Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  Roz, watching the consultants, was suddenly sharply and instinctively aware of a hostility. It was only several years of attending these conferences that enabled her to pick it up. A novice, Phaedria for instance, would not have noticed the slightly wall-eyed expression behind the false eyelashes, the fixed hardness of the heavily glossed lips.

  Annick had taken over now, presenting the products in detail; again the reaction was muted, slightly flat. Julian moved on to the advertising: six-foot-high facsimiles of the campaign, of Regency’s face were unveiled, the TV commercial was shown (of Regency waking, showering, making up, driving, chairing meetings, lunching, and then finally dining with a man (presumably her inferior), face unseen, and going home to her lonely (presumably powerful) bed. It was a series of endless stills, intercut very fast to give the impression of movement. The backing music was fast, modern, obscure; at the end Regency herself walked to the front of the platform, dressed in a simple black woollen dress by Chanel, worn with pearl and gilt earrings and a long pearl rope, her ash-blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon.

  ‘I feel very honoured to have been chosen to represent the new Juliana woman,’ she said carefully, giving them all her (literally) million-dollar smile. ‘I hope you will like her as much as I do.’

  This long speech closed the presentation; the applause came then, mild, polite applause; again Roz read the mood of the consultants, the sales force, and the message was clear – ‘This girl, this near child, this is not the Juliana woman.’

  Julian stood up again; asked for questions, comments. There were many. The consultants in particular were not tentative in their criticism. Did he think something so simple was really going to stand up against the complexity of the competition? Lauder, Revlon, the new Chanel ranges were all launching in very traditional mood. Could a cosmetic, particularly a perfume, survive without mystique? Were the colours not a little harsh, uncompromising? Was not Regency a little young for the Juliana woman, in all her supposed sophistication and glamour? Julian was unfazed by this. The questions were always tough, always challenging; he enjoyed them. And somehow, by the sheer weight of his personality, his own vision, he managed to deflect all the criticism, to persuade everybody that Lifestyle was exactly right for its time, that it would be as triumphant, as successful as anything Juliana had ever done.

  This was finale time, traditionally his; when he took the mood of the conference and made it his in a surge of charm and charisma, made every woman in the hall fall a little in love with him, and every man identify with him and what he had done.

  Phaedria looked at him, as he stood there, looking stylish and relaxed, reminiscing as he always did, about the early days of the company, and was reminded sharply of the first time she had seen him and fallen so helplessly in love with him. She also properly appreciated for perhaps the first time the extent of what he had accomplished. She felt suddenly a stab of pride, not just in him, but in his company, and in being a part of it; and she felt she was beginning to understand what drove him, and why it mattered to him so very much.

  He was drawing to the end of his speech now, paying her a discreetly modest but charming tribute: ‘We have a new recruit to the company; my wife. She is not involved with the cosmetics – yet. Perhaps her time will come. She has certainly done some very good work on the new Circe store and the Juliana beauty salon in London. I feel impressed by what she has done, and I have to say I feel a sense of pride in having discovered her.’ Laughter, some applause. Roz, sitting on the platform behind him, had to fix her smile with such rigidness to prevent it from slipping, she felt her mouth become almost disembodied from the rest of her face. Her eyes met Susan’s in a moment of sheer agony; the warmth and humour there, the briefest possible flicker of a wink, sustained her.

  Julian thanked them all, he bade them enjoy the evening ahead (dinner and then the casino for the more reckless souls amongst them), he said he looked forward to seeing as many as possible of them during the year ahead, he wished them luck with the new range.

  ‘Until later, goodbye and thank you.’

  Again, it was only Roz who could detect that he was not entirely happy.

  The new range sold into the stores fast. The cosmetic buyers had great faith in Julian Morell and in Juliana. Neither had failed yet. The advertising campaign broke: Regency’s face, glossy, confident, just slightly contemptuous, looked down from hoardings, out of every glossy magazine, the television screen, the cinema.

  The Christmas rush in the stores began. The cosmetic houses were engaged on their annual bonanza. Revlon, Lauder, Chanel, Mary Quant, were propelled off a thousand counters and into a million shopping bags in a great wave of perfume, promotion and hype.

  And on the same counters, in the same stores, Lifestyle by Juliana remained: uninvited, unwanted, a wallflower at the ball, and Regency’s fixed smile seemed to grow a little more desperate every day.

  Julian dismissed the failure completely. It was a hiccup, it meant nothing; maybe the range had not been absolutely right for Christmas, it would start selling hard in the new year. No, Regency was not too young, her face was perfect, she had the look of today, if not tomorrow. It was a look that public opinion would warm to. Yes, the packaging was absolutely right, clean and chic; like the message of the range. Of course it should not be softened, the new woman was not soft.

  The consultants had had it too easy for too long; this was a new concept and they had to learn to work harder on it. When it started to sell, when the public recognized it, accepted it as what they wanted, which they assuredly would, then the sales force would relax and grow easier with it.

  Phaedria had never admired him more; she half expected him to let down his guard to her, to admit something was wrong, but he did not, he continued to behave as if everything was wonderful, as if Lifestyle was breaking all records. Even when he came into Circe for the Christmas party, and looked at the new range, piled horribly high on the counters, he managed to smile with complete assurance and convey the impression that he was delighted with its progress.

  He criticized much that she had done: he still didn’t like the windows, he was unhappy with many of the clothes on the fashion floor, he complained that the flower shop looked messy, he said the lingerie department was hopelessly understocked. But of his own mistake looking him so painfully in the eye, he said nothing, nothing at all.

  The only sign she could detect that anything might be seriously troubling him was that he had not made love to her for weeks.

  Roz wondered quite often these days if she might be going mad. Her hatred for Phaedria, the rage she felt at her continuing presence in her life and at the threat of her intrusion into her work, was not easing; it accompanied her wherever she went, a dark presence, like some physical growth. Much of the time she felt actually sick; she ate very little, and was aware she was drinking too much. She could not communicate at all with C. J.; she was short-tempered and distant with Miranda, she turned aside Letitia’s worried offer of help and understanding with a brusque ‘I’m fine’; she avoided her mother, she scarcely spoke to her father.

  She looked back on the days (was it really only two years ago?) before her father had met Phaedria, when her troubles had been confined to a fall in sales figures, a difficult personnel problem, a temporary vote of no confidence from her father, a mildly unsatisfactory marriage, and was amazed that any of it could have troubled her. It had been another country she had inhabited then, which seemed in retrospect golden, peaceful, endlessly happy; and many of the tears she so often shed, private, anguished, angry tears, were for the loss of that country and her life within it. Only Michael Browning could ease her pain, make her laugh, give her pleasure; only Michael Browning was ultimately forbidden to her. And that thought made her more wretched than anything else.

  Christmas was coming; to her utter astonishment and horror, C. J. had asked Phaedria if he, Roz and Miranda could come and spend it at Marriotts. Phaedria and Julian were both, C. J. told her, delighted. ‘Es
pecially your father. So you can’t back out.’

  ‘How could you, C. J., how could you? Make me spend Christmas of all times with her?’

  ‘Roz, I don’t see where else is going to be any better for you. And I would certainly like to go. I don’t see that the three of us would have a happy time on our own. At least it will be more fun for Miranda. And besides, you need to form some sort of truce with your father. This will help. You should be grateful to me.’

  ‘Couldn’t we spend it with your mother?’ asked Roz, casting desperately around for an escape from the trap that was closing in on her.

  ‘She’s got some huge house party planned, Francesca is getting engaged, and frankly I just can’t face it.’

  ‘Well, I can’t face this.’

  ‘Roz –’ He turned to her and his gentle face was totally transformed with anger and misery. ‘I have to face a great deal that I don’t like. Every day of my life. Just do me the rare kindness of allowing me my way for once. Just for a day or two.’

  Roz looked at him and felt a wave of misery, not for herself but for him. She had ruined his life, wilfully and thoughtlessly; she had made him very unhappy, and he did not deserve it. She put out her hand. ‘I’m sorry, C. J. Really I am. Yes, we’ll go to Marriotts. Perhaps we – we should talk.’

  He shook her hand off, looking at her with a cold distaste. ‘I don’t think so. There’s nothing to say. I am trying to work out what to do, and it’s very difficult. But meanwhile I see no point in a painful dialogue.’

  Roz walked up to her room, feeling the madness closing in on her. What was she doing? Michael had begged her to spend Christmas with him in the Caribbean, why wasn’t she going with him? She had told him she couldn’t possibly leave the baby (not feeling able to try to explain that spending Christmas with him really would be an open declaration of war between herself and her father), and he had rather surprisingly accepted this without argument. He was having Little Michael and Baby Sharon for the New Year in any case and was rather pathetically having the duplex decorated accordingly, with a Christmas tree in every room and two in the children’s bedroom, and a great pile of presents under every one. Roz, who had never met Little Michael and Baby Sharon, feared for their characters, but Michael assured her they were great kids: ‘Just like their mother, no Browning in them at all.’

  And so she packed for Christmas at Marriotts with a heavy heart, wondering how she was going to endure it; but at the last minute the party was greatly improved by the arrival of Letitia, and a car literally filled with parcels; the castle was too cold for her these days, she said, and she wanted to spend Christmas with her great-granddaughter.

  Phaedria, who wanted to be busy and to have as little time as possible to spend sitting with her guests, gave the entire staff Christmas Day off, and did all the cooking herself. Christmas morning passed fairly smoothly; they went to church, exchanged presents and had a late lunch during which Letitia kept them entertained with stories of Christmases past; afterwards she said that she and Miranda should go and have naps, and everyone else could clear up.

  ‘One of the great joys of being very old and very young,’ she said, scooping the child up, ‘is that we don’t have to be helpful.’

  ‘That was great, Phaedria,’ said C. J., pouring himself a third glass of port and waving the bottle hospitably about the table. ‘You’re a great girl.’ He was fairly drunk.

  ‘She is,’ said Julian, smiling benignly at her across the candle-lit table. ‘Let’s drink a toast to her. To Phaedria.’

  ‘To Phaedria,’ said C. J.

  ‘Phaedria,’ said Roz through clenched teeth. She thought no one would ever know what that moment had cost her.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ said C. J. ‘Beautiful. Doesn’t she, Julian?’

  ‘She does. Not a day over twenty-six.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ C. J. went on. ‘All that cooking, and organizing, and running the company and –’

  ‘Not quite running the company,’ said Roz, sickly sweet.

  ‘Not all of it.’

  ‘Oh, give her time,’ said C. J. ‘Just a little bit of time.’

  Phaedria shot him a warning look; it was too late.

  ‘I bet she could do the whole thing. Easily,’ he said, draining his glass. ‘I suppose she will one day, eh Julian?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Julian blandly. ‘But not for a very long time, I hope.’

  Roz was white, clutching her glass very tightly.

  ‘Well, I think it would be a wonderful thing,’ said C. J. ‘What a successor, for you.’

  There was a strange cracking sound: the delicate stem of Roz’s glass had snapped. Phaedria looked at it, the jagged edge, the red wine spilt on the white cloth, Roz’s blazing eyes, and shivered.

  ‘Come on, C. J.,’ she said, ‘let’s get a bit of fresh air before it’s dark. Julian? Would you like to come for a walk?’

  Julian was looking at Roz thoughtfully. ‘What’s that? Oh, no, I don’t think so. I might even join the other babies upstairs for a rest. You go on. I’ll just help you clear that up, Roz.’

  He walked out of the door towards the kitchen, in search of a cloth. Roz, still sitting at the table, still holding the broken glass, looked at Phaedria. She tried, she wanted to remain silent, but she couldn’t. Her self-control, which seemed to her these days to be an increasingly fragile thing, suddenly splintered like the glass.

  ‘You aren’t going to win, you know,’ she said savagely. ‘Whatever you do, however much you try, I won’t let you win.’

  ‘Oh, Roz, I don’t want to win,’ said Phaedria wearily. ‘Whatever that might mean.’

  ‘You’re a liar,’ said Roz, ‘I don’t believe you.’ She knew she was making a fool of herself, losing dignity, but she couldn’t stop. ‘Of course you want to win. You want to take my place in this company, you want it for yourself when my father dies, along with his money. That’s all you want, it’s all you ever wanted and nobody, nobody else at all, seems to be able to see it.’

  ‘Perhaps because it’s not true,’ said Phaedria quietly. Her eyes were fixed on the jagged glass. She seemed frightened. Her fear gave Roz pleasure, made her feel better.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said almost cheerfully. ‘I know it’s true and you know it’s true, and it seems to be our little secret.’ She stood up suddenly; she was taller than Phaedria. She began to walk slowly towards her, holding the glass. Phaedria, backing away clumsily, suddenly found herself against the wall.

  ‘Roz please,’ she said, and there was a tremor in her voice. ‘Please.’

  Roz slowly raised the glass; she had no intention of hurting Phaedria with it, but this moment was revenge for all the months, all the misery, all the humiliation, almost for the loss of her father.

  ‘Roz!’ It was C. J.’s voice from the doorway. ‘Roz, what the hell are you doing? For God’s sake put that down.’

  He sounded calm, authoritative. Roz turned and looked at him, put the glass down quite gently.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of hurting her. Then everyone would feel sorry for her as well as being in love with her. Do enjoy your walk with my husband, Phaedria. You’re very welcome to him.’

  She walked quickly out of the room, up the stairs and into her room; Letitia, who was coming down from settling Miranda for her nap, heard her crying, and knew there was nothing, nothing at all, that she could do to help her.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said C. J., utterly sobered by the scene and the cold air as they walked out into the drive of Marriotts. ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t have hurt you. She – she isn’t very happy at the moment.’

  ‘No,’ said Phaedria, ‘I can see that.’ She shivered; she was cold in spite of her wolf coat, and very shaken.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course I am. It’s just that – that sometimes I do wonder if she will attack me physically. Of course I know it’s silly, but just then it was like all
the nightmares coming true.’

  ‘God,’ said C. J., and there were tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do. I really don’t.’

  ‘Oh, C. J.,’ said Phaedria, ‘don’t worry about me. I’m just being hysterical.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, you’re not. She behaves so terribly badly towards you and it’s just not fair. I don’t know how I can help.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Phaedria. ‘The only person who could help is Julian, and he won’t.’

  ‘No. Maybe if I asked him?’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good. It would make things worse. Please don’t.’

  ‘All right.’ He smiled at her rather weakly. They walked in silence for a while.

  ‘C. J.,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m so sorry. So sorry for you. You must be very unhappy.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, ‘very. I’m pretty near to desperate right now. And all I ever wanted was to make everybody happy. I came to work for Julian to please my dad, I got tricked into marrying Roz –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, didn’t you know? I guess not, nobody does. I never told anyone.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t. Your opinion of Roz must be pretty bad already.’

  ‘Couldn’t be worse,’ said Phaedria cheerfully, restored to herself by curiosity. ‘Go on, what happened?’

  He told her. She listened appalled. ‘That’s terrible. You poor poor man.’

  ‘Well, it’s my own fault, I should have stood up for my rights. Not easy, though.’

  ‘Not easy. Absolutely impossible. In this family.’ She put her arm through his. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘There isn’t anything. But if she does go off with Browning, it will be a happy release.’