Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Poor Roz,’ said Letitia, ‘five years of that sort of thing is a long time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roz shortly. ‘Well, I daresay it did me some good.’

  ‘I hope so, darling. I’m never quite convinced about the therapeutic value of unhappiness. Anyway, I’m glad you like it so much better where you are now. You’re looking wonderful,’ she added.

  Wonderful was perhaps an exaggeration, and Roz knew it; but she also knew she did look better all the time. She was still far from pretty, and probably always would be, but she didn’t think anyone any more could call her exactly plain. She was taller, quite a lot taller than any other girl in her year; nobody could quite work out where her height came from – Julian was only six foot, and Eliza was tiny, just about five foot (and half an inch, she always insisted). But there it was, Roz was five foot nine already and still growing, and she was large framed too, with wide shoulders and, to her constant misery, size nine feet. ‘Just you try getting fashionable shoes in that size,’ she said darkly to anyone who told her it didn’t matter. But there was not an ounce of fat on her, she was lean and rangy-looking, apart from a most gratifyingly large bosom. Her face was interesting, dramatic, her rather hollow cheekbones and harsh jaw accentuating her large green eyes, her slightly over-full mouth. Her nose caused her much anguish, it was big, but it was at least straight and not hooked or anything awful, she kept reassuring herself; and her dark hair was thick and shiny, even if it was as straight as the proverbial die, and wilful with it. She wore it long now, and tied back in a long swinging pony tail; it wasn’t a style that flattered her but at least it kept it under control, and stopped it sticking out the wrong way which it did unless she spent hours on it with the styling brush and the hair dryer, and even then it often got the better of her and she would end up in tears of frustration with one side neatly turned under and the other flying relentlessly outwards. Of the many things for which she loathed Camilla North her exquisitely behaved red hair came almost top of the list. She had done very well in her O levels, and got eleven, nine of them As; she was doing maths, economics and geography A levels, and in her first term at Bedales had beaten all the girls and all but two of the boys in the pre-Christmas exams. She planned on going to Cambridge to read maths; her tutor had told Julian that she would probably get in on fifth term entry, rather than doing a third year in the sixth. Nothing pleased Roz more than showing her father how clever she was; it made up for not being pretty, not being a boy, not really being the sort of daughter she knew he would have liked. And loved. He obviously liked her more than he had done, he sought her company, even showed her off at times, but it was detachedly, rather as if she was some clever person he had employed rather than his own daughter. She supposed, rather resignedly these days, that she neither looked nor played the daughter part correctly. He was never physically affectionate towards her, never petted her, never teased her; and he had still never asked her to go and live with him permanently, even though her mother was away more than not these days, pursuing first one and then another awful playboy round the world; she had given up all pretence of having a career and was shamelessly (as Roz put it to Rosie Howard Johnson, still her closest and indeed her only friend) being kept by one rich man after another.

  And then, Camilla was definitely fading from the scene. It had been months now since she had been even in the guest room at Hanover Terrace, never mind tiptoeing along the corridor to Julian’s bedroom, and certainly never at Marriotts; and besides she must be getting on a bit now, in her mid thirties, getting well past her fertility peak, and even safely into the danger zone of prospective foetal abnormalities (Roz had become an expert on such matters, feverishly reading every article and book on the subject she could find).

  But there was one willowy and rather distressingly beautiful fly in the ointment: the spirit of Juliana incarnate, one Araminta Jones. And although she was less worrying and certainly less ghastly than Camilla (and had the most enragingly neat, golden brown head of hair), Roz would still have been a lot happier if she had not been around.

  The seventies saw the real birth of the personality cult in cosmetics: when one face, one spirit, one aura personified and sold a brand. For Charles Revson and Revlon it was Lauren Hutton; for Mrs Lauder it was Karen Graham; for Julian Morell and Juliana it was Araminta Jones.

  When a middle-aged, overweight matron, anxious she might be losing her husband to his twenty-year-old secretary, bought a Revlon lipstick or eye shadow, she felt somehow magically transformed into Lauren Hutton, all college-girl charm, long-legged, radiantly gap-toothed; when a gauche, unremarkable young wife used a Lauder cream or sprayed herself with Alliage before entertaining her husband’s important clients, she felt she had acquired some of Karen Graham’s old-money glamour and confidence; and when a plain, nervous woman made up her face with Juliana colours and surrounded herself with a cloud of Mademoiselle Je before she went to a party, she felt herself suddenly acquiring the upper-class Englishness, the sexy sophistication of Araminta Jones. Miss Jones, like Miss Hutton and Miss Graham, was not just a face or even a body, she was a package, a lifestyle, a way of dressing, of walking, of thinking. You could tell, just by looking at her (and of course by some very clever publicity) that she was well educated, perfectly bred, that she wore designer label clothes, drove an expensive car, knew one end of a horse from another, ate in the best restaurants, holidayed in Bermuda, skied in Aspen, drank nothing but champagne, and had been programmed for success from birth.

  The bad news about her, from Rosamund Morell’s point of view, was that most of these things were fact, and Julian Morell, having discovered her (and bought her, for what amounted to millions of dollars), was showing every sign of being rather seriously besotted with her. And Araminta was most definitely of childbearing age. On the other hand, it seemed to Roz, her father was definitely getting on a bit, into his fifties, and surely nobody of twenty-two in their right minds would want to get mixed up with someone so seriously old. Araminta, she was sure, was simply stringing her father along, knowing precisely on which side her wafer-thin slices of bread were buttered, taking him for every penny she could get, and would be off without a backward glance from her wide, purple eyes if someone younger and more suitable came along.

  Roz had chosen to forget her own brief foray into Love with an Older Man; what was more her opinion of the male race, already low, had taken a further dive at David Sassoon’s defection to the United States and from her mother’s bed the moment success and fame beckoned in even larger quantities than were already in his possession. She had suffered a qualm or two of conscience witnessing Eliza’s awful grief over the defection; had tried not to listen, her hands over her ears, to the hideous, ferocious scene as David tried to justify it (‘Darling, I can’t afford not to take it, he’ll destroy me, give me a chance to make it out there and I’ll set up on my own, and we’ll be married,’) – on and on it went, hour after hour, all one night, and in the morning he was gone, leaving Eliza swollen-eyed, ashen, and somehow suddenly smaller than ever, and very frail. Roz had known she had had at least something to do with that suffering, that frailty, and tell herself as she might that had David really loved her mother he would not have gone, she knew that had she not spoken as she had to her father over those months, David would not have had the opportunity to go. However, she told herself, her mother had caused her a great deal of suffering in her life and certainly didn’t seem to have felt guilty about it; moreover, Eliza was tough, she was resilient, and she just didn’t need a man who put his worldly success so firmly before his emotional life.

  Roz had grown very skilful at such rationalization.

  Freddy Branksome, financial director of Morell’s, came into Julian’s office one morning in early 1972 and shut the door firmly behind him.

  ‘I think we might have a problem,’ he said.

  Julian, who had been studying with some pleasure the latest pictures of Araminta Jones by David Bailey for the autumn advertising campaig
n, and reflecting with greater pleasure still upon the circumstances in which he had last gazed into those vast, black-lashed, purply-blue eyes, recognized the tone in Freddy’s voice that demanded his undivided attention, and set the contacts aside.

  ‘Yes, Freddy?’

  ‘I’ve been looking at the share register. I don’t like it. There’s been a lot of buying by some set-up in Zürich. Big blocks. I smell trouble.’

  ‘Can you check it out?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Takeover?’

  ‘Not yet. But we could be heading for a bid.’

  ‘Christ, I wish this company was still mine.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s a bit late for that. You went public twenty years ago or so. You’ve still got thirty per cent. That’s not a bad stake, in a company this size.’

  ‘Not enough though, is it? Not when this sort of thing happens.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t happened yet. I’ll keep working on it.’

  A week later he was back in Julian’s office. ‘More buying. Just in dribs and drabs. Something like twenty per cent of all the shares now. I can’t make it out.’

  ‘But there’s nothing tangible?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Maybe it’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Maybe. You OK, Julian? You look rotten.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I feel fine.’

  ‘OK. Sorry I spoke.’

  Araminta Jones lay looking at the ceiling above Julian Morell’s huge bed in Hanover Terrace. This was the third time he hadn’t been able to deliver and it was getting very boring. Just once was all right, it was almost exciting in a way, trying and trying, working on them, using everything you had, talking dirty, porno pictures, offering every orifice; she’d suggested whips and all that stuff, but nothing had worked, and she was getting just totally frustrated. In a minute, she thought, she’d get up and go home, and ring up that nice boy who’d been in the agency today and see what he could do for her. Julian was OK, very charming and all that, and the bracelet had been gorgeous, she’d always loved sapphires, and she loved the idea of the Bahamas. But on the other hand, with what he paid her she could afford to go herself, and take someone young and horny with her. Christ, it was hot. Why did these old guys always have to have their bedrooms like ovens? She wondered if he was still awake. If he wasn’t, she could just creep off and spin him some yarn in the morning about having an early call, and needing to get her stuff together. She shifted experimentally, turning her back to him; Julian’s hand came over her shoulder and stroked her breasts tentatively.

  ‘I’m sorry, Araminta. Again. I suppose I’m just worried.’

  ‘What about?’ (As if she didn’t know.)

  ‘Oh, the company. We have a few problems.’

  ‘Not with the new campaign, I hope. I don’t want to have to re-shoot. I’m going to New York next week.’

  ‘No, not the campaign. I didn’t know you were going to New York. I might come with you. Maybe then we could go down to the Bahamas. A holiday is probably exactly what I need.’

  ‘Maybe.’ (They all said that.)

  ‘Julian,’ said Freddy Branksome a week later, ‘I really don’t think you ought to go to New York for a day or two.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because of this situation with the shares. It’s still going on. Still worrying me.’

  ‘OK, I’ll hang on a bit.’

  ‘Any more news on the shares, Freddy?’

  ‘Well, it’s one buyer. French. I’ve established that much. I think we could be in for a rocky ride.’

  ‘But you still don’t know who?’

  ‘Well, it’s unlikely to be an institution. It could be of course, could even be a rival cosmetic company. But I don’t think so. It’s an individual, as far as we can make out. Got any particular enemies at the moment, Julian?’

  ‘What’s that? Oh, no, I don’t think so. No more than usual.’

  ‘Good.’

  In the main bedroom of his chateau in the champagne-producing area of the Loire, the Vicomte du Chene was looking tenderly at the slender, wonderfully sensuous body of his new wife. ‘My darling darling,’ he said, punctuating the words with repeated and ever-longer forays with his tongue into her genitals, and postponing in a delicious agony the moment when he could allow himself to enter her with his eager (if somewhat modestly made) member, ‘you are so lovely, so very very lovely. You have made me the happiest man in France. I cannot believe that you have consented to be’ – very long pause – ‘my wife.’

  ‘Oh, Pierre, you’re so sweet. It’s me that is fortunate. And the happiest woman in France. And thank you for the marvellous – wedding present. We can have such fun with it. It was so terribly generous of you.’

  ‘My darling, a few shares. It was nothing. In return for your love. And perhaps –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, the little matter of course of an heir. To the vineyards. My only unsatisfied ambition now.’

  ‘I know. Of course. And I’m sure we can fulfil it. Together. Like this . . .’

  ‘Indeed, my darling. Just a matter of time. And – such pleasantly, wonderfully spent time. If it took all eternity it would be too short.’

  His bride stretched herself out beneath him, opening her legs, encasing his penis lovingly in her hands, guiding it, urging it into her body. ‘Yes, my darling,’ she murmured, raising her hips, pushing herself against him, trying with all the skill she had been born with and learnt, to help him to maintain his erection for a few moments at least, to bring him just a little more slowly to orgasm. ‘It would. Now – now – no, my darling wait, please – aah,’ and she relaxed suddenly, clenching and unclenching her vagina in a fiercely faked orgasm, as the hapless Vicomte’s little problem of premature ejaculation once again came between her and her pleasure.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘how was it for you?’

  ‘Marvellous. Quite marvellous.’

  ‘My darling. My own darling,’ he said, kissing her repeatedly in a gush of gratitude. ‘How fortunate I am. How very very fortunate.’

  Eliza du Chene, looking up at the ceiling, a yearning void somewhere deep inside her, hoped fervently that the price of revenge and becoming a major shareholder in her ex-husband’s company was not going to become unbearably high.

  ‘Roz darling, hallo, it’s Mummy.’

  ‘Oh, hallo.’

  ‘How are you, darling?’

  ‘Fine. Quite busy. Mummy, they really don’t like us having personal calls. Unless it’s an emergency. They asked me to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, well I’m sorry. It’s not an emergency exactly, but I did need to speak to you. I’ve just got married again.’

  ‘How nice.’

  ‘Roz, you could be a bit more enthusiastic for me.’

  ‘Sorry. Of course I’m pleased. If you are. Will I like him?’

  ‘I hope so, darling. He’s French. He has the most divine chateau in the Loire Valley, and absolutely acres of vineyards, champagne mostly.’

  ‘Well, that’ll be convenient.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what’s his name, my new stepfather?’

  ‘Pierre. Pierre du Chene. He’s a vicomte.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Well anyway, darling, of course I would have liked you to be at the wedding, but – well, I hardly had time to get there myself.’

  ‘I see. It does seem a bit sudden. Couldn’t you have told me before?’

  ‘Not really, darling. I’ve been swept off my feet, as you might say. He was just desperate to get it settled.’

  ‘How romantic. Oh well, never mind.’

  ‘Roz, don’t sound like that. I want you to be happy for me.’

  ‘Mummy, I’m trying. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all. OK, here goes. Let’s see if I can find the proper words. Mummy, that is absolutely marvellous, thrilling news, how wonderful, I hope you’ll be ver
y very happy. Will that do? Now I must go. Have a good honeymoon. Does Daddy know?’

  ‘Not yet. Roz, darling, you mustn’t be upset. We want you to come and stay here very very soon. Next holidays. I know you’re going to love him. Goodbye, Roz.’

  ‘I hope so. Goodbye, Mummy.’

  Roz put the phone down and waited for the familiar bleak, shut-out feeling to engulf her. It didn’t take very long.

  ‘There’s a Vicomtesse du Chene on the phone, Mr Morell.’ Sarah Brownsmith, Julian’s new secretary, spoke nervously. Julian’s temper had been extremely uncertain over the past few weeks.

  ‘Who? Never heard of her. Ask her what she wants.’

  The line went blank for a while. ‘She says she’s one of your shareholders. One of your major shareholders. She wants to ask you some questions about the company.’

  ‘Tell her she can’t. Tell her it’s nothing to do with me.’

  The line went blank again. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Morell, but she’s very insistent. She says when you speak to her you’ll know what it’s about.’

  ‘What? Oh, all right. Put her on. But tell her I’ve only got one minute. Tell her I’ve got to catch a plane.’

  ‘Really, Julian. You can do better than that. Surely everyone knows by now you’ve got your own plane.’

  It was Eliza’s voice. Julian knocked over his coffee.

  ‘Eliza. What on earth are you doing on the phone? I was expecting some damn fool Frenchwoman.’

  ‘No. A damn fool Englishwoman. With a French husband.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Vicomtesse du Chene. C’est moi. It’s me.’

  Roz loathed Pierre du Chene. She thought he was disgusting. He was physically disgusting, short and dark and with an awful smell, a nauseating blend of garlic and strong aftershave, and in spite of that a kind of lingering fragrance of BO as well. And he had those awful sleazy eyes, which were always on her, watching her, half smiling, and often if she caught him unawares, she found them fixed not on her face but on her breasts, or her stomach. He had a little squashed monkey’s face with a kind of snub nose, and a moustache, and his breath smelt horrible too, and when he kissed her, which he did at every possible opportunity it seemed to her, she thought she would be sick. And his personality was also disgusting, smarmy and ingratiating, chatting her up, telling her how clever she was, how pretty, pretending a great interest in her school, her friends, anything at all that he thought would win her over. Roz thought if she told him she collected dog turds, he would have exclaimed at her originality and offered to go and find her a few interesting specimens.