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  ‘Sometimes these things are delayed. It can take a while to realise that someone is really gone for good.’ Margie put her hand on Poppy’s and smiled. ‘Maybe your sister will come to terms with it over time. Don’t be too hard on her.’

  ‘You’re being very understanding.’ Poppy smiled back. ‘Especially as I know how you feel about Jemima.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know the woman! I might consider her over-privileged and having far more than it’s right for one person to possess, but she’s still a person with feelings, isn’t she? I have got a heart, you know, even if you think I’m a rock-hard Northerner who’d like to line your sister’s lot up against the wall and have done with it!’

  Poppy laughed. ‘You’re making me feel better already. Thanks for coming out to see me.’

  ‘Are you mad? Course I’d come out and see you, you nutter. Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘Well, I know you sometimes get together with Tom and his lot on a Friday night …’ Poppy’s gaze moved to the table and she stared hard at a crack on it.

  ‘Yeah, well, not tonight.’ Margie took a swig from her bottle of beer.

  ‘How is Tom?’ Poppy asked, after a pause.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Is he painting?’

  ‘Yeah. He’s got an exhibition in New York.’

  ‘New York?’ Poppy echoed, impressed.

  ‘Yeah, he’s really chuffed. It’s some prestigious gallery in the centre of town, so he’s painting like mad to get ready for it. They want fifty pictures at least.’

  ‘Fifty … that’s brilliant.’

  ‘It’s great, but you know what a perfectionist Tom is. He’s getting ever so precious about it all. You know how he works with egg tempura? Well, he’s started using only organic eggs, as though it’ll make a blind bit of difference, and it’s costing him a fortune! Still, I expect Channing pays for that. It was her dad who swung his exhibition for him, too – he’d never have got that if it wasn’t for her.’ Margie laughed and then stopped, looking guiltily over at Poppy. ‘Oh, Christ, love, I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Poppy declared, trying to hide the fact that every word was simultaneously fascinating and painful. Hearing about Tom was always difficult. ‘I’m fine to talk about it, really. I’m over it. Tom can do what he likes. So I take it Channing is the American girlfriend?’

  Margie nodded. ‘She’s nice and all, but she’s bad for Tom. She hero-worships him and it’s unhealthy for his ego, which is inflated enough as it is. She thinks he’s the world’s greatest living artist.’

  ‘Tom must like that.’

  ‘You’d better believe it! And she’s always ready to hand over wodges of her allowance to make it happen. Naturally, Daddy will do anything to keep his little girl happy, and he’s totally taken in by Tom’s brilliant-artist routine as well.’ Margie rolled her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if he really was the next Picasso or something, but we both know he’s not, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poppy said softly. She was suddenly seeing an alternative future, where she had been the one supporting Tom, making his dreams come true, turning the two of them into an important couple in the art world. With her money and his unshakeable self-belief, perhaps they could have done it … She shook her head. It wasn’t what I wanted, she reminded herself. I need to be creative in my own way, not pay for Tom to indulge himself.

  ‘Actually, Poppy.’ Margie said in a low voice, ‘there’s something I need to tell you.’ She stared at the table and fidgeted awkwardly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure whether now was a good time, what with your mother and everything, but I can’t not tell you now we’re talking about Tom. It would be like lying to you.’

  ‘Yes?’ Poppy felt a shiver of apprehension. She wrapped her fingers round the cold beer bottle in front of her.

  ‘Sorry about this, love – but Tom is engaged to be married. He proposed to Channing last week and she said yes.’

  It felt like a bucket of cold water being emptied over her head – a sudden, unpleasant shock.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Margie said gently, putting her hand on Poppy’s arm.

  ‘Yes … yes, I think so,’ Poppy said a little shakily. ‘It’s weird, I shouldn’t care. Because I know we weren’t right for each other and maybe he and this Channing are the ideal couple … but it still hurts. I feel angry that he’s happy again, and I’m not.’

  ‘You’ll meet someone else, you know you will.’

  ‘I hope so. Otherwise I’m going to be alone a long time!’ Poppy managed a rueful smile. ‘My life is so confused at the moment, Margie. Mother dying has created a whole load of problems you wouldn’t believe. More than ever, I feel like I need someone to lean on. I’m tired of being on my own. I miss Tom, even though I shouldn’t. I still love him in some ways.’ She bit her lip, trying not to let her emotions overcome her.

  ‘You’re going to meet someone else,’ declared Margie. ‘Someone fantastic. I can feel it in my water. And in the meantime, do you know what I think?’

  ‘No – what?’

  ‘I think you need some champagne. I know you can’t stand beer. Come on. It’s my treat.’

  14

  ‘LET ME GET this absolutely clear, Tara.’ Eric Bonderman stared at her with his most steely gaze. ‘You want to take a what?’

  ‘A sabbatical.’

  ‘Right. You want to leave your job for six months –’

  ‘At least,’ put in Tara. ‘I’ll need at least that long.’

  ‘At least six months. Well, what the hell are we going to do without you? Who is going to manage your funds?’

  ‘I don’t know, we’ll find someone. And I’ll still keep an eye on everything, when I can.’

  ‘Very good of you,’ Eric said coldly. ‘What on earth makes you think I’m going to agree to this?’

  ‘I suppose because you’ll have to. I need this time. I’m not taking an extended holiday, though God knows I deserve some time off. I’m not going to work for a rival, even though I’ve been approached by head-hunters on at least five occasions in the last eighteen months.’ Tara stood up and began pacing about Eric’s luxurious office with its unrivalled view of the City. She was wearing a tight, dark grey pencil skirt and a magenta chiffon blouse with billowing sleeves. She made a striking figure and Eric tried hard not to stare at her slim legs as she marched about his office on her high heels. ‘You know I’ve made a great success of the funds I’ve managed, and I’ve also come up with some hot tickets that have generated you and the company a lot of money. I’ve done it by spotting companies that are tottering and that can be rebuilt. Now I’ve got the chance of a lifetime. Right on my doorstep is my own company. It’s falling to pieces and I can go in and turn it round. It’s a priceless opportunity – not just to save my family’s business but to test my instincts, and try out my ideas. I’ve done everything in theory up until now – now I’ve got the chance to do it in practice.’

  Eric leaned back in his leather armchair. ‘You mean that perfume house your father owned?’

  Tara nodded.

  ‘Why do you want to waste your time on that?’ Eric asked, waving his pen about to show his bafflement. ‘You’re never going to make real money on it. It’s small fry.’

  ‘It might be now, but it’s got huge potential.’

  ‘Huge potential to suck up a load of money and sink without trace, taking your career with it.’

  Tara stopped and faced him, her hands on her hips. ‘Come on, Eric. A businessman as astute as you must appreciate the worth of the luxury goods market. And it’s just about the only part of the retail industry still experiencing growth at the moment. The massive amount of money flooding in from the Russians, Indians and Chinese is keeping it very buoyant.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure. But that’s high-end stuff. Yeah, of course there’s money in it. Any fool knows that. But you’ve got to be right at the top, where the rich come out to play. And I don’t mean to offend, but your family s
hop isn’t exactly up there with the big boys.’

  ‘I can get it there.’

  Eric made a quizzical face and grinned. ‘Yeah. OK. Look, you’re not serious, are you? I mean, who tries to relaunch a tired old business during a global economic downturn? Or do you know something I don’t?’

  ‘I’ve never been more serious. And I have another name for a global economic downturn – “opportunity”. When others pull in their horns and stop playing, I get excited.’

  His grin faded. ‘Don’t be stupid, Tara. This is a ridiculous waste of time, I’m telling you.’

  ‘And I’m telling you.’ Tara scooped up her coat and headed for the door. ‘From Monday there’ll be someone else in my office – I’ll sort out who over the weekend. I’ll be gone for at least six months. Make sure you arrange with payroll to stop my salary.’

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Eric angrily as she reached the door. ‘What makes you think there’ll be a job to come back to?’

  ‘There will be,’ said Tara, looking at him over her shoulder. ‘We both know that. I’ll be in touch.’

  * * *

  She felt a thrill of excitement as John drove her up and out of the company car park. It was like being let out of school before the long summer holiday. Of course she would have to devote the next couple of days to finding someone who could cover for her but she had a favour she might be able to pull in for this. And she would still be monitoring her funds and the markets, she knew she wouldn’t be able to help herself. But now, she would also be marching into Trevellyan on Monday morning and taking charge. She would show them – she’d show the ghosts of her parents just who she was, and what they missed when they ignored her.

  The Friday night traffic was thick and slow moving. John used all his skill to guide the great car through the throng, powering silently away, getting across amber lights by the skin of his teeth and generally doing his best to get Tara back home.

  He succeeded brilliantly and they pulled up in front of the house bang on seven.

  ‘You star, John, thanks.’ Tara didn’t wait for her driver to open the door. She was tip-tapping up the front steps before he’d even got out of his seat. ‘You have a great weekend, OK? Give my love to Philippa. And I’ll see you here at seven-thirty on Monday. We’re going to Trevellyan House.’

  John waved back, and pulled the big car back out into the road.

  A few moments later, Tara was running into the bathroom.

  ‘Mummy!’ squealed Edward with delight. ‘You’re home.’

  Imogen jumped up, covered in water and bubbles, eager for a hug, babbling excitedly as she told Tara all about her day, which involved the park, the swings and her friend Millie.

  Tara laughed, not caring that her chiffon blouse was now drenched and clinging forlornly to her thin frame. ‘Tell me everything, darlings,’ she said, grabbing a face cloth with one hand as she knelt down next to the bath.

  They spent a wet and silly twenty minutes, giggling and playing, until Robina came in and told them it was time to get out and prepare for bed. She took Imogen, while Tara wrapped a warm towel round Edward and heaved him from the bath. It was hard to believe that he was almost five already. It seemed as though it was only five minutes ago that she’d brought home that tiny little bundle from the Portland Hospital and set about learning to be a mother. Of course, she’d had help right from the start; first a live-in maternity nurse and then a full-time nanny. Robina was the second after the first had left to go back to Australia. She was brilliantly capable and seemed very happy looking after the little ones. Tara would have liked to have spent more time at home with the children when they were babies but she’d had to go back after six months’ maternity leave. Her job demanded it and she’d known that if she wanted to be taken seriously, she was going to have to get back to the office as soon as possible. Even on her leave, she’d been on the internet a couple of hours a day, chasing leads, emailing and monitoring the world markets. A few times, she’d rushed into the office, leaving the nanny and Edward at home.

  When Imogen had arrived two years later, it had been easier. She hadn’t been as flooded with hormones as she had with the first, and yet it was still a terrible wrench to leave her little girl and return to the office. She had a feeling that there would be no more babies, and that she had lost her last chance to spend long happy days with her children, watching them grow up.

  Still, Robina was doing an excellent job, the children were happy and healthy and she, Tara, was providing a wonderful role model of what women could achieve if they wanted. That was the thing – she didn’t want to be a stay-at-home mum. She valued her achievements and her job too highly to let them go. But she also longed for her babies sometimes, and hoped very much that they didn’t love Robina more; after all, it was Robina who fed them, took them to the park, comforted them when they fell over, looked after them when they were ill. During the week, Tara talked more to them by phone then she did face to face.

  But I’m doing this for them, she told herself as she carried Edward through to the bedroom. The children are the best part of me and Gerald, and I want them to be proud of us. I want them to see what I can do – Trevellyan is going to be the way I prove myself, I know it and it’s their future too.

  Tara let herself out of the children’s bedroom, blinking in the hall light. Reading three bedtime stories in a row by a dim light (a very sleepy Imogen had only lasted the first one before dropping off), and then soothing Edward to sleep left her feeling completely dopey too.

  Robina came out of the nursery at the same time.

  ‘Hi, Robina, how was the day?’ Tara asked with a smile.

  ‘Very good, thank you. They were very well behaved. Imogen and I collected Edward from school as usual and we all went to the park for a good run around with the Wilson nanny and her children. Then home for tea.’

  ‘Oh, excellent. And Robina … everything is tidy downstairs, isn’t it?’

  Robina gave her a knowing look. ‘Oh, yes. It’s all spick and span, don’t worry.’

  ‘Thank you. You know how Gerald prefers things …’

  ‘I certainly do. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’ll go to my flat.’

  ‘Of course. Go and relax, you deserve it.’ Tara smiled again. She always tried to be as nice as possible to Robina, dreading the day when the nanny would hand in her notice for some reason. That wouldn’t be for a long time yet, with any luck, for Tara and Gerald provided a very luxurious private flat under the house and a snazzy little car. Robina had every evening off and most of the weekend, a fat salary and trips abroad with the family whenever she wanted to go along, so there was no reason at all to leave.

  Except Gerald, of course. But Robina seemed to understand about that, which was a great comfort.

  Thinking of Gerald reminded her that she was going to have to tell him about Trevellyan. He was not going to be pleased, she knew that. I can avoid it tonight at least, she thought. He’s out at some big dinner for important newspaper types. I can enjoy a light supper in peace in front of the television. Bliss.

  She would put off the evil moment until some time during the weekend, perhaps on Sunday morning. Gerald would probably want sex as usual, and just afterwards, when he was feeling relaxed and good humoured, was always a sensible time to broach awkward subjects.

  She went down the wide staircase, her stocking-clad feet making no noise on the thick honey-coloured carpet. The house was so quiet. It glittered in the light of the chandelier that hung from the hall ceiling: mirrors, gilt, china, polished furniture, all reflecting the lavish golden glow.

  Well, all she wanted now was a couple of poached eggs on thick, hot, buttery toast, a glass of cold white wine and something mindless on the television. She wouldn’t think about Gerald quite yet. It wasn’t time.

  15

  JEMIMA PICKED UP the text as she left the Ritz on Friday afternoon. It was from Harry.

  Hope you haven’t forgotten we are due at Rollo’s tonight for the weekend.<
br />
  ‘Oh fuck with a capital fucking F!’ muttered Jemima as she marched out of the hotel. She quickly fired back a message. Yes, I had bloody forgotten. Can you tell them I’m ill?

  A few minutes later, when she was in a taxi heading back to Eaton Square, Harry’s reply appeared in her inbox.

  No. They know you’re not. Don’t be so rude. Meet me there at 8.

  Jemima groaned.

  Every now and then, they were forced to appear somewhere as a couple, pretending that everything was OK between them. Harry had a tight-knit circle of friends. His closest pals, all friends from school, probably knew him better than she did and almost certainly knew the truth about the relationship, even if Harry never talked openly about it and she suspected he didn’t. He was far too English, upper class and male to start discussing his private affairs with anyone, no matter how much he was suffering. Then there was the wider group, also from school and some university friends. They were the only people Harry was interested in knowing. He would accept their invitations, go to their balls and house parties, enjoy himself and consider that he had a raring social life, thank you very much.

  When Jemima complained that he only ever saw the same people all the time, he would ask her what on earth was wrong with that?

  ‘I know them, I like them. Why would I want to go and meet a load of new people I’ve got nothing in common with and whom I will very likely detest?’ he would ask.

  ‘Because it’s fun to meet new people!’ Jemima would insist. But Harry was immoveable on the subject.

  Rollo was one of Harry’s school friends. He had a big rambling country house in Gloucestershire and a sparkling, blonde Sloaney wife called Emma who was only twenty-two and made Jemima feel haggard and ancient. Emma loved nothing more than pulling on a tight pair of jeans, a tatty cashmere sweater and some old boots and running about with a lot of dirty, smelly dogs, all the time still managing to look like a model.