B004D4Y20I EBOK (7 page)

‘Why do you bother?’ he would say, exasperated. ‘Considering how much money you’ve got, it’s ridiculous to say it’s expensive.’

‘But it is,’ Poppy would retort. ‘And besides, it’s bad for the planet. We’re all going to have to get used to using our legs a bit more in the future, so why not start now?’

Tom would grumble about it but he wasn’t about to change Poppy’s mind. She didn’t like the fact that Tom knew about her money. She had managed to keep it quiet all the way through her college course by enrolling as Poppy Thompson. She and Tom had been on the same course and she had noticed him the moment he walked into the art school on their very first day. He had a confidence and air of command about him that attracted her, and she was in awe of his artistic sensitivity. He seemed so knowledgeable for his years and he critiqued her painting in the kind of language that impressed her. She was utterly bowled over, but it wasn’t until the second term that they finally got together after a night out pub crawling through Kentish Town. Only after they’d graduated did she finally tell him her real name and the fact that she was worth several million.

Their relationship had never been the same after that. First, there was the awkward issue that she had
lied
to him – or, at least, not confided in him sooner. Then there was the cold reality of her wealth. It seemed to drain Tom of all his previous generosity towards her. Suddenly, she was expected to pay for everything and not only that, Tom’s tastes changed as well. No longer was he happy with breakfast at the local caff. He didn’t understand why they couldn’t go to the Wolseley and have eggs Benedict and champagne. A wonderful vintage shirt found by Poppy at a market stall was no longer a great birthday present. He wanted something from Paul Smith or Dolce & Gabbana – after all, she could afford it, couldn’t she? The happy, balanced nature of their relationship became uneven and tense. Whatever she did irritated and annoyed him, and he was constantly snapping at her. And yet, he said he loved her. He still made love to her, passionately. And she still loved him, just as she always had. But gradually she’d become sure in her heart that there was no future for them.

I always knew my Trevellyan money would kill something beautiful
, she thought bitterly.
And now it has
.

Tom had not taken the news well. He had become addicted to the luxuries her wealth could provide, just as she had feared, and he didn’t want it taken away from him. Eventually, after trying to persuade her to come back to him, he’d turned on her in anger.

‘If you hate your bloody money so much, why don’t you stop bloody well whining about it and give it away!’ he’d yelled, red-faced.

‘Don’t you think I want to?’ she shouted back. ‘It’s not that easy. It’s all in trusts and controlled by lawyers
and
directors and my parents. I can’t just give it away. Perhaps one day, when I’ve got more control, I’ll be able to. Until then, there’s not much I can do about it.’

‘Oh
poor
little rich girl!’ sneered Tom, his eyes scornful. ‘My heart bleeds for you. You know what I think? You’re a fucking hypocrite. You could just walk away from it all if you really wanted to. But you like pretending to be better than it all, pretending you despise money, but actually it’s there for you like a lovely big feather bed, ready for you to fall on when things get tough.’

His words stabbed her like a knife but she remained calm, her voice only trembling slightly. She stood up resolutely. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. It’s over. If I didn’t really think so before now, you’ve definitely made me sure. Goodbye.’ With that she walked out, leaving him fuming impotently, while she hid the tears behind her sunglasses, hitched the handles of her bag over her shoulder and left with her head held high.

That was over a year ago. She’d heard from mutual friends that Tom was going out with someone else now. An American girl called Chandler or Chelsea or something. Apparently her daddy was someone powerful in Washington and exorbitantly rich, so Tom had obviously got a taste for girls with money. Perhaps she would make him very happy by spending all her money on him, or just handing him armfuls of cash.

Poppy went down the stairs of her building, thinking hard. Last week, when she’d heard the news about her mother, she’d felt as though she were on the verge
of
collapse. It was yet another blow, after losing Tom and feeling that her creative juices were drying up. She’d begun to wonder how much more she could take.

Now this extraordinary bequest had landed on her – not just the house, but the business as well. No matter how bad she felt, she was going to have to summon all her strength and deal with it.

Feeling as though she were on the brink of something unknown, Poppy walked out of the elegant Georgian square and headed west.

7

LONDON MIGHT BE
one of the most expensive cities in the world to live in, but Poppy still loved it. Every time she walked through it, she was seduced again by its charm. Yes, it was noisy, dirty and crowded, and there were buildings of such hideous monstrosity that she could only hope future generations would forgive their creation. But it was so rich in beauty and history and glamour that it would take more than a few nasty steel and concrete horrors to dent its attraction.

Leaving behind the faded delights of Bloomsbury, she headed towards the more affluent part of town. Skirting Oxford Street with its High Street chains – although admittedly the biggest and most impressive versions – and throngs of tourists and shoppers, she veered towards Marylebone, with its chic little shops and boutiques and trendy bars and restaurants. She liked this part of town and might have lived here if the Bloomsbury garden square hadn’t taken her heart first. She wandered down past Harley Street and
Wimpole
Street and crossed Oxford Street almost at Marble Arch. Now she was heading into Mayfair, where every car was a giant SUV, a sleek black Daimler or a jaunty Porsche, and where the streets seemed to smell of money. Here, although Poppy did not feel she belonged, she was certainly less conspicuous. Trusta-farians with bank accounts at least as big as hers mooched about, wondering what to spend their money on today. Russian wives with bright blonde hair and excessive fur coats climbed into chauffeured Rolls Royces, off to spend more of their husbands’ billions in Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Short men with gold jewellery and suits whose vast expense could still not conceal the size of their bellies trotted from glossy black front door to glossy silver Lamborghini and Poppy knew that their money made her inheritance look like a drop in the ocean.

Trevellyan House was in the exclusive area of Mayfair just before Piccadilly. Here could be found the kind of shops that only those in the know frequented, such as Thomas Goode, the exclusive china and glass shop that had been making fine china and porcelain for the crowned heads of Europe since the seventeenth century, or Purdey, where dukes and earls and all manner of gentry bought guns and hunting gear. Here were the galleries exhibiting old masters for sale; the most exquisite Persian rugs, held up like paintings for their superb workmanship, texture and colour to be admired; jewellery, glittering in the windows of the most expensive shops in the world. In nearby Bond Street were the famous fashion names: Chanel, Tiffany,
Gucci,
Versace, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Asprey and a host of others. On the more discreet streets of Mayfair, luxurious boutique hotels nestled next to the kind of shops that cater to the needs of the very rich. And here was Trevellyan House, the hub of the Trevellyan empire, one of the last great luxury brands to remain in private hands.

On the ground floor was the shop. It was not the original Piccadilly barber shop that Samuel Trevellyan had walked into over a hundred and fifty years before – as Trevellyan fragrances had begun to grow in fame, the premises had quickly become too small and this large Mayfair house had been purchased. On the ground floor was the shop, a beautiful room where the many fragrances, soaps, oils and accessories were displayed in walnut cabinets. The polished floorboards were covered in dark red Turkish rugs while leather armchairs and a Chesterfield club sofa gave the clients somewhere to rest while they absorbed the delights of the Trevellyan fragrances and made their choices. Lamps and antique mirrors created a subdued, elegant atmosphere.

On the floor above had been the old workrooms, where the fragrances had been made by hand. Once, there had been long tables where white-coated craftsmen followed Farnese’s recipes to conjure up the delicious aromas used to scent the perfumes, oils and soaps sold downstairs. Now all of that had been moved to a factory in the Midlands where bottles were filled and packaged on a conveyor belt, then boxed up and sent to destinations all over the world.

The shop was just as Poppy had always remembered it. It had never changed – still as scrupulously tasteful and as quietly restful as a gentlemen’s club. She looked in for a moment before heading upstairs to the Trevellyan offices where the real action took place. Despite its importance in her life, she had only visited Trevellyan House a few times, mostly when she was young and her mother had brought them all to London on a shopping trip. They’d come by to visit her father in his imposing office where he sat behind a vast leather-topped desk, making what seemed to young Poppy to be terrifyingly important decisions. That was all she knew of Trevellyan House, apart from the odd glimpse of the boardroom, with its long table and stiff-backed chairs.

She walked into the reception area, noting the oil portrait of old Sam Trevellyan, in his high collar and black coat, a pair of fearsome sideburns descending his face. Opposite was a more modern oil sketch of her father, catching him in three-quarter profile, his mouth downturned and his blue eyes a little bulbous. He did not look happy to have inherited Samuel’s success story.

He never looked happy
, Poppy thought sadly.
I wonder if he and Mummy are together now?

She felt a pang of affection as she looked at her father’s face. He may not have been the perfect father, but she’d still loved him. Her earliest memories were of his distance and inapproachability; for a while when she was very little, she’d thought that the nanny was her real mother and that her parents were some
kind
of owners of the house whom she had to be nice to. Of course, she’d realised soon enough that Cecil and Yolanda were her father and mother, but for years she received little affection from them in comparison to what the nanny gave her. That quickly changed after Poppy’s illness. She’d become the favourite from then on, and was given a lot more attention by both her parents. While Cecil was never exactly demonstrative, she’d come to realise that he loved his daughters dearly. In return, she had loved and trusted him. He became a source of support when relations with Yolanda grew strained as the girls became teenagers.

His real failing, thought Poppy, looking up at the portrait, was that he hadn’t been able to hold the family together. He hadn’t been able to save them from Jecca.

Poppy approached the desk. The receptionist behind it raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes?’ she said frostily, eying Poppy’s shorts and patent boots. ‘Can I help you?’

Poppy took off her sunglasses. ‘I’m Poppy Trevellyan. I believe I’m expected?’

The receptionist leapt to her feet, flustered. ‘Yes, yes, of course, welcome, Miss Trevellyan. Lady Calthorpe and Mrs Pearson are already here. Please follow me and I’ll show you to the boardroom.’

Poppy followed her along a corridor and into the boardroom. Tara was sitting at one end, poring over some files, while Jemima was standing at the window talking quietly into the phone she had jammed to
her
ear. Victor Goldblatt was rifling through papers in his briefcase and other lawyers and directors were sitting about sipping coffee and chatting discreetly among themselves. Poppy noticed a striking young man who she remembered seeing chatting to Jemima at the wake. So he was a Trevellyan man. She’d assumed he was one of her sister’s society pals. He wasn’t cut from the usual Trevellyan business cloth, that was for sure.

Tara looked up. ‘Darling, you’re here. Wonderful. Now we can start. Would you like some water or coffee or something?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Poppy put her bag down on the table and sank into a chair.

‘As soon as Mimi’s off the phone, we can begin,’ Tara said, standing up and shuffling some papers. She was looking quietly chic as usual. Poppy knew that Tara was a favourite with her personal shoppers not only because money was no object but because her skinny frame made clothes look fabulous on her. Today she was wearing an Alberta Ferretti black wool tulip skirt that only someone with fantastic legs could carry off. She’d teamed it with black Chanel heels and an ivory silk blouse with a hint of padded shoulder, giving her a strong, businesslike silhouette.

Jemima, meanwhile, had obviously had enough of dressing up and was wearing dark Paul & Joe jeans, a cashmere striped T-shirt and a vintage YSL jacket in navy blue, along with a big pair of Tom Ford sunglasses. There was a tension about her that made it seem as though something might be wrong. She finished her
call
and dropped her phone into her bag, a yolk-yellow oversized clutch.

‘Right,’ she said, turning to the table. ‘Oh, you’re here, Poppy. Good. Perhaps we can get started. I’ve driven all the way from Dorset this morning, and had to cancel a very hard-to-get appointment with Dr Thraksi, so I’d like to get on with things.’

‘Very well,’ said Victor Goldblatt smoothly, looking at her over the top of his glasses. ‘Please sit down, Lady Calthorpe, and we’ll begin.’

The three sisters sat next to each other along one side of the conference table, facing the solemn-faced, suited men on the other.

One of the elderly men Poppy had also seen at the funeral cleared his throat and began to talk. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you ladies very well. I’ve met Mrs Pearson’ – he bowed to Tara – ‘but not you, Lady Calthorpe, or you, Miss Trevellyan. So I think some introductions may be in order. You know Victor Goldblatt, of course, the head of Goldblatt Mindenhall, whose relationship with Trevellyan goes back many years. They have ably represented and advised us for a long while. With him is Ali Tendulka, a very talented young lawyer who has recently joined Goldblatt Mindenhall and whom we are very happy to have as part of our team.’