All this he did alone, for who after all, in the first phases of a love affair, wants to share the beloved; London was company and happiness enough, and he did not ask for any more.
And then he did not actually hate the job quite as much as he had expected. C. J. was a carer, and hotels were in the caring business; having overcome his initial distaste, he found he could actually get quite interestingly involved in how best to ensure the maximum comfort, visual delight and pleasure of one person for twenty-four hours a day.
Julian Morell was swift to realize that where C. J. worked, people tended to think more visually, more imaginatively, and he encouraged and nurtured him. He was a brilliant employer; as with his own daughter, he gave C. J. no special privileges, attention or opportunities – until they were earned. And as in the case of his own daughter, they were earned quickly. In eight months C. J. was promoted to deputy marketing manager, Morell Hotels Europe, at a hugely increased salary – every penny of which he earned.
Julian had taken a considerable gamble in giving him a job at all, but in the event it had paid off. And it was making Scott very happy as he lay failing in his huge bed in the house in Oyster Bay.
Roz was very unhappy. More than she would have believed possible. She missed Michael Browning with every fibre of her being; she hated every beginning of every day.
When they had finally parted (at her instigation and against appalling opposition from him) she spent forty-eight totally wakeful hours, wondering if she could stand the pain and the knowledge of what she had given up. She, who had been looking for love ever since she had been a tiny girl sitting on the stairs and had heard her father’s voice rejecting her, had thrown it wantonly away. And not just love, but appreciation, acceptance, admiration, physical pleasure: simply so that she could be seen to be a worldly success, and to be taking up her position as her father’s rightful heir. And it might well be worth it, indeed she had to believe it was, but the price was horrifically high. She had expected to feel bad; what she hadn’t expected was to feel bad for so long. As the days became weeks, and the weeks a month, two, and her pain continued, she became angry and resentful.
It was very hard, even after this time, to stick to her decision; not to lift the phone, not to write, not to get on a plane. By one simple action, she knew, she could feel well, healed, happy again; but somehow she resisted. She had to.
At first she had expected him to make approaches to her, to try to make her change her mind. But such behaviour was not Browning’s style. He was a proud man. If Roz told him she couldn’t give him her life, then he was not about to crawl round her, trying to change her mind. They had one last night together, when he made love to her again and again, angrily, despairingly: ‘This is what you are losing,’ his body said to her through the long, endless hours, ‘this pleasure, this hunger, this love,’ and in the morning he had got out of bed and left her without saying another word to her, not even goodbye.
She had wept for hours. That was in itself a rare event; she surprised herself by her capacity to feel. Physical pain, this was; her skin felt sore, her head bruised, her joints ached. She couldn’t think clearly, or concentrate or remember anything at all for more than sixty seconds. That went on for weeks. It was only when she flunked an important presentation that she remembered sharply and with a kind of thankfulness why she had subjected herself to this: precisely so that she could work and impress and succeed and excel.
She went home that night and took a sleeping pill, set her alarm for five-thirty. By six-thirty she had run three miles, showered and dressed; by seven she was in the office, dictating memos. That day she instigated a complete re-evaluation of all Juliana’s outlets, made a review of the advertising and arranged presentations from five new agencies; called the studio in for a major briefing on re-packaging three of the lines, and tried to persuade her father of the wisdom of putting small, Circe-style boutiques in the hotels.
‘I think it would work, Daddy. Let me give you some of my ideas.’
Julian looked at her white, drawn face and her dark eyes raw with the pain and saw how he could help her. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about that for a while. I’m not convinced it’s right, though. I’d like a document soon, Roz. I can’t wait months. Can you let me have it in three weeks?’
She looked at him with weary gratitude. ‘Yes, I think so. Yes. I can.’
He looked after her with great respect as she went out of the room. He was deeply thankful that the affair with Browning was over; but it wasn’t entirely pleasant to see her so patently wretched.
Roz was too unhappy to think very rationally at the time, but later on it was to occur to her quite forcibly that she could perfectly well have done her new job in New York under the aegis of Miss Bentinck, rather than in London under her father, and continued to see Michael at the same time. It was yet another example of her father’s power over her, and his insistence that she recognized and accepted it.
The document she delivered was excellent: clear sighted, financially well based, persuasive. Julian, who had not had the slightest intention of putting any boutiques in the hotels, agreed to do a test in the Nice and the London Morell. As this came under C. J.’s domain, he called him in.
‘Have lunch with Roz, C. J., and talk to her about her ideas. They’re interesting. She thinks these boutiques should not be just expensive little shops but have properly planned merchandise with a fashion consultant in each one to coordinate accessories. It’s a good idea. Let me have your views on it.’
C. J., who was pushing himself equally hard to try and numb himself against the pain of his father’s death, hurled himself into the project with fervour. He didn’t particularly like Roz, but he admired her and her ideas, and he enjoyed working with her; personally she terrified him, but on a business level she was a delight. Her brain was much more incisive than his, she could see her way through a problem or situation with extraordinary clarity. She was a brilliant analyst and a very clever negotiator. But she undoubtedly lacked flair and fashion instinct, her own appearance apart, and C. J. possessed both; they made an unbeatable team. It was a source of great sadness as well as huge pride to Madeleine that Scott missed seeing his son’s promotion to junior vice president of Morell Hotels by just three months. Roz was given the same title at the same time. It was an interesting period in the Morell empire.
‘C. J.,’ said Roz one night, just after Christmas, ‘why don’t we go through these designers’ names over dinner? I’m really hungry.’
C. J. looked at her warily. He was less frightened of her than he had been, but she was still far from the kind of dinner companion he would have chosen.
Nevertheless, it was a pleasant evening. They got through the list of designers (and a bottle of champagne) in half an hour and by the time the first course arrived they were sitting isolated from the in-buzzing and shrieking of San Frediano’s restaurant in the Fulham Road in a kind of euphoric relaxation. Roz was enjoying herself for the first time in months.
‘Oh, it’s the best feeling in the world, this,’ she said happily. ‘Don’t you think so, C. J.?’
‘Being round half a bottle of champagne?’
‘No, you fool, you know perfectly well what I mean. Finishing a difficult job, and knowing you’ve done it well. And knowing you’ve earned being round half a bottle of champagne. What a ghastly expression, anyway, C. J. Is that an Americanism?’
‘My father told me it was an Anglicism,’ said C. J., smiling at her. She looked very good; she was wearing a white silk shirt and a pair of tan leather jodhpurs with high boots; over her shoulders, slung casually, was one of Edina Ronay’s fair-isle sweaters. She was leaning back in her chair, her long legs thrust out into the aisle between the tables, threatening to trip up the waiters as they hurtled past; almost for the first time he realized she was a very attractive woman in her strong, slightly forbidding way.
‘How are you feeling about your father now?’ asked Roz. ‘Awful still?’
‘Pretty awful.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not so bad for me, I guess. It’s my mother who’s really doing the suffering. She’s been so brave. She loved him so much. They were just all the world to each other. I guess not many people grow up looking at a happy marriage. It’s a great privilege.’
‘One I wouldn’t know about,’ said Roz, sad rather than angry for once about her parents’ spectacular inability to form satisfactory relationships with anyone, let alone one another. ‘Is she all right? How does she cope?’
‘Not too badly. The girls are all in New York, and they see her a lot, and I go over quite often and call her all the time. But it’s no use at all, really. It’s Dad she wants. I’m just glad I was doing what he wanted me to do when he died.’
‘That’s a very unselfish sentiment. What a nice person you are, C. J.’
‘You sound surprised.’
‘Not about you. But I’m always surprised by niceness.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I haven’t met an awful lot of it.’
‘Are you feeling better?’ asked C. J., anxious to change the direction of the conversation.
‘What do you mean?’ She looked suddenly defensive.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said C. J., confused and nervous again. ‘I guess I shouldn’t have asked. Here’s our food. Can we have some more champagne?’ he said suddenly to the waiter.
‘C. J.!’ said Roz. ‘What lavish behaviour.’
‘My father always said champagne was cheaper than psychiatry,’ said C. J., smiling at her, ‘and it worked a darn sight better. I think he’s right.’
‘Do you need psychiatry? Do I?’
‘I do,’ said C. J., looking suddenly serious. ‘Or something like it. I’d be in analysis if I was in America.’
‘C. J., what is it? No, you don’t have to tell me. I’m prying. I’m sorry.’
‘No, I’d like to,’ he said and to his total embarrassment and misery his eyes filled with tears. He blew his nose. ‘It would be a relief, in a way. Although you’re the last person I expected to tell.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because you scare the shit out of me.’
‘So I see,’ said Roz, ‘and it’s deeply flattering. Now come on, C. J. Just forget I’m so terrifying and you don’t like me and all that and just spill the beans.’
C. J. looked wretchedly down at the table. ‘I – well, I think – that is, since Dad died – I – well, I don’t have any sexual feelings at all. It scares me, Roz, it really does. I don’t fancy anyone. I don’t even want to fancy anyone. I’m not suggesting I’m impotent or anything drastic like that, I just feel – dead.’
‘You mean sexually dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about emotionally?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well I mean, don’t you think about girls and falling in love with them and all that sort of thing?’
C. J. looked at her, surprised. He had not expected Roz to look at his problem with such sensitivity and imaginativeness. ‘Well, I worry about it. About not being in love. Not being able to be. But I haven’t met anyone for ages who made me even think positively about it.’
‘You mean you haven’t met anyone you like enough, or fancy enough?’
‘Both.’
‘How awful.’
‘It is.’
‘No dreams even?’
‘No dreams even,’ said C. J. sadly, and then suddenly he smiled. ‘What a strange girl you are, Roz.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’re so tough and clever and ambitious –’
‘And terrifying.’
‘And terrifying. And yet you seem to understand the most surprising things.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, loneliness. Isolation, dreams. I mean that really is strange. For you to talk about dreams.’
‘Oh, I’m a mass of contradictions,’ said Roz, just slightly bitter. ‘I’ve just been through the mill myself, C. J. That’s how I know what you’re talking about. I dream a lot. In fact I get all my sex in my sleep at the moment.’
‘Well,’ said C. J. ‘At least you’re getting some.’ And totally unaware of the comedy of the situation, he heaved a shuddering sigh.
Roz sat there and a whole range of emotions filled her. She felt sadness for C. J. and pity; she felt remote and sad for herself; she felt a strong urge to giggle; and strongest of all and quite unbidden, she felt a great lick of desire. And she knew precisely what she would have to do.
‘C. J.,’ she said almost briskly, ‘drink your coffee and take me home. I’m very very tired. Could you call a taxi, do you think, while you’re paying the bill? I’m going to the loo.’
C. J. looked after her miserably as she disappeared. He had made a fool of himself, but at least she was clearly not going to attempt to comfort him or offer any advice. He should be grateful for that. And frightening as she was, he did know she wasn’t a gossip. His misery was in safe hands. He paid the (enormous) bill, collected their coats and was standing in the doorway when Roz appeared, looking briskly cheerful, in a cloud of perfume. ‘Got a taxi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
Inside the flat, which surprised him by its lack of style, its blanket decor of beige and white, its dull, born-again Conran furniture, its dearth of pictures and books, Roz kicked off her shoes, threw her coat on the sofa, put on a record – the LP of Forty-Second Street – and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘Make yourself comfortable, C. J. That’s what they say, isn’t it? I won’t be long.’
C. J. paced up and down the sitting room. ‘Evening shadows fall!’ cried the record player provocatively. He felt sick. He felt like a rabbit in a trap. He would have bolted if he’d had the courage, but he didn’t. He wondered how he could have been quite such a fool, and had just decided to put in for a transfer to Sydney in the morning when Roz reappeared with two mugs of coffee.
‘OK. Now I want to go over that list of designers just once more. I think we may have rushed it.’
C. J. felt a surge of gratitude. She was a clever girl. She knew exactly how to defuse the situation after all. He relaxed suddenly.
‘I felt that.’
‘What?’
‘You relaxing.’
‘Ah.’
‘Now, don’t go all tense again, C. J. Get the list.’
‘OK.’ He went out to the hall where he had left his briefcase. When he came back she stretched out her hand.
‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks. Now then,’ she said, patting the sofa beside her. ‘Let’s see. Are you quite sure about Jean Muir?’
‘Quite.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Why?’
‘Too subtle. Zandra certainly. Belinda Belville almost certainly. But I’m doubtful about Jean. Give me your hand, C. J.’
He was so relaxed, he gave her his hand without thinking. Roz raised it to her lips and he looked at her, startled.
‘Roz, don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t like pity.’
‘You’re not going to get any.’
‘Ah.’
The record had mercifully stopped; all he could hear, thundering somewhere inside him, was his heart.
‘Kiss me.’
‘Roz, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘I don’t. Kiss me.’
‘No.’
‘Then,’ she said taking his face in her hands, ‘I shall kiss you.’ And she leant forward very very slowly and kissed him very gently. ‘Was that so dreadful?’ she said, drawing back.
‘Not dreadful at all.’
‘I liked it too. I shall do it again.’
And she did.
‘How was that?’
‘It was great,’ said C. J., and then suddenly drew back from her and collapsed into the
corner of the sofa, roaring with laughter.
‘C. J., what is the matter with you?’
‘This is too ridiculous. It’s like a re-run of Some Like It Hot. You know, when Tony Curtis has told Monroe he’s impotent and she’s really trying to get him going, and he keeps saying “Nothing” every time she asks him how he feels. It’s just ridiculous!’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Roz, slightly nettled, but then she started to laugh too, and fell against him, and then she turned her head up to him, and pulled him down against her. And he kissed her again, and then again, and ‘Still nothing?’ she said, apeing Marilyn Monroe’s baby voice, and ‘Yes, something,’ said C. J. in a thick American accent and then, his eyes still full of laughter, he pushed her upright and raised his hands and unbuttoned her shirt and began to slide it off her shoulder, and as he looked at her breasts naked under the silk shirt he felt at the same time a dreadful stab of terror and panic and a great lunge of desire, and he stopped smiling altogether and froze quite quite still.
‘Oh, C. J., don’t be afraid,’ she said in a voice so soft he would not have believed it of her, and she took his head in her hands and pressed it very tenderly against her breasts, stroking his hair, and as he took one of her nipples in his mouth, played with it, teased it, she began to moan, very very quietly. And then suddenly he felt everything was totally out of control, and a white-hot need came into him, that was blind, driving, deadly. He was tearing at her clothes, and his own, and kissing her everywhere, her face, her shoulders, her breasts, her hands, and drawing her down on top of him. He felt her thin back, her tight hard buttocks, and then her soft moistness, so tender, so yielding at first, and then so hungry, and so strong; and he turned her and entered her with a great surge of triumph; he had only been in her for the briefest of times, it seemed, settling, searching and feeling her juices flowing to meet him, when it was over, in a shuddering agony of relief and the months of misery and loneliness were wiped out and he lay weeping on her breast. And Roz lay too, hardly begun to be satisfied, aching with hunger, weeping for the loss of Michael for the first time for months, but smiling nevertheless; and in her ears she could hear, as if she was in the chair on the other side of the room, her mother saying, ‘Find some milksop of a man who would do exactly what you told him.’
Old Sins Page 50
