Maddy looked like an umpire at Wimbledon, sitting perched on the kitchen chair as she watched Izzie pace back and forth across the room. “You’re giving me a crick in my neck! Can’t you stand still for a bit? I swear you’re wearing a groove in the floor.”
Izzie stopped for a brief moment and wrung her hands so hard that loud clicking noises resounded from her finger joints. Maddy shuddered. “Ugh! Go back to the pacing. That’s even worse.”
“Sorry,” Izzie called distractedly over her shoulder as she reached the French windows. “I always get like this when I’m stressed. Something has to move. If it’s not one bit of me it’s another.”
Maddy stretched and yawned. “I wish I’d known this about you earlier. We could have saved a fortune on our electricity bill at the barn by getting you a little wheel, like a hamster, and connecting you up to the mains.”
“I’m not always this stressed, thank goodness. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been so nervous before in my life. I just don’t know what I’m going to say. Or what he’s going to say. Or what I’m going to say when he says what he’s going to say.”
“You’re clearly deeply bonkers.” Maddy shifted in her seat, and reached for her coffee. “But how do you feel? Surely you must know that.”
Izzie’s frenetic pace slowed slightly. “It’s weird. I keep changing. It’s like one of those optical illusions. You know—sometimes it looks like two faces looking at each other, sometimes it looks like a goblet. Well, it’s like that. I keep seeing it two completely different ways, but there’s no middle ground. I’m not sure I’ll know what I want until I see him again. But I can’t even begin to guess what he wants.”
“Well, he did contact you, so you have to assume he has something to say.”
“Yes, but what? What does he really want? Me and the kids or divorce and half my half of PE? ’Cos that’s a possibility, too, you know. You know, I’m not even sure I want to see him. I think I might call him and cancel.”
Maddy jumped to her feet. “No! Don’t do that. You have to see him sometime, and the longer you put it off the harder it’ll be for both of you. It’s time you were going.”
Izzie stopped and picked up her bag. She exhaled heavily and let her hunched shoulders drop. “And my Mrs. Hardbastard act isn’t really going to help, is it?”
“Nuh-uh! It’s fair enough to be angry, but don’t go in there all guns blazing. And Izzie . . . good luck.”
The hills outside Ringford were a favorite location for early morning dog walkers and after-school tree-climbing sessions, but in the early afternoon they were fairly quiet. Marcus’s car was already there when Izzie pulled up in the lay-by. They looked at each other through the windows for a moment, neither of them moving, then he got out and walked over to her slowly. He looked appalling. His eyes were bloodshot. He seemed so diminished from what Izzie remembered of that ghastly night that she couldn’t, for a moment, imagine how she had ever felt afraid of him. He stood in between the two cars and tried a watery smile that flickered, then vanished. After a moment, she opened the door and took a couple of steps toward him. “Marcus.” She nodded curtly.
“Thanks for coming. I, er, wasn’t sure, when you didn’t return my message, that you’d turn up.”
“Neither was I. But there’s no point putting it off, is there? We’ve got a lot to sort out.”
Marcus looked down. “Yes. Shall we walk?”
They set off along the path. Marcus was on his best behavior, holding the kissing gate open for her to go through first. As she waited for him on the other side, he fumbled in his pockets. “Here—got you a bag of Minstrels.”
That nearly undid her. A pathetic enough gesture, but they were her very favorites. She managed a wan smile. “Thanks, dar— thanks.”
They walked along slowly in silence at first. The afternoon sun was still strong enough to warm them. Then Marcus started to speak. “Please don’t interrupt, Iz. There’s some stuff I’ve got to tell you. I don’t know what you’re going to say about it all. It could be that you’ll hate me forever, but I have to come clean. It’s been eating me up.”
Izzie glanced sideways at him as they walked along. What could it be? An affair? Fraud? The possibilities teemed in her mind like a cloud of buzzing insects. She had to force herself to listen—and slowly, hesitatingly, the whole story came out as they walked up the hill.
“. . . no one in the ad world would touch me after that,” he ended lamely. “And I suppose I deserved it. But once I’d made the decision not to tell you, it all seemed so much easier. You’ve always been cleverer than me—oh, I know I was quick with ideas and concepts, but that’s all superficial. When it came down to it, I just didn’t have what it took. I’d been successful, but I wasn’t anymore. I just couldn’t stand it. And you didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong—you were so wrapped up in the kids—”
“Now hold on, don’t start this ‘You don’t understand me’ crap. This is about you and your decision to deliberately mislead me and to keep me in the dark for ages, absolutely ages. We’ve been living a lie!”
Marcus threw his hands up to his face, digging his fingers into his scalp. “I know, I know! But once I’d started it all, I didn’t know how to change it. Everyone expected certain things of me, and I just couldn’t bring myself to admit that I’d blown it. So I pretended. It was like I’d—I don’t know—got onto a roller coaster and couldn’t get off.”
That was something Izzie could relate to, all right. She stopped and turned to him. “But, Marcus, you turned our whole life upside down, moved us out of London, made the children change school—just because of your pride. Ever since you were made— No, not made redundant. Let’s start being honest—ever since you were sacked, you’ve made us all live a charade. And since the business took off, you’ve been behaving like a shit . . .”
She trailed off as she looked at her husband. Every line of his body was dispirited and defeated. Suddenly she realized the fundamental change in the balance of their relationship. He was no longer the glamorous golden boy she’d idolized. She was no longer the hesitant, unconfident one. Where did this leave them? Her throat closed painfully and tears pricked her eyes.
“I know how much this business means to you, Iz, but every time you tell me how well something’s going, every time you go off to see Maddy and come back smiling and happy, every time I read something about you in the paper, I just feel like I’ve been kicked in the balls. I know I should be happy for you—but I just can’t be. I’m—I’m so jealous of your success, and I’m still pissing about with my cameras, getting nowhere. I’ve achieved nothing! I’m crap at work, I’m a crap father, I’m a crap husband . . .”
His shoulders started to shake and his voice trailed off. The burning indignation she’d felt when he’d first told her his pathetic tale had gradually ebbed away and she felt empty and confused. She glanced at him but moved no closer. Suddenly, she had to get away and let this revelation sink in.
“Look, Marcus, I’ve got to think about what you’ve told me. I don’t know how I feel about anything anymore. One thing I do know is that I can’t trust you right now, and I really can’t see how we can stay together after this. I think you’d better move out of the house for a while till I decide what I want to do.”
Tears were running down his cheeks now, and Izzie had to turn away. His voice was hoarse and trembling. “I didn’t want to lose you! I thought you’d despise me for what I did. I couldn’t think of anything else to do!”
The anger and indignation returned all at once, and she swung back toward him, eyes blazing. “You could have trusted me! You could have shared this with me! But you chose to run away instead—and we’ve all suffered the consequences. I loved you so much, Marcus. I’d have done anything for you.” Suddenly she was crying too, hot tears that burned her eyes and thickened her voice. “We could have faced this together, like the team I thought we were. But you couldn’t bring yourself to share your problem, and you can’t bring yourself to share my success now, because you’ve been out on your own all this time. You don’t even think of yourself as part of a couple anymore. You’ve been moving further and further away with every lie you’ve told me. Face it, the last few years have all been based on pretense. I’d rather be alone than go on being lied to. I’m going home with the children, and I want you to move your stuff out by the end of the week.”
Izzie stumbled back down to the kissing gate, and fell heavily against it, bruising her hip. The sharp pain acted like a bucket of cold water, and she felt suddenly clearer. She needed to be alone and drove straight back to Hoxley.
Letting herself back into the quiet house, she braced herself for what she’d find—the carnage of a man left alone for a few days—but it seemed unnaturally tidy. He’d even remembered to put the bin out in an effort to please her. Perhaps he’d imagined they’d walk back in together—everything forgiven and forgotten.
She walked from room to room and shivered as she recalled all the moments they’d shared there, all the lies he must have told. How frightened he must have been, day after day, thinking he was going to be found out. Compared with that deep heartfelt dread, her worries about the company seemed trivial. But Izzie had Maddy to help her through, while Marcus had—no one. “Poor Marcus,” she sighed, sorting through the post. “You’re like Humpty Dumpty—I wonder if we’ll ever be able to put you together again.”
When she pulled up outside the school gate, half an hour later, she felt a surge of anger to see Marcus was already standing there. What the hell was he up to? There was no time to say anything as the children rushed over, delighted that both Mummy and Daddy had turned up in the playground to collect them. Their obvious pleasure at seeing him and the prospect of going home again to Hoxley all together threw her. Jess and Charlie debated hotly whose car to go in, until Marcus stepped in, speaking to them, his eyes fixed questioningly on Izzie. “Go with Mummy. I’ve got to do some shopping. I might not be back until later.”
She looked at him stonily. This was a cheap trick, using the children to sway her, but as she watched them hanging from his sleeves and competing to tell him their news, her resolve faltered. She may not want to be with him, but what right had she to keep them from their father? She took a deep breath. “Okay, get something for the children’s supper, and we’ll talk later.”
His face lit up and he nodded fast in agreement. “Yes, yes! I’ll be back as soon as I can. Well, see you in a bit, back at home.” And he ran to his car, turning to blow them all a kiss before he slid behind the wheel.
It was a long night after they’d finally got the children to bed. When she came down, Marcus laid an omelet on the table in front of her and poured a glass of wine. A bottle later they were still talking in angry bursts, interspersed with tears from both of them. It must have been well after midnight when he finally persuaded her to give the relationship another chance, but Izzie knew she was less enthusiastic than he was. It was the children who had been her prime motivation. She was still so angry that, if it hadn’t been for them, she’d have kicked him into touch.
The next day, she felt hollowed out and limp with exhaustion. Her car was due for a service, so Marcus, after a night on the sofa, followed her to the garage first thing, then dropped her at the barn before taking the children to school. She carefully avoided kissing him. It was too soon for that.
Throwing her jacket over the back of her chair, she turned on the new coffee machine and sat at her desk, trying to focus. Today was the meeting with the people from La Boîte Bleue, and she had to be on the ball. Sighing, she reached for the dossier Lillian had put together and began to read.
The Boîte Bleue chain had taken Europe by storm, its tremendous success based on the premise that women like to be able to pick products up off the shelf and try them out without being pounced on by sales assistants. The shops were exquisite; painted a wonderful Majorelle blue with mirrors everywhere, fantastic wash lighting, and arrays of shelving with products laid out easily within reach. Perfumes lined the walls, while makeup and skin care were presented on racks running across the stores, the brands arranged in alphabetical order. They were like a sweetshop for grown-ups, and had been an instant success in Paris. Now there were branches in every major city in Europe, and Izzie and Maddy longed to be a part of it, tucked on the shelves between Nuxe and Philosophy—a fantastic position.
Izzie picked up and leafed through the sales pitch they had prepared so painstakingly at Maddy’s kitchen table. She hoped it was convincing enough. La Boîte Bleue was the only store that they had actively gone after. And a hard nut to crack. If they could pull this off, what would it mean for the value of the company and for Tessutini’s offer? But a sales pitch was a new experience for them. Were they ready for it? Izzie looked round. The barn was certainly looking good. Maddy had clearly been there until late the previous night, aided by Donna and Angie, and they had given the place a really good going over. The dodgy posters of Robbie Williams had disappeared and a giant vase of blood-red dahlias with deep-purple foliage of cotinus stood in the middle of the “conference” table. All the surfaces gleamed, and upstairs in the office the paperwork had all been filed away. Good going, girls.
But when Maddy arrived from the airport with Fabien and Joelle, the buyers, it was obvious that this wasn’t going to be easy, and the expression on Maddy’s face when she slipped in behind them told the whole story.
The New Ruralist look may have swept Britain, but it obviously hadn’t reached across the Channel, or at least not as far as the Boulevard St. Germain. These two were more than chic, they were überchic. They were so now, they were actually more like the middle of next week—and, boy, they knew it! Not a hair out of place, immaculately tailored, Japanese designer suits, briefcases that an astronaut would envy, they couldn’t have looked more out of place if they’d tried. And trying was one thing they were clearly not doing. That, it rapidly became clear, was Izzie and Maddy’s job.
Izzie tried the frontal approach, but her friendly greeting was met with coolly appraising looks and raised eyebrows. Offers of coffee were similarly brushed off. Joelle made a big deal of dusting off the chair Maddy had offered before sitting down and opening her case, and saying in such a soft voice that everyone had to crane across the table to hear her, “Let’s proceed, shall we? We have such a lot of ground to cover—the figures you e-mailed to us were not satisfactory at all.”
On and on it went with Joelle and Fabien making notes and occasionally exchanging significant glances. Izzie kept peeking surreptitiously at her watch, longing for the moment she could suggest lunch. But after another excruciating hour, during which Maddy dropped a whole pile of carefully stacked printouts on the floor, and Izzie stapled her finger to a sheaf of documents, Fabien and Joelle (Izzie had secretly dubbed them Gomez and Morticia) simultaneously gathered their papers together, as though on a secret signal.
“I think we’ve seen quite enough. We’ll go through our findings on the plane home and present them to the board tomorrow. You’ll be hearing from us. Thank you for your time. If you could return us to the airport, please?” and off they swept in a voile of tantalizing and costly smelling fragrance. Maddy complied without demur, all the stuffing knocked out of her, leaving Izzie behind feeling boneless and exhausted. She just hoped to God Maddy had remembered to scrape the children’s biscuit crumbs and fluff-encrusted jelly tots from the seats in her car.
She was still sitting at the table when Maddy crashed in through the door, a couple of hours later. “Oh thank God you’re still here,” she called weakly. “When I didn’t see the car, I thought you’d gone. Have we got any gin? I need something to relieve the pain. It was only the vision of our product on those lovely sparkly shelves that kept me from opening the car door and shoving Fabien out onto the hard shoulder.”
“No gin, I’m afraid. How would some hot choc do?”
“Fine, just bring it on.” It was shoulders to the wheel then, until Maddy threw down her pen. “I’m all in for the day. I’m going home for a nice hot bath and some heated-up spag bol. How are you getting home, by the way? Do you want a lift?”
“Erm, no. Marcus is coming to pick me up. My car’s at the garage. We’re going out to eat together—it’s part of his charm offensive.”
“Eeeow. That sounds scary. I didn’t want to ask but where are you two at the moment?”
Izzie put the steaming mug down in front of Maddy, sighed deeply, and leaned back in her chair. “I don’t mind you asking at all. I only wish I had an answer. He revealed something truly terrible yesterday about why he left the agency. It seems our whole relationship has been based on his lies for years. It’s fundamentally rotten. So all the effort now just seems like putting a sticking plaster on gangrene. Don’t you think?”
“Oh, Izzie, I can’t tell you that! Only you and Marcus can decide if there’s anything worth saving. If he’s come clean with you now about something in the past, you just have to start from where you are. I know it’s hard not to look back—but it’s getting you nowhere, apart from all bitter and twisted!”
“I know, I know. I’m just so confused. In a way, I want us to be a nuclear family, but I just wonder if that’s—”
The phone rang, and they both jumped. Maddy answered, then her eyes grew round and she gesticulated frantically at Izzie. “Hello, Fabien, how nice to hear from you again. How was your flight? . . . Yes, Izzie is here with me now. Can you hold on for a moment while I put this call on conference?”
Izzie slid into her seat as Maddy put the call on speaker phone. She and Maddy stared at each other in anticipation. What could this be? Surely it was too early for a decision!
His intimidatingly flawless English accent echoed abruptly around the office. “We have been going over the figures on the plane. We have concerns about your ability to supply all sixty branches. Your operation is too small at the moment. We don’t see how you can do it.” They exchanged glances. Fabien was perfectly right. In their present form they couldn’t hope to meet the demand that Bleue anticipated. The whole edifice was based on the “maybe” that Tessutini would come through and take up the reins of production. Between the two of them, they’d fine-tuned their bullshit, throwing out rash promises about expansion, unit square meterage, staff recruitment, and a new distribution deal which only had to be rubber-stamped.
At every turn, Fabien came back with another detailed query, and they lobbed them back as fast as they came. Was he convinced? Izzie wasn’t so sure. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus come up the stairs and, seeing they were on the phone, sit down quietly to wait.
“I can assure you, Fabien,” purred Maddy, “our stock levels will be sufficient to cover any eventuality, and no, Italy shouldn’t be the problem you envisage.”
There was a pause, and they could almost hear him breathing. “I’m not happy with this,” he said, after what felt like an age. “I don’t think that I can recommend to my board that we go ahead.” They exchanged panicked glances. They could feel it slipping through their fingers. Izzie couldn’t stand by and let this happen, so she jumped in.
“You don’t need to worry, Fabien. We have a deal on the table that’s going to make all the difference—”
Like a shot, Marcus was on his feet, gesticulating wildly, pulling his hand across his throat in a chopping motion, and mouthing “no! no!” Izzie faltered and looked bewildered.
Fabien’s voice came smartly down the line. “Really? Tell me more.”
“Er . . .” Izzie watched as Marcus scribbled frantically on the back of an envelope in front of her. “Hold on, I have the figures here.”
Say nothing, she read. Privileged information. Change tack. The penny dropped and she exchanged horrified looks with Maddy.
“Er . . . the deal I mentioned is with a . . .”—warehouse in Rotterdam, Marcus scrawled—“warehouse in Rotterdam for . . .” she groped for inspiration.
Maddy waded in. “Yes, we weren’t sure we could tell you just yet, but we’ve secured a central distribution facility for our Europe sales. The confirmation has just come through this afternoon.” She grimaced, shrugging helplessly.
“Oh, I see.” Fabien sounded sniffy. “What a pity you couldn’t mention it earlier. This might change things. That was my main concern. We like your products very much. I will talk to you in the morning.”
Izzie and Maddy mimed a silent high five, pulling delighted faces at each other while trying to conclude the conversation in a sensible, mature way. Thank God videoconferencing hadn’t caught on!
“Fan-bloody-tastic!” gushed Izzie as the phone went dead. “The way we finessed that thing with the distribution at the end. What a team! Wait till we launch this on Tessutini!”
Maddy was pale but triumphant. “God, we so nearly put our foot in it big-time. If it hadn’t been for you, Marcus, we’d be screwed now. You’ve just officially saved our bacon.”
Marcus looked at Maddy for a moment, and Izzie watched him closely, semiamused by his shyness. It wasn’t like him at all! But she was glad that she was close enough to hear his reply. “Well, it’s an easy trap to fall into—saying too much, especially when you’re trying to big yourself up a bit. You can’t be too careful when you’re talking to other companies. Everyone’s got their own agenda.”
Yes, it had been a close one, all right. And it had nearly happened without Izzie even realizing. A moment’s lapse. Saying what you know people want to hear. And your career is in tatters. Maybe that was how it had been for Marcus.
“This is surreal, isn’t it?” said Maddy, as she pulled into the fast lane. “I mean—less than twelve months ago we were cowering in Pru’s vast office, and now we’re off to meet the big boys at some swanky hotel.”
“I think I’m more excited about the swanky hotel—I always fantasized about staying at the Dorchester.” Izzie was rooting through the glove box, trying to find something to put in the CD machine. “Oh, God, please not Postman Pat. I’m just about ready to post his bloody letters up his unfeasibly large nose.”
“Do you think his nose was the same size as his . . . ?”
“Madeleine! Come on, we have got to work out our strategy here. Are we going to play good cop, bad cop, or are we going to be the hard-nosed businesswomen we are getting so good at? It worked for Boîte Bleue.”
“Frankly, I haven’t got a clue,” said Maddy. “I’m a bit scared, really.”
“Have you spoken to Geoff about it?”
“He said that we should keep quiet and let him do the talking.”
Izzie was silent for a minute. “He is on our side, isn’t he?”
It troubled Maddy that this was just what she had been wondering for the last few days. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s just a bit too keen sometimes. For all I know he’ll whip some here’s-one-I-prepared-earlier document out of his briefcase, and it’ll all be settled before we can open our mouths.”
Maddy kept her eyes on the road, as they sped past the exit to Princes Risborough and up the steep cutting in the hillside. “I think that’s when we have to remember who owns this company.”
The traffic down the Edgware Road was bumper to bumper, and they were running a bit late—Geoff had called twice already—by the time they found a space in the Hyde Park car park. They dashed down through the park toward the hotel, the early autumn leaves falling about them in the sunshine, before risking their lives crossing Park Lane.
“Right, Mrs. Stock, uniform!” and they both pulled out their shades and put them on. “I feel like the Blues Brothers.”
Izzie braced herself. “It’s one hundred and six yards to the meeting. We’ve got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s light, and we’re wearing sunglasses.”
“Hit it!” cried Maddy and they stormed through the doors.
Giving their names at the reception desk, they were escorted like royalty through the giant marble and gold hallway toward the Boardroom Suite. This was red-carpet treatment. Maddy had to remind Izzie to close her mouth as she gazed in awe around her. “Pretend you come here all the time,” she said under her breath. “You look like a five-year-old on a school outing. Think corporate, darling.”
By the time they had taken a detour to the ladies, titivated their lipstick, and found the private suite, they were seriously late. They knocked sheepishly, and the door was ripped open by Geoff, who was decidedly hot and bothered and gave them a look of reproach, which made Maddy feel very small indeed.
“So sorry, gentlemen,” she said, in her coolest voice. “You know how awful the traffic can be.” Stupid remark. At least two of those present lived in New York. She registered an imposing room, in Biedermeier style, awash with suits, all seated around a long rectangular table, with two places in the middle left presumably for her and Izzie. It was like being late to the wrong surprise birthday party, where no one seemed very pleased to see you. There was an uncomfortable silence, then Geoff bounded into action.
“Now, ladies, let me introduce you. This is David Seers and Steve Baines of Hewlitt Pritchard, our lawyers.” They shook hands politely. “And Peter, of course.”
“I think we’ve met,” said Maddy, and smiled broadly at Peter as his eyes twinkled and he winked supportively at her.
“And this is Greg Feinstein, Tessutini’s vice president of business development.” Their hands were grasped firmly by a preppie-looking man, all tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses, who in turn introduced a man to his right, “Brian Bridgeton, our lawyer.” More handshaking, then Geoff indicated someone seated over the far side of the table, “and Tom Drake, Tessutini’s CEO.”
The man stood up and came round the table. He was enormously tall and lean and towered over Maddy and Izzie. Out of a sea of forgettable faces, this guy was impressive, and Maddy had to remind herself to look cool and nonchalant as she greeted him. Dark blue shirt and striped tie, suit trousers and, unlike the others, no jacket. He was not traditionally handsome—she supposed she’d imagined he’d be an Ivy Leaguer out of a John Grisham novel—but he was too rough cut for that, and he certainly had presence. She noticed neat cuffs as he took her hand in his cool, plate-sized one, and then she peered all the way up to his face. His hair was very short, obviously once dark judging by his dark eyebrows, but was now flecked with plenty of gray. His skin was slightly tanned—at Martha’s Vineyard, no doubt—and she reckoned he must be in his mid-forties. But it was his eyes that engaged her. She couldn’t really see the color of them, but they were framed with laughter lines and they looked hard at her with an assessing, rather presumptuous mirth. Well, she thought fleetingly, this would be eye candy if negotiations got dull.
Settled down in their places, opposite Tom Drake and his henchmen, Maddy suddenly felt her palms go clammy, and she had an irresistible urge to hold Izzie’s hand. This made the first Elements encounter seem like a picnic. She wanted a drink, too, but she wasn’t sure if it was the done thing to help yourself to the designer mineral water laid out down the middle of the table. What the hell. She leaned across the table, and to her chagrin, couldn’t quite reach, until Tom Drake slowly pushed the bottle and a glass toward her.
“Er, thank you.” Don’t be pathetic, Madeleine.
With the élan of a man who had clearly done this many times before, Greg Feinstein got the ball rolling. “Now that everyone’s here, we can start. It is delightful to meet you, ladies. As Geoff said, I am one of the corporate finance advisers for the Tessutini Group, and I have to say how impressed we are with Paysage Enchanté.” He pronounced this in his Boston brahmin accent to rhyme with “bay.” “We have watched your progress with interest and, as we have indicated, are very interested in bringing your company into the Tessutini Group. We think it would complement our portfolio very well. We have always prided ourselves on having a stable of forward-thinking and innovative enterprises, and we feel we could fulfill the brand’s potential.” He went on to repeat the offer made in their original communication, but hearing him say it aloud made it seem very real.
There was a pause, and Maddy slurped her drink inelegantly in the silence.
David Seers of Hewlitt’s took up the reins. “I understand my clients are interested in your offer to buy the Paysage Enchanté brand and associated goodwill, but have several points they would like to make.”
Geoff, in his element, swung into action at this point, and Maddy was relieved to let him run through the details they had talked about over the phone the day before. Clauses were discussed and counterdiscussed across the table, product recipes and production processes detailed, wording tweaked and fine-tuned, staff payoffs proposed and accepted, and after a while Maddy felt like a spare part. She tried not to let her eyes glaze over, nor to wander over to the other side of the table. The atmosphere seemed cordial enough, and Geoff was at his most dynamic. She could understand why Peter rated him so highly.
This is all going too well, she thought. They seem to be agreeing to everything, including maintaining the brand name and image, and we haven’t even played our ace yet. Perhaps someone’s going to jump through the door any minute and shout, “Joke! Had you going though, didn’t we?”
She kicked Izzie under the table, and scribbled on the pad in front of them, “Boîte Bleue?” Like passing notes in class, Izzie nudged Geoff and pointed to Maddy’s note. He raised his eyebrows at it, quizzically. Just agreed big sales deal with them, Izzie scribbled, and put the value of the order as discreetly as she could. Geoff’s eyebrows shot up even further. “Make us worth more?” she wrote underneath.
“Um, Mrs. Stock has just reminded me” (boy, he was cool) “that the company have just finalized a new order with Boîte Bleue, which would place the products in all sixty stores in six European countries.” He told them the estimated value of the order over the next twelve months. “This, we feel, should be reflected in Tessutini’s offer.”
“It is already a very generous one for a company that has not yet filed a year’s trading figures,” said Feinstein without flinching. “On these terms we would expect exclusivity.”
Peter’s voice came from the far end of the table. “Perhaps, but your offer was made without this information, and this Boîte Bleue order is clearly quite a coup. You will know yourselves just what a demanding company they are to supply.”
Greg Feinstein looked at his boss, who wrote something in small writing on the top of the papers in front of him, then he looked back at Geoff. “I think, yes, we can factor this increase in turnover into a new, slightly improved offer.” Maddy kicked Izzie again. Result!
“Our only issue,” said Feinstein, after a moment and glancing down at his notes, “is with Paysage Enchanté’s desire not to relinquish the rights to the products should Tessutini decide not to produce them any longer.”
“Er . . . that doesn’t seem reasonable,” Maddy blurted out without thinking. Judging by the looks of surprise coming at her from around the table, it was clear they really weren’t supposed to speak at all during the proceedings, and she felt like a juror who had suddenly said something inappropriate in court. She could feel the sweat prickling under her armpits but plowed on. “Surely if you decide that Paysage Enchanté should not be continued, then it’s fair game for anyone to buy the name back from you and start up production again, even if it wasn’t us?” She’d directed her remarks to the tortoiseshell glasses, but she could feel Tom Drake’s assessing eyes, full of humor, yet so damned arrogant, looking hard at her. She shifted her gaze to meet his.
He held her eyes. “The company, at the moment, is yours and Mrs. Stock’s by rights too,” he said at last, “until such time as you decide to sell. I’m afraid this is a clause of the contract on which we are immovable.”
Maddy looked down quickly at the draft contract in front of her. Suddenly she felt terribly protective about their little range of products. The fun Izzie and she had had putting together the story; the meetings with Pru and Elements; the cabbages stuffed into the veg patch; long evenings of agonizing work that had gone into meeting orders; the girls back at the barn with their foul language and fouler jokes; Crispin and his visits to the weirdos in Wales; Lillian with her efficiency and surprising little hobbies. Paysage Enchanté was their baby, even if it had been somewhat unplanned, and she felt now as if they were having to put it up for adoption.
She turned to Izzie, her eyebrow raised in what she hoped would read as, what do you think?
Izzie turned back to the table and, in her best hard-nosed businesswoman voice, said, “Am I not right in thinking there may be a requirement for us to stay on for a period of time as directors, to oversee the handover?”
There was a moment’s silence, until Geoff and Greg spoke almost simultaneously. “I think you’ll agree, Izzie, that if production is to move to the States, it really wouldn’t be practical.”
“Mrs. Stock, set your mind at rest,” soothed Greg. “Tessutini is one of the biggest cosmetics producers in the world. I can assure you there will be no hitch in the transfer.”
Izzie looked questioningly at Maddy. “Er . . . can we have five minutes to talk about this please, gentlemen? Either we can leave the room . . . er, or you can.”
Once the Americans had closed the door behind them, both Maddy and Izzie slumped back in their chairs, not realizing how tensed up their bodies had been.
“Is it too early for a drink?” Izzie asked Peter.
“With a bit of luck, darling, we can crack the champagne soon, but let’s sort out this hurdle. Their terms are very reasonable so far—remarkably so, really—but I think you may have to concede this one.”
Geoff gave a nervous little cough. “Maddy, I think you will find that these sort of caveats are very normal in such negotiations. It is part of the purchaser’s requirement to have complete control of a brand once it has been acquired. Don’t forget the restrictive covenant—you will both be excluded from setting up a similar business for the next two years anyway.”
“I can see his point, Maddy,” said Izzie gently. “Would we want to start it up again, even if they did stop production some time in the future? If a company like Tessutini decides after a while it’s not really selling as much as it should . . . well, they’d take it off the market. They know the cosmetics market better than we do.”
“Everyone knows it better than we do, love. This whole thing has been by the seat of our not insubstantial pants.” Maddy smiled at her. “Is there any chance of some coffee, then?” Geoff picked up the phone to put in the order.
“It’s all so very final though, isn’t it?” Maddy continued quietly, so only Izzie could hear. “Once they take it on, then it’s good-bye to everything.”
“Maybe, but isn’t that what we want? Haven’t we decided that we’ve had enough? All this spin’s made me so dizzy, I don’t know who or what I am anymore.”
She looked at Izzie and could see the plea in her eyes. Selling the company was going to be the only way that she could salvage her marriage, wasn’t it? Despite Marcus’s eleventh-hour support during the shenanigans with Fabien, Maddy wasn’t convinced his volte-face was genuine. How much longer would he tolerate Izzie giving every hour to the company? It had been one hell of a year for her and, if they didn’t sell, the business would have to make a quantum leap to be able to supply Boîte Bleue at all. No way could they fulfill orders the way things were now, and how long would it take to realize an imaginary warehouse in Rotterdam? They’d be victims of their own sales bullshit. It was only fair to take the money Tessutini were offering.
But Maddy couldn’t help feeling a strong flood of selfishness. Where would the sale leave her, except richer? She had no other life except for this. Their brief time at Huntingford House had been one of grief and Paysage Enchanté, but the day after the sale went though all she would have would be the grief. There was only so much shopping you could do in a lifetime, even for someone with her abilities in that department. And what about all the things Will had said? But what was left for her?
Izzie squeezed her hand. “We’ve proved such a lot to ourselves over the last year. Think how far we’ve come since Ledfinch Manor and that awful Fayre and the terrible smell in your kitchen. It was fun, but anyway it might not be the end. For both of us, it could just be the beginning.” She smiled at her terrible cliché.
They returned to the table for another hour of tedious semantics then, with a finality that felt like the end of a particularly arduous exam, Greg Feinstein wrapped up the meeting. “This is all fairly straightforward and we will have it finalized within days, ladies, and then we will sign the agreement and have it ready for signatures.” He tidied his papers, slipped them back into his briefcase and put the lid back on his pen with a conclusive click. “I think for security reasons, we should leave the building separately, so if you could give us a few moments before you leave the room . . .” There was a general scraping of chairs as everyone stood up, shook hands, and made their farewells. Tom Drake took Maddy’s hand again and, feeling bereft, she found herself saying, “We’ve worked hard on this company, Mr. Drake. You will look after it, won’t you?”
His eyes crinkled into a smile. “Oh, we know you have. That’s why it’s been so successful. We’ll take good care of it,” and he picked up his briefcase and walked out of the door, his minions following behind.
Maddy felt her body sag with relief. “Is there light at the end of the tunnel, Iz?” she muttered.
“It’s coming, babe! Just a few more days of being wholesome, and we can do what the hell we like.”
The traffic back was dire, bumper to bumper up the A40, stopping and starting until Maddy’s clutch foot ached. The tedium was interspersed with calls from Geoff who gabbled his excitement into Izzie’s ear. “He says we should have the contracts by Friday,” she said as she cut him off after the second call. “He’s really fired up. Anyone would think it was his money.”
“We’re going to have to give him a bonus of some kind, I suppose.” Maddy looked into her wing mirror and tried to change lanes. “I’ll ask Peter what the procedure is. In the meantime, my girl, you’re going to need a lesson in how to spend serious cash. Burn a hole in that plastic.”
For the next excruciatingly slow hour they planned what they were going to buy, Izzie’s ideas getting more and more bizarre as time went on. By the time Maddy dropped her at her house, to be greeted by a cautious but friendly Marcus, Izzie had parted with most of her half on everything from an aquarium to a yacht painted lilac and manned by a crew of Adonis (or Adoni, they weren’t quite sure of the plural).
As she finally pulled into her drive, Will and Florence flew out of the door, and it took her some time to answer their questions and listen to their news of the day. At last she dumped her bag in the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine.
Will came trundling in after her. “Mum, can I play on the Game Boy? Colette said I couldn’t till I’d done my homework.”
“Well, have you?”
“Yes.”
“Well then you can.”
“Mummy, can we have a disco?” Florence tottered into the room in her clippy-cloppy pink shoes and one of Colette’s pink sparkly T-shirts bearing the slogan “Like I give a FCUK.”
“Why not?” said Maddy, seizing the mood. “Out on the terrace. I’ll put the speakers in the doorway—Florence, darling, you get the ABBA CD.” She scooped up Pasco, went into the sitting room, and flung open the doors. Yes, it was warm enough in the early autumn sunshine. Turning the speakers around, she slipped in the CD from Florence, and turned the volume loud. Will, too cool by far to join in, sat on the garden bench, engrossed in Pokémon on his Game Boy. Pasco began to push the soily tractor he’d found discarded on the ground through the flower bed, and Florence, grabbing Colette by the hand, began to gyrate to the music. Everyone happy, Maddy dashed upstairs; dug out and threw on her own FCUK T-shirt from the back of the wardrobe, some pink pedal pushers (bit tight now) she hadn’t been able to wear under the Ruralist regime, and her beloved Jimmy Choos; retrieved her wine from the kitchen; lit a much-needed cigarette; and went back to stand in the doorway.
“Come on, Mum,” shrieked Florence over the soundtrack. “Come and dance.” Careful not to spill her wine, and giggling with the fun of it all, she joined the dancing lineup.
The music was so loud, and dance steps needing so much concentration, she couldn’t possibly have heard the click, whirr, click, whirr coming from the other side of the garden hedge.