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You hypocrite thought Cassandra narrowing her eyes. You charge the highest fees to make parents feel better about themselves but at the slightest hint of trouble, you throw the blame straight back at them.
‘Ruby has an enormous amount of love and attention from her family, Miss Broughton, I can assure you of that. I can also assure you that there are other schools who would be only too glad to take responsibility for a bright, capable pupil like Ruby.’
She opened the car door and climbed inside.
‘As I said, a wonderful talk, Miss Grand,’ Miss Broughton said as Cassandra slammed the door.
Through the tinted windows, she looked up at the Gothic beauty of Briarton Court and shivered. For a moment she thought about taking her daughter away. That would show the old bitch, thought Cassandra. She wouldn’t want to lose the high grade exam results Ruby was likely to chalk up, would she? But then the reputation of the school was unparalleled and more importantly, the calibre of the pupils, of the friends that her daughter would forge, was also excellent. Besides, she didn’t want the inconvenience of moving Ruby again. She looked away from the school and told Andrew to drive to London as fast as he could. She then turned her attention to dissecting the new issue of Vogue as it started to rain.
6 (#ulink_e43954eb-840b-53aa-a515-c0b7e95cfc59)
Emma told the taxi to go slowly. Past Prada, Gucci and Yves Saint Laurent. Past Hermès, Celine and Louis Vuitton. Past the window displays of grand twinkling diamonds: De Beers, Tiffany and Cartier. Past some of the greatest, most desirable luxury brands in the world. London seemed to have grown so much richer since the last time she had been shopping in Mayfair. Bentleys and high-end Audis lined the road, beautiful women with expensive haircuts and winter tans floated out of jewellers with big smiles and sparklers.
‘So where d’you want dropping, love?’ asked the cabbie, now visibly annoyed. He’d spent the last ten minutes snaking up and down Bond Street, with Emma pressing her face up against the window.
‘Do you know the Milford shop?’ she asked.
‘Not the foggiest, love. What’s it look like?’
Emma knew how he felt. It had been so long since she had last visited the Milford store that she could scarcely remember it either, and now having gone up and down the length of Bond Street, she was no wiser. Milford had four stores worldwide, all in prime locations; Rue St Honoré in Paris, Fifth Avenue in New York and Via Condotti in Rome, but the London shop was the flagship. Strange, then, that it seemed impossible to locate.
‘There it is,’ she said finally, and the taxi pulled up outside an anonymous-looking store on the lower stretch of New Bond Street.
‘It’s my shop. Well, sort of,’ she explained to the cabbie as she handed him a crisp twenty pound note.
‘Yeah, right,’ said the taxi driver under his breath as he roared off. Emma loitered on the pavement, unsure whether she really wanted to go in. It was a rather forbidding place, painted in a dark blue with a tiny window display of some not terribly exciting wallets and gloves. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the mahogany door but it wouldn’t open. She tried again, this time harder, but still it wouldn’t budge. Then she noticed a bell to the side of the door and after pressing it twice, a buzzer sounded and it opened with a creak. The ghostly quiet which greeted her reminded Emma of going into a church. The store was dingy and very old-fashioned and it smelt slightly musty, like a country house boot-room. Where’s the glorious smell of leather? she thought distractedly. There was a beautiful staircase in the middle of the room leading to a mezzanine floor, but the rest of the store was dark and depressing, with small windows which let in very little light. Behind the counter, an old man with a pince-nez eyed her curiously, then continued with his telephone conversation. Emma had the curious sensation of feeling both intimidated and ignored at the same time.
Since leaving Price Donahue, Emma had dealt with her sadness and anger in the only way she knew how – by losing herself in work. She had requested Milford’s press cuttings and financial reports to be Fed-Exed over and had examined them with forensic thoroughness. She had quickly discovered that the company’s financial position was dire. While the luxury leather goods industry was now a multi-billion dollar business – in the last two decades designer handbags had been one of the biggest growth areas in the whole of the fashion industry – Milford was barely staying afloat. Looking around, she knew exactly why. It was a Saturday afternoon and the shop was deserted. Emma wandered over to the nearest shelf and picked up a leather bag. She pulled a face. You didn’t need to be a fashion expert to know that it was ugly. It was dark brown but it wasn’t the warm, rich brown of milk chocolate; it was sludgy like mud. She ran her fingers over the bumpy leather – ostrich she wondered – it was obviously expensive but it wasn’t an item she’d want in her wardrobe in a month of Sundays.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a stern-looking shop assistant with blonde hair the texture of candy-floss and a brass name-badge announcing her name as ‘Barbara’. She looked at Emma’s fleece and jeans with undisguised distaste.
‘I’m just looking,’ said Emma as brightly as she could.
‘For anything in particular?’ asked Barbara snootily.
‘Actually, can you tell me which is your most popular bag?’
The woman looked stricken that anyone should base a choice on anything as vulgar as popularity.
‘It’s this one,’ she said, indicating a brown leather tote. ‘It’s called the “Rebecca”.’ I wonder where that came from, thought Emma. She picked it up. The leather was certainly beautiful but the materials could not disguise the frumpy shape and the overcomplicated knotted tassels.
‘It’s rather expensive,’ said Barbara.
Emma picked up the price tag. £3,000! For that? she thought to herself.
As if reading her thoughts, Barbara added: ‘The craftsmanship on all the Milford range is superb.’
‘Hand-stitched?’ asked Emma remembering the summer after school she had spent working at Milford. In actual fact, the time she had spent with the workmen in the factory had been the part she had enjoyed the most. It had been a fascinating place. She remembered the wonderful smell of the warehouse where thousands of rolls of leather were kept; there were crocodile skins from Australia, python skins from India, calf skins from Brittany and goatskin from Scotland which was used to line all the handbags. She remembered watching Jeff Conway, Milford’s head cuireur, stretch and beat leathers until they were butter soft and the white-coated artisans hunched over their work-stations, crafting the bags from start to finish, using needles, awls and pinces de cuir. Creating a bag had seemed like creating a work of art, not something that rolled off an assembly line.
‘There is some hand-crafting involved,’ said Barbara cautiously.
‘But not hand-stitching?’ repeated Emma, making a mental note.
Barbara was getting visibly irritated.
‘If madam requires hand-stitching then perhaps you’d like to consider our bespoke service. But the price is considerably higher.’
‘I didn’t really want to pay too much,’ said Emma.
‘Then perhaps madam would be better off in another store. Oxford Street has an excellent selection of mid-market accessories.’
What a cow thought Emma. No wonder the shop was empty. Luxury retail wasn’t just about the product, it was about the experience. If you were spending that much on something, you wanted to feel pampered and flattered, as if the luxury reflected back on you and your incredible good taste.
Emma handed the Rebecca back to Barbara and left the shop. As the door closed behind her, Emma inhaled a deep draught of fresh air.
‘Thank you, Barbara,’ she whispered to herself as she walked off towards the brighter, glossier shops of London’s most fashionable street. The snooty assistant didn’t know it, but she had done Emma a huge favour, because now she knew exactly what she needed to do.
Julia Grand sat in her daughter’s spacious Knightsbridge apartment, drinking a chilled glass of Pouilly Fumé, thinking there could be few more pleasant places to spend a Sunday afternoon. A sprawling lateral Regency conversion, the flat had been decorated in Cassandra’s favoured dove grey, chocolate and cream and was being flooded with lazy winter light from Hyde Park which lay beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The long walnut dining table had been set with Meissen porcelain – Julia noted that it was a different set from the one she had seen on her last visit – while Lucia, Cassandra’s housekeeper, was preparing a light lunch of poached salmon and asparagus. Julia considered for a moment how much Cassandra must be earning to afford this luxury and felt a burst of pride at her daughter’s accomplishments. Of course, Julia liked to think she’d had a considerable hand in Cassandra’s success; raising her as a single mother, the years of looking after Ruby, but she was sure her daughter wouldn’t think of it that way.
She looked over at Cassandra, wearing what she called her ‘après yoga’ look of cashmere jogging pants and a skinny white vest. Cassandra was leaving for Milan that afternoon and so she was taking armfuls of clothes from her cedar-lined wardrobes and folding them between tissue paper before putting them into two Louis Vuitton trunks. Julia had kept a fascinated inventory as she watched Cassandra pack: ten pairs of red-soled shoes, most of which looked unworn. Twelve skirts, twice as many dresses, cashmere sweaters in a rainbow of complementary colours and finally, almost a dozen coats, one each from the main designers showing at the Milan collections, which she would wear to the corresponding show. There must have been hundreds of thousands of pounds of clothes in those trunks which, according to Cassandra, would be completely redundant by the time the shows were over. Julia considered it an abject waste of money; think of what all that money could really buy! A Picasso sketch, perhaps, or a Corot landscape. Now that would be something worth having.
‘So. Tell me again what Roger told you?’ asked Cassandra, finally fastening the latches on the trunks and taking a seat at the dining table. Julia tried not to smile; Cassandra had a habit of making every conversation feel like a business meeting.
‘He said that Emma has come back from Boston in time for the shareholders, meeting tomorrow.’
‘And do you think it’s significant?’
Julia shrugged.
‘She’s already told Roger she doesn’t want to be CEO. I suspect she’s just there to show willing and formalize Roger’s appointment so we can all move forward.’
Cassandra frowned slightly.
‘So everyone is happy with Emma’s share in the company?’ she asked.
‘I never said that,’ replied Julia diplomatically, knowing that her daughter had not been pleased with Saul’s bequests. ‘But what can we do? Roger has already engaged a lawyer; apparently we can’t contest the will simply because we don’t like what it says.’
Cassandra was silent for a moment and Julia reached across the table to take one of her hands.
‘I was desperately disappointed at the reading of the will. It should have been you, darling. We know that. But there seems to be very little we can do.’
‘Is this the sort of fight you put up when Dad left you?’ snapped Cassandra, pulling her hand away. Cassandra was angry. She was already well aware of the legal situation with Saul’s will; her own lawyers had taken the full force of her fury when they had explained it was watertight. So Cassandra had contacted her financial advisers to explore the possibility of buying Emma’s shareholding should she decide to sell, but even with a conservative valuation on Milford, they were talking very big numbers indeed. Cassandra might be the highest-paid editor in London, but it was still way out of her financial grasp.
Julia looked at her daughter wondering how she could be so fearsome. She blamed Cassandra’s emotional detachment on herself of course, for allowing her husband Desmond to leave. She had tried to put that day in a box at the back of her mind. The day Desmond had left her for another woman, leaving her to bring up Cassandra and Tom by herself. In the years that followed Desmond had given very little financial support to Julia; maintenance payments dwindled to nothing once he’d moved to South Africa twelve months after their divorce. But it wasn’t money Cassandra wanted from her father; it was love, support, approval. So Julia had spent the last two decades trying to make up for it. That was why she had volunteered to bring up Ruby when Cassandra had made the move to New York and it hadn’t been easy. Suddenly burdened with a three-year-old grandchild, Julia had been forced to cut her time back at the Oxford gallery she owned with the result that it had almost gone under. It had taken the business a decade to recover but Julia had taken the sacrifice on the chin: everything she did was for her children.
Julia held her hand to her breast as if she had been stung.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cassandra with an unusual tone of softness. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m just incredibly frustrated by the whole thing.’
‘I could sell my shareholding to you, if that’s what you want, darling?’ replied Julia. ‘A gallery space I’d love is coming up soon on Cork Street. The money would certainly come in handy.’
‘Mother, you have 5 per cent stock,’ sighed Cassandra, ‘and 5 per cent is neither use nor ornament.’
They fell into silence as Lucia entered to serve the poached salmon with a spoonful of hollandaise sauce on the side. Julia used the interruption to change the subject – the situation at Milford was all anyone in the village could talk about and for Julia it was getting a little trying – and besides, she was keen to move on to matters even closer to home. ‘Darling, the reason I wanted to see you today is that I’m very concerned about your brother,’ she said.
‘What’s the matter this time?’ asked Cassandra. She was aware that Tom had moved back into her mother’s house and expected a tirade about cigarettes, loud music and mountains of washing.
‘He wants to go to Goa. Next week. And he wants me to pay for it,’ said Julia, a tone of exasperation in her voice.
‘I should think it will do him good to get out of the country for a while,’ said Cassandra.
‘But I’ve read about these places in the Daily Mail,’ Julia insisted. ‘It’s rife with disease and drug trafficking and heaven knows your brother doesn’t need any encouragement in that department. Cassandra, can’t you speak to him? Sort him out with a job or something to keep him in the country?’
Cassandra took a deep breath. It sometimes pained her to think how the role of parent and child had reversed so quickly. Increasingly Cassandra now felt like the head of the family and for once, it was not a position of authority she relished.
‘You make me feel like a babysitter,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not here to entertain Tom just to keep him out of trouble.’
‘I appreciate that, darling,’ said Julia.
Cassandra snorted.
‘I mean, remember the time I got him work in Xavier’s studio.’
‘He really wasn’t cut out for photography,’ said Julia.
‘It was nothing to do with his talent behind the lens,’ said Cassandra, dipping her fork into the fish. ‘He was caught having sex with a model in the darkroom.’
‘He’s a boy, he’s got hormones.’
‘He’s 26, not some randy teenager.’
Julia met her daughter’s eyes. ‘Darling, please.’
Cassandra was tempted to say no. She was sick of Tom’s feckless ways, drifting from one half-baked ‘career’ to another and she was annoyed that her mother expected her to pick up the pieces. It wasn’t as if she didn’t help out the family as it was. She introduced Julia to wealthy art patrons on London’s society circuit and constantly promoted artists exhibiting in Julia’s gallery, billing them as the next big thing in the pages of Rive. But there was always something else.
‘OK, Mother, I’ll see what I can do,’ she said finally. ‘But this is absolutely the last time: I mean it.’
Julia patted Cassandra’s hand. ‘Thank you, darling. He won’t let you down.’
‘Oh, I am absolutely sure he will,’ said Cassandra. ‘Now let’s eat. I don’t want to be late for my flight.’
Roger Milford never liked Monday mornings, but today he had woken up in a particularly anxious mood. From the bedroom window of the Old Rectory he could just see the iron entrance gates to Winterfold and it made his stomach ache. Roger was by nature a decisive, ‘to hell with the consequences’ kind of man, but for once, he was at a loss for what to do. On the one hand he had no intention of going into Milford this morning; the last thing he wanted to see was that smug bluestocking niece of his sitting behind Saul’s old desk. My desk, he corrected himself. On the other hand, much as it pained him to do so, he had to put on a good show for Emma, to impress her, to convince her that with himself installed as CEO her majority shareholding was in good hands.
Rebecca was sitting propped up in the four-poster bed, her mane of pale blonde hair falling perfectly over her shoulders. A tea tray was perched delicately to her side containing a china teapot, smoked salmon and egg-white scrambled eggs which Latvina, their Polish housekeeper, had prepared.
‘I don’t know why I can’t come to the meeting,’ she said, her lower lip pouting. ‘I am a member of this family.’
‘It’s for shareholders and directors, honeypot,’ said Roger, going over and stroking her cheek. ‘I wish you could be there too, but my hands are tied.’
‘What is the meeting actually for anyway?’ asked Rebecca. ‘She’s told you she doesn’t want to be CEO, hasn’t she? So is this meeting to rubber-stamp your appointment?’
‘It better bloody had be,’ growled Roger.
His wife looked at him sharply, recognizing the note of doubt in his voice. The disappointment of not getting Saul’s shareholding had been crushing, but at least it had gone to Emma – having such a good job in Boston, she surely wouldn’t want to leave it for some muddy backwater? But it could so easily have been Cassandra and that… well, that would have been a disaster for Roger. She looked at him again, and squeezed the balls of her fists together. Roger had to be CEO. As comfortable as their present home was, it wasn’t anything very special. She didn’t want to live in the Old Rectory for the rest of her life like some vicar’s wife holding dinner parties and making jam. They had to live in Winterfold. He had promised it to her ever since he had proposed at the Hotel du Cap eight years earlier. She thought back to their wedding day in the tiny church in Chilcot. Half the pews had been stuffed with her friends from the rich, fast social set she had fallen into when she had moved to London to model. The other half were her family from the villages surrounding Chilcot; uncles in cheap suits, cousins in hats from the charity shops. At the time, she hadn’t been embarrassed because she had seen the ceremony as a farewell to her past as she moved to her rightful position in the upper classes. Back then, driving up the gravel drive to Winterfold where Saul had allowed them to have their reception, Rebecca had felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. Despite the twenty-year age difference she had been happy with Roger. He was a dynamic and incredibly attractive man and one day Milford would be his. But that was then and eight years was a long time. Life with Roger was going nowhere fast and it made her almost physically sick.
‘Honey,’ she asked, ‘when do you think we can move in?’
Roger squeezed her fingers and gave her the most reassuring smile he could muster. He wished he could give this beautiful woman everything she wanted. From the second he had met her in Annabel’s nightclub in Mayfair, he had wanted nothing else. Sure, he had known what she was – a two-bit model who had never had the breaks to make it into the big league, a beautiful hustler charming her way around the elite nightclubs of London – but he had pulled her up to his level and turned her into the creature in front of him; poised, elegant and respectable. She looked like the Lady of the Manor. He glanced out of the window towards the gates of Winterfold.
‘Soon, my darling. As soon as we get it all sorted we’ll be moving straight into Winterfold.’
I’ll make sure of it, she thought biting her lip so hard she drew blood.
The Milford offices were in Byron House, a converted Regency villa a mile outside of Chilcot village. It was a striking building on its own with tall, thin windows and fluted columns either side of the entrance but Byron was all the more remarkable for the adjoining factory building. Built from glass and concrete in the early 1930s in the then-futuristic Art Deco style, it should have been an architectural disaster, but somehow the juxtaposition worked, each styles complementing the other. The same principle of mixing the old with the new was visible in the company’s boardroom, situated on the top floor of the old house. It was a truly magnificent space. Silk wallpaper lined the walls, a huge chandelier hung regally above a long mahogany table with tapered dress-legs and twelve toffee-coloured leather chairs. It was more like the dining room in a palace than a corporate meeting room, but offsetting the grandeur was a modernist steel and glass bar stocked with the finest spirits and champagne and a state-of-the-art audio-visual system set into the far wall, on which Bloomberg, the business channels and ticker-tape information was constantly beamed in from the world’s money markets. Emma winced as she entered: this was clearly where Saul had spent Milford’s wafer-thin profits. She walked around the room, trailing her fingertips along the table, gazing up at the dancing crystals in the chandelier, thinking of her Uncle Saul, putting off the moment: the moment when she’d have to sit in his chair.
It felt too big, and she felt an impostor sitting there at the head of the table, but she forced herself: the rest of the shareholders would be arriving at any moment and they would expect her to sit there. Emma could feel her nerves getting the better of her. She had tried to look the part of confident businesswoman, but she wasn’t even sure if she could pull that off. Her red dress was an old stand-by for when she had to speak at conferences or in front of company directors. Back then it was like armour; confident and bold, but here at Milford HQ, it felt false and showy. Her hair had been blow-dried and she’d taken extra care with her make-up; not so much that she looked overdone but the tinted moisturizer and glossy lips made her feel ready for the day. It’s not what you look like, but what you say, she scolded herself as people began to file in, smiling and murmuring a few words of greeting. Emma’s mother and her Aunt Julia sat to her left halfway down the table. Julia gave Emma an encouraging smile, her mother looked down, playing with her wedding ring. Slowly the room filled: Anthony Collins, Saul’s solicitor, then Ruan McCormack who was Milford’s Head of Merchandising, followed by Abby Ferguson who looked after marketing. There was a hum of pleasant conversation and cordialities. And finally, in came Roger, his gaze lingering on Emma sitting at the head of the table. Emma felt her palms tingle with sweat and she played nervously with the gold bangle on her wrist. Since her first day at Harvard business school it had been Emma’s dream to run a company one day. But as she prepared to address her board of directors, it wasn’t a wave of euphoria she felt, but a rush of nausea.
‘Hello, everyone,’ she began, hoping they wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. ‘Thank you all for coming. Can I begin by saying that it was a great honour – although an enormous surprise – when Uncle Saul left me his shareholding. My first response was that the company didn’t belong to me, that I had a life elsewhere, that I didn’t belong here. So I felt that I should offer to sell my 70 per cent stake to the other shareholders.’
Emma could feel the tension and anticipation around the room pressing in towards her. She glanced at Roger who was looking at his hands and nodding cautiously.
‘But I have been thinking about this long and hard. Uncle Saul gave me those shares for a reason and I want to make him proud. We all want to make him proud. This company has a wonderful heritage and enormous potential.’
She took a deep breath.
‘That’s why I have decided to keep the shareholding and take the post of Chief Executive.’ Emma paused momentarily, waiting for a reaction. She was greeted by silence. It was as if everyone in the room had stopped breathing.
‘Well, I think there are various formalities and paperwork we’ll need to deal with to authorize it, but…’
She looked at Anthony and the solicitor nodded.
‘But the directors choose the CEO!’ interrupted Julia suddenly. She turned to Roger. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Emma didn’t wait for an answer.
‘As 70 per cent shareholder I effectively control membership of the board,’ she said.
‘What she means, Julia,’ said Roger, ‘is that she can get rid of us in a heartbeat if we don’t go along with what she says.’ His lips were set in a thin line, his gaze stony. ‘Is that not correct, Emma?’
Emma steeled herself. She’d hadn’t expected this to be easy. You have to be tough, you have to be tough. She had spoken in front of CEOs of Forbes listed companies before now, but this audience, particularly Roger, who always intimated her even as a child, was making her feel sick. Emma leaned forward and put her hands on the table.
‘I know this may come as a surprise, Roger,’ she began, as levelly as she could. ‘And I know some of you might not even think I should be here. But I think I can bring a lot to Milford. Yes, I don’t know the company as intimately as most people in this room, but perhaps that’s a good thing. Maybe we need to start thinking out of the box if Milford is going to recover.’
‘Spare us your management consultancy,’ said Roger tartly.
‘And what do you mean by recover?’ asked her mother, who had a cold look of disapproval.
Emma sat up in her chair, grateful for the opportunity to show them what she was good at.
