A Perfect Heritage (36 page)

‘You’ve got two houses? Your family? No one else like sharing it or anything?’

‘Well, not really. But honestly, Jayce, it’s so not grand or anything. It’s just – well, you know, for the – the—’

She stopped. Clearly to say ‘just for the weekends’ would sound worse. ‘Just some weird idea of my parents,’ she finally finished lamely. ‘It’s quite boring, after a bit. I mean, I’d never go there if I didn’t have to.’

‘I’d like to,’ said Jayce. ‘I really would. You’re lucky, Milly, I’d say.’

She smiled at Milly; and Milly thought how nice she was, so devoid of envy or resentment. Yet her home sounded like an invention for reality TV: there were five children, of whom Jayce was the middle one. ‘There’s Stash, he’s my mum’s eldest, he’s seventeen, he’s quite nice to me, and then there’s my other half-brother Zak, he’s like totally vile, and then Paris, she’s nine and Cherice is two.’

‘And they’re your real sisters?’ asked Milly carefully.

‘God no. I wish they was, but they’re my mum’s with her new boyfriend, he’s a bit of a bully. He doesn’t live with us all the time, thank God, but when he comes, we all have to watch it. Paris can deal with him, she’s his favourite, but Cherice, she really gets up his nose. Mind you, she’s properly annoying. She put Stash’s iPod down the toilet last week. He thumped her well hard, she screamed for hours, anyway, then Ryan, that’s Mum’s boyfriend, he turned up and said he’d get Stash a new one if everyone would shut up and let him have a bit of peace.’

Milly listened, fascinated. It all sounded a lot more interesting than her own family.

Jayce pulled out a couple of Hobnobs from her pocket; she kept a supply permanently about her person, in case of emergencies.

‘Want one?’

Milly shook her head.

‘So how’s it with them girls today? Had anything from them?’

‘Not much,’ said Milly.

Only a text saying
Do hope you’re enjoying shopping with your lovely new friend. We all thought she looked just GREAT. Lovely skin
.

And a whole lot of stuff on Facebook about what a great time they’d all had skating at Somerset House the day before and so sorry she hadn’t been there. Lots and lots of pictures of them and then one of a big group, all laughing and sticking out their tongues and then
You should take your new friend skating, Mills, wouldn’t hurt her at all to fall down, lots of padding
.

They’d made Milly so angry she’d nearly replied. It was all very well them being mean to her, but to pick on Jayce, with whom they had no quarrel at all, that was just so horrible. Milly looked at Jayce, at her good-natured, plump face and thought she’d really be quite pretty if she wasn’t so spotty. But they’d just come back even worse. Ignoring them was the only way.

‘Milly! Hello!’

It was Ruby, Ruby and one of her friends, both on their scooters, and the friend’s mother. Milly stared at them in horror.

‘Hello, Milly,’ said the mother, clearly wondering what on earth Milly was doing with Jayce. ‘Lovely to see you. We’re just off to see the new
Shrek
film. I’d ask you to join us but I expect it’d be much too babyish for you.’

‘Oh, please Milly!’ Ruby was always so proud of her big, cool sister, and her friends were so impressed. ‘Please come!’

‘No, no,’ said Milly, horribly aware that the mother was looking worriedly at Jayce, in case she had to invite her too. She knew she should have introduced Jayce to them, but she couldn’t face that. ‘No, we’re going to have lunch. Thanks though,’ she added. ‘Come on, Jayce.’

And she pulled Jayce up from the seat, and set off briskly down the hill.

‘You could at least have let me tell Saul you weren’t coming to Kempton on Boxing Day,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s rude enough without him having to hear it from you.’ He glared at Bianca over the omelette she had made for their supper, before going out to Fergie’s Christmas play.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Bianca, ‘what difference does it make? He needed to know, he mentioned it, I told him.’

‘It just looks – bad. He issued the invitation to me, you hardly know him – I’d have liked to reply properly, for both of us.’

‘Patrick Bailey, you are insane,’ said Bianca, trying to turn it into a joke. ‘Like I said, you act like you’re in love with him, or something.’

‘Don’t be so absurd. When did you tell him anyway?’

‘When he rang up to thank me for having him and Dickon on Boxing Day. It was a perfectly natural opportunity to tell him. He was saying how good it would be and—’

‘And you just pour cold water on the whole idea. Without telling me you’d told him. He’s my boss, Bianca, not just any old acquaintance.’

‘I—’

There was a ring at the door and Bianca went to answer it. She was a while, talking in the hall, then came back frowning.

‘Who was that?’

‘Joanna Richards. She brought Ruby back. She – well, she just told me something. She was obviously embarrassed, but she said she felt she had to.’

‘What?’ said Patrick.

‘She said she saw Milly on Primrose Hill today, with – with a girl. Apparently this girl was very working class. Overweight, that sort of thing.’

‘Do remind me never to invite the Richards to this house again,’ said Patrick, ‘if that’s the sort of thing they feel they should tell us.’

‘Patrick, please. You know how odd Milly’s been lately. Withdrawn, miserable, never sees her old friends. I just wondered – well, it’s horribly easy at that age to get in with a bad lot. And she’s never mentioned this girl to us.’

‘And what would she say if she did? Oh, hello, Mummy and Daddy, I’ve got a new friend, she’s a bit common and quite overweight, you’d really like her. Are you mad, Bianca? Milly’s thirteen, this sort of thing is bound to happen, she’ll want to make interesting new friends, not just the old gang.’

‘She didn’t sound very interesting,’ said Bianca.

‘Oh really? And how could the delightful Mrs Richards tell that? Did she try to engage with her in conversation about the political situation? Or maybe she suggested a new diet the girl might try—’

‘Oh, just shut up,’ said Bianca wearily, ‘and don’t blame me if it turns out Milly’s getting into drugs or something.’

‘Which of course all young working-class people, especially overweight ones, are. I’m disappointed in you, Bianca, I really am.’

‘So you don’t think we should even mention this girl to Milly? Ask her who she is?’

‘You can. I’m certainly not going to. Anyway, we must go, we’ll be late for the play. Is Milly coming?’

‘She said she would, but she’s still up in her room.’

As if on cue, Milly arrived. She was dressed to go out, wearing rather more eye make up than usual.

‘Shouldn’t we go? We don’t want to be late for Fergie.’

‘Of course not. Um – had a nice day, darling?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Oh, you know. Went shopping, and stuff.’

‘On your own? With friends?’

‘Mostly on my own, not that it matters. Look, come on, you know you can never park anywhere near that place. And Fergie’ll be so upset if we’re late. Not that you’d care,’ she added under her breath.

‘Milly, what did you say?’

‘Nothing. Just come
on
!’

Chapter 35

So why had she said that? Why had she said that there wasn’t a significant other? Well, of course she knew why, because she didn’t want things to go in any but the best possible way. And, in a way it was true. Only of course it wasn’t. It was just that she could make it true quite easily. Well . . .

So she had said it, had said no, there wasn’t and he’d looked seriously pleased. Of course, he didn’t
live
with Guinevere, but there was living together and living together and of course she and Henk didn’t either, not full-time, not any more. She hadn’t allowed that, had said they’d have to see, but most nights he did still stay, and he was only dossing down on a friend’s sofa when he wasn’t at Susie’s, so it was a bit different. But what should she have said? ‘Well, not exactly. In fact, I’d thrown him out because he knocked me about but now I’ve sort of taken him back although we’re not actually living together any more, or sleeping together.’ That was the truthful answer, and she could see it would result in Jonjo leaving The Ivy pretty swiftly and never calling her again. But presumably he was sleeping with Guinevere, so . . .

‘Oh God,’ she said aloud, as she helped her mother clear the lunch table.

‘What was that, dear?’

‘Oh, sorry. Nothing. I just – just remembered I hadn’t called someone. I’ll do it later.’

‘All right dear. Now, are you coming in for drinks with the Raymonds this evening? I know they’d love to see you.’

And because she was feeling so bad about herself and the way she was behaving, Susie said yes, of course, because she knew it would please her parents and some sort of penance might help a bit. She heard her phone go from the sideboard where she had left it; she looked at it.

Happy Christmas!
it said.
How’s yours? Wish u were here. Jonjo
. And then a kiss. God. She could feel that kiss, just looking at it on the screen. He was an amazing kisser. He had given her another spectacular sample on the night of The Ivy, as she thought of it. They’d sat there for hours, getting drunker and drunker and then he’d suggested they had dinner: ‘To make up for the one we didn’t have.’ So they did, and then he suddenly looked at his watch and said, ‘Jesus, it’s one o’clock! Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to take you home. I’ve got to be in the office by five, don’t ask why.’

‘Jonjo,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to take me home, I’ll just get a cab.’

‘Sure? I’ll call you one. I feel really bad, but—’

‘No, no it’s fine,’ she said. And she meant it, although she couldn’t help feeling just very slightly disappointed, but then when the cab came and she climbed into it after kissing him briefly on the lips, he said, ‘Oh shit’ and climbed into it beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, drawing her to him, his lips already in her hair, ‘but I can’t deny myself half an hour in a taxi with you.’

And the half hour was an amazing rollercoaster of kissing and stroking and longing and wanting and just sheer sexual excitement, so violent that when they finally reached her street she could hardly move for it.

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Susie, you are amazing. Extraordinary. I cannot tell you how much I want to – well, you probably worked that out for yourself. But I just have to go home.’

Which was just as well, she thought, as she gave him a last, comparatively brief kiss, as there were, without doubt, traces of Henk in the flat, like his dressing gown hanging beside hers on the bathroom door. It had annoyed her, that, and he promised every time to take it away again, but he hadn’t yet.

‘Next time, you must come to mine,’ Jonjo said. ‘I’m a terrible cook, but I have several very good takeaway arrangements. I’ll call you. Goodnight. Thank you for a really lovely evening.’

And he banged on the window of the cab and it carried him away.

Only time ran out and it was Christmas and they both had to leave London, so it was down to a quick drink, and a brief snog, and he said, ‘I’ll see you soon. I’m kind of booked up for New Year and I’m sure you are too.’ And she said, yes, she was, of course. Which she wasn’t, except for Henk booking her without saying what for, and she could have cancelled that without a qualm – but maybe she could use the occasion to finish things with him . . .

‘Coffee, darling? said her mother.

‘Dad! I just heard your phone. You’ve got a text. Oh, wow you’re so cool.’ Lucy leaned over in the middle of cracker-pulling and gave her father a kiss.

‘A text?’ said Priscilla. ‘Who on earth would be sending you one of those things, in the middle of Christmas lunch?’

‘No idea,’ said Bertie, thankful that his phone was in his trouser pocket, rather than left on the hall table. ‘I expect it’s a charity or something. Or from Orange. They’re always telling me I can look at my bill online or some such nonsense.’

‘Well, aren’t you going to look?’

‘No, of course not. Why should I?’

‘Well, most normal people would – it’s such an odd time to do it.’

‘Mum,’ said Rob, ‘leave him alone.’

Rob had arrived home late on Christmas Eve, after a heavy evening drinking with his mates, too late to go to Midnight Mass which was one of Priscilla’s absolute traditions. Such was the degree of favouritism he enjoyed, he had already been forgiven and his interjection now saved Bertie. Priscilla sighed heavily, but then returned to dishing up the Christmas vegetable platter that was the
spécialité
of her
maison
: parsnips and sprouts were joined by carrots, tenderstem broccoli, baby courgettes and squash. In another bowl was red cabbage and in yet another, potatoes mashed with grain mustard. Then there were the pigs in blankets, the roasted potatoes, the— Bertie, who already had indigestion, asked to be excused, went into the loo, and looked at the text. It was from Lara.

Happy Christmas Bertie. Hope you’re having fun. Love Lara
and then a whole row of kisses. And although he knew she was probably drunk, and that everyone put ‘love’ on their texts, the row of kisses did seem a little bit special and he sat smiling at it, filled with a warmth that had nothing to do with the Christmas spirit and everything to do with something happy and filled with promise and far removed from Priscilla’s indignant, red-faced Christmas exhaustion. Although promise of what he could not imagine.

Much against his will, he deleted the text, for Priscilla was bound to return to the subject, and went back to the table, to be reprimanded for not serving the cranberry sauce, which he had made and which was his particular job. But the warmth, and indeed the happiness, stayed with him for the rest of the day.

Christmas Day had been all right, Bianca thought. Better than she’d feared. She wondered if the heady, magical quality it had once had was gone for ever, and tried to be grown up about it.

Milly had managed to stay cool and sulky until she opened her main present, an iPad, whereupon she got very excited. Bianca was slightly shaken by the modest presents Milly gave her and Patrick, a DVD of
Downton Abbey
for her, and one of
The Killing
for Patrick; Milly usually put an enormous amount of thought into her gifts and these were a bit of a non-event. But she gave lovely things to the others, a new riding whip for Ruby, and two new computer games for Fergie.

Saul only called twice on Christmas Day, one of them to fix a meeting place for Kempton, and Patrick and she called a truce and actually had some very good sex late on Christmas night when the children had gone to bed, which was a long-time tradition of theirs. It was the first time for weeks and she thought of mentioning the fact, but decided not to, mostly because afterwards, when she had finished crying, Patrick told her how very much he loved her and gave her another present – also part of the tradition – a very beautiful silk scarf from Alexander McQueen in the most wonderful muted colours which would go with almost everything in her wardrobe.

Even Boxing Day was all right. Saul, Patrick, Fergie and Dickon arrived home soon after five, and Saul, clearly working very hard at being communicative, talked quite a lot over an early supper and revealed, in a rare piece of soul-baring, that he was completely gutted that his horse hadn’t done better at Kempton that day.

‘She’s done so well recently, three firsts in a row. George, my trainer, decided a couple of months ago she’d do better held at the back of the field for longer, very successful until today and the going was perfect for her, but anyway . . . and I had such hopes for her at Cheltenham.’

Bianca thought it was the longest speech she had ever heard him make.

He brought a couple of bottles of superb claret for Patrick and some vintage Bollinger for her and Dickon was sweet, trailing round after Fergie who was not altogether displeased with the adoration, and they all played charades with the children in the evening. Saul was worse at charades than anyone Bianca had ever known, stiff, unimaginative, embarrassed, but then confounded them all in his third go when he suddenly took off and staggered in, falling over his own feet, the trilby hat he had worn to the races dangling rakishly over one eye, drinking straight from a bottle of whisky, and said he was the Christmas spirit.

As they left, he kissed her on the cheek, and said it had been the best Christmas he could ever remember, which she thought was a sad reflection on all others, and said he hadn’t forgotten her shop problem and how was it going?

She said very well, and he asked if she’d persuaded the VCs to give her some more money for the shops; she said no, she hadn’t, and he said more fool them.

Patrick asked her, when Saul had gone, why he was so well-informed about the Farrell relaunch and she said, slightly irritably, that she had discussed it with him over dinner in Paris. ‘We had to talk about something, and he was very perceptive.’

Whereupon Patrick said Saul was one of the most perceptive men he had ever met, and then thanked her for giving him and Dickon such a nice evening, and he was extremely grateful to her. And they went and sat on the sofa and held hands and watched the
Downton Abbey
DVD. Fergie and Milly came in and saw them and Fergie said, ‘Look at them, they’re holding hands, yuk or what?’ and Milly told them to budge up and sat down with them to watch as well, snuggled up to her father, her hand reaching across him for her mother’s. Which was the best moment for Bianca of the whole two days.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps everything was going to be all right.

Athina had spent Christmas with Caro and Martin at their house.

They exchanged stocking gifts in the morning, then went to church and for a walk and returned for a very nice meal which Martin had cooked – pheasant and then syllabub – and then exchanged proper gifts. Caro presented her mother with a piece of sheet music of ‘Let’s Fall in Love’, actually signed by Cole Porter, and Martin did rather well, giving her a framed cover of
Vogue
dated June 1953, which of course was not only the year of the coronation, but the year Farrell’s was launched and it contained a glowing review of the new brand. Athina found herself near to tears by the thoughtfulness of these gifts and Caro, noticing, put her arm round her mother’s shoulders – an unheard of event – and said how very brave and wonderful she thought Athina had been over the takeover and that the brand would still be nothing without her mother’s style and instinct. Martin then nodded off over his port and Caro and Athina got out some of the old press cuttings and spent a very happy two hours reminiscing and saying that really Bianca Bailey didn’t have the slightest idea what she was doing.

There was a very charming photograph of Athina and Cornelius tying a huge red Christmas bow on the door of The Shop in the Berkeley Arcade and another of Cornelius dressed as Father Christmas inside with Florence, of all people, perched on his knee, his arm round her, she planting a very perky kiss on his cheek.

‘How sweet!’ Caro said.

‘Yes, well, I often thought she had a bit of a crush on him,’ said Athina. ‘He was always so good to her, of course, so courteous and considerate.’

‘She was very pretty, wasn’t she?’ said Caro thoughtfully. ‘Didn’t you ever worry she might actually make a play for him?’

‘Good heavens, no!’ said Athina. ‘And even if she had, she was so absolutely not his type. He saw Florence for what she was, which was just a little shop girl, when all was said and done. Poor Florence, what a sad, unfulfilled life she has led.’

She should never have allowed herself to think everything was going to be all right. It was fatal.

But she’d checked and re-checked everything, rehearsed herself, rehearsed everyone else, foreseen problems, worked round them and even Athina seemed rather sweetly agreeable. Bianca looked at her watch: forty-eight hours to go to the start of the conference, the meet and greet. Everything seemed in order. Except – well, except she still didn’t have the perfume samples. But Ralph Goodwin had called her to reassure her that they would be with her in the morning. He was bringing them up himself, he said, and wanted to talk her through the fragrance. Bianca had said, slightly testily, that she wanted to smell the fragrance, not be talked through it, and he had said of course, of course, he just wasn’t one hundred per cent happy with it yet, but they were very nearly there. She tried not to worry about it; it would be all right, of course it would.

The hotel, a flashily over-impressive pile (but that was what you wanted for a conference) converted from the original Victorian Gothic mansion, with amazing grounds, was ready for their arrival, the ballroom converted into a conference hall, its doorway (at considerable expense) mocked up as the entrance to the Berkeley Arcade shop. Jemima was there now supervising things together with Jonathan Tucker.

Dinner on the first night would be an informal buffet, attended by everyone from the highest to the lowest and absurdly, Bianca felt – but she had had no option but to agree – including the family’s personal driver, Colin Peterson, who Athina now rather grudgingly paid herself, and his wife.