Authors: Lulu Taylor
Jemima looked thoughtful. She was looking at the mass of stems and the mixture of colours they produced. The room was full of a strong rosy fragrance. ‘If we’re too subtle, we’ll go the other way and achieve nothing. Look, pink is pink is pink. It says one thing – girl. Female. It’s also one of the colours of the rose, so it’s suitable for a scent called
Tea Rose
. Obviously, we’re going to go with pink but I think Poppy’s right. Anything pastel or too chalky will be all wrong. We want subtle, soft and yet strong …’
‘How about a
nude pink?
’ suggested Poppy. ‘Something that has almost a beige or grey base, rather than a creamy white one?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ Tara said. She nodded. ‘Yes, I like that. It sounds more sophisticated.’
‘So we take this slightly country wedding look,’ Poppy was enthusiastic now, able to see the colour she meant inside her head, ‘and give it a slick of urban grime, grey it up a bit, make it look like it’s
lived
. An off-pink pink, closer to the colour of skin …’ She glanced at Donna and blushed. ‘I mean, of white skin, obviously.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Donna said lightly. ‘I know what you mean, it’s fine. I really like your idea. You’re right that we need something strong. It’s going to be the colour we use in the shop, perhaps on our packaging, our stationery, everywhere … we need a good colour.’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure about dirtying it up, though. This is going to be a home of beauty and hygiene. We don’t need sparkling white, but we definitely need to be saying “fresh and clean” and not “a bit grubby”.’
‘Don’t worry, we will. I’ll get some colour swatches to show you what I’ve got in mind.’
‘It’s a shame Claudine isn’t here,’ Tara said. ‘She could smell some of these lovely flowers.’
‘I’m meeting her later at Saint Pancras,’ Jemima said, picking up the
Gloire de Dijon
. ‘Why don’t I take her this for her inspiration?’
‘Good idea.’ Donna looked at Poppy. ‘And that was a brilliant idea, actually getting tea roses. Well done.’
There was a knock on the door and one of the receptionists came in. ‘Mrs Pears … Sorry, I mean, Miss Trevellyan. I thought I should let you know that I’ve been getting a lot of phone calls for you while you’ve been in your meeting.’
‘Really? Who from?’
The receptionist looked apologetic. ‘It’s the press, I think. And I’d better warn you there seem to be quite a lot of reporters and photographers outside.’
They all jumped up and rushed to the office window. Sure enough, below them was a small crowd of reporters in macs and leather-jacketed men carrying cameras.
‘What do you think they want?’ asked Poppy fearfully.
‘I’m afraid it’s not Jemima this time,’ Tara answered grimly. ‘I think it’s me. The news must have broken about Gerald. God knows how long this little story is going to enthrall them.’ She looked round at the other three. ‘Well, we wanted interest in Trevellyan, ladies. It looks like we’ve got it.’
31
TARA WAS RIGHT
. The news had broken that the South African authorities had issued an arrest warrant for Gerald Pearson. He’d come out to face the press that morning, accompanied by his lawyer. Bulbs flashed and television cameras recorded him making his statement – if there was one thing the media loved, it was the sight of a wealthy and powerful man toppling off his pedestal.
When Tara left Trevellyan House that afternoon, she had to run the gamut of the press.
‘What’s your reaction to your husband’s imminent arrest, Mrs Pearson?’ shouted one reporter as photographers pushed their cameras into Tara’s face.
She blinked in the light of the flashes and said nothing. The questions kept coming.
‘How do you feel about the prospect of your husband going to prison?’
‘Is it true you’ve thrown him out?’
‘Is that any way for a loyal wife to behave? Most
women
would stand by their husbands in times of crisis, wouldn’t they?’
Don’t let them get to you
, Tara told herself, gritting her teeth. Using all her willpower not to shout back that these strangers knew nothing the hell about her life, she forced her way through them to the pavement, where John was waiting with the car. He helped her in, pushed back the photographers and journalists and managed to get into his own seat.
‘Quite a fuss there, ma’am, if I may say so,’ he said, glancing at Tara in his rear-view mirror.
‘You can say that again. And it’s just the start.’
She was right. At home, another posse of cameramen and journalists were waiting. When they saw the car arriving, they rushed towards it, holding out microphones and jostling for a position close to her.
‘What have you got to say?’ they shouted. ‘Give us a comment! Did you know about your husband’s activities? What do you think about his arrest?’
The barrage of questions hit her like a hail of stones. Television cameras shone lights in her eyes. She felt panicked as she emerged among the crowd.
‘Hey, get off her. Make way! This lady needs to get inside to her children,’ bellowed John, as he pushed reporters out of the way and guided Tara through to the house. Viv was waiting to open the front door and let them both in before slamming it shut in the faces of the prying press.
‘Thank you, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you, John,’ Tara gasped.
‘You’re welcome, ma’am. Honestly, they’re like
beasts,
aren’t they? How would they feel if it was them being hounded like that?’
‘They’re all trying to earn a living, I suppose,’ she said, shrugging off her coat. ‘Now, please stay here for as long as you like. Viv will make you something to eat. I’m going to see the children.’
She went up the stairs, feeling an amazing sense of liberation. The fear and tension that usually filled the house was gone. Gerald was gone. His brooding, dominating presence had left them. She felt three inches taller.
But this is only the start
, she reminded herself.
There’s still a long way to go
.
Later, she watched the ten o’clock news on her own in the sitting room. The children had had a happy day, though Robina said that there had been a couple of wobbly moments.
‘Edward knows something’s happened to his daddy, but he’s not sure what,’ Robina had told her, so at bedtime, Tara had talked very softly and reassuringly to her son, telling him that Daddy loved him very much but had had to go away for a while. They would see him soon, she promised. Edward seemed content with that, and went happily to sleep.
But while she was revelling in the freedom of being able to put her dirty supper plate on the coffee table and leave it there, the news Tara had been dreading all day came on to the screen.
‘Today, a warrant was issued for the arrest of press tycoon Gerald Pearson. He is suspected of fraud and
is
accused of diverting millions of pounds of his company’s money into his own pocket,’ intoned the news presenter over archive footage of Gerald in black tie, attending a grand dinner where the Prime Minister was present. ‘South African authorities have threatened to seek his extradition if he does not return there voluntarily and face questioning. Police in this country are understood to be investigating aspects of Mr Pearson’s business interests here, along with his property acquisitions.’
The screen showed Gerald emerging from Tara’s flat, his lawyer standing discreetly behind him. He looked drawn but he smiled bullishly at the cameras and said loudly, ‘I’m utterly innocent of this outrageous charge and I look forward to proving it in court.’
There’s no fool like the fool who fools himself
, Tara thought.
Can he really believe he’ll get away with this?
It was strange to see him on the screen and to realise that only twenty-four hours ago, he’d been here in this house.
Never again
, Tara resolved
. Never again will he step foot in this house. Maybe we’ll leave here. I’ve never liked it. This was Gerald’s house, not mine. Too beige. Too boring. Too immaculate
.
She was startled to see herself on the television, her face screwed into a grimace, pushing her way through the press.
‘Mr Pearson’s wife, Tara Pearson, one of the well-known Trevellyan sisters and heiress to a large fortune, had no comment for reporters but it has been
rumoured
that she and Mr Pearson have recently separated.’
‘Large fortune?’ she said out loud. ‘I bloody well wish! Well … I suppose we’ll always be the heiresses, even if we lose everything.’
She sat back on the sofa and thought hard. She’d have to decide what she’d do now that Gerald was to be arrested. He was still Edward’s and Imogen’s father and they needed him. That tie would bind them together for ever, no matter how much she wished to be free of it.
Jemima was rather thrilled by the novelty of not being the focus of attention for once. When she left Trevellyan House, the cameramen took a few snaps of her and then lost interest and she was soon striding down New Bond Street, passing all the delectable shops and wondering if she dare go shopping.
But what’s the point? I’m going to Paris this afternoon, the capital of shopping!
She felt cheerful and upbeat. Today’s meeting had achieved a lot of things. Donna had been supportive of all their ideas. The shop below would be completely refitted, with a beautiful, light airy room at the front, displaying the fragrances and other products. Behind this would be some treatment rooms and a perfumery, where customers could explore scent, commission their own fragrance or experiment with mixing essences for themselves.
They agreed that the old gold script had to go, and that the new Trevellyan font would be simple, stylish
and
modern. Donna had immediately rung up some designers she rated highly and asked them to come up with ideas for the new look. She’d also set up meetings with fitters to commission designs for the shop and treatment rooms.
She’s so can-do!
marvelled Jemima, as she admired a pair of tight black trousers in the Gucci window.
She makes things happen. It’s inspiring
.
On impulse she popped into Fenwick to have a quick browse. The big names were all very well, but sometimes she found something utterly charming that no one else had or could recognise. ‘Oh, this is a Sophie Vertiga,’ she’d say airily, as if everyone would have heard of the new designer.
She was flicking through a rack of Issa dresses when she heard voices in the nearby fitting room.
‘Do you know who I just saw downstairs?’ drawled one. ‘Only, like, Jemima Calthorpe!’
‘Really?’ replied the other, who was evidently having a little trouble getting into her outfit, if the puffing were anything to go by.
‘Yeah – she must be feeling pretty grim, with her husband doing the dirty on her with Letty Stewart.’
Jemima froze, one hand on a vivid purple silk mini kimono dress.
‘What, old Harry Calthorpe?’ said the other voice, surprised. ‘He’s not the type, is he? From what I’ve heard, that is. I don’t know him.’
‘Yeah, he’s not but apparently he’s panting like a randy old dog over Letty and she’s thrilled to bits. Fancies being the second Lady Calthorpe something
rotten,
or so I’ve heard. She can’t wait to get her teeth into the whole rigmarole: country house, hunting, tweed skirts.’
‘Isn’t she a bit young for all that?’
‘She’s one of the new old fogies, you know, like Prince William and his gang. And let’s be honest, what else is she going to do with herself? She’s got one A level, in decorative needlepoint or something. She was always going to be on the lookout for a husband and if she’s found him early so much the better.’
‘Can I help you?’ said a voice in Jemima’s ear.
She gasped and spun round. A girl with a Fenwick badge stood next to her, looking at her questioningly.
‘No, no … I have to go.’ She pulled her bag on to her shoulder and walked as quickly as she could across the shop floor, down the escalator and out into the sunshine, but the day suddenly felt bleak and black and her previous high spirits had been dented.
Jemima had managed to recapture some of her good humour by the time she bowled up at Saint Pancras to meet Claudine. The sun was shining, she was on her way to Paris. Life was an adventure.
So what if Harry is sleeping with that horrible tart?
she asked herself.
Let him. I can’t be a hypocrite about it. I’ve had my own fun, after all. And if he wants a divorce … well, there’s nothing to stop us now. Mother’s dead, and she was the only one who cared about it
.
She pushed away the sense of panic and hurt that the very mention of the word ‘divorce’ sent spiralling
inside
her. She simply didn’t want to think about it – so she wouldn’t.
Saint Pancras was bright and bustling. She picked up her ticket and found Claudine waiting for her at the check-in gates, looking demure and stylish in another of her Chanel suits, this one in a black and white tweed, a small Gucci suitcase next to her.
‘Ah, you are here.
Bon
,’ Claudine said with evident relief, offering each cheek in turn to be kissed.
‘Of course I am. Did you think I was going to be late? I’m early, look!’
‘You are only just in time,’ replied Claudine severely. ‘We are supposed to check in at least thirty minutes beforehand.’
Jemima shrugged. ‘Oh, they always let you on, you just have to charm them.’
‘They may let beautiful English titled ladies on,’ sniffed Claudine, ‘but they are not quite so obliging to small French women with very heavy suitcases.’
Jemima laughed. Claudine always had that way of expressing herself, as though she disapproved of everything, but Jemima could tell that it was simply the older woman’s habit. Her deadpan delivery sometimes hid the wry wit Jemima had spotted several times and her prickly irritation was often an act. She could tell that below the surface crossness, Claudine was teasing her and flattering her at the same time as telling her off for being so slapdash. She had grown to like the French woman, admiring her strong intelligence and outspokenness, and the confidence she had in her own taste and opinions. Claudine spoke her mind,
valued
her own expertise and would not tolerate fools, that much was certain.