B004D4Y20I EBOK (50 page)

What charmed her was that she simply could not imagine Gerald in this environment. His stuffy suits and club ties would look completely out of place in this fresh, modern home, even if there was a huge wine cellar under the house. His stupid trophies and stag’s head and antique oars would look even sillier. And as for beige carpets …
forget it!
thought Tara with satisfaction. She liked the aura of normality in the area. It felt as though real families lived nearby, following normal lives. Children would ride their bikes round here, fly kites on the common and play football and cricket. Holland Park was far too rarefied for all that, far too soaked in money, far too afraid of having its children kidnapped for a vast ransom. Tara had never realised how stifling she found it until now.

‘And as you can see, it has every amenity the modern family is looking for,’ concluded the estate agent. ‘So …’ he looked anxiously at Tara for a reaction. ‘What’s your initial feeling?’

‘Hmm.’ Tara thought a for a moment and then decided to put him out of his misery. ‘I’ll take it.’

Not bad for a lunch hour
, she thought, getting back into the car.

Ali Tendulka tapped his pen on his paper and raised his eyebrows at the sisters sitting opposite him.

‘Jecca Farnese’s lawyers have been in touch with us. They’re going to mount a legal claim to their client being owed a quarter of your percentage share.’

‘Shit.’ Tara bowed her head. ‘How does this affect business?’

‘Your day-to-day business can go on as normal. It’s in Miss Farnese’s interests for the business to be as successful as possible so she doesn’t want to scupper it –’

‘Except, if we’re successful, she won’t get the business when the year is up,’ pointed out Jemima.

‘We don’t know if she’s aware of the terms of the will,’ remarked Tara. ‘And perhaps she’d rather have a quarter of a successful company than the whole of a shit one.’

‘But all she needs to do is wait out the year, watch us fail, get her hands on the company and sell it to Ferrera,’ said Poppy.

‘Maybe, with their special arrangement –’ Jemima spat out the words; it had stung badly that Ferrera was obviously sleeping with Jecca. As usual, Jecca had managed to hurt her where she was most sensitive ‘– Jecca is worried she won’t get top dollar from the man she’s sleeping with.’

‘Who knows what her motives are,’ sighed Tara. ‘She’s a complete mystery. She’s got something up her
sleeve
though, we can be sure of that. I think we should press on with
Tea Rose
and all our plans, and expect to win if she takes it to court. Let her fret about it. We’ll get on with what we know we can do – revitalising Trevellyan. After all, we’ve come so far. The shop is almost finished and Claudine is coming back next week with more samples. She’s also reworking
Antique Lily
and creating a possible new scent. So all that’s going very well.’

‘Iris wants to run the
Vogue
feature,’ put in Jemima. Iris had called just after Jemima had spoken to Harry. ‘We’ll have an interview with her next week.’

‘You ladies are very impressive.’ Ali smiled at them. ‘A couple of months ago I sat here while those old guys tried to bluff their way out of the mess they were in and you clearly knew nothing about this game. Now, you’re on top of it.’

They looked pleased at the praise. ‘Maybe not on top,’ Tara said, ‘but we’re on our way.’

Jemima left the office thinking hard. Seeing Jecca again had been a shock, but realising that the evil cow was serious about trying to get her hands on Trevellyan any way she possibly could was much worse. How would they stop her? It was obvious that the awful confrontation at the Ferrera party was just the first step in a public relations war, to get popular opinion on her side. Was Richard in on this from the start? He must have been. They were an item, that much was plain. It was all so horrible, it left such a bitter taste in the mouth to know that all along he’d been
playing
with her, that his friendship had been a front and nothing more.

Thank Christ I didn’t sleep with him!

‘Lady Jemima?’

Jemima turned round to see who was speaking to her. ‘It’s Lady Calthorpe, actually, but yes?’

A scruffy-looking young man in jeans and a jumper emerged from a shop doorway. He flashed a press pass at her. ‘Ben Davies.
Daily Chronicle
. I wondered if I could have a quick word with you?’

‘What about?’ Jemima said warily.

‘I’d like to talk in private if we can. I know a pub round the corner if you don’t mind.’ The man grinned at her. ‘I promise you’ll find it interesting.’

Jemima stared at him. Usually nothing would induce her to have anything to do with the gutter press. She knew all too well from her friends’ experiences how words could be twisted and quotes made up. But something about this man bothered her. He looked triumphant, as though he held some kind of power over her and was relishing the moment.

‘I don’t give interviews,’ she said coldly.

‘It’s not an interview I want,’ retorted the journalist. ‘I’ve got some information for
you
, as it happens. And if you want to find out what it is, you’d better follow me.’

He turned and sauntered off. Jemima watched him for a moment, then quickly marched after him, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes as she went.

‘Hi, Neave, it’s Poppy here. We met in the loos at the Spencer House party last night?’

‘Yeah, hi Poppy.’ The Irish voice was smooth and friendly. ‘How’re you doin’?’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Look, it was so nice to meet you the other night and actually, I know it’s a bit cheeky, but I’ve got a favour to ask. I wondered if we could go for a drink or something …’

‘Yeah, that would be lovely but I’m flying to New York in a day or two, so I’m not going to be around for a while, so –’

‘Are you free tonight?’

‘Tonight? Hold on …’ There was a pause while Neave consulted her diary. ‘You know what? I am. A meeting’s been cancelled. But I have to warn you, it isn’t easy going out for a drink with me. I don’t want to sound bigheaded, but I’m hounded by press at the moment. It’s just the way it is.’

‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ Poppy said. ‘Look, I’m a member of a small arts club in Notting Hill. Why don’t we go there? It’s very quiet and discreet. Plenty of famous people hang out there and no one will bother you, I promise.’

‘Sounds great. It’ll be such a novelty to be out somewhere without being hassled. It’s a date.’

After they’d made their arrangement, Poppy put the phone down, and looked at her diary. For that evening she had scrawled ‘Dinner, George’. She’d have to cancel. He’d understand, it was work after all and he was always so supportive when it came to Trevellyan.

She stared at her diary for a while. She’d missed him lately. All the office stuff and the parties had kept them apart.

Sod it
, she thought.
If I’m busy schmoozing Neave tonight, I deserve the rest of the afternoon off. George is working in the bookshop. I’ll go and surprise him
.

She shut her diary with a snap, picked up her bag and headed out of the office.

Jemima came out of the pub, white-faced. Her hands were shaking. She walked across the road, almost getting run down by a taxi.

‘Oi, you dozy bint! Watch where you’re going!’ yelled the driver, accelerating past her.

Jemima barely noticed. Instead she walked in a daze back to Trevellyan. She met Donna on her way out. The other woman stopped, concerned when she saw the state Jemima was in.

‘What’s wrong, honey? You look awful,’ she said, reaching for Jemima’s hand.

‘Donna …’ Jemima stared at her, frightened. ‘I didn’t think it could get any worse. But it just has.’

‘Come inside,’ Donna said, taking control at once. ‘You’d better tell me what’s happened.’

In her office, Donna got Jemima into a chair and made her a cup of hot, sweet tea. Jemima clutched the mug gratefully, and told her how the journalist had sprung out of nowhere.

‘He took me to a pub. He told me his paper had a scoop on me, that they’re going to run it on Saturday. They’ve found out all about my affair with Guy, all about the baby …’ Jemima looked too frozen with shock to cry. ‘Donna, my husband is coming to see me tomorrow night. We’ve only just begun to get
through
this. If it’s splashed all over the newspapers, I think it will destroy us. It will be the end of any hope we have of getting back together. Harry’s very proud. He hates publicity, he hates people knowing about him and his private life. It’s taken so much for him to get to this point, I know it has. It will destroy him. It will be the end of us.’

‘Your family is nothing if not complicated,’ muttered Donna. ‘OK, look. I don’t have any idea who Guy is or about the baby but I can see it’s import ant to you. I don’t need to know. But we do need to think about damage limitation right now. Why did they tell you this? Why didn’t they just run it?’

‘He said he wanted to give me the chance to put my side of the story across.’

‘Mmm. OK. Then maybe that’s what we’ll have to do.’

‘What? Talk to the press?’ Jemima shook her head. ‘Harry would never approve.’

‘Then we’ll think of another way. Which paper was this bloke from?’

‘The
Chronicle
.’

‘I have a contact there. Let me get on to it, and I’ll see what I can find out.’

Jemima sat drinking her tea in a daze, while Donna made some calls. Twenty minutes later she put the phone down.

‘There’s some good news. The story’s come from a source in Dorset, close to your husband. It’s a hot story – about how you had an affair with your husband’s friend, got pregnant, lost the baby, your husband
kicked
you out.’ Donna held up her hand to stop Jemima from saying anything. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. That’s the story they’ve got, that’s all. The thing is, they’re worried about running it. They’ve not got any other evidence apart from this one source who isn’t one of the parties …’

‘It’s not Guy, then,’ muttered Jemima.

‘No. They’re trying to track him down apparently. But if the story is wrong, you could sue, they know that. They wanted to frighten you into confirming it. Did you say anything at all?’

Jemima shook her head. ‘Not a word. I just listened and then walked out.’

‘Good. So here’s what we do. We tell the
Chronicle
that the story’s not true and that if they print, we’ll sue their ass. But we’ll say how much it could damage you if it’s hinted at, so we’ll trade with them. They spike their story and you’ll give an interview to the paper about your glamorous life, the truth about your romance with Billy or whoever, the way you’ve discovered that hard work is more fulfilling than a jet-set lifestyle. They should love that. To be honest, they should be bloody grateful to get such a good story from you, one that’s watertight and exclusive.’

‘Do you think they’ll go for it?’ asked Jemima, hopeful.

‘I think they might. I’m not going to talk to this kid Ben. He’s too junior. I’m going over his head to his boss Flick Johnson. There’s just one thing.’ Donna fixed her with a fierce look. ‘Your husband Harry has
to
be prepared to back you up on this. And if they find this bloke, Guy or whatever his name is, and he decides to sing, you’re up shit creek.’

Jemima nodded. ‘Please, Donna. Just do whatever you have to do.’

43

POPPY WALKED TOWARDS
Bloomsbury, her spirits high. She was surprised and happy that Neave had agreed to meet her. A supermodel like her must have a diary packed with commitments. It was lucky that she’d had that cancellation.

Summer was well and truly here. Tourists were out in their dozens, loaded down with cameras and knapsacks. Office girls dawdled on extended lunchtimes, soaking up the rays of the afternoon sunshine. The trees in Bloomsbury were green and shady, looking fresh and wholesome against the white stone of the buildings. Poppy sauntered past the antiquarian print shops and little stores devoted to stamps or coins or other artefacts, glancing in the windows as she went. In a small street opposite the British Museum, she found what she was looking for: a bookshop, its windows displaying the latest volumes of literature. She went inside.

The interior was cool and light, with bare wooden
floorboards
and the shelves painted in a soft blue-grey. Poppy walked past tables loaded with glossy volumes to the counter at the back. A man was standing there, flicking through a book. He looked up as Poppy approached.

‘Hello, can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I’m here to see George.’

‘George?’ The man frowned.

‘Yes. Is he on a tea break or something?’

‘There’s no one here called George. Just me and Andy and Gideon. And Charlene on Saturdays.’

Poppy was puzzled. ‘Are you sure?’

The man laughed. ‘Er, yeah. I am pretty sure, yes. Seeing as I’m the manager. There really isn’t anyone working here without my knowledge.’

Poppy stared at him, her mouth hanging open.

‘Perhaps you’ve got mixed up with another bookshop. Have you tried Waterstone’s up the road?’ the man said kindly, obviously feeling sorry for her.

‘No, no, it was definitely this one. Yes, the Earle Street Bookshop. This is the one. It’s owned by his uncle, Sylvester.’

‘I don’t think so, love,’ the man said. ‘Who’s Sylvester? This is owned by Annie Vaughn. She owns the Earle Street Poetry Press as well.’

‘Oh,’ said Poppy. ‘Well, thank you very much for your help.’ She turned slowly and walked out of the shop.

Once she was past the British Museum, she began to run. Flying along the streets, dodging startled pedestrians, skipping past prams, she hurried home, only
thinking
of finding George as quickly as she could. She arrived in the square red-faced and panting. With a last burst of energy, she dashed into her building and up the stairs to the Fellowes flat. She pounded at the door.

‘George, George, are you in there?’ she demanded. She paused and waited. There was only silence within. ‘George!’ she yelled. ‘Where the hell are you?’