he should share his life with her. And others too: had he really never had anyone else? Was his life really bounded by Dickon and his work? Patrick thought so; and so, she knew, did Jonjo; but did they really know, did they understand him, and his ferociously complex psyche? But nor did she, she reminded herself slightly nervously; don’t fall into that trap, Bianca, of thinking you’re close to him, this is dangerous territory you’re in.

‘What did you say to Janey?’

He stared at her. ‘I told her it was out of the question, of course. That she had no right to do it and that she would be stopped. And that she would be hearing from my lawyers.’

Guaranteed to gain Janey’s cooperation and sympathy, then.

‘What would you expect me to say? That we should discuss it, try to find some way round it?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ said Bianca.

‘I wonder if you grasp this at all,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘I thought you’d understand, realise that kind of attitude was totally pointless. Anyway, it’s nine thirty, I have to phone my lawyer, if you’ll excuse me. But perhaps I should leave now.’

‘Saul, don’t be ridiculous. Call him from here, it’s fine. I’ll go and make some coffee, I’ll be in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, all right,’ he said, not looking at her as he dialled the number.

She put the coffee on, had another small glass of wine – she longed for more, but if ever there was an occasion requiring a clear head it was this one, and for want of anything better to do, returned to Georgian Bath. Her own phone rang; it was Patrick.

‘Darling, hello. Everything all right?’

‘Yes, fine thanks.’