Zoë knew she had to tread carefully. ‘Possibly in your circle of friends, yes. But with the Great British Public it doesn’t quite have the profile of a Glyndebourne.’
This was exactly where it had all gone wrong, she thought to herself miserably. She remembered their conversation all those weeks ago when Oswald had dismissed her pleas to hire a PR agency as ‘vulgar’. He had also vetoed the idea of them hiring a ticket agency to handle the box office – Oswald had been vehemently against paying an agency ten per cent of the ticket proceeds. Instead, ticket sales were being dealt with by a student in the Blue Room manning a single telephone.
The sun had drifted around the side of Huntsford so that it threw long rays of heat onto the terrace, making Oswald feel even more uncomfortable. ‘So what’s the big idea, missy?’
‘We need to sell another two thousand tickets to minimize losses. If more people know about it, the crowds will come and we can rely on ticket sales on the day. However, to reach those people, we have to make a big publicity splash.’
Oswald looked at his young employee in a new light. ‘And how do you propose we create this “splash”?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Your daughter,’ said Zoë. ‘Serena. She hasn’t made a single public appearance since the tabloid revelations three weeks ago.’
Oswald shifted in his chair. He would rather not think about his youngest daughter’s disgraceful behaviour at this moment in time. While Serena could rarely do anything wrong in Oswald’s eyes, he had taken a very dim view of her pregnancy by Michael Sarkis. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she had still been in a relationship with the American – he might be a tacky colonial, but Oswald could appreciate his immense wealth. But the last thing the Balcon family needed was a bastard child tarnishing their reputation. However, with the thought of incurring debts over the Huntsford Musical Evening uppermost in his mind, he was prepared to hear Zoë’s idea.
‘Nobody is expecting Serena to attend on Saturday,’ Zoë said, picking up the pace of her words. ‘After all, there was that story in the paper about you two feuding over her pregnancy.’ Oswald bristled. He had yet to get to the bottom of how the bloody tabloids had got wind of his and Serena’s argument only ten days earlier.
‘If you could persuade Serena to perhaps compere the evening, or at least introduce Maria Dante, that would generate oodles of pre-publicity.’
Oswald felt his anger cool before he started to raise objections. ‘Yes, but how will a few random stories in those grubby rags sell tickets to the calibre of guests that will come to Huntsford?’
‘You’d be surprised,’ replied Zoë, raising one eyebrow above the tortoiseshell rims of her glasses. ‘We just need some media hype. I’ve worked in marketing, I guarantee you we’ll be at full capacity if we can give the public a first glimpse of Serena. Perhaps we could even arrange for her to do a little sympathetic interview with the Telegraph on Friday. You know she hasn’t breathed a word to the press since her recent troubles.’
Zoë sensed she had struck a chord.
‘When needs must, I suppose,’ said Oswald tartly, looking away from Zoë, his eyes lingering on the lake glittering silver in front of him. He had to admit it was a good idea. He had no idea how Serena would respond to the suggestion, though. She was her father’s daughter and she would probably still be hostile towards him, volatile at the very least. Well aware that they could both manipulate each other, he decided it was worth the risk, especially as it was either that or face financial ruin.
He dismissed Zoë Cartwright to her spreadsheets and reached for the phone.
A stocky man in a pair of dirty jeans stopped Serena’s driver at the gates of Huntsford by slapping a meaty hand on the windscreen of the Mercedes. The driver calmly leaned out of his window and politely enquired what the problem was.
‘Gotta wristband?’ asked the gorilla, waving a clipboard.
Serena pressed a button and allowed her electric window to purr down. ‘This is my home,’ she said sternly, too tired to flash the man her movie-star smile. Immediately recognizing Serena, the security guard gruffly apologized and let the car proceed on its way.
‘How ridiculous,’ she hissed, looking back at the bothersome man over her shoulder. As she turned back, her mouth dropped open at the transformation of Huntsford before her. Even half a mile away from the main house, she gasped at the size of the operation. On the horizon she could make out an enormous, dome-shaped stage held up by a web of scaffolding. The driveway was lined with iron railings, topless men in jeans were erecting signs pointing to toilets, car park and restaurant, while at the far side of the lake was a parade of vans, lorries, generators and trailers. At least sixty people milled around, lugging cables, striding across the lawns with clipboards or carrying huge tureens into the catering tents. It was vast – impressive, she thought, a smile curling up on her full lips.
She had driven a hard bargain with her father when he had called her two days earlier to persuade her to attend. Her instincts were completely against it. She still felt raw and betrayed, especially after her meeting with Michael, and certainly didn’t feel ready to venture out into the public eye quite yet. After news of her pregnancy had broken, some of the knives had really come out. The suggestion that she was yesterday’s news, or lacked the exotic, worldwide appeal in a new, more cosmopolitan age had particularly hurt. If she was going to thrust herself back into the limelight willingly, she reasoned, then it was going to have to be worth her while. So she had demanded a cut of the action. She had told her father that she wanted seven per cent of the box-office takings, which Oswald had ruthlessly negotiated down to three per cent. Not ideal, she thought to herself, but well worth the drive into the countryside. It was sure to impact positively on her profile, too; the dutiful daughter helping out at her father’s musical event: even the detractors would love that one.
‘Something of a transformation, wouldn’t you say?’ said Oswald to his daughter as she pulled up to the double doors, helping her from the car and giving her a cautious embrace.
‘Yes, it’s quite a change,’ smiled Serena, pulling her microshorts further down her legs to look a little more respectable. ‘It looks just like Glastonbury.’
Oswald recoiled in horror. ‘That dreadful hippy festival? I don’t think so,’ he replied curtly.
Serena swung her Mulberry bag off her arm and sauntered inside. ‘Only joking, Daddy. I can see it’s going to be fabulous.’ She let a silence pass between them, waiting to see if he would bring up their argument of a few weeks earlier. But Oswald seemed content to let that incident – and the bigger subject of her pregnancy – pass without comment.
‘Maria is arriving at the house at five,’ he informed her casually. ‘I assume you’ll be joining us for dinner? Perhaps you could make a little more effort to get to know her better.’
Yes, right, she thought darkly. She hadn’t spoken to the woman since her leaving party back in April, and had zero intention of offering an olive branch now. She had hoped that the pushy Italian would have been a passing fancy for her father, just like all the other women in his life over the past fifteen years: the divorcées, flight attendants, ageing models and middle-aged society women had all lasted about as long as his shampoo. But it disturbed her that this liaison seemed to be growing a little more
