A Perfect Heritage by Penny Vincenzi

Farrell when she presided over the counter of the new brand, coming in every week, sometimes to stand behind the counter, sometimes just to talk to the consultants. So elegant she had been, always perfectly groomed, in wonderfully tailored suits, and high-heeled court shoes with matching handbag, her nails long and varnished, her make up impeccable. The girls on the Farrell counter were totally in awe of her.
    Florence was not so easily intimidated, but then she didn’t work for her. After a few weeks, Mrs Farrell would come over to her counter every time she came in, telling her how lovely it looked and admiring the products; she quite often bought something and would carry it away in the lovely flowery Marshall and Snelgrove bag. Florence knew perfectly well why she had done so (Coty’s were not the only products she bought); it was to compare them with the Farrell offering, to study the packaging and the leaflets, and possibly to find something she could imitate.
    And then one day Mrs Farrell had come over to her counter and asked her if she would telephone her when she had finished work and gave her a card with her address and number on it. Intrigued, Florence had done so, and found herself invited to join Mrs Farrell for tea, ‘or a cocktail if that would be easier with your hours. We could meet at the Savoy, or the Dorchester; my husband would like to meet you, I know, and I might have a proposition for you, but we need to have a proper conversation and to get to know one another.’
    Flattered but wary, Florence had said that would be delightful and agreed to meet the Farrells in the cocktail bar at the Dorchester the following Thursday. She spent a lot of time working out what to wear – her wardrobe was rather limited, as decreed by her modest income, but she felt this was so important she actually bought a Frank Usher dress and jacket in navy, trimmed with white, for the occasion. She wondered what exactly the glamorous Farrells might want to discuss with her – she could only hope it was employment, but it could be that they were simply trying to do some more espionage work. Whatever it was, cocktails at the Dorchester were not to be missed.
    During the week, she did some research on the Farrells, and particularly Cornelius who was an unknown quantity. She was friendly with the press officer at Marshall’s who kept all the articles about the store in her office; having heard why Florence wanted to know about them, she sorted out a manila folder of cuttings for her.
    ‘He’s quite a dish, Mr Farrell,’ she said. ‘I wish I was having cocktails with him.’
    Florence reminded her briskly that Mrs Farrell would be there too, and took the folder home to study it.
    Mr Farrell, photographed at Mrs Farrell’s side at several functions and even with the two salesgirls in the store, was indeed quite a dish: tall and dark, with slicked-back hair and burning dark blue eyes, and wearing what were clearly very well-tailored suits.
    It was hard to get much of an idea of what he was like, but he clearly laughed a lot, and he had given one interview to a paper on the brand: ‘We think we are giving our customers something a little bit special, very skilled advice at the counter.’ Cheeky, thought Florence, as if none of the other brands did that. ‘And we listen to them carefully and try to turn their ideas and what they want into products and colours for the next season.’
    The interviewer had asked him how he had become involved with the rather feminine world of cosmetics and he had replied that his mother had been an actress and he used to watch her making up for her performances when he was quite a small boy and was allowed to go to her dressing room – ‘a very big treat’ – before a matinee. ‘It was wonderful to watch her eyes growing bigger, her lips fuller as I sat there. I’ve been fascinated by what make up could do for women ever since.’
    Asked if he had ever thought of being an actor himself he