Jilly Cooper - Octavia

Miss Billings clicked her tongue disapprovingly and bustled out, beads flying. Next moment she was back, with Tommy Lloyd, the sales director.

‘Do you think we ought to put flowers in the middle of the table?’ she asked.

‘A bunch of leeks would be more appropriate,’ said Xander.

Tommy Lloyd gave him a thin smile. He tolerated Xander but didn’t like him. An Old Wellingtonian with a bristling grey moustache, ramrod straight back, and clipped military voice, he had been in next succession after Massingham. His red-veined nose must be truly out of joint at Gareth’s arrival. He was followed by Peter Hocking, who was in charge of production and just about as inspiring as a flat bottle of tonic, and old Harry Somerville, his false teeth rattling with nerves, who’d been with the firm since he was sixteen, and was still treated by everyone as though he was a messenger boy.

Gradually the rest of the chairs were taken up by departmental heads, flushed by lunch, who greeted me with a good deal less enthusiasm than usual, a far cry from the fawning sycophancy when my father was alive.

There was desultory talk of our chances of winning the Test match. Peter Hocking was boring Harry Somerville with a recipe for home-made wine. But on the whole everyone was strangely quiet, and kept glancing at their watches or the door.

‘When all else fails, go to Wales,’ said Xander. ‘I feel exactly as though I’m about to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. Have you got a cigarette? I seem to have run out.’

I gave him one and, having opened my bag, took the opportunity to powder my nose and put on some more scent. My hand was shaking so much, I put on far too much. The smell of Miss Dior wafting through the room clashed vilely with the Devon violets.

‘Never mind,’ said Xander. ‘At least it will cover up the smell of congealed blood and rotting corpses.’

He seemed strangely elated. He’d always liked novelty. There were little red patches along his cheekbones.

The waiting got worse. Everyone’s shirt collars were getting too tight. Miss Billings sat on the right of the top of the table, flicking the elastic band which held back the pages on which she had already taken shorthand that day. We all jumped when the telephone rang.

Tommy Lloyd answered.

‘Downstairs are they? Good. Well no doubt Ricky’ll bring them up. Miss Billings, will you go and meet them at the lift.’

‘The enemy are at the gates,’ said Xander, still drawing rugger players on his memo pad. ‘The Barbarian Hoards are coming. I suppose we’d better lie back and enjoy it.’

There was a spurt of nervous laughter round the room, which died quickly away as the door opened. They came in like the magnificent four, Ricky smirking as though he was carrying a very large bone, followed by Gareth, and a huge, massive-shouldered wrestler of a man in a white suit. Bringing up the rear was Annabel Smith. She was wearing a very simple black suit, and her conker-coloured hair was drawn back in a chignon. The dead silence that followed was a tribute to her beauty. Suddenly I felt silly in my white dress, like a deb who’d been left out in the rain.

I was so wracked with longing and shyness, it was a second before I could bring myself to look at Gareth. He was wearing a light grey suit, dark blue shirt and tie. I’d never seen him so formally dressed. His heavy face had lost most of its suntan, and looked shadowed and tired. He didn’t glance in my direction.

Everyone sat down except Ricky, who stood for a minute looking silently round the table, as if counting the house.

‘Shall I bring in coffee now?’ said Miss Billings fussily.

‘I don’t think we need it, thank you,’ he said. ‘And you needn’t bother to stay either, Miss Billings. Mrs Smith is going to take the minutes.’

Displaying the same sort of enraged reluctance as a cat shoved out in a rainstorm, Miss Billings was despatched from the room. Any minute I expected her to appear at the window, mewing furiously.

Ricky cleared his throat.

‘Gentlemen, I just want to introduce Mr Llewellyn whom I’m sure you all know by repute. He’s brought with him his right hand man, Mr Morgan,’ — the massive wrestler nodded at us unsmilingly — ‘and his very charming personal assistant, Mrs Smith, who together have been responsible for so much of Mr Llewellyn’s success.’

Mrs Smith gave everyone the benefit of her pussy-cat smile. Round the table a few faces brightened. Mrs Smith’s legs were a much better reason for staying awake in meetings than Miss Billings’.

‘Although Mr Llewellyn has come in at very short notice,’ Ricky went on, ‘as your new’, he paused on the word, ‘overall director, he has, as you know, many other commitments, so we mustn’t expect to monopolize too much of his time. He has, however, been examining the structure of Seaford-Brennen’s for some weeks, and has come up with some very useful suggestions, but nothing for anyone to get alarmed about.’

‘What about Hugh Massingham?’ said Xander’s slurred voice. Everyone looked round in horror, as though one of the portraits had spoken. There was an embarrassed pause. Xander went on carefully putting the stripes on a rugger shirt. I didn’t dare look at Gareth.

‘I was just coming to that,’ said Ricky, with a slight edge in his voice. ‘I know how upset you must all be over Hugh’s death. As a close personal friend and a colleague for many years, I know how much I’m going to miss him, and how our sympathy goes out to his widow and family. I hope as many of you as possible will go to the memorial service on the 5th. In the meantime,’ he said, going into top gear with relief, ‘it was vital to restore public confidence immediately and prevent a further fall on the stock market, so we invited Mr Llewellyn to join the board.’

To avoid any further interruption from Xander, he hastily started introducing Gareth round the table. Tommy Lloyd shook hands, but was obviously bristling with antagonism, nor did any of the other department heads look particularly friendly. Poor Gareth, he was obviously in for a rough ride. It seemed an eternity before they came to me. I was sure the whole room could hear my heart hammering.

‘You know Octavia,’ said Ricky.

Gareth’s eyes were on me. They were hard and flinty, without trace of the former laughing gypsy wickedness.

‘Yes, I know Octavia,’ he said grimly.

The flinty glance moved on to Xander.

‘And this is Octavia’s brother, my son-in-law, Alexander,’ said Ricky, as though he was daring Xander to speak out of turn.

Xander got to his feet. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said with a polite smile, hiccoughed and sat down.

‘Xander!’ thundered Ricky.

‘I know that in welcoming Mr Llewellyn,’ said old Harry Somerville, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, ‘I speak for everyone in saying how pleased we all are.’

‘Balls,’ said Xander.

‘Xander,’ snapped Ricky, ‘if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head you’d better bugger off.’

All the same I had a chilling feeling that he was delighted Xander was playing up, so that Gareth could see what provocation he normally had to put up with.

‘Well, I think it’s over to you now, Gareth,’ he added, sitting down.

Gareth got to his feet, still unsmiling, but completely relaxed. For a second he upended a memo pad on the table, swinging it reflectively between finger and thumb, then he looked round like a conductor waiting until he had everyone’s attention.

‘I’d like to kick off by examining the structure of the company,’ he said. ‘As Mr Seaford has already indicated, I’ve been studying your outfit for a few weeks, and I’ve come to the conclusion — and I’m going to be brutal — that your whole organization needs to be restructured from top to bottom, and that some people, particularly those at the top, are going to have to pull their fingers out.’