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  ‘And do you drive a Porsche?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I usually drive a Ferrari.’

  ‘So what does that say about you?’ she asked teasingly.

  ‘I guess it means that I prefer Italian cars to German ones.’ Ferrera smiled. ‘The thing is, you will make your own judgements but you will not underestimate the power of the brand.’

  ‘So what is that first company you mentioned?’ she prodded.

  ‘FFB is my own company. Ferrera Fine Brands.’

  ‘Goodness, how impressive! Who do you own? From the sounds of it, there isn’t a great deal left.’

  ‘Oh.’ He shrugged and she was struck again by how at ease he was in his own body. ‘There’s plenty left, believe me. There are classic brands to be acquired, ones that will stand the test of time and always endure. And there are the more up-and-coming names, to be spotted, pounced on and brought into the fold. Consumer taste is always changing and it’s important to identify new trends.’

  ‘So, tell me … who do you own?’ Jemima delicately sliced a piece of smoked salmon on her plate and lifted it to her mouth.

  ‘I own some big American names,’ he replied. ‘Have you heard of Montrose Home and Garden?’ Jemima shook her head.

  ‘It’s a very big quality mail order brand in the States. We own that. Also Greave’s.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them,’ Jemima said, pleased. ‘They make the most fabulous shoes, so comfortable! I’ve got a pair in my car for driving. In fact, I must have several pairs. And I bought one of their gorgeous bags recently too.’

  Ferrera smiled. ‘I take that as a huge compliment, Lady Calthorpe. I’m delighted you like them.’

  ‘Of course I do. Everyone does. And please, call me Jemima.’

  ‘You see, Jemima, I always wanted a fine leather brand, and now I’ve got one. Greave’s are expanding all over the world, and I’m hoping to move into many new areas with them. The workmanship is superb and I believe they can challenge Louis Vuitton in the luxury luggage market. In a few years, they will, I’m sure. I take a personal interest in Greave’s. Our other lines are very American – New York-based designers and so on.’ He reeled off a list of names, some Jemima had heard of and some she hadn’t. ‘I’m keen to move into European brands at this point. There are some wonderful old French names I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as Hermès. Now that would be a coup.’ He made a face. ‘But it’s impossible. They are one of the last privately owned companies and they don’t intend to sell. Still, I won’t give up hope. Things may change. Chanel would be another – the Holy Grail, really. But again, the Wertheimer family don’t really have any plans to sell that particular goose and all its golden eggs. There are others I have my eye on though.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you in Paris?’

  ‘I often am. But as it happens, I don’t speak French and I don’t particularly want to live there. I can get there very easily from here whenever I need to. Besides, I’ve also got some ideas for expansion into the British market.’

  ‘Really? How fascinating. Do tell me what they are.’

  ‘I hope you understand that I really can’t do that, Jemima.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘You’re being very sweet and innocent with me, but I ought to tell you that I know exactly who you are.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. You’re part of the Trevellyan family. That’s a famous luxury brand. I know that your mother recently died – please accept my condolences. It must be a very sad time for you.’

  Jemima looked down at her plate, pushing her food around with her fork. ‘Thank you, yes, it hasn’t been … easy.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, the word is that you and your sisters have inherited the company. Is that right?’

  Jemima was surprised. She put down her fork. ‘Yes. Yes, it is. But how on earth did you hear about it?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have my sources. So, do you and your sisters intend to continue running it?’

  ‘What else would we do with it?’

  ‘Well, you could consider selling it, I suppose.’

  She turned to stare at him. ‘Sell it? To someone like you?’

  Ferrera gave his sexy little half-smile again. ‘Perhaps. But it’s vulgar to talk business at the dinner table, isn’t it? I’m sure we’ll get the opportunity to talk about it some time soon.’

  ‘What if we’re not for sale, like Chanel?’

  ‘Talking can’t do any harm, can it? And it might benefit both of us. This smoked salmon is excellent, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes … yes, I suppose it is.’

  ‘Now tell me, are there any good shows on in London at the moment? I’m going down there in a fortnight for a while. I’d love to hear your opinions.’

  She realised that the subject was well and truly changed.

  Jemima sat on the bed, fuming. The evening had started so well, and then turned into a disaster. Ferrera had been a charming dinner companion, and they’d talked about all the things he should see in London; the hottest exhibitions, the best plays and shows. Business had not been mentioned again.

  She had begun to realise that Richard Ferrera was a seriously sexy man. She loved the smooth American accent and the ease with which he spoke. His beautifully turned-out style and well-groomed body was in no way soft or off-putting – he was resolutely masculine. She had felt herself become seductive around him, lowering her voice and widening her eyes, putting herself in appealing attitudes.

  But immediately dinner was over, Emma had pounced.

  ‘Richard, come and meet Sukie Forbes, she’s a sweetheart and lives so close to you; you’re virtually neighbours. You don’t mind, do you, Jemima? Only we don’t know when we’ll be able to tempt Richard back …’

  Ferrera had shot her an apologetic look but had gone off politely with his hostess to meet her other guests. That left her able to observe Harry at the other end of the table and the outrageous flirting that was going on down there. Despite the large meal, he was still very drunk. At home he drank, but rarely to excess, and it was strange to see him so obviously inebriated, talking too loudly and laughing manically at whatever nonsense that stupid girl was coming out with. Letty also appeared to be thoroughly inebriated but Jemima suspected that some of that was an act. Jemima watched, appalled, as the two of them tottered off as soon as Emma led the way back to the drawing room. When she arrived there with the other guests, she saw them at once, cosied up on a window seat together, chattering away like two giggly teenagers keen for their first French kiss. At one point, Harry even pulled the heavy curtains round them so that all that was visible was their feet – one pair of polished black evening shoes and two slender feet in strappy sandals – but they were too drunk to keep them closed for long.

  Jemima made small talk with a more sedate crowd at the other end of the room, distracted by her husband’s behaviour and feeling angrier and angrier.

  Harry hauled himself to his feet and said loudly, ‘C’mon, Letty … let’s go for a walk.’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’ screeched Letty. ‘Fabulous idea, Harry!’

  And they stumbled out of the room together. A few minutes later, Letty’s laugh could be heard echoing up from the lawn below the house. ‘It’s bloody cold!’ she squealed.

  ‘I’ll warm you up!’ roared Harry and from the sound of it, he started chasing her around.

  The other guests were shooting sympathetic looks at Jemima.

  ‘Just high spirits, I expect,’ said one, trying to be diplomatic.

  ‘Spirits certainly have something to do with it,’ snapped Jemima. As soon as was polite, she’d excused herself and come up to bed seething with rage and embarrassment. For two hours there was no sign of Harry.

  Now she heard him veering around in the hallway, bumping into walls. The handle of the door twisted as he struggled to open it, then finally he managed to stumble inside.

  ‘Oh, ’lo,’ he said, registering tha
t she was there. ‘Thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I’ve been waiting for you,’ she answered icily.

  ‘I’ve been exploring,’ he mumbled. ‘Got a bit messy.’ He looked down at his black trousers which were now streaked with mud and grass. ‘Think these’ll have to go to the cleaners …’

  ‘What the fuck were you playing at?’ she hissed, her anger bursting out. ‘You were all over that little bitch! You made a total spectacle of yourself, everybody was watching.’

  ‘Why should you care?’ he asked, making his way carefully over to an armchair and then falling clumsily into it.

  ‘Why? Because it was fucking embarrassing, that’s why! I’m your wife, I’m sitting at the same table, and you’re all over some stupid little teenager, pawing her in a way that’s frankly disgusting for everyone else to watch.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Jemima? Are you jealous?’

  ‘Ha!’ She laughed loudly. ‘Jealous? No. Just humiliated.’

  ‘What about you?’ he said quietly, his eyes glittering. ‘What about what you get up to?’

  ‘I don’t embarrass you in public.’

  ‘Oh – that’s all right then. Except you were all over that greasy American tonight, weren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be so offensive. He’s not greasy. And we were talking about business, if you must know. You, on the other hand, were blatantly trying to manoeuvre that girl into bed and it was just a degrading spectacle for everyone.’

  Harry got up and started to walk towards the bed. ‘Can you really blame me, Jemima?’ He slumped on the bed next to her. His eyes were bloodshot and the toxic smell of whisky emanated from him. ‘It’s not as though we’re doing much frolicking in the marital bed, is it?’

  ‘What you do in private is your business – what you do in public, when I’m there, involves me too.’

  ‘You don’t want me any more, do you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I … I …’ She felt suddenly unsure of both herself and him. ‘Not when you’re like this – you reek of booze. It’s disgusting.’

  He leaned forward swiftly, put his hand around the back of her head and pulled her face to his. The next moment, he was kissing her, and she was pulling away as hard as she could, pushing at his heavy body with her hands.

  ‘Harry, get off! Get off me, stop …’

  ‘Come on, Jemima, please. We can’t go on like this. This marriage is like a living death. It doesn’t have to be this way … come on, please.’

  ‘No!’ she shouted. He pulled back and stared at her sadly. ‘You’ve done nothing but humiliate me all night – why on earth would I want to sleep with you? Besides, you’ve probably been snogging that little cow outside – the two of you looked like juvenile idiots. And you stink. Get away from me!’

  He stood up, swaying slightly, unable to look her in the eye. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow morning,’ she declared. ‘I don’t see why I should have to suffer that supercilious bitch Emma and her godawful boring friends any longer. I did it for you, so that we could keep up the pretence that there was something in this marriage, but you’ve made a complete mockery of that. So I’m going back to London first thing.’ She stared up at him defiantly. ‘Don’t try and stop me.’

  ‘I’m not going to.’

  ‘Good. And you’re not sleeping here tonight. You may as well go and find that tart and sleep with her, because I don’t want you in my bed.’

  His face hardened as he absorbed this. ‘Do you really mean that?’ he said, with only the hint of a slur.

  ‘Yes, I do. Go and sleep with her. I don’t care.’

  He winced. Then he stared at her. Their eyes locked. ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’ He threw off his jacket, turned, made his way slowly to the door, opened it and left.

  In the moment’s silence that followed Jemima was astonished to find that tears were pouring down her cheeks. She threw herself onto her pillows and sobbed.

  18

  THE BOARDROOM TABLE was covered in packaging and bottles. The boxes were in the Trevellyan signature dark blue, a royal warrant picked out in gold on the top of each and the flowing golden script announcing the name of the scent it contained.

  The bottles were all identical – plain rectangular glass with gold-coloured atomisers and on each a white label with the name of the fragrance. A glass container held dozens of paper tester slips, and used slips lay on the table in little heaps.

  Tara, Poppy and Jemima stood around the table, picking up bottles, spraying the scent on to tester slips and waving them under their noses.

  With them were the directors of Trevellyan, standing about with bemused expressions as the women sniffed, thought and reacted.

  ‘This is horrible!’ exclaimed Tara as she flinched away from the slip she was sniffing. ‘God, I hate that smell. What is it? It’s powdery and dry, with something chemical and nasty in it. Like loo cleaner.’

  ‘That’s Albermarle, for men,’ Duncan Ingliss said helpfully.

  ‘It’s vile. Smell this.’ She held the slip under Jemima’s nose. Jemima sniffed and then wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  ‘You’re right. It makes me think of dentists.’

  ‘This one’s pretty,’ Poppy ventured. ‘It’s Antique Lily.’

  They all sniffed at the slip she was holding out.

  Tara nodded. ‘Yes, that’s not so bad. I think we can all agree that the main women’s fragrances are the most successful.’

  ‘And a couple of the men’s,’ added Jemima. ‘I like Leather & Willow. It’s rich and woody and very evocative. I wouldn’t mind smelling that on a chap.’

  Tara threw her an amused look. ‘That’s what Daddy wore.’

  ‘Is it?’ Jemima smiled. ‘How funny. It makes me feel safe, somehow.’

  ‘It makes me think of home,’ Poppy said wistfully.

  ‘Perhaps we’re not the right people to judge these scents,’ Jemima said thoughtfully. ‘After all, they’re completely bound up in our lives. Other people won’t bring this kind of emotion and memory to these smells.’

  ‘That’s why we’ll have a focus group,’ Tara said decisively. ‘I want to set up a group of ordinary people to assess the perfumes, and then to give their impressions of Trevellyan and what it means to them. I think it’s vital to find out what people think about the brand.’ She turned to William McKay. ‘Can you set that up? I want it done immediately.’

  The marketing director looked confused. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll find out what it involves. It’s not something we’ve done before.’

  ‘That much is obvious,’ replied Tara crisply. ‘Come to my office later and I’ll give you my contact at a brilliant market research company. They can take it on for us. Fuchsia Mitchell can make anything happen.’

  ‘What about the budget?’ William McKay said uncertainly.

  ‘Just do it, and we’ll sort that out later.’ Tara looked around the room. ‘OK, I think we’ve done enough smelling. Let’s sit down and start talking.’

  The sisters took their places at the top of the table, where three notepads and pens were set out, along with three tumblers and a jug of iced water. The Trevellyan staff took their places around the table, most of them averting their gaze from their new chief executives.

  ‘Right.’ Tara sat back in her chair and looked gravely around the room. She was every inch the capable businesswoman in her black suit and sharp white shirt. ‘This is the beginning of a new regime. You can forget the cosy little existence you’ve had so far – that’s over. The era of letting this company disintegrate while you take it for all it’s worth is finished. We’re starting afresh and we’re going to damn well take this place where it needs to go, which is back to the top. Now.’ She put on her glasses, as she always did when she wanted to appear more serious, and stared at the Trevellyan directors. ‘Who here is the production director, and who is in charge of product development?’

  A man coughed nervously from further down the table and fingered his tie. ‘I
’m in charge of production,’ he said in a soft Birmingham accent.

  Tara looked at him over the top of her glasses. ‘And your name is …?’

  ‘Bill Haverstock.’

  ‘OK, Bill. Explain, in very simple terms, the set-up.’

  ‘Right …’ Bill swallowed nervously. ‘Well, I run the factory. We’re based on a trading estate outside Birmingham. We’ve got a small staff – the smallest possible, really, to run the operation. I’ve had to lay a lot of people off in the last few years and supplement the core staff with agency workers when it’s been necessary. Our set-up is very straightforward. In one part of the factory we manufacture the fragrances according to the standard formulas. In another, we bottle and package. We have an office division running the general operation, the accounts and distribution. That’s it, really. A lot of the operation is outsourced wherever possible, to keep costs down.’

  ‘And the raw materials?’ Tara asked, scribbling a few notes on her pad.

  ‘We receive deliveries of the raw materials on an as-needed basis. Those are for the fragrances themselves. The boxes are made off-site by another company, as are the glass bottles and the labels.’

  Jemima frowned. ‘It’s really odd, but all this seems very unfamiliar to me. I mean, we grew up with Trevellyan perfumes in the house, and Mother had a decanter full of Tea Rose on her dressing table.’ She reached out and scooped up a bottle of Trevellyan’s Tea Rose. The bottle looked painfully simple and the label almost gauche in its old-fashioned simplicity. ‘It was nothing like this. This looks like the kind of thing you’d buy in an ancient chemist shop or find in some seaside B&B. How on earth did we come to be selling this?’

  Duncan Ingliss swapped a glance with Bill Haverstock.

  ‘Um …’ Bill looked even more nervous. ‘There have been some changes over the years –’

  Duncan cut in quickly. ‘Yes, we have at times had to look at our overheads and the best way to cut costs. That’s inevitably meant changing suppliers. About five years ago we moved to a new bottle supplier in order to keep the costs as low as possible.’