Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  Julian didn’t care. It could be restored, made beautiful again, brought back to life. And it was exactly what he had been looking for, waiting for, for nearly twenty-five years. He felt as if he had come home.

  ‘I have a present for you,’ he said to Phaedria that night. She was sitting at her desk in the room she had adopted for herself in Regent’s Park, the one that had been Eliza’s parlour; it looked a little different. The walls were white, the ceilings were white, the floor was white; there were black blinds at the window, and a big black desk in the middle of the room. There were books on floor-to-ceiling shelves on one of the walls, and a stereo system with a huge mass of tapes and records on another. On a low table by the window was a mass of magazines, not just English, but French, American, Italian, German. And the room was full of flowers, a huge extravagant mass of colour: on the desk, the table, the shelves, even in a giant vase on the floor.

  Here for several hours a day Phaedria sat working; she had not yet managed to get a fashion job, although she wrote the occasional freelance article; but she had been commissioned by the Society of British Fashion Designers to write their history from year one, and was deeply engrossed in it. She was also surprisingly, and rather charmingly, busy with plans for her wedding.

  ‘What’s that, Julian?’ she said slightly absently. ‘Have you ever heard of someone called David Bond?’

  ‘Of course. Big name in the sixties. Very good commercial designer. Nice fellow too. Got the spot in the Bath Fashion Museum one year.’

  She looked at him and smiled. ‘What a lot you know, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve had lots of time to learn.’

  ‘I suppose so. Listen, do you think it would be nice to drive to the church in a landau? Grettisaga could pull it.’

  ‘As long as it didn’t rain.’

  ‘No, but we could get one with a hood. I think it would be divine.’

  ‘You sound like Eliza.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I don’t really mind. I was very fond of her. Still am.’

  ‘Well anyway, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it would be divine too. Don’t you want to know what your present is?’

  ‘Sorry, yes of course I do.’

  ‘Here you are.’ He handed her a key.

  ‘Julian! Not another car?’

  ‘No. Something bigger.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you.’

  He pulled her impatiently by the hand, down the steps and out on to the terrace. She looked around. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘It’s not here. Get in the car.’

  He refused to say a word as they drove down Baker Street and Park Lane and turned into Piccadilly; as they reached Fortnum’s he slowed down, pulled in to the side of the road.

  ‘There you are.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That. There. That building.’

  ‘I can see. It’s very nice. But what about it?’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘Mine! But I don’t need a building.’

  ‘Yes, you do. It’s going to be the London Circe. It’s your wedding present.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ said Phaedria. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake . . . Oh, Julian.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  London and New York, 1983

  ROZ WAS SO angry when she heard about the store she actually threw up. Julian had told her about it over lunch at the Ritz, presenting the event as something to be celebrated, and explained he was giving it to Phaedria for a wedding present, and that he was sure they would be able to work together on it amicably if they put their minds to it. He had said much the same thing to Phaedria the night before; for probably the first and last time in their lives Phaedria and Roz were in total agreement. This, they could both see, was the beginning of a very long war. They also both had great difficulty in believing that Julian could actually think they would be able to work together. There was a particular expression in his unfathomable brown eyes, which Roz had grown up with, and Phaedria had begun to recognize, which meant danger, meant games were being played, meant checkmate. It was there now.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Roz and half walked, half ran to the lavatory.

  Kneeling on the floor, trying to recover herself, tears streaming down her face, she wondered where this fearsome situation was going to end. Here she was, married to a man she could now scarcely bear, who drove her to such a frenzy of irritation if he so much as commented on the fact that it was raining or asked her if she wanted a cup of coffee, that she tried to avoid being in the same room as him most of the time; the mother of a child who she did admittedly love, but would really have been better off without; and the man she had loved, and still hungered for, lost to her, all in the cause of becoming the heir to her father’s kingdom. And now not only was a new Queen on the throne, and not only was she beautiful and (or so most people kept on and on saying in the most enraging way) charming, truly engaging, and had her father under control for the first time in his life, she was clever. And she was young. Roz still found beauty in other women, and particularly those close to her father, painful to accept.

  She often wondered if Susan was right about Phaedria not being sexy; that would be a fatal flaw. Roz allowed herself a moment’s complacency at the very suspicion; highly sexed herself, she regarded with contempt any man or woman who was not. Not that it did her any good at the moment (her husband having proved himself very much among the contemptibles). Now that she had quite recovered from Miranda’s birth, Roz wondered almost daily how soon it would be before she was driven to take a lover, to ease the longing, the sense of physical emptiness in her body. She went restlessly to sleep at night and frequently had sharply erotic dreams; Michael Browning figured largely in them.

  But if she was weary of the beauty and the charm, she was still more weary of the assertions that Phaedria had Julian under control. Moreover she disputed them. She had watched women trying to do it and failing all her life, and had enjoyed their failure. It was true that Phaedria was very cool and apparently in command, and Roz had heard interesting reports of fearsome rows and battles of will, which on past experience usually resulted in a relationship drawing very swiftly to a close; this one went on, and the ridiculous plans for this absurd wedding with it. Nevertheless, there was plenty of time for the balance of power to switch. And the more Phaedria felt confident of holding it, the more Julian would see that she did not. There was hope there.

  But the most frightening weapons Phaedria possessed were her youth and her brains.

  Phaedria was very clever; she was also ambitious, she wanted a career, and she wanted to work with Julian. Writing had become second choice. That was bad enough. Far worse though was her youth, and the indisputable fact that she had probably, at the most modest estimate, fifteen childbearing years ahead of her.

  The spectre that had haunted Roz all her life, ever since she could remember, that of a small sibling, seemed suddenly terrifyingly close.

  She stood up slowly and wearily, went out into the cloakroom and washed her face. She studied it as she put her make-up on, and brushed her short dark hair. It might not have beauty, but it had a great facility that face, something inherited from her father; a capacity not to show the emotion behind it. She was going to need that capacity a great deal, she realized, in the months ahead.

  ‘Sorry, Daddy. I suddenly felt awfully sick.’

  ‘Are you all right, darling? You do too much.’

  ‘Rubbish. You can’t do too much. You’ve taught me that all my life.’

  ‘Maybe, but I didn’t really extend that philosophy to a period just after having a baby. Miranda is only – what – four months old? You don’t realize it, but you’re still recovering.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy, you sound like Mr Partridge. Silly old fart,’ she added.

  ‘You’re referring to Mr Partridge, I trust, and not myself.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘From what I hear,
he is a silly old fart. But if he’s been telling you to take life a bit easier, I would echo him.’

  ‘Well I’m not going to, so you can both stop. Now tell me exactly what this business with Circe and Phaedria means.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I am the president of Circe Europe, am I not?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Circe London therefore has to come under my control.’

  ‘Well, yes. But only officially. I want this store to be Phaedria’s. She has a considerable feel for fashion and for decor. I think she’ll make a good job of it. She has some interesting ideas.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Roz.

  ‘Obviously I can’t ask her to report to you.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘But she’ll need help, particularly on the administrative side, budgeting and so on.’

  ‘Temporarily, I presume.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, if the store is to be hers, surely she will want to handle the whole thing. She won’t want anyone interfering in her budgets, or her staff or her long-term planning, come to that. Not after the early stages. It would be an untenable situation for her.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Not possibly, Daddy, obviously.’

  Expressionless face met expressionless face.

  ‘So,’ Roz went on, ‘long term, Circe London will be an oddball. Under different control. Out of the system. Is that going to work?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Providing you are kept informed of what is going on. Clearly Phaedria will be working to guidelines. She’s not going to turn it into a down-market chain store.’

  ‘Hopefully.’

  ‘Roz, don’t be negative.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She threw him her most charming smile. ‘No, I’m sure she won’t. She’s a clever girl. And she has great taste.’

  ‘Doesn’t she? She’s beginning to do some extremely nice things to the house. And to Marriotts. Why don’t you come down this weekend? Bring Miranda, I don’t see enough of her.’

  ‘Are you hunting?’

  ‘Yes, we’re going out on Saturday with the Crawley and Horsham. Do come.’

  ‘I might. Yes, thank you. It would be nice. I’ll talk to C. J.’

  ‘Good. Now I’ll think over what you said, about Circe. I can see there might be the odd anomaly. Nothing that can’t be sorted, but it could need some thought.’

  Round One to me, said Roz to herself. She gave her father her most brilliant smile. ‘Thank you for lunch, it’s been lovely. I’ll see you on Saturday.’

  ‘Why not come on Friday night? Phaedria cooks dinner herself then, and it’s always delicious.’

  ‘No thank you,’ said Roz hastily, feeling sick again at the thought of Phaedria’s culinary skills. ‘It would be difficult. C. J.’s working late. No, we’ll come early on Saturday.’

  ‘It’ll have to be very early if you’re coming out hunting with us.’

  ‘It will be. Miranda gets me up at half past five. Bye, Daddy. Give my love to Phaedria.’

  ‘I will. You’ll enjoy riding with her, she’s very good.’

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  She would defeat that paragon if it was the last thing she did.

  As soon as she got back to the office, Roz phoned Susan.

  ‘Could I come and see you tonight? I’ve got to talk to someone sane. Just got to.’

  ‘Yes, of course. What’s the matter? Is it the Crown Princess?’

  Susan could hear Roz smiling down the phone. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well come and have supper. What about C. J.?’

  ‘Oh, I certainly don’t want him to come. He’ll find something to do, I expect.’

  Susan looked at the phone sorrowfully as she put it down. She had never criticized or questioned Roz’s decision to marry C. J. (having a very shrewd idea what was behind it, knowing how much Roz’s mother and grandmother had to say on the subject) but she was saddened to see it coming to such a disastrous end. She had hoped that perhaps with a little goodwill on both sides it could have at least turned into a working relationship.

  She listened patiently while Roz told her about her lunch with Julian and about Phaedria being given the store. She was appalled.

  ‘So what do you think?’ said Roz. ‘Am I being hysterical, minding so much, or not?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ said Susan. ‘I think it’s very hard. Very hard. But I don’t think you can blame Phaedria for this.’

  ‘Why not? She probably just said she’d like it, and he went out and bought it for her.’

  ‘I don’t think so. He wouldn’t give her anything that made her so potentially powerful unless he really wanted her to have it. No, it would have been his idea.’

  ‘And don’t you think he did it deliberately to weaken my position?’

  ‘No, Roz, I don’t. I can’t see why he should do such a thing.’

  ‘Because he loves playing games, that’s why,’ said Roz. ‘Oh, Susan, why did I get drawn into his mesh like this? Why didn’t I stay with Michael and marry him and get some nice rewarding job in New York?’

  ‘The answer for that lies in your genes, I would say,’ said Susan, smiling at her regretfully. ‘The Morell genes. You’re driven by the same sense of – I don’t know what to call it – greed, I suppose, as your father.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Well it’s true. You are greedy. Greedy for power. Aren’t you? Just like him.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Roz sulkily.

  ‘No, I really do think he simply hasn’t thought it all through properly. What it must mean to you – both in personal and professional terms. He’s just obsessed with Phaedria, and he wants to give her the moon. It’s very sad.’

  ‘It’s pathetic.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’ She looked at Roz. ‘You don’t look very well. Is anything else the matter?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Just my work. My marriage. My self-esteem. Just little things like that.’

  ‘Is it really no good with C. J.?’

  ‘None at all. It’s hopeless. It was very wrong of me to marry him, and God, I’m being punished for it now.’

  ‘Poor Roz.’

  ‘Oh, well. It’s so nice to have you to talk to. The only person I can be honest with.’ She smiled at Susan. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You and Richard.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Nothing really to report. No, that’s not true. Let me try and cheer you up a bit. We’re getting married next Saturday. At Chelsea Registry Office. We’re not telling a single soul until afterwards. Quite a bit afterwards, probably. Would you like to come and be my bridesmaid? I’ll need a hand to hold. I haven’t been married for over forty years.’

  ‘Oh, Susan, of course I will, I’d love to. That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Thank you.’

  She kissed Susan and smiled at her. ‘It’s lovely news. I just know you’re going to be very happy. Give Richard a big kiss from me.’

  ‘I will.’ Susan returned the kiss, and thought how very sad it was that Roz the nice person was someone known to only two or three people.

  ‘Julian, could I have a word with you? This evening, maybe, before you go home?’

  In his office at six o’clock he had some champagne and orange juice waiting. ‘I thought as we seemed to be friends again, we might celebrate.’

  ‘I didn’t know we weren’t friends.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I hate it when we’re not friends, Susan. You’re very important to me.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ she said briskly, taking the glass he offered her. ‘Just remember that, will you, when I’ve finished what I have to say.’

  ‘Oh God. What is it?’

  ‘It’s Roz. And the store.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Julian, this is nothing to do with me, I know –’

  ‘Then,’ he said lightly,
putting his glass down untouched, ‘perhaps it would be better if you didn’t get involved.’

  ‘I don’t agree. Someone has to point things out to you, and nobody else is going to do it.’

  ‘Very well. Carry on.’

  ‘I do think you’re making a terrible mistake, giving that store to Phaedria to run. The stores are Roz’s domain. It’s going to be difficult. For both of them.’

  He looked at her for a long time. His face was stern, but blank. She had no idea what he was thinking. She braced herself for a torrent of abuse or of self-justification on his part.

  It didn’t come.

  ‘I’m not a complete fool,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course it will be difficult. But they’re both putting up this wall of hostility. I thought if they were to be forced to work together it would get knocked down.’

  ‘You really think that?’ said Susan.

  ‘I really think that.’

  She met his eyes steadily, her own challenging, half amused.

  ‘Julian,’ she said, ‘either you are lying, or you really are a complete fool.’

  ‘Roz, do you have five minutes?’

  Roz looked up. Phaedria stood in the doorway of her office. She was wearing her wolf coat and long black boots; she looked straight out of the pages of Cosmopolitan.

  ‘Not quite five,’ said Roz, her distaste written very plainly on her face. ‘I’m late for a meeting already. I thought perhaps you might have been invited. We’re discussing the architecture of the Beverly Hills Circe. You know we’re opening one, of course?’