Authors: Lulu Taylor
Jemima shut the magazine.
Oh my God, I’m beginning to see our problem. What’s Trevellyan’s message? Remember the 1920s – now you can smell like you were there too. Hardly the most appealing invitation. Come to think of it, what kind of advertising do we do?
She couldn’t recall ever seeing Trevellyan feature in a magazine, certainly none that she would read. Did companies like Trevellyan advertise? She’d always assumed they didn’t need to – the brand was famous enough already. But then, all the glossy ads she’d just come across were selling big names: fashion houses, hugely well-known actresses, established perfume brands.
Jemima leaned back against her pillows.
Oh my God. This is going to be much harder than I imagined
.
She moved through the drawing room, weaving her way among the guests, the same faces as the night before with a smattering of new people, probably local gentry delighted to have bagged an invitation to dinner at the big house. The men were once again in the uniform of dinner jacket and black tie, and the women were dressed up in their best evening frocks. Jemima knew she looked good in her new Oscar de la Renta white silk dress printed with a bold black floral pattern. The skirt was knee length, full and trimmed with tiny white feathers. The bodice emphasised her tiny waist and left her arms bare. With it she wore black high-heeled Gina mules, bold red lipstick and a necklace of glossy black pearls to finish the effect. Her blonde hair was pulled up into an elegant twist. She felt very 1950s New Look, and yet spot on the season’s black and white themes; she knew that she stood out among the dowdier, last season dresses and basic black that she could see all around her. Only Emma, radiant in a green silk jersey Zac Posen dress, looked anywhere near as glamorous.
Everybody seemed to have the high colour and good humour that resulted from a day’s hearty exercise in the countryside. Jemima had spent a very languid day, but her stroll around the gardens in the afternoon had given her a boost. Now, though, she had only one thing on her mind. Where was that neighbour Emma had told her about?
The other guests shot intrigued glances as Jemima walked purposefully about the room, the women looking at her stunning dress and no doubt wondering where she had got it and how much it had cost, the men admiring her breasts, tightly encased in white silk, and the slim legs emerging beneath the full skirt.
None of the new faces looked as though they belonged to a stinking rich foreign businessman. Winding through the room, she found herself at the quieter end, standing by the fireplace just as she had the night before. And there was Harry, a glass of whisky in his hand.
‘Hello, my darling wife!’ he said loudly as she came up to him.
‘Hello,’ she said stiffly. ‘Good day out?’
‘Splendid. Splendid. You were sorely missed. Shame you didn’t ride today – we were all looking forward to seeing your fantastic arse in a pair of jodhpurs, weren’t we, Rollo?’
‘Harry!’ hissed Jemima, as Rollo turned to face them.
‘Shall I just freshen your drink, Jemima?’ asked Rollo smoothly, as he took her glass and moved away.
‘What did you say that for?’ She noticed Harry’s
eyes
were a little glazed. ‘Oh my God, you’re drunk. Why are you drinking whisky at this hour? We haven’t even eaten yet.’
‘Because I bloody feel like it, sweetheart, that’s why. You look pretty. New dress? What am I saying? Course it’s a new dress! When isn’t it a new dress? You kit the local charity shop out like a bloody boutique, don’t you, with the amount of cast-offs you send their way. How much did it cost you? Looks
very
pricy.’
‘Harry, shut up,’ growled Jemima. ‘I don’t know why you’re talking this way. Stop being so loud, everyone can hear you.’ She had noticed ears pricking, subtle sideways looks. People were tuning in to what Lord and Lady Calthorpe had to say to each other.
‘Am I? We can’t have that.’ Harry grinned at her as he steadied himself against the fireplace. ‘They might think we’re not very happy together. That would be … well,
terrible
.’ He took a final slug from his glass and the ice clinked against his teeth. ‘You look very pretty,’ he slurred. ‘But you’d better take care of that dress. There might not be much more where that came from.’
‘For God’s sake, Harry, everyone’s listening.’
‘Why be ashamed of it? You’d better start preparing everyone for the news that you’re going to be broke. No more money in the Trevellyan chest. All gone. No more pennies for the little heiresses.’
There was a definite frisson as people caught these words. Jemima clutched Harry’s arm. ‘Shut up!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘It’s just the truth, darling. You’re going to be stony broke. And then what are we going to do? Looks like we might have to face some unpleasant truths, doesn’t it?’ He leaned towards Jemima, lowering his voice. ‘Looks like you’ll have to come back to Herne. Just as well you can have your own wing, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want to do anything as upsetting as talk to each other, would we?’
Jemima stared at him, fighting the urge to scream at him and at the same time feeling terrified that she might break down at any moment in front of him and a room full of people just desperate to witness firsthand the cracks in their marriage. Harry was hardly ever drunk. She had no idea how to control him. What was he going to say next? Was he going to announce to this roomful of people exactly what he thought of her?
‘Harry, old man, come and take a look at this amazing picture I’ve just bought.’ It was Rollo back with her drink, calm and unruffled. He handed the glass to her. ‘Do excuse us, Jemima.’ He led her husband away.
She turned back to face the fireplace, wishing she could just disappear up it. ‘Oh God, what an awful mess,’ she whispered.
She could hear the muffled conversation start up again behind her. She was about to lift her head and face the room once more when the drawing-room door opened and Emma came in with a new guest. He looked so different to everyone else in the room that there was an almost audible intake of breath as he
entered.
Instead of black tie, which every other man in the room was wearing, he wore a crisply cut grey, double-breasted suit, quite wrong for the occasion and yet unashamedly fabulous. He was dark, with skin like coffee mixed with honey, jet-black hair and very brown eyes, and he moved with an easy grace that expressed confidence and toughness.
Emma began to move among the guests, introducing her companion. They swapped pleasantries but did not linger long with many of them, until they got to a pretty young girl Jemima had not noticed before. She must have arrived that afternoon, as she certainly hadn’t been at dinner the night before.
‘This is my sister, Letty,’ she heard Emma saying. ‘Letty, this is Richard Ferrera.’
Letty could be no more than twenty, and a delightful example of fresh young English womanhood. She looked just like Emma, with perfect rose-petal skin and a mass of blonde hair, but there was something even more enchanting about her – a kind of gawkiness that spoke of youth and sweetness and wide-eyed innocence.
‘How charming to meet you,’ she heard Richard Ferrera say in a smooth American accent.
Of course, he had to be American
, thought Jemima.
What’s Emma’s game, inviting her sister along like this? She can’t be trying to set her up with a rich husband, can she? The girl’s hardly more than a teenager. Wouldn’t put it past her, though – there’s no one so keen to get everyone else married as someone who’s only just got up the aisle herself, and very successfully at that
.
She watched the man as he chatted to the two girls. He had not a trace of self-consciousness, she noticed, even though many might feel cowed at this countrified, aristocratic gathering – particularly if they were wearing the wrong thing. But somehow, Richard Ferrera managed to convey the impression that it was the people around him who were all very strange, dressing up in dinner jackets and bow ties, and that they amused him, rather than the other way round. His confidence sat on him lightly but with the strength of steel. There would be no denting it.
Jemima was fascinated by him.
Really, he’s rather attractive
, she thought to herself.
A bit shorter than I usually like them, but he’s definitely very muscular under that suit. No one can carry off a jacket like that, no matter how well cut, unless they have some excellent definition underneath
.
And, of course, she reminded herself, he was in the business that she needed to learn all about, preferably before Monday. How brilliant if she could swan in first thing and start telling everyone what they needed to do and how.
This fantasy was rather appealing and she was just losing herself in it when she realised that Emma was leading the very man she was fantasising about towards her.
‘Jemima, may I introduce Richard Ferrera? He’s our neighbour. He’s just moved into the old Brettington estate and he has big plans for it. Richard, this is Jemima Calthorpe.’
Richard Ferrera shook her hand lightly and smiled. ‘Lady Calthorpe. I’ve heard of you, of course. It’s a great honour to meet you.’
‘Not at all. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘Oh, Jemima, your drink is empty. Let me go and fetch you a fresh one,’ Emma put in and slid quickly away.
Jemima smiled at Richard Ferrera. He was even more handsome close up. She’d always preferred dark men, they seemed so sophisticated – it was an aberration when she’d fallen for Harry. She liked that warm-looking skin, the melting brown eyes, so different from that chilly English look, all pale and pallid.
‘Are you enjoying life in Gloucestershire?’ Jemima asked.
‘Oh, yes, it’s beautiful. The house is extraordinary. It was built six hundred years ago. It’s everything I imagined an English country house to be. But there is a drawback.’ Richard Ferrera frowned.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s extremely cold here, isn’t it?’ He leaned towards her fractionally, as though confiding a naughty secret, and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.
Jemima laughed. ‘Oh dear, yes. If you’re not used to it, the British weather can seem very bleak. But I promise you, it does get warm here. The summers are lovely. Where are you from?’
‘In the States, I live in New York.’
‘Then you must be used to cold. I’ve never been so
freezing
in my life as I was in New York one winter. The snow was six feet deep!’
‘Yes, but we have this marvellous thing called heating. You wouldn’t believe how it improves the quality of life.’
‘I doubt many of the buildings in New York are six hundred years old, though. It’s always a little more difficult to heat old houses, they’re inherently draughty.’
‘Fair point. But when I’m in New York, I’m working. When I’m relaxing, I go to my place in Mexico. It’s amazing – my paradise. No need for heating there. I’ve got a place on the coast, looking out over the ocean.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’d love to be there right now.’
‘Sounds perfect bliss.’
‘It is. I’ll have to show you some day.’
‘I’d adore that.’ She smiled back flirtatiously. These little invitations were just part of social chit chat. They never meant anything. Still, a hacienda in Mexico, or whatever it was called, sounded divine. She’d never been to that part of the world. ‘So what brings you to this chilly isle?’
‘Work, of course. I’m looking for business opportunities.’
‘What is your line of work, Mr Ferrera?’ enquired Jemima disingenuously.
The man stared at her, as if trying to work out whether she really was ignorant of him. He had a fiercely direct stare, unafraid and absolutely uncowed. ‘Call me Richard, please. I am in the business of
luxury,’
he said at last. ‘Something I think you must know something about.’
‘Really? Why?’ Jemima said coyly, enjoying the low buzz of flirtation she could feel between them. How much did this man know about her, exactly?
‘Look at your dress – it is Oscar de la Renta, isn’t it? It’s fresh off the catwalk. Your shoes are Gina, the pearls look very similar to some I saw in a Garrard’s catalogue recently and you have the aura of a woman who looks after herself very well. I’ve seen you photographed at the best restaurants, the most expensive hotels in the world. It’s obvious that you live surrounded by luxury every day. You are no doubt an expert on the subject.’
‘It’s true I like the nice things in life, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have them if I can afford them. But true luxury? I don’t know. I still have frustrations and difficulties in my life, problems that money can’t allay. Then my life doesn’t seem anywhere near as luxurious as people think.’
‘Ah.’ Ferrera raised his eyebrows at her. ‘You are confusing luxury with some kind of perfect existence in which nothing happens, like lying on a huge bed all day long, served with iced grapes and wafted by fans. That’s the wrong way to think of luxury. It’s what provides comfort and sustenance to your soul while you make the difficult, treacherous and sometimes boring journey through life. Think about it – don’t cool Egyptian cotton sheets of the highest thread count bring you pleasure and soothe you at the end of a long day? Doesn’t the best luggage, handcrafted from superb
leather,
piped with beautiful colours, printed with your own monogram, make that endless journey a little easier to bear? Wouldn’t you rather drink one glass of Château Lafite Rothschild 1982 than a whole bottle of some cheap Bordeaux? Do you see what I mean? Luxury is where the soul and the body meet to be caressed.’
Jemima laughed again, a little surprised at his fervency. ‘How funny. Yes, I suppose so. I’ve never heard it described in quite that way though.’
‘I feel passionate about it.’ Ferrera smiled. ‘When you come from a background like mine, you think very hard about what the world can offer you, and what luxury means.’
‘A background like yours?’
Ferrera shrugged lightly, his dark eyes glinting. ‘I wasn’t born to all this. I’m from a big, poor, immigrant family and I grew up in New York. My dad died when I was little and my mom brought us up on her own. It was tough, I guess. But it made me all the more determined to make something of myself and to get a little of the good things in life.’