A Perfect Heritage (10 page)

The customers, to whom Bianca had just devoted her time – customer knowledge and the harnessing of it being the key to success – were middle-aged, middle-income, middle-class, and definitely not fashionable. Bianca had deduced this rather unscientifically by hanging around cosmetic counters and talking to the consultants – but there was precious little of a more scientific nature available. And as far as she could see, the typical Farrell customer was, for the most part, wedded to the brand by The Cream, moving to the other counters for make up and, more dangerously, in terms of potential desertion, sometimes to other skincare products as well. There was no way the nice, kindly, old-fashioned Farrell ladies serving them were paying their way. Bianca was moving swiftly to the conclusion the consultants would all have to go . . .

Chapter 10

Dinner, which Jonjo insisted was to be on him, had been arranged for the following Saturday. The sculptress would be there – it was getting serious, Jonjo had told Patrick, which meant he’d now seen her more than three times – and Saul Finlayson would join them for a drink beforehand.

‘He just doesn’t do dinner at the weekends,’ Jonjo explained on the phone to Bianca, ‘insists on spending the time with his son. Who’s with the ex during the week, so weekends are pretty sacred.’

‘I approve of that,’ said Bianca.

‘You’re lucky they’re in London this weekend because the little chap—’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dickon.’

‘Nice name!’

‘Yeah. Anyway, he’s got some birthday party he really wanted to go to. Then Saul’s picking him up, so he’ll only have half an hour. But at least you’ll be able to get some sort of handle on him. Can’t wait to see what you make of him, lot of women find him very sexy.’

‘Oh really?’ said Bianca. ‘Jonjo, my only interest in him is whether he’s going to be nice to Patrick.’

‘I don’t know that he’s into being nice,’ said Jonjo. ‘If he pays the old boy well and doesn’t throw too much shit at him, that’ll be doing pretty well.’

‘Yes, well there are ways and ways of throwing shit,’ said Bianca, ‘and I should know.’

‘You should, darling. How’s the new muck heap?’

‘Pretty mucky. Tough one, this one. I’m at the stage of wondering what I’m doing there. Now tell me quickly about your sculptor lady. Then I must dash.’

‘She’s – well, she’s fantastic,’ said Jonjo. ‘Very sexy, amazing legs—’

‘Jonjo, I’m not interested in her physical attributes! How old is she, what’s her name, what’s her work about?’

‘She does bronzes,’ said Jonjo, ‘sort of abstract. Which sell for shedloads. Can’t see quite why, to be honest, but anyway . . . name’s Guinevere. Guinevere Bloch. Very, very clever lady, successful too.’

‘Goodness, yes, I’ve heard of her,’ said Bianca. ‘She’s very A-list. There was a piece in the
Standard
last week about the new faces in the art scene. She was in that. No pictures, though. How old is she – sort of?’

‘Oh – mid-thirties. I’ll send you a picture of her. Coming over now . . . Got to go, darling, see you Saturday, Fino, just off Charlotte Street, it’s really cool – Spanish food, all tapas, Guinevere’s mad about it.’

‘Well, in that case I’m sure I’ll like it too,’ said Bianca. ‘Bye, Jonjo, really looking forward to it.’

Sixty seconds later a picture of Guinevere Bloch arrived by email. She was sitting against the incredible backdrop of Canary Wharf at night, clearly taken in Jonjo’s apartment, pouting at the camera, Posh-style. She had a great mane of rather artfully curled blond hair, was wearing a very low-cut black top with an extremely impressive cleavage tipping out of it, and a great deal of gold jewellery. Bianca thought she would put quite a lot of money on her being at the upper end of mid-thirties, and then settled down to the daily horror of trying to round up the sales figures.

There was a tap on the door.

‘Sorry. Only me . . .’ She felt inordinately pleased to see Bertie. He might not be the most dynamic person on the staff and was probably the worst financial director she had ever known, but he was one of the very few people she actually liked at Farrell’s. More importantly, everyone else seemed to like him too – and he was certainly trying hard to do what she wanted.

‘Hi, Bertie. Come on in. I’m just trying to sort out the KPIs, get them off to Mike.’

He looked at her anxiously, then said, ‘KPIs?’

‘Key Performance Indicators.’ How had this company survived at all? ‘Basically sales figures. I have to get them in every day. They don’t make very cheerful reading, but – anyway, glad to stop for a bit. What can I do for you, Bertie?’

‘Er – Susie said you might be looking for a PA.’

‘Oh, yes.’ It seemed very unlikely he would know anybody remotely suitable.

‘Friend of my son – well, older sister of said friend. Charming. Came to supper last night. She’s between jobs, very impressive, very tall – not that that’s got anything to do with it – got her CV here if you’d like to look at it, married to a very steady chap.’

Bianca half smiled at this observation, so like Bertie, and so apparently irrelevant, and then she reflected that a PA married to an unsteady chap could well cause her problems.

‘She sounds good so far,’ she said carefully.

‘Yes, I just felt you and she would get along really well. And she’s extremely calm, which I imagine would be a good thing.’

‘It certainly would. Thank you so much,’ she said, smiling politely and taking the CV. It seemed highly unlikely that this tall girl, whoever she was, would be remotely suitable, but she didn’t want to discourage him. ‘Thank you, Bertie, very thoughtful of you.’

She glanced at the CV – then sat back and read it intently. And looked up at Bertie.

‘When do you think she could come in and see me?’ she said.

Jemima Pendleton moved into Bianca’s office three days later. She was indeed very tall, six foot of breathtaking calm and efficiency, rather beautiful in a quiet sort of way, with long brown hair and large brown eyes, a voice that would have stilled a hurricane, low and gentle, and a smile that made Bianca feel better just looking at it.

She was just thirty, had worked for the Foreign Office, a barristers’ chambers and an IT company where she’d been secretary to the managing director. She could type at eighty words a minute, and do shorthand at 140 if required, plus her technical skills were awesome. She could, as she said to Bianca with a quiet smile, tame a spreadsheet, a set of sales figures (she had taken over the KPIs by the end of the week), absorb information as if by osmosis, and had a near-photographic memory. Caught without her phone or her iPad and therefore Bianca’s diary, she could still recall every engagement for several weeks to come. She didn’t mind dealing with domestic crises, liaising in her very first week with Sonia with cool competence when Fergie got hit on the head by a cricket ball and was taken to hospital with suspected concussion and neither Bianca nor Patrick could be reached for at least an hour, and on another occasion, when Bianca had a formal dinner and brought odd shoes to the office and Sonia was out collecting Milly from a party, called a cab, fetched the missing shoes and brought them back to the office while continuing to answer emails on her iPad almost without a break.

In spite of her steady husband she worked as early or as late as Bianca; the only thing wrong with her, as far as Bianca could see, was that she could quite clearly be running the company herself in a matter of months, and being a PA was not going to satisfy her for long. However, she explained to Bianca with her lovely, gentle smile that actually she loved being a PA and she didn’t want to do anything any more ambitious. When Bianca asked her why not, she said she had a project she was very involved in that absorbed her evenings and weekends, and she liked to keep some energy in reserve for that. She didn’t elaborate any further and Bianca didn’t press her, much as she wanted to. She just thanked God almost hourly for her – and Bertie too whenever she saw him.

‘Lady Farrell?’

‘Yes, this is she.’

‘Lady Farrell, it’s Marjorie, Marjorie Dawson. Do forgive me for telephoning you like this, but I am rather – rather worried and I wonder if you could find the time for a – a conversation.’

‘Marjorie, of course.’ Athina’s voice dripped graciousness. She was very fond of Marjorie Dawson. ‘But this is not it. Come in and see me, why don’t you?’

‘Oh – well – that would be very nice, but I’m working full-time at Rolfe’s, as you know, and evenings are out of the question, with Terry – my husband – to look after.’

‘Ah, yes, poor man.’ Athina’s voice did not exactly vibrate with sympathy. ‘How is he?’

‘Not – not very well. And we’ve just heard that due to the cuts his care will almost undoubtedly be less good.’

‘I’m sorry. But of course deeply necessary for the country, these cuts; no one seems to quite understand that there’s no alternative, that there’s simply no money in the kitty . . .’ Had Bianca heard this conversation, she might have found it puzzling that Lady Farrell was not able to extend this piece of financial savvy to her own position and that of Farrell’s. ‘But of course it’s difficult for everybody. We’re all in it together, as Mr Cameron says. Anyway, Marjorie, take a morning off. How about Friday?’

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

‘I’m quite sure. Shall we say eleven? Here in my office?’

‘Thank you, Lady Farrell, so much. Er – there is one other thing. It is rather – confidential, what I want to talk to you about. It concerns the – some new regulations.’

‘Marjorie,’ said Athina, ‘you can rest assured I will mention your visit and its cause to no one. Especially to the new management. We are still in charge, you know. Everything they do has to be with our approval. So if something is seriously worrying you, then I need to know about it first.’

‘Thank you, Lady Farrell. Till Friday, then.’

‘Jemima – ’

‘Yes, Bianca?’

‘I’d like to do a couple of store checks on Friday morning. I thought Kingston, and then perhaps Rolfe’s in Guildford.’

‘Fine. I’ll sort out a car.’

‘My darling, I think that’s a lovely idea. Your grandfather would have been thrilled! So much more sensible than the other idea, far too many graduates about these days.’

Lucy smiled at her.

‘I know. And I’m so excited about it. The thing is, Mummy and Daddy aren’t keen . . .’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh, they wanted me to stay at uni and aren’t prepared to pay for any course I might need to do.’

‘Very stupid of them, in my view.’

‘Well, I’ve found a really good short course, much cheaper than the big famous ones, run by a school called FaceIt. It only takes three months and then, when you’ve graduated, they become your agent.’

‘That sounds wonderful, darling. And I can’t help feeling three months is quite enough.’

‘Well, I’m glad you approve. I thought you would.’

There was a silence; then, ‘So, Lucy, how much does this course cost?’

‘Oh – two thousand pounds.’

‘Good gracious! Quite a lot, Lucy, for three months. You could learn most of it from one of our own consultants so I think you might consider that.’

‘Well, that’s a wonderful idea as far as it goes,’ said Lucy, swiftly tactful, ‘but this course does things like theatre make up – I want to work in films you see, one day – and hairstyling and things like that, which would mean more job opportunities for me.’

‘Yes, I see. Even so, one of our girls could give you a grounding. One of our top consultants, Marjorie Dawson, is coming in to see me on Friday as a matter of fact; I’ll have a word with her.’

‘That’d be great.’ She could hardly refuse; and she might learn a bit. ‘But I also wondered if—’ Their eyes met in perfect understanding.

‘If I’d pay for the course?’ said Athina briskly.

‘Well, not pay for it, but maybe lend me the money. I’d pay you back, set up a standing order and everything.’

A long silence; then ‘Yes, Lucy. And I’m glad you didn’t ask for me to pay for it.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! Thank you, Grandy. Very much.’

‘That’s all right. One other thing you might consider, which would provide you with a bit of pocket money, is working on one of the Farrell counters on Saturdays. You’d learn a lot. How would you feel about that?’

‘Oh, it would be brilliant!’ said Lucy, carefully enthusiastic.

‘Good. Well, I’ll organise that then. It will be good to have one of the younger generation involved in the firm. All helps with coping with these people.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Um – what are they like?’

‘Oh, the chief woman, Bianca Bailey, is impressive and not unlikeable, but I’ve yet to see proof that she’s going to do any good. Now darling, how would you like to come out to tea with your old granny one day soon? I’m told the Wolseley is rather splendid.’

‘I’d love to.’ How many grannies knew about the Wolseley, coolest place in town for tea at the moment?

‘Good. Then it’s a date. One day next week? And then you can show me a prospectus of this place and tell me more about it. Can they take you?’

‘Yes, next term. They had a cancellation and it’s quite important they have an even number of people on each course.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, you work in pairs, you see, making each other up. It does make sense. I’m so excited Grandy, thank you so, so much.’

‘That’s all right, darling, I’m glad you felt you could ask me. Now, how about next Thursday?’

‘Can I help you, madam?’

Bianca looked gloomily at the Farrell’s display in Rolfe’s of Guildford. It was neat, dull and uninviting. Not that that was the fault of the consultant: the promotional material was sent from head office. And the stand itself, horribly dated looking, was down to Farrell’s as well, of course. The cost of building it and maintaining it and then the cost of the space in the store – it all consumed a lot of money.

Moreover, there was no one apparently in charge. She asked to see the manager, who told her Marjorie had been summoned to head office for a meeting . . . ‘By Lady Farrell herself – she’s still in charge of the whole firm, you know. The young lady on the opposite counter is keeping an eye on things but is there anything I can help you with?’

‘No, no, that’s fine. Thank you very much.’

‘Marjorie, dear, do sit down. Would you like tea or coffee? And how are things at Rolfe’s? Such a nice store, one of my favourites.’

‘Oh – a bit quiet. Of course, no one’s having an easy time, it’s the recession . . .’

Marjorie’s voice tailed off as she tried to crush the picture of the heaving mass that had been the Brandon counter the evening before during late-night shopping.

‘Yes, of course. Well, it can’t go on for ever, I remember the one in the seventies – sugar, Marjorie? – it was far worse, although no one will admit it now. Anyway, tell me what you’re worried about.’

‘Well, recession or not, our weekly takings are quite – quite seriously down.’