Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Honestly,’ Miles said to Roz, looking at her concernedly, his dark blue eyes full of sympathy, ‘I never did get to know him. He was my dad’s friend, really. My dad’s and my mom’s. More my dad’s. Well, that’s what my mom said. She never seemed specially to like him. He made her a little nervous. Jumpy, you know? As far as I can remember, anyway. You have to remember I was only thirteen when my mom died. It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Roz. Oh, God, it’s all so totally baffling. Why did he ever have to do such a thing? What did he gain? I just don’t understand it.’

  Miles looked at her. ‘Me neither,’ he said and then, anxious, eager to help, ‘would you like me to call my grandmother? Only I warn you,’ he added, ‘she doesn’t make a lot of sense these days. I don’t know what good it would do.’

  ‘No,’ said Roz, ‘no, I don’t either. It would probably only upset her. I’ll wait till C. J.’s here. He may have some idea what to do.’

  She didn’t really have a great deal of faith in C. J. But he was family and he was better than nothing. She longed passionately for Michael. He would know what to do, how to handle it. Where was the bastard, and why did it have to be now, of all times, she had lost him?

  And then suddenly, in the middle of her raging, she was assaulted by a thought so hideous, so malevolent that she experienced it as physical pain, a sick, awful pain, violent and sudden, like the crick of a neck, a crack of an elbow on a hard surface. She crushed it, raced away from it, wrenched her mind towards other things, other people; but it lay, coiled up in her mind like some obscene monster, and occasionally, when she was least prepared for it, it would shift, stir, and threaten her again and again.

  C. J. looked down at the grey depression beneath him that was Heathrow in November and wondered why on earth he had agreed to come back. Life had been just beginning to improve, to brighten, to simplify even; he was happy with Camilla, she made him feel appreciated, significant, calm, and those were balm to his almost mortally wounded soul. They had much in common; they were suited intellectually, emotionally and, much to C. J.’s surprise and pleasure, sexually. They had the same background, had been reared to the same upper-class American standards, attended identical schools, talked the same language in the same accent, understood the same jokes, shared the same values. They and their families, they discovered, had generations-back mutual friends; had they been the same age they would have attended the same parties, gone to the same places on vacation; probably met, certainly have been attracted to one another, possibly even married.

  They had also both been through similar personal crises: emotional involvement with equally unsatisfactory partners (hardly surprising really, as C. J. remarked one night as they ate supper after a concert, when you considered those people had been father and daughter). They found their situation amusing, charming even, a wry twist to each of their tales, and that of the Morell family; the pain they had both suffered swiftly eased and even cured by this new pleasure. Well, the pleasure was, for the time being, ended. C. J. sat waiting obediently for the captain to tell them they could leave the plane, and felt resentful.

  Camilla had been extremely patient and understanding about the whole thing, she dispatched him (after some particularly earnest sex: she was practising a series of new positions, suggested by her sex therapist and based on some Lesbian erotica she had been given to read) and assured him that her analyst had managed to cure her almost completely of possessiveness, through showing her her own value, and by teaching her to trust her lovers and the value they put on her (C. J. was a little worried by the plural here). He also felt rather sobered by the reflection that he seemed to be, for the time being, the only male in the Morell family at the moment.

  He only had hand luggage; he went straight through customs and out into the arrivals area: to his surprise Roz was waiting for him.

  ‘Roz! I didn’t think you’d be here.’

  He hadn’t expected her to look quite so bad; she was ashen, hollow-eyed, she had no make-up on, she had scarcely brushed her hair. He had never seen her looking anything other than svelte, even in their most intimate moments; it was a shock.

  ‘Hallo, C. J.,’ she said, and her voice was listless, subdued. ‘Thank you for coming home. I’ve got the car outside. I came because I need to talk to you so badly, and I just couldn’t wait any longer.’

  ‘OK, let’s go.’

  C. J. looked at her, saw her lips quiver slightly and felt remorseful; he put out his hand and touched her arm briefly. ‘I’m very very sorry about it all, Roz,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Yes, well, just for now listen,’ said Roz, and he could hear her fight back the tears, ‘I simply don’t know what to do. The first thing is that someone has to tell Letitia, and quickly. Who should it be? Me? You?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her if you like,’ said C. J., shrinking from the task. ‘I’d rather not but I will.’

  ‘Well, maybe if you could. It would be a great help.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go and see her. But you’ll have to tell me some more first. Otherwise I shan’t be a very satisfactory news bearer.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Well, I don’t know that much, of course. It appears that this man, Hugo Dashwood, that is, my father, was a good friend to Miles’ parents. He did business with Miles’ father, visited his mother when she was dying and then when Miles was older, sent him to college.’

  ‘You mean paid for him to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘The whole thing is extraordinary. I simply cannot imagine why my father should have done such a thing. I mean maintained this double life. I mean, what would have been the point? It wasn’t as if he desperately needed to do it, he always did exactly as he liked anyway. He didn’t have a clinging little suburban wife somewhere, or business problems that he needed to get away from. I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘What did Miles say he was like?’

  ‘Reading between the lines, he didn’t like him much. He said his mother didn’t either. But he does keep saying how kind and generous he was. He says his mother told him that my father and his father did business together. But Miles’ father was obviously quite poor. He was a salesman. What business could my father have had with him?’

  ‘Well, maybe in his other life he was a much more modest person.’

  ‘Maybe. But Miles says he always seemed to be rather rich. And he did put Miles through college.’

  ‘Still doesn’t have to have been a millionaire.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Did he know anything about this other life?’

  ‘Well, my father obviously fed him a load of claptrap. Told him he had a wife called Alice and some little boys. Alice! It’s so peculiar. I just feel as if I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Poor Roz. What’s Miles like?’

  ‘Charming,’ said Roz briefly. ‘You just cannot help liking him. Terribly good-looking, very blond and Californian, and very very kind of relaxed.’

  ‘And how has he reacted to it all?’

  ‘Well, of course the news about Hugo Dashwood and my father doesn’t mean all that much to him. I mean he hardly knew the man, and it certainly wasn’t an unpleasant shock for him, just something rather intriguing. I do feel sorry for him though, he was leading a perfectly happy life bumming round the Bahamas with a nice little girlfriend called Honey or Sweetie or something, and he’s been catapulted into this dungheap.’

  ‘I thought he was in Miami.’

  ‘Yes, well he was, latterly. Oh, it’s a long story. We had lunch with him yesterday, Granny Letitia and I, and he gave us a potted autobiography. Only inevitably it led to Letitia’s autobiography, as more and more champagne went down.’

  ‘Prince of Wales?’

  ‘Prince of Wales,’ said Roz, and smiled briefly. ‘It’s nice to see you, C. J. How – how is Camilla?’

  ‘
Very well,’ said C. J., returning the smile, knowing what the question must have cost her. ‘She sent you her – her best,’ he reported faithfully, aware how oddly American the message sounded but unable for obvious reasons to translate it to the English and ‘love’.

  ‘How kind,’ said Roz. ‘Well, C. J., I have to admit it was a shock hearing about you two, but I’m delighted if it makes you happy.’ Her tone managed to imply this was very unlikely.

  ‘Thank you,’ said C. J. He wished Roz would drive a little more slowly; she was doing seventy-five on the Hammersmith flyover and it made him very nervous. He knew from past experience it was no use saying anything to try and deter her; she would simply put her foot down harder. ‘Er – how’s Michael?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Roz in a voice that mixed suppressed rage and icy disdain. ‘Well, I imagine. He’s – away at present.’

  ‘I see. So he doesn’t know anything about all this?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  C. J. had the sense not to pursue the subject.

  ‘You look very tired,’ he said carefully. ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  ‘No, I told you, I like driving, I find it therapeutic. I am tired, I hardly slept last night. I don’t know quite why,’ she added, ‘but I’m taking you to Cheyne Walk. I thought you could have a shower if you want to, and there are still some of your clothes there, and we can talk some more.’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked at his watch; it was nearly six, English time; it had been an endless day.

  ‘Where’s Miles?’

  ‘Exploring London. He thinks it’s just wonderful. And buying some clothes. He’s hardly got anything with him. But he’ll be back soon. I asked him to have supper with us.’

  He liked Miles. It was impossible not to. He was so straightforwardly engaging, so charmingly mannered, so easy to talk to; entirely unfazed by the situation he had walked into, so disinterested in his potential wealth and power, so concerned to be helpful and constructive in the situation. He sat eating supper in Roz’s kitchen, listening quietly as she talked to C. J., occasionally putting in a suggestion, offering a view, proffering his help; C. J. thought it was a very long time since he had met someone he liked so wholeheartedly.

  ‘I’ll go and see Letitia this evening if you like,’ C. J. said, pushing a half-eaten plate of food away from him. ‘It has to be got over, after all.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that,’ said Miles. ‘You should never give people bad news at night. Sorry,’ he added, ‘nothing to do with me. But that’s what I would think.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said C. J. ‘I’ll go first thing in the morning.’

  ‘OK,’ said Roz. ‘And I’ll fly up to Mummy then as well.’

  ‘What can I do?’ asked Miles. ‘I could go and meet whatsername, if you like. She’s flying in in the morning isn’t she? I could tell her what’s happening. Would that be helpful?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ said Roz quickly. For a few hours she had forgotten that particular aspect of the situation, of the fight between her and Phaedria for Miles’ support. She was going to have to watch Phaedria very carefully.

  ‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘Whatever you say. But I have to get to know her. Seemed a good way. And she could use the help maybe.’

  ‘Well, Pete Praeger, my father’s – her – driver will be meeting her,’ said Roz. ‘And she’ll have the child with her. She’ll be very distracted. You can meet her later.’

  C. J. looked at her sharply. So she was politicking already. He was surprised she was leaving Miles in London alone with Phaedria at all. Roz wasn’t.

  She looked at Miles thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you come to Scotland with me?’ she said. ‘My mother would adore you, and it would take her mind off the other trauma.’

  ‘Roz,’ said C. J., ‘I don’t know that is a terribly good idea. Eliza might be very upset by the news about your father.’

  ‘C. J.,’ said Roz firmly. ‘I think I know my mother and what would and would not be best for her rather more intimately than you do. Besides, Miles has nothing to do in London – yet,’ she added, giving the word a mildly threatening ring, ‘and it’s so boring for him. Would you like to come, Miles?’

  Miles was looking at Roz with an interesting expression on his face: it was half amused, half thoughtful, and there was another element altogether, which C. J. could not quite define; he filed it away for future examination. It was only when he was safely back in his own flat in Sloane Street later that night and thinking about the evening and its conversations that he was able to analyse it. It had been, without doubt, sexual interest.

  ‘Sure,’ said Miles. ‘Sounds fun. Didn’t you say she lived in a castle? That’d be great.’

  ‘Oh well, have it your own way,’ said C. J. ‘I’ll take care of Phaedria, then.’

  ‘C. J.,’ said Roz. ‘I really cannot see why Phaedria will need taking care of. She has been doing nothing for almost two months other than lying around in that hotel, soaking up the sun; she hasn’t even been looking after the child. It’s been in hospital. I’m sure she can get herself installed in her own home, with the assistance of God knows how many staff, without you putting your oar in.’

  ‘All right, Roz, all right,’ said C. J. ‘I take your point. I happen not to agree with you, that’s all. I shall go and see her and make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Oh, have it your own way,’ said Roz. ‘I’d forgotten how you had made her your personal good cause. No doubt she’ll be glad to see you. She’ll be trawling sympathy all over London, I expect.’

  ‘Roz, I do think you might be just a little more sensitive about her,’ said C. J. ‘She has also had a fearful shock. And she’s been out there quite alone, she hasn’t had anyone to talk to about it at all.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that,’ said Roz, and there was a ferocious expression on her face. ‘I daresay she’s found some broad shoulder to cry on. Probably a masculine one. Anyway, C. J., you do what you think best. It’s nothing to do with me, after all.’

  Miles had been listening to this exchange with a look of almost incredulous interest; Roz suddenly became aware of it and changed the subject.

  ‘We’ll probably come back from Scotland on Thursday,’ she said. ‘So could you let everyone in the office know I’ll be away till then? I suppose once this particular phase is over we need to talk to Richard Brookes about Miles.’

  ‘Who’s Richard Brookes?’ asked Miles.

  ‘The company lawyer. Next to the family, he is the person who will most need to talk to you. Explain your position there. Sort out what will happen short and long term.’

  Miles looked alarmed. ‘Long term there’s no happening,’ he said. ‘I just want to go home.’

  ‘I know,’ said Roz, ‘but one way or another, you have to offload your share on to someone. You can’t just cut and run.’ She smiled at him. ‘You’re one of us now, for better or worse, and you have to face up to it.’

  ‘Are you really not interested in becoming part of the company?’ asked C. J.

  Miles looked at him as if he had just suggested night was day, or black white.

  ‘I certainly am not,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to sound rude or ungrateful, but I just can’t imagine anything more awful than having to run even a smidgen of a company. You can just have it with my blessing.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said C. J. ‘I would feel exactly the same.’

  ‘No, but as I explained to Miles yesterday,’ said Roz, ‘he certainly shouldn’t just give his share away. If that’s what he finally decides to do. I think you should go into it a little more thoroughly, Miles. But whatever you do decide, you should certainly sell it. Don’t you think so, C. J.?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said C. J. ‘And then you can sail away on your surf board to your very own tropical island or whatever with – what’s her name?’

  ‘Candy,’ said Miles. ‘Candy McCall. Yeah, a tropical island might be nice. Shall I show you a picture of h
er?’

  ‘Oh, do,’ said C. J. politely. He looked after Miles as he went in search of his jacket, and the collection of pictures of Candy he carried in it.

  ‘Nice boy,’ he said to Roz.

  ‘People keep calling him a boy,’ said Roz irritably. ‘He’s only two years younger than me.’

  ‘Well, he seems a boy,’ said C. J. ‘It’s that Californian innocence. Ah, Miles, let’s have a look.’

  Candy’s sweet, deceptively guileless smile greeted them from the beach, from a restaurant, from the poolside of the hotel. C. J. and Roz studied her, her almost indecent youth, her blue eyes, her freckles, her colt-like legs.’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ said C. J., meaning it. ‘And she’s how old?’

  ‘Eighteen. We want to get married, but her old man won’t hear of it.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll come round,’ said C. J. easily. ‘Fathers do, don’t they, Roz? Pretty predictable people really.’ He spoke without thinking; he was appalled to see Roz’s face suddenly whiten and tears fill her eyes. ‘Oh, Roz, I’m so sorry,’ he said, pushing his chair back, going to her, trying to put his arms round her. ‘I didn’t think. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, you should think,’ she said, and it was almost a cry of pain that escaped her. ‘You bloody well should think.’ And she got up and walked quickly out of the room.

  ‘Oh hell,’ said C. J. ‘Now I’ve done it. I have a rare talent,’ he said to Miles, half smiling at his own incompetence, ‘for annoying and upsetting her. It was one of the things that most characterized our marriage.’

  ‘You didn’t mean anything,’ said Miles. ‘You were just being polite to me. She’ll see that, surely.’

  ‘You don’t know Roz,’ said C. J. ‘She has trouble seeing that sort of thing, and anyway, she’s desperately upset, it was very thoughtless of me.’