London, 1979
ONE COLD WET morning in November 1979 Julian Morell walked into his office, slammed the door and then immediately buzzed on the intercom for coffee. Sarah Brownsmith looked at the phone and sighed. This was obviously one of the days (increasingly frequent, she noticed) for keeping a very low profile indeed.
Julian was running on a fuse so short it ignited almost spontaneously. Everybody had remarked on it, so Sarah did not feel she had to blame herself. Freddy Branksome seldom passed her these days on his way through to Julian’s office without raising his eyes to heaven; Richard Brookes, the company lawyer, whose languid academic exterior concealed a mind that went to work with the speed of a black mamba, had taken to working at home every morning in an attempt to lessen Julian’s opportunities for summoning him. And David Sassoon, newly returned from New York, was threatening to go back again, or to leave Julian’s employ altogether despite having had both his department and salary doubled in size and possessing the quite exceptional company perk of a helicopter for his exclusive use.
Only Susan Johns seemed perfectly happy, running her side of the company with as much efficiency, skill and innovative thought as ever, and conducting her relationship with its chairman with her usual calm, irreverence and humour. There were rumours in the company of a relationship between Susan and Richard Brookes, and certainly they spent a great deal of time together, and appeared very fond of one another, but Susan was, as Paul Baud had remarked so long ago, a dark mare, and thirty years of working with Julian Morell had taught her the very high value of discretion.
Julian Morell, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten its value altogether. There was a lot of ugly gossip about him and Camilla North, both in and out of the press. Camilla was spending at least two thirds of her time in New York, leaving her agency in London in the very capable hands of its managing director, a terrifyingly chic and competent New Yorker called Nancy Craig who at only twenty-nine seemed set to take on the entire advertising world – and anything else that happened to take her fancy into the bargain. There had been some interesting rumours about Julian Morell and Nancy Craig.
The last year had seen a considerable change in Julian. He was, Sarah Brownsmith supposed, struggling to find the right word, depressed. Not so much bad-tempered, although he frequently was that, not worried, just depressed. Even the considerable feat of re-acquiring the remaining forty per cent of his company had not cheered him up for long. And that wasn’t like him. Indeed it wasn’t like him to be anything but extremely cheerful. Difficult, quixotic, but not depressed.
At the end of the summer he had taken off with Camilla to his house on Eleuthera, and everyone had breathed a sigh of relief. But he returned sooner than expected, with a new business project (paper production) and without Camilla who did not reappear in London for another week.
Sarah reflected that his personal life at the moment must be the opposite of restful and happy . . . he was nearly sixty; he was unmarried; his brother, James had died a year earlier of a heart attack, which had clearly shaken Julian considerably, although they had not been close for years; his relationship with Camilla was volatile to put it mildly; and he had no real heir unless you counted that spoilt monster of a daughter.
Sarah could not stand Roz. She drifted in and out of her father’s life whenever it suited her, cool, remote, demanding, and as far as Sarah could see, he tried endlessly to please her for extremely limited reward: he bought her everything she wanted (the latest offering had been a yacht which she kept moored on the waterfront near her father’s hotel in Nice), allowed her the run of his houses and hotels all over the world, and would always cancel anything at all, however important, to have lunch or dinner with her when she deigned to visit him.
Sarah had just switched on the coffee machine that foggy morning, and she was wondering if she was brave enough to broach the subject of an extra week’s leave at Christmas, when the phone rang.
‘Julian Morell’s office.’
‘Miss Brownsmith. Good morning. How are you?’
The voice was pitched quite low for a woman; at once sexy and brisk. A voice men didn’t know quite how to react to. It belonged to Roz, and Sarah’s heart sank.
‘I’m well, thank you, Miss Morell. And yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Brownsmith. Is my father there?’
Sarah felt Julian needed Roz on such a day like a dose of strychnine; nevertheless she was the only person in the world, apart from his mother and Camilla North, who she could not refuse to put through.
‘He is, Miss Morell, but he’s . . .’
‘Tied up at the moment. Of course. What else? Is he free for lunch?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Put me through to him, would you, Miss Brownsmith?’
Sarah did so. Two minutes later Julian pressed the intercom.
‘Sarah, cancel my lunch with Jack Bottingley, would you. And book a table at the Meridiana. I’m meeting Roz there at one.’
Roz put down the phone. She was actually feeling a little nervous. It was one thing persuading her father to see her at the snap of her fingers, to give her whatever she desired as soon as she asked for it, but what she wanted from him today was something rather more considerable than a yacht, a horse, or a new wardrobe from Paris or New York. Moreover it meant going in for some considerable diplomacy on her part, some nibbling at least of humble pie, neither of which she had any talent for or practice in. Nevertheless it had to be done.
Roz had decided that the time had come to claim her birthright. She had wearied of pretending she didn’t want it; of working, albeit hard, a trifle half-heartedly for other people, for Jamil Al-Shehra, for Marks and Spencer’s, even for Camilla North (who she had to admit had taught her a great deal). What she wanted to do now was work for her father, to serve her apprenticeship, and to start scaling the real heights. And she knew she would scale them fast.
In addition to her two years’ work experience, as her father rather contemptuously described it, Roz had just spent a year at the Harvard Business School and it had been the happiest of her life and the most fascinating. Cambridge had seemed like prep school by comparison. Money, deals, politicking, power, it all fascinated her, made her heart beat faster, gave her a sexual thrill. That was what she wanted, great slices of it; she was prepared to work and sweat and suffer for it. She didn’t want men falling at her feet or into her bed; she had sampled some of both, and it had left her for the most part bored and unimpressed. She wanted men where she decided to put them, preferably several seats beneath her on the board.
She knew, she felt in her bones that she would be able not just to deal with any business situation, but that she would win in it. When she looked at some of the hypothetical problems she had been set to crack at college, when she read the financial pages of the papers (which she devoured daily) it seemed to her she was almost clairvoyant; she could see not just to the end of a problem, a development, a takeover bid, but beyond it, considered not merely every angle that seemed relevant, but a dozen more that did not. She took not just facts and figures into her equations but people, situations, geography, history, even the seasons of the year and the time of day. She knew as surely as she knew her own name that she had a brilliant company brain; all she needed now was something to practise on. And she needed her father’s help to get it. And she didn’t relish it.
It was on occasions like this one that she stood back and saw very clearly exactly what her father was in real terms: a towering figure, one of the shrewdest, most ruthless men in the world, possessed of great power, and with a personal fortune that must come close to equalling Getty’s; he had a brilliant and innovative business brain, a perfect sense of timing and almost flawless judgement. He was respected, revered, indeed often feared; and fear was the emotion Roz was experiencing now. She didn’t actually think he would refuse her; that he would send her back to Marks and Spencer’s, tell her to join the dole queue; but he was going to have an opportunity to extract his revenge for her awkwardness, for her rejection of him over the last few years, and she knew he was highly likely to take it.
Well, she had learnt a few skills which might help her, she thought, since leaving Cambridge, including a modicum at least of tact and the ability to project charm. Her truculence, although still very much a part of her, was well hidden, and she had learnt to smile, to listen, to look for the good in people and situations, rather than pouncing and pronouncing on the bad.
The trouble was, as she very well knew, her father would not be in the least deceived by any act she put on; he would translate any fiction she presented him with into fact, recognize her and what she was trying to do through any role she played; what was more he was quite capable of stringing her along, of pretending to believe the fiction, to be impressed by the role-playing and then suddenly, without warning, confront her with the truth of the situation as he saw it.
But she could see through him as well; her painful childhood had taught her that much. She knew when he was lying, when he was plotting, when he was feeling remorseful; she also, more usefully, knew how to hurt him, and when best to do it. It was a poor substitute for daughterly love, and she was well aware of the fact, but she had long ago learnt that was a luxury she could not afford. One day perhaps, when she had proved herself, when she was in a strong position, when her father was impressed by her and was less able to set her aside whenever it suited him, then perhaps she could trust herself to tell him how much she loved him, and how much she wanted him to love her. Meanwhile, she had to proceed with much caution and care.
She rifled through the rails of her wardrobe; selecting first a Margaret Howell suit and rejecting it (too severe), a Jean Muir dress and trying it on (too grown up) and settling finally on a Ralph Lauren skirt, shirt and sweater, all in tones of beige, (young enough to be appealing, expensive enough to look assured). Eliza had picked out the lot for her (she would never have had the vision herself), and it suited her very well. She pulled on some long brown boots, clipped back her long dark hair, sprayed herself with Chanel 19 and looked at herself for a long time. ‘Just right,’ she said aloud to the mirror, ‘just right’; she looked well-bred stylish, with the faintest touch of college girl to make it more appealing. Her father would hopefully approve.
She put her diary, her credit cards, her wallet and her CV into a brown Hermes shoulder bag, slung her Burberry over her shoulders and went out to find a taxi.
Julian reached the chic whiteness of the Meridiana five minutes before her; ordered a bottle of Bollinger, greeted a few of the disparate people he knew there (Grace Coddington, fashion editor of Vogue, looking divinely severe in a Jean Muir dress, Terence Conran, charmingly jovial, a new cigar in one hand, glass of sancerre in the other, Paul Hamlyn), and watched his daughter swing in the door. He hadn’t seen her for months; after Harvard she stayed with friends in New York, and had only been back in London for a week; she’d lost weight, grown her hair, and as she bent to kiss him, he noticed she had acquired a very expensive-looking necklace – thick gold inset with diamonds and emeralds, which he certainly hadn’t bought her and her mother was unlikely to have given her – or that she would have bought herself. Interesting: who was she seeing with that sort of money?
‘Roz,’ he said. ‘How nice! How are you? Let me take your coat. I’ve ordered champagne. I thought it was a celebration.’
Raphael, manager of the Meridiana, came bustling over to them. ‘Miss Morell! How beautiful you look! How nice to have you back in London! Your father is a lucky man. What a charming luncheon companion, Mr Morell! Let me take Miss Morell’s coat and what would you like to eat? The quails are beautiful and we have some very nice turbot, cooked in a wine sauce with truffles, and then there is some fresh salmon . . .’ He launched into the restaurateurs’ litany; Roz sat down, took the glass of champagne, ordered some parma ham and a plain grilled sole and looked at her father with genuine, if slight concern.
‘You look tired, Daddy, have you been overworking?’
‘I expect so. I enjoy it, you know. It makes a distraction from my social life.’
‘Aren’t you enjoying your social life?’
‘Not much either. How’s Camilla?’
‘Camilla is very well,’ Julian said carefully, wondering how much she read the gossip columns. ‘We had dinner with the father of a friend of yours the other night. Tom Robbinson. Weren’t you at school with Sarah, or was it Cambridge? I know she was at your twenty-first.’
‘School. Haven’t seen her for ages. She was the despair of Cheltenham. She’s getting married, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, after Christmas.
He sighed. The thought of weddings always depressed him. ‘Nice necklace, Roz.’
‘Yes,’ said Roz, ‘it was a present.’
Her tone closed the subject. Julian opened it again.
‘From anyone I know?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘Someone I met at Harvard,’ said Roz quickly, seeing her father was fast growing irritated by her lack of communicativeness. ‘Someone called Michael Browning. He came down to give a lecture. He lives in New York. He’s divorced. I just see him sometimes. Can I have some more champagne?’
‘Of course,’ said Julian. He looked at Roz thoughtfully. He knew Michael Browning well. He had made a fortune out of soft drinks in California, moved to New York and into supermarkets, and ran his business by instinct and the seat of his pants. Not the kind of man he’d really want sleeping with his daughter, which seemed likely if he was buying her that sort of present. But maybe it was a hopeful gesture on his part. At any rate clearly Roz wasn’t going to give any more away just now. He changed the subject.
‘How’s Mummy?’
‘Fine.’ Roz sounded wary.
‘And the charming Mr Al-Shehra?’
‘Oh, charming as ever. He’s a darling. So kind to me. He keeps a horse for me at the house they’ve bought in Berkshire, him and Mummy.’
‘How nice of him,’ said Julian shortly.
‘I ride with him sometimes. In the park. He’s absolutely superb.’
‘I wondered,’ said Julian, ‘talking of riding, if you’d like to come down to Marriotts this weekend. I’m hunting on Saturday, if that appeals to you, and I’d like to show you some of my new acquisitions.’
‘Will – will Camilla be there?’
‘No.’
It was a very final word. Roz smiled at him. ‘I’d love to. I haven’t been to Marriotts for ages. I’m dying to see the new colt I read about in Dempster. What’s he called?’
‘First Million. I’m hoping great things of him.’
‘Have you got anything I could ride on Saturday?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you bought any cars lately?’
Julian smiled at her. Nothing made him happier than an interest in his collection.
‘A very nice Ferrari. A Monza, 1954. Superb. And I’ve got a beautiful Delahaye in New York.’
‘Could I drive the Ferrari?’
‘Of course. Not to its capacity, unfortunately, in the Sussex lanes. It does one sixty.’
‘Then I’ll certainly come.’
‘Good.’
Roz put down her fork. ‘I’ve got something I want to talk to you about, Daddy.’
Julian looked at her, his eyes the familiar blank.
‘And what is that, Rosamund?’
Things weren’t going too well, Roz realized; he never called her Rosamund unless he was fairly displeased with her. She wished fervently she had been less awkward the last couple of times she had seen him.
‘It’s advice I really need, Daddy.’ She had rehearsed this bit of her script carefully.
‘About?’
‘About a job.’
‘A job? I see.’
He was looking at her with an odd rather shrewd amusement; Roz squirmed, but met his gaze steadily.
‘Could you elucidate things a little more?’
‘Well, you see, I’ve decided what I really want to get into is financial management.’
‘Why does that appeal to you? Something like marketing is much more fun. You’ve made a start there. You should stay in that.’
‘No, it’s the finance side that really interests me. I love working out what makes companies successful and how to make them more so. And which companies would work well with others. Takeovers, mergers, all that sort of thing.’
‘Does it?’ Julian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Did you do much financial stuff at Harvard?’
‘Not as much as I’d have liked. I’d gone in on the marketing side. By the time I fell in love with money it was a bit late. But never mind. That was only college. There’s real life to come.’
‘Indeed there is. So what do you want me to do?’
‘Advise me.’
‘Really! That will make a change.’
‘Don’t be silly. You know I always ask your advice about important things.’
‘Perhaps. What particular advice do you want?’
‘Well, I’ve been offered a job. It is marketing, but they’ve said I can move around. Really get to know the company.’
‘Have you? By whom?’
‘Unilever. That’s what I need advice about. It’s such a huge company. Michael – lots of people have said it might swallow me up. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think the job’s good enough for you. You’ve got a good Cambridge degree, you’ve got some valuable experience, and you’re an honours graduate from Harvard. You don’t want to start working for some sweaty brand manager from East Anglia.’
‘How do you know he’ll be from East Anglia?’
‘They always are.’
‘Thats’ – ‘ridiculous’ Roz had been about to say, but she managed to stop herself – ‘really interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘That you don’t think I should do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t think so either.’
‘And what do you think you should do?’
Roz put down her knife and fork and looked him very straight in the eyes. ‘Work for you.’
He hadn’t expected that, and he was impressed by it. It took a kind of courage for her to lay herself so totally open. He had it in his power to reject her absolutely and she knew it, and knew moreover, that it was quite likely. Clearly she had even more guts than he’d thought. He put them to the test.
‘I don’t think it’s possible.’
‘Why not? Is it because I’ve –’
‘Rejected me?’
He looked at her again with amused eyes.
‘Yes. Oh, Daddy, I was just being silly. Young and silly. I’m sorry if it hurt you. It must have seemed very ridiculous. Ungrateful. But you must have known I didn’t mean it.’
‘You seemed to at the time. And you weren’t all that young at the time. The last little conversation I remember was only about six months ago. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Well anyway –’ There was a long pause. Roz braced herself to look at him. He was smiling. ‘That’s not the reason.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the reason I can’t offer you a job is that we don’t take Harvard people. Company policy.’
Roz went limp with relief.
‘Daddy, that is just ridiculous. You’re joking.’
‘Not at all. I’m perfectly serious. I warned you before you went there. Only you were busy telling me it didn’t matter.’ He smiled at her again.
‘Well it’s mad.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because Harvard people are the best. Brilliantly trained.’
‘That’s only your opinion.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a very valid, widely held opinion.’
‘By whom? Other Harvard people? Your friends? Michael Browning?’
‘No, people I’ve talked to. Companies I’ve applied to. They all want Harvard people. They say their power to analyse and apply theory to practice is outstanding. You’re losing some of the best business brains in the country with a policy like that. Whose cockeyed prejudice is it?’
‘Mine.’
‘Convince me.’
‘How?’
‘From inside the company.’
‘All right, I will.’
She had become so absorbed in the argument that she hadn’t noticed where he was leading her. She stopped abruptly, looked at him furiously for a moment and noticed that his eyes were looking more benign than she had seen them for a very long time.
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘I wish you’d stop playing games with me.’
‘I never stop that, Roz. As you should know. And besides, I really don’t much like Harvard people. Over-analytical. But of course you’re right, and one shouldn’t allow one’s prejudices to stand between one’s company and talent. So let’s see what yours can do.’
‘You’ll take me on then?’
‘Yes I will. Of course. To nobody’s great surprise, I’m sure. You’ll have to work extremely hard. I’m not being accused of nepotism.’
‘I will. I really will.’
‘What segment of the company most appeals to you?’
‘The stores.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too specialized, and you won’t learn enough.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘If you’re going to work for me, Roz, you’ll have to learn to accept what I say.’
‘All right. For a bit. Cosmetics then, I suppose.’
‘Now that is wise. When we get back to the office I’ll phone Iris Bentinck and see what’s going. She’s the overall marketing director of Juliana.’
And occasional mistress of the Chairman, thought Roz. She wondered if he had any idea how much she knew about him.
‘It might mean going to Paris or New York.’
‘That’s fine. I don’t mind. Specially New York.’
‘Really?’
Roz realized she had made a tactical error.
‘Only because cosmetics are so much more buzzy in New York. I’d really much rather be in London.’
She ended up where she least wanted to be, and where Julian wanted her most. Paris. So far the score was fairly even.
Letitia Morell had three visitors that afternoon. There was nothing she liked better than entertaining, and at the age of eighty-one she still gave excellent dinner parties. She was wickedly amusing, she broke all the rules, thinking nothing of sitting a beautiful nineteen-year-old next to an elderly relic of the British Raj fifty years her senior, or a confirmed homosexual to a highly desirable (and desirous) divorcee and watching them all having the evening of their lives. People would go to some lengths to get a dinner invitation from Letitia Morell; drop hints, ask her to dinner repeatedly themselves, phone her casually on some weak pretext, but it was none of it any good. To qualify you had to be good-looking and amusing and preferably both. You could be poor, socially modest in exceptional cases, not always entirely well mannered. But you could not be dull.
She also found herself with one of the busiest luncheon engagement books in London. She was always so full of gossip herself, and so eager and amused to hear it; most days her pale blue Rolls-Royce with her patient chauffeur inside it was to be seen, parked long after three outside the Ritz, or the Caprice, or her latest find, Langan’s Brasserie in Stratton Street, whose drunken and frequently disagreeable owner was so charmed by her that she claimed the distinction not only of a permanent table available to her, but of never having been insulted by him.
She still dressed beautifully; she found shopping a little tiring, but many of the designers were charmed and delighted to visit her in First Street with toiles and drawings and take her orders; and she was still very slim and trim, her latest passion (introduced to her by the Vicomtesse du Chene), being yoga. It was not at all unusual to arrive and find her dressed in leotard and tights, sitting in the lotus position in her drawing room.
It was thus that her first visitor, the Vicomtesse herself, found her that November afternoon.
‘Darling! How lovely. Nancy, make us some tea will you? China, Eliza? And I think I’ll go and change, I get cold in this ridiculous outfit after a bit.’
‘Of course.’ Eliza’s smile was a trifle too bright. Letitia thought she had probably been crying.
‘What is it, darling,’ she said, returning in a navy cashmere two piece and beige calf-length boots, looking just about fifty-five years old. ‘You’re upset.’
‘No,’ said Eliza brightly. ‘No, not at all. I’m getting married.’
‘My darling! How marvellous. But how on earth have you managed that? I thought Arabian marriages were sacred. Should we be drinking champagne rather than tea?’
‘No. Not yet. Well, it might help. Yes please. Yes, they are sacred. I’m not marrying Jamil.’
‘Oh, my goodness. What an entertaining child you are. Nancy, will you please bring us a bottle of Bollinger from the fridge and two glasses. Have some yourself if you want it. Now then.’ She raised her glass to Eliza. ‘Who is it and why? And why have you been crying?’
‘It’s Peveril Garrylaig.’
‘Good heavens. A proper title in the family at last. And a good one too. A countess. Oh, my grandmother would have been relieved.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Well of course I do. I think he’s charming,’ said Letitia firmly, wondering what (apart from a title) the bluff, born-middle-aged, widowed Earl of Garrylaig could possibly offer Eliza that Jamil Al-Shehra could not.
‘Well, then, you know what a charmer he is. I adore him. And he adores me. Of course it’ll be a big change, living in Scotland, but I always did have a sneaking liking for the country, and the castle is just beautiful, Letitia, quite the most ravishing place, you will come and stay, won’t you?’
‘Darling, of course. I will. All the time. Now then.’ She looked sharply at Eliza. ‘What does Mr Al-Shehra have to say about all this?’
‘Oh, he’s quite happy about it,’ said Eliza briskly. ‘Clearly we couldn’t go on for ever how we were, and well – oh, Letitia, I can’t bear it, I simply can’t bear it, please please tell me I’m doing the right thing.’
Tears were streaming down her face; her green eyes searched Letitia’s blue ones wildly, frantically, looking for relief from her pain and her grief.
‘Tell me more, darling. When you’re ready. I can’t tell you anything until I know what it’s all about.’
Eliza told her. She told her that there was no real future for her with Al-Shehra; that the most passionate love affair could not last for ever; that she was forty-three years old, and most assuredly not getting any younger; that she was afraid of being alone and lonely; that she wanted to be safe, with a status of her own again; that she was truly truly fond of Peveril or she wouldn’t be doing it; and that she was so unhappy that she thought her heart was not just broken, but exploded into a million tiny fragments.
She did not tell her that Al-Shehra had wept in her arms the night before, that he had made love to her that morning so sadly, so tenderly, so exquisitely that she still felt faint remembering the sensations, and that it had taken every fragment of her courage not to change her mind.
‘But you do see, Letitia, don’t you, it was all right at first, the mistress of a wildly rich Arab potentate, or tycoon or whatever he is, all right when you’re quite young, but think of being fifty, sixty, and still in that position, always terrified of new young women coming along, no status, no standing. I couldn’t face it, Letitia, I just couldn’t. I need to be married. I have to do this.’
‘And when did the affair with Peveril begin?’
‘Oh,’ said Eliza with the shimmer of a smile. ‘It isn’t an affair, Letitia. Peveril is a gentleman. We shall go to bed on our wedding night and not before.’
‘How charming. How refreshing. Well, all right, when did you meet him?’
‘Last month. At Longchamps. Jamil wanted to take me to the Arc de Triomphe, and then he got gambling and I got cross and Peveril was there, with his sisters, one of them knew Julian, he’d been at her coming-out dance, and well – we started talking and he asked me if he could take me out to lunch one day in London, and it all went on from there.’
‘It’s not very long,’ said Letitia, frowning.
‘No, I know, and everyone’s going to say that, but I have to get it settled quickly, and Peveril wants to, he’s lonely and why should we wait?’
‘To make sure you’re doing the right thing?’
‘No, I don’t want to do that. Because I might not be. But if I’m not I’ll make it work just the same. Just you watch me. He’s a good man, and a kind one, and I won’t let him down.’
‘No, darling, don’t.’
It was the only rebuke or criticism Letitia uttered; Eliza took it with good grace.
‘I deserved that. I deserve more. So please, Letitia, come on, tell me it’s a good idea.’
Letitia took a deep breath.
‘It is a good idea. I truly think so. Of course it has its dangers and they seem quite formidable, but you’re clearly aware of them. I would be with you all the way. I have often wondered myself what might happen to you with Al-Shehra.’
Eliza kissed her. ‘Thank you. You don’t know what courage that gives me.’
Letitia looked at the lovely face in the darkening room, the heavy eyes, the drooping mouth. ‘You will get over Jamil, you know,’ she said. ‘It will pass. It will take a long time, but it will pass. For weeks, months, you will think you can’t take another day of the pain, and then one day, quite suddenly you will feel just a little better. Just a tiny bit lighthearted. It may not last, but it will come back, that feeling. More and more frequently. And in a year you will be sad, but not unhappy any longer. Don’t rush the wedding though, Eliza. Wait a few months. You’ll be asking too much of yourself. And it won’t be fair to Peveril. Wait till the spring. He’ll understand. There’s a lot to do.’
‘You’ve been through this, haven’t you?’ said Eliza. ‘You’ve never told me, nobody has, but I can tell. You couldn’t understand otherwise.’
‘Yes,’ said Letitia. ‘I have. And it was a very, very long time ago. And I can still remember the pain. But all these years later, I do know that I did the right thing.’
Julian arrived at First Street half an hour later, beaming radiantly.
‘Julian,’ said Letitia. ‘How nice. I’ve been thinking about you. Eliza’s only just left.’
‘How is Eliza?’
‘Very well. Very happy.’
‘Good. Well, I can’t stop, but I have a little present for you, Camilla brought it over from California, she’s been vacationing there. Look, it’s a solar-powered calculator.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ cried Letitia, delighted as a child. ‘I’ve read about these. Will it work here? We don’t have as much solar power as the Californians.’
‘Of course it will, you idiot. It’s light that does it. Look.’
‘Marvellous! Thank you, darling. How is Camilla?’
‘She’s fine. Just passing through.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t look like that, Mother. Anyway, I have some nice news I wanted to share with you.’
‘I thought you were looking rather more cheerful than you have lately. What is it?’
‘I had lunch with Roz today.’
‘Did you? How is the dear, difficult child?’
‘Oh, looking wonderful. Very good. And greatly benefited from her year at Harvard.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘Apart from getting in with a thoroughly undesirable fellow.’
‘How much in?’
‘All the way, I would say, from the look of her, and the necklace hanging round her neck.’
‘Well Julian, she is twenty-three. Eliza was married and divorced at that age.’
‘I know. But he’s a bit of a rough diamond. American. Brooklyn. Very rich. Divorced. Very unsuitable. Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about that and that’s not the nice news. She’s going to come and work for the company. She’s got over that independence nonsense at last.’
‘Now that is good news. I agree. Did she ask?’
‘Yes, and very nicely. Quite humbly in fact. I honestly think she’s grown up a bit.’
‘Good. Where are you going to put her?’
‘In Paris. Working on the cosmetics. With Annick Valery. I had a word with Iris Bentinck in New York this afternoon and she was perfectly agreeable.’
‘Well she would be,’ said Letitia briskly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean she’s your employee and your mistress, so she’s unlikely to refuse to take on your daughter.’
‘Mother, that’s grossly unfair. I admit that in the past we had a liaison, but it was very short-lived. And it was ages ago.’
‘And it’s quite over?’
He met her eyes in amused surprise. ‘Of course.’
‘I see. Well anyway, what has Paris got to do with Iris? She’s in New York.’
‘Well, she’s in charge of Juliana worldwide. As a courtesy I had to consult her.’
‘I see. Well anyway, I’m delighted about Roz. Give her my love.’
‘She’s coming down to Marriotts for the weekend. Would you like to join us? Several people are coming, including Nancy Craig. She’s very knowledgeable about horses.’
‘No, I don’t think so, thank you,’ said Letitia. ‘I think I may have things to do in London. Will Camilla be there? I don’t suppose Roz will be very pleased if she is.’
‘No, she won’t,’ he said shortly.
‘Oh. I thought you said she was over here.’
‘She is. But she’s not spending the weekend with me.’
‘Ah. Julian, just exactly what is going on with Camilla?’
‘Nothing,’ he said lightly, ‘no more or less than there ever was. We have a perfect arrangement. It suits us very well. Well, as a matter of fact, we are changing things a little. Camilla is buying her own house. In Knightsbridge.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Oh, it’s entirely her idea,’ he said easily. ‘Like most things she does. One of her feminist theories. She says she doesn’t enjoy the role of surrogate wife and she wishes to be geographically independent from me. She says she wants to be her own woman; one of her less attractive American expressions.’
‘I see.’
He looked at her. ‘Mother, don’t look at me like that. Camilla is not some downtrodden housewife, you know. The move was her idea. I just told you. Things suit us very well.’
‘They suit you very well,’ said Letitia. ‘Sometimes I wonder about Camilla.’
‘Well,’ he said, getting up, ‘I must go. I’m going out to dinner.’
‘Who with?’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘no one you’d know. Bye, Mother. Enjoy your calculator.’
‘Goodbye, Julian.’
She looked after his tall figure with something close to dislike. She had never expected to feel sorry for Camilla, but just occasionally these days she did.
The last person to arrive was Roz. ‘Well,’ said Letitia, ‘this completes the family party. First your mother then your father. How are you, darling?’
‘Very well, thank you. I’ve had the most marvellous time in New York.’
‘I know. Your father’s been worrying about it.’
‘Has he? What did he tell you?’
‘Oh, nothing much. That you have a very unsuitable boyfriend.’
‘Oh, he’s so possessive. Michael isn’t my boyfriend anyway. Just a friend.’
Letitia looked at the necklace that had so worried Julian and changed the subject.
‘I gather that Camilla will be round a bit less.’
‘Really?’ Roz’s face brightened. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s moving out of Hanover Terrace.’
‘She’s not! That’s really good news. Oh, it’s so exactly like Daddy not to tell me. I had lunch with him only today. How do you know?’
‘Your father told me.’
‘But why?’
‘Oh, darling, I don’t know. The official reason is that she wants to be her own woman. I think that was the phrase. Poor Camilla.’
‘I never thought to hear you say poor Camilla. I suppose he’s got some new bird.’
‘I daresay. And I do feel sorry for her just at the moment. She’s been very loyal to him, after all.’
‘Granny Letitia, lots of people have been loyal to him. He’s just not loyal back.’
Letitia sighed. ‘You see your father very clearly, don’t you, darling?’
‘Yes, well, I’ve had ample opportunity to study him over the years. Not as much as most daughters, of course, but still enough. Anyway, I’m going to start working for him now.’
‘I know. He told me.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I’m so pleased, darling. And so is he. Thrilled. He loves you very much, Roz. I wish you’d believe that. And he’s always wanted this. I hear you’re going to be in Paris.’
‘Yes. I’d rather New York, of course.’
‘No doubt,’ said Letitia, with a gleam in her eye, ‘that’s why you’re going to Paris.’
‘Yes.’
Letitia looked at Roz and smiled. ‘Well anyway, I do think you’ll enjoy it and have a marvellous time. Do you want to have supper with me, darling?’
‘No, really, I can’t. I’m going round to see Susan. Another time perhaps, before I go.’
‘Yes. You’re very fond of Susan, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Very, very fond. She’s been really good to me. Ever since I can remember. Even when I was a really awful teenager, I always felt she was on my side. And she never dishes out all that nauseating horse manure about how much my parents adore me, and how lucky I am. She sees everything terribly straight. She was in New York last month,’ she said suddenly, ‘and met Michael. She really liked him.’
‘Good,’ said Letitia, ‘if she liked him, he’s probably nice. I wish Susan could get married,’ she added with a sigh. ‘She deserves some happiness.’
‘Oh, I don’t think she’s unhappy. Anyway, she may be going to marry Richard Brookes. Oh, God, I shouldn’t have told you. Now Granny, you’re not to gossip about that. You’re not to.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Letitia, her purply-blue eyes very wide. ‘But I am delighted.’
‘So am I. Just thank goodness she didn’t marry Daddy, that’s all. Did you know he asked her?’
‘Yes,’ said Letitia, ‘yes, she told me. Good gracious, you are close to her, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘And why do you think that would have been such a bad idea?’
‘Well,’ said Roz, ‘don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Letitia, ‘yes, I’m very much afraid I do.’