Authors: Lulu Taylor
She found her way back downstairs easily enough and followed the buzz of voices to the drawing room. As she opened the door, she saw everyone inside, standing about, holding glasses. The men were in black tie and the women in cocktail dresses, sparkling and shining in silks and sequins. A few turned to look at her as she entered.
Oh God
, she realised,
I’m really on enemy territory here. These are Harry’s friends. I bet they’re all against me
.
Emma came forward to rescue her again. ‘Jemima,
how
lovely. You look fantastic, of course. You’re going to blow the socks off our rural crowd. Rollo, come and say hello to Jemima.’
A tall, well-built man detached himself from a group near the fireplace and walked over.
‘Jemima,’ he said, with a cool smile, and leaned forward to kiss her on each cheek. ‘How are you? Harry’s over here.’
‘Yes.’ She had seen her husband as soon as she’d come in. Rollo led her back to the group. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, reaching up to press her lips to his face.
‘Hello.’ Harry put his hand on the small of her back and pressed it, in the approximation of a hug. ‘Good trip?’
‘Excellent, thanks.’
‘Rollo’s got some champagne for you.’
‘Just the thing,’ she said smoothly, taking the glass and sipping from it. The conversation resumed around her and she stood there, part of the circle and yet feeling absolutely alone.
Dinner was not quite so bad. She and Harry were at opposite ends of the table, Harry next to Emma. She was not next to Rollo – rather pointedly, she thought – but instead next to a slightly sweaty man who seemed inordinately excited to be beside her. A plain woman in a hideous purple wrap dress was looking daggers in their direction all the time, and she took this woman to be his wife.
‘So, Steven, what is it you do? You must tell me all
about
it,’ she said in her most seductive voice, and then sat back and prepared to be bored as Steven went into great detail about his management consultancy career. Harry’s end of the table appeared to be having much more fun. Emma’s light voice could be heard, punctuated by laughs from the men around her. Harry’s laugh was a sound Jemima had not heard much lately, she realised and, as Steven droned on, she listened with half an ear to hear what it was that was so amusing. But the buzz of other conversations and the tinkle of glass and cutlery absorbed the sound, and she could only make out odd words here and there.
‘… has bought the house across the valley,’ she heard Emma say. Then a little while later, ‘… will join us tomorrow, we hope. Filthy rich, of course.’
Who could they be discussing?
she wondered, as the plates were cleared away by the discreet staff.
‘That’s what I always say, anyway. Don’t you agree?’
She looked up to see Steven gazing at her, hopefully. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said confidently, without a clue as to what he’d been talking about. ‘I always say the same myself.’
After dinner, they all returned to the drawing room, where port, brandy and Scotch had replaced the cocktails and champagne on the drinks table, and the smokers lit cigarettes and cigars.
Jemima took a glass of brandy and wandered over to the window. She pulled back the heavy curtain and looked out over the Gloucestershire night. The house was surrounded by thick woodland and she could see
little
but the black shapes of trees moving against the dark cloudy sky.
‘Some of us are going hunting tomorrow, if you’d like to come. It’s almost the last meet of the season.’ Emma was standing next to her.
‘No, thanks,’ Jemima said quickly. ‘I don’t ride.’
‘You don’t have to ride. You can follow. Most of us are following.’
‘No. It’s kind but I’ll just potter about here, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. You must do exactly what you want. I don’t want you to be bored, that’s all.’ There was a pause that began to grow awkward. Emma hurried to fill it. ‘I was just telling Harry about our new neighbour.’
‘Really? Who is it?’
‘He’s a frightfully rich foreigner. A businessman. I thought you might know of him. He’s called Richard Ferrera.’
Jemima shook her head. ‘No. Never heard of him. Should I have?’
‘Well, he’s in your line of things.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Scents and soaps, you know. Things like that. Not just that, of course. He’s at the high end of luxury goods. His company owns lots of major brands, I believe.’
‘Oh?’ Jemima looked at Emma, her interest piqued. A week ago, she would have made some flippant comment and thought no more about it. But this seemed serendipitous. A successful businessman in
precisely
the line of work she was about to become a lot better acquainted with. Perhaps he could be of some help. ‘How exciting.’
‘He’s coming over tomorrow night,’ Emma added, ‘so I must introduce you both. I’m sure you’ll have tons in common.’
‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to it.’
I’d better keep her sweet
, Jemima thought,
if she’s going to be useful and introduce me to this chap
. She smiled. ‘And how’s life with you, Emma? Enjoying things here in the country?’
Emma laughed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how busy I am. I thought city life was frantic, but honestly, it’s nothing to running this place and keeping up with the incredible pace of things here. If it’s not the hunt and the ball committee and the charity work, then it’s the village or the church or something that needs organising and doing, and somehow I’m always being asked. I think people assume I’ve got nothing much to do. They don’t realise I have to spend a week in London every month, keeping on top of things.’
‘I know how you feel. People think it doesn’t take any effort at all to look one’s best. They have no idea, do they?’ Jemima smiled again, just sweetly enough. She cast her eyes swiftly about the room. She had a feeling that this was as exciting as this gathering was going to get. Harry’s lot were notoriously straight-laced; they might have a bit too much to drink occasionally but it was very unlikely that anyone was going to bring out some coke or get the music going and really start to party. If she made a discreet exit, she was unlikely to miss anything. ‘Talking of looking
one’s
best, I absolutely must get some sleep. Would you mind awfully if I went to bed? I’m ever so tired after my drive and I really do want to be on top form for tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no, no, no. Please do. Breakfast is at nine tomorrow, but come down whenever you like. Good night.’
‘Good night. I shan’t make a fuss. I’ll just slip away and see everyone tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’ Emma stood back to let her pass. ‘Sleep well.’
Jemima let herself out of the drawing room, murmuring a quick good night to the people who noticed she was going, and then hurried up the stairs, relieved to be alone again. Dinner had been an ordeal but surely tomorrow would be better. There was this curious businessman to meet and something told her he could be exceedingly interesting, one way or another.
She undressed quickly and slid into bed, the wine and brandy from dinner already making her feel sleepy. She hoped she would be fast asleep by the time Harry came up to bed.
Jemima awoke to the unaccustomed warmth of Harry’s body next to her. She lay completely still for a moment, blinking in the early morning light. How long was it since the two of them had been in bed together? It felt so unnatural and yet she realised with a pang how much she’d missed the intimacy of being in bed with him. She tried to remember the last time they had had sex. It was months ago, she knew that. It must
have
been just before Harry had walked in on her and Guy that terrible afternoon. He certainly hadn’t touched her since.
Slowly, she turned over and looked at his broad naked back and the fair hair curling at the top of his neck. She had the strongest urge to stroke his skin and feel the heat beneath it, but she resisted. Harry was only here because he had to be. They obviously had a houseful this weekend, so all married couples had to share. She imagined that it wasn’t such a novelty for most of them as it was for her and Harry.
Harry stirred and turned over, still asleep. She looked at his face, able to study it at close quarters for the first time in a long time.
I loved this face once
, she thought. How did she feel about it now?
Distant. Angry. Resentful
.
As she was thinking this, Harry’s eyes opened slowly and the next moment he was staring at her.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘Morning.’
They gazed warily at each other for a while.
‘How are you?’ Harry asked.
‘All right. How are you?’
‘Struggling on.’ He rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘That’s OK.’ She propped herself up on her elbow so that she was looking down at him. She idly admired his long straight nose and firmly set jaw.
His blue gaze slid over to her, his expression neutral. ‘Tell me what’s been happening. What’s going on with your inheritance?’
‘It’s all rather strange. It turns out that Mother wasn’t
quite
as clever as we all thought. Trevellyan is in trouble – it appears the company hasn’t been making money for a long time. Tara seems to think that between the three of us we can sort it out.’
Harry snorted. ‘Tara I can understand – but you and Poppy?’
‘What do you mean?’ Jemima asked, indignant.
‘Well … the two of you! What on earth do you know about anything?’
Although this was precisely Jemima’s own worry, she felt offended that Harry seemed to have so little faith in her. ‘Thanks a lot!’ she said.
‘Come on, Jemima, be realistic. You’ve got absolutely no experience in this sort of thing.’
‘I’ll get some.’
‘You don’t know anything about business.’
‘Tara does.’
‘Well, what are you going to bring to the party?’
‘I’ve got plenty of talents.’
‘I’d love to know what they are,’ said Harry snidely. ‘Outside the obvious, of course.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you can guess.’
She sat up straight, pulling the sheet to her breasts, her face flushed. ‘Listen, you bastard, you’d better hope that I’m good at something other than looking decorative, because if I’m not, it’s all going to get a hell of a lot worse for you.’
Harry’s eyes narrowed and he rolled over to face her. ‘Yeah, right. My whole future hinges on your business acumen? I don’t think so.’
Trevellyan is broke, darling! I’m not going to be getting lovely, fat, juicy cheques every month any longer. There isn’t going to be any spare money for Herne. I’m going to be broke.’
Harry looked disconcerted. He stared at her for a moment and then said, ‘What about that flat of yours? It must be worth a packet.’
‘Yes, it probably is. But if I have to sell it, the money ought by rights to go towards saving Trevellyan. It’s certainly not going to come to you.’
Harry glared at her coldly, then climbed out of bed. ‘I know it comes as a continual surprise, but it so happens I don’t actually want your money. I didn’t marry you for it, any more than you married me for mine.’
‘What did you marry me for then?’ snapped Jemima, her eyes angry.
He turned slowly to gaze at her. ‘I can’t believe you can ask me that.’ He walked into the small bathroom and shut the door.
Jemima watched him go, furious.
I’ll show him
, she thought determinedly.
I’m damn well going to show him
.
16
POPPY WOKE UP
early on Saturday morning, showered and put on her Chinese turquoise silk dressing gown.
Who am I today?
she wondered as she thought over the surprises of the last few days.
The week before last she became an orphan, albeit not exactly friendless and alone in the world. She’d been an artist in her attic flat, discovering herself and living as independently as possible. Then, suddenly, she became a real heiress, not just an heiress apparent, but the owner of a magnificent Victorian mansion and all that came with it, from the lush grounds right down to the paintings and staff. She had inherited all the trappings of a civilised and comfortable life.
But now she was tottering on the brink of poverty. Well, perhaps not quite poverty. But, by dint of her inheritance, she was in debt to the Government to the tune of millions of pounds.
She went over to the mirror and looked at her reflection. ‘Poppy Trevellyan,’ she said seriously. ‘You
owe
the Government three million pounds. Pay up. At once.’ The idea was so ridiculous, she laughed.
So now she would have to sell her inheritance. Despite her protestations that she didn’t want the old place, the moment she’d heard that news from Tara, she’d felt a deep shock of grief. Lose Loxton? The place she’d grown up in? Even though she’d only owned it for a few days, she had already become accustomed to the thought that it was hers. She’d imagined walking through it, possessing it. And now, just like that, it was gone again. She shrugged. ‘Oh well,’ she said out loud. ‘It’s not as though I really wanted it.’
Poppy opened the doors of her enormous Victorian triple-fronted wardrobe. So she was no longer a woman of property. Now she was a businesswoman: part owner and saviour of Trevellyan. But today, she was going to be creative … she was going to tune into the soul of perfume. She needed something to put her in the mood …
Two hours later she breezed into Harvey Nichols wearing an Alexander McQueen red-and-white silk printed halter-neck dress that she had seen in the latest collections and absolutely had to have, even though it broke her vintage rules. Every now and then she went wild in the dress shops, allowing herself a little splurge on new things and this was one of them, along with some high red sandals. Today, though, she wasn’t here for clothes. She was here to smell.
The ground floor was devoted to cosmetics and perfumery. All about her were small white booths, lit by strong overhead lights to create an almost clinically
clean
feeling. Each booth was devoted to its own brand, the instantly recognisable lettering of the most famous brands immediately grabbing Poppy’s attention: Lancôme, Chanel, Givenchy, Estée Lauder. The countertops showed off lavish displays of the cosmetics on offer, as alluring and eye-catching as jars of sweeties for children. Photographs of impossibly beautiful models suggested how you, too, could look if only you wore Yves Saint Laurent mascara, or the new Clinique lipstick. It was a dream, of course, but a powerful one. It was so easy to believe that it was a stick of coloured wax that had created the flawless beauty on show and that it could be so easily bought for oneself.