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  Tonight, she wouldn’t even get that.

  Her driver was waiting for her in the company car park, leaning against the car and reading a newspaper. When he saw her, he hastily threw it into the passenger seat, put on his cap and opened the back door for her.

  ‘Thanks, John. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘No problem, ma’am. I’ll try to get you home asap. Maybe there’s still a chance you’ll be able to see your kiddies.’

  Tara smiled wanly. ‘They’ll be fast asleep, I’m afraid.’ She slid into the soft leather seat and pulled her belt on. A moment later, the car was gliding out of the car park and into the London night.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, you work too hard,’ John said from the front seat and he signalled to turn left. Tara could see her favourite view: the great, grey-white dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral, floodlit against the inky sky, and beyond it, the river, with the bridges and embankment strung with twinkling lights.

  She sighed and leaned back. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. ‘You know, I do mind, John. I’d really prefer it if we didn’t talk. I’m sorry, but I need a few moments to zone out.’

  ‘Understood,’ John said with a sympathetic smile. He’d been driving her for three years now and it was impossible to upset him. The glass panel that divided the front and back seats rose smoothly upwards, cutting them off from each other.

  She let herself relax a little as the responsibility for getting her home fell to him. The route took them through the City, up the Strand, around Trafalgar Square and up to Piccadilly. From there it was past Hyde Park and down towards Holland Park and home. The streets were packed with traffic. It seemed that there was never a time now when London wasn’t busy. Some nights were all right, and they got home in good time. Others – when they hit jams or road works – filled her with stress and frustration. It was something in her life that she couldn’t control. No matter how much money she had, she couldn’t buy herself a quick, trouble-free ride home.

  I guess only a helicopter could do it, she thought. But that was impossible, even though she was tempted. Where would she land a helicopter at home? On the chimney? It was ridiculous. The garden might just be big enough but the neighbours would never allow it – their shrubberies would get an unplanned trim every time she got home from work.

  The journey home at least gave her time to think in peace. Even if she could still be reached by her BlackBerry, and had the computer screen mounted into the back of the front seat showing the state of the markets still open and trading, she was virtually alone. As the city sailed past the darkened windows, she could lean back and ponder for a while.

  Today, she felt bleak. If yesterday’s funeral had drained her emotionally, kicking her back to that place where she was never good enough, today had made her feel bone tired. It didn’t take a genius to grasp that Trevellyan was in trouble and that it would fall to her to sort it out. What help could Jemima and Poppy be? She loved them both dearly but she was all too aware that they would be next to useless. All through their childhood, it had been the same. Tara was the sensible eldest sister – she’d had to be, responsibility for the younger ones had been hers. If they went out to play dressed by their mother in completely unpractical party frocks, it was Tara who would be in trouble for letting Jemima and Poppy get dirty. She became used to trying to hold the other two in check and, as they got older, digging them out of scrapes. Jemima, with her expulsions and bad behaviour, needed Tara as a diplomatic envoy to her parents. Poppy, babied and mollycoddled, used Tara as an alibi when she wanted to escape from home for a while. When Tara was at Oxford, Poppy often came to ‘visit’, though Tara didn’t see much of her from the time she arrived to the time she left. She’d be off drifting round art galleries and colleges, visiting friends and making new ones. It was the same for both of them: happy to use Tara when they needed her, but mostly absorbed by their own wants and desires. Tara could see all too clearly that her younger sisters would happily shift most of the Trevellyan burden on to her capable shoulders. And what could they offer anyway?

  Jemima knew everything there was to know about dressing up, shopping and parties. She could arrange flowers, decorate a room and be the perfect hostess. But what else had she ever achieved? And then there was the problem of her disintegrating marriage and her compulsive affairs. Tara had had high hopes that marrying Harry would sort Jemima out, give her a purpose in life. After all, there was that great house to be maintained, and with a title she had extra clout. She could devote herself to doing some good in the world. But no. For reasons Tara did not entirely understand, the marriage had quickly begun to sour to the point where Jemima could hardly bear to be in the same room as her husband. It meant that she was reverting to her old party-loving self but with an added ferocity. It was no secret that she was getting laid all over London and New York as well. Tara had heard the rumours and had read them too – veiled saucy titbits in the gossip columns making it quite clear that Jemima was not one to let her marriage vows stop her having fun. So if she expected Jemima to devote herself to sorting out the problems with Trevellyan, she guessed that she was going to be sorely disappointed. The only spark of comfort was that Tara guessed Jemima was more shrewd and switched on than she appeared.

  She couldn’t say the same of Poppy. Dear little Poppy – all her life she’d been petted and spoiled and as a result, she sometimes appeared helpless and naïve. Tara knew why it was: Poppy’s big green eyes, so quick to fill with tears, had always won their father over to whatever she wanted and even managed to melt their mother’s frostiness. And it was not all an act. As a girl she had been lost in a world of her own, busy playing make-believe all the time. Tara always felt that Poppy had been protected against the harsher realities of the world and for all she protested that she didn’t want her money and that she was more interested in saving the planet than going shopping, she’d never really had to strike out on her own. It was down to the great scare of Poppy’s childhood, when she’d fallen seriously ill and they’d thought they were going to lose her. After that, their parents had pampered and petted her. She became the light of their mother’s life, the only one able to make her eyes soften and those stern lips smile. It was hard for the other two, but they learned to forgive Poppy for it – her kittenish charm was too hard to resist for long. Besides, there was someone else they were able to unite against …

  Tara sighed and stared out of the window as Hyde Park passed by without her seeing it. Poppy thought of herself as independent but she wasn’t really. How could she live in Bloomsbury, daubing away on her canvases or whatever else it was she did, without the help of the family money? There was no way she would be any use whatever when it came to Trevellyan – she just didn’t have the first clue, or even care, about business.

  It made the fact that Poppy had been left Loxton all the harder to swallow. Tara bit her lip at the thought of it. Rationally, she knew she didn’t need or want Loxton. She didn’t care for the house itself and her memories of her childhood there were not particularly fond ones. But she couldn’t help feeling wounded by the fact that it had been denied her, lock, stock and barrel. Not a single piece of it had been held over for her. Mother hadn’t left her so much as a brooch or a necklace to remember her by.

  She drummed her fingernails against the seat and shifted anxiously as she remembered her trip to her mother’s bedroom and the missing jewellery. Had it been sold? All of it? Or had someone removed it for safekeeping and had it sent to the bank? It was a puzzle, but one Tara was determined to solve. Her mother might have had few friends and little affection to show her daughters but she did love something passionately, and that was jewellery. She had a desire for it that put Elizabeth Taylor’s in the shade. And she had sometimes used it to blackmail her daughters.

  ‘I shall leave you my diamonds,’ she’d say to whoever was in favour that day, though Tara suspected that secretly Yolanda would have preferred to take them with her into the next world. In fact,
she probably regretted leaving her jewels behind more than she did her daughters. On Jemima’s wedding day, Yolanda had put one of her most magnificent pieces, the great pearl and diamond choker, around Jemima’s neck herself, smiling at the brilliant sparkle of the diamonds nestling between the luscious, creamy sheen of the pearls. The bestowal of the choker was a mark of how Jemima was in high favour that day, although there was no question but that it would be going back to Yolanda the minute it came off her daughter’s neck. Poppy had been lent the emeralds and Tara the amazing diamond and sapphire necklace and earrings. Those stunning party pieces lived in the bank most of the time; their mother only kept her personal favourites in her bedroom: a few ropes of pearls, the diamond earrings, some cocktail jewellery, her rings and the locket.

  Tara was certain her mother would have taken great care of what would happen to the jewels. Yet there was nothing about them in the will, unless they were included in Loxton’s contents. To treat her precious stones so carelessly was entirely out of character. So where were they?

  ‘Here we are, ma’am,’ said John through the intercom. They had drawn up in front of the impressive white façade of her Holland Park mansion. He got out and opened the door for her.

  ‘Thank you, John. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, ma’am.’

  She walked up the stone steps to the front door and rang on the doorbell, so tired she couldn’t even be bothered to find her keys. The lights were on in the basement flat. Robina had obviously retired for the evening, so the children were definitely asleep. Well, she could hardly be angry about that. It was getting on for nine o’clock – if Edward and Imogen had been up, she would have been furious with the nanny for not putting them to bed.

  The door was opened by her housekeeper, who greeted her politely and stood aside to let her pass.

  ‘Dinner is almost ready, madam. John told us that you were on your way home.’

  ‘Thank you, Viv. Is my husband home?’

  ‘In the study.’

  ‘Thank you. Oh, could you bring me a glass of wine, please? Some of that Menetou-Salon if there’s some open. Or the Chablis if not.’

  ‘Of course.’ The housekeeper glided quietly off down the corridor.

  Tara dropped her briefcase, shuffled off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving them where they fell. Someone else would pick them up. What did she pay all these people for after all, if not so that she could do what she felt like from time to time?

  She darted up the stairs as quickly as she could, up to the second floor and along the soft, carpeted corridors until she came to the children’s bedroom. She listened at the door for a moment, then opened it and slipped in.

  At once she could smell the delicious warmth of their sleeping bodies. Was there anything nicer in the world than the scent of her freshly bathed babies in their clean pyjamas? She went over to Edward’s low white-painted bed and knelt down next to it. She put her face close to his head, inhaling his sweet warmth, and tenderly stroking his fair head. His face, softly illuminated by the glow of his nightlight, was as perfect as a sleeping cherub’s, lashes swooping down on his cheeks and little bow mouth slightly open. She stayed there a long while before kissing him and whispering, ‘Night, night, darling’.

  Then she padded across the room to Imogen, who sighed and turned in her sleep. She hadn’t been long in her big-girl bed and she had chosen one with a fairy canopy above it and two small curtains of candyfloss pink gauze. While Tara didn’t like to give in to the absurd amount of pink little girls were encouraged to adore, she couldn’t help letting Imogen have her way. Now she was tucked up under her patchwork quilt, a tiny princess in her miniature bed.

  Tara knelt beside Imogen, smoothing her daughter’s hair and gazing on her peaceful little face. Her sleep is so untroubled, Tara thought. She had no idea of the big, complicated world that awaited her. Imogen gave another little snuffly sigh and turned over, snuggling back down again.

  ‘Sleep well, darling. See you tomorrow,’ Tara breathed. Then she tiptoed quietly out, closing the door gently behind her. She returned downstairs to the hall, wondering where Gerald was. Walking across the hall, she went to the study door and listened at it for a moment. She could hear the sound of the television and Gerald’s voice booming over the top of it. Opening the door, she walked in.

  The room was very much in Gerald’s taste: fake-old with a touch of brash. Brand new dark wood panelling covered the walls and along them ran library bookshelves, where hundreds of leather and gilt volumes were shut away behind wire doors. Gerald had bought them by the metre and not one had been taken off the shelf since the day they’d been put there. The room was oppressively masculine: hunting trophies adorned the walls, though Gerald had not so much as shot a rabbit, model yachts sat in full miniature sail on lacquered side tables and antique golf clubs were displayed in museum-like glass cases. Among all this, the huge Bang & Olufsen plasma screen television looked jarring, a piece of twenty-first-century technology sitting oddly in an Edwardian club room like a space ship surrounded by vintage cars. CNN news was playing while Gerald sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen, one hand clamping a telephone to his ear.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s just as I said! Well, tell the board I won’t take any of their whingeing. I intend to do it my way. That’s the way I’ve always done it and I have an infallible instinct, as everyone knows.’ He caught sight of Tara and waved at her. ‘Yes, all right, old man. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down and stood up. ‘Hello, darling, how are we?’

  ‘We’re fine, or least, I’m fine, if that’s what you mean.’ She went over for a kiss. He brushed his lips across her cheek, leaving a faint wet trail.

  ‘You’re late back,’ he said reprovingly as he sat down again and picked up a crystal tumbler, swilling what Tara knew would be a Scotch and soda. ‘The children missed you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just looked in on them.’ She perched on the slippery seat of a leather armchair.

  Well? What were you doing?’ He fixed her with a steely gaze. It was always like this: he wanted to know every detail of her day and precisely where she had been when. Once it had made her feel safe. Now it was increasingly disturbing.

  ‘I told you we had the meeting at Trevellyan today. Once that was over, I had to go to the office. I’d missed so much, what with being away yesterday as well, that I had to stay late to catch up. I’m exhausted.’ Tara felt herself droop and she sighed. How long had it been since she had really felt rested? She couldn’t remember. The pressure was always on to keep going, to work harder, to stay on top of everything and succeed. She had to cope, she knew that. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at her husband.

  ‘And what is the situation with Trevellyan?’ he asked.

  ‘Not good.’

  Gerald raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? How bad?’

  ‘I’m going to find out the details tomorrow but I think very bad.’

  ‘You surprise me.’ He sat back in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together.

  He always manages to look like a tycoon, thought Tara. It’s as though he’s studied the part for a film role or something. And it never quite rings true.

  Her husband leaned forward, plucked a large cigar from the ashtray in front of him, put it in his mouth and sucked at it. A plume of heavy smoke floated from his mouth. He liked to smoke cigars – Winston Churchill was one of his great heroes and Tara always suspected that Gerald was trying to emulate him at every opportunity.

  ‘Your parents struck me as competent people, very competent. And Trevellyan is a quality brand, everyone knows that. What on earth can be so wrong?’

  Tara prickled. Everything Gerald said sounded like a criticism these days. Now he was implying that she had misread the situation. ‘I don’t know the full facts yet,’ she replied coldly. ‘I’m getting a rundown tomorrow.’

  Gerald nodded slowly. ‘Well, I’m sure it can’t be as bad as you think. But if you
need any help or advice, you know I’m always happy to do whatever I can.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. And how was your day?’

  ‘Productive, very productive! My team have done some excellent work today and I’m more convinced than ever that we’ll be able to put together a very strong bid for the Fothergill group – or at least, a large part of it. That will give us the foothold we need for further growth. It’s all very exciting. I shall tell you more over dinner.’

  There was a quiet knock on the door and the housekeeper came in bearing Tara’s glass of wine on a small round tray.

  ‘Thanks, Viv. God, I need this!’ Tara scooped up the glass and took a swig. ‘Is dinner ready?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘Five minutes, sir. Please come through to the dining room whenever you’re ready.’ Viv went out.

  ‘Come. Let’s go through.’ Gerald stood up and pushed his smoking cigar down into the ashtray. He went over to Tara and took her arm.

  He always seemed to like these moments best, Tara reflected as they walked together towards the dining room. He revelled in the timeless traditions of the dinner table. He loved to see the silver candlesticks with their creamy-white candles casting a soft light on to the wine glasses and cutlery and napkins, all laid out just so. It had to be absolutely perfect, or he could fly into one of his terrible rages. The whole house was kept immaculate by the staff, and everybody rushed about to make sure that nothing was out of place, especially when Gerald was expected home. The children had already been taught that messiness was one of the cardinal sins: even their playroom was returned to perfect order, every toy in its place, every jigsaw in its box, every DVD in its case and shelved alphabetically, the moment they had stopped playing.