Modern Interiors. Andrea GoldsmithЧитать онлайн книгу.
only they could have it out with her or, better still, all of them, Philippa included, swallow their pride and let bygones be bygones. Melanie and Selwyn, Gray and herself wanted Philippa back where she belonged – not back home, it was too late for that, but in the locality, a villa unit, or an apartment, the area was full of suitable places. ‘And at reasonable prices too, what with the current down-turn in the property market,’ Gray had been quick to point out. But they would not beg Philippa to return, Gray had added, for it was not up to them to instruct their mother how to behave.
But it was, Evelyn had decided, because while Philippa’s need for the family might have diminished, the family’s need for her had not. Philippa had always been a point of stability; she was dependable, sensible, and the only person Evelyn really trusted to look after the children. Philippa needed to be reminded of her duty. And it had to happen now, before the situation deteriorated, for while her desertion had made family life difficult, there was worse trouble looming in the executive offices of Finemore’s Fine Wines and Spirits. It was the boys, Gray and Selwyn, nothing new, but without George’s restraining presence, the distrust they had always felt for each other had been left to grow unchecked. Distrust, and, if the truth be known, dislike, but being family, the dislike was carefully put to one side. Poor Gray was exhausted, working twelve-, fourteen-hour days, and spending most weekends at his desk. Selwyn couldn’t be trusted in the office, Gray said, so as long as Selwyn was there, Gray had to be there too. Each evening, usually as a preface to his Philippa tirade, he would recount, or rather assess, Selwyn’s daily movements, and each evening, Evelyn brooded on the image of her husband traipsing after Selwyn from office to office, warehouse to loading bay, listening in to telephone calls, eavesdropping on conversations.
With so much time devoted to Selwyn, it was not surprising Gray’s own work was suffering. His figures were down and two of his best men had joined the main opposition. As for the satisfaction that had been so much a part of Finemore’s in George’s time, it had all but disappeared. These days, Gray pondered his drink, his evening meal, the darkness at the end of the bed with a face pale and heavy as a bull-terrier; these days, Gray was not a happy man. One time, and in all seriousness, he had described the problems between him and Selwyn as ‘an irreducible mathematical concept’ a sort of prime number of commerce; George’s death, he said, had left the managing director’s chair vacant, only one chair, he said between grim lips, and two large men.
One chair and two large men. Was it any wonder that Gray was not himself? He was sleeping badly, switching on the light in the early morning to make notes, and, as he wrote, he sighed and grunted and thanked God that George wasn’t alive to witness the rumblings at Finemore’s. Evelyn did her best to calm him with hot whisky drinks, massage to his tense muscles, even oral sex, but worry followed worry, complaint followed complaint, a veritable avalanche of words that was doing Gray no good. There were inconsistencies too, today’s opinion would contradict yesterday’s; Gray, always so sure, always so predictable, was becoming confused. Evelyn thought it best to let the inconsistencies pass; she would listen silently as was her custom, concentrating her features into various expressions of sympathy, until Gray finished. And it was always at the same point:
‘Selwyn’s not a Finemore,’ he would say, ‘he does not understand liquor.’
But Evelyn feared that might not matter, after all, George Finemore had not understood liquor, or not in the way Gray meant, and it hadn’t stopped him. George always said that the liquor business was about business first and liquor second; after fifty years in the trade, George couldn’t distinguish a Riesling from a Chardonnay, a burgundy from a Shiraz; even with Scotch, and he had been a Scotch drinker all his life, one was much the same as the next. Oenology, or the ‘connoisseur bullshit’ as George was wont to call it, was the buyers’ area, his concern was merchandising which was, George said, the nub of a successful business. And he must have been right, for when he died, George was eulogized in the financial pages as the Leviathan of Liquor; as for Finemore’s Fine Wines and Spirits, it was the nation’s largest, privately-owned, wholesale liquor trader and, with its expansion into the retail market, was variously described as diverse, aggressive, exciting and visionary.
Now all of it was under threat. No, Evelyn was being dramatic, not under threat, for Finemore’s was as sound as a rock, rather the Finemore family lifestyle was under threat, and, having taken more than a decade to adapt to the Finemore way of doing things, Evelyn wanted nothing to change. She wanted Philippa to see sense and the boys to hide their differences, and while her preference would have been for Gray to take the necessary actions, she knew her husband was not the man for the job. Gray was a man of words; he would make nightly proclamations from his side of the bed: ‘Selwyn wouldn’t know a good claret if he were swimming in it,’ or ‘Mother should have more respect for the Finemore name,’ a welter of allegations and declarations that might calm Gray’s offended nerves but did nothing to rectify the situation. In the months since George’s death, although Gray’s tirades had increased both in force and frequency, they had done nothing to keep Philippa at home or Selwyn in his place. While Gray talked, others acted, while Gray accused, others accomplished. Philippa had sold the house, packed her belongings and moved miles away, while in the office, the staff were looking to Selwyn for direction. Selwyn might not be a Finemore but he was, nonetheless, very clever, and his manner, although oozing with thin-blooded sincerity, mobilized the Finemore staff far more than Gray’s sure, steady ways.
Selwyn and Gray, thrown together by George’s death and the clumsy fusions of family, could not have been more different. There was the matter of character: Selwyn was a greyhound while Gray was more draughthorse; and personal manner: Selwyn brash and Gray sombre; and the future direction of Finemore’s: rapid expansion according to Selwyn, selective development at the top end of the market from Gray. The only quality the two men had in common was a thriving ambition, but ambition is a light sleeper and it was clear the men were becoming restless.
Evelyn had raised the problems with her sister-in-law, but while Melanie was happy to elaborate on the value of conflict, happy, too, to advise on how to deal with Gray, she refused to hear any criticism that might reflect badly either on Selwyn or the Finemore name.
‘You don’t understand the Finemores,’ she had said in words that could have been borrowed from Gray. ‘We’re tough, but we’re private, and we don’t like to air our grievances in public.’
‘But I’m not asking for a public airing,’ Evelyn had replied. ‘I only want us to talk among ourselves, talk honestly, resolve the differences between the boys and bring Philippa back home.’
‘I know exactly what you want, but as I said before, we’re very private people, and we prefer not to say things that later we might regret. We go about our business and in time the problems will right themselves. The Finemores have always believed that the essence of good family relations is to forgive and forget.’
She also said she had the utmost confidence in her husband and had no intention of interfering in his business affairs. And with that, had risen from the table where they’d been eating lunch, paid the bill, shepherded Evelyn from the restaurant down the street and into Madelaine’s for Evelyn’s opinion on the dress she was having made for the Jamiesons’ masked ball.
With Selwyn busy, Gray frenzied and Melanie resolutely blinkered, it had been left to Evelyn to restore peace in the family, and the best way to do this, she had decided, was with a direct approach to Philippa. Philippa must return home, she must pull the boys into line, she must return the family to normal.
Evelyn made another left turn and found herself on Philippa’s block. She knew exactly the line to take: she would appeal to Philippa’s seniority, her life-long devotion to family, her skill in matters of relationships. At the same time, she would be sure to make Philippa feel needed.
She parked the car, noticed she was low on petrol – Philippa should foot the bill, after all, it was her fault that Evelyn had been wandering through these ridiculous streets for close on twenty minutes – checked her lipstick and hair in the rear vision mirror and got out. She had dressed carefully in beige skirt and rust-coloured jacket; stylish, she thought, in the Finemore way, and entirely suitable for her appointment with Brother Trevor later on – not that he was concerned about such paltry