Secret Keeping for Beginners Read online

  Dedication

  For Sally Brampton

  Epigraph

  ‘If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself.’

  George Orwell, 1984

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Monday, 26 May

  Sydney Street, Chelsea, London SW3

  Cranbrook, Kent

  Spring photographic studios, London NW5

  Tunbridge Wells, Kent

  Thursday, 29 May

  Cranbrook

  Sydney Street

  Friday, 30 May

  Queen’s Park, London, 9.07 a.m.

  Cranbrook, 9.48 a.m.

  Sydney Street, 10.33 a.m.

  Cranbrook, 1.24 p.m.

  Cranbrook, 5.47 p.m.

  Cranbrook, 8.25 p.m.

  Tuesday, 3 June

  Outer Circle, Regent’s Park, London NW1

  Thursday, 5 June

  Hôtel Costes, Paris

  Cranbrook

  London W1

  Friday, 6 June

  Heathrow Airport

  Sydney Street

  Saturday, 7 June

  Ham, Richmond, Southwest London

  Tunbridge Wells

  Monday, 9 June

  Cranbrook

  Tuesday, 10 June

  Regent’s Park

  Wednesday, 11 June

  Tunbridge Wells, 4.22 a.m.

  Queen’s Park, 5.46 a.m.

  Tunbridge Wells, 6.40 a.m.

  7.07 a.m. US Eastern Time Zone (12.07 p.m. GMT), West Village, New York

  Sydney Street, 12.10 pm

  Friday, 20 June

  Cranbrook

  Saturday, 21 June

  Cranbrook

  Tuesday, 24 June

  Sydney Street

  Wednesday, 25 June

  Dalston, London E8

  Thursday, 26 June

  Sydney Street

  Thursday, 3 July

  Cranbrook

  Friday, 4 July

  Queen’s Park

  Sunday, 6 July

  Cranbrook

  Monday, 7 July

  Manhattan, New York

  Sydney Street, 12.30 p.m.

  Tuesday, 8 July

  Manhattan

  Thursday, 10 July

  Cranbrook

  Friday, 11 July

  Cranbrook

  Saturday, 12 July

  Cranbrook

  Wednesday, 16 July

  Sydney Street

  Cranbrook

  Thursday, 17 July

  Sydney Street

  Cranbrook

  Queen’s Park

  Friday, 18 July

  Regent’s Park

  Sydney Street

  Monday, 21 July

  Bury Place, London WC1

  Wednesday, 24 December

  Cranbrook

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Monday, 26 May

  Sydney Street, Chelsea, London SW3

  Rachel bounded up the stairs two at a time, then paused for a moment just outside her boss’s office door to catch her breath. She knew she was going to be sweaty – she’d run all the way there from the South Kensington Tube station – she didn’t want to be audibly panting as well.

  ‘Hark,’ said a man’s voice from inside. ‘Did I hear the sound of maidens’ feet upon the stairs? Or was it a herd of elephants? Rachel – is that you?’

  Quickly smoothing a hand over her hair, Rachel stepped around the door into the room.

  ‘Yes, hi Simon, hi everyone,’ she said to the man sitting behind a large shiny white desk and the four women in front of it, notebooks and phones on their laps.

  ‘No, really, it’s fine you’re late,’ said Simon. ‘Again. I was just saying what bad luck it is that it’s always your Tube line that has a problem when everyone else’s gets them here in plenty of time.’

  Rachel smiled at him as naturally as she could manage, pulling up another chair and sitting down. She was determined not to rise to his sarcasm. Or give him the pleasure of apologising for being late. She didn’t want him threatening her with instant dismissal as he had twice already that week. Jokingly, she thought – or hoped – but with just enough edge in his voice to make her nervous.

  She’d only been working at his PR firm, Rathbone & Associates, since February and was still in her six-month trial period, so it could happen. But if it was a joke, she didn’t think much of Simon’s sense of humour. There was nothing funny about the prospect of sudden unemployment for a single mother of two children under ten.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ said Simon. ‘Oh yes, pulling together some additional ideas for our pitch on Wednesday to Arkwright Industries, the biggest manufacturers of garden furniture in the UK. Although it’s all actually made in China now, of course. Which is why they need our help launching their new British-made elite brand, Lawn & Stone. Quite a good name, I think.’

  He tapped his laptop and an image of an elegant sun lounger, with plump cushions upholstered in a bold floral pattern, was projected onto the white wall to the side of the desk.

  ‘This is the merch,’ he said, tapping again to start a slideshow of pictures of lavish garden furniture, all featuring tropical print fabrics. ‘It’s really classy stuff, or I wouldn’t be talking to them. Their usual gear is the kind of thing you see people sitting on while having a picnic in a lay-by. Auntie’s day out.’

  All the other women tittered. Rachel didn’t. What a snob. What a bunch of brown-nosers.

  ‘As you know from my brief,’ Simon continued, ‘old man Arkwright has never seen the need for a PR company or any kind of marketing before, but he’s ancient and his kids are running the show now and they’re a little more with it. So we’ll be appealing to them with our ideas, not the old codger, although he is insisting on coming to the pitch.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ said Rachel.

  Every head in the room turned to look at her.

  ‘Sure about what?’ said Simon, eyes narrowed.

  ‘About focusing the pitch towards the kids, rather than Arnold Arkwright.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Simon, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head to one side.

  ‘Well, when you forwarded that email to us from his son – the one who’s MD now – I noticed as I read down through the exchanges between the two of you that every time you asked him a question, he’d answer it, but then sign off saying he’d have to confirm his response after he’d spoken to his dad.’

  She paused, letting it sink in. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I think we should be addressing our pitch directly to Arkwright Senior, because he’s clearly still the boss, whatever it says on his son’s business card.’

  She saw Simon open his mouth to speak and got in first.

  ‘And we need to make him think that hiring a PR company was his idea in the first place.’

  To her surprise – and some relief – Simon smiled.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘Now you mention it, I do remember those irritating “I’ll just run it past Dad and get back to you …” endings to those emails. The son’s not running things at all. Well done, Rachel.’

  Rachel smiled back at him. His response seemed genuine and that was the thing she still couldn’t quite work out about Simon Rathbone. He could be such a snarky obnoxious git, yet he could also be funny and nice. If he was pleased with one of his staff he’d make sure they knew it. Her colleagues had told her about times they’d come in to find a bottle of champagne on their desk, with a handwritten note thanking them for something they’d done.
/>
  His eccentric management style left his staff in a permanent state of combined terror and devotion, but Rachel was prepared to put up with it for all his other qualities. He had exquisite taste, seemingly endless energy and a faultless instinct for where brands belonged in their market – and the client roster to show for it. He was widely acknowledged as the best in the business and she wanted to learn from him.

  ‘So that’s the new tactic,’ he said. ‘We’ll aim it all at the old bloke, but does that mean we have to suggest a fifties-style campaign to go with it? “Delight your family with these charming picnic chairs …” Who’s got some ideas how we can persuade Arnie Arkwright that we’re the perfect people to promote his swanky new range? Cecilia, you were about to tell us your thoughts before Rachel decided to join us – do go on.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cecilia, sitting up in her chair and seeming to wiggle slightly with excitement, ‘as it’s garden furniture, I think it should be launched in a garden …’

  Rachel saw a brief glimmer of amusement cross Simon’s face.

  ‘So, I thought,’ continued Cecilia, ‘who’s got a garden? My father-in-law. Bingo. Don’t you think?’

  She looked around, beaming at them all. Her husband was the younger son of a marquess. The garden in question the park of a stately home. And pretty much Cecilia’s default suggestion for any campaign. Which Simon clearly didn’t mind – her address book was worth paying her salary for.

  All the other women emitted little squeaks and coos of excitement at Cecilia’s idea, and Rachel did her best to join in. Simon’s chin had dropped down onto the top of his pristine white shirt collar, and Rachel couldn’t help wondering if he was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Well, Stronghough certainly has a beautiful garden,’ he said, looking up again. ‘The cascade rivals Chatsworth, but I don’t think it’s quite the right feel for this brand. We need to aim more at the sophisticated urban thinker. Even if it’s for their country place, they’re not Country Life people. They’re cashed up, but more Babington, than Badminton. Anyone else got any thoughts?’

  ‘How about Chelsea Physic Garden?’ suggested another woman.

  Rachel had to supress a groan.

  ‘Not sure that would work with the timing,’ said Simon. ‘We’ll be launching to the magazines in late September, aiming for their spring issues, and the weather’s just not reliable enough in London then. Anyone else?’

  Rachel saw that his eyes had automatically flicked over to her as he spoke. He was obviously hoping she would have another suggestion as good as her first one. She most certainly did, but she was going to make him wait for it, plus she didn’t want to appear too much of a try-hard in front of her colleagues.

  So she stayed quiet while the other women cast around various ideas of increasing banality, until it felt like the right moment to present her plan.

  ‘I do agree with Cecilia,’ she started, ‘that it would be great to show the merchandise in a garden and, as you say, Simon, it will have to be somewhere sure to be warm in late September, so I think we have to take them abroad – but obviously we’ll have to watch the budget. We can’t expect a new client to stump up to take four editors to the Caribbean …’

  ‘So, all we need,’ said Simon, ‘is somewhere with guaranteed good weather and affordable yet ultra-stylish accommodation, that’s not too far for busy editors to travel for a few days … Where do you suggest? Shangri La? Atlantis? Middle Earth?’

  ‘Tangier,’ said Rachel, and before Simon could resume his smart-arse tone, she added, ‘One of my contacts has a hotel there with an amazing garden. He’s offered to give us the accommodation free, in exchange for editorial mentions in the magazines we bring over.’

  She tapped her iPad and passed it to Simon, open at the site of an expat American blogger she’d been cultivating for a couple of years, knowing she might one day want to use the historic riad he had converted into an exquisite boutique hotel as a location.

  Simon’s eyebrows shot up as he scrolled down the blog. ‘This is perfect,’ he said, glancing up at Rachel and then passing the tablet to Cecilia. ‘How do you know this guy?’

  ‘I’ve been following the blog for a couple of years,’ said Rachel, not wanting to go into any more detail that would give her edge away to her colleagues. She’d worked hard to develop close connections with all the key interiors style bloggers, well before other PRs in their sector had realised how important they would become.

  ‘As well as promoting the hotel,’ she continued, ‘he’s got a book coming out, so he’s thrilled at the idea of us bringing over four of Britain’s top interiors magazine editors. He’s offered to take them on a food and shopping tour of the city too, which will add another positive angle to their experience and make sure they leave feeling warm and fuzzy about Lawn & Stone. And us, ha ha.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Simon, looking at her thoughtfully.

  Rachel glanced over at her colleagues, who were making their cooing noises over the blog now, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than they’d had for Cecilia’s father-in-law’s garden.

  ‘Do you have any more brilliant ideas, Rachel?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ll repeat the press trip next spring with four of the best interiors bloggers. So their real-time coverage will be coming out on Instagram and Twitter and their blogs, at the same time as the magazines featuring the Lawn & Stone furniture hit the newsstands. Double whammy …’

  Simon smiled again.

  ‘Superb,’ he said. ‘You’ve nailed it.’

  He was leaning back in his chair, rolling a classic Bic Biro between his fingers as he spoke. Then he absently put the end of it in his mouth and began chewing on it like a schoolboy, before realising what he was doing and snatching it out again. Rachel had to make an effort not to laugh.

  ‘I would like you to take over this pitch, Rachel,’ he said, sitting up straight again. ‘We’ll have a final planning meeting tomorrow, so get prepared for that, but it seems like you’ve already got it covered. So, thanks everyone, you can go – but Rachel, can you stay behind for a minute?’

  She could see from their expressions and the little glances they shared as they left the room that her colleagues were surprised, and a little miffed, that the new girl had been given such a big responsibility, but she couldn’t think about that. She had a family to feed and a mortgage to pay. She didn’t need friends at work; she needed this job to be confirmed. Money was tight enough, even with her fairly generous salary.

  ‘That was very impressive, Rachel,’ Simon said after the others had gone. ‘I could employ a thousand girls more punctual and reliable than you, not to mention better groomed …’

  Rachel’s hand flew up to the ponytail she’d hastily pulled her hair into that morning after a less than successful effort with dry shampoo. Was it that bad?

  ‘But you do have remarkable vision,’ he went on, ‘so I’ll continue to put up with you a little longer. At least until the end of your trial period.’

  ‘Is it even legal for you to talk to me like that?’ Rachel answered, not sure whether to feel flattered or furious, and deciding on the latter. ‘And I’m not a girl. I’m a public relations professional of considerable experience and esteem.’

  And a forty-three-year-old mother of two, she thought, but restrained herself from mentioning either of those details. Simon was hilariously coy about his own age and Rachel strongly suspected he found her responsibilities as a parent extremely inconvenient.

  ‘All right,’ he said, shooting the cuffs of his immaculate suit and leaning over the desk towards her, ‘take a look at your shoes and then tell me how professional you are.’

  Rachel felt like rolling her eyes. Just because he was Mr GQ Magazine, with his perfect grooming and polished shoes, he expected them all to dress like something out of Mad Men.

  She did know wearing Birkenstocks to the office was pushing her luck, but she’d been delayed so disastrously that morning trying to get the girls
to school in horrendous traffic, she’d ended up having to turn the car around and leave them at home with the au pair and hadn’t had time to change her shoes.

  Which was lucky considering she’d then had to run to the Tube station from home and then to the office at the other end and it was late May … and then she glanced down at her feet and saw what he was talking about. One sandal was black, one was orange.

  Simon burst out laughing.

  ‘Did you really not notice until now?’

  Rachel shook her head, mortified.

  ‘I’ll go out and buy a proper pair of shoes at lunchtime,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ he replied, ‘make it a trend. Just make sure you have something decent to wear at the Lawn & Stone presentation on Wednesday.’

  ‘I will,’ said Rachel, as her phone pinged to let her know she had a text. It had been going all morning, but she hadn’t had a moment to stop and see who they were from. She’d thought the earlier ones were probably from Simon, trying to find out where the hell she was.

  ‘You can go now,’ he said, turning his gaze to his computer, rude sod.

  Rachel gathered up her belongings and headed for the door, embarrassed that her co-workers were going to see her mismatching shoes. They probably already hated her for showing off at the meeting; now they had a good reason to laugh at her too. As she reached the doorway, Simon spoke again.

  ‘Rachel,’ he said.

  She turned to look at him.

  ‘Bloody good work.’

  She smiled at him and nodded, then headed up the stairs to her office, in a garret right at the top of the building. Seeing the orange sandal coming up past the black one on the first step, she decided she couldn’t bear it – she took them off and stuffed them into her handbag. Her gym kit was under her desk; she’d rather wear her trainers than walk around like this all day.

  She’d like to have nipped out to the shops right away to buy some more appropriate work shoes, whatever Simon had said, but all the way from Queen’s Park to South Ken that morning she’d been doing sums on the back of an envelope, working out what essential outgoings she had for the rest of the month. The figure at the end of her calculations had made her feel slightly nauseous. Shopping for anything non-essential was out of the question. She’d just have to brazen it out in her trainers.