The Rich Are Different

by Susan Howatch

  “And what do you do?” I asked with a grin when the tour was finished and we were drinking tea in Dinah’s office. “Put your feet up on your desk and knit?”

  It turned out she was just like the senior partner at Van Zale’s. She spent her time being nice to people, pouring oil on troubled waters and trying to head off bloodshed in the board room. She soothed all the important clients who wanted their hands held, talked earnestly with bankers and lawyers and occasionally blew up the accountants. Memos were initialed, letters were dictated and tea was consumed. The only difference from being a Van Zale senior partner was that twice a week she popped downstairs to have her hair done.

  “What about the commodities we deal with?” she said with a sigh when I told her what I was thinking. “Yours is so much more interesting than mine! I’d rather deal with money than cosmetics any day—banking’s such a fascinating field.”

  I was so touched by this wistful enthusiasm that I suggested she come with me to Paris at the end of May. I wanted to survey the prospects which awaited a French office of Van Zale’s, and since she was interested in opening a Paris salon I thought we could combine business with pleasure in the biggest possible way.

  Well, we did. That was no surprise, but the revelation of the trip was how useful Dinah was to me in my reconnaissance among the banques d’affaires and the banques de crédit mobilier who specialized in the flotation of industrial undertakings in France and abroad. She did make one or two inquiries about office space for Diana Slade Cosmetics, but she was more interested in the bankers I knew and the potential clients I’d lined up. I inquired too about office space and spent time on my own while I estimated how much business I’d need to generate to make a French base a paying proposition, but mainly I was concerned with meeting people and this was where Dinah was an enormous asset, because she spoke first-class French. My French was fluent but it was Canadian, the result of handling the affairs of some Montreal clients for some years, and although I had taken courses in European French I found the Parisian accent and vocabulary very different from the French I was used to. Fortunately Dinah came to my rescue whenever I got bogged down, and I soon took her everywhere with me. The people we met were entranced by her. She was always faultlessly dressed and groomed, always so unobtrusively intelligent. Together we studied the Banque de Paris et du Pays-Bas, with its capital of three hundred million francs and its equally lush reserve fund, and plotted on the map of Europe the bank’s branches in Amsterdam, Brussels and Geneva.

  I like sticking pins in maps. Dinah said I ought to have been a general, and as time passed I really began to feel as if I were surveying some challenging new battlefield and pondering how to deploy my troops. I took a look at another house, the Banque de l’Union Parisienne, and studied several more. Tiring at last of sticking pins in the map, I turned to current economic conditions and gave them a thorough examination. The previous year the franc had been stabilized and the national currency restored to a gold basis. There was now an exchange rate of 25.52 francs to the dollar and 124.21 to the pound sterling, and in addition the Paris rate of discount was as low as that of any other European country except Switzerland. It seldom seemed to rise above three and a half percent.

  All this was very promising, and enjoying myself hugely I dictated long memos to my New York partners, but when I was satisfied that they would be impressed by my industry I sat back to take a good hard look at the situation. Before I could think of establishing a base in France I had to perfect my French. I also needed to know a lot more about French banking procedures. I had forgotten how diverse Europe is compared with the monolith of America, and although in the States I could have got away with reviving a static office in Philadelphia while launching a new branch in Baltimore, I realized I would be wisest to conquer England completely before I attempted a French invasion. I had to cope with unfamiliar cultures, tight-knit native banking communities and an alien industrial structure. I didn’t want to bite off more than I could chew. However, I remained optimistic about my prospects, and thought a European empire was still well within my grasp provided I was prepared to be patient.

  “I just know I can make a success of this if I put my mind to it,” I said to Dinah as we sailed back across the Channel.

  “Of course you can, darling!” she said enthusiastically, and suddenly I thought how marvelous it would be to have her traveling with me every step of the way, helping me with the clients, listening so intelligently whenever I wanted to discuss business, understanding whenever I confessed to having problems. Caroline would try to help, but it wouldn’t be the same. Besides, although Caroline was a successful hostess in America I couldn’t help wondering how she would measure up to European standards. I sensed uneasily that the English would classify her as a strident example of American womanhood and retreat with horror behind the mask of their impeccable manners. Caroline had had only moderate success when we were in Europe before, and she had been younger and quieter then. Now that she was older and noisier I had the unpleasant feeling she was going to be more of a hindrance than a help to me at this very crucial moment of my career, and I couldn’t think what the hell I was going to do about it.

  Caroline was now scheduled to arrive in early July. We had decided to keep our Long Island home for use during our annual visits to the States, but she had disposed of our East Side Manhattan apartment and was shooting off letters demanding to know why I hadn’t been house-hunting in England. She wanted a house in Surrey, the smart county, and a house in Mayfair.

  I did get some brochures from realtors, but the truth was I couldn’t face house-hunting because I couldn’t face the thought that my days as a bachelor were coming to an end. I was having such a wonderful time. There were dinners and parties and weekends in the country. There were movies and theaters and nightclubs. There were Ascot and Wimbledon and even—I still yawn to think of it—the Test Match at Lords, with all my clients, marveling because I knew the difference between the English cricketers and the visiting South African team. I did blot my copybook once by calling the bowler the pitcher, but Dinah gave a little laugh and said wasn’t I witty, so they all thought I was making a joke.

  Of course everyone quickly realized Dinah and I had more in common than the balance sheet of Diana Slade Cosmetics, but we didn’t go careering around like Bright Young Things who drank and drugged while dancing the Black Bottom and then had to be fished out of the gutter the next morning and chauffeured home. I had my suite at the Ritz, she had her house in Belgravia and what happened on the weekends at Mallingham was our own business. But we were seen a lot together at the Trocadero and the “43,” and everyone knew we liked Beatrice Lillie’s style and cheered Mary Pickford with her shorn curls and had seen Noël Coward’s operetta Bitter Sweet three times, so I guess the grapevine must have been humming busily.

  It was a great life. When I look back I wonder how I ever found the time to go to Milk Street, but I was working hard and soon I’d yanked the office out of its dozy humdrum rut. The moment Hal left I fired the old dodderers who had accumulated, raked in some youthful brains and streamlined office procedures so that every detail was handled twice as fast. Then when the bank was ticking over with the efficiency of a Swiss watch I fixed a new blade in my invisible hatchet and set about severing clients from British issuing houses as I raked in as much new business as I could handle.

  “If only Caroline wasn’t coming!” I said for the hundredth time to Dinah. It was the weekend before Caroline was due to leave New York, and I was savoring my last hours of freedom in the dunes above the beach at Waxham.

  “Steve, do stop moaning about Caroline! I specially wanted you to come to Mallingham this weekend because I thought it would cheer you up, and besides …”—her hand slipped into mine—“I’ve got some important news which I’ve been saving as a surprise.”

  “Anything that takes my mind off Caroline,” I said gloomily, “just has to be good news. What is it?”

  She sat up and stretche
d herself luxuriously. For once she was wearing a minimum of makeup, and her skin was clear and fresh. Her dark eyes glowed. I was just thinking I’d never seen her look so pretty when she exclaimed in a voice vibrant with happiness, “It’s the best news in the world, Steve—the best news I could ever wish for.” And with a sigh she nestled against my chest, gazed out to sea and murmured dreamily, “I’m going to have another baby.”

  Eight

  I

  MY FIRST THOUGHT WAS, Jesus Christ, what am I going to tell Caroline? Then I thought, Oh, the hell with Caroline! And the relief of tossing Caroline aside in this fashion was so enormous that I suddenly saw the only solution to my problems. I’d been fooling myself in thinking a compromise was possible once Caroline was in London. Caroline would never tolerate my having any relationship whatsoever with Dinah. There would be rows and scenes and the children would suffer. It would be hell on earth.

  Taking a deep breath, I faced the truth squarely. I loved Dinah. I didn’t love Caroline. I didn’t want to be with Caroline. The only person I wanted to be with was Dinah. I didn’t want to stay married to Caroline. I wanted a friendly divorce and the right to see Scott and Tony as often as possible.

  These thoughts all flashed through my mind in seconds and by the time Dinah turned to look at me I knew what I was going to say.

  “That’s wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I’m crazy about kids!” And I kissed her heartily on the lips.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “I knew you’d understand,” she said. The tears streamed down her face.

  “Honey, don’t cry—”

  “But I’m so happy!”

  “—because everything’s going to be fine! We’ll get married just as soon as I can get a divorce.”

  She looked doubtful. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Steve. I know Caroline’s just the sort of wife a man in your position should have, and I couldn’t be that sort of wife to you.”

  “I don’t want a wife like Caroline!” I stared at her. “Are you nuts or something? You love me, don’t you?”

  “Darling, of course I love you—I’m having your child! But all that matters to me is that you’re pleased about the baby and that you’ll be able to share him with me when the time comes. It’s sweet of you to want to marry me, but I don’t think it would work out very well. You’d want me to give up my career and I’d resent losing all my independence.”

  “That proves it,” I said. “You are nuts. Have I ever once suggested that you should give up your career?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then why should I change the moment I put a wedding band on your finger?”

  “Listen, Steve darling. Don’t lose your temper. It’s not that I don’t love you and can’t appreciate the wonderful compliment you’re paying me. It’s just that marriage is …”—she fumbled for the word—“irrelevant to my way of life. You see, when all’s said and done, marriage is just a bourgeois institution for people who live conventional lives.”

  “Crap.” I was really angry. “I don’t know why you’re scared of marriage, but don’t give me that garbage about it being a bourgeois institution. Like it or not it’s an institution of the world we live in, and if you can’t face up to the world we live in you’re in bad trouble and so’s that baby. Have you ever asked Alan how he feels about being illegitimate?”

  “Well, I … Well, the-truth is …”

  “You’ve never discussed it with him? My God, Dinah, you’re going to have trouble with that boy!”

  “But he’s still so young! How could I possibly explain—”

  “Yeah, you’re so damned mixed up you couldn’t even explain yourself to yourself, let alone to anyone else!” I got up abruptly and walked down the dunes to the beach.

  She came after me, and when I saw she’d been crying I took her in my arms.

  “Forgive me, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “I will marry you, Steve, I will, I want to.”

  “Of course you do. I don’t see your problem. There are all kinds of marriages—we’ll just tailor one to suit us. You won’t be locked up in solitary confinement with a husband who beats you every night.”

  She managed to laugh. We kissed.

  “I hope this won’t be bad for your career,” she said, worried. “People don’t mind so much about divorce nowadays, but it’s far less acceptable here than in America.”

  “Honey, the one thing the British would never accept would be if I knocked up their favorite Lady of Mystery, Miss Dinah Slade, and then settled down cozily with my wife in Mayfair and tried to live happily ever after. A second divorce won’t be the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, but I’ll get over it and so will the British. Incidentally, how long does it take to buy a divorce over here? Are they expensive?” This amused her, just as I’d intended, but unfortunately it turned out to be no laughing matter. The New York State divorce law is one of the narrowest in the Union, and in English law too I had no grounds for divorcing Caroline. In fact, according to the smartest divorce lawyer in London the only way my marriage could be terminated immediately would be for Caroline to divorce me for adultery.

  Somehow I found it difficult to imagine Caroline meekly asking a judge to cede me to Dinah. I began to feel worried, but since the next step was obviously to delay Caroline’s departure I sent her a cable which read: “REGRET BUT MUST ASK YOU TO POSTPONE DEPARTURE STOP CANCEL VOYAGE AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS STOP.”

  When I returned to the Ritz that evening I found with a shock that Caroline had already cabled: “REGRET BUT MUST POSTPONE DEPARTURE STOP HOSPITALIZED FOR OPERATION STOP NOTHING SERIOUS LOVE.”

  That put me in a tough spot. Since she was ill I could hardly tell her our marriage was finished. That would be hitting a fellow when he’s down, as the English say—not the sporting thing to do at all.

  I was still wondering what the hell my next step should be when a letter arrived from my brother Luke. “Thought you ought to know,” he scrawled, “that Caroline’s operation turned out to be bigger than expected and the doctors say she must convalesce for about three months before attempting to join you in Europe. Don’t ask me what the operation was because Caroline wouldn’t tell me and seemed to think it was kind of crude of me to ask. It has something to do with those internal organs women have …”

  Caroline wrote in a letter which arrived the next day,

  So I said to the doctor, “If you don’t tell me the truth I’ll sue you. Was it benign or not?” So the doctor said no, it wasn’t exactly benign but it didn’t matter because they got the whole thing out. So I said: “My God, you mean I’ve just had cancer of the womb?” and he said: “Yes, but your recovery is progressing well and your prognosis is excellent.” So there we are. Of course if I’d known beforehand that I had cancer I’d have screamed for you to come home, but now it’s all over there doesn’t seem much point, does there? However, darling, although I don’t want to be hysterical I must admit it would be nice if you could come back for a visit. …

  “I’ll have to go,” I said, very upset

  “She knew you’d say that,” said Dinah.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jesus, Dinah, the woman’s just had cancer!”

  “I know, and I think that’s a very brave letter and I admire her very much and I hope she lives till she’s a hundred. But look at it this way, Steve. Caroline must know about us. If she doesn’t read the gossip columns herself she’s bound to have half a dozen kind friends who are burning to tell her what you’ve been getting up to. So naturally, since Caroline isn’t going to give you up without a fight, she’s going to do her damnedest to lure you back to America.”

  I was on the brink of having a row with her but I controlled myself. Pregnancy is notorious for making women irrational and it wasn’t surprising that she should be jealous of Caroline.

  I fired off a cable to Caroline’s doctor demanding a full confidential report by return mail, and
followed it with a second cable to Luke asking him to buy up half a florist’s shop and have it delivered to Caroline in the hospital. Then I tried to figure out a solution which would be fair to everyone.

  Caroline’s doctor reported that while the surgery appeared to have been successful the possibility of a recurrence in the future couldn’t be overlooked. He recommended that Caroline stay under his supervision till Christmas.

  It was August by that time. I could return to New York, have a heart-to-heart talk with Caroline, get myself divorced for adultery, whisk back to England, marry Dinah and live happily ever after. Or I could stick around in England, welcome my illegitimate child when it entered the world and negotiate a slow painful long-distance divorce from Caroline.

  I chewed it over. Whichever way I looked at the situation, I had to admit I was in a mess, and finally I told myself I was in such a mess that I might as well go all the way and do the honest, decent thing.

  I had to see Caroline face to face. It was no good cowering in England and sheltering behind a barrage of lawyers. I had to talk to her, explain the way things were and negotiate the end of the marriage personally with all possible tact and consideration.

  I felt good after making that decision—rather as if I’d been to church after a long absence. However, then it occurred to me that I didn’t want to wipe Caroline out by a surfeit of decency. If I now materialized promptly at her bedside she might look so sick that I wouldn’t have the heart to tell her any bad news. I had to wait till she was fit enough to yell abuse at me in her usual style and convince me how impossible it was to stay married to her.