Authors: Lulu Taylor
Poppy laughed. She knew it was true: her eyes were sparkling, her skin glowing and she was moving with the kind of sensuous stride that only comes from lots of very satisfying sex.
‘No. Not Tom.’ Poppy beamed at them, enjoying the fact that for once she was keeping her sisters guessing.
‘That’s the first time you’ve been able to mention
his
name without welling up in I don’t know how long,’ said Tara, smiling at her sister. ‘So sit down and tell us all about him.’
Poppy took her place, trying not to look all starry-eyed. ‘He’s called George and he’s so sweet, you can’t imagine. He works in a bookshop and he’s like this old-fashioned gentleman, stepped out of a classic Gainsborough movie.’
‘What a red-hot lover he must be,’ joked Jemima.
‘You’d be surprised,’ Poppy said coyly.
‘So how did you meet him?’
‘He’s staying downstairs from me.’
‘Handy,’ put in Tara.
Poppy nodded then said hastily, ‘I mean, I don’t know if it’s serious or anything. It’s all very early days. But we’re having fun.’
‘And plenty of it, by the looks of things,’ observed Jemima. She looked around. ‘Oh, you’ve ordered champagne.’
‘I’m going to have it opened when Donna gets here, which should be any minute,’ Tara said.
‘Have you seen how many people are here tonight? Honestly, half of the London social scene is drinking Manhattans and whisky sours in this room. Annabel Duff-Brown just tried to ambush me, and where others lead, she most definitely follows.’ Jemima stared around the room. ‘It’s strange, but I don’t feel as much a part of their world as I once did.’
‘You’ve only had a job for five minutes and you’re no longer the It girl!’ Tara laughed. ‘What a radical change.’
Jemima looked impatient. ‘But don’t you feel it too? It’s as though the whole of my life has transformed. I can’t believe that I got all this money from a business I never gave a second thought to. Now I think about it, I feel a bit ashamed. Yes, it’s lovely to have money, lots and lots of it. But I’ve realised almost too late that it’s important to always understand how and why you have it.’
‘Goodness!’ said Poppy suddenly. ‘Look!’
They all turned towards the door, where Donna had just entered. Ripples of admiration went about the room. She was magnificent in a coral Herve Leger bandage dress that displayed to perfection her slender figure and impossibly long legs.
‘Wow, what a great dress,’ breathed Jemima. ‘I’d order one, except I don’t think it could look half as good on me.’
‘Ladies, good evening,’ said Donna as she approached the table.
‘Donna, hi.’ They all jumped up to kiss her hello, admire her outfit and make sure she was comfortable on the banquette.
Tara signalled a waiter to open the champagne that had been chilling in an ice bucket beside her. When each of them had a glass of sparkling golden liquid at the ready, Tara raised hers to make a toast.
‘To you, Donna. Thank you for joining us. You’ve taken a huge risk, we know that. We promise you it’s going to be worth it. It may well be a bumpy ride, but with your expertise and our determination, I just know we’re going to be a huge success. This is the perfect team!’
They all raised their glasses and touched the rims together.
‘Thank you.’ Donna smiled. ‘I’m so excited. You are my kind of ladies, I can tell that already – your clothes are fabulous, for one thing. I can’t wait to get started.’ She sipped her champagne.
‘We’ve got some ideas,’ Jemima said, fired up with enthusiasm. The sisters had been in a meeting for the whole of the previous afternoon going through their vision for the new-look Trevellyan and, while it was far from finalised, they felt real progress had been made.
‘Me too.’ Donna pulled a leather notebook from her bag and opened it. ‘Shall we get started?’
‘Wait, wait,’ protested Tara, holding up a hand. ‘This was supposed to be a celebration drink, not a work summit!’
‘Ever heard that thing about the iron and striking while it’s hot? What’s to wait for?’ Donna shrugged, with a charming smile.
‘OK. But a little social chit-chat first, please,’ Tara begged, ‘so I don’t feel like I’m forcing you to work already.’
‘Why did you decide to join us?’ Poppy asked a little shyly. It was often hard for her to speak up when the three of them were with a stranger – the other two always seemed so confident and self-possessed, quick with words and eager to put their point of view forward. Poppy had always felt as though she understood images, colours and patterns better than she understood words. ‘I mean, Erin de Cristo is such a big
name.
Her make-up line, her skin care, her scents … and the new clothing line as well. Why would you want to leave such a thriving company?’
Donna smiled at her. ‘Good question. My boyfriend thinks I’m crazy. The truth is, I like being part of a small team – very creative, very organic, very capable. Those are the things I thrive on. Erin de Cristo’s outfit is not going to be like that for much longer, I’m afraid, so I realised it wasn’t a place I wanted to stay.’
‘Why not?’ Poppy asked.
Donna looked somewhat uncomfortable. ‘This is top secret. I’m not supposed to say anything about what’s happening.’ She glanced at the sisters. ‘Could you promise me this will go no further?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Tara, and the other two nodded.
‘I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with confidential information anyway,’ Jemima said with a laugh.
‘OK. I’m taking a risk here, but I trust you guys.’ Donna looked at each of them in turn. ‘The reason I’m going is simple – Erin is about to sell out.’
‘Sell out?’ echoed Tara.
Donna nodded. ‘Yep. She’s been approached by an American company to buy her out. Everything will belong to someone else – the name, the products, the licences, the premises … you name it. She says she’s going to retain creative control but I’ve heard that the Chief Executive of this company is a control freak, and liable to interfere with the way things are run.’ She shrugged. ‘Lots of the big brands that are owned by a parent company are given free rein – it’s what
keeps
the magic alive. As long as they’re successful, no questions are asked. My own feeling is that Erin may not be so lucky.’
‘Which company is this?’ Tara asked.
‘It’s called FFB. Do you know it?’
Jemima looked startled. ‘Yes, I do. I just met the guy who runs it. He sat next to me at a dinner party the other week. Richard Ferrera.
Very
tasty.’
Poppy and Tara exchanged a look. They were both well aware of Jemima’s inability to restrain herself where handsome men were concerned.
‘Mmm. I wonder if that was a coincidence.’ Donna raised her eyebrows. ‘Did he talk business with you?’
‘Not really.’ Jemima frowned, thinking back to her meeting with Richard Ferrera. ‘But he told me a bit about his company, and how he wants to rival the big luxury firms. He seemed incredibly focused and driven.’
‘Did he mention Erin?’
Jemima shook her head. ‘He mentioned Trevellyan briefly – he even suggested we think about selling to him.’
‘Oh.’ Donna took a sip of her champagne, thinking hard. ‘OK. What did you say?’
‘I said we weren’t interested in selling.’
‘I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought Trevellyan would be big enough for him.’
‘It has the name,’ Tara pointed out. ‘And with the right investment, it could be great again. That’s what we’re banking on, at least.’
Donna nodded. ‘But still … It sounds like he might be out to get you.’
‘I don’t see how he could have known I’d be at the party, let alone organise sitting next to me.’
‘Don’t underestimate him,’ warned Donna. ‘I’ve met this guy. I saw him charm Erin. He knows exactly how to get what he wants and I’m sure he would use all sorts of methods to get where he wants to go.’
Jemima remembered his effect on her: he had been so smooth and polished without being in the least overbearing or off-putting. He seemed so polite, so intelligent. She had been seriously impressed by this man, who had come from such humble beginnings, pulled himself up by his own efforts and was so full of vision and determination.
‘He said he wanted to get into the European market,’ she said, recalling their conversation. ‘He seemed very keen on the French and British labels.’
‘I’m sure he is. The places where the last great luxury labels, with all their prestige, tradition and glamour, can be found,’ commented Donna. ‘No wonder he wants to go on a shopping spree round here. Can you ladies hold him back?’
‘We own virtually the entire company – seventy-five per cent of it anyway,’ Tara said. ‘No one could buy it without our say so. We’d always have the casting vote.’
‘Who has the other quarter?’
‘Some of the board have shares. Family members. It’s in dribs and drabs. No one else has the power, I can guarantee that.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Donna said, smiling. ‘Or I might end up with Ferrera as my boss anyway.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Tara decisively. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘Good. I wouldn’t want to go from the frying pan straight to the fire. Now, is there any more of that champagne? We need to celebrate.’
Jemima let herself into the flat. Sri had left the hall light on, so it wasn’t as bleak as it might be, but she was still alone. She stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself appraisingly. Leaning in, she peered at her face. Not bad. Those oxygen-blast facials really did the trick: her skin looked dewy and soft and young. But who was she kidding? At twenty-eight, she was at the height of her beauty, she knew that. Soon, the late nights and champagne would start to take a toll on her, if she wasn’t careful.
She pulled off her Kenneth Jay Lane emerald earrings and put them on the hall table, then kicked off her shoes and padded through to the sitting room, turning on lights as she went.
What the hell, I’m only young once
, she thought, and opened the sleek modern cabinet that ran along one wall, pulled out a bottle of single malt, and poured herself a good measure. She took her tumbler over to the window and gazed out into the darkness. The square was full of lighted windows, little glimpses into other wealthy lives.
Why do other people’s lives seem so happy and uncomplicated from the outside? she
wondered. Then she thought about how she must appear to others: young, good-looking, rich, and married into the English aristocracy.
No
doubt they all think I’m living some kind of dream. No one knows how miserable I really am
.
She looked about the flat. She knew in her heart that it would have to go. From what Donna had said this evening in Claridge’s, they would need all the cash they had to relaunch the company. This place was worth around five million. She’d have to sell, buy something more modest in … she frowned, trying to think of somewhere cheaper where she could bear to live but couldn’t come up with anywhere. No doubt she’d have to find a tiny place on the outskirts of Kensington, or even be forced to use Herne as her only place of residence. Any money she could raise needed to go into Trevellyan. She sighed and took another sip of the whisky. It would be worth it. Anything to stop that bitch Jecca getting her hands on the company.
Just the mention of Jecca’s name made her want to scream. She still couldn’t understand how their mother could have contemplated risking Jecca inheriting the company, even if the threat of it was probably the only thing that could unite the three girls and focus their attention on the job in hand. After all, it was Jecca who had come irrevocably between her parents and destroyed their marriage. They could never agree on Jecca, because Cecil had adored her while Yolanda had loathed her, although she’d tried her best to hide it. Over the years, it had soured the relationship between husband and wife to the extent that they had ended up living separate lives, albeit under one roof.
Daddy gave Jecca anything she wanted. He loved her more
than
he loved me, and I was his daughter, his
real
daughter. Why couldn’t he love me the same way? What did she have that I didn’t?
She remembered Jecca’s tantrums, the fearsome outbursts of anger that shook the whole house, the screaming, the pounding, the breakages. Once, Jecca had broken three pieces of the antique Spode tea set, a treasured gift from Cecil to Yolanda. Jemima could picture that day so clearly, seeing Jecca race down the hall to the antique French china cabinet, yank it open, and then, with an evil glint in her eyes, pick up the delicate cups and smash them, one by one, on to the stone floor. Yolanda had screamed a wild, piercing scream and Jecca, who’d been on the verge of picking up the rest of the tea set, had stopped, frightened by the strange otherworldly noise. She’d known then that she’d gone too far.
But Cecil had made sure that she was never punished. God only knew how he’d squared it with his wife.
But he’d do anything for her. Anything. And he never cared how much she hurt me
.
From the time she could talk, Jecca had taken a delight in persecuting Jemima. It didn’t matter that Jemima was four years older, Jecca had never been in the least bit afraid of her. Instead, she whispered malicious things to her, hid her favourite toys, destroyed her favourite books, turned people against her – her only friend from the village had never wanted to play with Jemima again after she’d spent the afternoon with Jecca. Jemima would find her bed stuffed with
thistles,
or nettles, or vile creepy crawlies. Her best dress was discovered one day covered in bright red stains that could never be cleaned off. No matter how often she told her father that Jecca was pinching her under the table at dinner, or stealing from her piggy bank, or spoiling the flowers she was pressing, nothing was ever believed. Jecca was never punished and she would sneer and laugh silently as Cecil admonished his daughter for telling tales.
‘Jecca has suffered very much,’ he would say gravely. ‘You are a lucky little girl, Jemima. You have Mummy and me. Jecca’s parents are dead. She only has us, so we must be extra kind to her.’
‘Don’t forget, you have to be kind to me,’ Jecca would tease when Jemima, her face scarlet with fury and frustration, chased her and pushed her up against a wall. ‘I’ll tell Daddy if you’re not.’