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  Poppy had quickly showered to refresh her tear-stained face, and then dressed for a casual evening out in wide-legged jeans and a white embroidered top, both of which she’d picked up in an offbeat little boutique in Islington. Over her top she wore a bright yellow cashmere wrap cardigan, and she’d tied her hair back.

  ‘Gosh, you look ever so pretty,’ George said as soon as he saw her, and she laughed because he sounded so old-fashioned.

  ‘Gosh!’ she exclaimed. ‘Who says gosh?’

  ‘Just me and my chums these days,’ George joked. ‘Careful, or you’ll have me saying crikey next.’

  They walked casually through Bloomsbury, passing tourists, students, office workers and every other type of city dweller. Chatting easily together, they strolled past the British Museum and through the small streets that led them down towards Oxford Street.

  They found the restaurant after a few wrong turns. It was exactly what Poppy had hoped for: small and intimate, with red-checked table cloths and candles in Chianti bottles. They sat down and George impressed her by talking a few words of Italian with the pretty waitress (‘Just your basic GCSE stuff, I’m afraid,’ he said modestly). Then, as they ordered and waited for their food, they carried on telling stories about themselves. Poppy talked about her time at art school, and ended up telling him all about Tom and the break-up and Tom’s subsequent engagement.

  ‘Oh dear, you must think I’m quite a sad case,’ she said. They had finished their antipasti and were waiting for their next course. ‘One sob story after another.’

  ‘I think it sounds as though you’ve been through a lot recently.’ George poured a generous slug of red wine into her glass. ‘When did you break up with this bloke?’

  ‘About a year ago.’

  ‘That’s not very long, if you don’t mind me saying. He’s got engaged awfully fast. You were together five years or so, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Poppy sighed. ‘And somehow I seem to have lost a lot of our mutual friends as well. I don’t know what Tom told them but they’ve cut me out of the loop. I’m not as included as I used to be. Margie is the only one I still see. We all had such fun together, they were a great crowd. I feel rather … lonely, I suppose. I only keep up with what they’re all doing through Facebook these days.’

  ‘Poor old thing.’ George looked at her sympathetically. ‘Then your mother dies. No wonder you’re in a bad way.’

  She smiled at him. ‘You’re very comforting, do you know that? You just seem to have an instinctive understanding.’

  ‘I’m very in touch with my feminine side.’ George grinned and she noticed the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he smiled. He was quite attractive, she decided, in a boyish and very English way. She liked his height and his soft brown hair and his large, capable hands.

  ‘That’s enough about me,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

  The waitress came and put their main courses down in front of them: grilled lemon sole for Poppy and calf’s liver for George.

  ‘Oh, there’s not much to tell. I’m just your typical eternal student. I was studying at King’s for ages and ages. I stayed on after my first degree to take a masters, and then started a Ph.D., which eventually I rather gave up on. I’ve been living in shared flats and student digs for years. Then my dear auntie told me there was a job going in her friend’s bookshop. Sylvester is as rich as old Midas and only really runs the shop as a hobby, and he needed a manager he could trust. So I took the job on and, you know what, I really love it. I think I’ve found my calling. Only thing is, although he pays me very well, it’s still not much. I mean, no one works in a bookshop in order to get rich, let’s put it that way. Then Auntie told me she was moving out of her place for a while and would I like to flat sit for her while she was away? Of course, I jumped at the chance – cycling in from Nunhead to the middle of London every day wasn’t much fun.’ He saw her expression. ‘It’s a district of London – quite far out. Close to Dulwich. I was lodging with a couple of friends.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Anyway, then I met you, of course. I couldn’t help but notice that a simply ravishing girl was living in the flat upstairs, so I gathered up all my courage and introduced myself. I hope you didn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Poppy smiled at him. She could feel herself blossoming. Ever since Tom, there had been no one special. She’d had a date or two but nothing serious. I’m used to being the one everyone ignores, she thought. Jemima is the interesting one – beautiful, glamorous, well connected, titled. And Tara impresses everyone with her incredible career and superwoman lifestyle. And I’m just the young one – fiddling about with paints and not doing anything very impressive.

  Then it suddenly occurred to her that she was the chief executive of a major company, independently rich since she’d inherited Loxton, and part of a crack team saving the family business. Perhaps she wasn’t so pathetic after all.

  They talked on in the candlelight, thoroughly absorbed by each other’s stories. Over their espressos, George told her about growing up in the West Country, his happy childhood and large family.

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ Poppy said wistfully, attracted by the vision of a warm, boisterous, normal family life.

  ‘It wasn’t perfect – nothing is. But it was very happy and there’s something to be said for that.’

  When the meal was over, Poppy was feeling happier than she had for months. They had slowly worked their way through two bottles of rich Italian wine, and she was full of delicious food and felt distinctly lightheaded.

  ‘How convenient,’ George said. ‘I can walk you all the way home. I’ve got the perfect excuse.’

  ‘Mmmn,’ said Poppy, realising that he had slipped his arm around her, and was holding one of her hands with his. It was a delightful feeling, and she revelled in it as they strolled, half drunk, back through the still busy city streets.

  When they got home, it seemed completely natural to ask George up to her flat. She made them a coffee each, and when she sat down on the sofa, it also felt like the most normal thing in the world for him to sit close beside her. They got closer and closer until she was snuggling against his chest and his arm was round her, his hand lightly caressing her hair. Her heart was fluttering, her skin tingled and she longed more than anything for him to kiss her. Then he did. What began gently and softly soon became fierce and passionate. It seemed that under George’s boyish exterior and shy demeanour was a man who desired her strongly and properly. She surrendered herself to the delicious sensations.

  They lay together on her bed, the room half lit by an orange glow from the street lamp outside.

  George ran his hand up over her naked body; her skin goosebumped at his tantalising touch.

  ‘You’re gorgeous, do you know that?’ he breathed. ‘That was simply amazing.’

  ‘It was rather, wasn’t it?’ Poppy giggled. ‘You know, I didn’t go out tonight expecting to sleep with you.’

  ‘No. It was a delicious surprise for me too.’ He dropped a kiss on her collarbone, then looked at her anxiously. ‘Was it all right for you? Did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘Mmm, you know, I really did,’ she said luxuriously.

  ‘Good. I mean, I thought you did, from the noises you made …’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You know, I needed this,’ Poppy said softly. ‘You’ve reminded me what life’s all about. Thank you.’

  ‘The pleasure was literally all mine,’ George said, and kissed her again.

  23

  JEMIMA WAS DOING her best to enjoy the luncheon party but it was hard going. Usually, she would have loved this kind of thing: a small gathering of twenty ladies, delicately tinkling silver forks on china as they pushed salad round their plates in the private room of an achingly fashionable Mayfair restaurant and kept eagle eyes on how much everyone else was consuming.

  ‘Are you going to Monaco this year, darling?’ one demanded of her neighbour.

  ‘Y
es, yes, we’ve been invited on Ferdinand Mazzorri’s yacht. He has a mooring in the harbour every year and it’s such fun! Though I have to put handcuffs on Reggie to stop him gambling away the family fortune in the casino, the wretch.’

  They laughed, high-pitched trilling laughs.

  I wont’t be going to Monaco this year, Jemima thought darkly, staring at a piece of pickled artichoke on her plate.

  ‘We’re going to Mustique, of course,’ declared another. ‘The same as usual. I’d get bored if Selina wasn’t such an amazing hostess. And of course, the Princess will be there.’

  ‘Dear Princess,’ purred another. ‘I haven’t seen her since the New Year party at the Delaforte place. How is she?’

  I won’t be going to Mustique either, thought Jemima bitterly, even though she had only been once and hadn’t had a wonderful time. She listened on as the ladies discussed the parties and social events they’d be attending over the summer.

  But I’ve got to work. The full extent of what her change in circumstances meant was beginning to sink in and she didn’t like it one bit. Now, instead of heading off to the shops and boutiques of Knightsbridge as she did most mornings, she had to think carefully about what she wanted and whether she really needed it. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant feeling.

  And it turned out that when one had a job, one could rarely drop everything and head to New York for a party whenever one felt like it.

  And there would be no more little treats in her favourite New Bond Street jeweller, where she was fond of picking up antique art deco pieces every now and then. A gold and ruby leopard bracelet had been her last find.

  As the party continued, Jemima tried to perk herself up. The only thing worse than having to deny herself and economise would be the others finding out that she was in dire straits. No doubt many of them were hiding cracked marriages and strained bank balances behind their filled and Botoxed faces and beneath the collagen-plumped smiles. It didn’t do to be found out, that was all.

  The last thing she could ever bear being was an object of pity.

  ‘What are your plans, Jemima?’ asked Venetia Ffoulkes. ‘Anything exciting?’

  Jemima turned to her with a bright, happy expression and said, ‘Oh Venetia, just the usual. It’s such a grind, isn’t it? Arabella’s got me into organising a party for the regatta. And will I be seeing you at Cheltenham in Gerry’s box as usual? I’ve got the most divine hat from Frederick Fox, you’ll simply die …’

  And on she went, chattering away as though nothing in the world were wrong.

  Tara was trembling all over.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gerald,’ she said in as calm a voice as she could manage. ‘The children are asleep just down the hall.’ They were in their bedroom, Gerald pacing up and down, stopping only to bear down on her as she sat huddled at the foot of their bed.

  Her husband’s eyes were blazing. ‘Why the hell are you so fucking disobedient, you bitch?’

  ‘Come on, darling, please … let’s not argue about this.’ She smiled, trying to break through his anger, to calm him down.

  ‘Don’t “darling” me, you fucking moron,’ he spat. ‘You think you’re so clever, that you can just go your own sweet way and everything will be all right. You’re a fool!’

  ‘Gerald, I don’t understand –’ she began, but he cut her off.

  ‘Well, why not try your fucking best? It’s not thermodynamics, sweetheart!’ His face was red with rage, his eyes screwed up with the force of his anger. ‘Let me explain it to you again. You’ve left a successful career and an inspired boss to waste your time over some tired, clapped-out company, through sheer pig-headedness. It’s obvious Trevellyan’s day is over. Of course we wouldn’t have dreamed of saying or even thinking such a thing while your mother was alive but now she’s gone, it’s time to face the truth. Trevellyan is finished.’

  ‘I don’t think so –’ Tara began, but Gerald cut her off again.

  ‘And now I hear the rumour that someone is prepared to pay you good money for this company! And instead of thanking your lucky stars and biting the man’s hand off, you’re planning to reject it!’ Gerald’s voice rose with fury.

  He had come into the bedroom, bright-eyed and excited, hardly able to keep his enthusiasm in check, to tell her that he had heard that an American company was interested in acquiring Trevellyan. According to his sources, FFB were actively putting together a plan of acquisition, and were prepared to pay good money to add Trevellyan to their portfolio.

  ‘Isn’t that marvellous?’ Gerald had said, beaming. ‘Now you can stop this fool’s errand and get back to Curzons, with a healthy little bonus as well! I suggest you get in touch with this fella who runs it – Ferrera, they said his name is – and start opening the negotiations.’

  Perhaps her mistake had been to bat the whole thing away too carelessly. Gerald had obviously expected her to scream with delight, thank him for saving the day and rush over to the phone to make some urgent calls. Instead, she had just looked at him over the top of her reading glasses and said lightly, ‘Oh, I know. We’re not interested.’

  She’d gone back to her magazine. A moment later, Gerald had exploded with the kind of rage she had not seen for a long while.

  Now he was pacing again, up and down the room. ‘How dare you treat me with so little fucking respect? You didn’t even ask my permission to leave Curzons. Don’t you think I should be consulted about these things? You’ve consistently failed to inform me about your activities, and you’ve consistently let me down.’ Gerald was panting as though he’d been running a race, his fat frame gasping for oxygen.

  ‘How?’ Tara dropped her glasses and magazine and stared at him, her fists clenched. She was scared and shaking, but trying not to show it. ‘How have I let you down?’

  ‘How? Are you a simpleton?’ Gerald pulled off his tie and then sank down into an armchair, facing her. You have left Curzons. You are receiving no salary. You’ve taken on the goddamned foolhardy mission of restoring your family fortunes, trying to save that miserable wreck of an outdated company. And you’ve done all this without once consulting me. Me, your husband. The man who has always known what’s best for you. Well?’ He sat forward, his fist pounding the table beside him.

  ‘I haven’t left Curzons, I’ve taken a sabbatical –’

  ‘And Eric agreed to that, did he? Don’t make me laugh. There’s no way he’ll keep your job open for you if someone better comes along. You’ve been stupid. Appallingly stupid. It’s bad enough that we’re getting nothing from your mother’s will but a part share in a company that’s almost finished, without you throwing away your job as well. And now you won’t even sell the fucking thing, when someone is prepared to offer you decent money for it. God knows when you’ll get someone else who’ll do that. I’m telling you, Tara, this is your last chance.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Tara said plaintively. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. I want to put Trevellyan back on its feet.’

  Gerald snorted. ‘Come on,’ he drawled. ‘Do you really think that’s possible?’

  Her head drooped. She thought back over all the terrible surprises of the past fortnight. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I just don’t know.’ She had never felt so powerless, so ignorant and so helpless. And in her naïvety, she had thought her husband might understand, might want to help her. Instead, it had driven him into a rage of the kind of intensity she hadn’t seen since the worst period of their marriage, just after Edward arrived.

  ‘No. You don’t know. You block-headed slut!’ he yelled, making her jump. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Tara cried. ‘What does it matter to us? We don’t need the money!’

  Gerald ignored her, jumping to his feet and pacing back and forth across the room again. Then he turned on her and shouted, ‘Don’t waste your time on this fool’s errand, do you hear me? I’m ordering you to sell Trevellyan.’

  ‘What?’ She was stu
nned.

  ‘You heard me. Sell it! Get out while there’s still something to be salvaged from the wreck.’

  ‘But I’ve told you, I don’t want to sell it,’ Tara said, trying to sound strong even though she was terrified. What on earth had provoked this reaction in Gerald? She knew that their relationship had been more difficult over the last few years but she had never seen him like this. As her career had blossomed outside the home, and she’d appeared stronger and more confident, inside the home, Gerald had cracked down, imposing more and more rules on the household. There were set ways of doing everything. Some ritual or other governed every aspect of their lives. But he had never lost control quite like this and it frightened her. Up until now she had allowed him to exercise control because she didn’t want to think about what might happen if she defied him. Now it looked as though she had defied him without meaning to, and she was going to have to carry on defying him.

  ‘I command you to sell it!’ he shouted.

  ‘No!’ Tara cried. ‘I won’t. I can’t. I owe it to the others.’

  Gerald’s face went puce. ‘Do you intend to disobey me?’

  She didn’t dare answer. He raced over to the dressing room and opened the door. It revealed rails and shelves of clothes and shoes, all perfectly arranged and colour coded. Nothing was out of place. It was immaculate and spotless.

  ‘Gerald, no,’ Tara said, panicking. She had lived for so long with his mania for order and correctness that she had begun to rely on it herself, to feel distressed when things were out of place. She also knew what it meant when Gerald lost his temper.

  He didn’t appear to hear her. He rushed into the room, paused for a moment as though gathering his strength, and then attacked the clothes, ripping them from their hangers, clearing shelves with one swipe of an arm.

  Tara jumped off the bed and ran over, shouting, ‘Gerald, no, please, don’t do that!’ But it was too late. He was in a fierce frenzy, turning boxes over, shaking out the shoes inside, throwing her clothes into a crumpled, twisted mess in the middle of the room. Then he picked up a slim belt and held it in his hands, rubbing the leather across his palms. He turned to glare at her with a wild look that she knew all too well.