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Is this really me? she wondered. How many men had she slept with after all? She’d lost count years ago, and didn’t give a fig anyway. As long as it was fun and they both wanted it, who was counting? Sex had become the same as any pleasure: there for the taking. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad. Sometimes she had a strange, drug-fuelled, zany experience – mostly those were with Billy – sometimes she couldn’t remember what had happened the night before. Occasionally she’d had delicious life-enhancing sex with someone sweet just when she’d needed it. Sometimes she’d had the depressing experience of sex with someone she liked but who never called her afterwards, though that was rare. So why the hell am I so nervous?
She knew it was because Harry had built up to this moment. He’d made her realise that he didn’t sleep with just anyone, that she was special to him. That made her gulp, and hope that she would be worth it. It also made her hope desperately that he would be worth it too.
As she poured him his coffee, she was surprised to find she was trembling and that she didn’t know what to say. When she handed him the cup, it shook violently on its small saucer, and their eyes met and they laughed. That broke the ice and dispelled just enough of the tension so that she was no longer frightened. He placed his coffee aside and instead tenderly pulled her on to his lap and kissed her. It felt like the most natural thing in the world and Jemima’s nerves subsided.
Jemima quickly discovered he was no unpractised lover, as she had worried he might be, nor did he let her dominate proceedings as she sometimes did. Instead, their bodies fitted so naturally and easily that afterwards she found herself almost moved by the rightness of it.
From that moment on they were rarely apart. There was no denying that she had fallen in love with Harry, and she was sure that he had fallen in love with her.
But Harry had another love: his home, beautiful Herne Castle and the acres of land that surrounded it. He was fanatical about the great outdoors and nature and farming. His primary concern for years had been to restore and preserve Herne, and to live a quiet, peaceful country life there. It was a side to Harry that Jemima had been told of but didn’t see until the night he drove her to Herne for the first time, in the early hours of the morning after Bea Ogilvy’s ball. As they arrived the sun rose behind the large old house and she could see in his eyes that he was desperate for her to love it too – and she had. The whole scenario was just too romantic for words: the house falling so gracefully and beautifully apart, while its handsome owner passionately tried to save it.
‘I want to help you,’ she said fervently, as they stood on the terrace on a fine summer’s evening, looking out over the velvety green fields, the dusky woods and the golden wheat fields beyond. ‘I want to help you save Herne, if I can.’
He hugged her tightly and then looked at her, his face alight with joy. ‘You are amazing, do you know that? Really amazing …’
Four weeks later he proposed and she had no hesitation in accepting. It was a grand London wedding, packed with famous guests. She wore a dress designed exclusively for her by Jasper Conran, a delicious vintage-style gown in oyster silk that was demure but with a hint of forties cheesecake glamour that showed off her tiny waist. Then there were the jewels. Her mother insisted she wear the pearl and diamond choker worn at her own wedding day, and Harry had resurrected his mother’s family tiara from some safe for her to wear. It was very impressive but it was heavy and didn’t go with her dress quite as well as she’d hoped. Still, she looked ravishing and felt ecstatically happy as she got dressed in her suite at the Ritz, with Poppy and Tara bustling about her in their bridesmaid dresses in shades of palest water-lily green.
‘This is the happiest moment of my life,’ said their mother tearfully as she looked at Jemima, standing in all her bridal radiance.
The sisters glanced at each other, unsure of what to say. Their mother was anything but sentimental and, as far as they knew, had never cried over any of them. But here she was, welling up like a big softie.
‘It’s not much to do with me, though, is it?’ muttered Jemima to Tara as they prepared to go downstairs to the huge ivory Rolls Royce waiting to take them to Saint Margaret’s, Westminster. ‘She’s just so happy to be mother-in-law to Harry, she can’t hold it in. Awful old snob.’
‘Shhh,’ Tara replied, pulling her wrap round her shoulders. ‘Who cares whether it’s her happiest moment? It’s you who matters. And you look amazing.’
‘Yes, amazing!’ breathed Poppy, coming up on Jemima’s other side. ‘Honestly, you’ve never looked so beautiful. I just wish Daddy was here to see it.’
Jemima stared at her, blinking away a sudden hot burst of tears, not wanting to ruin her make-up, applied so carefully by the very sweet make-up artist. ‘I know. Me too.’
‘We’d better hurry,’ Tara urged gently. ‘It’s expected you should be a bit late but if you carry on much longer, the whole day will run behind.’
Jemima took a deep breath, then smiled broadly at her sisters. ‘Then let’s go.’
A press pack of photographers awaited her as she went quickly from the Ritz entrance to the car, and another at the church along with a crowd of well-wishers, oohing and aahing at the glamorous guests and their fabulous clothes. They sighed with delight when they saw the gorgeous bride emerge from her cream Rolls Royce, and her beautiful bridesmaids fuss about her, checking the dress and adjusting the veil. They shouted congratulations and good wishes as she was handed her bouquet of ivory-coloured roses and, now just a little white-faced and nervous, advanced into the church.
She walked down the aisle on the arm of her Uncle Clive, her mother’s brother, to where Harry was waiting for her, tall and handsome, admiration and love in his eyes. The service passed in a rapid blur of emotion, beauty and music, then she and Harry walked back down the aisle in a burst of joyous organ music. Now she was the Viscountess Calthorpe, chatelaine of Herne Castle, entitled to wear a coronet with sixteen silver balls at the coronation of a sovereign. To her embarrassment, her mother gave her exactly such a coronet as a wedding present.
Then it was back to William Kent House at the Ritz for a grand reception. She and Harry left after a few hours, bound for a honeymoon in Scotland and then Tara’s home in the Bahamas but she’d heard that the party went on into the night and, for some, into the next day as well, when the pictures of her in all her bridal splendour appeared on the morning papers.
The wedding was a huge success. It was the marriage itself that had proved the problem.
11
SHE WAS REMINDED of her wedding day as the taxi pulled up in front of the hotel. It was hard to believe that it was only four years ago. Now she was returning with her life transformed: marriage to Harry was a disaster and her inheritance looked about as sound as a three-pound note. It was obvious that everything she’d believed about her family, its status – financial and otherwise – and her own future was going to have to be rethought. Would she need to start working for her living? A shudder of horror went through her as she walked through the revolving doors and into the round reception area.
‘I’m meeting Tara Pearson here,’ she said to the smartly uniformed hall porter.
‘Yes, madam. She’s here already, waiting in the suite.’
‘The suite?’
‘Yes, madam. She’s reserved one of our larger suites. Would you like to be accompanied there?’
‘No, just tell me where it is. I’ll find it myself.’
A few moments later she was walking into one of the hotel’s plushest suites, with a drawing room giving a pleasant view over Green Park.
‘Jemima, hi.’ Tara was sitting on a chintz sofa, a laptop on her knees and sheaves of paper on the table in front of her.
Jemima took off her glasses. ‘Dear old Ritz,’ she said. She gazed round at the classic interior of floral fabrics, heavy curtains and elegant antique furniture. ‘It never changes. That’s why I love it, even if it’s decorated more to Mother’s taste than mine.’
Jemima strolled about, eyeing the antique furniture and oil paintings. ‘It reminds me of Trevellyan,’ she commented. ‘So old school. So old world.’
Tara nodded.
The door opened and Poppy burst in, panting, her curls awry.
‘Oh God, I’m late again, aren’t I!’ she cried.
‘Don’t worry, darling, I only just got here,’ Jemima replied. ‘You haven’t missed anything.’
‘Hi, Pops.’ Tara smiled at her sister. ‘OK, we need to get cracking with this. Ingliss had all the information I wanted sent over and I went through as much as I could last night. I’m afraid I’ve got some serious things to tell you about where we all stand.’
Jemima fell dramatically into an armchair. ‘Oh, shit, we’re bankrupt, aren’t we? That foul old bitch has ruined us all!’
‘Oh no. It can’t be true … not dear old Trevellyan.’ Poppy looked horrified. ‘But how on earth could it happen? It just doesn’t make any sense that one day everything is fine and the next it’s total disaster.’
Tara looked at them both solemnly. ‘We’re not bankrupt. But we’re bloody close.’
‘Am I going to need a drink for this bit?’ asked Jemima.
‘No. You’re going to need a clear head. We all are.’ Tara looked at Poppy. ‘You’d better sit down.’ Poppy obediently dropped her bag and sank into a chair. ‘We thought Mother was quite the miracle worker, didn’t we? When Daddy died, she turned from useless socialite who’d never done a day’s work in her life to hard-nosed businesswoman, taking over the running of the company and making a success of it. But it seems that wasn’t quite the real story. The truth is that Mother failed dismally. It’s true to say that things weren’t great for Trevellyan when Daddy was in charge – I don’t think he was really cut out for a career in the perfume industry. We always knew he’d probably have been much happier playing the piano or teaching or something. But at least he understood the basic principles and that you can’t drain a company dry, that it doesn’t go on for ever without careful planning. You need a strategy – a business has to change in response to the times, just as Trevellyan always used to. The only thing is, Daddy didn’t know how to do that. He didn’t understand his times at all so he concentrated on Trevellyan’s core market, the one he did understand – the old duffer brigade. He cut back a bit to make up for the fact that Trevellyan was no longer growing, but he kept it steady. Then Mother took over.’
Poppy’s eyes grew wider. ‘What happened?’
‘In a word, disaster.’ Tara consulted some of the papers in front her. ‘Assets – gone. Sales – vanishing. The company – totally on the slide. And I’m afraid it seems to have been down to her Chairman Mao approach to things. No one dared give her any advice – if she didn’t like it, she sacked them and avoided tribunals by paying them off with great wedges of cash, years of private health care, cars …’
‘I imagine half of them were vying to get sacked, then,’ commented Jemima.
‘By the end, yes. Trevellyan’s a sinking ship, to be honest, and everyone there must have known about it. I suppose whoever is left is just hanging on to see what they can get out of it. They’re still paying good money to the board of directors. And, of course, to us. In fact, it’s our allowances, salaries and dividends that are bleeding the company white. So here’s the reality check. All Trevellyan money stops. Right now.’ Jemima gasped and turned pale, one hand flying to her mouth in shock.
Poppy shook her head and half smiled to herself. ‘All of it?’
Tara took off her glasses. ‘Yes. We should be able to negotiate new salaries as directors of the company in due course, if we actually manage to make any money. But for the moment we’re going to have to do it for the love of it.’
‘Hold on a second, Tara,’ said Jemima. Her voice was tight and low, with a tiny tremor in it, as though she was fighting to keep control. ‘It’s all very well for you to say we’re not going to have any more money. You’ve got a job that pays you a ludicrous amount and Gerald is absolutely loaded. Losing the Trevellyan money means everything to me and Poppy. It’s all we’ve got.’
‘I don’t mind!’ piped up Poppy, looking more cheerful than she had for weeks. ‘I think it will do us good to live without it for a bit – to provide for ourselves for a change.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ Jemima hissed furiously. ‘You’re so fucking naïve, Poppy. La, la, la – look at the lovely trees, paint a pretty flower! That’s you, isn’t it? Well, guess what, it isn’t like that. You’ve never had to worry about real life because of the Trevellyan money. Now you’ll soon find out what it’s like to be poor and I don’t think you’re going to like it one little bit. I know I’m not.’ She turned to Tara. ‘Don’t you see what kind of a situation I’ll be in if you take our money away from us? I’ll be broke!’
Tara’s expression was stern. For once, she was the older sister, able to pull rank on Jemima. Her business credentials gave her the power she’d never had before. You don’t seem to understand. I’m not taking away the Trevellyan money – there is no money. There’s nothing to give you.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ cried Jemima. ‘It can’t be as bad as you’re saying!’
‘All right, say you go on getting your money. In six months to a year, it’ll all be over. For good. Trevellyan will be bankrupt. Everything will go to the bank, or be sold off to companies like the one I work for. There are still a couple of assets that people will be drooling to get their hands on – prime Mayfair property, for one. But if you forgo your money now and work with me and Poppy to get this thing going again, then we’ll all have Trevellyan, and an income, for the rest of our lives. Now what will it be?’
Jemima jumped up and stalked to the window. The other two watched her as she stared out at Green Park, stretching away towards Buckingham Palace. People were wandering across the grass, enjoying the brief spring sunshine. Children ran about while mothers sat on park benches chatting. Life was going on as normal, even though, for the Trevellyan sisters, it had utterly changed.
‘It’s not as bad as you think,’ Tara said quietly. ‘You own your flat. You must have something in the bank. You’ve got lots of things you could sell if you had to. You’ll just have to cut back for a while. No more expensive trips. No more shopping and self-indulgence.’
Jemima’s fists clenched. ‘There’s the small matter of my credit cards.’
‘How much do you owe?’ asked Tara.
There was a pause. ‘Eighty on one. Forty on another.’
‘What’s the problem?’ Poppy chirped up. ‘That’s nothing.’
‘She means eighty thousand,’ Tara said coldly. ‘So that’s a hundred and twenty thousand on credit cards. Somewhat prolific. Your interest payments must be about twenty-plus grand a year.’
Jemima stared steadfastly out the window, then muttered, ‘Well, you know what the bank is like. My banker is always ringing me up and offering me more credit. It’s so easy to put on a couple of flights, a bit of shopping, the New York hotels … it adds up so fast. I always mean to pay it off, but I keep forgetting.’
There was silence for a moment and then Tara said slowly, ‘I would advise using any savings you’ve got to reduce that debt as far as possible. If you haven’t got the income coming in, I can see that meeting repayments might be difficult. Let me know how it goes. If you really are desperate, you can come to Gerald and me.’
Jemima whirled round, her eyes ablaze, and said sarcastically, ‘Oh, thank you, Tara. How kind of you! Shall I send all my bills to you, then? And what about the money I spend keeping Herne going every month? Will you pay for that t
oo? How lovely for you to have so much money.’
‘Wait!’ cried Poppy. The others looked at her expectantly. She had a big smile on her face. ‘I don’t know what you’re both so worried about. I have the answer. It’s so simple.’
‘OK,’ Tara said slowly. ‘That’s very good news. There must be something I’ve overlooked. What is it?’
‘Loxton!’
Tara frowned. Jemima’s face cleared. ‘Of course, Loxton!’
‘We can sell it,’ Poppy explained. ‘Or, at least, I can. We’ll sell it – it must be worth millions. And put the money into Trevellyan so we can get it going again.’ She sat back in her chair. ‘Ta-dah! Problem solved.’
‘She’s right. Well done, Poppy. What a relief,’ Jemima said, smiling again. ‘I thought I was in deep shit there for a moment.’
Tara bit her lip. Jemima noticed. ‘What? What is it, Tara?’
‘I wish it was that simple. Of course it occurred to me that we could sell Loxton, and you’re right, it’s worth several million at the moment. But there’s a problem. Well, two problems.’ The other two looked at her questioningly. ‘The first is that Mother neglected to make the estate over to you in good time, Poppy. There’s an inheritance tax bill to pay on the estate and all the contents of the house. The taxman will be popping round to tot it all up anytime now but we can expect a bill of at least three million, by my reckoning. Perhaps more, depending on the current market value of some of the furniture and artworks.’
Poppy gasped. ‘Three million pounds! How am I going to find three million pounds?’
‘Exactly.’
There was a pause as this information sank in.
‘So she’ll have to sell anyway,’ said Jemima flatly. ‘That much is obvious. But at least there’ll be something left after the taxman has taken his bite, won’t there? I mean, they don’t take it all.’
‘No.’ Tara picked up another document. ‘But that’s where Mother’s second little surprise comes in.’