of course?’
‘Well, I think she’s rather fun,’ said Florence, ‘but of course Lady Farrell understands the brand and what it needs far better than I.’
Her expression was carefully innocent, Bianca thought. Interesting.
‘Well, look, let’s go up to your parlour and have that cup of tea and we can chat some more. About your work here, and how you see the House of Farrell, all that sort of thing.’
After Bianca had gone, Florence sat down rather heavily and thought about the small kingdom where she had spent so much of her life. A tiny, shabby place it had been the first time she saw it, transformed by Athina Farrell’s vision – ‘I want it to be like a little jewel box, filled with treasure.’
It had been the first exclusive outlet for Farrell’s, the shop on the ground floor, with its curvy window and paned glass door with its brass handle and knocker, its old-fashioned glass showcases and gleaming mahogany counter, the salon on the first floor where women – only one a time, so utterly exclusive it was and wonderfully private – could have their faces cleansed and massaged and then anointed with The Cream, and then on the top floor, the parlour, with its pretty small desk where she did the accounts each day – by hand, of course, in a perfectly kept ledger – a small chaise longue where she read the glossy magazines, not as a self-indulgence but to acquaint herself with what mattered in the world of fashion and beauty, and the tiny kitchen to the side of it, where she could make tea, sometimes just for herself, sometimes for important visitors, as she had for Bianca today: always in fine china cups, sugar lumps in a matching bowl complete with silver tongs, and silver spoons with which to stir the tea. And of course, biscuits from Fortnum’s just along the road.
It was home to Florence just as much as her small house in Pimlico, bought with a legacy from her father; it had been the setting against which she had lived out her life, the professional life that had replaced the personal one for the most part denied to her. Her young husband had been killed almost at the end of the war in a wonderfully successful Allied attack called Operation Varsity, which was agonising enough in itself, but had been made even more so by the way military historians had since questioned its necessity, meaning that perhaps Duncan had died for nothing. She had failed to find anyone else, had never really wished to. Once she recovered from her grief she had decided a single life suited her. Being a wife and mother seemed to her restrictive and exhausting while she was free to pursue her career, to travel where and when she wished, and to spend such money as she had entirely on herself. And indeed to conduct her entire life as she chose. Many people told her these days that she had been born considerably ahead of her time.
Florence felt anxious suddenly. For all Bianca’s charming appreciation of The Shop, she had clearly been appraising it very carefully. And Florence was a realist; she could see quite clearly that, defend it as she might as an important jewel in the Farrell crown, the economics really did not add up. And then what would she do?
Chapter 5
It caused excitement in some of their employees, trepidation in most, the news – or rather rumour – that Farrell’s was about to be taken over, or bought. Nothing had been confirmed, but neither had it been denied. The Farrells were utterly tight-lipped about it, so everyone was edgy, unable to concentrate, and both those who were excited and those who were trepidatious discussed the prospect endlessly, at water coolers, in wine bars and even in the lift and the lavatories.
The rumours that Bianca Bailey might be joining the company had sent Susie Harding googling her frantically; she was clearly a star, had relaunched the toiletries company PDN with great success and before that had done the same for an interior design company. It would be great to work
‘Well, I think she’s rather fun,’ said Florence, ‘but of course Lady Farrell understands the brand and what it needs far better than I.’
Her expression was carefully innocent, Bianca thought. Interesting.
‘Well, look, let’s go up to your parlour and have that cup of tea and we can chat some more. About your work here, and how you see the House of Farrell, all that sort of thing.’
After Bianca had gone, Florence sat down rather heavily and thought about the small kingdom where she had spent so much of her life. A tiny, shabby place it had been the first time she saw it, transformed by Athina Farrell’s vision – ‘I want it to be like a little jewel box, filled with treasure.’
It had been the first exclusive outlet for Farrell’s, the shop on the ground floor, with its curvy window and paned glass door with its brass handle and knocker, its old-fashioned glass showcases and gleaming mahogany counter, the salon on the first floor where women – only one a time, so utterly exclusive it was and wonderfully private – could have their faces cleansed and massaged and then anointed with The Cream, and then on the top floor, the parlour, with its pretty small desk where she did the accounts each day – by hand, of course, in a perfectly kept ledger – a small chaise longue where she read the glossy magazines, not as a self-indulgence but to acquaint herself with what mattered in the world of fashion and beauty, and the tiny kitchen to the side of it, where she could make tea, sometimes just for herself, sometimes for important visitors, as she had for Bianca today: always in fine china cups, sugar lumps in a matching bowl complete with silver tongs, and silver spoons with which to stir the tea. And of course, biscuits from Fortnum’s just along the road.
It was home to Florence just as much as her small house in Pimlico, bought with a legacy from her father; it had been the setting against which she had lived out her life, the professional life that had replaced the personal one for the most part denied to her. Her young husband had been killed almost at the end of the war in a wonderfully successful Allied attack called Operation Varsity, which was agonising enough in itself, but had been made even more so by the way military historians had since questioned its necessity, meaning that perhaps Duncan had died for nothing. She had failed to find anyone else, had never really wished to. Once she recovered from her grief she had decided a single life suited her. Being a wife and mother seemed to her restrictive and exhausting while she was free to pursue her career, to travel where and when she wished, and to spend such money as she had entirely on herself. And indeed to conduct her entire life as she chose. Many people told her these days that she had been born considerably ahead of her time.
Florence felt anxious suddenly. For all Bianca’s charming appreciation of The Shop, she had clearly been appraising it very carefully. And Florence was a realist; she could see quite clearly that, defend it as she might as an important jewel in the Farrell crown, the economics really did not add up. And then what would she do?
Chapter 5
It caused excitement in some of their employees, trepidation in most, the news – or rather rumour – that Farrell’s was about to be taken over, or bought. Nothing had been confirmed, but neither had it been denied. The Farrells were utterly tight-lipped about it, so everyone was edgy, unable to concentrate, and both those who were excited and those who were trepidatious discussed the prospect endlessly, at water coolers, in wine bars and even in the lift and the lavatories.
The rumours that Bianca Bailey might be joining the company had sent Susie Harding googling her frantically; she was clearly a star, had relaunched the toiletries company PDN with great success and before that had done the same for an interior design company. It would be great to work
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