Breaking the Rules (30 page)

T
here was nothing girly-girly about M’s London flat, even though that was the way she had described it in Paris. In fact, it was just the opposite, Larry thought, because of its innate simplicity and its lack of folderol. It displayed wonderful taste, smacked of someone who had a superior knowledge of antique furniture and fabrics, paintings and art objects. He had not been at all surprised when M had told him she had decorated it herself, because he saw her signature everywhere.

Essentially, it was a two-room flat, if you discounted the pristine grey and white tiled kitchen, designed for serious cooking, and the large master bathroom. There was a medium-sized bedroom and a living room, and it was this room, where he was now standing, that made the place so unique. He had been overwhelmed when he had first seen it.

On this cool, slightly drizzly morning at the end of April, Larry meandered around the room, coffee mug in hand, taking stock of everything once more, always discovering something new to admire.

M had gone off to have a business meeting about a special project of hers, but he was quite happy to be alone, to relax
and have a bit of quiet time. He had finally finished filming; now he had only the looping to do. Larry had enjoyed making
Coco in Love,
had found it a happy experience, with some great actors supporting him and a brilliant director at the helm.

His strange bout of food poisoning had been all but forgotten, except that he was now more careful what he ate wherever he was.

At the moment he was wondering whether to accept a play in the West End, which he had just been offered, and he was mostly hesitating because he didn’t really want to be tied down this coming summer. He wanted to have a holiday with his adored wife—‘a honeymoon’ was the way she put it.

Walking towards the French limestone fireplace, Larry stood gazing at the painting hanging above it, one of his favourites in the flat. It was of a young woman sitting on a stool in a sun-filled room, half turned away so that her face was partially obscured, a shawl draped over her nude back. Painted by Taurelle, a French contemporary artist, the picture displayed a marvellous mixture of colours. The pinks and peaches, cream and yellow, various tones of terracotta, blue and mauve were most alluring. It seemed to Larry that if he reached out to touch the woman in the picture, her skin would be warm from the sun, so realistic did she look.

Turning away at last, seating himself on one of the big cream sofas in front of the fireplace, he sipped his coffee, glanced around, liking the banana colour of the walls, the French country furniture, Provençal in style, which M had used throughout this extraordinary room. ‘Mostly chosen for the mellow woods,’ she had explained.

What made the room different was its size. It was big, and had a twelve-foot-high ceiling; the size and proportions reminded him of one of those Great Halls so often seen in houses of the Elizabethan period.

In essence, M had divided it into three areas: the central seating
arrangement in front of the fireplace; a dining area on the left side of the room, near the kitchen door; and on the right side, where a huge window dominated, she had lined the wall with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves loaded with books and decorative objects. A desk, a sofa and chairs, and a TV set made this area an intimate corner to watch television and movies.

The ringing of the phone brought him to his feet, and he went over to the library corner and picked up the phone on the desk. ‘Hello?’

‘Larry, darling! Can we make our lunch a little later?’ his mother asked, obviously in a hurry, since she hadn’t even greeted him.

‘Good morning, Mum, and yes, of course. You sound harried. Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, yes, yes, I’m just a trifle pushed at the moment, my darling.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ve managed to let the morning slip away from me somehow, and now I’m late for an appointment before I meet you.’

‘How’s Dad?’

‘He’s now back to normal, I am happy to say. I shall tell you all about it when we meet later. You did say the Caprice, didn’t you?’

‘I did. And at twelve thirty now, instead of noon? Am I correct?’

‘Yes, you are. See you anon, my darling.’ She hung up abruptly.

He stared at the receiver, smiling to himself, and placed it in the cradle. His thoughts stayed with his mother as he took the mug to the kitchen and rinsed it. She was an enigma, but then so was his father.

He went down to the bedroom to shower and get dressed. It was already turned eleven, he noticed, as he glanced at the clock on the chest of drawers in a corner of the bedroom. Walking over to the chest, he looked at the photographs M had arranged there, all of them her family…her siblings and her parents.

He had met them all now except her eldest sister, who lived mostly in Paris. Her parents had given a dinner when they had first arrived in London at the beginning of the month, and he had fallen in love with her mother, who turned out to be the exact opposite of what he had anticipated. He had known beforehand that she was good looking and clever, but what he had not bargained for was the innate natural charm, the sweetness, the lack of pomposity and pretension. When he had said this to M, she had given him an odd look and then laughed. ‘She’s just an ordinary woman who’s very, very special.’

‘And brilliant,’ he had murmured. ‘Let’s not forget that.’

Seeing her eldest brother again had been a bonus for him; they had always been good friends, had so much in common. Her family were a good-looking bunch, just like his lot, some of whom M had met.

He had done a bit of editing when his mother had invited them to come to dinner, and had crossed off Miranda and Thomas, keeping only Horatio and Portia, along with his parents, of course, the hosts. Thankfully Edward was in Los Angeles, and he soon discovered nobody wanted Miranda or Thomas. His mother had explained she had been trying to be polite by putting them on the list.

As for his parents and their constant rowing, it now seemed to have ceased, and his mother had promised to explain everything today at lunch. Hopefully, he said under his breath, as he went into the bathroom to shower. She had already broken this promise twice since he had been back in London.

M stood outside the famous store in Knightsbridge, staring up at the name. HARTE’S. Founded by Emma Harte in the 1920s. Her namesake. She felt a rush of pride as she pushed open the door and went inside the store. Traversing the fabulous cosmetic floor,
that great sense of pride was replaced by a rush of gratification. She had done it herself, created a big career as a supermodel without help from her family. She had made it on her own, just as the first Emma had done so long ago. A smile of happiness slipped onto her face, and she acknowledged some of the greetings of welcome and hellos from various assistants behind the counters, who knew her only as M, the famous supermodel.

‘Is she in, Connie?’ M asked.

Startled because her back was turned to the room, Connie Wayne immediately swung her desk chair around and exclaimed, ‘M! You startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I crept in on silent feet,’ M answered, smiling at her.

‘Yes, you certainly did, and congratulations. You’re
the
famous one in the family now.’ Connie jumped up, came around the desk, and the two women hugged. Her sister’s personal assistant then said, ‘Yes, she
is
in her office, and she’s expecting you. Shall I tell her you’re here?’

M shook her head. ‘No, let me startle her, like I did you.’ Again smiling at Connie, she moved forward lightly, paused at the door and opened it quietly, slipped into her sister’s office.

M stopped in the doorway, saw that Birdie was standing in the middle of the office, facing the fireplace, speaking on her mobile phone. Closing the door as quietly as she possibly could, M took several steps, thankful for the thick carpet. She hadn’t made a sound; her sister had no idea she was standing there a few feet behind her.

M waited until the phone call ended, then spoke. ‘Hullo, Birdie darling.’

Her sister jumped, as startled as Connie had been, and as she turned she cried, ‘If you don’t stop calling me that I’m going to start calling you by a name you won’t like either.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t do that, would you, lovey?’ M grinned, and added, ‘I would hate that.’

‘As do I, and I’m talking about the nickname, Birdie, that you gave me when you were all of four, or some such tender age.’

They both began to laugh, and met in the middle of the room, hugging each other tightly, clinging to each other a little bit longer than usual. ‘God, I’ve missed you, M. Every time I see you, I realize how much. Having you drop in like this is so wonderful, just knowing you’re back in your flat down the road fills me with relief and happiness. But come and sit by the fire. It was so damp and drizzly this morning when I arrived at six, I knew it was going to be one of those days…when I needed a fire going until I go home.’

‘You were here at six! I can’t believe you’re still doing that early shift.’

‘I don’t, well, not every day. But there was a problem this morning, and I had to come in.’

‘A problem at six? Who on earth was here before you?’

‘One of the managers, but don’t let’s waste time talking about a problem I’ve solved. How’s Larry?’

‘He’s great. Glad the film is in the can, but he liked the cast and crew. I think he had a really good time making it.’

M sat down on the sofa, and her sister went and stood with her back to the fire, a habit of hers. ‘I’ve gone over the figures you gave me last week, M, and all of your ideas, and I think you can create something great, very commercial. But I do have a few questions.’

‘There is something I missed out,’ M said. ‘I should have explained that I can’t possibly introduce this line of products until Two thousand and nine or Two thousand and ten, because I will be under contract to Jean-Louis Tremont all of this year and next year as well. Aside from being legally bound to him, I’ll be making around ten million dollars over these two years.’

‘You’ve just answered one of the questions. I thought—’

‘You grow to look more like
her
every day,’ M interrupted, staring at her sister. ‘The likeness is remarkable. How old was she when that was painted?’

‘In her thirties I think, a bit older than I am now. Mummy would know how old Grandy was when she sat for this portrait. Before Mum was born, of course, but she
is
the expert around here.’

M didn’t speak for a moment, her eyes resting on the painting of their very famous great-grandmother, a beauty with her red hair and green eyes. Her sister was the spitting image of her; it was actually uncanny, the extraordinary likeness. Clearing her throat, M asked, ‘So what were the other questions you had?’

‘I was wondering if you had made a long-term plan, and by that I mean do you have any other products up your sleeve as well as the perfume, the toilet water and the body creams? Any thoughts about a cosmetic line?’

‘I have come up with some good ideas…Not to digress, but what do you think of the name “M is Magic”?’

‘I like it. I also like M, just the one initial, because you have made it so famous. But I also like “Magic”. The simple packaging is great, too. The black or clear glass bottle, the plain labelling. It’s chic, different. I suppose
youthful
is the word I’m looking for.’

‘I’m so pleased, Birdie.’

‘I’m glad you are,
Emsie.
’

M groaned. ‘Okay. Truce, Lin. Okay?’

Linnet O’Neill nodded. ‘There’s something else I want to talk to you about, darling, but I’m not sure this is the right time to do it.’

Frowning, M said quietly, sounding worried, ‘You look ever so serious, is there a problem in the family? Or something wrong?’

‘No, not in the way I believe you mean. But I am worried about something; in fact it’s beginning to preoccupy me.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The succession…who’s going to succeed me, M? Who’s going to run Harte’s?’

‘But you’re not old, you’re not going to retire,’ M cut in peremptorily. ‘You’re in your thirty-third year, for heaven’s sake. You’ve twenty more years in this job, if not longer. You’re not in your dotage.’

‘What if something happened to me? Who’d take over…’ Linnet let her voice trail off, and stared hard at her sister. ‘Would you? Would you take the responsibility of running the stores
she
created?’ As she spoke, Linnet looked up at the portrait of Emma Harte. ‘We can’t let her down, you know.’

‘I would do it, Linny, yes, if I had to, obviously. I’d never let the side down. But what about our cousins? They both worked here, ran the stores with you and Mummy. What I mean is, they have more experience than I do. And there’s the Dorf…the Dauphine. Tessa might come back from Paris.’

Linnet shook her head. ‘I’ve talked with them all, the three of them, separately, of course, and at different times. But they’ve got their hands full, what with their husbands and babies galore, and running various homes. None of them are interested. In fact, there is only you.’

‘Look here, Lin, I don’t like the sound of this, the way you’re talking—no, not at all. Are you thinking of retiring?’ M got up, went and stood next to her, took hold of her arm. ‘Are you?’ she repeated, staring into her eyes.

‘Certainly not.’

‘Do you have some awful fatal illness, God forbid?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Linnet answered in her blunt way.

‘Then why this talk of succession now? When you’re still in your thirties? It’s so silly, and—’

The first blast was so forceful, Linnet and M were both thrown onto their backs. Several small paintings fell off the walls, chairs toppled, vases of flowers tipped over and rolled down onto the
floor. The second blast had even more force than the first, and all the windows shattered, as did every glass item in Linnet’s office.

Scrambling to their feet, staring at each other fearfully, Linnet and M ran to the door, got there just as it burst open.

Connie, looking terrified and as white as chalk, cried, ‘Some kind of explosion.’