London and France, 1972
THINGS WERE DEFINITELY getting better. Roz felt life was beginning to go her way.
In the first place she had escaped from Cheltenham, and was spending her two sixth-form years at Bedales: co-educational, progressive, civilized. It suited her well; there was scope for her fiercely individual mind, her rather puritan approach to her work, her disregard for the normal social conventions required of a girl of her age.
‘The worst thing about Cheltenham,’ she said to Letitia, one of the few people she trusted enough to talk to, ‘was that if you weren’t like the others, all giggly and jolly and gossipy and mad on games, it was hopeless, you were just all alone in the world, but if you didn’t want to be alone, you had to pretend to be like them. Pretending was worse than being alone, though,’ she added.
‘Poor Roz,’ said Letitia, ‘five years of that sort of thing is a long time.’
‘Yes,’ said Roz shortly. ‘Well, I daresay it did me some good.’
‘I hope so, darling. I’m never quite convinced about the therapeutic value of unhappiness. Anyway, I’m glad you like it so much better where you are now. You’re looking wonderful,’ she added.
Wonderful was perhaps an exaggeration, and Roz knew it; but she also knew she did look better all the time. She was still far from pretty, and probably always would be, but she didn’t think anyone any more could call her exactly plain. She was taller, quite a lot taller than any other girl in her year; nobody could quite work out where her height came from – Julian was only six foot, and Eliza was tiny, just about five foot (and half an inch, she always insisted). But there it was, Roz was five foot nine already and still growing, and she was large framed too, with wide shoulders and, to her constant misery, size nine feet. ‘Just you try getting fashionable shoes in that size,’ she said darkly to anyone who told her it didn’t matter. But there was not an ounce of fat on her, she was lean and rangy-looking, apart from a most gratifyingly large bosom. Her face was interesting, dramatic, her rather hollow cheekbones and harsh jaw accentuating her large green eyes, her slightly over-full mouth. Her nose caused her much anguish, it was big, but it was at least straight and not hooked or anything awful, she kept reassuring herself; and her dark hair was thick and shiny, even if it was as straight as the proverbial die, and wilful with it. She wore it long now, and tied back in a long swinging pony tail; it wasn’t a style that flattered her but at least it kept it under control, and stopped it sticking out the wrong way which it did unless she spent hours on it with the styling brush and the hair dryer, and even then it often got the better of her and she would end up in tears of frustration with one side neatly turned under and the other flying relentlessly outwards. Of the many things for which she loathed Camilla North her exquisitely behaved red hair came almost top of the list. She had done very well in her O levels, and got eleven, nine of them As; she was doing maths, economics and geography A levels, and in her first term at Bedales had beaten all the girls and all but two of the boys in the pre-Christmas exams. She planned on going to Cambridge to read maths; her tutor had told Julian that she would probably get in on fifth term entry, rather than doing a third year in the sixth. Nothing pleased Roz more than showing her father how clever she was; it made up for not being pretty, not being a boy, not really being the sort of daughter she knew he would have liked. And loved. He obviously liked her more than he had done, he sought her company, even showed her off at times, but it was detachedly, rather as if she was some clever person he had employed rather than his own daughter. She supposed, rather resignedly these days, that she neither looked nor played the daughter part correctly. He was never physically affectionate towards her, never petted her, never teased her; and he had still never asked her to go and live with him permanently, even though her mother was away more than not these days, pursuing first one and then another awful playboy round the world; she had given up all pretence of having a career and was shamelessly (as Roz put it to Rosie Howard Johnson, still her closest and indeed her only friend) being kept by one rich man after another.
And then, Camilla was definitely fading from the scene. It had been months now since she had been even in the guest room at Hanover Terrace, never mind tiptoeing along the corridor to Julian’s bedroom, and certainly never at Marriotts; and besides she must be getting on a bit now, in her mid thirties, getting well past her fertility peak, and even safely into the danger zone of prospective foetal abnormalities (Roz had become an expert on such matters, feverishly reading every article and book on the subject she could find).
But there was one willowy and rather distressingly beautiful fly in the ointment: the spirit of Juliana incarnate, one Araminta Jones. And although she was less worrying and certainly less ghastly than Camilla (and had the most enragingly neat, golden brown head of hair), Roz would still have been a lot happier if she had not been around.
The seventies saw the real birth of the personality cult in cosmetics: when one face, one spirit, one aura personified and sold a brand. For Charles Revson and Revlon it was Lauren Hutton; for Mrs Lauder it was Karen Graham; for Julian Morell and Juliana it was Araminta Jones.
When a middle-aged, overweight matron, anxious she might be losing her husband to his twenty-year-old secretary, bought a Revlon lipstick or eye shadow, she felt somehow magically transformed into Lauren Hutton, all college-girl charm, long-legged, radiantly gap-toothed; when a gauche, unremarkable young wife used a Lauder cream or sprayed herself with Alliage before entertaining her husband’s important clients, she felt she had acquired some of Karen Graham’s old-money glamour and confidence; and when a plain, nervous woman made up her face with Juliana colours and surrounded herself with a cloud of Mademoiselle Je before she went to a party, she felt herself suddenly acquiring the upper-class Englishness, the sexy sophistication of Araminta Jones. Miss Jones, like Miss Hutton and Miss Graham, was not just a face or even a body, she was a package, a lifestyle, a way of dressing, of walking, of thinking. You could tell, just by looking at her (and of course by some very clever publicity) that she was well educated, perfectly bred, that she wore designer label clothes, drove an expensive car, knew one end of a horse from another, ate in the best restaurants, holidayed in Bermuda, skied in Aspen, drank nothing but champagne, and had been programmed for success from birth.
The bad news about her, from Rosamund Morell’s point of view, was that most of these things were fact, and Julian Morell, having discovered her (and bought her, for what amounted to millions of dollars), was showing every sign of being rather seriously besotted with her. And Araminta was most definitely of childbearing age. On the other hand, it seemed to Roz, her father was definitely getting on a bit, into his fifties, and surely nobody of twenty-two in their right minds would want to get mixed up with someone so seriously old. Araminta, she was sure, was simply stringing her father along, knowing precisely on which side her wafer-thin slices of bread were buttered, taking him for every penny she could get, and would be off without a backward glance from her wide, purple eyes if someone younger and more suitable came along.
Roz had chosen to forget her own brief foray into Love with an Older Man; what was more her opinion of the male race, already low, had taken a further dive at David Sassoon’s defection to the United States and from her mother’s bed the moment success and fame beckoned in even larger quantities than were already in his possession. She had suffered a qualm or two of conscience witnessing Eliza’s awful grief over the defection; had tried not to listen, her hands over her ears, to the hideous, ferocious scene as David tried to justify it (‘Darling, I can’t afford not to take it, he’ll destroy me, give me a chance to make it out there and I’ll set up on my own, and we’ll be married,’) – on and on it went, hour after hour, all one night, and in the morning he was gone, leaving Eliza swollen-eyed, ashen, and somehow suddenly smaller than ever, and very frail. Roz had known she had had at least something to do with that suffering, that frailty, and tell herself as she might that had David really loved her mother he would not have gone, she knew that had she not spoken as she had to her father over those months, David would not have had the opportunity to go. However, she told herself, her mother had caused her a great deal of suffering in her life and certainly didn’t seem to have felt guilty about it; moreover, Eliza was tough, she was resilient, and she just didn’t need a man who put his worldly success so firmly before his emotional life.
Roz had grown very skilful at such rationalization.
Freddy Branksome, financial director of Morell’s, came into Julian’s office one morning in early 1972 and shut the door firmly behind him.
‘I think we might have a problem,’ he said.
Julian, who had been studying with some pleasure the latest pictures of Araminta Jones by David Bailey for the autumn advertising campaign, and reflecting with greater pleasure still upon the circumstances in which he had last gazed into those vast, black-lashed, purply-blue eyes, recognized the tone in Freddy’s voice that demanded his undivided attention, and set the contacts aside.
‘Yes, Freddy?’
‘I’ve been looking at the share register. I don’t like it. There’s been a lot of buying by some set-up in Zürich. Big blocks. I smell trouble.’
‘Can you check it out?’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Takeover?’
‘Not yet. But we could be heading for a bid.’
‘Christ, I wish this company was still mine.’
‘Yes, well it’s a bit late for that. You went public twenty years ago or so. You’ve still got thirty per cent. That’s not a bad stake, in a company this size.’
‘Not enough though, is it? Not when this sort of thing happens.’
‘Well, it hasn’t happened yet. I’ll keep working on it.’
A week later he was back in Julian’s office. ‘More buying. Just in dribs and drabs. Something like twenty per cent of all the shares now. I can’t make it out.’
‘But there’s nothing tangible?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Maybe it’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Maybe. You OK, Julian? You look rotten.’
‘Thanks a lot. I feel fine.’
‘OK. Sorry I spoke.’
Araminta Jones lay looking at the ceiling above Julian Morell’s huge bed in Hanover Terrace. This was the third time he hadn’t been able to deliver and it was getting very boring. Just once was all right, it was almost exciting in a way, trying and trying, working on them, using everything you had, talking dirty, porno pictures, offering every orifice; she’d suggested whips and all that stuff, but nothing had worked, and she was getting just totally frustrated. In a minute, she thought, she’d get up and go home, and ring up that nice boy who’d been in the agency today and see what he could do for her. Julian was OK, very charming and all that, and the bracelet had been gorgeous, she’d always loved sapphires, and she loved the idea of the Bahamas. But on the other hand, with what he paid her she could afford to go herself, and take someone young and horny with her. Christ, it was hot. Why did these old guys always have to have their bedrooms like ovens? She wondered if he was still awake. If he wasn’t, she could just creep off and spin him some yarn in the morning about having an early call, and needing to get her stuff together. She shifted experimentally, turning her back to him; Julian’s hand came over her shoulder and stroked her breasts tentatively.
‘I’m sorry, Araminta. Again. I suppose I’m just worried.’
‘What about?’ (As if she didn’t know.)
‘Oh, the company. We have a few problems.’
‘Not with the new campaign, I hope. I don’t want to have to re-shoot. I’m going to New York next week.’
‘No, not the campaign. I didn’t know you were going to New York. I might come with you. Maybe then we could go down to the Bahamas. A holiday is probably exactly what I need.’
‘Maybe.’ (They all said that.)
‘Julian,’ said Freddy Branksome a week later, ‘I really don’t think you ought to go to New York for a day or two.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of this situation with the shares. It’s still going on. Still worrying me.’
‘OK, I’ll hang on a bit.’
‘Any more news on the shares, Freddy?’
‘Well, it’s one buyer. French. I’ve established that much. I think we could be in for a rocky ride.’
‘But you still don’t know who?’
‘Well, it’s unlikely to be an institution. It could be of course, could even be a rival cosmetic company. But I don’t think so. It’s an individual, as far as we can make out. Got any particular enemies at the moment, Julian?’
‘What’s that? Oh, no, I don’t think so. No more than usual.’
‘Good.’
In the main bedroom of his chateau in the champagne-producing area of the Loire, the Vicomte du Chene was looking tenderly at the slender, wonderfully sensuous body of his new wife. ‘My darling darling,’ he said, punctuating the words with repeated and ever-longer forays with his tongue into her genitals, and postponing in a delicious agony the moment when he could allow himself to enter her with his eager (if somewhat modestly made) member, ‘you are so lovely, so very very lovely. You have made me the happiest man in France. I cannot believe that you have consented to be’ – very long pause – ‘my wife.’
‘Oh, Pierre, you’re so sweet. It’s me that is fortunate. And the happiest woman in France. And thank you for the marvellous – wedding present. We can have such fun with it. It was so terribly generous of you.’
‘My darling, a few shares. It was nothing. In return for your love. And perhaps –’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, the little matter of course of an heir. To the vineyards. My only unsatisfied ambition now.’
‘I know. Of course. And I’m sure we can fulfil it. Together. Like this . . .’
‘Indeed, my darling. Just a matter of time. And – such pleasantly, wonderfully spent time. If it took all eternity it would be too short.’
His bride stretched herself out beneath him, opening her legs, encasing his penis lovingly in her hands, guiding it, urging it into her body. ‘Yes, my darling,’ she murmured, raising her hips, pushing herself against him, trying with all the skill she had been born with and learnt, to help him to maintain his erection for a few moments at least, to bring him just a little more slowly to orgasm. ‘It would. Now – now – no, my darling wait, please – aah,’ and she relaxed suddenly, clenching and unclenching her vagina in a fiercely faked orgasm, as the hapless Vicomte’s little problem of premature ejaculation once again came between her and her pleasure.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘how was it for you?’
‘Marvellous. Quite marvellous.’
‘My darling. My own darling,’ he said, kissing her repeatedly in a gush of gratitude. ‘How fortunate I am. How very very fortunate.’
Eliza du Chene, looking up at the ceiling, a yearning void somewhere deep inside her, hoped fervently that the price of revenge and becoming a major shareholder in her ex-husband’s company was not going to become unbearably high.
‘Roz darling, hallo, it’s Mummy.’
‘Oh, hallo.’
‘How are you, darling?’
‘Fine. Quite busy. Mummy, they really don’t like us having personal calls. Unless it’s an emergency. They asked me to tell you.’
‘Oh, well I’m sorry. It’s not an emergency exactly, but I did need to speak to you. I’ve just got married again.’
‘How nice.’
‘Roz, you could be a bit more enthusiastic for me.’
‘Sorry. Of course I’m pleased. If you are. Will I like him?’
‘I hope so, darling. He’s French. He has the most divine chateau in the Loire Valley, and absolutely acres of vineyards, champagne mostly.’
‘Well, that’ll be convenient.’
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s his name, my new stepfather?’
‘Pierre. Pierre du Chene. He’s a vicomte.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Well anyway, darling, of course I would have liked you to be at the wedding, but – well, I hardly had time to get there myself.’
‘I see. It does seem a bit sudden. Couldn’t you have told me before?’
‘Not really, darling. I’ve been swept off my feet, as you might say. He was just desperate to get it settled.’
‘How romantic. Oh well, never mind.’
‘Roz, don’t sound like that. I want you to be happy for me.’
‘Mummy, I’m trying. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all. OK, here goes. Let’s see if I can find the proper words. Mummy, that is absolutely marvellous, thrilling news, how wonderful, I hope you’ll be very very happy. Will that do? Now I must go. Have a good honeymoon. Does Daddy know?’
‘Not yet. Roz, darling, you mustn’t be upset. We want you to come and stay here very very soon. Next holidays. I know you’re going to love him. Goodbye, Roz.’
‘I hope so. Goodbye, Mummy.’
Roz put the phone down and waited for the familiar bleak, shut-out feeling to engulf her. It didn’t take very long.
‘There’s a Vicomtesse du Chene on the phone, Mr Morell.’ Sarah Brownsmith, Julian’s new secretary, spoke nervously. Julian’s temper had been extremely uncertain over the past few weeks.
‘Who? Never heard of her. Ask her what she wants.’
The line went blank for a while. ‘She says she’s one of your shareholders. One of your major shareholders. She wants to ask you some questions about the company.’
‘Tell her she can’t. Tell her it’s nothing to do with me.’
The line went blank again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Morell, but she’s very insistent. She says when you speak to her you’ll know what it’s about.’
‘What? Oh, all right. Put her on. But tell her I’ve only got one minute. Tell her I’ve got to catch a plane.’
‘Really, Julian. You can do better than that. Surely everyone knows by now you’ve got your own plane.’
It was Eliza’s voice. Julian knocked over his coffee.
‘Eliza. What on earth are you doing on the phone? I was expecting some damn fool Frenchwoman.’
‘No. A damn fool Englishwoman. With a French husband.’
‘What?’
‘The Vicomtesse du Chene. C’est moi. It’s me.’
Roz loathed Pierre du Chene. She thought he was disgusting. He was physically disgusting, short and dark and with an awful smell, a nauseating blend of garlic and strong aftershave, and in spite of that a kind of lingering fragrance of BO as well. And he had those awful sleazy eyes, which were always on her, watching her, half smiling, and often if she caught him unawares, she found them fixed not on her face but on her breasts, or her stomach. He had a little squashed monkey’s face with a kind of snub nose, and a moustache, and his breath smelt horrible too, and when he kissed her, which he did at every possible opportunity it seemed to her, she thought she would be sick. And his personality was also disgusting, smarmy and ingratiating, chatting her up, telling her how clever she was, how pretty, pretending a great interest in her school, her friends, anything at all that he thought would win her over. Roz thought if she told him she collected dog turds, he would have exclaimed at her originality and offered to go and find her a few interesting specimens.
She just hadn’t been able to believe her eyes when he came out on to the terrace of the chateau when she had first gone there in the Easter holidays; her mother had met her at Tours in the most beautiful white Rolls Corniche with a chauffeur who was very handsome indeed; Roz had thought for a wild moment that he had been the Vicomte but then they had driven back along the wide straight roads up towards Saumur, Eliza talking endlessly and over-brightly about how perfectly wonderful everything was, and what fun they were all going to have, and how much Roz would love Pierre, and there was a horse she could ride, and Pierre was dying to ride with her, he was a superb horseman, and the chateau, well – the chateau was just the most beautiful place Roz could ever imagine, exactly like the Sleeping Beauty’s castle, and Pierre was just the best fun in the world, terribly cultured, and amusing, and she had never been so happy in her life.
Roz, looking at her, thinking she looked rather thin, and pale even, was a little surprised at this, but she had long since given up trying to understand her mother. Then: ‘There is just one thing, darling, I’d better tell you, in case he mentions it, well that is, he will mention it. Pierre is fearfully keen for us to have children, or at least an heir, well, you’ll understand when you see the estate, and of course I would love that too, and I hope it will happen, but – well, just don’t be surprised, that’s all. You probably think I’m much too old to have babies, but of course I’m not, I’m only thirty-six, that’s nothing really, I just thought I’d better tell you, as I don’t suppose you thought it was something your old mother might ever do again. All right?’
‘All right,’ said Roz, extremely confused by this, not sure what she was meant to do or say, but whenever she looked at the awful monkey-like form of du Chene now, smelt his breath, saw his awful furtive eyes, she shuddered – and more than that, shuddered for her mother having to go to bed with him, never mind carry his child.
Du Chene didn’t actually start on her until the summer. Even then at first, like all comparatively innocent young girls in the hands (literally) of their elders, she thought she must be mistaken. It began with just a pressure on her leg under the table, a squeeze of her hand when she passed him in the corridor; progressed unmistakably to the patting of her bottom, the massaging of her shoulder as he passed her chair, his hand lingering, straying down towards her breast; then one evening after supper, when her mother had pleaded a headache, and they were sitting alone in the small drawing room, she reading, he studying papers, he looked up at her and said, ‘You’re looking very lovely, my dear Rosamund.’
‘Thank you, Pierre. I expect it’s the French air.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said, ‘no, it is your own lovely look, your eyes and your skin, and of course your legs, your legs are so tanned now. You should wear shorter skirts so that they can be admired.’
‘Thank you, Pierre, but I don’t like short skirts. I’m a little tired now, I think I might go up to bed.’
‘Very well, my dear, of course you must if you are tired. We cannot have you missing your beauty sleep. Come and kiss me good night.’
‘No, Pierre, I won’t, if you don’t mind.’
‘And why not? I am after all your step-papa. Come, my dear, a little daughterly kiss.’
‘No, really, Pierre. Good night.’
She got up, but she had to walk past him; he shot his little brown hand out, and caught hers. ‘Such a – what do you say – a tease. It only makes me more excited, my dear.’
Roz shook her hand free. ‘Leave me alone.’
She walked swiftly past him, but he still managed, as his hand released hers, to stroke her bottom, then he jumped up, and with an unbelievably swift dart was in the doorway, barring her way. ‘Just a little kiss. A petit petit kiss.’
His breath was foul; Roz turned her face away. But he caught her wrists, pulled her towards him; he was just slightly shorter than her, but he pushed her against the doorway, and started pressing his wet mouth against hers, prising her arms above her head and holding them there. Roz acted swiftly; she raised her right knee and thrust it hard into his groin. He groaned softly and let her go; but when she looked back at him, as she fled across the hall, his eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed with excitement.
Next morning he did not ride with her and after she had stabled her horse she came into breakfast nervous as to what he might say; but he was as always immaculately polite, almost distant, and nodded to her as if nothing had happened between them at all. But Eliza appeared at lunch heavy-eyed and listless, and hardly spoke.
Roz began to worry about her; she suggested twice that she might come back and stay with Letitia in London for a while, but Eliza said gaily that it was out of the question, that she wouldn’t dream of leaving Pierre even for a short while.
‘Well, Mummy, I think if you don’t mind, I might go back a bit earlier. Rosie has asked me to go and stay with them in Colorado, her new stepfather has a ranch there, I’d love to go. Would you mind?’
‘No of course not,’ said Eliza, her eyes almost frighteningly bright. ‘You go, Roz darling, and have fun. When do you want to leave?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe on Sunday. Whenever it suits you.’
‘Fine. Now I think I’ll go and have my rest. I seem to be getting old, all I want to do is sleep these days.’
‘You’re not – ?’ Roz couldn’t bring herself to say it, to acknowledge what her mother must be doing, endlessly, horribly with du Chene.
‘Oh, no, darling, not yet, give me a chance. These things take time, you know.’
‘Do they?’ said Roz.
The night before she was due to leave, the three of them ate outside; whatever else, Roz thought, this place greatly resembled Paradise. The air was sweet and full of the sound of the poplar trees and the crickets’ evening chorus; she looked up at the towers of the chateau against the darkening sky, and across to where they were reflected in the great lake. In the hedges near the terrace there was the light of a thousand glow-worms; the new moon, a sliver of silver, was climbing the sky.
‘Look,’ said Roz, ‘look at that moon. Isn’t it perfect?’
‘“Softly she was going up, and a star or two beside,”’ said du Chene suddenly. ‘Is not that a most beautiful English poem?’
Roz looked at him, surprised. ‘It is. I didn’t know you read English literature, Pierre.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I am full of surprises. I can quote you the whole of “Oh to be in England” by Robert Browning, as well.’
‘I bet you can’t,’ said Eliza.
‘Yes I can,’ he said and proceeded to do so, rather beautifully. ‘You see,’ he said to Roz, ‘I am not the ignorant French peasant you thought.’
‘I didn’t think you were anything of the sort,’ said Roz quickly.
‘Good,’ he said and smiled at her, patting her hand.
Roz pulled it away and felt him turning his attention to her thighs instead. Oh well, she was going home next day.
She went to bed early; she had just turned out the light and settled into the huge bed when there was a tap at the door.
‘Mummy?’
Silence. Another tap, more urgent.
Roz climbed out of bed and went over to the door, which she always kept locked against the threat of du Chene’s attentions. ‘Who is it?’
‘Rosamund, it’s Pierre. Open the door and come with me quickly. It’s your mother, I am worried about her.’
She unlocked the door; saw his face; tried to shut it again too late. He was inside the room, pushing her backwards towards the bed; he was wearing only a robe and it was hanging open. Roz tried not to look at him, just concentrated on fighting him; she was a big girl and strong, but he was stronger. He had her on the bed in no time, pushing her down on to it, pressing his slobbery mouth on to hers, pushing up the hem of her nightdress with his free hand. Then she felt the hand exploring her thigh, and creeping up, up towards her pubic hair; a hot panic engulfed her, she tried to scream, but his mouth was over hers, attempted to kick him, but she couldn’t move.
‘Arrogant English bitch,’ he said suddenly, almost cheerfully, and stood up, shrugging out of his robe. Roz shut her eyes; she didn’t want to see. Then in the split second she was free, she raised one long strong leg and kicked him, hard in the chest; he staggered and fell backward and lay splayed on the ground, his hands clutched over his penis; he looked more than ever like one of those rather sad-faced small monkeys that hide in the corners of their cages at the zoo.
‘Get up,’ said Roz, ‘get up and get out. You’re disgusting.’
‘Oh Rosamund,’ he said, ‘don’t be unkind to me. I love you.’
‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘You’re supposed to love my mother.’
‘No, I love you.’
‘Rubbish. Now are you going to go, or shall I call her?’
‘I’ll go.’ He scrambled up, still covering his parts, and groped for his robe.
‘I only wanted to stroke your pussy,’ he said plaintively. ‘Your beautiful English pussy.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Roz, and then remembering his reaction when she hurt him the night in the drawing room, afraid that he would become aroused again if she went on being hostile, took him by the shoulders and marched him to the door.
‘Come along. Time for bed. Good night, Pierre.’
He went meekly enough, but at the door he turned once again, with an expression of great sadness. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to harm you. It’s just that you are so beautiful.’ Roz relaxed her guard and suddenly his hand was inside her nightdress, feeling for, squeezing her nipple. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, his face millimetres away, ‘beautiful bitch.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Roz again, pushing his hand frantically away.
‘That is precisely what I want to do,’ he said, pushing it back again, working it down towards her stomach this time. ‘Do you feel nothing for me at all?’
‘Yes,’ said Roz. ‘Revulsion. Shall I knee you in the groin again, Pierre, or are you going?’
He looked at her, breathing heavily, his face flushed, his eyes still oddly sad.
‘I will go,’ he said, ‘this time. But I shall not forget you. There will be other holidays.’
‘There won’t. I shan’t come. I shall tell my mother in the morning. She’ll probably come home with me.’
‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that your mother will not be surprised.’
‘What?’ said Roz, too horrified to be afraid any more, pushing his hand away from her repeatedly, ‘you mean she knows?’
‘Not about you. No, of course. But my very healthy appetite for – well, for young ladies.’
‘I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t put up with it. She wouldn’t stay.’
‘My dear child,’ he said, finally dropping his hand, fastening his robe, ‘she has no choice. Ask her about her wedding present when you tell her about tonight. Good night, Rosamund. Sleep well.’
He raised her hand and kissed it, formally, courtly. Roz stared after him, then went back into her room and slammed, locked the door. She leant against it, feeling first shaky, then sick. She longed to go to her mother, to be with someone, but she would be with du Chene, it was impossible, she had to cope with this, get through the night on her own. She went through into her bathroom and ran a deep very hot bath and lay in it a long time, trying to calm herself, to control her panic, her sense of revulsion, of invasion. And what had he meant? What wedding present?
Roz hardly slept; every time she closed her eyes she saw, felt, du Chene, his horrible clawing hands, his frightful slobbering mouth. She had never thought about sex except in rather abstract terms, or alternatively very romantic ones, in the height of her passion for David; now its worst implications had been literally forced upon her and she felt damaged, grieved.
Towards morning she finally fell asleep and dreamed, a confused, half nightmare, that she was tied down, on her bed, and he was coming at her, smiling, his robe flapping loose; she felt his hands pushing at her, probing her pubic hair, and then further, further up, and she woke up, her head tossing from side to side, her face wet with tears, and her own hands clasped together over her vagina.
She got up, dressed, packed, went downstairs to the kitchens and made herself some coffee; she was terrified he would appear, but then she saw him walking to the stables and relaxed a little. Now that it was morning, and life was becoming normal again, the nightmare was receding, had become something she could put away, keep under control, like so many of the unpleasant events that had punctuated her life.
What in some ways she wanted, longed to do was go to her mother, talk to her, tell her, but something stopped her. In the first place she felt it would simply prolong her agony, deepen her own distress.
The other thing was the deeply disturbing fact that her mother was married to this man, she must surely know what he was like, or certainly suspect, indeed he had said last night that her mother knew about his behaviour.
Roz went upstairs, finished her packing and then went along to her mother’s room. Outside the door she took a deep breath, visibly squared her shoulders, and knocked.
‘Mummy? Can I come in, I want to say goodbye.’
Roz went home to England, told her father she had had a marvellous time in France, and that her mother seemed very well, spent a month in Colorado with Rosie Howard Johnson, and then went back to school.
Everything, she kept telling herself, was fine. She was doing well; she had had a brilliant time with Rosie, and to begin with with Rosie’s eldest stepbrother, Tom, who was eighteen and just going to Harvard; he had clearly liked her very much, had gone out of his way to spend time with her, and she had liked him too. The only thing was that every time he kissed her, which he did two or three times, Roz began by enjoying it very much, and the whole flood of new and intense feelings which seemed to accompany the process, and then suddenly the vision of du Chene and his awful little body, and the feel of his hands on her, would rise up inside her head and she would feel sick and repulsed. She didn’t say anything to Tom Bennett, obviously, and tried to suppress the repulsion and recapture the other feelings, but it really didn’t work, and instead of hoping he would kiss her, she began to dread it. As a result Tom decided she was a cold fish, and left her alone.
Roz didn’t think too much about it at first, but then as the term went on she began to have nightmares, to wake up, as she had that first morning, crying, clutching herself; and the nightmares began to grow in intensity. She started sleeping badly; she would put off going to bed until later and later, and then, dreading the dreams, slept very shallowly, trying to ward them off. Her housemistress noticed the way she was looking, and asked her if she was feeling all right; Roz said yes, perfectly, and worked even harder, acted even tougher; and then one morning, right in the middle of a maths tutorial, she felt terrible, started to cry, and couldn’t stop.
After an hour or so the matron, alarmed, phoned her father; he was in New York, Eliza was of course in France, Letitia was on holiday in Florence, and Sarah Brownsmith, completely at a loss as to what to do, consulted Susan Johns, who was at least, as she said to Susan apologetically, at least a mother herself.
As a result Roz found herself opening the can of worms and releasing them all over Susan that evening in the little house in Fulham where Susan now lived and where she had taken Roz (with the school doctor’s rather relieved permission) for a few days.
Roz had always liked Susan, but that night she learnt to love her. Susan did not do any of the things her father, or indeed her mother would have done. She did not become hysterical, or act particularly appalled, or threaten to inform the police, or attach the merest suspicion of blame to Roz, and naturally enough, not being Roz’s mother or father, did not go through the nauseating process of debasing herself, claiming it was all her fault, and offering her the world in order to help her recover.
She merely listened, quietly and calmly, handing Roz interminable tissues, holding her in her arms occasionally when the tears became so overpowering she was unable to speak, asked sensible questions, made her lots of cups of tea, offered her a drink, and even managed to make Roz laugh by forcing her to repeat, her own lips twitching slightly, the description of du Chene lying naked on the floor, covering his private parts with his little monkey hands.
‘Well,’ she said when Roz had finally finished, and finally stopped crying too, and was sitting exhausted but calm in the corner of her sofa, ‘none of it sounds too bad. Don’t misunderstand me, I can see it was perfectly awful, and I think you’ve handled it wonderfully, I think you’ve been amazingly mature about it all, but I just don’t think you have to go on worrying about it. Your big mistake was not telling your mother that morning, just talking about it straight away, so it didn’t have to fester away for months –’
‘But I told you,’ said Roz, tears welling up in her eyes again, ‘I couldn’t tell her, she’s having a bad enough time as it is, without that sort of thing to worry about, and anyway –’
‘I know. You didn’t want to have to relive it.’
‘No. I couldn’t face it. I’d just got away from him. It.’
‘Even so, all you’ve been doing is reliving it ever since, instead.’
‘Yes. Sometimes I can’t think of anything else. It’s so horrible.’
‘Of course. Very horrible. Don’t get me wrong, I can see exactly how horrible it was –’
‘Can you? Can you really?’ Roz looked at her with suddenly hostile eyes. ‘I don’t think you could. Nobody could, who hadn’t gone through it.’
‘Roz,’ said Susan briskly, ‘when I was only about twelve, my uncle used to get drunk and wait till my mum and dad were out and touch me up in the front room. I didn’t know what to do, who to tell, I felt somehow I ought to like it because he was a grown-up so it must be right. Sometimes, I assure you, even now I can remember how that felt.’
Roz looked at her with a kind of desperate hope.
‘Really? And you’ve – well you’ve got to – well –’
‘Like men? And sex? Yes, of course. Maybe it took me a bit longer than it would have done, but once I found someone I could trust, it was fine. You’ll find the same.’
‘I hope so.’
‘The really important thing was that he didn’t really do anything. He could have raped you. But I suppose you’ve thought about that, imagined it, endlessly, thought how it could have happened.’
Roz smiled. ‘You really do understand, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do. Most women would.’
‘Mummy wouldn’t.’
‘Oh, I expect she would.’ There was a silence. ‘Do you really think she’s in a mess?’
‘Yes. I do. I think he’s giving her an awful time. She’s odd. Terribly subdued. And once or twice, she had a bruise on her face. Of course she said she’d fallen over or something, but I think he’s knocking her about. But because I feel it’s partly my fault, you know, about David and everything, I just can’t – couldn’t – tell anyone.’
‘I really don’t think it’s anything to do with you. All right, you might have got your father a bit worked up about Sassoon, but he’s not some kind of saint you suddenly corrupted. He’s a quixotic, powerful man, used to having his own way; you can’t be blamed for that.’
Roz looked doubtful. ‘I don’t think that’s right.’
‘OK. Maybe you should take that bit of blame. But that was two years ago; your mother didn’t rush off and marry the awful little monkey on the rebound. She’s a grown woman, Roz. She’s very sophisticated, very strong willed; you really can’t be held responsible for her actions. I’m very fond of your mother, but I’d be the first to say that nobody could possibly make her do or not do anything once she’s made up her mind about something. I think you should put that right out of your head.’
‘Oh.’
Roz felt as if a great boulder had been rolled away from her path, a boulder that had been blocking out the light, preventing her from going forward, keeping her crammed into a tight airless hole. She sighed suddenly, and smiled at Susan, a radiantly happy, almost childlike smile. It was oddly moving.
‘You’ve been so nice to me. You’ve helped me so much. I wish you were my mother.’ This tribute, combined with the smile, affected Susan strongly; she felt tears at the back of her eyes.
‘My dear girl, you have a most remarkable mother.’
‘I do? No. A remarkable person, maybe. Not much of a mother though.’
‘Roz, you don’t know –’
‘I do know. But we won’t go into that now. I’m awfully tired. When did you say I’d be back at school?’
‘When you were ready. Take a day or two off, I would. You can stay here with me. Is your friend Rosie home?’
‘No, she’s at school in Paris now.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her about it all?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just didn’t want to talk about it. It’s too – oh, I don’t know, personal. And I’m not much good at confidences.’
‘No. Nor me. The only person I talk to a lot these days is your grandmother.’
‘Not your daughters?’
‘No. I hardly ever see them. Jenny’s married and Sheila’s teaching in the North. They say I’m changed. I expect they’re right.’ She sighed.
‘I like talking to Granny Letitia too,’ said Roz. ‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she? I’m sure she’s immortal, she never seems to get any older.’
‘Oh, she does to me,’ said Susan, ‘but you see I knew her when she was quite young, not much older than I am now. Oh, Roz, we had such fun.’
‘What was my father like in those days?’ asked Roz suddenly.
‘Oh, much more light-hearted. But otherwise much the same. Terribly ambitious. A workaholic. Lots of lovely ladies, of course.’ She spoke very brightly. Roz looked at her.
‘I suppose he was terribly attractive.’
‘Oh yes. Terribly. Well, he still is, of course.’
‘I suppose he must be. Otherwise Araminta wouldn’t be carrying on with him.’
‘Oh, I think that’s purely because of her contract. Between you and me.’
‘But she doesn’t have to sleep with him.’
‘No. But going round with him, being his mistress gives her a certain cachet. It all helps her image. And his, of course.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Do you mind?’ asked Roz suddenly.
‘Mind what? Araminta being your father’s mistress? No, of course not. Why ever should I?’
‘Don’t know. Sorry.’
‘Now listen, are we to tell your parents about all this or not?’
‘I’d rather not. But I am a bit worried about my mother. I mean, as well as the fact he might be knocking her about, there’s this really weird business about her having a baby. I told you. With – with the monkey. It seemed to be really obsessing her. I still don’t know what to do.’
‘Well look,’ said Susan, ‘will you trust me to handle it? I won’t make a big deal of it, I’ll play it down, but I’ll have to tell your father something, the school is bound to mention it, and then I can suggest your mother might need help. Then it’ll be out of our hands. All right?’
‘All right. Thank you.’
‘I’m not suggesting that one chat with me is going to sort you out completely. You may still have nightmares for a while, you may not like being kissed by your next boyfriend either. But I do feel sure it’ll get better. Just concentrate on that picture of the monkey on the floor, clutching his balls, and try and laugh about it. It’ll help.’
‘I will. You’re wonderful, Susan.’
‘Not really. One more thing, if you do go on feeling really bad, let me know and we can sort out someone cleverer than me to talk to.’
‘A shrink, do you mean? No thanks. Half the girls I met in America go to shrinks. It’s pathetic. I like to handle my own problems.’
‘Well, so do I. But just occasionally, we all need a bit of help. Now I think we should both go to bed. Good night, Roz.’
‘Good night, Susan. And thank you again.’
Roz fell asleep feeling relaxed and confident, and thinking how wise and honest Susan was; the only thing she had not believed was when she had said she didn’t mind Araminta being her father’s mistress.
‘Julian,’ said Susan, ‘I know you’re not going to like this, but there’s something you have to know.’
Julian left for France forty-eight hours later and returned with the shares back in his possession; a week later Eliza came home, very thin, rather pale, but patently extremely cheerful, and told Roz she was divorcing du Chene.
‘Julian,’ said Susan, ‘what on earth have you been doing? How did you manage that?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s much better you don’t know. You would be even more disapproving of me than you are already. Which I wouldn’t like. Let’s just say I gave that little squirt a very nasty hour or so, and he came to see that it was greatly in his interest to do what I asked.’
‘I suppose you blackmailed him?’
‘Mrs Johns! What an ugly concept.’ He paused, then smiled at her.
‘You did, didn’t you?’
‘Well, let’s say I pointed out to him how very anti-social his behaviour had been. Was.’
‘Well, Eliza of course was delighted to find herself free.’
‘Yes, but–’
‘But what? You said I should help her. I do a lot because you say so, Susan. I’m always telling you that.’
‘Did you tell Eliza about Roz?’
‘Of course. She was appalled. She really had had no idea. If she had, then I’m sure she would have left him immediately. But we agreed that she should never discuss it with Roz. On your advice. Again.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘We seem to do everything you tell us, my family and I.’
‘What about this nonsense about Eliza having a baby? Did you get to the bottom of that?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘And?’
‘Do you really want to know? It will confirm all your darkest suspicions about the decadent upper classes.’
‘They don’t need confirming.’
‘Well, Eliza had led the Vicomte to believe she could give him an heir. Of course she couldn’t. Nobody knew that but me, and her, and possibly her mother. She was sterilized after Roz was born. The doctor said another baby would kill her. It seemed the best solution.’
‘So?’
‘Well, obviously, had the Vicomte known that, it might have put a slightly different complexion on – our conversation. Particularly for Eliza.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because she’d married him under false pretences, which meant I could get the shares back just slightly more easily.’
‘Why? I still don’t understand.’
‘Well, you see, they were in Eliza’s name. They were a wedding present from him to her. I don’t think she really wanted to part with them even then. But she did agree that I should have them. Under the circumstances.’
‘So you bought the shares from Eliza? I hope you paid her properly for them.’
‘Of course I did. Exactly what du Chene paid for them.’
‘But that was a year ago. They’re worth far more now.’
‘I know. But I think she owes me some – what shall we say – interest.’
‘Julian, that is outrageous.’
‘Susan, it’s no such thing. Her behaviour was outrageous. She’s a very rich woman now, which is nice for her. Just not quite as rich as she might have been.’
‘I still think it’s outrageous.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re entitled to your opinion. But remember that I have rescued her from a very nasty situation. One that she got herself into.’
‘What I can’t work out,’ said Susan, giving up the struggle, as always, to talk ethics with Julian, ‘is why didn’t she walk out months ago, if the shares were hers?’
‘She didn’t dare. He threatened to tell everyone exactly why she’d married him if she did. He could have made her look very unpleasant indeed. Eliza is quite anxious about her reputation, you know. Interestingly so. And she has this quaint old-fashioned sense of honour. You would understand that, no doubt. She felt she owed it to him to try and make the marriage work. God knows why. She’s had a hideous time.’
‘Was he beating her up?’
‘No, not really. But other things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Minor perversions. Of course once she’d told me about them, he became even more anxious to cooperate.’
‘God, you’re devious,’ she said.
‘No,’ he said, ‘just pragmatic.’
A few weeks later, in one of the few non-pragmatic actions of his life, Julian Morell asked Susan Johns to marry him. Not without considerable regret, she turned him down.