B004D4Y20I EBOK (15 page)

Not for the first time, Poppy was glad she didn’t smoke. In fact, she’d managed to stay clear of most vices in her life. She wasn’t a great drinker – a bad experience with vodka, whisky and claret when she was a teenager had gone a long way to putting her off – and she’d found the idea of drugs simultaneously frightening and tedious. Her imagination was already so vibrant, she was almost afraid of what might happen if she took mind-altering substances, and she had a healthy suspicion of anonymous white tablets or packets of unidentified powder. They reminded her of Nanny’s dyspepsia tablets and the bicarbonate of soda she would make the girls drink
if
they had upset tummies and which Poppy had loathed.

The tediousness came from the behaviour of the people she knew who did indulge in such vices. She had one boyfriend who’d smoked cannabis cigarettes like others smoked Marlboro Lights and after a while she’d realised that he was far more interested in this pursuit than he was in her. And she got bored waiting for him to reply to her questions: short conversations seemed to take hours as his raddled mind moved at a snail’s pace. His good looks and artistic talent weren’t enough to compensate for it, so Poppy dumped him.

The reverse was true for the effects of other substances; she’d had many a good party ruined when collared by some coke-fired friend who’d pin her in a corner and talk her to death, eyes glittering brightly and mind racing at super speed. Or it was an E-head, full of love and affection for her, desperate to hug her, dance with her, and confide what a fantastic person she was.

No, drugs had never appealed to her. Her favourite vice – she felt a little embarrassed to admit it even to herself, as it sounded too little-rich-girl cliché for words – was champagne. It didn’t have to be vintage, and she was just as happy with a good prosecco on occasion, but she loved nothing better than a glass of champers fizzing with those adorable bubbles, and the bitter-sweet biscuity taste on her tongue.

She went down the steps to the door of the club and let herself in. A sophisticated twenty-something girl greeted her and took her name.

‘Your guest is here,’ she said. ‘Waiting for you in the bar.’

‘Thanks.’ Poppy made her way along a dark corridor and into the basement bar. It was dominated by a huge fireplace where a great fire roared away despite the spring warmth outside, its faux logs and ash looking very realistic.

She saw Margie at once, sitting at one of the long polished refectory tables, her head bent over a magazine. Poppy went over.

‘Great to see you,’ Margie said cheerfully, planting a resounding kiss on her cheek as Poppy leaned over to say hello. ‘You’re looking good – been anywhere nice?’

‘Sadly no. I just met up with my sisters,’ Poppy said. But she left it at that. She didn’t want to tell Margie anything about the Trevellyan business. For tonight, she wanted to escape it. Besides, when she started telling Margie about her other life, her Trevellyan life, the whole thing sounded so outlandish and extraordinary, and it created a distance between her and her old friend, whose completely normal Yorkshire upbringing was a million miles from Poppy’s.

‘Oh? How are they?’ Margie said politely, although Poppy could tell that she wasn’t really interested. She had an inbred distrust of anyone with money, and titles were the work of the devil as far as she was concerned, but she’d always made an effort not to let that get in the way of her friendship with Poppy. They’d met at art school and had hit it off immediately, despite their different backgrounds. For Poppy, Margie was
pure
gold – a friend who liked her despite her wealth and background, not because of it.

‘They’re fine, thank you. Can I get you a drink?’

Margie nodded at a bottle next to her. ‘I’m on the beers, thanks, and you can certainly get me another if you’re buying.’

‘I’ll have the same,’ Poppy said, deciding not indulge her champagne vice tonight as Margie scoffed so hard whenever she did. She went to the bar and came back with two bottles of Belgian beer.

Margie said sympathetically, ‘Listen, love, I was so sorry to hear about your mum. How was the funeral?’

‘Gruelling.’ Poppy slipped on to the bench next to her friend. ‘But OK. It was pretty bad while it was happening, but I’ve felt better since.’

‘That’s what funerals are for, I suppose,’ soothed Margie. ‘Closure.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I know that Tara felt better too, just like me. We were both terribly upset. But you know, I just couldn’t believe how little Jemima appeared to care. She really seemed pleased that Mother is dead. I wouldn’t have thought it of her.’

‘Maybe it’s an act,’ Margie suggested. ‘You know, to protect herself.’

Poppy considered this. ‘You could be right. Jemima’s spent her whole life ranting about how mean Mother was to her and how much she hated her. I suppose she could hardly start wailing and sobbing once she was dead.’

‘Sometimes these things are delayed. It can take a while to realise that someone is really gone for good.’
Margie
put her hand on Poppy’s and smiled. ‘Maybe your sister will come to terms with it over time. Don’t be too hard on her.’

‘You’re being very understanding.’ Poppy smiled back. ‘Especially as I know how you feel about Jemima.’

‘Oh, I don’t know the woman! I might consider her over-privileged and having far more than it’s right for one person to possess, but she’s still a person with feelings, isn’t she? I have got a heart, you know, even if you think I’m a rock-hard Northerner who’d like to line your sister’s lot up against the wall and have done with it!’

Poppy laughed. ‘You’re making me feel better already. Thanks for coming out to see me.’

‘Are you mad? Course I’d come out and see you, you nutter. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Well, I know you sometimes get together with Tom and his lot on a Friday night …’ Poppy’s gaze moved to the table and she stared hard at a crack on it.

‘Yeah, well, not tonight.’ Margie took a swig from her bottle of beer.

‘How is Tom?’ Poppy asked, after a pause.

‘OK.’

‘Is he painting?’

‘Yeah. He’s got an exhibition in New York.’

‘New York?’ Poppy echoed, impressed.

‘Yeah, he’s really chuffed. It’s some prestigious gallery in the centre of town, so he’s painting like mad to get ready for it. They want fifty pictures at least.’

‘Fifty … that’s brilliant.’

‘It’s great, but you know what a perfectionist Tom
is.
He’s getting ever so precious about it all. You know how he works with egg tempura? Well, he’s started using only organic eggs, as though it’ll make a blind bit of difference, and it’s costing him a fortune! Still, I expect Channing pays for that. It was her dad who swung his exhibition for him, too – he’d never have got that if it wasn’t for her.’ Margie laughed and then stopped, looking guiltily over at Poppy. ‘Oh, Christ, love, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine,’ Poppy declared, trying to hide the fact that every word was simultaneously fascinating and painful. Hearing about Tom was always difficult. ‘I’m fine to talk about it, really. I’m over it. Tom can do what he likes. So I take it Channing is the American girlfriend?’

Margie nodded. ‘She’s nice and all, but she’s bad for Tom. She hero-worships him and it’s unhealthy for his ego, which is inflated enough as it is. She thinks he’s the world’s greatest living artist.’

‘Tom must like that.’

‘You’d better believe it! And she’s always ready to hand over wodges of her allowance to make it happen. Naturally, Daddy will do anything to keep his little girl happy, and he’s totally taken in by Tom’s brilliant-artist routine as well.’ Margie rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if he really
was
the next Picasso or something, but we both know he’s not, don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ Poppy said softly. She was suddenly seeing an alternative future, where she had been the one supporting Tom, making his dreams come true, turning the two of them into an important couple in the art world.
With
her money and his unshakeable self-belief, perhaps they could have done it … She shook her head.
It wasn’t what I wanted
, she reminded herself.
I need to be creative in my own way, not pay for Tom to indulge himself
.

‘Actually, Poppy.’ Margie said in a low voice, ‘there’s something I need to tell you.’ She stared at the table and fidgeted awkwardly.

‘What is it?’

‘I wasn’t sure whether now was a good time, what with your mother and everything, but I can’t not tell you now we’re talking about Tom. It would be like lying to you.’

‘Yes?’ Poppy felt a shiver of apprehension. She wrapped her fingers round the cold beer bottle in front of her.

‘Sorry about this, love – but Tom is engaged to be married. He proposed to Channing last week and she said yes.’

It felt like a bucket of cold water being emptied over her head – a sudden, unpleasant shock.

‘Are you OK?’ Margie said gently, putting her hand on Poppy’s arm.

‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ Poppy said a little shakily. ‘It’s weird, I shouldn’t care. Because I know we weren’t right for each other and maybe he and this Channing are the ideal couple … but it still hurts. I feel angry that he’s happy again, and I’m not.’

‘You’ll meet someone else, you know you will.’

‘I hope so. Otherwise I’m going to be alone a long time!’ Poppy managed a rueful smile. ‘My life is so
confused
at the moment, Margie. Mother dying has created a whole load of problems you wouldn’t believe. More than ever, I feel like I need someone to lean on. I’m tired of being on my own. I miss Tom, even though I shouldn’t. I still love him in some ways.’ She bit her lip, trying not to let her emotions overcome her.

‘You’re going to meet someone else,’ declared Margie. ‘Someone fantastic. I can feel it in my water. And in the meantime, do you know what I think?’

‘No – what?’

‘I think you need some champagne. I know you can’t stand beer. Come on. It’s my treat.’

14

‘LET ME GET
this absolutely clear, Tara.’ Eric Bonderman stared at her with his most steely gaze. ‘You want to take a what?’

‘A sabbatical.’

‘Right. You want to leave your job for six months –’

‘At least,’ put in Tara. ‘I’ll need at least that long.’

‘At
least
six months. Well, what the hell are we going to do without you? Who is going to manage your funds?’

‘I don’t know, we’ll find someone. And I’ll still keep an eye on everything, when I can.’

‘Very good of you,’ Eric said coldly. ‘What on earth makes you think I’m going to agree to this?’

‘I suppose because you’ll have to. I need this time. I’m not taking an extended holiday, though God knows I deserve some time off. I’m not going to work for a rival, even though I’ve been approached by head-hunters on at least five occasions in the last eighteen months.’ Tara stood up and began pacing about Eric’s
luxurious
office with its unrivalled view of the City. She was wearing a tight, dark grey pencil skirt and a magenta chiffon blouse with billowing sleeves. She made a striking figure and Eric tried hard not to stare at her slim legs as she marched about his office on her high heels. ‘You know I’ve made a great success of the funds I’ve managed, and I’ve also come up with some hot tickets that have generated you and the company a lot of money. I’ve done it by spotting companies that are tottering and that can be rebuilt. Now I’ve got the chance of a lifetime. Right on my doorstep is my own company. It’s falling to pieces and I can go in and turn it round. It’s a priceless opportunity – not just to save my family’s business but to test my instincts, and try out my ideas. I’ve done everything in theory up until now – now I’ve got the chance to do it in practice.’

Eric leaned back in his leather armchair. ‘You mean that perfume house your father owned?’

Tara nodded.

‘Why do you want to waste your time on that?’ Eric asked, waving his pen about to show his bafflement. ‘You’re never going to make real money on it. It’s small fry.’

‘It might be now, but it’s got huge potential.’

‘Huge potential to suck up a load of money and sink without trace, taking your career with it.’

Tara stopped and faced him, her hands on her hips. ‘Come on, Eric. A businessman as astute as you must appreciate the worth of the luxury goods market. And it’s just about the only part of the retail industry still
experiencing
growth at the moment. The massive amount of money flooding in from the Russians, Indians and Chinese is keeping it very buoyant.’

He shrugged. ‘Sure. But that’s high-end stuff. Yeah, of course there’s money in it. Any fool knows that. But you’ve got to be right at the top, where the rich come out to play. And I don’t mean to offend, but your family shop isn’t exactly up there with the big boys.’

‘I can get it there.’

Eric made a quizzical face and grinned. ‘Yeah. OK. Look, you’re not serious, are you? I mean, who tries to relaunch a tired old business during a global economic downturn? Or do you know something I don’t?’

‘I’ve never been more serious. And I have another name for a global economic downturn – “opportunity”. When others pull in their horns and stop playing, I get excited.’

His grin faded. ‘Don’t be stupid, Tara. This is a ridiculous waste of time, I’m telling you.’

‘And I’m telling
you
.’ Tara scooped up her coat and headed for the door. ‘From Monday there’ll be someone else in my office – I’ll sort out who over the weekend. I’ll be gone for at least six months. Make sure you arrange with payroll to stop my salary.’

‘Hey!’ shouted Eric angrily as she reached the door. ‘What makes you think there’ll be a job to come back to?’

‘There will be,’ said Tara, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘We both know that. I’ll be in touch.’

* * *

She felt a thrill of excitement as John drove her up and out of the company car park. It was like being let out of school before the long summer holiday. Of course she would have to devote the next couple of days to finding someone who could cover for her but she had a favour she might be able to pull in for this. And she would still be monitoring her funds and the markets, she knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself. But now, she would also be marching into Trevellyan on Monday morning and taking charge. She would show them – she’d show the ghosts of her parents just who she was, and what they missed when they ignored her.