coats climbed into chauffeured Rolls Royces, off to spend more of their husbands’ billions in Harrods and Harvey Nichols. Short men with gold jewellery and suits whose vast expense could still not conceal the size of their bellies trotted from glossy black front door to glossy silver Lamborghini and Poppy knew that their money made her inheritance look like a drop in the ocean.
Trevellyan House was in the exclusive area of Mayfair just before Piccadilly. Here could be found the kind of shops that only those in the know frequented, such as Thomas Goode, the exclusive china and glass shop that had been making fine china and porcelain for the crowned heads of Europe since the seventeenth century, or Purdey, where dukes and earls and all manner of gentry bought guns and hunting gear. Here were the galleries exhibiting old masters for sale; the most exquisite Persian rugs, held up like paintings for their superb workmanship, texture and colour to be admired; jewellery, glittering in the windows of the most expensive shops in the world. In nearby Bond Street were the famous fashion names: Chanel, Tiffany, Gucci, Versace, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Asprey and a host of others. On the more discreet streets of Mayfair, luxurious boutique hotels nestled next to the kind of shops that cater to the needs of the very rich. And here was Trevellyan House, the hub of the Trevellyan empire, one of the last great luxury brands to remain in private hands.
On the ground floor was the shop. It was not the original Piccadilly barber shop that Samuel Trevellyan had walked into over a hundred and fifty years before – as Trevellyan fragrances had begun to grow in fame, the premises had quickly become too small and this large Mayfair house had been purchased. On the ground floor was the shop, a beautiful room where the many fragrances, soaps, oils and accessories were displayed in walnut cabinets. The polished floorboards were covered in dark red Turkish rugs while leather armchairs and a Chesterfield club sofa gave the clients somewhere to rest while they absorbed the delights of the Trevellyan fragrances and made their choices. Lamps and antique mirrors created a subdued, elegant atmosphere.
On the floor above had been the old workrooms, where the fragrances had been made by hand. Once, there had been long tables where white-coated craftsmen followed Farnese’s recipes to conjure up the delicious aromas used to scent the perfumes, oils and soaps sold downstairs. Now all of that had been moved to a factory in the Midlands where bottles were filled and packaged on a conveyor belt, then boxed up and sent to destinations all over the world.
The shop was just as Poppy had always remembered it. It had never changed – still as scrupulously tasteful and as quietly restful as a gentlemen’s club. She looked in for a moment before heading upstairs to the Trevellyan offices where the real action took place. Despite its importance in her life, she had only visited Trevellyan House a few times, mostly when she was young and her mother had brought them all to London on a shopping trip. They’d come by to visit her father in his imposing office where he sat behind a vast leather-topped desk, making what seemed to young Poppy to be terrifyingly important decisions. That was all she knew of Trevellyan House, apart from the odd glimpse of the boardroom, with its long table and stiff-backed chairs.
She walked into the reception area, noting the oil portrait of old Sam Trevellyan, in his high collar and black coat, a pair of fearsome sideburns descending his face. Opposite was a more modern oil sketch of her father, catching him in three-quarter profile, his mouth downturned and his blue eyes a little bulbous. He did not look happy to have inherited Samuel’s success story.
He never looked happy
, Poppy thought sadly.
I wonder if he and Mummy are together now?
She felt a pang of affection as she looked at her father’s face. He may not have been the perfect
Trevellyan House was in the exclusive area of Mayfair just before Piccadilly. Here could be found the kind of shops that only those in the know frequented, such as Thomas Goode, the exclusive china and glass shop that had been making fine china and porcelain for the crowned heads of Europe since the seventeenth century, or Purdey, where dukes and earls and all manner of gentry bought guns and hunting gear. Here were the galleries exhibiting old masters for sale; the most exquisite Persian rugs, held up like paintings for their superb workmanship, texture and colour to be admired; jewellery, glittering in the windows of the most expensive shops in the world. In nearby Bond Street were the famous fashion names: Chanel, Tiffany, Gucci, Versace, Prada, Ralph Lauren, Asprey and a host of others. On the more discreet streets of Mayfair, luxurious boutique hotels nestled next to the kind of shops that cater to the needs of the very rich. And here was Trevellyan House, the hub of the Trevellyan empire, one of the last great luxury brands to remain in private hands.
On the ground floor was the shop. It was not the original Piccadilly barber shop that Samuel Trevellyan had walked into over a hundred and fifty years before – as Trevellyan fragrances had begun to grow in fame, the premises had quickly become too small and this large Mayfair house had been purchased. On the ground floor was the shop, a beautiful room where the many fragrances, soaps, oils and accessories were displayed in walnut cabinets. The polished floorboards were covered in dark red Turkish rugs while leather armchairs and a Chesterfield club sofa gave the clients somewhere to rest while they absorbed the delights of the Trevellyan fragrances and made their choices. Lamps and antique mirrors created a subdued, elegant atmosphere.
On the floor above had been the old workrooms, where the fragrances had been made by hand. Once, there had been long tables where white-coated craftsmen followed Farnese’s recipes to conjure up the delicious aromas used to scent the perfumes, oils and soaps sold downstairs. Now all of that had been moved to a factory in the Midlands where bottles were filled and packaged on a conveyor belt, then boxed up and sent to destinations all over the world.
The shop was just as Poppy had always remembered it. It had never changed – still as scrupulously tasteful and as quietly restful as a gentlemen’s club. She looked in for a moment before heading upstairs to the Trevellyan offices where the real action took place. Despite its importance in her life, she had only visited Trevellyan House a few times, mostly when she was young and her mother had brought them all to London on a shopping trip. They’d come by to visit her father in his imposing office where he sat behind a vast leather-topped desk, making what seemed to young Poppy to be terrifyingly important decisions. That was all she knew of Trevellyan House, apart from the odd glimpse of the boardroom, with its long table and stiff-backed chairs.
She walked into the reception area, noting the oil portrait of old Sam Trevellyan, in his high collar and black coat, a pair of fearsome sideburns descending his face. Opposite was a more modern oil sketch of her father, catching him in three-quarter profile, his mouth downturned and his blue eyes a little bulbous. He did not look happy to have inherited Samuel’s success story.
He never looked happy
, Poppy thought sadly.
I wonder if he and Mummy are together now?
She felt a pang of affection as she looked at her father’s face. He may not have been the perfect
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