Authors: Lulu Taylor
The Friday night traffic was thick and slow moving. John used all his skill to guide the great car through the throng, powering silently away, getting across amber lights by the skin of his teeth and generally doing his best to get Tara back home.
He succeeded brilliantly and they pulled up in front of the house bang on seven.
‘You star, John, thanks.’ Tara didn’t wait for her driver to open the door. She was tip-tapping up the front steps before he’d even got out of his seat. ‘You have a great weekend, OK? Give my love to Philippa. And I’ll see you here at seven-thirty on Monday. We’re going to Trevellyan House.’
John waved back, and pulled the big car back out into the road.
A few moments later, Tara was running into the bathroom.
‘Mummy!’ squealed Edward with delight. ‘You’re home.’
Imogen jumped up, covered in water and bubbles, eager for a hug, babbling excitedly as she told Tara all about her day, which involved the park, the swings and her friend Millie.
Tara laughed, not caring that her chiffon blouse was now drenched and clinging forlornly to her thin frame. ‘Tell me everything, darlings,’ she said, grabbing a face cloth with one hand as she knelt down next to the bath.
They spent a wet and silly twenty minutes, giggling and playing, until Robina came in and told them it was time to get out and prepare for bed. She took Imogen, while Tara wrapped a warm towel round Edward and heaved him from the bath. It was hard to believe that he was almost five already. It seemed as though it was only five minutes ago that she’d brought home that tiny little bundle from the Portland Hospital and set about learning to be a mother. Of course, she’d had help right from the start; first a live-in maternity nurse and then a full-time nanny. Robina was the second after the first had left to go back to Australia. She was brilliantly capable and seemed very happy looking after the little ones. Tara would have liked to have spent more time at home with the children when they were babies but she’d had to go back after six months’ maternity leave. Her job demanded it and she’d known that if she wanted to be taken seriously, she was going to have to get back to the office as soon as possible. Even on her leave, she’d been on the internet a couple of hours a day, chasing leads, emailing and monitoring the world
markets.
A few times, she’d rushed into the office, leaving the nanny and Edward at home.
When Imogen had arrived two years later, it had been easier. She hadn’t been as flooded with hormones as she had with the first, and yet it was still a terrible wrench to leave her little girl and return to the office. She had a feeling that there would be no more babies, and that she had lost her last chance to spend long happy days with her children, watching them grow up.
Still, Robina was doing an excellent job, the children were happy and healthy and she, Tara, was providing a wonderful role model of what women could achieve if they wanted. That was the thing – she didn’t want to be a stay-at-home mum. She valued her achievements and her job too highly to let them go. But she also longed for her babies sometimes, and hoped very much that they didn’t love Robina more; after all, it was Robina who fed them, took them to the park, comforted them when they fell over, looked after them when they were ill. During the week, Tara talked more to them by phone then she did face to face.
But I’m doing this for them
, she told herself as she carried Edward through to the bedroom.
The children are the best part of me and Gerald, and I want them to be proud of us. I want them to see what I can do – Trevellyan is going to be the way I prove myself, I know it and it’s their future too
.
Tara let herself out of the children’s bedroom, blinking in the hall light. Reading three bedtime stories in a row by a dim light (a very sleepy Imogen had only
lasted
the first one before dropping off), and then soothing Edward to sleep left her feeling completely dopey too.
Robina came out of the nursery at the same time.
‘Hi, Robina, how was the day?’ Tara asked with a smile.
‘Very good, thank you. They were very well behaved. Imogen and I collected Edward from school as usual and we all went to the park for a good run around with the Wilson nanny and her children. Then home for tea.’
‘Oh, excellent. And Robina … everything is tidy downstairs, isn’t it?’
Robina gave her a knowing look. ‘Oh, yes. It’s all spick and span, don’t worry.’
‘Thank you. You know how Gerald prefers things …’
‘I certainly do. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll go to my flat.’
‘Of course. Go and relax, you deserve it.’ Tara smiled again. She always tried to be as nice as possible to Robina, dreading the day when the nanny would hand in her notice for some reason. That wouldn’t be for a long time yet, with any luck, for Tara and Gerald provided a very luxurious private flat under the house and a snazzy little car. Robina had every evening off and most of the weekend, a fat salary and trips abroad with the family whenever she wanted to go along, so there was no reason at all to leave.
Except Gerald, of course. But Robina seemed to understand about that, which was a great comfort.
Thinking of Gerald reminded her that she was going
to
have to tell him about Trevellyan. He was not going to be pleased, she knew that.
I can avoid it tonight at least
, she thought.
He’s out at some big dinner for important newspaper types. I can enjoy a light supper in peace in front of the television. Bliss
.
She would put off the evil moment until some time during the weekend, perhaps on Sunday morning. Gerald would probably want sex as usual, and just afterwards, when he was feeling relaxed and good humoured, was always a sensible time to broach awkward subjects.
She went down the wide staircase, her stocking-clad feet making no noise on the thick honey-coloured carpet. The house was so quiet. It glittered in the light of the chandelier that hung from the hall ceiling: mirrors, gilt, china, polished furniture, all reflecting the lavish golden glow.
Well, all she wanted now was a couple of poached eggs on thick, hot, buttery toast, a glass of cold white wine and something mindless on the television. She wouldn’t think about Gerald quite yet. It wasn’t time.
15
JEMIMA PICKED UP
the text as she left the Ritz on Friday afternoon. It was from Harry.
Hope you haven’t forgotten we are due at Rollo’s tonight for the weekend
.
‘Oh fuck with a capital fucking F!’ muttered Jemima as she marched out of the hotel. She quickly fired back a message.
Yes, I had bloody forgotten. Can you tell them I’m ill?
A few minutes later, when she was in a taxi heading back to Eaton Square, Harry’s reply appeared in her inbox.
No. They know you’re not. Don’t be so rude. Meet me there at 8
.
Jemima groaned.
Every now and then, they were forced to appear somewhere as a couple, pretending that everything was OK between them. Harry had a tight-knit circle of friends. His closest pals, all friends from school, probably knew him better than she did and almost
certainly
knew the truth about the relationship, even if Harry never talked openly about it and she suspected he didn’t. He was far too English, upper class and male to start discussing his private affairs with anyone, no matter how much he was suffering. Then there was the wider group, also from school and some university friends. They were the only people Harry was interested in knowing. He would accept their invitations, go to their balls and house parties, enjoy himself and consider that he had a raring social life, thank you very much.
When Jemima complained that he only ever saw the same people all the time, he would ask her what on earth was wrong with that?
‘I know them, I like them. Why would I want to go and meet a load of new people I’ve got nothing in common with and whom I will very likely detest?’ he would ask.
‘Because it’s
fun
to meet new people!’ Jemima would insist. But Harry was immoveable on the subject.
Rollo was one of Harry’s school friends. He had a big rambling country house in Gloucestershire and a sparkling, blonde Sloaney wife called Emma who was only twenty-two and made Jemima feel haggard and ancient. Emma loved nothing more than pulling on a tight pair of jeans, a tatty cashmere sweater and some old boots and running about with a lot of dirty, smelly dogs, all the time still managing to look like a model.
And now they were invited to one of Rollo’s dreaded house parties. Jemima gritted her teeth and considered
how
she could pull out but she knew in her heart that she had to go. Harry had made it quite clear that there wasn’t another option, as far as he was concerned, and although they were on bad terms, she wasn’t quite ready to bait him that far. It was galling because she’d had a fun weekend planned, with a charity cocktail party and dinner with friends, and a long lazy Sunday morning doing her beauty routine and gossiping on the phone. Besides, according to Tara, she was going to have to start work next week. Work! For the first time in her life. Surely she deserved a bit of time to herself before she launched herself into that. But it looked as though there was no alternative.
At the flat, she gave Sri the weekend off, threw some clothes into a Louis Vuitton weekend bag, selected a couple of evening dresses and hung them in a dress bag, packed some shoes and a bit of jewellery, and considered herself ready.
As she loaded her luggage into her car, she felt the spring breeze lift her hair and realised it was still light. The days were lengthening and the warmth was returning after a long spell of cold weather. Her spirits rose: maybe a speedy drive up the motorway to Gloucestershire wasn’t such a bad thing. She’d leave the roof down while it was still light, plug in her iPod and sing along to her favourite tunes all the way. If anything was going to cheer her up, it would be that.
Racing down the motorway in her Lamborghini, Jemima didn’t feel her spirits lift in quite the way she hoped. First she was getting closer and closer to Harry
and
that always made her uneasy, filling her with the sense that she was gearing up for a fight. Secondly, she couldn’t shake her sense of apprehension.
On Monday, she, Poppy and Tara would start their mammoth task of trying to get Trevellyan back on its feet. How on earth could they succeed? She simply didn’t have the first idea how they would start. Thank God they had Tara, who at least knew about the world of business. But what did she know about scent? What did any of them know?
The odds were stacked against them, that was for sure. And if they failed, then it would mean everything had changed. It would mean she would have to look at her life and, more importantly, at her marriage and decide what on earth she was going to do.
As darkness fell and the traffic became streams of red and yellow lights, she decided that this weekend, she’d try and look at Harry through fresh eyes and see what life would be like if there were no Eaton Square and no money.
She got lost on the way to the house. Harry had always driven her in the past and in the pitch black with no street lights, the winding rural lanes were identical. The occasional sign popped up to point the way to some obscure little hamlet but she had to stop and study a map by the car’s interior light before she finally discovered where she was. As a result, she was almost half an hour late when she pulled through the wrought-iron gates and came to a stop in front of the Queen Anne mansion.
Emma arrived at the door to greet her, with two
golden
Labradors bouncing up and down behind her, barking excitedly. She looked beautiful in a figure-hugging black cocktail dress, all peachy young skin and bright eyes. A necklace of diamond daisies sparkled at her throat.
‘Hi, Jemima, so lovely you could make it. Down, Zeus! Down, Hera! Honestly, you two. Don’t worry, we’ve not gone in yet. Everyone’s in the drawing room having drinks. Shall I take you up to your room? I’ll give you a hand with your things.’
Emma took her dress bags and led the way upstairs, chatting happily as Jemima followed behind with her luggage. From the moment she had stepped in the house, Emma had not stopped talking and Jemima instantly remembered how tediously she gushed, over-larding everything with compliments that felt insincere and even faintly mocking.
‘I’m so pleased you could come. I said to Rollo, “If Jemima comes, this will be the most sublime party, she’s just the ideal guest!” No one can hold a room like you can, darling, you’re so fabulously witty and amusing. It’s like having Dawn French in Sophie Dahl’s body. Really, I mean it. We’ve got such a lovely crowd this weekend, it’s going to be such great fun. Do take your time dressing – there’s no hurry and we can easily wait for you.’
‘Thanks.’
Emma led her along a corridor and then opened a bedroom door. She shot Jemima a worried look. ‘You’re in here with Harry. I hope that’s OK …’
‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’ Jemima went in
past
her. It was a typical country house bedroom: comfortable and unremarkable, with faded florals and hunting prints on the walls.
‘Oh, no reason, darling! It’s wonderful you two are still love’s young dream. Well … we’re downstairs in the drawing room. Do you remember where it is?’
‘Of course.’ Jemima smiled. ‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Good. I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks.’ Jemima watched the other woman leave and then sighed with relief. What was it that irritated her about Emma? Was it her youth? Her beauty – all healthy, outdoorsy, rosy Englishness? Or her incredible self-confidence and self possession? She didn’t seem at all fazed by her older, richer husband, or this big house, or welcoming so many guests into it.
Perhaps it’s because I trust her about as far as I can throw her, Jemima reflected as she climbed into the shower in the tiny bathroom and turned on the hot water. A few minutes later she stepped out and not long after that, she was ready, in a simple red silk shift dress, glammed up by five-inch Louboutin heels.