London, New York, Los Angeles, 1985
MILES WILBURN AND Billy de Launay were often to remark in later life that the most amazing thing about the whole story of Miles’ inheritance was not so much that Marcia Galbraith should have tried to do what she did, but that she should have succeeded for so long.
‘Months and months half the civilized world was looking for you,’ said Billy, ‘and you just had no idea. It sure beats fiction.’
‘Yeah,’ said Miles. They had been sitting in Nassau Airport at the time, with Candy, who had been trying very hard not to cry, waiting for Miles’ flight to be called; they had had this conversation a great many times now, and still felt the topic had not been exhausted.
‘God knows what else she’d been keeping from you,’ said Billy. ‘Did you ask her?’
‘No,’ said Miles. ‘No point. But I did ask her if she’d kept anything from Granny Kelly. I made her turn over any letters for her.’
‘And?’
‘Well there was the couple from old Father Kennedy. She would have loved to get them. That did make me mad. And one of them, actually, did say old Hugo wanted to contact me. So it was kind of important.’
‘And you still don’t know how he fits into this?’
‘Nope. But maybe soon I shall find out.’
He looked at Candy’s tear-streaked face, put his arm round her, kissed the top of her head. ‘Don’t cry, baby, I swear I won’t be long, I’ll be back for you, and maybe if I’m a really rich guy by then we can get married.’
‘Daddy won’t allow it,’ said Candy, blowing her nose. ‘He says I have to be twenty-one.’
‘Oh, he’ll change his mind if old Miles turns out to be in the money,’ said Billy.
‘I doubt it. You know, I have the strangest feeling he knew something about all this. He acted real strange when I told him. He pretended to be interested and surprised, but he wasn’t.’
‘Probably saw one of the advertisements,’ said Billy.
‘Wicked old buzzard,’ said Candy. ‘Fancy keeping that from Miles.’
‘Oh, well, you never know,’ said Miles easily, ‘he probably thought he was acting for the best. He doesn’t want to lose you. I wouldn’t either, if I was your dad.’
‘Oh, Miles,’ said Candy, ‘you are just too good to be true.’
‘No I’m not,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I just can’t get worked up about things, that’s all.’
‘This whole thing might have been resolved a lot earlier,’ said Billy in a slightly pompous avuncular tone, ‘if you occasionally looked at a newspaper, Miles. I can’t believe you missed it.’
‘Oh, hell,’ said Miles, ‘I often do read the front page now. But I would never have seen the public notices, surely.’
‘I did.’
‘Yes, but you’re an ambitious young man. I’m just a no-good bum.’ He smiled at them both. ‘Now look, you will keep an eye on my granny, won’t you? I worry about her and that old woman. I don’t think she’d do her any harm, I think she’s really fond of her, but I don’t like the idea of going off and leaving her all alone.’
‘I absolutely promise,’ said Candy seriously, ‘to go and visit her at least twice a week.’
‘Good girl. Anyway, I don’t intend to be gone more than two weeks at the most. I don’t want to stay in London.’
‘Not even if you turn out to be Little Lord Fauntleroy the Second?’ said Billy.
‘Not whatever I turn out to be.’
Billy had been having a marvellous time in Philadelphia; he was doing well at the bank, he had grown increasingly charming and good-looking with the years and he was much in demand by debutante mothers at parties everywhere. Instead of going home to Nassau for August, he was invited by the mother of one Marilyn Greaves, who fondly imagined him to be a great deal richer than he really was, to summer with them at Mount Desert Island. Being beset with the twin problems of deflowering Marilyn and keeping from Mrs Greaves his family’s true financial status, Billy let almost two months go by before he returned to the matter of Miles and where he might be. It wasn’t until he wrote to his parents (a rare event), and asked them to tell Miles to get in touch next time they saw him, that he discovered what was going on. His father told him Miles had gone to Miami, to work in a bank; he had no address, but he would ask Marcia for one. Shamed into honesty, Marcia gave Mr de Launay the address, but Billy’s letter had been returned with ‘unknown here’ on it.
Marilyn Greaves was still absorbing a lot of Billy’s attention, and he was a slow correspondent; it was the end of October before he actually wrote to Miles, care of the bank; and two more weeks before Miles replied.
Miles’ letter made interesting reading; he had tired of life at the counter, and had finally walked out one day at the end of August; he had taken a bus down to Coconut Grove, found it much more to his liking, and had been working at Monty Trainer’s down on Dinner Key for the past couple of months. He occasionally went back to the bank to pick up letters, which made life simpler as he kept moving around in the Grove; they had been real nice about him leaving so precipitantly.
He was still planning on marrying Candy, but wasn’t doing too well on getting much money put by, he’d love to see Billy, when was he coming down South?
Billy, coming home for Thanksgiving, stopped off in Miami and sought Miles out. It was while they were getting gloriously drunk together, that Billy asked him what had happened when he had phoned the number in the advertisement.
Henry Winterbourne had just come in to the office when Miles called. He and Caroline had been celebrating their fourteenth wedding anniversary the previous evening; the combination of the effect of a bottle of champagne each, a bottle of beaune over dinner, several large brandies, and Caroline’s refusal to mark the occasion in what seemed to him a more appropriate manner later in bed, had left him bad-tempered as well as severely overhung.
He snatched up the phone when it rang, and nursing his head with the other hand, spoke tetchily into it. ‘Yes?’
‘Er, Mr Winterbourne,’ said the temporary secretary, who was filling in until Jane came back from holiday on Monday, and easily frightened. ‘There’s a long distance call for you. From Miami. The name is Wilburn, Mr Winterbourne. Miles Wilburn.’
Henry forgot his hangover.
‘Good Christ. Put him on.’
The voice that came three thousand miles over the wires to him was a charming, slightly husky, Californian drawl.
‘Hi,’ it said.
‘Er, good morning,’ said Henry.
‘This is Miles Wilburn. I believe you wanted me to contact you.’
‘I did. Where are you calling from?’
‘Coconut Grove, Miami.’
‘Would you – shall I call you back? Give me your number.’
‘Oh, you can’t do that, I’m in a call box.’
‘Then ring off and call me back, reversing the charges.’
‘OK. That’s really nice of you.’
Whoever he was, Henry thought, he had nice manners.
‘Right,’ he said, slightly more himself by the time the international operator had put Miles through. ‘Tell me why you’re calling now. We’ve been trying to reach you for months.’
‘Oh, it’s a long story. I only just heard you were looking for me. My grandmother’s friend had been keeping letters and stuff from me. She’s a little confused.’
‘I see. Do you have any idea why we’re looking for you?’
‘None at all,’ said Miles.
‘Have you ever met – did you ever meet – Sir Julian Morell?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sir Julian Morell – did you know him?’
‘No I didn’t. I never even heard of him. I kind of thought this must be something to do with Mr Dashwood.’
‘Ah.’ Henry thought quickly. The mysterious Mr Dashwood surfacing again. Who the hell was he? Why did all these Americans know him? ‘Was – is Mr Dashwood related to you?’
‘He certainly isn’t.’ Miles sounded just mildly put out. ‘He’s just – well, what you might call a family friend. I suppose.’
‘I see,’ said Henry again. His headache was returning. ‘Well, Mr Wilburn, we obviously have a lot to talk about. Can you give us evidence that you are indeed Miles Wilburn?’
‘I have a birth certificate. Would that do?’
‘Very probably,’ said Henry carefully. ‘I think that you should come to London. My secretary will book you a flight immediately. Do you have a passport?’
‘I certainly do.’
‘Excellent. Then I suggest you come straight here on Monday. Providing we can get you on a flight on Sunday. From – where? Miami?’
‘No,’ said Miles. ‘I’ll be in Nassau.’
‘Fine. And I will have a car meet you at London Heathrow.’
‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘That’s really nice of you. Goodbye, Mr Winterbourne.’
Henry thought he had never, in twenty-five years of practice, come across anybody quite so unemotional. Or what was the expression they used in California? Laid back. Yes, that was it.
Well, how extraordinary. After all these months. Good God, he must let Roz know. He rang the Morell offices to discover that she was in New York. What about Phaedria: she would like to know. But it was the middle of the night in California; he would ring her later. Meanwhile he wanted his coffee extremely badly.
Later, Phaedria was out; she had taken the car and not said when she would be back. She was usually back by evening, would they have her call him?
But he and Caroline were leaving for Paris for the weekend, to further celebrate their anniversary. No, he would surprise everybody on Monday morning.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s all right. No message.’
‘Stay there,’ said Roz, jumping up, holding up her hand as if to prohibit him from suddenly vanishing again, ‘don’t go away.’
‘I just flew three thousand miles to come to this place. I’m not going away until I find out what I’m doing here,’ said Miles with a second, yet more dazzling smile.
‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I certainly would. Black, no sugar.’
‘I’ll go and get it. Just wait here.’
Miles looked after her as she disappeared down the corridor, puzzled by her agitation, and then shrugged. He had heard the English were a little tense. Old Hugo had always seemed rather stiff and awkward. If they were all as uptight as this girl, he wasn’t going to enjoy them too much. She was interesting-looking, though. Not good-looking exactly, but she had a lot of style. She reminded him of someone and he couldn’t think who.
Roz came back into the office, a coffee cup in either hand.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s OK.’
‘It will be. Pan American coffee tastes like gnat’s piss. Not,’ he added, smiling at her, ‘that I’ve ever actually tasted gnat’s piss.’
Roz sat down again at her desk and gazed at him in total silence. She couldn’t stop. Partly because of his remarkable looks, and partly because she couldn’t believe he was really there. Miles met her gaze steadily, a sliver of amusement in his dark blue eyes; then finally he smiled. ‘Will I do?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Do I pass? Have you examined me enough yet?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Roz, smiling back. ‘Do forgive me. It’s just that – well, we’ve been looking for you for so long, it seems odd that you should just – well, materialize. Like a ghost or something.’
‘Nothing ghostly about me,’ said Miles cheerfully. ‘Feel.’ He held out a brown hand. Roz took it, shook it, laughing.
‘How do you do. I’m Rosamund Emerson.’
‘Pleased to meet you. You know who I am. So you’re not one of the Morells?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roz quickly. ‘Yes, I am really. I’m Julian Morell’s daughter.’
‘Ah. So who is this guy?’
‘You really don’t know?’ said Roz, astonished, disbelieving, even after all the accumulated evidence, that the link between Miles Wilburn and Julian Morell was still so absolutely inexplicable.
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Well, because –’ Roz stopped, suddenly aware of the need for a degree of caution. ‘Oh, it’s terribly complicated. The lawyers should really tell you.’
‘Oh God!’ He put his hand to his forehead in horror. ‘I forgot. I was supposed to be met by your lawyer’s car this morning at Heathrow. But I got an earlier flight out of Nassau. He’ll be sitting there wetting himself, I would imagine. Can we do anything about that?’
‘Oh, so Henry knew you were coming?’ said Roz. ‘Why the hell didn’t he tell us?’
‘I really don’t know that. But what about this poor guy in the car?’
‘Oh, you don’t want to worry about him,’ said Roz briskly. ‘He’s paid to sit and wait for people.’
‘Some job,’ said Miles. ‘I don’t envy him. Well maybe we should try and tell your lawyers anyway.’
‘Yes, we should. But Henry won’t be up yet even. He keeps academic hours. Don’t worry, we’ll call later. Are you hungry?’
‘I certainly am.’
‘I am too. Let’s go and get some breakfast. Now let’s see –’ she looked at him doubtfully – ‘they won’t let you into the Connaught in those clothes. Or the Ritz. Oh, God, where can we go?’
‘Mrs Emerson, I only want a coffee and some bacon. Do you have to wear a dinner suit for that in England?’
Roz laughed. ‘Sorry. Practically yes, if it’s high-class coffee and bacon.’
‘Then let’s go find some of the lower-class kind.’
‘All right. We’ll go to Shepherds’ Market. And I don’t really answer to Mrs Emerson. Call me Roz.’
‘OK.’
‘What I want to know,’ she said as he swooped hungrily into a plate of bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried bread at one of the early morning sandwich bars in Shepherd’s Market, ‘is how you found us in Dover Street?’
‘Oh, well, your stuffed shirt of a lawyer kept mentioning Morell. I got into Heathrow early, didn’t know what to do, checked through the phone book and there it was. The Morell Corporation, Julian Morell Industrials, God knows what else. I decided it was worth a try. That somebody might be here. And I was right. Which was nice,’ he added, smiling, ‘very nice.’
Roz was suddenly aware of a warmth in her, comforting her, cheering her. ‘Nice for me too,’ she said. He held her gaze for a moment with his lazy blue eyes; just slightly discomfited, she looked away.
‘So where is Mr Emerson?’ asked Miles, pushing his empty plate back, looking hopefully in his empty coffee cup. ‘Don’t they do refills round here?’
‘Mr Emerson is in New York,’ said Roz in tones that totally discouraged further questioning on the subject, ‘and no, I’m afraid England has not yet discovered the secret of eternal coffee. Not yet. Some of us are working on it. Let me get you another one.’
She picked up his cup and walked over to the counter with it. Miles watched her. She certainly had a great pair of legs. Nearly as good as Candy’s. No, correction. Better than Candy’s. Miles was a leg man.
‘There. Good and strong. How are you feeling?’
‘Fine.’ He seemed surprised by the question. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’
Roz smiled. ‘Most people complain about feeling tired when they’ve done a ten-hour flight.’
‘Yeah, well I’m young and strong.’ He grinned at her. ‘Could I have some toast or something?’
‘Yes of course.’ She called over to the girl behind the counter. ‘Three rounds of toast please. With butter.
‘Just exactly how old are you anyway?’ she said, turning back to him.
‘Twenty-seven.’
‘You look younger.’
‘How old are you?’
‘You look older.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude,’ he said hastily. ‘I’m sorry. But you do look kind of – well, shot up. Tired. You look like you could do with some Californian sunshine.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Roz, ‘I would just adore some Californian sunshine.’
‘You should go there. Seriously. It would do you good.’
‘That’s where you come from isn’t it?’
‘Now how do you know that?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘you’d be surprised what a lot we know about you.’
‘Jeez,’ he said. ‘Why do I matter so much?’
‘I swear we’ll tell you very soon.’
‘So how did you find out where I came from?’
‘A roundabout route. From your uncle is the short answer.’
‘Who, old Bill, up in San Francisco? How on earth did you track him down?’
‘He answered the advertisement in – let’s see, July, I suppose it must have been.’
‘Old bastard,’ said Miles. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
‘Why, when did you see him?’
‘Heard from him about then. No, maybe it was the end of June.’
‘I’m very sorry about him,’ said Roz.
‘What about him?’
‘Oh, Miles, I’m sorry. Didn’t you know? He – he’s dead.’
‘Dead! He can’t be.’
‘Yes, he is. He was killed in a car crash.’
‘Oh God,’ said Miles. ‘No, I had no idea. But why didn’t somebody tell me?’
‘I don’t know. Who could have told you? He didn’t seem to have anybody in the world.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe somebody did, and the letter got holed up with all the others by old Marcia.’
‘Who is Marcia?’
‘A crazy old woman my grandmother lives with. She had a whole stack of letters addressed to me and my grandmother, all the newspaper cuttings people had sent from all over. Oh, God. Poor old Bill. He was good to me. He’d just lent me some money.’
He looked upset; his brilliant blue eyes were distant, shadowed. Roz put out her hand and covered his. ‘I’m really really sorry.’
He smiled at her slightly shakily. ‘It’s OK. We weren’t that close. Just a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘How exactly was he related to you?’
‘He was my dad’s cousin.’
‘And you and your dad and your mother lived in LA?’
‘Yup. Santa Monica.’
‘But they’re both dead?’
‘Yup.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘It’s all right, I don’t really feel like the tragic orphan. It was so long ago. I can hardly remember my dad dying. My mom – well that was a long time too, but I remember it – her more clearly.’
‘Tell me about her,’ said Roz.
‘Oh, she was really pretty. She had blonde hair, and very blue eyes, and she was kind of fun. She was always laughing. She gave me a real nice childhood. She loved the beach, we were there a lot. We lived very near the ocean.’
‘And she died of – what?’
‘Cancer.’ He was silent, for a moment, the memory suddenly brought sharply into focus. ‘She was awfully young, only forty-three.’
‘And you were – what?’
‘Thirteen. Just a little bitty boy.’ He sighed, then smiled at her. ‘It was very very sad. I remember just longing to die too, so I could be with her again. I missed her so terribly.’
‘So after your mother died, you and your grandmother lived in Los Angeles?’
‘For about three years. Then we went out to Malibu. This old guy, Hugo Dashwood, he thought I was getting in to bad company in Santa Monica. He bought the house in Malibu for us.’
‘He sounds a very generous person,’ said Roz thoughtfully. ‘Who was he?’
‘Oh, a friend of my parents.’
‘He must have been quite rich.’
‘Yeah, I guess so. He paid for me to go through college as well.’
‘This man – this Hugo Dashwood. What was he like?’
‘Oh, he was English,’ said Miles. ‘Very English.’
‘Where did he live?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know! He bought you houses and sent you to college and you don’t know where he lived? When did you last see him?’
‘Well, I did write to him quite recently. I’m not very proud of it, but I did.’
‘How recently?’
‘Oh, back in the summer.’
‘Why?’
‘Well – well, I needed some money really badly. I’d done something silly.’
‘What? Not drugs?’
‘No, no not drugs. But I’d – borrowed some money on the house in Malibu, and I had to give it back. I didn’t know where to turn. I wrote to him. He wrote me a letter back and said he was coming to Nassau to see me in June. But he never did. I never heard from him again. That’s when my uncle lent me the money.’
‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘I think what we should do now is go and ring Henry, and tell him you’re with me. He must be terribly anxious about you.’
‘And the driver.’
‘Who? Oh, him. Yes, well, Henry can call him on the car phone. Come on, let’s go back to the office and we’ll call Henry from there. Then I imagine he’ll want you to go over to Lincoln’s Inn and see him.’
‘I’d kind of like a wash or something before I go and see anyone else,’ said Miles. ‘Would that be possible?’
‘Of course,’ said Roz. ‘My father’s office up in the penthouse has a shower. Do you want to change? Do you have any clean clothes?’
‘I have a clean shirt. Won’t he mind?’
‘Mind what?’
‘Your father. Mind me using his shower.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz, and there was a wealth of sadness in her voice suddenly. ‘No, I’m afraid he can’t mind. He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miles. ‘Recently?’
‘Fairly recently. Back in May.’
‘Were you close?’
‘In a way, yes,’ said Roz in tones that made it clear the subject was closed. ‘Come on, let’s go. I can’t wait to hear Henry’s voice.’
Henry’s voice was irascible. ‘Well of course I was worried. Why on earth didn’t you ring me earlier, Roz? Parsons has been waiting at Heathrow for over an hour. I thought Miles had done a bunk.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz, ‘you don’t have to worry about him. He’s not the bunking kind. He’s upstairs having a shower. Shall I bring him over?’
‘I think that would be best. But Roz –’
‘Yes, Henry?’
‘I think I should talk to him alone. Preliminarily. If you don’t mind.’
‘Really, Henry, what do you think I’m going to do? Abduct him? Offer him my body in return for his support and his share?’
‘No, of course, not,’ said Henry irritably. ‘But I think in the interests of protocol . . . Legal procedure . . .’
‘All right, Henry. Protocol has it. I’ll wait outside the door. Tell your secretary to get me a glass, would you?’
‘What for?’
‘Why, so I can hold it to the wall and listen, of course. Why else?’
She sounded, Henry thought, unusually cheerful.
Michael Browning sat in his office on Madison Avenue and thought about Roz. He felt, deep within him, stirring through his outrage a sudden sense of mild remorse. She did, after all, have a point. It was a pretty blunt one, but it was a point. His visit to Phaedria had not, he felt bound to admit to himself, been entirely innocent. He had not gone with a view to seducing her, but he did find her immensely attractive, and he had very much wanted to see her. On an adultery scale of one to ten, his behaviour would certainly have rated a seven. With her cooperation, it would almost certainly have hit ten. Otherwise, he thought mournfully, downing his fourth strong coffee of the day, he would have told Roz. No, he wouldn’t. If Phaedria had been a sixty-five-year-old harridan, with cross eyes and a wooden leg, Roz would have been jealous, because of who she was, the hold Phaedria had over her. As it was, with that hair and those eyes and that body – Michael wrenched his mind away from a contemplation of Phaedria’s body with an effort and turned his attention back to Roz. Should he make a move? Hell, he’d made so many. It was always he who made them. She just waited, and took. And if he did ring her and apologize, then what? Back on the merry-go-round, the eternal ding-dong of sharing her with that company of hers and her obsession with it. And sharing it certainly wasn’t. It was one piece for him, and then around five thousand for the company. He’d had the rough end of that particular deal for what felt like years.
He wondered why and how he had stood it for so long. He supposed because he loved her. Had loved her. Did he still love her? He thought about her for a minute, saw her face as it was in the rare moments when she was relaxed and happy, with her white skin, her snapping green eyes, the heavy jaw that caused her so much anguish. He thought of being with her, of her swift, sharp mind, her salty humour, her capacity for lateral thought.
She was greedy, was Roz, but her greed did not stop at money, and at power, it made her a desirable woman; her physical appetities were considerable, she loved good food, she had a rare appreciation of fine wine (and could drink him under the table if she chose to) and her sexual prowess was remarkable. Michael had not known many women – in fact only perhaps one other, and she had been a whore from the Bronx – who could come to orgasm as many times and with such evident triumphant pleasure as Roz could.
But the price he paid for her was high. Too high. There was probably very little future in once again trying to stick the relationship together again. The thought saddened him, grieved him even, Roz had been the focus of his sexual and indeed his emotional thinking for so long, but it was probably best now to leave it lying there, on the floor of the Rainbow Room, shattered, but at least dramatically, splendidly so, than go round patiently picking up all the endless tiny fragments and looking at them, endeavouring to see how they could be put back into a whole.
He thought of Phaedria suddenly; so different from Roz, and yet alike in some ways, with the same stubbornness, the same drive, the same courage. She was certainly not the gentle grieving young widow that the media had tried to turn her into. He admired her guts enormously. He admired a great deal about her. He wondered if they did indeed have any kind of future together. It was far too early to say. She might be, she undoubtedly was, sexily, divinely beautiful, she might be funny and interesting and original, but that did not necessarily make her into a woman he could love. What he did know was that he wanted to see her urgently, now, soon, more than anything in the world.
What was the time in California? Eight o’clock. She’d be having her breakfast. He picked up the phone, dialled the hotel, asked for her bungalow.
‘Phaedria! Hi, it’s me, Michael.’
He heard her voice, low, relaxed, almost amused.
‘Hallo. Why aren’t you working? It’s Monday morning.’
‘I know.’
‘Well?’
‘I can’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘I keep thinking of you.’
‘Well, that’s ridiculous. You’re supposed to be a tycoon. You can’t be distracted that easily.’
‘I’m not distracted easily.’
‘Oh.’ He heard her thinking. Then: ‘Michael, I do think we shouldn’t pursue this relationship at all.’ She gave it the heavy, English, almost schoolmistressy emphasis.
‘We don’t have a relationship. I’m just trying to think what one would be like.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘Maybe. Well, I just thought, you’re leaving there, when? Friday?’
‘Thursday.’
‘I didn’t really complete my business in LA. I might have to come back and have a couple more meetings very urgently. If I did, would you have dinner with me?’
‘No.’
‘Lunch?’
‘A glass of water?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Michael, listen, I –’ she was silent.
‘I’m listening.’
‘I just don’t think –’
‘I don’t want you to think.’
‘But Roz –’
‘Roz will never forgive either of us. We may as well make the most of it.’
‘But I have to work with her.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Michael, of course I do.’
‘You could do something quite different.’
‘Really? Like what?’
‘You could sell up and marry me.’
‘Oh, don’t be so absurd.’
‘That’s not a very flattering response to a proposal.’
‘You know you didn’t mean it.’
‘I might have done.’
There was a long silence.
‘Phaedria, I’m coming over anyway. I’ve decided. I’ll be in LA tonight. I shall be under your window at moonrise with a violin. You can turn me away if you like.’
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, all right. I shouldn’t say that, but all right.’
‘Bye, honeybunch.’
‘Goodbye, Michael.’
She put the phone down smiling, wondering where in the name of heaven, or hell for that matter, this was going to lead her. It rang again almost immediately. It was Father Kennedy.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you are still here. I wondered if I should catch you.’
‘Yes, Father, I don’t leave until Thursday.’
‘Ah, then, I’m glad I rang. You were asking me for a photograph of Mr Dashwood?’
Phaedria’s heart began to thump rather painfully.
‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
‘Well I remembered. Of course I have one. It was taken at Miles’ graduation. I took it myself. I found it last night, turning out my desk. Now would you like to see it? It’s a very nice picture of Miles as well.’
‘Yes, Father, I would,’ she said slowly. ‘I would really like to see it very much. Perhaps I could come down and get it this morning, after I’ve been to the hospital for Julia.’
Miles was rather quiet going across London in the car. Roz looked at him.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure. Just a little – well, nervous I guess. About what I’m going to hear.’
‘I promise you,’ said Roz, putting her hand on his arm, ‘there is absolutely nothing to be nervous or worried about. The news is good. Interesting but good.’
Henry was waiting for them in the doorway of his offices in Lincoln’s Inn, looking properly and impressively serious when the car drew up.
‘Roz! Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Henry. May I introduce Mr Wilburn?’
‘How do you do?’ said Henry, taking Miles’ outstretched hand.
‘Hi,’ said Miles.
‘Come along in,’ said Henry, leading the way.
Miles came out of Henry’s office a while later looking a little shaken.
‘Henry!’ said Roz, ‘the poor man’s as white as a sheet. What on earth have you been doing to him?’
‘He hasn’t been doing anything to me,’ said Miles, mustering a smile. ‘Just breaking the news.’
‘And?’
‘And I think I need a while to take it in. Suddenly I do feel rather tired.’
‘Look,’ said Roz. ‘Let’s go back to Dover Street. There’s a bed up in the penthouse, you can have a nap there if you want to. Meanwhile I’ll get my secretary to book you into a hotel. Then you can make any calls or whatever you want to do.’
‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘Thanks.’
‘Er, ROz, could I have a word?’ said Henry. ‘About the contracts.’
His rather long, solemn face distorted into a strange grimace; Roz suddenly realized he was trying to wink. With a great effort she nodded solemnly.
‘Of course. Excuse us, will you Miles?’ She followed Henry into his office. ‘Now then, Henry, what do you think?’
‘Well, he does seem to be an extremely nice young man, and I really have no doubt at all that he is indeed Miles Wilburn,’ said Henry. ‘He showed me his birth certificate and his passport, and a letter from his college professor at Berkeley. His story about this Dashwood character is so extraordinary and so consistent with everything that Bill Wilburn said, it just has to be true, whatever it means. We now know so much about Miles, through the various stray ends everyone has picked up, your detective, and C. J.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Roz with a slightly sour expression. ‘C. J.’s detective work was very impressive. I’m surprised he shared it with you, when he seemed to be acting on Phaedria’s behalf.’
‘Roz, it’s in everybody’s interest to get this thing sorted out,’ said Henry rather severely, stifling the memory of his early favouritism of Phaedria’s cause. ‘C. J. felt we should pool our knowledge and I think he was right. Especially with Lady Morell being away and so on.’
‘Quite,’ said Roz tersely. ‘Well anyway, Henry, what happened?’
‘Well, I told him simply that he had been left two per cent of your father’s company. And that on account of the extraordinary structure of the will, that it was a controlling two per cent. I thought that was quite enough for now. Well of course there isn’t any more to be said anyway. And he hasn’t been left any money as such. Oh, and I asked him again if he had any idea who your father was, if he was quite sure he had never met him, why he thought he could possibly have been left this – this legacy.’
‘And?’
‘And of course he hadn’t.’
‘Well,’ said Roz. ‘Perhaps in the fullness of time we shall all find out.’
‘I certainly think he’s feeling a little shell-shocked.’
‘I expect he is, poor chap. Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.’
Going back in the car, Miles said, ‘I feel like that guy in the fairy story. You know, the one who was a frog and then the princess kissed him and he turned into a prince. He must have felt pretty confused as well.’
‘Goodness,’ said Roz. ‘I hope Henry didn’t kiss you.’
Miles laughed. ‘No. But you know what I mean.’
‘I think I do. It’s an extraordinary business, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is. I have to tell you my initial reaction is to just give it back.’
‘Is it now?’
‘Yeah. I don’t want to get mixed up in some billion-pound company. It isn’t me.’
‘Well, don’t think about giving it away, for a start,’ said Roz briskly. ‘At least sell it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Miles doubtfully. ‘Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘And then,’ said Roz carefully, ‘who would you sell it to?’
‘I don’t know. Who would you suggest?’
‘Well,’ said Roz, carefully lighthearted. ‘Me of course.’
He turned to look at her, not lighthearted at all, very very serious. ‘Would you want it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Well because – oh, dear, Henry obviously hadn’t explained things properly to you at all. That would immediately give me the controlling interest in the company.’
‘Yes, he did explain that. Sort of. But why would you want that?’
‘If you can’t see that,’ said Roz, equally serious, ‘there’s no point my trying to explain it. But anyway, much as I want it, I wouldn’t dream of letting you hand it over just like that. Whatever you may hear about me in this company, and I do assure you, you will hear a great deal, not all of it, indeed very little of it, good, I do actually have a few scruples. I wouldn’t dream of letting you hand it over just like that. I would like you to sell it to me because I had persuaded you to for good sound commercial reasons, but I have no desire whatsoever to just walk away with it and leave you wondering why you let it go. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Miles. He looked at her consideringly. ‘You’re kind of an interesting person.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me about the other one.’
‘Which other one?’
‘The one who has the other forty-nine per cent.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz. ‘Phaedria. The grieving widow.’
‘Sounds like you don’t have too much time for her.’
‘No,’ said Roz. ‘No, I don’t. Maybe you should get someone else to tell you about her.’
‘So she’s where?’
‘She’s in California. Taking an unconscionably long time to recover from having a baby.’
‘Why did she have it there?’
‘Because she’s a fool,’ said Roz.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Miles easily. ‘I would think it a pretty nice place to have a baby. I plan to bring my children up there.’
‘Do you now? Do you plan to have a lot of children?’ asked Roz, eager to draw the conversation away from Phaedria Morell.
‘Yup. Like all only children, I yearn for brothers and sisters. And like all only children, I yearn for a large family of my own.’
‘I see. Is this large family imminent?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Miles. ‘Candy – my girlfriend – is only eighteen. Her dad is pretty much against us getting married. He’s a rich guy,’ he added. ‘He has a big business.’
‘Really. What’s his name?’
‘Mason McCall.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roz. ‘Sweeties.’
Miles looked at her with new respect. ‘You guys really all have got it together, haven’t you?’
‘We have to,’ said Roz.
When they got back to Dover Street, a pale blue Rolls was outside.
‘Goodness,’ said Roz. ‘News travels fast. That’s my grandmother’s car. She must have heard you’ve been found, and come to meet you.’
She was right. Letitia was standing at Roz’s desk, dressed in a cream silk suit, leafing happily through Roz’s in-tray.
‘Granny Letitia! How lovely to see you!’ said Roz, kissing her fondly. ‘How are you?’
‘Perfectly well, darling, thank you. I haven’t seen as much of you as I would like, or that great-granddaughter of mine.’ She looked at Roz critically. ‘You look very thin. And tired. You’ve been overworking.’
Only Roz could have fully appreciated the wealth of meaning and double meaning in Letitia’s voice; she smiled at her brilliantly. ‘Not really. You look wonderful. Whose suit?’
‘Do you like it? Thank you, darling. Bruce Oldfield. Such a charming young man. Speaking of charming young men,’ she said, turning the full force of her violet eyes, her dazzling smile on Miles, ‘you must be Miles.’
‘I am,’ he said, looking at her bemusedly, holding out his hand. ‘And it certainly is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you. I am Letitia Morell. Founding grandmother of this company. So they finally found you. My goodness, there is so much we want to know, and you must be worn out, poor chap. And hungry, I should think. Roz, why don’t we take him to lunch you and I? We could go to Langan’s.’
Lunch was a great success. Letitia grilled Miles through the first course, about his childhood, his growing up in California, and in particular his days on the beach (‘it sounds wonderful’), and then he grilled her through the second about her days as a debutante, life in London between the wars, and the Prince of Wales with whom she claimed an ever closer acquaintance with every year that passed. Eventually they parted – Letitia reluctantly to First Street, Roz to the office, and Miles to his much-postponed sleep.
Miles let himself into the penthouse again, and walked into the little bedroom. He felt utterly and unaccustomedly exhausted. He supposed it was a combination of the long night flight, the champagne at lunch and the considerable trauma of the morning.
This really was all something else. It was like some kind of a bad B movie. Billy hadn’t been so far off when he had said something about him being Lord Fauntleroy. What a mob to get mixed up with. It was dynamite. There was that nice sexy bitch downstairs, nothing wrong with her, Miles thought easily, that a good screw and a bit of TLC wouldn’t sort out; the funny old lawyer, straight out of Dickens, and the marvellous old lady. She was something else. He would like to see a great deal more of her. And then there was the other one, the missing one, who Roz was clearly dying to feed ground glass to, three times a day before meals. What could she be like? The old lady was obviously very fond of her.
She was young, twenty-seven they’d said; either the old boy must have still been quite a goer, or she’d married him purely for his money. Probably the latter. That was obviously what Roz thought.
And he held the balance of power between them. The thought made Miles feel quite sick. No wonder they’d wanted to find him. What on earth was he going to do? He had been speaking the truth when he had told Roz he just wanted to give it all away again. The last thing on earth he wanted was to get mixed up in some power struggle. He didn’t want to hold any, and he didn’t want to assist anyone else to hold any. It held about as much charm for him as joining a monastery. But he could see even giving it away wouldn’t be that simple. Whoever he gave it to, there would be trouble. Besides, Roz had a point. Why give it?
No, the best thing would be to sell it, and then go home to Candy, and persuade Old Man Mason to let them get married. Roz would buy his share, that was for sure. He liked her, he thought she was really nice under that hard front of hers, and it would obviously help her. Why go into it all any more?
God, Julian Morell, whoever he was, must have been a funny old buzzard. Why do this to all these people? And why involve him? He supposed really he ought to wait until Lady Phaedria or whatever her name was came home, and talk to her as well. It was only fair.
He looked around. The room was bare, except for a bed, a coat stand, a cupboard, and a small bedside table.
There were a few photographs on the wall: an aerial view of a big house in the country, and several pictures of horses. No people. He sat down on the bed, took off his jacket, slung it on the floor, looked round again.
His eyes fell on the bedside table. It had a couple of drawers in it. He tugged the top one tentatively. It was empty. But the second one had a small silver frame in it. He took the frame out, turning it over and looking at the picture in it; and for a moment the face in front of him meant nothing at all to him. Then his brain connected with what he saw; the picture first blurred, then clarified with extraordinary vividness. He stood up, and then slowly, his eyes fixed on it, his mind a whirring, confused mess, he walked out of the penthouse and took the elevator down to Roz’s office. She was on the phone and reading letters at the same time; she looked up at him, smiled, waved to him to sit down in the chair in front of her desk. Miles sat there looking alternately at her and the photograph in his hand.
When she had finished talking she put down the phone and said, ‘What is it? Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘I haven’t tried,’ said Miles. ‘Not yet. Look, Roz, I don’t know quite what’s going on around here, but why do you all keep saying you don’t know Hugo Dashwood when there’s a picture of him up in your dad’s office?’