B004D4Y20I EBOK (10 page)

Poppy turned to look at her anxiously. ‘You’re right. But you’re different, you can afford anything you like.’

Jemima shook her head. ‘Everyone is aspirational these days. No woman thinks “Oh, I’m only good enough for a supermarket own-brand, I’ll leave all the good stuff to the rich.” She thinks “I’m worth it” – it’s been drummed into her enough times. She wants to be Keira Knightley wearing
Chanel N
^O
5 or Eva Green wearing
Midnight Poison
or Kate Winslet wearing
Trésor
. She doesn’t have any reason to want to wear Trevellyan, particularly not
Trevellyan’s Tea Rose
which she probably sees in her granny’s cabinet. And as for being rich – well, you may not be able to afford a Mercedes or an Yves Saint Laurent crocodile handbag, or a house in Kensington – but you can sure as hell afford a bottle of perfume.’

‘When you put it like that …’ Poppy leaned back against the wall. ‘Oh, God, what are we going to do?’

‘We’re going to have a struggle on our hands, that much is for sure.’ Jemima looked thoughtful. ‘But there’s no reason why we can’t give it our best shot. Come on, let’s go and have our tea. You never know when inspiration will strike. Anyway, I can’t believe it’s really as awful as Tara and those old boardroom codgers seem to think it is. Everything will be fine, I’m sure.’

9

TARA SHUT HER
office door with a sigh. It was going on eight o’clock – not a late night by City standards but she usually tried to get away by six-thirty at the latest. The meeting at Trevellyan had completely screwed her day up and her usual clockwork arrangements had gone out the window.

Roz’s chair was empty and her desk deserted. Tara depended utterly on her assistant, and luckily Roz was a gem. She was reliable and loyal.
What would I do without her?
she wondered. A black mood of depression had settled on her.

I’m not going to see the children
, she thought wistfully. One thing that kept her going through every day was the thought of getting home in the evening to see her babies. Edward was almost five now, and Imogen was just three. Although Robina, the nanny, was a stickler for routine and for children being in bed by seven o’clock, Tara had managed to persuade her to keep the children up and let them start their bath at seven.
It
meant that she would have to speed down to the car at six-thirty, hoping that her driver could make it back across London, through the rush-hour traffic, to her Holland Park house in time for Edward and Imogen’s bath. Her driver was superb and knew exactly how to guide the long sleek Mercedes through the traffic, overtaking, undertaking and using bus lanes (goodness knew how many fines they’d had for that) in order to get Tara home.

Then she’d run up to the nursery bathroom where the children would be splashing together, putting bubbles on each other’s heads and squealing with pleasure. She’d get down on the floor and no matter what designer dress or shirt she was wearing, she’d roll up her sleeves and start playing with them.

All too soon, Robina would appear with the towels strictly commanding, ‘It’s time for bed, children.’

But Tara would always take over for the bedtime routine. Drying them, dressing them in their pyjamas, scrubbing their teeth, reading them a story and tucking them into bed. Often, she would linger in their bedroom, sitting in the armchair watching the children until sleep finally overcame them, unable to tear herself away from the peaceful comfort these moments allowed her. She only ever saw them fleetingly in the mornings, when Robina brought them down to breakfast just before she dashed out for an early boardroom meeting, so these bedtime hours with the children were precious to her – they were all she got until the weekend.

Tonight, she wouldn’t even get that.

Her driver was waiting for her in the company car park, leaning against the car and reading a newspaper. When he saw her, he hastily threw it into the passenger seat, put on his cap and opened the back door for her.

‘Thanks, John. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘No problem, ma’am. I’ll try to get you home asap. Maybe there’s still a chance you’ll be able to see your kiddies.’

Tara smiled wanly. ‘They’ll be fast asleep, I’m afraid.’ She slid into the soft leather seat and pulled her belt on. A moment later, the car was gliding out of the car park and into the London night.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, you work too hard,’ John said from the front seat and he signalled to turn left. Tara could see her favourite view: the great, grey-white dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit against the inky sky, and beyond it, the river, with the bridges and embankment strung with twinkling lights.

She sighed and leaned back. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. ‘You know, I do mind, John. I’d really prefer it if we didn’t talk. I’m sorry, but I need a few moments to zone out.’

‘Understood,’ John said with a sympathetic smile. He’d been driving her for three years now and it was impossible to upset him. The glass panel that divided the front and back seats rose smoothly upwards, cutting them off from each other.

She let herself relax a little as the responsibility for getting her home fell to him. The route took them through the City, up the Strand, around Trafalgar
Square
and up to Piccadilly. From there it was past Hyde Park and down towards Holland Park and home. The streets were packed with traffic. It seemed that there was never a time now when London wasn’t busy. Some nights were all right, and they got home in good time. Others – when they hit jams or road works – filled her with stress and frustration. It was something in her life that she couldn’t control. No matter how much money she had, she couldn’t buy herself a quick, trouble-free ride home.

I guess only a helicopter could do it
, she thought. But that was impossible, even though she was tempted. Where would she land a helicopter at home? On the chimney? It was ridiculous. The garden might just be big enough but the neighbours would never allow it – their shrubberies would get an unplanned trim every time she got home from work.

The journey home at least gave her time to think in peace. Even if she could still be reached by her BlackBerry, and had the computer screen mounted into the back of the front seat showing the state of the markets still open and trading, she was virtually alone. As the city sailed past the darkened windows, she could lean back and ponder for a while.

Today, she felt bleak. If yesterday’s funeral had drained her emotionally, kicking her back to that place where she was never good enough, today had made her feel bone tired. It didn’t take a genius to grasp that Trevellyan was in trouble and that it would fall to her to sort it out. What help could Jemima and Poppy be? She loved them both dearly but she was all
too
aware that they would be next to useless. All through their childhood, it had been the same. Tara was the sensible eldest sister – she’d had to be, responsibility for the younger ones had been hers. If they went out to play dressed by their mother in completely unpractical party frocks, it was Tara who would be in trouble for letting Jemima and Poppy get dirty. She became used to trying to hold the other two in check and, as they got older, digging them out of scrapes. Jemima, with her expulsions and bad behaviour, needed Tara as a diplomatic envoy to her parents. Poppy, babied and mollycoddled, used Tara as an alibi when she wanted to escape from home for a while. When Tara was at Oxford, Poppy often came to ‘visit’, though Tara didn’t see much of her from the time she arrived to the time she left. She’d be off drifting round art galleries and colleges, visiting friends and making new ones. It was the same for both of them: happy to use Tara when they needed her, but mostly absorbed by their own wants and desires. Tara could see all too clearly that her younger sisters would happily shift most of the Trevellyan burden on to her capable shoulders. And what could they offer anyway?

Jemima knew everything there was to know about dressing up, shopping and parties. She could arrange flowers, decorate a room and be the perfect hostess. But what else had she ever achieved? And then there was the problem of her disintegrating marriage and her compulsive affairs. Tara had had high hopes that marrying Harry would sort Jemima out, give her a purpose in life. After all, there was that great house
to
be maintained, and with a title she had extra clout. She could devote herself to doing some good in the world. But no. For reasons Tara did not entirely understand, the marriage had quickly begun to sour to the point where Jemima could hardly bear to be in the same room as her husband. It meant that she was reverting to her old party-loving self but with an added ferocity. It was no secret that she was getting laid all over London and New York as well. Tara had heard the rumours and had read them too – veiled saucy titbits in the gossip columns making it quite clear that Jemima was not one to let her marriage vows stop her having fun. So if she expected Jemima to devote herself to sorting out the problems with Trevellyan, she guessed that she was going to be sorely disappointed. The only spark of comfort was that Tara guessed Jemima was more shrewd and switched on than she appeared.

She couldn’t say the same of Poppy. Dear little Poppy – all her life she’d been petted and spoiled and as a result, she sometimes appeared helpless and naïve. Tara knew why it was: Poppy’s big green eyes, so quick to fill with tears, had always won their father over to whatever she wanted and even managed to melt their mother’s frostiness. And it was not all an act. As a girl she had been lost in a world of her own, busy playing make-believe all the time. Tara always felt that Poppy had been protected against the harsher realities of the world and for all she protested that she didn’t want her money and that she was more interested in saving the planet than going shopping, she’d never really
had
to strike out on her own. It was down to the great scare of Poppy’s childhood, when she’d fallen seriously ill and they’d thought they were going to lose her. After that, their parents had pampered and petted her. She became the light of their mother’s life, the only one able to make her eyes soften and those stern lips smile. It was hard for the other two, but they learned to forgive Poppy for it – her kittenish charm was too hard to resist for long. Besides, there was someone else they were able to unite against …

Tara sighed and stared out of the window as Hyde Park passed by without her seeing it. Poppy thought of herself as independent but she wasn’t really. How could she live in Bloomsbury, daubing away on her canvases or whatever else it was she did, without the help of the family money? There was no way she would be any use whatever when it came to Trevellyan – she just didn’t have the first clue, or even care, about business.

It made the fact that Poppy had been left Loxton all the harder to swallow. Tara bit her lip at the thought of it. Rationally, she knew she didn’t need or want Loxton. She didn’t care for the house itself and her memories of her childhood there were not particularly fond ones. But she couldn’t help feeling wounded by the fact that it had been denied her, lock, stock and barrel. Not a single piece of it had been held over for her. Mother hadn’t left her so much as a brooch or a necklace to remember her by.

She drummed her fingernails against the seat and shifted anxiously as she remembered her trip to her
mother’s
bedroom and the missing jewellery. Had it been sold? All of it? Or had someone removed it for safekeeping and had it sent to the bank? It was a puzzle, but one Tara was determined to solve. Her mother might have had few friends and little affection to show her daughters but she did love something passionately, and that was jewellery. She had a desire for it that put Elizabeth Taylor’s in the shade. And she had sometimes used it to blackmail her daughters.

‘I shall leave
you
my diamonds,’ she’d say to whoever was in favour that day, though Tara suspected that secretly Yolanda would have preferred to take them with her into the next world. In fact, she probably regretted leaving her jewels behind more than she did her daughters. On Jemima’s wedding day, Yolanda had put one of her most magnificent pieces, the great pearl and diamond choker, around Jemima’s neck herself, smiling at the brilliant sparkle of the diamonds nestling between the luscious, creamy sheen of the pearls. The bestowal of the choker was a mark of how Jemima was in high favour that day, although there was no question but that it would be going back to Yolanda the minute it came off her daughter’s neck. Poppy had been lent the emeralds and Tara the amazing diamond and sapphire necklace and earrings. Those stunning party pieces lived in the bank most of the time; their mother only kept her personal favourites in her bedroom: a few ropes of pearls, the diamond earrings, some cocktail jewellery, her rings and the locket.

Tara was certain her mother would have taken great
care
of what would happen to the jewels. Yet there was nothing about them in the will, unless they were included in Loxton’s contents. To treat her precious stones so carelessly was entirely out of character. So where were they?

‘Here we are, ma’am,’ said John through the intercom. They had drawn up in front of the impressive white façade of her Holland Park mansion. He got out and opened the door for her.

‘Thank you, John. See you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow, ma’am.’

She walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang on the doorbell, so tired she couldn’t even be bothered to find her keys. The lights were on in the basement flat. Robina had obviously retired for the evening, so the children were definitely asleep. Well, she could hardly be angry about that. It was getting on for nine o’clock – if Edward and Imogen had been up, she would have been furious with the nanny for not putting them to bed.

The door was opened by her housekeeper, who greeted her politely and stood aside to let her pass.

‘Dinner is almost ready, madam. John told us that you were on your way home.’

‘Thank you, Viv. Is my husband home?’