A Perfect Heritage (44 page)

Milly shrugged. ‘Not really.’

‘I was always doing it. Playing truant, I mean. But I never got caught. Want a muffin?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Still, she’s pretty cool, your mum. I’m sure she won’t be too bad.’

‘Is she? Cool?’

‘God, yes. I met her at the conference and she was fantastic. My mother is
so
not cool,’ she added. ‘My Dad’s OK. He works at Farrell’s; he was in the office when you arrived.’

‘He works there too?’

‘Yup. Oh, we’re all Farrells. My grandmother, well, with my grandfather, they started it.’

‘Wow!’ Milly forgot to be cool and miserable. ‘So your grandmother is Lady Farrell? I’ve heard my mother talking about her.’

‘That’s right. Now she’s cool, even though she’s eighty-something.’

‘So do you work for them too?’

‘Yes. Not full-time, just doing make up, creating looks. I did some for the sales conference. I’m a make-up artist. And I got a really cool assignment this morning, doing the make up for something called London Fashion Week.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Milly. She felt much better suddenly. ‘What a cool thing to do.’ Make-up artist: that was the sort of job that would make sense. That would be good. Rather than a lawyer which her father was so keen on.

‘Yes, it is. Hard work but I really do enjoy it. I was at uni, and I left to go to make-up school.’ She grinned at Milly. ‘My parents acted like I’d gone on the streets.’

‘Oh what?’ said Milly. ‘That is just so pathetic.’

‘I know. But they can only think one way, parents.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘You sure you don’t want a muffin?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Go on. So . . .’ She looked at Milly casually. ‘School? How’s that?’

‘Crap,’ said Milly. ‘Totally crap.’ And burst into tears.

Lucy delivered her back to Bianca’s office just before one.

A woman was there who looked rather glamorous, or would have if she wasn’t so old. She had snow-white hair and a red dress and was wearing a lot of jewellery and she looked Milly up and down as if she was something in a shop window.

‘Good morning,’ she said finally. ‘And who are you?’

‘I’m Emily Bailey,’ said Milly, meeting her eyes, refusing to be cowed. ‘Bianca Bailey’s daughter.’

‘Oh, really? Shouldn’t you be at school?’

‘Grandy!’ said Lucy, shooting an embarrassed look at Milly.

‘I should, yes,’ said Milly firmly, refusing to elaborate.

‘Sorry,’ said Lucy, clearly feeling an introduction might help. ‘Milly, this is my grandmother, Lady Farrell.’

‘How do you do?’ said Milly politely.

‘OK, Grandy, I’m all set. She’s taking me out to lunch, Milly, to celebrate London Fashion Week. It’s been so nice to meet you. Don’t forget what I said. Oh, Daddy, hello again. You joining us for lunch?’

‘Absolutely not,’ the old lady said, glaring at a man who was also rather old, although not as much as her, who had put his head round the door. ‘This is an exclusive occasion, Lucy. Come along. We’ll lose our table.’

Jemima emerged from Bianca’s office.

‘Milly, hi. Your mum says to tell you she won’t be much longer.’

‘There really is no hurry,’ said Milly. It was true; once her mother was free, she would probably take her home and really get going on her. She pulled out her phone and started texting Jayce.

Chapter 41

It was hard to imagine anything worse. More humiliating, more confusing, more totally dispiriting. Everything else: the personal disaster of the conference, the relentless downward spiral of the Farrell brand, the subversive politicking of Lady Farrell, even her relationship with Patrick, her own once-happy marriage, changing so astonishingly, but unarguably, before her eyes: what were any of these things set against failing her child, her beloved firstborn, subjecting her to a cruelty of such sophistication, such savage competence on a daily basis – and yet failing to see any of it. Sending her off every morning into that arena, where there was no hiding place, no comfort to be had of any kind, with nothing but a brief kiss, a fatuous phrase and an immediate redirection of her attention to her own affairs. Her so-important, professional affairs.

How could she have done that, been that blind, that self-obsessed? And how could it have been left to another child who she would, she knew, have dismissed as of little worth, to supply what she should have done, kindness, support, and understanding; and how ultimately shaming that it must be a professional, not a friend, who would bring to her attention Milly’s wretchedess and the danger it had led her to.

It had been a long and dreadful day, that one; and the horror of it being conducted, not only before many other people, but other people who worked for her, and who had held her in at least some esteem, had multiplied the horror. At home, no longer angry, and with her father there as well, Milly had told them everything, in a long session full of heartbreaking details, in tones that were almost matter-of-fact, her face expressionless. They were both appalled, not only at the depth of cruelty she had endured, but that she had felt there was literally nowhere to turn. When it was over, and Milly had said she would like to go to her room, they had been unable to look at each other for a while, so filled with remorse did they feel.

Patrick was as shocked and appalled as Bianca and, as she had known he would be, as ready to shoulder the blame. They sat up long after Milly had gone finally exhausted to bed, talking, discussing, proposing.

They had agreed that arrangements would have to change, had tried to work out a basis for it, but so potentially explosive had that become, so dangerous in terms of blame and guilt and personal ambition that they had been afraid to continue.

And again, and yet again, Bianca wondered what had gone wrong, how they could have moved so far and so fast from where they had been a year ago. How easy and straightforward life had been then, how clear the delineation of parental and even marital duties. She wondered too if there was any escape from any of it, short of Patrick returning to a career he hated, or she renouncing one she loved. Not that she was exactly loving this one right at the moment, but abandoning it would be at best irresponsible and, at worst, legally impossible.

‘Well,’ Patrick said, refilling his whisky glass for the third time since dinner, ‘at the very least we must go to the school, talk to Mrs Blackman, and tell her exactly what vile things are going on under her complacent nose. I can hardly wait to show her how zero tolerance of bullying is conducted in her school.’

‘I agree,’ said Bianca. ‘I’ll call her first thing. And tell her Milly will be staying at home for a while.’

‘And – will you stay with her?’ His voice was dangerously innocent; she met his eyes.

‘As – as much as I can.’

The discussion was not completed.

Mrs Blackman was full of charm and understanding; of course she would like to see them and as soon as possible; her policy was one of complete openness and dialogue over problems.

‘Well, that’s excellent,’ Bianca said. ‘When can we begin?’

A meeting was set for the following Monday; in the meantime, work was sent for Milly to do at home. She stayed quietly in her room, for the most part, venturing out only to meet Jayce on Saturday. Bianca suggested she asked Jayce to the house.

‘No, Mummy,’ said Milly, the new steely Milly, ‘the front door alone would petrify her. Just think about it. I’m not having our friendship wrecked now. It’s hard enough for her knowing where I live and go to school and all the other rubbish.’

Bianca thought about it and didn’t argue; but she was fairly sure that if Jayce had coped with Milly’s situation thus far, she would cope perfectly well with the rest.

And then on the Sunday, after tea, Milly said she didn’t want them to go and see Mrs Blackman.

‘But why not?’ Patrick said.

‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ Milly said. ‘I don’t want you to. It’s just not a good idea. Because there’s no point. They’ll still win. Carey and the others.’

‘I doubt that, Milly. They should be expelled.’

‘They won’t be. They can’t expel a whole class. And every single one of them was doing it, don’t forget. Even the real losers. Even poor Tamsin.’

‘Who?’

‘You know, with the spots and the BO? I had her to a sleepover once. I thought it would be kind. She was obviously really grateful.’

‘Well, they can expel the ringleaders. Carey for a start.’

‘Carey is so clever, Daddy. And a brilliant actress. She’ll lie and lie and it’s her word against mine. And – well, the real point is, with bullying these days, it’ll go on anyway. You can’t stop it. Facebook, texts, Ask.fm. There’s no hiding place. Even if you move schools. And no one could make Carey feel ashamed. She’s a truly horrible person. I just don’t see the point. I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, and I just don’t want you to go.’

‘Milly, something has to be done. We can’t just let it go unpunished. And what do you propose to do? You have to go to school, and surely you, brave as you are, can’t consider going back?’

‘I might. In a week or two.’

‘What?’

‘I know, I know. But what I want to do is win. And if I leave,
they
have.’

‘But my darling, look at the state they’ve got you into. Look what’s happened to your life. You can’t handle this on your own. I hate to say it, but you need grown-up help.’

Milly looked at him.

‘I know. But it’s got to be the right sort.’

Her face wore its new steely expression; Bianca and Patrick were learning not to argue with it.

‘You are just so so special . . .’ Jonjo looked at Susie across the bed. They’d gone out to dinner and then, halfway through, they’d looked at each other rather intently, and that had been that really. Without saying a word, they’d known they were wasting their time, talking however happily, amusing each other however genuinely.

‘Shall we go?’ Jonjo had said and ‘Yes, I’d like to,’ Susie had said, and they’d had to explain to the waiter that there was nothing wrong with Susie’s fish or Jonjo’s steak, they were really very nice indeed, and they hadn’t been suddenly taken ill, and nor had they had some bad news, they simply had to go, and they were very sorry and Jonjo paid for the whole meal and left a huge tip and they found a taxi quite quickly, which was as well, since they were both so impatient to be together, mouth on mouth, skin on skin, eyes fixed on one another, learning each other still, yet beginning to grow familiar, to know what was good, what worked, what was tender, what would excite, and that in itself was lovely, to have even that much knowledge of one another, and finding it so very very good, while knowing there was so much more to come, to discover, to learn. And knowing that whatever more there was, was bound to be as good, if not better, than what they had already, so perfectly suited, so utterly attuned to one another they seemed to be.

This must be love, Susie thought confusedly, pulling Jonjo to her, kissing him again and again, as if she had not been doing so for some time already; and she almost said it then, but then she didn’t, and neither did he: pulling back from her, pushing her hair away from her face, smiling delightedly at her, almost in surprise, as if he had just discovered some glorious treasure, rich and precious – as indeed he supposed he had.

‘So – what do you think?’ he said, by way of compromise; and she said, ‘Think about what?’ And ‘Us, each other,’ he said. ‘Do you think we’re important, do you think
this
is important?’ And ‘Of course it is,’ she said, ‘terribly important. And terribly lovely.’

That was when he said she was special.

Later they sat in bed watching some terrible movie, for it was still early, not even eleven, and she said, ‘I suppose I should go.’ He smiled at her and said, ‘Do you have to?’ She smiled back and said, ‘No, I don’t.’ And revealed that she had in her rather large bag, which he had noticed before but not remarked upon, feeling it might sound ungallant, a gorgeously new Joseph sweater and some clean underwear, and what she called her face stuff and he laughed and said she was a hussy, and she said nonsense, she was simply practical and he said yes, OK a practical hussy then; and then he said, ‘I’m so pleased, I love practical girls and let’s stop watching this.’ And they’d snuggled down and gone to sleep easily, and rather surprisingly, and she woke to hear his phone going off and him saying, ‘Oh fuck!’ and shooting out of bed saying, ‘That’s my second alarm call! Bloody hell, first one didn’t go off. I’ll get you some coffee when I’ve had my shower.’

And then, then it happened. Feeling safe for five minutes, hating what she was doing, but knowing she must, for it had been nagging somewhere deep down in her subconscious, she reached for her bag and pulled her phone out of it, and God, oh God, there were about a dozen texts, all from Henk, all saying the same thing, that he meant it, he was going to do it, he was going to kill himself, and unless he heard from her that day, that would be it, it wasn’t a game, he meant it, he couldn’t face life without her, that he loved her and knew she loved him; and while she was sitting there, her stomach churning, her face clearly showing what she was feeling, the terror and the guilt, she frantically called his number and she was just saying, ‘Henk, Henk, are you there, it’s Susie, are you all right?’ when she heard Jonjo say, ‘What is it? What the fuck is it? What’s happened?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said, stupid with misery and shock. ‘I – I can’t.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. I must – must finish this call.’

‘Well, go ahead,’ he said, his voice harsh and angry suddenly, ‘don’t mind me. I’m out of here anyway, in five minutes. Or maybe it wouldn’t be too much to ask you to wait till I’ve gone.’

‘Yes – no – yes, of course I will,’ she said and more than anything in the world she wanted to explain, but how could she, now, and what would he think of her if she did? That she was, to a degree, two-timing him, that there was still a man, another man in her life, that she had lied about, denied; a man who was threatening to kill himself if she did not go back to him.

It would all sound so flimsy and so ugly, set against what they had been sharing for the last glorious hours, the closeness, the happiness, the edge of love. What explanation could she possibly give that would satisfy him, make him understand? The truth perhaps? But what would that do to him, to them, now?

In the scruffy flat he was now sharing with some friends, Henk brewed up a strong coffee while he waited patiently for her next call. He had lots of time and not a lot to do. And he could see he had her seriously rattled now.

‘No. I don’t know how many more times we have to spell this out to you, Bianca.
There is no more money
. I know it’s the most brilliant idea since the wheel, but if it costs two or three million then it ain’t going to happen. Sorry.

‘And if your success, and indeed Farrell’s success, depends on this in the way you say it does, maybe you should rethink your whole strategy. It might seem a little fragile. Now, we have another meeting, so if you could . . .’

Bianca stood up, reached for her coat. It was a measure of their exasperation with her that neither Mike nor Hugh helped her on with it.

She walked out into the cold, dark February evening, feeling she simply didn’t know what to do. It was becoming a rather familiar sensation.

She decided to go home. It was early, only five, but she was making a huge effort to be home for Milly and she could do most – if not all – of what she had to do later, when things were quiet.

She called Patrick, who was working at home, and told him what she proposed: ‘And I’d love to talk to you about something else, nothing to do with Milly, a problem I’ve got here . . .’

She used to do that a lot: talk her problems through with him. He never did much more than listen, occasionally throwing in the odd observation, but time and again she found it helped. Since Saul – well, Saul was taking a back seat for a few days at least.

‘Sounds nice,’ he said, ‘but actually, you’ll have to count me out. I was just going to call you. I’ve got to go into the office, only for a few hours, but Saul just emailed me, wants to go through some stuff with me and—’

‘Patrick, not tonight! Surely tomorrow will do?’

‘Of course it won’t,’ he said, his voice patient, as if he was talking to a child. ‘Tomorrow I have to go down to Exeter.’

‘Exeter! You didn’t say, why?’

‘Well, I didn’t know. Bianca, I’ve been around a lot the past few days, and Saul’s been very good about it—’

‘Is that right? I must call and thank him.’

‘Bianca, please, don’t even think of—’

‘Patrick, for Christ’s sake. Your sense of humour is becoming as non-existent as his. But I do actually fail to see why you shouldn’t work at home from time to time, when he told us both specifically that could be part of the deal.’

‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t work like that in practice. As I’m sure you know. And at least I’ve been here a lot more than you have, in spite of all your fine words.’

‘Oh, just shut up!’ said Bianca. ‘It would have been impossible for me, I’ve got a complete nightmare on my hands.’

‘How very unusual. Well look, it would be helpful if you did get here fairly soon, because I’d promised Ruby I’d help her with her project so maybe you could take over. And Fergie has a lot of test papers to go through, and—’