B004D4Y20I EBOK (11 page)

‘In the study.’

‘Thank you. Oh, could you bring me a glass of wine, please? Some of that Menetou-Salon if there’s some open. Or the Chablis if not.’

‘Of course.’ The housekeeper glided quietly off down the corridor.

Tara dropped her briefcase, shuffled off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell. Someone else would pick them up. What did she pay all these people for after all, if not so that she could do what she felt like from time to time?

She darted up the stairs as quickly as she could, up to the second floor and along the soft, carpeted corridors until she came to the children’s bedroom. She listened at the door for a moment, then opened it and slipped in.

At once she could smell the delicious warmth of their sleeping bodies. Was there anything nicer in the world than the scent of her freshly bathed babies in their clean pyjamas? She went over to Edward’s low white-painted bed and knelt down next to it. She put her face close to his head, inhaling his sweet warmth, and tenderly stroking his fair head. His face, softly illuminated by the glow of his nightlight, was as perfect as a sleeping cherub’s, lashes swooping down on his cheeks and little bow mouth slightly open. She stayed there a long while before kissing him and whispering, ‘Night, night, darling’.

Then she padded across the room to Imogen, who sighed and turned in her sleep. She hadn’t been long in her big-girl bed and she had chosen one with a fairy canopy above it and two small curtains of candyfloss pink gauze. While Tara didn’t like to give in to the absurd amount of pink little girls were encouraged to adore, she couldn’t help letting Imogen have her way. Now she was tucked up under her patchwork quilt, a tiny princess in her miniature bed.

Tara knelt beside Imogen, smoothing her daughter’s hair and gazing on her peaceful little face.
Her sleep is so untroubled
, Tara thought. She had no idea of the big, complicated world that awaited her. Imogen gave another little snuffly sigh and turned over, snuggling back down again.

‘Sleep well, darling. See you tomorrow,’ Tara breathed. Then she tiptoed quietly out, closing the door gently behind her. She returned downstairs to the hall, wondering where Gerald was. Walking across the hall, she went to the study door and listened at it for a moment. She could hear the sound of the television and Gerald’s voice booming over the top of it. Opening the door, she walked in.

The room was very much in Gerald’s taste: fake-old with a touch of brash. Brand new dark wood panelling covered the walls and along them ran library bookshelves, where hundreds of leather and gilt volumes were shut away behind wire doors. Gerald had bought them by the metre and not one had been taken off the shelf since the day they’d been put there. The room was oppressively masculine: hunting trophies adorned the walls, though Gerald had not so much as shot a rabbit, model yachts sat in full miniature sail on lacquered side tables and antique golf clubs were displayed in museum-like glass cases. Among all this, the huge Bang & Olufsen plasma screen television looked jarring, a piece of twenty-first-century technology sitting oddly in an Edwardian club room like a space ship surrounded by vintage cars. CNN news was playing while Gerald sat at his desk, staring at his
computer
screen, one hand clamping a telephone to his ear.

‘Yes, yes, that’s just as I said! Well, tell the board I won’t take any of their whingeing. I intend to do it my way. That’s the way I’ve always done it and I have an infallible instinct, as everyone knows.’ He caught sight of Tara and waved at her. ‘Yes, all right, old man. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down and stood up. ‘Hello, darling, how are we?’

‘We’re fine, or least, I’m fine, if that’s what you mean.’ She went over for a kiss. He brushed his lips across her cheek, leaving a faint wet trail.

‘You’re late back,’ he said reprovingly as he sat down again and picked up a crystal tumbler, swilling what Tara knew would be a Scotch and soda. ‘The children missed you.’

‘I know. I’ve just looked in on them.’ She perched on the slippery seat of a leather armchair.

Well? What were you doing?’ He fixed her with a steely gaze. It was always like this: he wanted to know every detail of her day and precisely where she had been when. Once it had made her feel safe. Now it was increasingly disturbing.

‘I told you we had the meeting at Trevellyan today. Once that was over, I had to go to the office. I’d missed so much, what with being away yesterday as well, that I had to stay late to catch up. I’m exhausted.’ Tara felt herself droop and she sighed. How long had it been since she had really felt rested? She couldn’t remember. The pressure was always on to keep going, to work harder, to stay on top of everything and
succeed.
She had to cope, she knew that. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at her husband.

‘And what is the situation with Trevellyan?’ he asked.

‘Not good.’

Gerald raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? How bad?’

‘I’m going to find out the details tomorrow but I think very bad.’

‘You surprise me.’ He sat back in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together.

He always manages to look like a tycoon
, thought Tara.
It’s as though he’s studied the part for a film role or something. And it never quite rings true
.

Her husband leaned forward, plucked a large cigar from the ashtray in front of him, put it in his mouth and sucked at it. A plume of heavy smoke floated from his mouth. He liked to smoke cigars – Winston Churchill was one of his great heroes and Tara always suspected that Gerald was trying to emulate him at every opportunity.

‘Your parents struck me as competent people, very competent. And Trevellyan is a quality brand, everyone knows that. What on earth can be so wrong?’

Tara prickled. Everything Gerald said sounded like a criticism these days. Now he was implying that she had misread the situation. ‘I don’t know the full facts yet,’ she replied coldly. ‘I’m getting a rundown tomorrow.’

Gerald nodded slowly. ‘Well, I’m sure it can’t be as bad as you think. But if you need any help or advice, you know I’m always happy to do whatever I can.’

‘Thank you, darling. And how was your day?’

‘Productive, very productive! My team have done some excellent work today and I’m more convinced than ever that we’ll be able to put together a very strong bid for the Fothergill group – or at least, a large part of it. That will give us the foothold we need for further growth. It’s all very exciting. I shall tell you more over dinner.’

There was a quiet knock on the door and the housekeeper came in bearing Tara’s glass of wine on a small round tray.

‘Thanks, Viv. God, I need this!’ Tara scooped up the glass and took a swig. ‘Is dinner ready?’ asked Gerald.

‘Five minutes, sir. Please come through to the dining room whenever you’re ready.’ Viv went out.

‘Come. Let’s go through.’ Gerald stood up and pushed his smoking cigar down into the ashtray. He went over to Tara and took her arm.

He always seemed to like these moments best, Tara reflected as they walked together towards the dining room. He revelled in the timeless traditions of the dinner table. He loved to see the silver candlesticks with their creamy-white candles casting a soft light on to the wine glasses and cutlery and napkins, all laid out just so. It had to be absolutely perfect, or he could fly into one of his terrible rages. The whole house was kept immaculate by the staff, and everybody rushed about to make sure that nothing was out of place, especially when Gerald was expected home. The children had already been taught that messiness was one of the cardinal sins: even their playroom was returned to
perfect
order, every toy in its place, every jigsaw in its box, every DVD in its case and shelved alphabetically, the moment they had stopped playing.

The dining room had the mellow light of a few lamps and the dinner candles. They sat at either end of the dinner table, the way that Gerald liked it, and Ashby the butler came round to serve them in the way he had served the gentlemen of the Travellers Club on Pall Mall. It was this record of excellence that had made Gerald hire him. Although Gerald hadn’t managed to be put up for any of the most exclusive clubs yet, he had hopes that he might one day be a member. Until then, having Ashby put chops in front of him the way they had been put in front of lords, bishops, MPs and any number of other grand people made him very pleased indeed.

‘How is that sister of yours?’ he said as they started on their vichyssoise.

‘Which one? Is there any more wine, please, Ashby?’

‘Oh. Jemima, of course.’ Gerald spooned some soup into his mouth.

‘Of course. She’s fine. The same as she was yesterday, I suppose.’ Gerald had a mild obsession with Jemima that Tara found irritating. Any other wife might worry that her husband was entranced – and why not? Jemima was a beautiful woman who gave out an extraordinary buzz of active sexuality, even Tara could see that. But she was fairly sure that it wasn’t Jemima’s curves, long legs or honey-blonde hair that interested Gerald. In fact, it wasn’t even Jemima herself. Gerald loved the fact that Jemima was a proper lady, married
to
a proper lord, and he was always trying to get closer to Jemima in the hopes of sucking up to Harry. He could never really understand why Harry didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. His greatest desire was to be invited to Herne on one of Harry’s shooting weekends, but it seemed very unlikely to happen.

When they were first married, Tara had been quite blind to Gerald’s monumental social climbing. She hadn’t seen his pompous side at all. Instead he had seemed warm and caring, and had enveloped her like a great blanket, making her feel cosy and secure. He had also taught her to enjoy sex in a way that had been entirely new to her. None of her previous boyfriends had been able to arouse her very much at all, she had always felt far too painfully self-conscious. She longed to be voluptuous and naturally sexy, like Jemima, instead of thin and boney, and had never been able to relax enough to get much satisfaction from the whole thing. It had been enough, she hoped, to lie back and let it happen, and the boys didn’t seem to mind it that way. Gerald, though, had been a whole different story. He wasn’t happy unless he had raised her to heights of enjoyment she had never known existed. Once he had made it clear to her that he couldn’t be satisfied unless she was, and that seeing her in ecstasy gave him the wildest pleasure of all, she was finally able to feel liberated in the bedroom.

Watching him slurp up his soup now, his cheeks flushed from the whisky or three he had enjoyed in his study, his hair brushed forward over his bald patch, she could hardly believe that he was the same man
who
had sent her into such wild delight. It didn’t happen much these days.

I can’t really blame him
, she thought.
I’m exhausted most of the time. And he works so hard as well. No wonder neither of us is ever in the mood. Yes, that’s it. We’re just never in the mood
.

She didn’t want to look at the darker truth that lurked below the surface.

10

MEET ME AT
the Ritz, 3 p.m. for emergency meeting
read Tara’s text message.

Standing in the entrance of her Eaton Square mansion block, Jemima jammed her dark glasses on then made her way quickly down the front steps, her head bowed. She’d learned various tricks for avoiding any paparazzi who happened to be around, and one was to present a very dull picture: show hardly any face, have a neutral expression, give nothing of any interest. She’d heard that Madonna reduced the value of her unwanted paparazzi pictures at a stroke by cleverly wearing the same outfit all the time: a very unglamorous tracksuit, shades and a cap. The result was that she was often left in peace as she went about her daily life as endlessly identical photographs were worth very little.

Jemima didn’t think she could quite manage the tracksuit routine, but then, she didn’t suffer to quite the same extent. The pursuit had been terrible a few
years
ago when she’d been going out with a very famous and very druggy rock star. She hadn’t been able to go anywhere without a posse of photographers trailing her every move. They printed pictures of her wherever she went, from Glastonbury, where she watched her lover and his band on stage while wearing ripped-off blue denim dungarees over a tight pink T-shirt and turquoise lace-up wellington boots, to high-octane society occasions. She was pictured looking elegant in white Ralph Lauren and a classic Lock of Saint James’s straw hat at Ascot, or in a Donna Karan little black dress and black cashmere wrap, leaving Le Caprice or the Wolseley. Her fashion sense was hailed in dozens of magazines, her luxurious life envied and pored over. If she and Billy walked down the street together, it was always with a pack of photographers backing away from them, snapping and shouting, and the next day they’d be plastered over the papers and gossip mags.

Will she take Cocaine Billy to Royal Wedding?
screamed the tabloids when they discovered she’d been invited to the same nuptials as Prince William. She didn’t take Billy – they were already on the verge of breaking up. Jemima had never been one for drugs; she’d done her fair share of experimentation and still enjoyed dabbling from time to time – plenty of Kensington, Belgravia and Notting Hill dinner parties ended up with crystal bowls of white powder being passed round after the main course instead of pudding – but luckily for her, she had avoided being sucked in. Watching Billy’s raging coke habit spiral out of control, she saw
all
too clearly how quickly the enjoyment of a party buzz could turn into a dangerous obsession. For a while, she didn’t want to do any drugs at all and once that happened, there was no future for her and her famous boyfriend, who was so deeply into drugs, moving from cocaine to crack and heroin, that it was becoming apparent he would probably never escape his addiction before it destroyed him. Even so, it was he who dumped Jemima.

‘No offence, love, cos you’re a fackin’ great bird, yeah? It’s just that you’re a bit fackin’ borin’ these days. And I was born to party, yeah?’ Billy had slurred.