at Winterfold and get a dozen handsome polo-clad extras. He’d also jumped on Rob’s suggestion that they use a music video director to shoot it to stop it looking too soft and nostalgic.
‘Whaddayathink?’ asked Bret, showing Emma the latest digital shots on his laptop. There were three setups: one was a close-up of Clover framed by the majestic backdrop of the house. In the next, Clover was astride a shiny chestnut pony surrounded by Johnny, Tom and half a dozen other polo hunks. In the third she was climbing out of Saul’s 1967 gunmetal Aston Martin, wearing a long white Grecian gown, slit from hem to thigh to show one long length of bronze leg. They were elegant, but sexy. They were fantastic.
‘Absolutely beautiful,’ said Emma softly. She looked at Bret and he grinned at her reaction.
‘I aim to please,’ he said. He was a big bear of a man with a loud belly laugh and a crooked smile, nothing at all like the pretentious fashion photographer Emma was expecting.
‘But I’m not sure there’s enough bag in the shot,’ said Emma quickly, nervous that all she could see was a curved leather handle and the side of the 100 Bag.
Bret started laughing.
‘Honey, fashion is all about building dreams. Ralph Lauren was a Jew from the Bronx, just like me, but it didn’t stop him creating an empire based on a WASP way of living. You walk into a Ralphy shop, it’s like stepping onto the freeking Great Gatsby set; it’s goddamn genius. And it’s what you got here. People don’t want to see a bag, they want to see a fantasy they can buy into.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Emma looking to Marcus for reassurance.
He nodded. ‘And what you’ve got here is genuine, too. This is gen-u-ine blue-blood Britishness. Old money and elegance. Style not fashion.’
‘Style not fashion. I love that,’ said Emma. ‘Can I use it for the slogan?’
Emma turned as a black 4×4 crunched down the gravel drive and stopped.
The door opened and a woman stepped out of the passenger seat. She had a glossy, buttery, blonde bob, large expensive sunglasses pushed back on her head and she was so slim and delicate that her kitten heels didn’t seem to sink in the grass. At first Emma thought she might be another model for the shoot before Rob jumped out of the driver’s side. Unless she’d had a radical makeover, this was not the naked girl in the jacuzzi at the pool party. Not another one, thought Emma. Then Rob went round to the back of the car and helped a little girl wearing pink stripy tights down and onto the grass.
‘How’s it going everyone? Hey, Bret, how are you?’ Rob walked over to the group and shook the director’s hand.
‘If we don’t shift a million handbags after this ad then I’m a fucking Chinaman,’ smiled Bret, picking up his camera and heading back to Clover.
The blonde woman pulled a face and put a protective arm around the child. ‘You’d think he’d tame his language in front of Polly,’ she whispered to Rob.
‘Emma, this is Madeline,’ said Rob with a hint of awkwardness. ‘And this,’ he said, looking down at the girl with what could only be described as adoration, ‘is my daughter Polly.’
Emma was stunned.
‘You have a daughter?’ she said before she could stop herself.
This time, Madeline gave a little tinkling laugh.
‘That’s how everyone reacts,’ she said, putting out a delicate hand for Emma to shake. Emma caught Rob rolling his eyes and felt guilty; she didn’t want to sound unkind. Rob had been incredibly generous with his time and contacts, even if she suspected his motives were to curry favour and buy time at Winterfold.
‘Daddy, you said you’d show me the ponies again,’ said the little girl.
Rob took Polly’s small hand in his big one and looked at Madeline.
‘Take her,’ said Madeline briskly, ‘I’ll be fine here.’
Emma could feel herself redden slightly in the elegant woman’s presence. She assumed Rob and Madeline weren’t still together, but with someone like Rob, you never could tell. Had he been keeping a wife secreted away in New York while he’d been playing Hugh Hefner in England? He’d certainly kept the child quiet. Emma thought of the naked blonde in Winterfold’s jacuzzi and suppressed a wince. Poor Madeline.
‘So. You and Rob are …’ Emma let the sentence hang politely.
Madeline smiled. ‘We were together a long time ago. Polly was the result of that time.’
‘Great! That’s wonderful,’ said Emma a little too eagerly.
‘Polly and I live in New York,’ said Madeline, not surprising Emma in the slightest. Madeline was so polished and groomed she reeked of the Upper East Side. ‘Polly is on her Easter break, she’s staying here while I go to Paris. My partner is doing some work over there.’
The conversation slipped into pleasantries. While Emma didn’t find herself particularly warming to Madeline – she had a certain froideur not dissimilar to her cousin Cassandra – she couldn’t help but be impressed by this woman’s obvious accomplishments; she was a former lawyer, who had given it all up to raise Polly and in her own words fundraise an impressive roll call of causes from a ballet school for underprivileged African-American children to a theatre for disabled adults. Not Rob’s type at all, she decided.
‘So were you and Rob married?’