London, Sussex, New York, Los Angeles, Paris, Nice, 1984–5
THE PARADOX OF the virgin bride is that she is potentially more promiscuous than her experienced sisters. If her bridegroom proves a disappointment, she will inevitably be seeking the long-awaited, much vaunted pleasure elsewhere and if he proves a delight she will almost equally inevitably wonder if other bodies in other beds might not be more delightful still.
Phaedria Morell had, to all intents and purposes, been a virgin bride; and her bridegroom had shown her considerable delights; nevertheless, over a year having passed since he had led her to her somewhat unconventional marriage bed on his office floor, she found herself restless, excited, disturbed. Her earlier anxieties about her own sexual capacity had been shifted, if not entirely removed, by a new and even rather dangerous self-confidence; she had begun to change more than she realized.
Her success, her new-found power and her pleasure in it, the gloss and sleekness Julian’s money had bestowed upon her, had all conspired to make her greatly sought after; she had none of the problems experienced by Eliza thirty years earlier, of having to fit in with Julian’s circle, of having no status, no life of her own. She found herself at the centre of a fashionable world, of designers, photographers, journalists; she could pick her friends, her social circle, from a group of people with whom she felt entirely at ease, who pleased and amused her, and who she seemed to please and amuse. Wherever she went, and whatever she did, she found attention. She was photographed, interviewed, sought after; scarcely a day passed for a while when her picture or her pronouncements, and very frequently both, did not appear in the press, she was a frequent guest on chat shows, labelled by Tatler leader of the ‘Chat Pack: Cafe Society 1980 Style’, she was recognized everywhere she went, she was stared at, remarked upon, exclaimed over. And she became increasingly pleased by it. She would scarcely have been human had she not; from the near obscurity of a two-bit job on a provincial paper, she had become seriously famous, sought after by stylish society in New York as well as London, flattered and praised everywhere she went. And when the flattery and praise fell from the eyes and lips of attractive men, and attractive young men in particular, she found it and them quite irresistible.
A year after her wedding, her name had been linked with at least three highly (and visibly) eligible young men: Bruce Greene, race horse owner and polo player (whose attraction for her owed at least something to her emotional memories of another blond, blue-eyed hero of the polo field); Danny Carter, a truculent, young working-class photographer, who had made love to her, if not literally, constantly and disturbingly with his voice and his camera lens, through several heady afternoons, behind his locked studio door; and Dominic Kennedy, twice divorced, self-made millionaire, who phoned her every morning as soon as she got into the office and invited her to dinner before finalizing his arrangements for the evening with anybody else.
With all of them she flirted, lunched, and occasionally (when Julian was away) dined. She let nothing more carnal come to pass between herself and them than an occasional mildly sensuous kiss, she had no real intention of having an affair with anybody; nevertheless she felt, she enjoyed, she was reassured by the attention of other men and her pleasure from it; she toyed with the ultimate conclusions, she meditated upon the possible pleasures, and she was careless of her husband’s reaction.
That summer Phaedria gave a fancy-dress ball on midsummer night at Marriotts; three hundred guests came for dinner, and another three hundred arrived at ten as the dancing began. Not only the drive to Marriotts, but all the lanes leading to it for five miles, were lit with torches, and the grounds were spangled with five thousand fairy lights. The dancing took place in two sea-blue marquees, the bands performing against great theatrical sets of fairyland designed by Damon Austen, brilliant new recruit to the Royal Shakespeare Company and rumoured to be yet another of Lady Morell’s admirers, and even the grounds had been adorned with great drifting garlands of green gauze hanging from the trees. The riverboats which had been such a feature at her wedding drifted on the lake, each one lit by hundreds of candles, bearing the champagne breakfast which was served as dawn broke; and as the sun rose, exactly on cue, the white peacocks, Phaedria’s Christmas present to Julian, appeared and strutted about the lawns, giving out their strange pagan cries. The costumes were dazzling; fairies danced with hobgoblins, mermaids with centaurs, princes with beggarmaids; the entire grounds appeared, in the dusky flickering light, to be filled with creatures of another world, some with ornate masks; Phaedria herself, dressed as Titania, in a green silk chiffon dress designed by Xandra Rhodes, her face made up theatrically strange in blues and greens, her hair drawn back from her face with a rope of pearls, and her feet bare, looked quite extraordinary; even those who knew her well stared at her, newly impressed by her beauty. Only the host, wandering apparently benignly about his guests, smiling, talking, dancing with all the most beautiful women, with the notable exception of his own wife, refused to participate very fully in the fantasy and wore white tie and tails. The ball was featured in every popular newspaper, in Tatler and Harpers & Queen, claimed three entire pages in Ritz magazine, and even made the sign-off story on News at Ten; Lady Morell was clearly now established (or so said the media) as one of the great party givers of her generation.
Julian was initially amused and then patently irritated by the way she had become a minor celebrity and her reaction to it; Phaedria enjoyed his irritation. She saw her success as a way of redressing the balance a little in their marriage; she was no longer a nobody, a mere recipient of his favours. She had power of her own, albeit limited; she could give as well as take, hold her own in his life, and after eighteen months of being made to feel excessively fortunate she was enjoying the sensation.
Julian seemed more jealous of her fame, of the column inches she was consuming day by day, than of the young men; she wasn’t sure if he was really unmoved by her lunch companions, the insinuations in the gossip columns, but he certainly seemed to be. It annoyed her a little; she would have liked him to exhibit at least a touch of possessiveness, but he did not, he looked at her with his cool blank gaze, when they were out together and she was surrounded with her circle, when the stories reached him or he read them in the paper, and said he hoped she was enjoying herself, managing to imply that it was both unlikely and unattractive if she was.
Except in one case; one name on her lips, she knew, could cloud a morning, wreck a dinner, destroy a weekend; one man threatened her peace of mind and her marriage; the one man who paradoxically she had every reason to be innocently occupied with: David Sassoon.
Julian Morell was working on a new cosmetic range. It was the first he had given his total attention to, put aside other work for, for years; he was totally engrossed in it, spending much time in New York with the chemists there. The concept was an absolute secret; nobody, not even Annick Valery, who was now directrice de beauté for Juliana worldwide, not even David Sassoon who was working on the packaging, not even Phaedria Morell who was supposedly privy to all the workings of her husband’s mind, knew absolutely what it was. It was a complete range, that everybody knew, it was to be highly priced, and very original, it was to be launched for Christmas, there was an all-time-high advertising budget, using posters, cinema and television, and a new model had been signed up exclusively to represent it, a brown-eyed ash blonde, called Regency, who was seventeen years old and who was reportedly consoling Mr Morell in his great unhappiness over the famously bad behaviour of his new young wife. Both the reports and the unhappiness were only a little exaggerated.
Phaedria tried to talk to Julian about the range, to show her interest, to offer her opinion, but he brushed her aside almost contemptuously. ‘You know nothing about cosmetics, and besides you’re far too busy with your own life these days.’
‘Julian, that’s not true, I can make the time easily, you know I can, and I’d like to talk to you about it, it’s obviously terribly important to you.’
‘Well,’ he said, looking at her oddly, ‘that’s very good of you, but frankly I don’t have the time to go through it all with you, when really I feel you could contribute very little. But thank you for your interest.’
Phaedria turned away, afraid he would see the tears behind her eyes; he still had the power to hurt her horribly.
‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘I’ll be away for a few days. We’re shooting some commercials in Paris.’
‘Could I – Would you like me to come with you?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. A waste of your time. You must be extremely busy with Christmas planning for the store. I hope you can improve upon those designs for the window displays. They’re very poor, in my opinion.’
‘Yes well, if I was able to work with the right person – I mean people – they might not be so poor.’
‘If you mean Sassoon, I really cannot believe that you regard him as a suitable person to work on window displays. Phaedria, David Sassoon is head of corporate design in this company. He cannot be expected to concern himself with trivia. If I may say so, you are showing a severe lack of understanding of the areas of control and how to use them.’
‘You may say so,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and I expect you’re right. But the fact remains there’s nobody decent in the display department.’
‘That,’ said Julian, ‘is patent nonsense. There is considerable talent in the display department. It is entirely your responsibility to motivate it properly. Talk to Roz about it, I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will.’
He left for Paris in the morning, in his private jet, with Regency, David Sassoon and several people from the advertising agency. Phaedria, looking at the photograph the publicity people had organized and brought to her desk for approval, felt oddly bereft.
When he came back three days later he was curt and short-tempered. She had been looking forward to his return, and had organized dinner at home for the two of them, and had a bottle of champagne on ice.
‘I’m sorry, Phaedria, I have to go out for dinner.’
‘Who with?’
‘What’s that? Oh, Freddy Branksome. And then I’m looking in on Roz and C. J. later. I have to talk to C. J. about the new Morell in Acapulco. Don’t wait up for me. I shall probably be very late.’
‘Julian –’
‘Yes?’
‘Julian, I don’t mind waiting up for you.’
‘Darling,’ he said, and he managed to turn the endearment into something cold and distant, ‘I’d really rather you didn’t. I can’t concentrate on things if I’ve got half a mind on getting back.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘all right.’
‘Get those displays sorted out?’
‘What? Oh, yes, I think so.’
‘No. She’s – been away.’
‘Where, for God’s sake? The Beverly Hills Circe opening is only weeks away. She can’t afford to be away.’
‘Julian, I don’t know where she’s been. She’s probably been there.’
‘Oh, all right. I’ll find out from C. J. See you in the morning.’
‘Good night, Julian.’
She waited until his car had disappeared from the terrace and then picked up the phone and called Dominic Kennedy. She had no intention of spending the evening alone with the Circe window displays.
Roz had not been in Los Angeles. She had taken advantage of her father’s absence to go to New York for three days, ostensibly checking on Circe’s Christmas programme, but actually scarcely leaving Michael Browning’s penthouse and his bed. A couple of phone calls and his late-night conversation with C. J. made this abundantly clear to Julian; he was furiously angry.
He sent for her in the morning; she came in looking wary.
‘Good morning, Rosamund. How are you?’
‘Very well. How was Paris?’
‘Excellent. And New York?’
‘Very good.’
‘How are the cosmetic promotions going in Circe? Particularly the gift with purchase?’
‘Very well indeed.’
‘Good. How clever you are, Rosamund.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, a conversation I had with Iris Bentinck. She said you hadn’t been anywhere near Circe, and yet you seem to have managed to garner a considerable amount of information.’
‘I see.’
‘If you’re going to lie, Roz,’ he said, ‘do it properly. Do some background work first.’
‘Yes well,’ she said, ‘you should know.’
He looked at her and half smiled. He was always impressed when she stood up to him.
‘Well anyway,’ he said, ‘fortunately the promotions are going well. Now then, has Phaedria talked to you about the window displays here?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll get her in. She needs some help.’
‘Ah.’
Phaedria walked in; she looked tired. She had been dancing at Tramps half the night with Dominic Kennedy and a group of their friends; Julian had got home before her and gone to bed, merely asking her over breakfast if she had enjoyed herself. He looked at her now with something close to distaste.
‘Phaedria, if you talk to Roz after this meeting about the windows, she may be able to help before it’s too late. Is everything else under control for Christmas? It’s almost the end of August, you seem to be sailing very close to the wind to me.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, meeting his eyes with equal distaste. ‘Absolutely.’
‘Good. Because I want you to go to Los Angeles for a few days next week.’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to look at the store. I want your opinion on what’s going on there.’
‘I see. Both of us? Roz and me?’
There was a long silence.
‘No,’ said Julian. ‘Only you.’
Roz walked out of the office.
That night she talked to Michael Browning for over an hour on the phone, almost incoherent with misery and rage. ‘I hate her, I hate her, it’s so unjust, why should I have to endure it?’
‘Roz, it’s not her fault. Surely you can see that. It’s your old man. He has the two of you out there on that chess board of his he calls his company, and I would say it’s probably check. If not checkmate.’
‘All right then, I hate him. I hate them both.’
‘Leave them both and come with me. I won’t play games with you.’
‘No, I know you won’t.’
‘Please, darling. Don’t be so dumb. Just walk out on the lot of them.’
She sighed. ‘Right now I feel I just might. I just feel so – used.’
‘Yeah, well you’re in the clutches of a real champion at that game.’
‘Maybe. I can’t help feeling it’s about time I got a break.’
A week later she did. She was trying to contact C. J. in Washington; he had been there working on the new corporate image for the hotels with David Sassoon.
‘Your husband has gone to New York this morning, Mrs Emerson. You should get him at the Morell there, at lunch time.’
C. J. was distant, cool. ‘I may stay here a few days. We’ve finished in Washington.’
‘How was it?’
‘OK.’
‘Is David staying there with you? Or is he on his way back?’
‘No. I thought you’d know.’
‘Know what?’
‘He’s gone across to LA. Phaedria phoned him. She’s there. She wants him to look at Circe. I thought you’d be going.’
‘No,’ said Roz. Time seemed to have frozen round her. It was extremely quiet. ‘No, I’m not going. Well, enjoy New York, C. J. Give my love to your mother.’
‘Sure. Bye, Roz.’
‘Goodbye.’
She and her father had their weekly progress meeting three days later. He was unsmiling, his eyes at their most blank.
‘Everything under control?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I thought we might look at Sydney for a site for Circe. Why don’t you go over for a week or two and see what you think.’
‘You’ve always said Sydney was wrong for Circe.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. I was wrong about Beverly Hills.’
‘Yes.’
‘Take C. J. with you and Miranda. Make a holiday of it.’
‘Don’t try and charm me back into submission, please. I’m finding all these games with Phaedria very hard to take. And I certainly don’t want to go to Australia with C. J., I think I’m probably going to divorce him.’ She was only testing her father’s reaction; she had given a divorce almost no thought at all.
‘Roz, you can’t do that. Absolutely not.’
‘I can.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘How will you stop me?’
‘If you do,’ he said, his face smooth, ‘if you even suggest such a thing, I shall give the stores to Phaedria. All of them.’
Roz felt as if she had just fallen from a great height. She felt light-headed, dizzy, distant; he seemed a long way away.
‘You couldn’t.’
‘I would. She has great talent. She’s original.’
‘And I’m not?’
‘Not specially.’
‘God,’ she said, ‘you really are a bastard. A manipulative, evil bastard. Well, do that. Give them to her. I don’t care. I shall go and work for Michael. That’s just fine.’
‘Oh, excellent,’ he said. ‘You can redesign By Now for him. That would be a good project for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosamund?’
‘I could do anything for Michael. He has enough money. I could start a new line of stores myself.’
‘You could. You wouldn’t have much expertise behind you, though. Not in him, would you? Not much flair. It would be very difficult. I have all the best people in retailing tied up. And if you found any brilliant new people, I should probably find I needed them more. And what do you think people would say? They would compare what you were doing very unfavourably, I would imagine. Poor Roz, they’d say, you see, she didn’t have it in her, really, it was all just handed her on a plate, she’s nothing without her father. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You need success and admiration and power. I think you would be making a huge mistake.’
Roz suddenly hit him, sharply across the face; then she stood back, frozen into stillness, stunned by her own courage.
Julian stood looking at her, equally motionless. He was breathing heavily. There was an odd expression on his face, almost one of puzzlement.
‘Why are you doing this?’ cried Roz, almost in anguish. ‘Why? Why can’t you leave me alone?’ Tears had filled her eyes; she was very white.
‘Roz, Roz, don’t. Please don’t be so hostile. I’m trying to help you. Trying to save your marriage.’
‘I feel hostile. I hate you. I hate you more than I would have believed possible. And on the subject of marriage, maybe you should take a look at your own.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where is that original, beautiful wife of yours right now?’
‘She’s in Los Angeles. I told her to go.’
‘She is indeed. And do you know who’s there with her?’
‘What do you mean? Nobody’s with her.’
‘Oh, yes they are. At this very minute David Sassoon is there. You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You don’t have to. You can ring the Beverly Hills Hotel yourself and check. Like I just did. They’re both there, for another two days. Together.’
Phaedria was lying by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, when she was paged. ‘Call for Lady Morell. Call for Lady Morell.’
She sighed. She was half asleep, sun-soaked, happy. She had been working for almost twenty hours and she wanted to stay where she was, not moving, for a little longer.
She had enjoyed the last few days. She had been well aware of the personal risk she was running, calling in David; but when she had got to LA, had seen the way the designer there been very slightly over-extravagant with the open space, just minimally too cautious with colour, how the windows were just a fraction too close in feel to all the other windows up and down Rodeo Drive, she had, without any thought for anything at all except Circe, put in a call to Washington, where she knew he and C. J. were. She had expected only to talk to him, to describe the problems, maybe to put him in touch with the other designer; when he had said he was free and would come over, her spirit lifted at the thought of defying Julian, of showing him, if necessary, that she was not to be told what to do.
Whatever the sexual and marital considerations involved, David’s arrival had solved her professional problems. He had stayed forty-eight hours, at least forty of which they had been awake and working, or eating and talking shop. They had both, oddly but tacitly conscious of their slightly compromising situation, avoided lengthy dinners or even any but the briefest sojourns by the pool, and the one time he had attempted to probe her feelings on her situation and her marriage she had closed the slightly forbidding shell of reserve she wore around herself and made it very clear that he was not to try to open it. It had been tempting, she longed for a confidant, yearned to talk not only about Julian, but Roz; but David was the least likely candidate for such a role and certainly not in the dangerous situation they were in, and she knew it.
So now he was gone; she had driven him to the airport in a hire car, he had kissed her goodbye in a brotherly – or would it be fatherly – fashion, she wondered, and she returned to the Beverly Hills and its pool and its pampering power, to recover for a day or two.
She needed to recover; she was not only tired from the strain of the last forty-eight hours, but the previous few months. She was beginning to find Julian seriously dispiriting. His jealousy, his constant criticism, his arrogance were very destructive. She had tried to be tolerant, to remember Letitia’s words, but she was too busy fighting for her own survival most of the time to have any emotional energy left for him. What she would not do was give in, when she was quite convinced he was wrong. She was prepared to listen carefully to his point of view, to consider his criticisms, to take note of his experience, but after that she would, if it seemed necessary, come out fighting. And Julian didn’t like it.
She fought him for the most part privately; and when necessary she fought him publicly, and fiercely; but she always fought fair. She never hit him below the belt. She never traded on her position, never carried some personal slight or quarrel into their professional life. As a result, long and bloody as the fights were, they usually ended in truce; Julian would be angry, outraged, but he respected what she had to say and think, and in the end he would not give in, but he would concede at least something.
But it was difficult: difficult to hang on to her self-respect, difficult to work effectively and efficiently, difficult above all to nurture and enjoy what was after all a very young and delicate marriage. She felt increasingly alone in her struggle; she could not talk to Julian, he totally discouraged any attempt to confront their difficulties, and she was far too reticent and too loyal to discuss them with anyone else, even with Eliza, who clearly wanted to help her, and was always attempting to probe her feelings and her life. The only thing she could do, she felt, was move from day to day, feeling her way, trying to cope with it all, and hope that time would carry them into some calmer, less dangerous territory.
So for all those reasons, she was tired, she had been enjoying her brief rest, and she didn’t want it to end. She remained motionless, merely raised a slender, sunbrowned arm; one of the small swarm of waiters who hovered permanently watchful near the pool appeared instantly in front of her.
‘There’s a call for me,’ she said, ‘would you bring me a phone, please?’
‘Certainly, Lady Morell.’
‘Hallo?’ she said, picking it up on his return. ‘Yes?’
‘Phaedria?’
‘Yes? Hallo, Julian. Where on earth are you?’
‘In Reception.’
‘In Reception where?’
‘In Reception here.’
‘Good God. Well, you certainly are full of surprises.’
‘I try to be.’
‘I’ll be right out.’
She walked into the foyer of the hotel, carelessly graceful, dressed only in a minute blue bikini, a white towelling robe swinging loosely round her shoulders, her feet bare, her hair loose and slightly damp from swimming. In a place well used to beautiful women, she still attracted great attention.
She kissed him lightly. He looked at her.
‘You look tired.’
‘Yes, I was working most of the night.’
‘Indeed? On what?’
‘The merchandise. I’ve found a marvellous new designer.’
‘A new one? How nice.’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Julian, why are you here?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Why didn’t you ring first?’
‘Then I wouldn’t have surprised you.’
‘No. Well, shall we go up to the suite? I expect you’d like to change.’
‘You have a suite, not a bungalow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? I keep a bungalow here.’
‘I know. But I don’t like them particularly. I feel – oh, I don’t know, vulnerable.’
‘I see.’
‘Well, let’s go up. Would you like a drink?’
‘No thank you.’
‘All right.’
She followed him into the lift, into the suite, wary, baffled. The boy brought in Julian’s case; when the door was closed he took her by the shoulders and turned her to him.
‘Where is he?’
‘Where is who?’
‘Sassoon?’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Phaedria, I know he’s here.’
‘He is not here.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Would you like to search the hotel?’
He looked at her closely, then released her and sat down heavily on the bed. Phaedria walked over to the window, looked out at the brilliant sunshine, the blue carefree sky, so poignantly contrasting to the dark mood in the room; then she turned.
‘He has been here, though. Until this morning.’
‘I see. In this room, or did you share another suite?’
‘Julian, I really feel desperately sorry for you. You just can’t go on in this ridiculous, melodramatic fashion. I am not having an affair with David Sassoon, neither of us has the slightest inclination to do anything of the sort. If he is in love with anyone, it’s Eliza, still. I like him very much. I think he’s fun, I love working with him, and I think he’s very attractive. But I am not in the business of having affairs, unlike yourself –’
She looked at him, unafraid.
‘I am married to you, I care about you, and I am much too busy and too sensible to risk losing you.’
‘Me and all that goes with me.’
‘That was vile.’
‘The truth often is.’
‘I didn’t think you were very well acquainted with the truth, Julian. Anyway, who told you David was here? Roz, I suppose?’
‘Can we leave the ridiculous vendetta between you and Roz out of this?’
‘It’s very difficult, when most of the unhappinesses between us can be laid directly at her door.’
‘Phaedria, grow up, for God’s sake.’
She looked at him, her eyes full of a strange pain.
‘I’m trying to, Julian, believe me. I’m not getting a great deal of help from you. Are you going to accept what I said about David or not?’
‘Phaedria, even if I accepted it, even if I believed you, which I don’t know that I do, how could you ask Sassoon down here, to stay in the same hotel, when I had expressly forbidden you to have any more to do with him?’
‘That was precisely the reason. Or one of them. That you’d forbidden me. If you’d asked me, sensitively, I might have felt different, might have been prepared to try and understand. The other was of course that he was the only person who could do what I wanted.’
‘Indeed. Where? In bed?’
She crossed to the lobby, pulled her suitcase out. ‘This is ridiculous. I’m going.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I am going. Immediately. That will save you the trouble of packing.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘I think not. If anyone is mad, I think it is you.’
He left immediately, without another word. While he was waiting for his plane at Los Angeles airport, he phoned his lawyer.
Phaedria arrived home at Regent’s Park forty-eight hours later. It was very late; the house was in darkness, utterly quiet. She put down her bags, and moved silently upstairs. She was not sure what she might find; that Julian was not there at all, that he would be in bed with someone else, that he would be alone and hostile, refusing to speak to her. She pushed open the bedroom door. He was in bed, alone, asleep, completely still; he did not stir. For a horrific moment she thought he was dead, had taken an overdose and it would be her fault; then he suddenly moved, turned over, still asleep; she looked at him; for the very first time, she noticed, remorseful, almost afraid, he looked older. His hair was greyer, his face relaxed in sleep was suddenly more lined, looser. He appeared very vulnerable.
She sat down on the bed beside him and looked at him for a long time. Then she put out her hand and rested it gently on his shoulder, and bent and kissed his forehead. He woke, quite easily then, not startled, just slowly moved into consciousness, opened his eyes and looked at her in silence.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was quite quite wrong. Cruel and arrogant and wrong. Please forgive me.’
‘Oh, Phaedria,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re back. I thought I might not see you again.’
‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ she said, pulling off her clothes, climbing into bed thankfully beside him.
‘Not very. But I’m beginning to learn.’
She didn’t challenge Roz on the subject of whether or not she had sent Julian down to LA. It didn’t seem worth the emotional effort. She would have denied it, or argued in that curious convoluted, noncommittal way she had inherited from her father, and either way it would be fruitless. They tried not to speak to one another at all these days, except when pressures of business forced them; it was better that way. Phaedria was sometimes frightened by the force of Roz’s hatred for her; in her darkest moments, when she lay awake in the small hours of the morning, as she often did these days, watching for the light to filter through the curtains of her bedroom, she sometimes feared that Roz might resort to physical violence, even try to kill her. Then the morning would come and she would be caught up in the maelstrom of her own frantic life, and she would smile tolerantly at her own foolishness. But deep within her the fear remained and could not be acknowledged to anyone. She thought that probably David might have understood – he had known Roz for so long, indeed was fond of her, and had worked closely with Julian for fifteen years. But he was lost to her now. She had had one last conversation with him, risking the most appalling reprisals from both Julian and Roz, should they have found out (she actually insisted, laughing at herself even as she did it, that they met in a Motorway Stop on the M4, which seemed as safe as anywhere could possibly be from the eyes of anyone who worked for Julian), when she had explained exactly what had happened, and that they must in future only meet in the most public situations.
‘I know it’s absurd, but I have hurt Julian very badly, and I feel I owe it to him to do what he wants. For some reason he just can’t cope with the thought of you and me provoking the mildest gossip. And he certainly was quite convinced we were having the most marvellous time in bed together in LA.’
‘If only it were true,’ said David, his eyes flicking over her, taking her hand.
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not? Do you think that girl at the till is actually a spy sent by your husband?’
‘Oh, David, if you’d only seen him in the hotel that afternoon you wouldn’t be joking. He was beside himself.’
‘Silly old bugger.’
‘Yes well, maybe, but he’s my husband and I do, believe it or not, want to make him happy.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s all right then. I wondered.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if you were happy, if I didn’t have a lot to answer for, having persuaded you not to run away on the eve of your wedding day.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Good. You’re happy then?’
‘I think so.’
He looked at her; she had got very thin lately, and there were new deep shadows under her dark eyes.
‘If you ever aren’t happy, if you ever need help, you will come to me, won’t you?’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you.’
‘So who do you think sent him hurtling down to LA?’
‘Oh, Roz without a doubt.’
‘Silly girl. She has so much going for her, she’s so clever, so talented, and her father thinks the sun shines out of her elegant arse. I’ve tried telling her, but it doesn’t seem to take. And it would certainly do no good my talking to her now. She’s almost as jealous of your relationship with me as she is of the one between you and Julian.’
‘Oh God,’ said Phaedria. ‘Because of her crush on you? I suppose she would be. You never get over your first great love. I never have.’
‘Pardon me, Lady Morell, but I thought your husband was your first great love.’
‘Oh, no, there was someone. It was – well, odd and hopeless. A bit like Roz’s for you. But I know how she feels. I still think about him sometimes. Especially when I’m low.’
‘Well, that is extremely interesting. I want to know everything about it. Immediately. Don’t look at me like that, I’m only teasing you. Besides, I’ve learnt not to try to make you talk. The sphinx would appear garrulous compared to you. On personal matters, that is. No, I’m extremely fond of Roz, I have to say, but she has always been very difficult.’
Phaedria sighed. ‘Well, half the problems Julian and I have are down to her. But I try to be sorry for her. It must be hard, having me come between her and her future.’
‘Maybe. It would have been better if you’d been fifty-five, with a shelf-like bust and a fine collection of Crimplene dresses.’
‘I could work on that, I suppose. But then Julian would divorce me anyway.’ She looked at him suddenly.
‘Why have you stayed with him all these years? Why didn’t you leave when – when he found out about you and Eliza?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not very proud of it, really. Of course Julian is marvellous to work for. I could never get the same variety, the same freedom with anyone else. At that time, I’d always intended to get out on my own, start a new company, and then marry her. But it was a fantastic job in New York, and I was young and very ambitious and I kept thinking I’d wait another month, three months, six. By which time she was off with some playboy or other.’
‘She’s lovely. I adore her.’
‘So do I. Still.’
‘But you’re not –’
He sighed. ‘Oh, no. She’s absolutely faithful to that old stuffed kilt. We’re just good friends.’
‘I wish we could be good friends, you and I. Maybe in a year or two we can be again.’
‘Maybe. Now, what about another cup of that filthy coffee, and we can drink to Roz’s downfall.’
‘All right. God, I wish it would happen.’
‘I’m afraid it won’t. Unless she goes off with this Browning fellow.’
‘Oh, she’ll never do that. She won’t risk losing everything.’
‘Have you met him?’
‘Never. He doesn’t come to London, for obvious reasons, and I’m hardly likely to meet him in New York.’
‘He’s a delight. Really. You’d like him. And he’d love you.’
‘Oh, David, don’t!’ She shuddered. ‘What a thought. That really would have me in the Thames in concrete boots.’
‘Is she that hostile?’
‘She’s that hostile.’
‘You poor kid.’
‘Nothing to be done about it. Go and get the coffee. We’ll drink that toast.’
Roz was slightly regretting her action. It seemed to have achieved nothing: her father and Phaedria appeared to be closer than they had been for some months; David Sassoon, of whom she was very fond, was cold and distant towards her; and Michael Browning had been very outspoken in his criticism.
They had met in Paris for the weekend, and were lying in bed in one of the suites at the Crillon. Whenever Roz was really down, Michael took her there, and spent the weekend in bed with her, making love to her, feeding her, pouring the finest champagne down her, showering her with presents and flowers and conducting his apparently tireless campaign to entice her away from her husband, her father and the company. So far, as he frequently observed, he was not having a great deal of success.
‘You’re mad, Rosamund. Crazy. All that kind of thing can accomplish is damage to yourself. You won’t win any battles that way. You have to box clever, darling. This is not the kindergarten. Remember Machiavelli.’
‘I didn’t think you knew anything about Machiavelli,’ said Roz sulkily. ‘You’re always saying you never had an education.’
‘No, as usual you weren’t listening. What I am always saying is I never had a conventional education. Machiavelli is compulsory study for any ambitious young man.’
‘Well, what do I have to remember about him anyway?’
‘Machiavelli said you either must promote, or execute. In other words take totally decisive action. No half measures.’
‘I don’t see what you mean. I’d love to execute Phaedria, of course. But I can’t. And it isn’t up to me to promote her.’
‘I don’t agree. Well, obviously your old man has to be doing the actual promoting. But you should encourage him. Make him think you’re coming round. Get him to give her more than she can handle. That way you’ll get rid of her far faster. An execution, masquerading as a promotion. Best of both worlds. And your hands will be clean.’
‘I’m afraid it won’t work,’ said Roz with a sigh. ‘She’s too damned clever. And she has half the company eating out of her hand, wanting to help her.’
‘This is defeatist talk. It doesn’t sound like you. I think I have to meet this lady. She seems to be getting the better of all of you. Maybe I should want to eat out of her hand and help her too.’
‘If you did,’ said Roz, ‘I swear to God I would kill you. First her, then you.’
‘In that case, I guess I’d better stay away.’
The presentation to the sales force of the new range, at the annual sales conference, took place in Nice. Julian liked to make the sales force feel important, pampered; he installed them all in good hotels, gave them two days off to enjoy the place, and then put on an impressive show with the maximum of razzmatazz.
Everybody who mattered was there, whether they were directly involved with the cosmetics or not, Julian’s rationale being that this was still, however large and successful a private company, a family affair. David was there, Roz was there, Letitia was there, Susan was there, Regency was there as the face of the campaign, and this year, of course Phaedria was there.
It always followed the same theatrical form: Act One was a big general presentation by Freddy and Richard on the company and its success; Act Two a more detailed one by Annick Valery on the brands and their success; then an interval which took the form of superb lunch and the announcement of the award winners: highest retail sales, highest trade sales, salesgirl of the year, and so on; and then in the afternoon the curtain went up on Act Three as the new products took the floor.
This was the moment when Julian himself first spoke, and this year more than ever it was the high spot of the conference; he began with a brief, almost poetic talk on the Juliana image and its unique place in the market, and then he would normally hand over to Annick to give a more detailed presentation on the new colours, skin care and perfumes that would go on the counters in the year ahead. It wasn’t always an easy task: the consultants in particular were critical, demanding, asking difficult questions: about whether this product would clash with one already in the range, querying the rationale of that one, demanding to know why a slow line wasn’t being discontinued, or being advertised. Julian and Annick always listened to them patiently and courteously; these women were Juliana’s lifeline. If they had no faith in or understanding of a product, then they were not going to convince their customers that they needed it; and as importantly, if they knew a product didn’t or wouldn’t sell, it was worth hearing their explanation for it. And in return, the sales force had great respect for both Julian and Annick; their understanding of the cosmetic industry, their faith in their own products, the quality they always delivered. They listened to Julian today, enjoying, as they always did, his charming, slightly diffident humour, his courtesy, his way of conveying that he was a mere novice in the business, that he had much to learn from them, and then he moved into his presentation, explaining first that Annick had been giving him some tuition, as he was somewhat rusty in the art.
‘What we have for you today,’ he said, ‘is the first total range in Juliana since Naturally. I felt it was time for a completely new look, a new feel; we have moved away from that softness into something much more positive, more exciting, in a way. And so we have created a range, something quite different, a departure for Juliana, designed for the new woman.
‘It is called Lifestyle, and it is deliberately simple; a set of colours, of skin care, of fragrance which this new woman, the working woman, the powerful, busy woman will instantly recognize as the straightforward, swift route to beauty that she needs, and that nobody else is providing. We have cut out much of the complexity of cosmetics, particularly in the skin care range; just two very simple sets of products, morning and evening. Even the fragrance range will follow this concept; we are taking the mystique out of perfume, and simply offering one strength, one presentation – halfway between a perfume concentrate and an eau de toilette. Plus obviously a bath and body range.’
Roz, watching the consultants, was suddenly sharply and instinctively aware of a hostility. It was only several years of attending these conferences that enabled her to pick it up. A novice, Phaedria for instance, would not have noticed the slightly wall-eyed expression behind the false eyelashes, the fixed hardness of the heavily glossed lips.
Annick had taken over now, presenting the products in detail; again the reaction was muted, slightly flat. Julian moved on to the advertising: six-foot-high facsimiles of the campaign, of Regency’s face were unveiled, the TV commercial was shown (of Regency waking, showering, making up, driving, chairing meetings, lunching, and then finally dining with a man (presumably her inferior), face unseen, and going home to her lonely (presumably powerful) bed. It was a series of endless stills, intercut very fast to give the impression of movement. The backing music was fast, modern, obscure; at the end Regency herself walked to the front of the platform, dressed in a simple black woollen dress by Chanel, worn with pearl and gilt earrings and a long pearl rope, her ash-blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon.
‘I feel very honoured to have been chosen to represent the new Juliana woman,’ she said carefully, giving them all her (literally) million-dollar smile. ‘I hope you will like her as much as I do.’
This long speech closed the presentation; the applause came then, mild, polite applause; again Roz read the mood of the consultants, the sales force, and the message was clear – ‘This girl, this near child, this is not the Juliana woman.’
Julian stood up again; asked for questions, comments. There were many. The consultants in particular were not tentative in their criticism. Did he think something so simple was really going to stand up against the complexity of the competition? Lauder, Revlon, the new Chanel ranges were all launching in very traditional mood. Could a cosmetic, particularly a perfume, survive without mystique? Were the colours not a little harsh, uncompromising? Was not Regency a little young for the Juliana woman, in all her supposed sophistication and glamour? Julian was unfazed by this. The questions were always tough, always challenging; he enjoyed them. And somehow, by the sheer weight of his personality, his own vision, he managed to deflect all the criticism, to persuade everybody that Lifestyle was exactly right for its time, that it would be as triumphant, as successful as anything Juliana had ever done.
This was finale time, traditionally his; when he took the mood of the conference and made it his in a surge of charm and charisma, made every woman in the hall fall a little in love with him, and every man identify with him and what he had done.
Phaedria looked at him, as he stood there, looking stylish and relaxed, reminiscing as he always did, about the early days of the company, and was reminded sharply of the first time she had seen him and fallen so helplessly in love with him. She also properly appreciated for perhaps the first time the extent of what he had accomplished. She felt suddenly a stab of pride, not just in him, but in his company, and in being a part of it; and she felt she was beginning to understand what drove him, and why it mattered to him so very much.
He was drawing to the end of his speech now, paying her a discreetly modest but charming tribute: ‘We have a new recruit to the company; my wife. She is not involved with the cosmetics – yet. Perhaps her time will come. She has certainly done some very good work on the new Circe store and the Juliana beauty salon in London. I feel impressed by what she has done, and I have to say I feel a sense of pride in having discovered her.’ Laughter, some applause. Roz, sitting on the platform behind him, had to fix her smile with such rigidness to prevent it from slipping, she felt her mouth become almost disembodied from the rest of her face. Her eyes met Susan’s in a moment of sheer agony; the warmth and humour there, the briefest possible flicker of a wink, sustained her.
Julian thanked them all, he bade them enjoy the evening ahead (dinner and then the casino for the more reckless souls amongst them), he said he looked forward to seeing as many as possible of them during the year ahead, he wished them luck with the new range.
‘Until later, goodbye and thank you.’
Again, it was only Roz who could detect that he was not entirely happy.
The new range sold into the stores fast. The cosmetic buyers had great faith in Julian Morell and in Juliana. Neither had failed yet. The advertising campaign broke: Regency’s face, glossy, confident, just slightly contemptuous, looked down from hoardings, out of every glossy magazine, the television screen, the cinema.
The Christmas rush in the stores began. The cosmetic houses were engaged on their annual bonanza. Revlon, Lauder, Chanel, Mary Quant, were propelled off a thousand counters and into a million shopping bags in a great wave of perfume, promotion and hype.
And on the same counters, in the same stores, Lifestyle by Juliana remained: uninvited, unwanted, a wallflower at the ball, and Regency’s fixed smile seemed to grow a little more desperate every day.
Julian dismissed the failure completely. It was a hiccup, it meant nothing; maybe the range had not been absolutely right for Christmas, it would start selling hard in the new year. No, Regency was not too young, her face was perfect, she had the look of today, if not tomorrow. It was a look that public opinion would warm to. Yes, the packaging was absolutely right, clean and chic; like the message of the range. Of course it should not be softened, the new woman was not soft.
The consultants had had it too easy for too long; this was a new concept and they had to learn to work harder on it. When it started to sell, when the public recognized it, accepted it as what they wanted, which they assuredly would, then the sales force would relax and grow easier with it.
Phaedria had never admired him more; she half expected him to let down his guard to her, to admit something was wrong, but he did not, he continued to behave as if everything was wonderful, as if Lifestyle was breaking all records. Even when he came into Circe for the Christmas party, and looked at the new range, piled horribly high on the counters, he managed to smile with complete assurance and convey the impression that he was delighted with its progress.
He criticized much that she had done: he still didn’t like the windows, he was unhappy with many of the clothes on the fashion floor, he complained that the flower shop looked messy, he said the lingerie department was hopelessly understocked. But of his own mistake looking him so painfully in the eye, he said nothing, nothing at all.
The only sign she could detect that anything might be seriously troubling him was that he had not made love to her for weeks.
Roz wondered quite often these days if she might be going mad. Her hatred for Phaedria, the rage she felt at her continuing presence in her life and at the threat of her intrusion into her work, was not easing; it accompanied her wherever she went, a dark presence, like some physical growth. Much of the time she felt actually sick; she ate very little, and was aware she was drinking too much. She could not communicate at all with C. J.; she was short-tempered and distant with Miranda, she turned aside Letitia’s worried offer of help and understanding with a brusque ‘I’m fine’; she avoided her mother, she scarcely spoke to her father.
She looked back on the days (was it really only two years ago?) before her father had met Phaedria, when her troubles had been confined to a fall in sales figures, a difficult personnel problem, a temporary vote of no confidence from her father, a mildly unsatisfactory marriage, and was amazed that any of it could have troubled her. It had been another country she had inhabited then, which seemed in retrospect golden, peaceful, endlessly happy; and many of the tears she so often shed, private, anguished, angry tears, were for the loss of that country and her life within it. Only Michael Browning could ease her pain, make her laugh, give her pleasure; only Michael Browning was ultimately forbidden to her. And that thought made her more wretched than anything else.
Christmas was coming; to her utter astonishment and horror, C. J. had asked Phaedria if he, Roz and Miranda could come and spend it at Marriotts. Phaedria and Julian were both, C. J. told her, delighted. ‘Especially your father. So you can’t back out.’
‘How could you, C. J., how could you? Make me spend Christmas of all times with her?’
‘Roz, I don’t see where else is going to be any better for you. And I would certainly like to go. I don’t see that the three of us would have a happy time on our own. At least it will be more fun for Miranda. And besides, you need to form some sort of truce with your father. This will help. You should be grateful to me.’
‘Couldn’t we spend it with your mother?’ asked Roz, casting desperately around for an escape from the trap that was closing in on her.
‘She’s got some huge house party planned, Francesca is getting engaged, and frankly I just can’t face it.’
‘Well, I can’t face this.’
‘Roz –’ He turned to her and his gentle face was totally transformed with anger and misery. ‘I have to face a great deal that I don’t like. Every day of my life. Just do me the rare kindness of allowing me my way for once. Just for a day or two.’
Roz looked at him and felt a wave of misery, not for herself but for him. She had ruined his life, wilfully and thoughtlessly; she had made him very unhappy, and he did not deserve it. She put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, C. J. Really I am. Yes, we’ll go to Marriotts. Perhaps we – we should talk.’
He shook her hand off, looking at her with a cold distaste. ‘I don’t think so. There’s nothing to say. I am trying to work out what to do, and it’s very difficult. But meanwhile I see no point in a painful dialogue.’
Roz walked up to her room, feeling the madness closing in on her. What was she doing? Michael had begged her to spend Christmas with him in the Caribbean, why wasn’t she going with him? She had told him she couldn’t possibly leave the baby (not feeling able to try to explain that spending Christmas with him really would be an open declaration of war between herself and her father), and he had rather surprisingly accepted this without argument. He was having Little Michael and Baby Sharon for the New Year in any case and was rather pathetically having the duplex decorated accordingly, with a Christmas tree in every room and two in the children’s bedroom, and a great pile of presents under every one. Roz, who had never met Little Michael and Baby Sharon, feared for their characters, but Michael assured her they were great kids: ‘Just like their mother, no Browning in them at all.’
And so she packed for Christmas at Marriotts with a heavy heart, wondering how she was going to endure it; but at the last minute the party was greatly improved by the arrival of Letitia, and a car literally filled with parcels; the castle was too cold for her these days, she said, and she wanted to spend Christmas with her great-granddaughter.
Phaedria, who wanted to be busy and to have as little time as possible to spend sitting with her guests, gave the entire staff Christmas Day off, and did all the cooking herself. Christmas morning passed fairly smoothly; they went to church, exchanged presents and had a late lunch during which Letitia kept them entertained with stories of Christmases past; afterwards she said that she and Miranda should go and have naps, and everyone else could clear up.
‘One of the great joys of being very old and very young,’ she said, scooping the child up, ‘is that we don’t have to be helpful.’
‘That was great, Phaedria,’ said C. J., pouring himself a third glass of port and waving the bottle hospitably about the table. ‘You’re a great girl.’ He was fairly drunk.
‘She is,’ said Julian, smiling benignly at her across the candle-lit table. ‘Let’s drink a toast to her. To Phaedria.’
‘To Phaedria,’ said C. J.
‘Phaedria,’ said Roz through clenched teeth. She thought no one would ever know what that moment had cost her.
‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ said C. J. ‘Beautiful. Doesn’t she, Julian?’
‘She does. Not a day over twenty-six.’
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ C. J. went on. ‘All that cooking, and organizing, and running the company and –’
‘Not quite running the company,’ said Roz, sickly sweet.
‘Not all of it.’
‘Oh, give her time,’ said C. J. ‘Just a little bit of time.’
Phaedria shot him a warning look; it was too late.
‘I bet she could do the whole thing. Easily,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘I suppose she will one day, eh Julian?’
‘Possibly,’ said Julian blandly. ‘But not for a very long time, I hope.’
Roz was white, clutching her glass very tightly.
‘Well, I think it would be a wonderful thing,’ said C. J. ‘What a successor, for you.’
There was a strange cracking sound: the delicate stem of Roz’s glass had snapped. Phaedria looked at it, the jagged edge, the red wine spilt on the white cloth, Roz’s blazing eyes, and shivered.
‘Come on, C. J.,’ she said, ‘let’s get a bit of fresh air before it’s dark. Julian? Would you like to come for a walk?’
Julian was looking at Roz thoughtfully. ‘What’s that? Oh, no, I don’t think so. I might even join the other babies upstairs for a rest. You go on. I’ll just help you clear that up, Roz.’
He walked out of the door towards the kitchen, in search of a cloth. Roz, still sitting at the table, still holding the broken glass, looked at Phaedria. She tried, she wanted to remain silent, but she couldn’t. Her self-control, which seemed to her these days to be an increasingly fragile thing, suddenly splintered like the glass.
‘You aren’t going to win, you know,’ she said savagely. ‘Whatever you do, however much you try, I won’t let you win.’
‘Oh, Roz, I don’t want to win,’ said Phaedria wearily. ‘Whatever that might mean.’
‘You’re a liar,’ said Roz, ‘I don’t believe you.’ She knew she was making a fool of herself, losing dignity, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Of course you want to win. You want to take my place in this company, you want it for yourself when my father dies, along with his money. That’s all you want, it’s all you ever wanted and nobody, nobody else at all, seems to be able to see it.’
‘Perhaps because it’s not true,’ said Phaedria quietly. Her eyes were fixed on the jagged glass. She seemed frightened. Her fear gave Roz pleasure, made her feel better.
‘It’s true,’ she said almost cheerfully. ‘I know it’s true and you know it’s true, and it seems to be our little secret.’ She stood up suddenly; she was taller than Phaedria. She began to walk slowly towards her, holding the glass. Phaedria, backing away clumsily, suddenly found herself against the wall.
‘Roz please,’ she said, and there was a tremor in her voice. ‘Please.’
Roz slowly raised the glass; she had no intention of hurting Phaedria with it, but this moment was revenge for all the months, all the misery, all the humiliation, almost for the loss of her father.
‘Roz!’ It was C. J.’s voice from the doorway. ‘Roz, what the hell are you doing? For God’s sake put that down.’
He sounded calm, authoritative. Roz turned and looked at him, put the glass down quite gently.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. Then everyone would feel sorry for her as well as being in love with her. Do enjoy your walk with my husband, Phaedria. You’re very welcome to him.’
She walked quickly out of the room, up the stairs and into her room; Letitia, who was coming down from settling Miranda for her nap, heard her crying, and knew there was nothing, nothing at all, that she could do to help her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said C. J., utterly sobered by the scene and the cold air as they walked out into the drive of Marriotts. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t have hurt you. She – she isn’t very happy at the moment.’
‘No,’ said Phaedria, ‘I can see that.’ She shivered; she was cold in spite of her wolf coat, and very shaken.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes of course I am. It’s just that – that sometimes I do wonder if she will attack me physically. Of course I know it’s silly, but just then it was like all the nightmares coming true.’
‘God,’ said C. J., and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.’
‘Oh, C. J.,’ said Phaedria, ‘don’t worry about me. I’m just being hysterical.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, you’re not. She behaves so terribly badly towards you and it’s just not fair. I don’t know how I can help.’
‘You can’t,’ said Phaedria. ‘The only person who could help is Julian, and he won’t.’
‘No. Maybe if I asked him?’
‘It wouldn’t do any good. It would make things worse. Please don’t.’
‘All right.’ He smiled at her rather weakly. They walked in silence for a while.
‘C. J.,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry for you. You must be very unhappy.’
‘I am,’ he said, ‘very. I’m pretty near to desperate right now. And all I ever wanted was to make everybody happy. I came to work for Julian to please my dad, I got tricked into marrying Roz –’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, didn’t you know? I guess not, nobody does. I never told anyone.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I shouldn’t. Your opinion of Roz must be pretty bad already.’
‘Couldn’t be worse,’ said Phaedria cheerfully, restored to herself by curiosity. ‘Go on, what happened?’
He told her. She listened appalled. ‘That’s terrible. You poor poor man.’
‘Well, it’s my own fault, I should have stood up for my rights. Not easy, though.’
‘Not easy. Absolutely impossible. In this family.’ She put her arm through his. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘There isn’t anything. But if she does go off with Browning, it will be a happy release.’
‘Didn’t you ever love her?’
‘Not really. Only for a moment or two. I suppose,’ he added, ‘if she does go, she’ll take Miranda with her.’
‘I don’t think, actually, it’s very likely,’ said Phaedria with a sigh. ‘That she’ll go, I mean. She needs Julian too much.’
‘Couldn’t you go?’
‘I could. Of course I could. But I guess I’m a coward. I can’t face the drama. I keep hoping things will improve. And I don’t want to lose Miranda.’
There was a silence. ‘Well,’ said Phaedria, attempting to be cheerful, ‘at least you do have Miranda. She’s a poppet.’
‘Yeah, she is. I’m nuts about her. Do you like kids?’
‘Nice ones, yes.’
‘Do you think you and Julian will have any?’
Phaedria stopped walking and faced him, looking totally astonished. ‘Do you know, I’ve never even thought about it. Never. I just don’t know. Maybe we will. I can’t imagine Julian with a baby. Can you?’
‘Yes, I can actually. He loves Miranda. Well, if you do have any, I hope they’ll turn out better than his last attempt.’
Phaedria laughed. ‘Couldn’t be worse.’
That night in bed, she put down her book and turned to Julian. He was frowning over a set of figures.
‘Julian, don’t you ever stop working?’
‘Not often.’ He put them down and looked at her. ‘Thank you for doing today, my darling. I really appreciate it. I can see – well, it isn’t always easy for you.’
Phaedria digested this considerable concession in silence. Then she simply said, ‘It was a pleasure. Can I ask you something?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Would you like me to have a baby?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, very serious. ‘I have thought about it, of course. Haven’t you?’
‘No. Not until today. It never entered my head.’
‘Most women think about it.’
‘I know. But I suppose I thought we had enough problems. Enough adjustments.’
‘Maybe. Would you like to have a baby?’
She was thoughtful. ‘Possibly. Yes, I think so. But not yet. Definitely not yet.’
‘And what if I wanted one – yet?’
She leant over and kissed him. ‘I guess I’d have one. Pretty damn quick. You seem to have ways of getting what you want.’
He switched the light off suddenly and took her in his arms, turning her on to her back, kissing her hair. ‘Certain things have to take place, I believe, before babies are made. Perhaps we could content ourselves for now with a little research.’
She responded swiftly, eagerly melting with pleasure and relief that after all he did still want her; but then as suddenly his mood changed, became distant, and he turned away from her and sighed.
‘Julian, what is it? What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, and his voice was strained, cool. ‘Nothing at all. I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘But I –’
‘Phaedria, please. Let’s just go to sleep.’
She was tired, and fell asleep almost at once; but when she woke a few hours later, restless and hot, he was wide awake, staring blankly into the darkness.
Roz went into her father’s office one morning in January; she looked tired and drawn. Julian and Phaedria had been away for a fortnight on Eleuthera, and this was the first day he had been in the office. He was skimming through some magazines and newspapers; he looked at her with concern.
‘Roz, you don’t look well. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you. I just wanted to talk to you.’
‘Yes? You know I’m always happy to talk to you.’
‘You may not be too happy about this.’
‘Try me.’
‘I’ve spent a bit of time at Circe while you’ve been away. The sales figures are disastrous.’
‘Oh, Roz, don’t be absurd, so how can they be disastrous after – what, nine, ten months? It’s still in its earliest stages. Still in a heavy investment situation. Circe New York took three years to break even, never mind show a profit.’
‘Of course. But it was steady growth, however small and slow. London did quite well in the first three weeks and it’s been falling steadily ever since. And certain departments are a disaster.’
‘Like?’
‘The fashion consultancy. Only one client since Christmas. The lingerie. Too tacky looking. There’s a feeling those room sets don’t work.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve talked to the staff. They’re very demoralized. And they feel out on a limb. They got a great deal of attention in the beginning, but they say they hardly see Phaedria these days. They feel abandoned.’
‘Well, let’s get her in,’ said Julian, slightly wearily. ‘I can see it’s a problem. Have you told her all this?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Why of course?’
‘She’s – you’ve – been away.’
‘Sarah, get my wife in, would you?’
‘Yes, Sir Julian.’
Phaedria came into the office ten minutes later. She looked pale.
‘Sorry. I was on the phone to LA.’
‘Phaedria, we seem to have a problem on Circe.’
‘Really? In LA?’
‘No, here. In London.’
‘In London? Who told you?’
‘I did,’ said Roz.
‘Ah,’ said Phaedria.
‘Apparently certain departments are doing extremely badly,’ said Julian.
‘Really? Which?’
‘The clothes consultancy. No clients. The lingerie. No sales. What do you think about that?’
‘Not a lot,’ said Phaedria. ‘It’s early days. In any case I knew. We have time.’
‘Apparently they feel rather abandoned,’ said Julian. ‘They say they haven’t seen you, can’t talk to you about it.’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Phaedria quietly, ‘how could they have? I’ve been away with you.’
‘And before that in LA.’
‘Jesus, Julian, what are you trying to do to me? The two of you? Of course I’ve been in LA. I’ve been terribly busy. At your behest.’
‘Originally at yours. You wanted to be involved.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, keeping her temper with an effort, ‘I suppose I did. I suppose I did take on too much. It hasn’t been easy, Julian. You seem to forget I’m a novice at this game.’
‘You seem to find plenty of time,’ he said, icily smooth, ‘for your other activities.’
Phaedria followed his eyes to his desk. A copy of Vogue lay there opened at a spread of photographs of her by Danny Carter; the Daily Mail diary carried a story about her involvement in a charity fashion show, under the aegis of Dominic Kennedy.
She looked at him steadily. ‘All right. I have been doing – some other things. But I have been working hard on the store as well. None of what Roz says is true. Well, it’s strictly true, the figures aren’t good. I knew that. But they’re very far from disastrous. That’s absolute nonsense. It’s a bad time. The lingerie department had a marvellous Christmas. Now it’s obviously down. I talked to all the departments at length just before Christmas. I had formed some ideas which I was going to discuss with you. But luckily I’ve had some help. You really have been working hard on this, Roz. How kind, how extremely kind of you to keep such a close eye on Circe in my absence. Snooping around, putting words into my staffs mouths, thoughts into their heads. That’s what it amounts to. How dare you? And you, Julian. With all your experience, all your years and years of staff relations and company management, how extraordinary that you didn’t think for one moment that I might need advice, guidance, support even. I could say I wasn’t going to take this any longer, but I’m not prepared to give in to either of you. I will not be beaten. I’m going to my office now, I have several people waiting to see me. Perhaps we could reconvene this meeting later. When we have a few more facts at our disposal. Oh, and Julian,’ she added, turning and confronting him, her eyes steady, ‘did Roz happen to mention the figures for Lifestyle at the same time? I thought not. They make even the lingerie department look healthy.’
Roz watched her thoughtfully as she walked through Sarah Brownsmith’s office and into the lift. She was learning to fight dirty. That was interesting. Roz felt a pang of something quite close to admiration. Then she turned to her father. There was an expression on his face she had not often seen there. It was panic.
More and more these days Phaedria wondered exactly why she was so determined not to give in. It would be so comfortable, so easy; to walk out, say goodbye to them all, embark on her own life, which would, after all, be easy now. She had made a name for herself, she had friends, contacts. She did not think she was happy at all any more; she found it hard to admit, but searching through the painful days, the increasingly lonely nights, there seemed little pleasure. Julian didn’t seem to love her in the least; occasionally he was tender, kind, appreciative, even more occasionally lover-like. More and more he slept alone; he had made love to her once or twice in the house at Turtle Cove, but it had been with a kind of frantic fervour, as if he had been trying to prove something, there was none of the confident, joyful pleasure she had fallen in love with.
And then there was Roz. Some days, she felt, in a near-feverish anxiety, that it was Roz who was married to Julian, so close, so alike did they seem, and she was the interloper, the intruder on the relationship. Julian never acknowledged that there was any kind of problem with Roz; he ignored it, ignored Roz’s rudeness and hostility and continued to treat her with patience and courtesy; Phaedria compared it with the impatience and intolerance with which he talked to her and wondered how she was expected to endure it.
Love suffereth long and is kind, Michael Browning thought to himself as he waited for Roz’s plane at Kennedy Airport one evening in late February. He felt he had suffered for longer and had been kinder than most men would have been; and right now he was finding it hard to think why. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was wearying of the long game of piggy in the middle he seemed to have been playing with Roz and Julian almost as long as he could remember. Quite who was in the middle he wasn’t sure, but he as sure as hell wasn’t winning. On the other hand, he wasn’t losing either; Roz was still there, in his life, in his bed, and in his heart for that matter. It had to be love, he thought, there could be no other explanation for a relationship that continued to thrive, to give pleasure, against such odds as almost continuous separation, a refusal to commit to any kind of permanence, and which most clearly cast him as supporting player to a company and the leading lady’s role in it. Well, he had finally had enough. He was about to step centre stage. No matter what it cost him, what it cost Roz, the situation had to be resolved. It was unendurable.
She was walking towards him now, smiling, looking pale and tired, but happy, in a long fur coat and high brown leather boots; he felt at the same time a stab of irritation that she should be so remorselessly confident of him, and a surge of love and pleasure.
‘Hallo, Michael.’
‘Hi, darling.’ Despite the surge he held back, kissed her formally, distantly. Roz didn’t notice. She was always immune to subtleties of behaviour unless they took place in the boardroom.
‘Ghastly flight.’
‘I’m sorry. What was wrong with it? Did they take a wrong turning?’
‘I think they must have done. I seem to have been up there for ever. And I’d seen the film. And the woman sitting next to me talked about her grandchildren all the way. Oh, God, Michael, let’s get back.’
‘OK.’ He was used to her litanies of discontent; he had learnt to ignore them. The thing about Roz, he thought, and it always amazed him that nobody realized it but him, was that beneath the bad temper, the bitching, the chips on both her elegantly sloping shoulders, was a funny, sexy, averagely nice woman. You just had to dig a bit. Michael had dug.
‘What do you want to do this evening? Eat out? Stay in? I have Rosa standing by just in case.’
‘I want to stay in, with you, without Rosa, let’s get something delivered, and I want to have you in every room in the place.’
Michael looked at her and struggled to maintain an equilibrium. He had more serious, more important intentions for the evening than making love on a lot of different floors, beds and couches.
‘That’s nice to hear. But I want to talk to you.’
Roz’s heart sank. She knew what that meant. Another attempt at a promise, another demand for commitment; he was growing weary at last and she knew it, and it frightened her.
‘Michael, don’t, please. Not this weekend.’
‘Weekend? I thought it was five days.’
‘Well, long weekend. I have to go back on Monday. I’m sorry, I was going to tell you.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Rosamund, why?’
‘Well, my father’s called a board meeting, a full board meeting, to discuss the new company. I have to be there. Surely you can see that.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see it.’
She misread his mood. ‘Good. I knew you would. I’m sorry. Let’s go and find the car.’
‘I’ll go find the car. I don’t see a lot of point you coming in it. Why don’t you just stay here and get the next plane home? You can prepare for the board meeting better, really put on a good show, impress your father, give one in the eye to your rival. Go on, Roz, go and get yourself a flight.’
‘Oh, Michael, don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘I am not being ridiculous. I love you and I need you and if you felt half as much for me you wouldn’t even think of rushing back for some two-bit board meeting. Which no doubt he’s called because he knows you’re here. Well, does he know you’re here?’
‘Yes,’ she said, very quietly.
‘Will you stay?’
‘I can’t, I can’t, not yet, not now, you’re asking too much.’
‘Oh, go fuck yourself.’
He gave her a look of despair, of hostility mingled with such love that tears filled her eyes. She put out a hand, put it on his arm.
‘Please, Michael, don’t.’
‘Don’t what? Don’t get sick of you arseing around, making it outstandingly plain that I come a very poor third to that father of yours and his shitty company. That you’ll find a place for me in your busy schedule in between board meetings and takeovers, and of course sticking a knife into yet another point in the back of that poor, goddamned stepmother of yours. Jesus, Rosamund, I don’t know where you learnt to fight so dirty, to cheat so thoroughly, but it sure was a fine establishment. Well I’m through, with it and with you. Just get the hell out of my life. I won’t be messing up yours any longer.’
Panic tore through Roz; she felt shaken, weak, there was a roaring in her ears.
‘Michael, don’t, don’t, please stay. I have to talk to you.’
‘Really? Suddenly you have to talk. All the times I’ve wanted to talk and you’ve ducked, dodged, dragged me into bed, anything to avoid the confrontation. Well, it doesn’t happen to suit me to talk right now, Roz, or indeed ever again.’
He was walking away, fast, pushing through the crowds; Roz looked at his disappearing back, sobs tearing at her throat, her heart wrenched into terrified fragments. She couldn’t bear it, not again, not that pain, that loneliness, that aching, wracking misery. Nothing, nothing was worth that, nothing at all.
She ran after him, stumbling, frantically calling his name; but he wouldn’t turn or look back. He went through the glass doors; his car was waiting; she stood, tears streaming down her face, watched him get in, lean back, close his eyes, and then the traffic and the darkness swallowed him up.
Roz went to see her father, pale and drawn, but dry-eyed on the Monday morning, with a look of ferocious determination on her face.
‘I’ve done what you want.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve finished with Michael. Again.’
‘Roz! I’m sorry. I know what this must have cost you.’
‘Yes, well, I’m planning that it should cost you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve kept my share of the bargain, Daddy. Let’s have yours.’
‘Roz, you’re talking in riddles.’
‘No, I’m not. You said if I divorced C. J. you’d give the stores to Phaedria.’
‘Yes. And I meant it.’
‘OK. Well, I’m staying with him. So you can give them to me.’
‘You have them. You know you do.’
‘No, I don’t. Not all of them. I want London too.’
‘Roz, you know that’s impossible.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Circe London is Phaedria’s own. It was a wedding present. She’s created it.’
‘Yes, well, she’s done well. Now I want it.’
‘Rosamund, you can’t have it. Now can we forget this nonsense? I’m delighted you’ve come to your senses, and I’m sure I can find a new section of the company for you to run if that’s what you want.’
‘I don’t want a new section. I’ve told you what I want, I want the stores. All of them.’
‘And I’ve told you you can’t have them. Now we have a board meeting to get to. We’re already late.’
Roz looked at him. ‘You’re a cheat, you know. A liar and a cheat. You cheat on us all. Even your beautiful new wife.’ Then she smiled. It was a dangerous smile.
‘How was Paris, Daddy?’ she said. ‘And how is Camilla these days?’