The Heiress's Secret Baby Page 4

  ‘You’d have to kill me first.’ She shook her head, her colour high.

  ‘That’s what I thought. No, maybe a start-up, or even my own business. I’ll see nearer the time.’

  ‘You’re ambitious. It took me until I was thirty-one to make it.’ Her eyes met his coolly, the blue of her eyes dark.

  ‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘A little competition keeps me focused.’ He shrugged. ‘Rafferty’s is possibly the most famous store in Europe if not the world. It’s the missing piece in my experience—and I have a lot to offer you as well. It’s a win-win situation.’

  She leant back. ‘Prove it. What would you change?’

  He grinned. ‘Are you ready for it? You only just got back.’

  The corners of her mouth turned up, the smallest of smiles. ‘Don’t pull your punches. I can take it.’

  ‘Okay then.’ He jumped out of the chair and began to pace up and down the room. It was always easier to think on his feet; those months of being confined to bed had left him with a horror of inaction.

  ‘Your social media lacks identity and your online advertising is practically non-existent—it’s untargeted and unplanned, effectively just a redesign of your print advertising. I suggest you employ a digital marketing consultant to train your existing staff. Emily is very capable. She just needs guidance and some confidence.’

  He looked across for a reaction but she was busy scribbling notes. Gabe rolled his eyes. ‘This is part of the problem. You’re what? Writing longhand?’

  ‘I think better with paper and pen. I’ll type them up later.’ Her voice was defensive.

  ‘Non, the whole company needs to think digitally. The sales force need tablets so they can check sizes and styles at the touch of a button, mix and match styles.’

  ‘We have a personal touch here. We don’t need to rely on tablets...’

  ‘You need both,’ he said flatly. ‘But what you really need is a new website.’

  There was a long moment of incredulous silence. ‘But it’s only three years old. Do you know how much we spent on it?’

  Polly was no longer leaning back. She was ramrod-straight, her eyes sparkling, more in anger than excitement, Gabe thought. ‘Too much and it’s obsolete. Come on, Polly.’ His words tumbled over each other, his accent thickened in his effort to convince her.

  ‘Do you want a website that’s fine and gets the job done or do you want one that’s a window into the very soul of Rafferty’s? You have no other stores anywhere—this is it. Your Internet business is your worldwide business and that’s where the expansion lies.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  This was what made him tick, made his blood pump, the adrenaline flow—planning, innovating, creating. It was better than finishing a marathon, hell, sometimes it was better than sex. ‘A site that is visually stunning, one that creates the feel and the look of the store as much as possible. Each department would be organised by gallery, exactly as you are laid out here so that customers get to experience the look, the feel of Rafferty’s—but virtually. Online assistants would be available twenty-four hours to chat and advise and, most importantly, the chance to personalise the experience. Why should people buy from Rafferty’s online when there are hundreds, thousands of alternatives?’

  She didn’t answer, probably couldn’t.

  ‘If we make it better than all the rest then Rafferty’s is the store that customers will choose. They can upload their measurements, their photos and have virtual fittings—that way, they can order with certainty, knowing that the clothes will fit and suit them. Cut down on returns and make the whole shopping experience fun and interactive.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It won’t be cheap,’ he admitted. ‘Not to build, maintain or staff. But it will be spectacular.’

  She didn’t speak for a minute or so, staring straight ahead at the window before nodding decisively. ‘There’s a board meeting next week. Can you have a researched and costed paper ready for then?’

  Researched and costed? ‘Oui.’ If he had to work all day and night. ‘So, what about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘There must be something you want to do, something to stamp your identity firmly on the store.’

  ‘I have been running the company for the last year,’ she reminded him, her voice a little frosty.

  ‘But now it’s official...’ If she wasn’t itching to make some changes he had severely underestimated her.

  She didn’t answer for a moment, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the windows. ‘We have never expanded,’ she said after a while. ‘We always wanted to keep Rafferty’s as a destination store, somewhere people could aspire to visit. And it works, we’re on so many tourist tick lists; they buy teddies or tea in branded jars, eat in the tea room and take their Rafferty’s bag home. And with the Internet there isn’t any real need for bricks-and-mortar shops elsewhere.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But we’ve become a little staid,’ Polly said. She rolled her shoulders as she spoke, stretching out her neck. Gabe tried not to stare, not to notice how graceful her movements were, as she turned her attention to her hair, unpinning it and letting the dark blonde tendrils fall free.

  Polly sighed, running her fingers through her hair before beginning to twist it back into a looser, lower knot. It felt almost voyeuristic standing there watching her fingers busy themselves in the tangle of tresses.

  ‘We were one of the first stores in London to stock bikinis. Can you imagine—amidst the post-war austerity, the rationing and a London still two decades and a generation from swinging...my great-grandfather brought several bikinis over from Paris. There were letters of outrage to The Times.

  ‘We were the first to unveil the latest trends, to sell miniskirts. We were always cutting edge and now we’re part of a tour that includes Buckingham Palace and Madame Tussauds.’ The contempt was clear in her voice. ‘We’re doing well financially, really well, but we’re no longer cutting edge. We’re safe, steady, middle-aged.’ Polly wrinkled her nose as she spoke.

  It was true; Rafferty’s was a byword for elegance, taste and design but not for innovation, not any more. Even Gabe’s own digital vision could only sell the existing ranges. But it was fabulously profitable with a brand recognition that was through the roof; wasn’t that enough? ‘Can a store this size actually be cutting edge any more? Surely that’s the Internet’s role...’

  ‘I disagree.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘We have the space, the knowledge, the passion and the history. The problem is, it takes a lot for us to take on a new designer or a new range, to hand over valuable floor space to somebody little known and unproven—and if they have already established themselves then we’re just following, not innovating.’

  ‘So, what do you plan to do about it?’ This was more like it. Her eyes were focused again, sharp.

  ‘Pop-ups.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Pop-ups. Bright, fun and relatively low cost. We can create a pop-up area in store for new designers whether it’s clothes, jewellery, shoes—we’ll champion new talent right here at Rafferty’s. Sponsor a graduate show during London fashion week in the main gallery.’

  That made a lot of sense.

  ‘But I don’t just want to draw people here. I want to go out and find them—it could be a great opportunity to take Rafferty’s out of the city as well. Where do we have the biggest footfall?’

  It was a good thing he’d pulled those eighteen-hour days; he could answer with utter confidence. ‘The food hall.’

  ‘Exactly! The British are finally understanding food—no, don’t pull a superior gourmet French face at me. They are and you know it. There are hundreds of food festivals throughout the country and I want us to start having a presence at the very best of them. And not just food festivals. I want
us at Glyndebourne, Henley, the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Anywhere there’s a buzz I want Rafferty’s. Exclusive invitation-only previews to create excitement, with takeaway afternoon teas and Rafferty’s hampers—filled with a selection of our bestselling products as souvenirs.’

  Gabe rubbed his chin. ‘Will it make a profit?’

  ‘Yes, but not a massive one,’ she conceded. ‘But it will revitalise us, introduce us to the younger market who may think we’re too staid for them. Make us more current and more exciting. And that market will be your domestic digital users.’

  Gabe could feel it, the roar of adrenaline, the tightening in his gut that meant something new, something exhilarating was in the air. ‘It would create a great buzz on social media.’

  She nodded, her whole face lit up. ‘It all works together, doesn’t it? I am presenting at the board meeting too. It’s less investment up front than you will need—but this is something untried and untested and the current board are a little conservative. You support me and, once I’ve checked your finances and conclusions, I’ll support your digital paper. We’ll have a lot more impact if we’re united. Deal?’ She held out her hand.

  Gabe worked alone. He preferred it that way. Sure, he had good relationships with his colleagues, liked to make sure they were all onside but he didn’t want or brook interference.

  Freedom at home and at work. That way he never had to worry about letting anyone down.

  But this was a great opportunity—to be part of the team dragging Rafferty’s into a new age. How could he refuse? He took her hand, cool and elegant just like its owner.

  ‘Deal.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  POLLY KICKED OFF her shoes with a sigh of relief. She was home, the sun was shining and it was Friday evening. This was exactly what she needed to get over this pesky jet lag. Surely the tiredness, the constant nausea and the lack of appetite should have gone by now?

  It wasn’t exactly a weekend break, she still had a lot of work to do if she was to wow the board in a week’s time, but she could do it at home either in the little sunshine-drenched study at the back of the cottage or in the timber-beamed, book-lined sitting room. Away from the office.

  Usually her office was a sanctuary but right now it felt alien. Gabe seemed to fill every corner of it. His gym gear in her cloakroom, a variety of equally disgusting smoothies on the table and, worst of all, Gabe himself.

  He was so active, always on the phone, pacing round, chatting to every member of staff as if they were his long-lost best friend.

  Even his typing was a loud, banging, flamboyant display. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate when he was in the room.

  But, although he had been living in Hopeford, in her house, for several weeks there was no trace of Gabe in the living areas of the cottage; his few possessions were kept neatly put away in the guest bedroom. Not that she’d snooped, obviously, but she had felt a need to reacquaint herself with her home, visiting every room, reminding herself of its quirks and corners.

  It was odd being back after such a long absence. The cottage was clean, aired and well stocked, the rambling garden weeded and watered all thanks to the concierge service she employed to take care of her home. Mr Simpkins, the handsome ginger cat she’d inherited when she’d bought the house, was plump and sleek and bearing no discernible grudge after their time apart. But everything felt smaller, more claustrophobic.

  For three months she had been someone else. Someone with no purpose, no expectations. It had been disconcerting and yet so freeing.

  But that was over. She was home now and she had a lot to do. Friday night usually meant her laptop, a glass of wine and a takeaway. Polly put her hand to her stomach and swallowed hard; maybe she’d forego the latter two this week.

  And think about a doctor’s appointment if the tiredness and nausea didn’t go away soon.

  Hang on a second, what was that? Polly had visitors so rarely that it took another sharp decisive peal of the doorbell before she moved. Probably Gabe.

  ‘If he can’t keep hold of his keys how can I trust him with Rafferty’s online strategy?’ she asked Mr Simpkins. He merely yawned and turned over, stretching out in a patch of early evening sunshine.

  Walking down the wide stairs towards the hallway, she took a moment to look around; at the polished, oiled beams, the old flagstoned floor, the gilt mirror by the hat stand, the fresh flowers on the antique table. It had all been chosen, placed and cared for by someone else. She lived here but was it really hers?

  The doorbell rang again, impatiently. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was hardly her fault that he had forgotten his keys. Unlocking the door, she pulled it open.

  It wasn’t Gabe.

  Tall, broad, hair the same colour as hers and eyes the exact same shade of dark blue. A face she knew as well as she knew her own. A face she hadn’t seen in four years. Polly clung onto the door frame, disbelief flooding through her. ‘Raff?’

  ‘I still have a key.’ He held it up. ‘But I didn’t think you’d want me just walking in.’

  ‘But, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Jordan. Or Australia?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you. Can I come in?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Polly gaped at him as his words sank in. ‘Yes, of course.’

  She stepped back, her mind still grasping for a reason her twin brother was here in her sleepy home town, not trying to save the world, one war zone at a time.

  Raff faced her, the love and warmth in his eyes bringing a lump to her throat. How on earth had four years gone by since she had last seen him? ‘Come here.’ He took her in his arms. It had been so long since he had held her, since she had allowed herself to lean on him.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said into her hair. Polly tightened her grip.

  It wasn’t Raff’s fault their grandfather had favoured him, wanted him to take over the store. Yet somehow it had been easier to hold him culpable.

  ‘Hi, heavenly twin,’ she murmured and took comfort in his low rumble of laughter. They had been named for the Heavenly Twins, Castor and Pollux, but Polly had escaped with a feminine version of her name. Her brother had been less lucky; nobody, apart from their grandparents, used it—Raff preferred a shorter version of their surname.

  ‘Thanks for looking after everything.’ She disentangled herself slowly, although the temptation to lean in and not let go was overwhelming. She led him down the wide hallway towards the kitchen. ‘Looking after the house, Mr Simpkins.’ She swallowed, hard and painful. ‘Taking over at Rafferty’s.’

  ‘You needed my help, of course I stepped in.’ He paused. ‘I wish you’d called, Pol. Told me what was going on. I didn’t mind but it would have been good if we had worked together, sorted it out together.’

  ‘After four years? I couldn’t,’ she admitted, heading over to the fridge so that she didn’t have to face him. ‘You stayed away, Raff. You went away, left me behind and you didn’t come back. Ever.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I didn’t even know whose side you were on—if you had spoken to Grandfather, knew what he was planning, if you wanted Rafferty’s.’ That had been her worst fear, that her twin had colluded with her grandfather.

  Raff sounded incredulous. ‘Surely you didn’t think I would agree? That I would take Rafferty’s away from you?’

  ‘Grandfather made it very clear that nothing I had done, nothing I could do was enough to compete with your Y chromosome.’ She turned, forced herself to meet the understanding in his eyes. ‘It destroyed me.’

  Raff winced. ‘Polly, I spent three months running Rafferty’s while you were gone and I hated every minute of it. How you manage I don’t know. But even if I had come back and experienced an epiphany about the joys of retail I still wouldn’t have agreed. I don’t deserve it and you do. You’
ve worked for it, you live it, love it. Even Grandfather had to admit in the end that his desire to see me in Father’s place was wrong, that his fierce determination for a male heir was utterly crazy. I’ve agreed to join the board as a family member but that’s it. You’re CEO, you’re in charge.’

  Polly grabbed a cold beer and threw it to her twin, who caught it deftly with one hand, and pulled out a bottle of white wine for herself. She checked the label: Chateau Beaufils Chardonnay Semillon. One of Gabe’s, then.

  ‘So where have you been?’ Raff was leaning against the kitchen counter. He raised the beer. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Oh, here and there.’ Polly’s cheeks heated up and she busied herself with looking for a corkscrew. Remember the new bucket list, she told herself, ruthlessly pushing the more reprehensible details of her time away out of her mind. ‘I went backpacking. In South America.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘Just like you always said I should.’

  He smirked. ‘When you say backpacking, you mean five-star hotels and air-conditioned tours?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Polly admitted, breathing a sigh of relief as the stubborn cork finally began to give way. She eased it out carefully, wrinkling her nose as the aroma hit her. She held the bottle out to Raff. ‘Is this corked?’

  He took it and inhaled. ‘I don’t think so.’

  She shrugged, and poured a small amount into a glass. She didn’t sip it though; just the sight of the straw-coloured liquid caused her stomach to roll ominously. She put the glass down. ‘But I did my fair share of rucksacks and walking boots too, along the Inca trail and other places.’ She grinned across at him. ‘You wouldn’t have recognised me, braids in my hair, a sarong, all my worldly goods in one bag.’

  ‘I had no idea where you were.’ He didn’t sound accusatory; he didn’t need to. She had read his emails, listened to his voicemails. She knew how much worry she’d caused him.

  ‘I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want pity or advice or anything but time to figure out who I was, who I wanted to be if I wasn’t going to run Rafferty’s.’