Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘And then you came home again?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do I,’ she asked in a most uncharacteristic piece of self-exposure, ‘do I have to worry about this girl?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘not for a moment. Come here.’

  She moved towards him; he took her in his arms. ‘Now can we leave the subject, please? I really don’t want to talk about it any more and I have a hell of a day ahead of me. You may have taken Friday off, but I haven’t. You can stay here in the duplex if you like or go out shopping, whatever you like, and then come and meet me at six at the Algonquin. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ said Roz, and sighed. She was still very unhappy.

  She had taken Concorde out of Heathrow early that morning and arrived at Kennedy earlier than she had left London. She had spent a wretched week fretting over Michael and where he might have been and fretting over the company and where it might be going. She felt very alone. She had even thought of talking to C. J. but he was out of town. For a man writing a book about London, he was spending very little time there.

  Like most extremely selfish people, Roz always expected others to be ready and waiting for her. She was outraged when she found Michael hurrying out of his apartment, and that he continued to hurry out after she had announced that she was there for the day, the weekend. Or at least he tried to. She had blocked his way, demanded an explanation; demanded also that he took the day off and spent it with her. He had conceded to neither; he was gone ten minutes after she arrived.

  Roz sighed, poured herself some orange juice and some coffee and sat down, looking fretfully over Central Park. This was not how she had planned to spend the morning. She had been expecting a great deal of very satisfying and energetic sex, a sleep perhaps, a long romantic lunch, and then probably a lot more sex in the afternoon. She did not like the alternative Michael had presented her with at all. It did not occur to her that she would have been even more brusque with Michael, had he turned up unscheduled in her working week.

  Now what the hell was she going to do all day? She certainly wasn’t going to stay here. She could look up Annick, who was now based in New York; that was quite a good idea, and have lunch with her (it never occurred to her that Annick might not be free either), do some shopping, she needed some clothes, even maybe go to Kenneth and get her hair done. It needed it desperately.

  She sat down at Michael’s telephone and made some calls. Kenneth said as it was her, they would do her hair, if she came over absolutely straight away; Annick said she would cancel her lunch with Ladies’ Home Journal; the afternoon would take care of itself, shopping. Roz picked up her bag and her lynx coat (it was freezing already in New York) and made for the elevator.

  She had her hair cut very short and had some dark red streaks put in the brown; at least she looked like a company chairman, she thought. Not some kind of Flower Child left over from the sixties. Phaedria really ought to do something with that hair. It might have been all right when she was busy playing the child bride, but now it was just plain ridiculous. Oh, well, the more ridiculous she looked, the better Roz liked it.

  She set off down Fifth Avenue, towards Le Cirque where she was to meet Annick, and stopped off first at Mark Cross, where she bought three pairs of loafers (in blue, black and brown), several belts and a soft leather Gladstone bag for a present for Michael; and then at Valentino, where she bought a dark red print silk dress, with long very full sleeves and a drop waist that flowed over her long body, caressing every curve, every line, and two wildly patterned sweaters.

  Her heart suddenly lifted; she had been too serious lately. Michael was right. Pleasure had become a forgotten concept. She should get something for Miranda too, she thought suddenly. Poor little girl, she was inflicting on her precisely the kind of childhood she had had herself, lonely, neglected, emotionally traumatized. She would try and do better for her. She began as she meant to go on and went into OMO Kamali, where she bought her two outfits, one in stinging pink and one in aquamarine jersey, smiling at the thought of them on her daughter’s plump energetic small form; after lunch she would go to Bloomie’s and find her some toys.

  She swung into Le Cirque feeling good; Annick was waiting, watching her come in.

  ‘Annick! It’s so nice to see you. Thank you for making time for me.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ said Annick, adding with a wicked smile, ‘you’re the boss. Drink?’

  ‘Oh, don’t. Yes, please. As I’m on holiday. I’ll have a Bloody Mary. No I won’t, I’ll have a martini.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘All right,’ said Roz carefully. ‘I think I’m just about winning.’

  She spoke without thinking. Annick looked at her, puzzled. ‘Winning?’

  ‘Yes, well I meant I’m winning in the sense of not going under.’

  ‘And Phaedria? Is she winning too?’

  Roz looked at her. Annick was one of the very few people who genuinely thought well of her; she had no desire to shatter her illusions now. ‘Not at the moment, she’s busy getting this baby of hers safely reared.’

  ‘And when will she be back in London?’

  ‘I don’t know. This week. Next week. When the baby can travel.’

  ‘She has had a bad time, I think,’ said Annick. ‘Poor Phaedria.’

  Roz swallowed her martini almost in one. Poor Phaedria, poor Phaedria, that was all she ever heard. Never poor Roz, having to cope with a divorce, a billion-pound company, the loss of a father; it was always Phaedria.

  ‘Yes, she has,’ she said with a huge effort. ‘But she should be all right now.

  ‘I hear the baby is very very sweet.’

  ‘Yes. Well, most babies are.’

  ‘I suppose. I do not know a great many. How is Miranda?’

  ‘Very well. Walking. Talking.’

  ‘Talking! Mon Dieu! She is a genius, I think. What does she say?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Roz, ‘nothing very clever, you know, segmentation of the market, demographics, gross percentage, that sort of thing.’

  Annick laughed. ‘It’s so lovely to see you. Let’s go in to lunch.’

  They ordered (both being very much in agreement with the Duchess of Windsor’s immortal words, that you could be neither too rich nor thin) melon and parma ham, a sliver each of poached turbot, and a bottle of Perrier water, and proceeded to sit and toy with it in between swopping industry and company gossip.

  ‘Things cannot have been very easy for you either,’ said Annick suddenly. ‘I know how you loved your father. You must miss him terribly.’

  ‘Oh, Annick, I do,’ said Roz, ‘I miss him horribly, more every day. And yes, I did love him. More than even I realized. I only hope he realized it. I wasn’t always very nice to him, I’m afraid,’ she added with a sigh.

  ‘Oh, I think he did. I know he did,’ said Annick. ‘He talked about you so much, he was so proud of you, and he used to say you and he talked the same language, you could communicate almost without words, you were so alike. Especially when it came to the business.’

  ‘Oh, God, I hope you’re right,’ said Roz. ‘I said some pretty awful things to him, you know, over the years. Some of them just before he – he died.’ Her green eyes suddenly filled with tears; she brushed them away impatiently, picked up her glass, looked round for a waiter. ‘Suddenly I feel I need something a bit stronger.’

  ‘Roz, don’t torment yourself,’ said Annick, calling the waiter over. ‘Would you like a brandy? Yes? Two brandies, please, and two coffees. We all say bad things at times. You gave him a great deal of happiness; remember that.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘It must be terribly difficult for you and Phaedria,’ said Annick, looking at her thoughtfully, ‘trying to run that company, on exactly equal terms. That was a very difficult situation he put you into. And now with Phaedria being away for – what? six weeks – it must be worse.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Roz carefully. ‘Easier in a way. At least I can
make decisions and things on my own. I don’t have to discuss every single thing with her.’

  Annick looked at her.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your marriage as well,’ she said. ‘I always liked C. J. very much. You must be sad about that.’

  ‘I am, yes. But it was washed up long before Daddy died. It was only a matter of time.’

  ‘Ah well. Perhaps it will all be for the best. If you are happy with Michael maybe you should have married him the first time, so long ago it seems now, when we were in Paris together?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Roz firmly, pushing her various anxieties on that subject deep to the bottom of her subconscious. ‘It’s just a matter of getting the practicalities sorted out, really, and then we can get married.’

  ‘And will you come and live here? That would be very nice for me.’

  ‘God no!’ said Roz, looking at her in horror. ‘I couldn’t. Not at the moment. The company headquarters is in London.’

  ‘Oh, so will he go to London?’

  ‘Er, well, yes probably.’

  ‘I see. And C. J. Will he come back here?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Roz, surprised. ‘Why do you ask? His life is in London now. And he’s in love with the place. He’s even been asked to write a book about it. And Miranda’s there anyway. He adores her.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I thought that perhaps as Camilla is here –’ Annick’s voice trailed off. Roz was looking at her, her eyes huge with horror and disbelief. ‘Oh, my God, you didn’t know. Roz, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Camilla!’ said Roz, her voice rising and cracking. ‘Camilla North! That frigid constipated bitch. With C. J.! Oh, Annick, you must have got it wrong.’

  ‘Roz, but of course I haven’t. I’ve seen them together many times. They seem very happy. Of course she’s older than he is, but does that really matter so much? And she looks very good these days.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’ said Roz. She sat looking into her brandy glass, trembling slightly. Annick was alarmed.

  ‘Roz, I’m so sorry if it has been a shock. I didn’t think you would mind. You said yourself the marriage was long over.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I know.’ She was silent for a while, obviously struggling to control herself. ‘I think I’ll have another brandy. Look, Annick, you must have to get back, it’s after three. I’ll get this. You go off.’

  ‘Roz, I don’t like leaving you like this. You look terrible.’ She gave the word the French pronunciation; Roz managed a shaky smile.

  ‘Thanks. No, Annick, I’m all right. Honestly. But maybe I’d like to be alone for a bit now.’

  ‘All right, Roz. If you’re sure you’ll be all right.’

  ‘Of course I will. Sorry. Bit of a shock, that’s all. I’m sure they’re very welcome to one another,’ she added savagely.

  ‘Well, as I say, they seem to be happy,’ said Annick, quite missing the irony of this remark. ‘It has been so lovely to see you, Roz.’ She stood up, bent over Roz, kissed her cheek briefly. ‘Thank you for lunch.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Roz. ‘See you soon.’

  She asked for the check and another brandy, and sat staring into it. She felt deeply and horribly upset. Camilla North, the scourge of her childhood, the cold, interfering omnipresence, threatening Roz eternally with her beauty, her fertility, cheating her of her father’s attention and love; stealing her husband. How C. J. must be loving that! How Camilla must be loving it. How the whole of New York must be enjoying it. Oh, it was monstrous, unbearable; Roz suddenly felt herself a public pillory, a source of sadistic amusement for everyone who knew her and disliked her.

  How could C. J. do such a thing to her? How could he not realize the humiliation it would cause. And to be having an affair with Camilla, of all people. Icy, sexless Camilla. What an insult to her! To Roz! What fearsome implications of frustration and rejection the liaison carried! ‘Oh, God, C. J.,’ she said under her breath, ‘if you walked in here now I would kill you.’

  And then she suddenly imagined him, saw him as if he was indeed standing before her, his sweet smile, his soft brown eyes, his tall rangy figure, his unfailingly courteous manners, and she did not feel as if she would kill him at all, and her eyes filled with tears.

  She did not go to Bloomie’s that afternoon. She didn’t go to any more shops. She took a cab and went back to the duplex and sat there for a long time, as the room darkened, feeling alternately angry and wretched. She also felt very alone and, in some strange way, duped, cheated of territory that was rightfully hers.

  Well, it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. C. J. would soon see Camilla for the vacuous sham she was. And besides he wasn’t about to move to New York. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t leave Miranda.

  Miranda! The subconscious fear that had been swimming about her head all afternoon suddenly materialized. Suppose C. J. did move to New York. Just suppose. He would want to have Miranda with him. He adored her. He had often told her he was a better mother than she was. He might well try to fight for custody. And these days, with all this Kramer and Kramer nonsense, he just might get her. Roz shuddered, felt suddenly cold.

  Oh, surely it wouldn’t come to that! It couldn’t! C. J. would never leave London. He loved it like a mistress. But even if he stayed, he still might want Miranda. Oh, God. What a mess.

  Roz decided she needed a drink. Franco was out, and wouldn’t be back for an hour or so before dinner. She wandered into the gleaming stage set of a kitchen and found a glass, went to the fridge and took out the ice box. While she was cracking some cubes into her glass, she noticed the basket of book matches which Michael kept on the top of the fridge; he had been collecting them for years. They told better than anything where he had been, eaten, stayed.

  She glanced idly into it as she poured some scotch into her glass; suddenly she froze, rigid with shock and fear. Right on the top, the very latest addition, was one of the small cream boxes with silvery lettering in which the Bel Air Hotel packed its matches.

  The Bel Air! Phaedria was at the Bel Air. Had Michael been there? Seen her? Was it possible? Surely not, surely surely not. It wasn’t, it couldn’t be. He couldn’t, wouldn’t even look at that bitch, wouldn’t betray her; it would be the utmost, infinite treachery. No, it must be a mistake. Anyway, maybe Phaedria was gone by now. No, she wasn’t. She was leaving next week. Well, maybe Michael had had the matches some time. Maybe he had been rummaging through them, and it had just come out on top. There had to be a better explanation. There had to be. He couldn’t betray her like this, not with Phaedria. Roz drank a very large whisky and poured herself another. Then she crossed over to the phone and, holding the matches, dialled the hotel.

  ‘Bel Air Hotel,’ said a smoothly purring voice. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roz, carefully turning her voice into something slick and efficient, not remotely like the high-pitched hysterical wail she felt struggling to escape from her. ‘This is Mr Browning’s secretary. Mr Michael Browning. I believe Mr Browning was staying there at the weekend. He has lost a raincoat. I wonder if he left it at the hotel?’

  ‘One moment, ma’am. Just let me check with the housekeeper.’

  There was an endless, endless pause while the phone was silent, occasionally crackling gently; Roz had to bite her fist to stop herself from screaming. ‘Ma’am? No, Mr Browning didn’t leave a raincoat behind. We don’t have much call for raincoats here, of course.’ The voice was politely amused, obviously hoping Roz would share the joke.

  ‘I see. But he – he was there? I haven’t made a mistake and confused hotels?’

  ‘Oh, no, ma’am. He was here all right. Friday and Saturday night. But no raincoat. I’m sorry.’

  The voice was filled with the genuine slightly hyped-up charm that is essentially Californian. Roz just heard that and then no more. She had a rushing in her ears; she closed her eyes and put down the phone.

  She sat drinking her second whisky and then her third, wondering how she could possibly survive the
agony she was enduring.

  Phaedria was packing her things together. She had been living at the Bel Air for so long she couldn’t imagine having to return to reality. To organizing her own household, to being in the office every day, above all, to looking after the baby all by herself. It felt very frightening.

  While Julia had been at the hospital, cared for by the nurses, although she had longed to have her with her all the time, she had felt safe. No harm could come to her; if the baby got a cold or colic, or wouldn’t suck for a feed, the nurse would sort her out. If there was a real anxiety, the paediatrician was on hand. Now the safety net was about to be removed from underneath her, and she was extremely nervous. It was all very well everyone reassuring her that the baby was now a normal weight, that she was, if anything, more robust than a full-term baby leaving hospital, that she knew as well as anybody how to care for her: Phaedria still didn’t want to have to take on the responsibility.

  Besides, she was taking Julia away from the warmth and sunshine of California into the raw dank hazards of an English November; how would she possibly be able to adapt to that?

  Just fine, said the paediatrician. ‘I presume you’re not actually going to be living out of doors. That your house has some form of central heating? That your child will have a crib of some kind to sleep in?’ His lips twitched slightly.

  Phaedria said no, of course they would not be out of doors, they would be living in a large and very comfortable house. That the house was often hotter than she would personally have chosen. That there was a fully equipped nursery, arranged by her at long distance in collaboration with Letitia and Mrs Hamlyn, filled with cribs and cots and soft, downy quilts, and warm flanellette sheets, and snowy soft cashmere woven blankets; and endless piles of Viyella nightdresses, and soft, finest wool booties and mittens, and bonnets and shawls. That mobiles and musical boxes and pictures were there in abundant supply to keep Julia occupied and stimulated while she was awake; that something over a hundred soft toys were piled up on the nursery sofa awaiting the day when she could hold them and cuddle them; that a doll’s house, a doll’s pram, a bookcase full of children’s classics, even a small bicycle waited in the room next door to the nursery designated as a playroom; that there was a shortlist of five Norland nannies awaiting their final interview with her when she got home; that she had no intention of working full time in the office until at least Christmas so that Julia could adapt to her new life and environment; that their own doctor would be waiting at the house on the afternoon they arrived home, to meet Julia and check her over. Did Mr Welch genuinely think it was really all right to take the baby home?