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  ‘Second?’ muttered Jemima. ‘I’m losing count of her little surprises. I bet she’s chortling away down in the inferno.’

  ‘In the course of shoring Trevellyan up by selling off assets and properties, she also mortgaged Loxton. She didn’t quite mortgage it up to the hilt but she managed to mortgage it just enough that by the time we’ve sold it, paid the tax and repaid the bank, there will be precisely nothing left. Perhaps enough to pay off the staff and tidy things up a bit, but nothing significant. Certainly not enough to make a dent in the Trevellyan mess.’

  Jemima came back to the sofa and sank down into it. ‘Oh God,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘This is really serious, then.’

  Tara nodded.

  ‘So Loxton has to go, no matter what?’ said Poppy.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Pops. As soon as possible. We’d better instruct an agent to put it on the market immediately.’

  ‘What about everything inside? The furniture, the paintings …’

  ‘We could try to sell it intact. We should get quite a bit more if we do that. It might give us enough to hold Trevellyan up a bit longer. But –’ Tara gazed seriously at her sister – ‘that really is your inheritance. That’s all there is. If you sell Loxton’s contents and put the money into Trevellyan, I can’t guarantee you that you won’t lose it all anyway.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Jemima asked icily. ‘I don’t have bloody anything! Pops, I think you should sell the lot. Send the contents to Sotheby’s and we’ll use the money for the company.’

  Tara held up her hand. ‘Shut up, Jemima. This is Poppy’s decision. It doesn’t matter how you feel about it, the fact is that she owns the contents of Loxton and it is her decision, and hers alone, what happens to them.’

  Poppy looked at her sisters with her wide green eyes, running a chestnut ringlet round her finger.

  ‘Of course I’ll sell them. I think we should each choose a few things from the house, things we really want and that we’ll treasure. And the rest should go to auction and we’ll use the proceeds to save our company. It’s definitely what I want.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Jemima said approvingly.

  ‘That’s extraordinarily generous.’ Tara smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’d have done the same,’ Jemima said quickly.

  ‘I’m sure you would. But there’s one thing I have to ask you both.’ Tara paused and looked uncomfortably at them. ‘Do either of you know where Mother’s jewels are?’

  Poppy and Jemima stared back at her, both taken aback by the question.

  ‘Aren’t they in the house?’ asked Poppy. ‘That’s where they always were.’

  ‘No. They’re not.’

  Jemima frowned. ‘They must be in the bank, then.’

  ‘I’m looking in to that. But everything’s gone from her dressing table, save one or two trinkets. Anything of value has gone – and so has her silver locket, her wedding and engagement rings and a few other things of sentimental value. She always kept those in her room, so someone’s removed them.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Poppy.

  ‘I don’t know, obviously. Perhaps Mother sent them away herself.’

  ‘Why would she have done that?’ wondered Jemima.

  ‘Goodness knows. But whatever her reasons, we need those jewels. They’re potentially worth hundreds of thousands, and rightly, they belong to Poppy.’

  ‘To all of us,’ Poppy said loyally.

  ‘We need to start looking for them,’ Tara said.

  ‘Let’s add that to our To Do List,’ said Jemima with a giggle. ‘Let’s see. Find cache of missing jewels. Sell family home and everything in it, so reducing selves to penury. Save family company before it goes bust.’ She laughed.

  Tara giggled too. ‘And sue whoever it was who failed to get Mother’s inheritance tax issues sorted out.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Jemima with a shrug. ‘I reckon I can fit that in on Thursday. I won’t be able to afford my massage and pedicure now, so I’ll pop over to the lawyer’s instead.’ Then she said soberly, ‘Oh God. It’s all so huge, I can’t quite take it in.’

  ‘Don’t worry, girls. We can face it and we can win.’ Tara smiled. ‘I know it.’

  12

  THERE WAS A knock at the door and a porter came in bringing a tray of tea things. A delicate china stand held a variety of sandwiches and cakes, and there were piping hot silver pots of tea.

  ‘Thank goodness, I’m starving,’ said Jemima. ‘Clever you, Tara.’

  ‘I thought we might need something to keep us going.’

  ‘Ooh, cucumber sandwiches, my favourite.’ Poppy pounced on the little rectangles with slivers of green peeping out of the bread.

  ‘You can really count on the Ritz, can’t you?’ Jemima said, through a mouthful of smoked-salmon sandwich. ‘It knows how to do a proper tea. Remember Mother and Daddy bringing us here when we were little for tea in the Palm Court? I thought I’d gone back in time. All that pink and gilt and green fronds and tinkling piano music. It was like stepping into the 1920s. Want a sandwich, Tara?’

  Tara shook her head. ‘Just a cup of tea, thanks. With lemon.’

  Jemima checked the tea had brewed then poured it into the bone china cup and passed it to Tara, with the plate of lemon.

  ‘OK, girls, it’s time to start using our little grey cells,’ announced Tara. ‘Now we know the true situation, we have to decide how we’re going to get Trevellyan back on track.’

  The others looked blank.

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ said Jemima, until my blood sugar is back at reasonable levels, I’m no use to man or beast. You’re the businesswoman. You must have the ideas.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to be rather useless,’ added Poppy apologetically. ‘You’re so good at these things, Tara. It’s what you do for a living. I’m happy to provide some extra cash by selling the Loxton things, but I don’t think I’ll be much help otherwise.’

  ‘And you know me,’ said Jemima. ‘Very happy to spend money. Not a clue how to make it. Sorry.’ She shrugged.

  Tara put her teacup carefully back on its saucer. ‘And that’s that, is it? Sorry, Tara, could you possibly fix it for us? We don’t know about facts and figures and business, we’re such helpless little kittens …’ Suddenly she leaned forward, her eyes blazing. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? If you’ve ever had to prove yourselves, that time is now! You’re both intelligent, talented women and yet you’ve learned to be helpless. Useless! Your own words. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘What do you want us to do?’ Jemima said, startled by Tara’s outburst. ‘I can barely type. I can just about send an email. That’s about it.’

  ‘I did filing once,’ volunteered Poppy. ‘Will there be much call for that? If so, I’m sure I can help out.’

  Tara laughed, a trace of bitterness in her voice. She leaned back in her chair and folded her pale, slim hands in her lap. ‘If you could hear yourselves! The Heiresses … the aristocratic lady and the artist. That’s your idea of business, is it? Typing and filing! Do you think Richard Branson does much typing and filing? Of course not! Business is about ideas. It’s about instinct and understanding. It’s about taking the knowledge you’ve got and using it. Jemima, what’s your area of expertise?’

  ‘Um … parties. Shopping. Shoes. Being somewhat high maintenance.’

  ‘Yes! All vital to a luxury goods company! You see? We’re going to need everything you know about how and why you and all your friends go shopping. And, much as I hate to remind you, you happen to be newsworthy. People like to read about what you’re up to – where you go, what you do, who your friends are. Some of them – God help them – even want to be like you. We can use all that. Trevellyan is going to need an ambassador, someone to spark publicity and interest. That, your ladyship, could be you.’

  Jemima looked interested but her tone suggested she was still not convinced. ‘Yes … yes, when you put it that way … I suppose I could do something alo
ng those lines.’

  ‘You’d better believe it. Trevellyan is going to need a major new relaunch. Some fresh ideas and a new image.’ Tara pointed her pen at Poppy. ‘That’s where you come in.’

  Poppy looked blank. ‘I don’t know the first thing about scent. What am I supposed to do?’

  Tara sighed with exasperation. ‘Haven’t you been listening to me? Of course none of us know anything about running a perfumery business.’ She paused for a moment, obviously trying to hold in her impatience at Poppy’s helplessness. Then she regained her enthusiasm. You may not know about scent but you know about how things should look, what works together. You know me – virtually colour blind. I wouldn’t know good branding if it came up and bit me. But you would. And I want you to start thinking about things like packaging and the look of Trevellyan. What works and what doesn’t? You’re going to need to do some research, too. I want you to immerse yourself in the world of luxury fragrances. We need to know everything we can about the world we’re dealing with. There’s just so much to be covered I wouldn’t know where to start on my own …’ Tara stopped and frowned. Some of her energy seemed to seep out of her. ‘I’ve been feeling pretty miserable about all this. I just knew you’d both try and foist this on me but there’s no way I can do this alone. I have a more than full-time job already and as it is I don’t see enough of Edward and Imogen. I’ve thought hard about it – you’re not useless, you can both make a huge difference if you put your minds to it. I don’t intend to just let you give up. You need to help me. You can do it.’

  Poppy went over and gave Tara a hug. ‘We’ve been horribly selfish. We haven’t given a thought to how busy you are. Of course we’ll help. We’ll do all we can, won’t we, Mimi?’

  ‘I think we’ve spent more time together in the last four days then we have since we were children,’ Jemima said drily. ‘Let’s just hope we can maintain this entente cordiale. But I’m willing to do it if you are. What have we got to lose?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What if we fail?’ Poppy said.

  ‘Home to dreaded Herne Castle, until Harry kicks me out, which will probably be sooner rather than later. Then, God knows. I’ll have to sell the flat, I suppose, if only to clear off the credit cards.’ A look of pain passed over her face. ‘I love my flat. I don’t want to live anywhere else.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Tara said with determination. ‘I mean it. We can do this, we can turn the company around. We just have to learn very, very fast. And we have to start treating it like a job. That means I want you both in offices in Trevellyan House from Monday. I’ve told Ingliss to arrange it. Three offices for the new chief executives.’

  ‘Every day?’ asked Jemima, alarmed.

  ‘Every day.’

  ‘All day?’ queried Poppy.

  ‘A full business day. Nine till five, minimum. It’ll come as quite a shock to the system, girls, but it has to be done.’

  Jemima looked sulky. The air of goodwill and positivity that had previously filled the suite was distinctly reduced. ‘That’s totally unrealistic, Tara. I don’t get up until at least nine-thirty. Then I’ve got all my appointments. My hair, my masseuse, my personal trainer … It will wreak havoc with my diary and it’s really not fair to them to mess them around like that. I can’t possibly fit it in. I could probably do a couple of afternoons a week. And I can work from home, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ve got about as much confidence that you’ve got the discipline to work from home as I have that you can fly a jumbo jet. You’ve not trained yourself, you don’t know how to work. No. We’ve only got twelve months. We have to make sacrifices. If it means you have to paint your own toenails for a while, then so be it. Anyway, it’s not like you’ll be able to afford any of those luxuries for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘What about me?’ Poppy said in a small voice. ‘What about my painting?’ She looked up at her sister with anxious eyes. ‘I need time to be creative.’

  Tara turned to her younger sister. ‘Sorry, love, but that means you too. You’ll just have to channel all your creativity into rebranding Trevellyan. You can take up the painting again when we’ve done what we have to do, I promise.’

  ‘What about you?’ demanded Jemima crossly. ‘What sacrifices are you making? Will you be in Trevellyan House five days a week, nine till five? I doubt it!’

  Tara stood up and strode over to the window, looking out as Jemima had done earlier. The light was fading a little now in the late afternoon and people were heading home. The office workers were beginning to emerge, pouring down the Underground or climbing on buses to begin the long commute home. The other two watched as Tara turned towards them, her face tight.

  ‘I’ll be making my own sacrifices, believe me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Now, I think we’ve done enough for one day. Have a good weekend. I’ll see you in Trevellyan House on Monday at nine o’clock. Then we begin.’

  13

  POPPY APPROACHED THE iron railings of the Soho club, weaving her way among the smokers congregated outside. There were notices up asking smokers to keep away from the doorways and not to scatter their used butts on the pavement, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

  Not for the first time, Poppy was glad she didn’t smoke. In fact, she’d managed to stay clear of most vices in her life. She wasn’t a great drinker – a bad experience with vodka, whisky and claret when she was a teenager had gone a long way to putting her off – and she’d found the idea of drugs simultaneously frightening and tedious. Her imagination was already so vibrant, she was almost afraid of what might happen if she took mind-altering substances, and she had a healthy suspicion of anonymous white tablets or packets of unidentified powder. They reminded her of Nanny’s dyspepsia tablets and the bicarbonate of soda she would make the girls drink if they had upset tummies and which Poppy had loathed.

  The tediousness came from the behaviour of the people she knew who did indulge in such vices. She had one boyfriend who’d smoked cannabis cigarettes like others smoked Marlboro Lights and after a while she’d realised that he was far more interested in this pursuit than he was in her. And she got bored waiting for him to reply to her questions: short conversations seemed to take hours as his raddled mind moved at a snail’s pace. His good looks and artistic talent weren’t enough to compensate for it, so Poppy dumped him.

  The reverse was true for the effects of other substances; she’d had many a good party ruined when collared by some coke-fired friend who’d pin her in a corner and talk her to death, eyes glittering brightly and mind racing at super speed. Or it was an E-head, full of love and affection for her, desperate to hug her, dance with her, and confide what a fantastic person she was.

  No, drugs had never appealed to her. Her favourite vice – she felt a little embarrassed to admit it even to herself, as it sounded too little-rich-girl cliché for words – was champagne. It didn’t have to be vintage, and she was just as happy with a good prosecco on occasion, but she loved nothing better than a glass of champers fizzing with those adorable bubbles, and the bitter-sweet biscuity taste on her tongue.

  She went down the steps to the door of the club and let herself in. A sophisticated twenty-something girl greeted her and took her name.

  ‘Your guest is here,’ she said. ‘Waiting for you in the bar.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Poppy made her way along a dark corridor and into the basement bar. It was dominated by a huge fireplace where a great fire roared away despite the spring warmth outside, its faux logs and ash looking very realistic.

  She saw Margie at once, sitting at one of the long polished refectory tables, her head bent over a magazine. Poppy went over.

  ‘Great to see you,’ Margie said cheerfully, planting a resounding kiss on her cheek as Poppy leaned over to say hello. ‘You’re looking good – been anywhere nice?’

  ‘Sadly no. I just met up with my sisters,’ Poppy said. But she left it at that. She didn’t want to tell Margie anything about the Trevellyan bu
siness. For tonight, she wanted to escape it. Besides, when she started telling Margie about her other life, her Trevellyan life, the whole thing sounded so outlandish and extraordinary, and it created a distance between her and her old friend, whose completely normal Yorkshire upbringing was a million miles from Poppy’s.

  ‘Oh? How are they?’ Margie said politely, although Poppy could tell that she wasn’t really interested. She had an inbred distrust of anyone with money, and titles were the work of the devil as far as she was concerned, but she’d always made an effort not to let that get in the way of her friendship with Poppy. They’d met at art school and had hit it off immediately, despite their different backgrounds. For Poppy, Margie was pure gold – a friend who liked her despite her wealth and background, not because of it.

  ‘They’re fine, thank you. Can I get you a drink?’

  Margie nodded at a bottle next to her. ‘I’m on the beers, thanks, and you can certainly get me another if you’re buying.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ Poppy said, deciding not indulge her champagne vice tonight as Margie scoffed so hard whenever she did. She went to the bar and came back with two bottles of Belgian beer.

  Margie said sympathetically, ‘Listen, love, I was so sorry to hear about your mum. How was the funeral?’

  ‘Gruelling.’ Poppy slipped on to the bench next to her friend. ‘But OK. It was pretty bad while it was happening, but I’ve felt better since.’

  ‘That’s what funerals are for, I suppose,’ soothed Margie. ‘Closure.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I know that Tara felt better too, just like me. We were both terribly upset. But you know, I just couldn’t believe how little Jemima appeared to care. She really seemed pleased that Mother is dead. I wouldn’t have thought it of her.’

  ‘Maybe it’s an act,’ Margie suggested. ‘You know, to protect herself.’

  Poppy considered this. ‘You could be right. Jemima’s spent her whole life ranting about how mean Mother was to her and how much she hated her. I suppose she could hardly start wailing and sobbing once she was dead.’