A Perfect Heritage (13 page)

‘OK,’ said Jonjo, gesturing at the screens on his desk, ‘this is how it works. We have our trading screens and our phone boards, and on the phone boards we have squawk boxes that we and the clients can shout into. It’s like an open line. On the left is information – what’s worth what – on the right, what’s happening. And here, emails coming through, and these keys, look, these put us through to clients. You just press the relevant key and you’re through and you shout. You don’t get an answer till you’ve shouted several times, louder and louder, and then they shout back. Hang on, Patrick, someone coming through . . .’ He leaned forward, spoke into a mike on his desk, said, ‘Got one week to go at 6.5 . . . I’m 6.0 bid for you, Matt, keep showing it round.’ He waited a moment, staring into the noise, sat down again, then flicked the switch and turned back to Patrick. ‘OK?’

Patrick smiled at him weakly.

The floor was peopled ninety-five per cent by males, with a smattering of extremely pretty girls.

‘They’re called screen girls,’ said Jonjo. ‘They go round the clients making sure they’re getting all the information they need and it’s coming through all right on their screens. Obviously, they’re not ill-looking,’ he added. ‘All our customers are extremely hairy blokes, so it’s nicer for them, the girls don’t mind at all, possibly need to be a bit thick-skinned.’

Patrick tried to crush any thoughts of what some of Bianca’s more feminist associates and friends might make of this statement.

And all the time the money, the lead role in the cast of this absurd theatre, hung over it. ‘Four trillion dollars done in a day,’ Ali said, ‘cash that is, the trades are done in a microsecond.’ Trillions of dollars, up for grabs, there for the taking – if you could only translate the script.

And thank God I don’t have to, Patrick thought, feeling himself quail in the face of it all; for he knew he was to be taken from here, to a quiet place, safe from this sound and fury but somehow, and God knew how, what he did there, if he took the job, would have a bearing, and possibly an important one, on what they did here.

He felt excitement and fear in almost equal proportions.

‘Right,’ said Jonjo, ‘let’s go and find Saul.’

Mrs Blackman, the First Mistress (as she was called, in an attempt to emphasise St Catherine’s bid for equality with St Paul’s and their High Mistress) did not like taking girls in the middle of the academic year; but Carey Mapleton was the daughter of a knighted, Oscar-winning actor father and an ex-supermodel mother, and the report from her former school – The International Academy in Paris – would have set any headmistress salivating: five star academic prowess plus considerable achievement on the sports field, the gymnastics class, and the flute. All this, plus an offer of input into the school’s drama department from Sir Andrew, and Carey was clearly a pupil not to be lost.

It was agreed that she should join the school after the Easter holidays, and should join Form 3X; this would put her, as it happened, into the same class as Milly Bailey.

‘They are a particularly gifted group,’ said Mrs Blackman. ‘I think Carey will fit in extremely well there.’

Sir Andrew and Lady Mapleton murmured their thanks and thought, not for the first time, that it was as well that they had bestowed upon The Academy sufficient funding to build the foundations of a new theatre and a drama scholarship, thus removing any fear of Carey’s slight – very slight – behaviour irregularities being mentioned in her report . . .

‘Mrs Bailey—’

‘Bianca, Bertie, please.’

‘Sorry! Bianca, could I have a word?’

‘Of course.’ Increasingly she enjoyed words with Bertie; he was so calming, so sensible, so nice. ‘Come in, sit down. Jemima, could we have some – what, Bertie? Coffee? Tea?’

‘Oh, coffee, please.’

Jemima disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and Bianca smiled at Bertie. ‘Now – what can I do for you?’

‘Well, just something I heard. I was at a drinks do last night – Nip’s annual knees up.’

Nip, as it was affectionately known, was a professional body – National and International Perfumiers.

‘Oh yes, I couldn’t make it. Thank you for going, Bertie.’

‘Oh, nice to be of service. Yes, well, it was all the usual, of course. But I did hear something that I thought might be helpful. The marketing director of Persephone is looking to move on – frustrated by the present management. Nice woman, not sure if you’ve met her?’

‘Very briefly. What’s her name, Lara something?’

‘Lara Clements. Now, forgive me, but I imagine you would be looking for a marketing person?’

‘Yes,’ said Bianca. ‘A marketing person is absolutely key. Lawrence Ford is – not quite up to snuff, as my grandfather used to say. So it would be good to talk to Lara Clements. In strict confidence, of course.’

‘Of course. So what I could do—’ Jemima had come into the room with the coffee and Bertie stopped abruptly, looked at her anxiously. Bianca smiled

‘Jemima
is
confidence. She knows more about the company and the people here and even me than I do. Goodness, Bertie, I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t produced her. I say that nearly every day, don’t I, Jemima?’

Jemima smiled modestly, poured the coffee and disappeared again.

‘Right, back to Mrs Clements?’

‘I was impressed by her, just felt instinctively she’d suit you. She’s divorced,’ he added, ‘about – oh, late thirties, early forties? I liked her . . . not that that’s important.’

‘I think it could be
very
important,’ said Bianca, smiling at him. ‘Thank you Bertie. I’ll get on to her. I don’t suppose you’ve got any details . . . ?’

‘She said she was going to see Meredith Cole over the next few days, the headhunters, you know – sorry, of course you do – anyway, if you want to avoid a big management fee, you might like to strike first. I – well, I took the liberty of taking her email. I hope that’s all right.’

‘Bertie, it’s very much all right. Thank you so much. Could you email her, please, better if it comes from you as you’ve been talking to her, ask her if she’d like to come in for a chat with me?’

‘Yes, of course. If that’s how you’d like to play it.’

‘It is,’ said Bianca, ‘absolutely how I’d like to.’

Lara Clements came in for a chat the next evening; she was small, blonde and dynamic, with a slight, but unmistakable, Birmingham accent. Her credentials were superb: Business Studies degree at Manchester, going on to do a Masters (Distinction), marketing manager with two of the big food companies, and thence to Persephone, once a lyrically successful perfume house, now tumbling swiftly into oblivion, kicked on its way by a hopeless management team who appointed her as marketing director and then ignored everything she said.

‘I’d love to work for you of course,’ she said. ‘Your reputation goes before you. And I’d have a few ideas about Farrell’s which I’m not going to voice now, it would be cheeky—’

‘Be as cheeky as you like,’ said Bianca.

‘Oh, OK. Well, I’d minimalise the brand, only thing to do really. I mean, it’s very messy – lots of dated stuff, half buried, not getting decent displays, but still some great products. Now The Cream, that is a bit of gold dust.’

‘It is indeed.’

‘I’m glad you agree. Anyway, I imagine you don’t have unlimited funds to compete with the really big boys. So – cutting back, only thing to do really. And I’d love to get my hands on it, frankly. But I’ll be honest with you, I’d be afraid of the same thing happening to me here, of being not listened to. I mean, the Farrell family – still here, still with controlling interest . . .’

‘Believe me,’ said Bianca briskly, ‘the same thing would not happen here. I don’t do not listening. Waste of money and even more of time. Well, thank you for coming. And please don’t sign up with anyone else for a day or two. I have to talk to my board and of course there are a lot of other things to be sorted out.’

‘Of course. Your HR person couldn’t be here, I presume?’

‘No,’ said Bianca, ‘pity, just one of those things. Well, I’ll get back to you in twenty-four hours.’

After Lara Clements’ small and impressive presence had left her office, she sat staring out of the window, thinking about her HR person. It would be ridiculous of course – and yet so sensible. It fitted in with her philosophy of seeking out existing potential, however unexpected. It would deal with one set of problems, while undoubtedly creating at least one more serious one. God, it was complicated!

Well, that had been awful, Lucy thought. Terribly awful. The longest four hours she could ever remember. Nothing to do except smile and try to look interested. And rearrange some already rearranged lipsticks. If this was the future of Farrell’s it didn’t look very bright – and Marjorie Dawson had told her that Rolfe’s was one of the prime consultant sites.

There’d been a much jollier counter over the other side of the department and she wished she’d been with them, especially around midday when they’d practically disappeared they were so surrounded with people and her corner remained hopelessly empty.

It had been quite embarrassing, at the end of it, as she said goodbye to Marjorie, who had looked really awkward and said, ‘I’m sorry it’s been so quiet, dear, it’s usually busier than that. Perhaps best not mention it to your grandmother, it might worry her . . .’

And Lucy, understanding immediately, had smiled at her and said of course she wouldn’t mention it, and indeed she wouldn’t, but it must be quite worrying for the poor lady . . .

Anyway, if enduring the Saturdays was the price she must pay for her grandmother’s encouragement and interest, then it was worth it. Meanwhile she’d got a job working in a pub in Surbiton, three nights a week.

But it was awful living at home; her mother was so totally horrible to her father, and he tried so hard to do what her mother wanted; he’d even gone on her wretched diet and Lucy actually did think he was beginning to look a bit thinner; he’d been quite handsome when he was young, rather like his own father indeed, only not quite so good-looking. Grandfather Cornelius had looked a bit like a film star, and she’d been terribly upset when he died. She’d never forgotten his memorial service; the church had been completely packed, not just with family and friends and people Lucy recognised from the company, but countless distinguished-looking old people. A famous actor person read one of the lessons and her mother had been in her element, barging up to people and introducing herself. Her father had stayed quietly at her side, talking to Florence who had been a study in silent dignity, very pale and subdued. Grandy was flitting about, drinking glass after glass of champagne, looking extremely glamorous, sparkling away at everyone.

It had been the first time Lucy had been properly aware of belonging to something rather more famous and important than most families. Remembering it now, she felt sad that clearly it was that no longer and was probably going to disappear into nothingness.

All for getting things wrong and being hopelessly out of date, when once clearly it had got everything right and was bang on the money. She wondered if she could, in some way, help reverse that. Silly she supposed, but she did rather like the idea.

Chapter 13

This was, without doubt, the presentation of her life, the toughest she had ever done. It was only just within the time frame that had been allotted, perhaps a little over – no, not perhaps, Bianca, actually, and by nearly two weeks.

It would take all morning, this meeting; there was a lot to present, her overview of the company, what was wrong with it and what would be right and she had her own clear vision now of the House of Farrell, of what she must do, where she could take it, her vision for it.

What she was doing today was selling them all, with their complex and differing demands and expectations, her plan; and she had to take them with her, persuade them it was right and workable, and for that the numbers had to add up. She was under no illusions; the most brilliant marketing strategy in the world would mean nothing whatsoever to her audience unless the financial bottom line was convincing; that was all the Porter Bingham people would be interested in.

It would get quite brutal, at times, she knew; she would, having outlined the changes she felt necessary, present her organogram, who was in charge of what, what needed doing, what was going to be put on the scrap heap, and then her plans for the staff for the next stage: which jobs would be put in place, which reorganised, which would disappear; and the line of reporting would be defined. If you cut out confusion, you cut out a lot of objection.

She woke up at five, slithered out of bed, kissing Patrick goodbye, went for a run and then drove straight to the office to bathe and dress – one of the more valuable legacies bequeathed her by Lady Farrell was an old-fashioned but perfectly functioning bathroom adjacent to her office. She had planned her outfit thoughtfully: sleek cream Joseph dress, red LK Bennett shoes, red Reiss cardigan – the air conditioning could go crazy and the last thing she wanted was to be distracted by feeling cold.

The meeting was timed for nine and that meant an hour with Jemima for the run through of the technical part of the presentation, so that there was no chance of any kind of a fuck-up, or even a faltering.

She stood quietly composed in the boardroom while Jemima set out copies of the agenda. And then Liz in reception announced the arrival first of Hugh and Mike, then Peter Warren, the non-executive chairman, with his air of charm and calm, then Caro and Bertie, and Florence, looking rather determinedly composed, and finally, almost fifteen minutes late, the temptation to phone her almost beyond endurance, Lady Farrell at her most imperious, dressed all in black – dress, jacket, shoes, bag, even her hat, a vast saucer of a thing, swathed in black ostrich feathers – the only relief her triple string of pearls and a large gold and emerald brooch on one lapel. Let no one mistake how I feel about today, those clothes were saying: that a tragedy is about to befall the House of Farrell . . .

‘So very sorry,’ she said, smiling sweetly, removing the hat, holding it out to Jemima to hang up, ‘traffic too awful. I’m sure I’m not the only one held up.’

‘Oddly yes,’ said Bianca, returning the smile, ‘but of course we knew you were coming. And we could hardly start without you.’

Bianca presented her overview of the brand as it was now, a ‘once high-end brand founded on colour products, with a sound footing in skincare’, had moved down into the mastige market – that is, mass market trying to be prestige – ‘but you’ll all know that’ swamped by the competition and not up-to-the minute on trend, which a colour brand must be. ‘Skincare, The Cream apart, has seriously lost its way, formulations and concepts are out of date, no presence in the major stores, doing all right in the self-selection areas of upmarket chemists’, summed up in a sentence as ‘respectable, quite good, even, but yesterday’s . . .

‘But we do have strengths,’ she went on. ‘We have a wonderful history, which we have totally failed to capitalise on, sixty years – and I don’t need to tell you how relevant that is in next year’s Diamond Jubilee year – of amazing stories and proud connections. We have traditions of quality also uncapitalised. We have some magnificent products, our hero – or if you would prefer it, heroine product – being, as I have said, The Cream.

‘We have an archive that our more modern competitors would kill for, photographs of the classiest of society ladies in the Berkeley Arcade shop, written testimonials from models and actresses as well as those ladies, a founder who is still most wonderfully working for and with us, with superb connections and many honours, including an MBE, The Shop itself, and I believe, indeed I
know
, we can use all that and much much more to restore the House of Farrell to where it belongs.’

She smiled round the table. The family were looking complacent and quite benign; she had them with her for the time being. However . . .

‘Time for the less good news,’ Bianca said and launched into the figures, the falling sales, the rising costs, the wastage, a shortage of relevant staff, an embarrassment of irrelevant.

‘I would now like to present to the board the organisation of the new company.’ This was the kind of occasion when she felt it most: the total dependence on her and her talents to deliver. The buck stopped with her and she was very, very alone. She felt a rush of fear at the sheer enormity of her task, followed by one of adrenalin. This was it. This was what she was about.

‘Mrs Bailey . . .’

‘Yes, Lady Farrell?’

‘This is
not
a new company. The House of Farrell, as you have already told us, is sixty years old. I would be grateful for further recognition of that fact. We, the family, do not wish to be told we are on the board of a new company. And indeed I am most thankful that my husband is not here to hear it.’

‘Lady Farrell, forgive me. Perhaps I should have said the newly
structured
company.’

‘Perhaps you should.’

‘I’m sorry. I would now like to present the organisation of the . . . newly structured company . . . and the report lines for any business and any vision starts with having the best people, in particular the senior management team and the reporting.’

‘Reporting? What is a reporting?’ Having found her voice, Athina was reluctant to lose it again.

‘Put simply, it is who reports to whom.’

‘I see. Do go on.’

‘Thank you, Lady Farrell.’

She talked on: the need for new people and departments: ‘All the people who will work along with me to deliver the vision I am about to share with you. We need a new marketing director – I have a candidate, an excellent one, who I hope you will approve; a sales director, in association with the marketing director, both reporting to me – I would like to consider as a matter of urgency a change of advertising agency—’

‘Mrs Bailey?’

‘Yes, Lady Farrell?’

‘Langland Dennis and Colborne have worked extremely effectively and loyally for the House of Farrell from its birth. Why should you want to change them for another, untried, agency?’

‘Lady Farrell, they have done some excellent work in the past, but the brand has to change dramatically and the advertising agency has to understand that. I am also, having talked to them, not at all confident that they are up to speed on present-day media, but obviously I would ask them to present along with any other agencies we are considering. Now, if I might move on?

‘Essentially we need an HR director since Caroline Johnson has resigned, and I am formulating that appointment and will present my ideas to the board on another occasion – and of course, an IT director. I am also giving serious consideration to outsourcing product development; the lab can possibly be dispensed with, once a product development manager has been appointed.’

There was a rustling of papers from Lady Farrell before she spoke of the problems of supervision from a distance, and confidentiality; Bianca dismissed her objections swiftly and smoothly and Lady Farrell rummaged in her bag, pulled out a notebook and gold propelling pencil, and made a lengthy note, passing it across the table to Bertie when she had finished: it was a masterclass in attention-seeking. Bianca waited until it was done, then smiled at her and cleared her throat.

‘I also propose giving the position of publicity manager greater seniority, and that Susie Harding is made publicity director.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry but no. I simply cannot agree to that.’ Athina stood up. ‘Miss Harding’s work has been extremely poor, she has no concept of class, or quality, she consorts professionally with the most extraordinary people, these – these
bloggers
– and she has no respect for our traditions.’

‘Lady Farrell, when I move on to how I see the House of Farrell, my vision for it indeed, it will, I hope, become clear that Susie is remarkably
au fait
with a very high-class, prestigious indeed, House of Farrell, that her ambitions for it are as great as yours.’

Caro raised her hand, her normally rather pale face flushed. ‘I would just like to say at this juncture that I fully support my mother in opposing this appointment.’

‘I will make a note of that, Caro,’ said Bianca with a sweet smile. ‘Now, I have other personnel considerations and observations which I would like to present for your approval, but they are in broad outline and need detailed discussion. They include the future of the consultant force.’

‘Well,’ said Athina, ‘I’m sure we can hardly wait for them. In the light of your other extraordinary ideas.’

This was so rude that even Bianca flinched; Peter Warren cleared his throat, and said, firmly charming, ‘Lady Farrell, I would suggest that we give Bianca the courtesy of hearing her out, without further interruption. I can imagine you find some of her views unsympathetic, difficult even, but she has the progress of the company absolutely at heart and I’m sure I speak for the whole board when I say that.’

He smiled round the room, and then at Athina, his handsome face clearly settling her. Here was a man, her frosty smile at him and curt nod to Bianca said, who knew what was what, and how to behave. Bianca took a deep breath, and continued.

This was where her presentation had to sing, had to mean enough to the family to at least reach them. This was the part that they would be most concerned about, would have strongest objections to; she had to take them with her now, or she would lose them for ever and, therefore, any hope of enjoying their cooperation.

‘There is so much that is good about the House of Farrell,’ she began, ‘and my hopes and plans and indeed, my vision for it, are all based on that fact.

‘First I would like to outline what I know we cannot do. We cannot compete with the big colour brands, Mac, Brandon, Bobbi Brown. We don’t have the budget, or even the capacity. Colour launches now are much more complex. There has to be an added benefit: lip colours have to plump up mouths, eye colours care for delicate tissue – you all know the sort of thing. In skincare I believe we still have an edge, and a story to tell, largely thanks to The Cream, and I believe we should build on that. I have ideas for a new concept—’

‘Mrs Bailey,’ said Athina, standing up, ‘The Cream is our greatest product. I do warn you, to tamper with that would be an act of considerable folly.’

‘Lady Farrell, I have no intention of tampering with The Cream, I mean merely to extend its range. Of course that won’t be easy, and we don’t have research facilities in any way comparable with those of say, L’Oréal and Lauder—’

‘And your response to that is to close down our own lab altogether?’ said Athina, her voice shaking. ‘I really find much of what you say complete madness.’

‘Lady Farrell, I’m sorry. Please hear me out. And of course we will still have a laboratory, even more creative than the present one.’

They faced one another, Athina brilliant-eyed, flushed, Bianca, coolly patient, waiting to resume. Finally Athina sat down.

‘Thank you,’ Bianca said. ‘So, what is left to – or rather
for
– us?’

Lady Farrell was heard to murmur ‘what indeed?’, Caroline Johnson to sigh and raise her eyebrows at her mother, Bertie Farrell to look uncomfortable on their behalf and to smile at Bianca, whereupon his mother gave him a murderous look.

Hugh Bradford and Mike Russell sat impassively, benignly poker-faced. Earlier colleagues who had been in similar situations with them would have said, however, that neither of them was evincing any real sign of enthusiasm. It was not a receptive environment.

Bianca Bailey took a long drink of water, walked to the other end of the table, and without either props or electronic aids, began to speak with more passion than she had displayed before.

Because there was the overall plan, the detailed plan, the financial plan – and then there was the real plan. The key, the idea that made sense of it all, brought it alive, gave it identity. She always feared it would not come, while knowing it would, because it had to. And once more she had found her alchemy, as a journalist had once called it. Such a whimsical name for so crucially pragmatic a skill as she possessed. It had a lot to do, her alchemy: it had to inspire imagination, earn trust and respect, unite staff, attract investment – and above all, make money.

‘So,’ she said, taking a deep breath, ‘this brings me to what I know we should do and I’m extremely excited about it.’

She drew a picture for them: of a brand transformed from within itself – of a small, exclusive range, with a face that was younger, and more fashionable but still in possession of the same class and quality and grace that had long been its greatest strength.

‘This range will sit beside the original one, on the counters; it will feature in the advertising, it will be an ambassador, if you like, for the rest. New people will see it, try it, people who would not have come to Farrell’s before, or perhaps have ceased to come. The packaging will echo the present style, but it will look cleaner, more modern, more luxurious. I had hoped to have something to show you today, but I’m not satisfied I have the answer. When I am, you shall all see it.