‘Do you want the strawberries instead, madam?’
‘No,’ said Camilla, teeth clenched, voice low, ‘I don’t want anything. Just some coffee.’
‘Certainly, madam. Decaffeinated?’
‘No.’ She was almost shouting at him, in an agony of misery, ‘I want real coffee. Full of caffeine. Strong. Black. With sugar. All right?’
‘All right. Certainly, madam. I’ll bring it at once.’
She looked at Julian and thought how much she had loved him, how much, at that moment, she hated him. ‘How old is she, this person?’
He looked at her, then looked away. ‘Twenty-four.’
‘Twenty-four!’ Camilla began to laugh, wild, hysterical laughter. ‘Twenty-four years old. How pathetic. Even by your standards. What a stupid, hopeless gesture. Julian, it’s a classic. I suppose you realize that. A classic grab at youth. A negation of yourself, a rejection of where you really are, who you really are. I feel sorry for you, deeply sorry. And for her. How long do you think it will last?’
‘A long time, I hope. I intend to marry her.’
Camilla sat staring at him, quite quite still, her face ashen, her eyes wide with horror. Her stomach heaved; she thought she might be sick. Then she leant forward, and in perhaps the first, the only truly spontaneous, unpremeditated action of her entire life, slapped him very hard twice across the face.
‘You poor deluded bastard,’ she said very clearly, so clearly everyone in the dining room could hear. Then she picked up her bag and walked quite slowly and deliberately out.
It was only when she was safely in a taxi that she began to cry.
The first person Roz had talked to, bared her soul to about Phaedria, was Susan. She found her very receptive.
Susan found herself reacting strongly and rather painfully to Julian’s prospective marriage. She had imagined herself to be entirely free of any emotional involvement with him; she was happily involved with Richard Brookes, and was seriously considering marrying him (‘Although at our age it does seem a little ridiculous,’ she said, ‘and I’m certainly not having anything but the smallest most badly publicized wedding’); she had watched Julian leading Camilla the elaborate and disagreeable dance she had visualized for herself over the years; and she had thanked God, and her own common sense and judgement, that she had escaped it. Then he sat her down in his office one morning (the same day as he had had the confrontation with Camilla at the Connaught) and told her that he was very much in love and planning to marry again, and she had felt sick, and savagely jealous.
She had managed to smile, to tease him mildly, to tell him he was too old for such nonsense, and that he should wait maybe another twenty-four hours before finally committing himself, but the words came out with difficulty, and the smile was frozen on to her mouth.
‘I know it sounds absurd,’ he said, kissing her fondly on the cheek, accepting her good wishes, ‘I know I am old enough to know better, and that I am acting rather rashly, to put it mildly. I can only tell you that what I feel for Phaedria I have never felt for any other woman, so I can only presume it must be love. It has come to me rather late, but I have to be grateful that it is here at all. And you with your clear-sightedness and great knowledge of me should surely understand.’
‘Oh, I do, Julian,’ said Susan, a twist of pain in her heart as he acknowledged finally (and somewhat brutally) that whatever he had felt for her, it had not been love, ‘I do understand. Does – that is, have you told Camilla?’
‘I have,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘This morning. Over breakfast. At the Connaught,’ he added, a trifle unnecessarily.
‘I don’t suppose it mattered much where you told her,’ said Susan briskly. ‘In fact, it might have been better to do it somewhere just slightly less public.’
‘Yes. I think you’re probably right,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid she was very upset. More than I thought she would be.’
‘Julian,’ said Susan, standing up, unable to bear it any longer. ‘Sometimes I find it very hard to believe you think at all. Especially about people and how they might feel. I must go, we have a great deal of work on, and if you remember, you never did phone me yesterday about the marketing plans.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ll go through it all with you later.’
‘Well, if you have the time,’ she said.
As she looked back, she saw an expression on his face that was very seldom there: it was uncertainty.
She got over her shock and sense of misery quite quickly; she talked about it to Richard, who laughed and told her he thought Julian was no end of a fine fellow and that she was a miserable old hag.
‘Nevertheless I think I have by far the better of it all,’ he said, kissing her fondly. ‘I’m very pleased indeed you didn’t marry the old bugger all those years ago.’
‘Richard, even if I had, this would still have happened,’ she said. ‘That’s the whole point. If I wasn’t so suspicious of Phaedria Blenheim, I would be very sorry for her.’
‘Why should you be so suspicious of her? Poor young virginal thing.’
‘Richard, if there’s one thing Phaedria isn’t, it’s virginal. I’m sure she’s been around a great many beds. Knows exactly what she’s doing. Of course I’m suspicious of her. His money has to be a big factor.’
‘Well, it doesn’t have to be his money. Power, I’m told, is a great aphrodisiac.’
‘Well, that isn’t much better.’
‘I think it is. A bit.’
‘Richard thinks it’s his power,’ she said to Roz. They were lying on the sunbeds at the Sanctuary in Covent Garden.
‘Well, I expect it is. And his money. Oh God, look at this stomach. It’s so revolting.’
‘Roz, you have no stomach. Don’t be ridiculous.’
It was almost true. Roz’s stomach had snapped back to almost its pre-natal tautness within days of the birth; her strong athletic body had dealt with pregnancy and childbirth with great efficiency.
‘Well, I’m going back to work next week, and I’m not going to be seen looking like a Michelin woman. Especially not with Phaedria about. I’m sure she’s extremely thin.’
‘Yes she is, but for God’s sake, Roz, you’re not in competition with her. It’s your father who’s in love with her, not your husband.’
‘I know,’ said Roz, turning over suddenly; clearly not even Susan could begin to understand how she felt about Phaedria. She stood up, reached for her robe. ‘Come on, let’s get some fruit juice. Tell me more about what Richard said.’
‘Well, he said exactly that,’ said Susan, torn between sympathy and amusement at Roz’s rather schoolgirl attitude towards Phaedria. ‘He said he didn’t think it was his money, or at least not only the money, it was the power.’
Roz said for many years how appropriate it had been for her and Phaedria to have met in the lavatory.
Two and a half weeks had passed since Miranda’s birth and the arrival of Phaedria in her father’s life; she knew she was being ridiculous in avoiding her, but every day she told herself that tomorrow she would be able to face it, or at least face arranging it, and every day she felt an even darker horror at the thought. Roz was not a coward, she flinched from very little; but the prospect of having not only to meet Phaedria, but to smile at her, to be nice to her, to express pleasure at having her in the family, seemed quite beyond endurance. And so she continued to hide, to make excuses, to find vague commitments; Letitia and Susan had pleaded with her, her father was on the brink of losing his temper, Eliza had given her a very sharp piece of her mind, and still she said no, she couldn’t, she still felt unwell, weak, not up to such a confrontation, while looking radiantly healthy, attending her yoga classes, visiting the office for ever longer periods each day, and calling meetings at the house.
It was C. J. who finally persuaded her; he put down the phone at breakfast one morning and said, ‘That was your father, he wants us to go and have dinner at the house tonight. I said I thought we could
and you’d call him back.’
‘I won’t go,’ said Roz, panic rising, ‘I can’t, I don’t feel at all strong today, what about Miranda, how could you, C. J., just call him back, please, and say no, maybe at the weekend.’
‘Rosamund, you look extremely well to me, you have a meeting in the office if you remember, which I imagine you won’t want to cancel, and I haven’t noticed Miranda preventing you from doing a great deal over the past two weeks. Now for God’s sake pull yourself together, you’re making yourself look a complete fool.’
Roz looked at him startled, impressed as always when he stood up to her; she managed to force a smile. ‘All right, C. J. I certainly don’t want to look a fool. I’ll come.’
‘Good. Call your dad back, will you. I have to go now.’
He walked out of the room without looking at her; Roz looked after him thoughtfully, and then picked up the phone and dialled Hanover Terrace. Her father answered it.
‘Daddy? It’s Roz.’
‘Hallo, Roz.’ He sounded brusque, impatient.
‘Daddy, we’d really like to come tonight. I’m feeling much better. Thank you. I might have to bring Miranda, though. She’s a bit colicky, and I don’t want to leave her with Nanny.’
She could hear the warmth, the relief in his voice. ‘Roz, I’m delighted. I’ll tell Phaedria, she’ll be so pleased. And of course bring Miranda. That will be lovely.’
‘She might yell.’
‘We won’t mind a bit. Goodbye, darling. See you about eight.’
‘Yes. Bye, Daddy.’
Roz put down the phone and went up to have a bath. She suddenly felt quite genuinely weak and shaky. On the way she looked in on Miranda, who was being bathed.
‘You’d better yell good and hard tonight, baby,’ she said.
The nanny, a young Norland-trained embodiment of efficiency, looked at her in surprise. Roz didn’t bother to explain.
She went to her meeting in the office, a financial review of the stores’ various performances in various cities of the world – New York still led the field, Paris was down, Milan up – and spent an hour with her secretary dictating letters and arranging a trip to Paris so that she could study Circe’s performance for herself, and see Annick at the same time. She decided that she would go home and have a rest against the ordeal of the evening, and took the lift up to the penthouse to use the ladies’ there while her car was brought round to the front of the building. As she stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair, wondering if the half stone she had still retained was settled entirely on to her chin, the door opened behind her and a girl walked in. Roz glanced at her, half smiled and then looked at her more carefully, taking in properly what she saw: long, curling dark hair falling past her shoulders, a pale, rather serious face, and a slender red crepe dress with a gently swirling skirt that Roz recognized instantly as being from Jasper Conran’s latest collection. The impact hit her gradually, like a slowed-down film; the girl’s walk seemed almost to stop, her head to turn towards her inch by inch, the hair floating, drifting up in the air, a smile began, tenuously, cautiously to appear on her lips. Roz felt as if she was falling, the room swam; she closed her eyes, leant on the dressing table.
As if from a great distance she heard the girl say, ‘Are you all right? Here, sit down, let me get you a glass of water.’
Roz straightened, hauled herself back to normality with a huge effort. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, meeting the brown eyes, the concerned face with a hard, distant stare. ‘Absolutely fine. Thank you,’ she added with an ill-disguised reluctance.
‘Are you – you must be Roz? I’m Phaedria.’ She was holding out her hand. Roz with enormous self-control took it.
‘How formal! How do you do?’
‘It feels a bit formal. How are you? Are you sure you’re all right? How is the baby? I’m so looking forward to tonight.’
‘I’m perfectly all right, thank you. So is the baby.’
There was a silence. Phaedria was looking at her uncertainly, searching for something else to say.
‘I’m just going to have lunch with – with –’
‘My father? How nice. Do give him my love.’
‘Why don’t you join us? It would be fun.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Roz, managing to smile now, graciously, sensing Phaedria’s discomfiture. ‘Thank you,’ she added. There was a long silence.
‘Well,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’d better go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, does he?’ She was floundering now.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Roz. ‘He’s never seemed particularly to mind waiting for me.’ She smiled again. ‘We’ll see you tonight.’
‘Yes. I hear you’re bringing the baby. That will be lovely, I shall look forward to meeting her.’
‘No, I’m not bringing her,’ said Roz. ‘I think after all it would be better if I didn’t.’
She managed to imply it would be seriously bad for Miranda’s health if Phaedria met her.
‘Oh,’ said Phaedria, ‘oh, all right. Well, goodbye Roz. Nice meeting you.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Roz.
She watched Phaedria walk out of the cloakroom rather quickly, and smiled at herself in the mirror. It might be a long war, but she had certainly won the first skirmish.
The dinner was dreadful just the same. Roz had dressed to kill, fearing to look disadvantaged beside this paragon; she wore a black silk jersey dress from Chloe with the newly fashionable wide shoulders, and an above the knee skirt, which showed off her endlessly long, slender legs to their very best advantage. It did her very little good. Nothing, nothing at all could have prepared her for, or helped her through the agony of watching her father looking at Phaedria in adoration, asking her opinion on everything, encouraging her to talk, praising the way she had adjusted to her new life, organized the dinner that evening, charmed the housekeeper, done the flowers herself; dear God, thought Roz, any moment now he’ll start saying how exquisitely she goes to the lavatory.
Roz knew her own performance was superb; she talked as charmingly as she knew how, questioned Phaedria graciously about her life as a journalist, admired the food and Phaedria’s dress (another Conran, black crepe this time), teased her father (but only very gently) about his wicked past, and asked Phaedria most politely if she would forgive her if she and Julian talked shop very briefly after dinner. ‘Literally shops. You know, I expect, that I’m president of Circe,’ she said, smiling across the candlelight; and ‘Of course,’ said Phaedria, ‘I do know. Yes, you withdraw, and I’ll stay here and C. J. and I can tell dirty stories over the port.’
It was the first sign of retaliation; Roz looked at her sharply, startled, then smiled again.
‘Do be careful,’ she said. ‘C. J. has a terribly weak stomach.’
The only thing she was quite unable to say was anything at all about when the wedding might be, or even to congratulate them; she tried, several times, but the words literally stuck in her throat, a hard, dry lump, and each time she had had to take a huge draught of the superb claret her father had brought out for the occasion, swallowing it desperately as if it was beer or water, and change the subject. However, she felt, as she kissed him lovingly on the steps of the house, and proffered her cheek to Phaedria, she had got through it all extremely well; but C. J., lying awake in the bedroom next to hers, that he now permanently occupied, thinking about her and the performance she had put on, heard her weeping for a long time, and wished, for all their sakes, there was something he could do to help.
‘Phaedria, we have to think about the wedding.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘No, I’m serious.’
‘So am I. I like weddings.’
‘Now, we can play it two ways. We can sneak off and go to a registry office, and not really tell anybody. Or we can do it in style. Ask everybody. And it would have to be everybody. What do you think?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I don’t mind. I want you to do what you
want. I suppose I have a marginal preference for the sneaking off.’
‘Let’s do it in style.’
He was surprised. ‘All right. If that’s what you want.’
‘When shall we do it?’
‘Too late before Christmas now. If we’re to do it in style. January. Here or in the country?’
‘Oh, let’s do it in the country. That would be much nicer. Then we can involve the horses.’
He laughed. ‘They’ll like that.’
The following weekend he took her to Marriotts for the first time. She fell in love with it. She wandered through its beautiful rooms, looking for a long time out of each window, so as to imprint each individual view on her mind; she insisted they eat lunch sitting at either end of the huge table in the dining room; she explored the attics, she investigated the cellars; she walked round the gardens, she exclaimed with delight at the stables, and she rode with him across the downs in the falling dusk, laughing, exultant.
‘We must bring Grettisaga here. She would love it. Can I go and fetch her myself?’
‘If you want to. Take Tony with you.’
‘Who’s Tony?’
‘My groom. You can’t manage on your own.’
‘Yes, I can,’ she said, and for the very first time he heard a tinge of irritation in her voice. ‘Of course I can. I can drive a horse box. I’ve done it hundreds of times.’
‘Phaedria, it really isn’t very wise. It’s a long way. Suppose you had a breakdown or a puncture?’
‘I’d fix it.’
He sighed. ‘Wait till next weekend, and I’ll come with you.’
‘No. I want her here sooner than that. Stop fussing.’
Later that night, as they lay in the big bed upstairs, with the shutters open, the ghostly moon falling across the pillow, she said, ‘Julian?’
‘Yes, darling?’
‘What am I going to do about Roz?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She hates me.’
‘Phaedria! It’s not like you to be hysterical.’
‘Julian, I am not being hysterical.’
‘Forgive me, darling, but I think you are. Those are very strong words. You’ve only met Roz twice. How can you possibly claim she hates you? It’s nonsense.’
Old Sins Page 61
