A Perfect Heritage (62 page)

‘Yes, we were. Sorry.’

They weren’t in the nice wine bar. However hard he looked, even venturing into the toilets, waiting for someone to come out of the ladies’, they weren’t there. Or rather
she
wasn’t there. Fuck fuck fuck! He’d lost her. Maybe the other wine bar was where they’d gone. He ran out into the street again, past Farrell House and on. Susie, Susie, I can’t lose you now . . .

The wine bar was empty. Shit. This was awful. Of course he could phone her, but he knew, he totally knew, that the time was now. Now would work, now contained her, in all her sexy, gorgeous rightness; later he’d have time to think, she’d have time to think. Minds might be changed, courage might fail, common sense prevail . . .

‘Jonjo, what the fuck are you doing?’ Pippa was on the pavement looking for him, pink with anger. ‘How could you be so rude? Bianca’s waiting and they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to give you a nice birthday, and you just run away. Without a word.’

‘Sorry.’ He raised his hands. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. I just – well, doesn’t matter.’

‘You being filthy fucking rude matters. I’m so ashamed of you. Now will you please come back, apologise to Bianca and let’s try to have a nice evening. You’re very lucky Bianca hasn’t just gone home.’

‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Come on then.’

They walked back into Farrell House; Bianca was looking amused.

‘It’s OK, Jonjo. Honestly. These things happen. But let’s cut the drink and go straight to the Orrery, shall we?’

‘Sure. That sounds great.’ It sounded awful.

There was a pause; then Bianca said, her face not entirely innocent, ‘Susie came back, by the way. If it was her you were looking for?’

‘She came back?’

‘Yes. About two minutes ago. They’ll be in her office. You could—’

‘Jonjo! I can’t believe this. Where are you going?’

Bianca put her hand on Pippa’s arm. ‘It’s OK. It’s very, very important.’

Susie and Tod had their back to the door when Jonjo reached the office, looking at some roughs she had tacked on to her board.

Jonjo stood there, staring at her, at the fall of streaky blond hair, the slender figure that still managed to contain a very sexy bum, the seriously excellent legs, the superbly sexy high heels and didn’t say anything, just stood there, drinking her in. Then he said, ‘Susie?’

And she spun round, her eyes huge and round and shocked, and said ‘What?’ really not very warmly at all. Jonjo took a deep breath, and spoke across the vast distance that seemed to separate them. Saying what had to be said, quickly, before it was too late. Before he lost her again. This was no time for small talk.

‘Susie, listen to me. Please, please listen to me. I – well, I’ve missed you.
Really
missed you. In fact I – well, I think I might love you. Something like that anyway. Oh, and the girl downstairs is my sister; her husband’s babysitting which is why she’s coming out with us. Ask Bianca if you don’t believe me. Please, Susie, can we just – just be together again? Please?’

And it was indeed the right time, the right moment, and he knew he had judged it perfectly, and he had caught it, and made a lot more than a billion. Deal done. For Susie stood very still just for a moment and then took one step forward and then another, and then half ran across the room and hurled herself at him and put her arms round his neck, and kissed his face over and over again, laughing and crying at the same time and not saying anything at all.

And Tod Marchant looked at them and then grinned and picked up his things and walked out, patting Jonjo lightly on the arm as he went.

‘I’ll leave you to it, mate. Never liked playing gooseberry. I’ll call you tomorrow, Suze.’

And Jonjo said, ‘Thanks, mate, cheers.’ And then returned to the rather more important task of kissing Susie, and then suddenly pulled away from her and pulled out his phone and said, ‘Sorry, Susie, but I have to do this, I’ve been quite rude enough already. How would you like to make up a fivesome for the evening? I’m sure Bianca would agree.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Susie. ‘It sounds wonderful.’

Chapter 52

Bianca faced Mike and Hugh across the boardroom table.

‘Listen. Both of you. Could I please have just a few extra days? Something – well, something extraordinary’s come up and I might have found a solution.’

‘What sort of solution?’

‘I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.’

‘Bianca,’ said Mike and his face was grimmer than Bianca had ever seen it, ‘if you think we’re going to risk hundreds of thousands of pounds, which is what it costs to keep that company going for a few days, without your giving us a sound economic reason, rather than some secretive twaddle that is frankly unworthy of you, we’ll know for sure what we’ve suspected for quite a long time. Which is that you have no idea what you’re doing any more.’

‘Oh
what
?’

‘I agree,’ said Hugh. ‘This is a business endeavour with an enormous amount of money at stake, not a soap opera. The answer’s no. Saturday midnight is your deadline.’

‘But I may not be able to deliver by Saturday midnight!’

‘Well, that is your misfortune. Either you explain what on earth you’re talking about, or we pull the plug.’

‘But I can’t do that. It would be betraying an enormous confidence if I explained. I simply can’t. I promised. You have to trust me. Just for a few more days.’

‘Bianca, no.’

‘Well, all I can say is, you could be very sorry.’

‘And then again, we could not. We’re not prepared to risk it. Let’s meet again on Friday and see where we –
you
– are.’

She pulled out her phone in the taxi and called Florence.

‘Is there any way we can speed things up?’

‘Well, I don’t think so, no. The solicitor is away until Sunday and I don’t have a mobile number for him. And nobody else knows about it. Literally. I’m so sorry, Bianca. So very sorry.’

‘Oh, it’s not your fault. They . . .’ she hesitated, ‘. . . they said if I could tell them what it was all about, they might consider a few extra days. I said I wouldn’t. And I won’t. Unless you say so. But you don’t think . . . ?’

‘No, Bianca, I don’t. I’m sorry. Too much is at stake. In human terms, that is. I gave you this information because I trust you totally. You cannot, indeed you must not, betray that.’ Her voice filled with anxiety suddenly.

‘Florence, I won’t. Of course I won’t! But – it’s so hard. We could – we will lose Farrell’s.’

‘My dearest girl,’ said Florence, ‘there are things in this life even more important than Farrell’s.’

She arrived home early; she hadn’t the heart to stay at the office and for the first time in her entire working life, she used illness as an excuse, told Jemima she thought she was developing flu.

‘Which I can’t afford to do, so I’m going to try and ward it off.’

Jemima looked at her sympathetically. ‘Good idea,’ she said, ‘and there’s nothing in the diary, so why not? And you need to be on form tomorrow, for Bertie’s leaving party.’

God, she was dreading that now. All the jolly speeches, the references to how much they would miss him, when everyone would soon be missing everyone. And of course she would know, as she made her own speech, that he was doing exactly the right thing, getting out while he was ahead. HR directors of bankrupt companies didn’t usually find it very easy to get new jobs. He had chosen, for some reason, a Thursday rather than a Friday to leave and in a way she was glad: the party wouldn’t turn into a Friday booze-up, and last half the night.

‘Anyway,’ Jemima said, looking at her watch, ‘it’s nearly five and most people wouldn’t consider that particularly early anyway!’

If only, Bianca thought, if only she was most people. Most people didn’t have a multi-million-pound company to rescue. Most people wouldn’t have run up an extra two million pounds on the investment in that company; and if they did they probably wouldn’t even care. Most people weren’t about to let an entire workforce down; most people weren’t about to look totally foolish and incompetent; most people weren’t about to lose an exceptionally high-profile, professional reputation for ever. And most people hadn’t been given an ultimatum that was impossibly awful by their husband and have to give him an answer within the next twenty-four hours.

She wished passionately she could become most people.

Patrick came in looking in a very black mood.

‘You look jolly,’ she said. ‘Drink?’

‘No, thank you. I think we should retain clear heads. You seem to have started,’ he added, with a nod at her glass of wine.

‘I – need it. I’ve had a hideous day.’

‘How unusual.’

She ignored this. ‘How about yours?’

‘It was fine. I’ll just go and change. You could make me a strong coffee perhaps.’

She made the coffee while checking her emails and texts. Hoping against absurd hope that there would be something from Florence. Or the VCs. Or . . . anyone, really.

There was one text, but it was from Jack. They were desperate to show her the site; it was finished. It looked sensational. Could they come over in an hour or so?

Bianca texted back, grateful that she didn’t actually have to speak to them, lest they pick up something from her voice, and said she was sorry, but she was at home and really couldn’t be disturbed.

She added briefly, trying to sound light-hearted,
Trouble with schools. Just you wait till it’s your turn for that
.

Jack wrote back:
OK. Tomorrow morning then? No time to lose, we’ve got to get going with the test site asap.

Yes, hopefully. I’ll let you know.

Thanks.

She could tell she’d disappointed him. ‘It’s going to get a lot worse than that, boyo,’ she said aloud to her iPad and closed it.

Her phoned pinged; an email from Florence. Could they have a talk? She was very worried about the way things were going and was beginning to regret saying anything about ‘the possible solution’.

‘Oh God,’ said Bianca, staring distractedly at the screen and reaching for her phone at the same time. She was scrolling through it for Florence’s number when Patrick said, his voice icy with courtesy, ‘I would be grateful if you would put your phone away. I would like to have a conversation.’

‘Oh Patrick, for Christ’s sake don’t be so pompous,’ said Bianca. ‘I have to call Florence, it’s terribly important.’

‘Please don’t,’ said Patrick. ‘We have something else I want to discuss. I realise it’s nothing to do with Farrell’s but I would like to think it mattered a little.’

‘Patrick, please let me at least make this call.’

‘Will it take long?’

‘It – could.’

‘Well, let it wait.’

‘But why, you’re home for God’s sake, we’ve got all evening.’

‘I have to call Saul later.’

‘Fucking Saul!’ she said. ‘Always fucking Saul and his fucking phone calls.’ While thinking how grotesquely unfair of her it was to blame Patrick for Saul’s behaviour when . . . ‘All right. Well, let me at least email Florence, tell her I’ll call her later.’

‘Yes, all right. Would you like another of those?’ Nodding at her glass.

‘Yes please. That is . . .’ better have her wits about her ‘. . . no, I’ll have a coffee please.’

He disappeared, she emailed Florence; sat back on the sofa, smiled nervously at him when he came back in.

‘Right. Do I have your attention?’

‘Yes, you do.’

The door opened; Milly looked in.

‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad. Could you just look at these? I’m so excited. And they’re going to go on this girl’s blog next week. Oh, and this is Jayce. Doesn’t she look amazing?’

‘Yes, she does!’ said Bianca. She had been expecting something very different from this smouldering-eyed creature, with high cheekbones and slicked-back, short blond hair.

‘She had sort of long hair before, just bundled up in a messy ponytail. Lucy suggested she had it cut and she’s lost loads of weight already, about four kilos, and Lucy says it always shows on your face first. And look, here are the step-by-steps – it’s so clever – and then I’ll show you the little film, well actually it’s the stills speeded up, that was the photographer’s idea, she was really cool.’

Bianca and Patrick looked at them together, at the dozens of photographs, united briefly by seeing their daughter slowly transformed, little by little, from the near-child they knew so well into someone almost unrecognisable.

‘They’re lovely, Milly,’ said Bianca.

‘Absolutely agree,’ said Patrick.

‘You really think so?’

‘We really think so. And your friend – Jayce – looks great too.’

‘I think so. Cool. Um – I was just wondering if, well, if I could ask her here sometime. Maybe for a sleepover? I think she could cope with it now. Now she looks so much better.’

‘Of course. Of course you can. Or we could all have supper together maybe?’

‘Mum,’ said Milly, giving her a withering look, ‘we’re not children.’

‘No. No, of course not,’ said Bianca humbly.

‘I’ll ask her,’ said Milly. ‘We’re not going to the country this weekend?’

‘No,’ said Patrick and ‘We’re not,’ said Bianca, their voices equally adamant.

‘Cool,’ said Milly. ‘We haven’t been for ages. Not that I mind,’ she added hastily, ‘but – any reason?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Bianca, ‘but—’

‘No, no, it’s OK,’ said Milly. ‘You don’t have to explain.’ Her voice was slightly ironic and she grinned at them. She really was more herself, thought Bianca. At least something – a very important something – was going in the right direction.

Milly disappeared and Patrick looked at Bianca.

‘Right. It’s to do with—’

Bianca’s phone vibrated. She looked at it.

Florence.

‘Patrick, I have to answer this. I’m sorry.’

He sighed. ‘All right. But I do want to talk to you about our future and I have to say a message seems to be coming over rather loud and clear that it is of little interest to you, without your having to actually spell it out.’

‘I’m sorry. Truly. I won’t be long.’

Florence sounded excited, slightly breathless. ‘I can talk to the solicitor first thing tomorrow. He got my message, some secretary had taken pity on me and managed to contact him. He told her to ring me and . . .’

‘Oh my God, Florence, that is – that is amazing! Look, hold on a moment.’

She looked at Patrick. He was looking oddly resigned, almost patient.

‘Patrick, I do have to take this and it will take time. I’m sorry, and I’ll explain when – when I’ve talked to her. It really is desperately important. You’ll understand I promise when I explain . . . Florence, hello, don’t go away—’

‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Patrick, getting up. ‘I really have better things to do than sit here, listening to your phone calls. I think I probably have my answer, Bianca. There seems very little more to be said. If you have anything to add, I shall be interested to hear it, of course, but I find it hard to imagine it will be of much interest to me. Meanwhile, don’t let me keep you any longer from your extremely important work.’

Bertie woke up feeling absolutely terrified: that he was finally leaving Farrell’s, which meant the family, as much as the job. No point pretending he could have it both ways, work for someone else and still be part of this extraordinary, difficult, brilliant, demanding, and quite often unpleasant thing that was not just his family, not merely (merely?) his mother and his sister but a creative and commercial force, the thing their parents had created. And having created it, had forced all of them to live within its confines.

And there he had been judged and found wanting, not just by his parents, but by the company itself; he was not clever enough, not creative enough, not even efficient enough to contribute to it and its success. Never mind that his talents lay in quite different areas from the ones that the House of Farrell demanded; to pursue those talents was deemed not even worthy of consideration. He knew he would have enjoyed being, and done well as a teacher, say, or an architect, but as a member of the Farrell family that would have been of no account: he would not have been one of them, and in the future that would also be the case. He would be an outsider, dismissed, of no real consequence; dear old Bertie, poor old Bertie, and in the case of his mother, disloyal and unfilial Bertie.

It seemed a disproportionately large step, therefore, that he was taking; and although he was still sure it was the right one, increasingly terrifying.

Lara woke up feeling depressed. As she woke up at five, she had a great deal of time to feel it; she opened her curtains and lay staring into the slowly lightening sky, thinking about Bertie and how dreadfully she was going to miss him, wondering, for what must have been the hundredth time, what had gone wrong between them, and also how she was going to get through the party without crying and making a complete fool of herself. So many people had noticed their friendship over the months since she had joined Farrell’s; their sandwich lunches, their shared jokes, their rapport in meetings, and she knew were speculating upon its cooling. For this reason alone she was glad to have Chris Williams in her life to talk about, at least, and had arranged a date with him that evening: partly to distract her from her misery but also to have an excuse for leaving the party before it got too late. Otherwise, she knew, she would never have been able to tear herself away.

Bianca woke up feeling sick. And for the second time in her life, the first having occurred two days earlier, completely helpless. The point being there was no clear answer to the dilemma Patrick had put her in; however passionately she might love him and value their marriage, there could be no excuse in human terms, never mind professionally, for walking out of a company in the week it was quite possibly declared at worst, bankrupt, and at best, impossible to save. What did she say to them all, to her loyal, incredibly hard-working team? Sorry guys, but I’m leaving today, giving up work to spend time with my family and oh, by the way, there’s no more money, so there’ll be no global launch, no advertising campaign, and the company will probably go down, hope you’re OK with that.