‘No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know. Somehow all this has driven everything I ever knew out of my head.’
Andrew thought this was probably not an enormous amount, but he smiled at her encouragingly.
‘Well, maybe something will turn up. Let’s carry on for a while. Was this cousin, the one who lived in Los Angeles, called Wilburn?’
‘I don’t know. I guess so. I got the impression there was some tragedy, but I never really liked to ask.’
‘Really? Why was that?’
‘Oh, Mr Wilburn used to talk about poor Lee. Always poor Lee.’
‘Was that the cousin?’
‘No, it was the cousin’s wife.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘I guess not. Otherwise Mr Wilburn wouldn’t have gone on and on about being alone in the world.’
‘Possibly. And did these cousins have any children?’
‘Well, I don’t really know. I guess this nephew of his, I had to write the letter about, the one he went to see, was probably their kid. I just don’t know.’
‘Ah. And where did he live?’
‘He lived here.’
‘What, in this office?’
‘Yeah, nearly. In a coupla rooms overhead.’
‘Are they locked?’
‘Yeah, but I have the key.’ She looked at him, slightly embarrassed. ‘I don’t know if I ought to let you up, though. Oh, what the hell,’ she said suddenly. ‘What’s it matter? I don’t suppose Mr Wilburn would have minded. And nobody told me I shouldn’t let anybody up there. Here’s the key. Just don’t disarrange anything, that’s all.’
‘I won’t,’ said Andrew, ‘and thank you very much.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Cynthia, ‘I’m real grateful to you for helping me with the papers.’
‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ said Andrew, just slightly pompously.
The flat was a larger version of the office; untidy, depressing, disorganized. Just two rooms: a kitchen-diner, and a bed-sitting room. The bed-sit had a rather grubby sofa in it, a small bookcase full of the works of Erle Stanley Gardner and Ellery Queen, a coffee table covered in out of date car and fishing magazines, and rather incongruously a British Heritage calendar on one wall, opened at the right month. Now how long had Bill Wilburn been an anglophile, Andrew wondered.
There was a small table by the bed, with a couple of drawers in it, and two photographs on the tiled shelf above the gas fire; one was framed, a very old wedding photograph of a very very pretty blonde girl, and a slightly plump, crewcut young man, sundry relatives standing on either side of them. One of them, Andrew assumed, must be Bill Wilburn. The other was unframed, curling with age, creased and dirty, tucked into the edge of a lurid picture of the Golden Gate Bridge; it was of a blond baby, about ten months old, laughing in the plump (and considerably older) crewcut man’s arms.
‘Now,’ said Andrew to the baby, ‘are you Miles or are you not?’
He went back downstairs, holding the wedding picture. Cynthia had stopped working for a spell, and was retouching her make-up.
‘Cynthia,’ he said, ‘is any of these people Bill Wilburn?’
She took the photograph and looked at it. ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘that’s him. Next to the bridesmaid.’
‘But you don’t know if this was his cousin’s wedding?’
‘Nope. I guess it probably is, but I just don’t know. I’ve never seen it before.’
‘OK, I’ll put it back. And lock up. I won’t be a minute.’
He came back down smiling. ‘Thank you, Cynthia, for that. It didn’t actually provide me with any information, but it was nice of you. Er – do you happen to know what might have happened to Mr Wilburn’s wallet? Or his personal address book for instance?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t know about the address book. But his wallet is right here, in the safe. I put it there for the time being. I guess you might as well see it.’
She handed it over. Andrew opened it very slowly. It was empty, apart from two ten-dollar bills, a couple of credit card receipts, and a used air ticket. He looked at it cautiously, almost afraid of what it was going to tell him. It was a used return ticket to Nassau.
Joanna looked contentedly round her dinner table. It had all been the greatest success. The lobster and wild rice had been wonderful, the meringue baskets which were always a slight worry had turned out perfectly, and everyone had come up for second helpings of the mousse of raspberries and wild strawberries. Now Holden was going round the table with the armagnac, and Christabel was ready with the coffee, and the worrying part was completely over. What was more, Camilla North had been really very nice, charming in a rather formal way, she was certainly very beautiful, dressed dramatically all in black (probably, Joanna thought, by Bill Blass), and a bit remote, but not really too frightening at all. The man she had come with, a banker called Peter Cohen, was obviously besotted with her; Camilla was plainly not the least besotted with him, in fact Joanna could detect signs of severe irritation in
the way she was now just slightly obsessively lining up the glasses in front of her in a very neat way; time to move everyone, she thought, like the good hostess she was.
‘Shall we take coffee on the patio?’ she said. ‘It’s such a lovely night.’
‘Oh, that would be so nice,’ said Camilla, speaking (as she so often did) for the assorted company. ‘And then quite soon, Peter, I think we should make a move. It’s very late.’
‘Oh, goodness, don’t go yet!’ said Joanna. It was awful when a party broke up too early, you missed the fun bit altogether that way.
‘Well, I’m a little tired,’ said Camilla, her lovely head drooping just slightly. ‘I’ve had a hard week. We were pitching for some new drink business.’
‘Did you get it?’ asked Mary Wilder, an old friend of Holden’s, who Joanna was just slightly suspicious of, she didn’t like the way she kept saying things to him very quietly so no one else could hear and touching his arm in that over-friendly way: Mary was also in advertising, although considerably less successfully so than the beautiful Miss North (but then, thought Joanna, struggling to be fair, she was much much younger).
‘I’m not sure. I think probably yes. It’s such a chauvinist business, advertising, we always have to win two wars on every pitch, one to be better than the competition, the other to overcome the innate belief that we can’t possibly be better because it’s my agency and I’m a woman.’
‘I simply cannot believe that, Camilla, in this day and age,’ said Peter Cohen. ‘I think you’re just paranoid, like all women.’
‘Women are not paranoid,’ said Camilla coldly. ‘Merely realistic. I do assure you I do know what I’m talking about. Which, if you will forgive me for saying so, you do not. We may have made some progress in the last decade, but we are still suffering severely under the yoke of thousands of years of oppression.’
‘Oh, Camilla, that’s balls!’ said Holden. ‘I – we have many women in the bank in quite senior positions. No oppression there, I can tell you.’
‘Really?’ said Camilla.
‘Really. Dozens of them. Very nice to have them around,
too,’ he added, slightly unfortunately. Joanna winced; Holden could be so crass at times.
‘And how many of these dozens of women are on the main board?’ asked Camilla.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Several, I think. I’m not sure.’
‘Any presidents?’
‘Well, vice-presidents certainly. Not many presidents. Obviously.’
‘Why obviously?’
‘Well, of course we’re very keen on the idea, very aware that women should be presidents. That they’re just as good as the next man, if you’ll forgive the expression. But the other presidents in the other banks aren’t ready for it. They wouldn’t quite welcome it. Not appreciate it. Not yet,’ he added hastily, unnerved by the look in her slightly blank dark eyes. ‘In time I’m sure there will be. And we’ll lead the way.’
‘I see. Good for you.’
There was a silence. Mary broke it.
‘Camilla, do you ever see Nigel Silk these days?’
‘Occasionally,’ said Camilla. ‘At awards ceremonies and so forth. I’m afraid he hasn’t reacted terribly generously to my success. He’s a great yoke-bearer,’ she added, flashing a cool smile at Holden.
‘Who is Nigel Silk?’ asked Joanna quickly, nervous. She could see this getting difficult and the whole evening being ruined.
‘He’s the man who used to do most of our advertising when I worked for Julian Morell, in the early days.’
This was getting worse; Holden had warned her not to so much as touch on the subject of Julian Morell and to steer any conversation right off him. Julian Morrell had always rather fascinated Joanna; she used to like reading about him in the gossip columns, about all his money, and his houses, and his wives, and also Sir James Goldsmith, who had seemed to her a rather similarly glamorous figure; when Holden had told her that Camilla had been Julian Morell’s mistress for years, she could hardly contain herself with excitement and awe. ‘But the guy’s only died a couple of months ago, and she’s probably pretty cut up about it, even though she hadn’t been involved with him for a while. So for God’s sake, Joanna, just don’t even mention him.’
And now, here was Camilla herself mentioning Julian Morell, and Mary Wilder’s eyes lighting up, and one of the other men, Irving Drummond, a friend of Holden’s in the hotel business, leaning forward eagerly. What on earth could she do?
‘Coffee everyone,’ she said again, brilliant smile flashing round the table, but they all ignored her.
‘I met Julian Morell’s daughter only the other day,’ said Drummond. ‘Tough nut, that one. She’s taken over the hotels division from that husband of hers. He’s resigned from the company. She’s divorcing him.’
‘Really?’ said Cohen. ‘And marrying Browning, I suppose?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I guess so. I have to say I don’t envy him, but I guess he can take it.’
Joanna felt worse and worse; she drained her glass and poured herself another, hoping no one was looking.
‘Where did you meet Roz?’ said Camilla. She seemed quite calm; Joanna relaxed a little. Maybe it would be all right. If she just kept right out of the conversation from now on, Holden couldn’t possibly blame her for any of it.
‘Oh, at a hotel convention. She’s very attractive, I must say. Amazing figure.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Camilla in tones so icy, the entire room was chilled. ‘I always find that very severe style of hers rather off-putting. She was a singularly plain child,’ she added, displaying her intimate knowledge of the family and daring anyone else to comment on Roz Emerson’s attractiveness at one and the same moment.
‘How is she coping, running that empire?’ asked Cohen. ‘It’s quite an undertaking. And she’s very young for the job.’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ said Camilla, cooler still. ‘I can only say any adversary of hers has my deep sympathy.’ She turned in her chair. ‘Joanna, my dear, why don’t we avail ourselves of your very nice suggestion that we should go and have coffee in the garden? It really is very hot in here.’
Joanna stood up and walked out of the room; Camilla, Mary and Nancy Smallwood, Joanna’s great friend and unofficial co-hostess on sticky occasions, followed her.
While Mary and Nancy were still upstairs, Joanna found herself sitting alone on the terrace with Camilla. She looked at her, seeming, she thought suddenly, rather sad and vulnerable,
and said on an impulse (thank God Holden was inside, carrying on about the Dow Jones or something), ‘Camilla, I do hope it doesn’t upset you to talk about Julian Morell. I’m sorry if the conversation about him ran on a bit.’
Camilla looked at her and smiled a trifle frostily. Don’t you try and get too close to me, that look said. ‘Of course not,’ she said graciously. ‘In any case ifit did I have only myself to blame for bringing his name into the conversation. Please don’t worry about it.’
‘All right,’ said Joanna. ‘And thank you for coming this evening. It’s been so nice to meet you. Holden has told me such a lot about you. He has such admiration for you and your agency.’
‘How sweet of him,’ said Camilla. ‘Just a poor thing, but mine own,’ she added graciously. Joanna recognized the quotation, but she wasn’t sure if she should say she did or not.
Mercifully at this point Nancy returned. Nancy could talk any silence out. She commenced to do so now.
‘That was a great dinner, Jo,’ she said. ‘Christabel does make the best summer mousse in the world. Didn’t you think it was just yummy, Camilla?’
Camilla smiled. ‘What a lovely word,’ she said. ‘It’s years since I heard it. Not since I was a small girl.’
She suddenly seemed more human again. Maybe she had just made things worse apologizing like that, Joanna thought. Blast.
‘Well, I use lots of school words still,’ said Nancy cheerfully. ‘I love ’em. I say gosh, and gee and fab and crush and – gross and spaced and Za.’
‘Whatever does Za mean?’ said Joanna, grateful for this diversion.
‘Pizza, everyone knows that,’ said Nancy, laughing. ‘I forgot you went to school in the backwoods, Jo.’
‘Where was that?’ asked Camilla, turning to Joanna, obviously anxious to show she bore no grudge to someone for not going to Vassar.
‘Hollywood,’ said Joanna. ‘Marymount High School.’
‘That does sound fun,’ said Camilla. ‘Hardly the backwoods, but fun.’
‘Oh,’ said Joanna, suddenly sharply remembering, just as
she had reading the advertisement, what it felt like to be young, to be at Marymount High, to be in California, to be in love, ‘it was. Wonderful fun.’
And then she said it. It was partly nerves, partly the wine, partly genuinely wanting to tell someone.
‘The most extraordinary thing happened to me this week,’ she said, ‘I was reading the paper, and in the announcement column, you know, where they advertise for people, was the name of my very first boyfriend. Some English lawyer is looking for him. Isn’t that extraordinary? At least I suppose it was him. He had the same name, at any rate.’
Camilla was looking at her very oddly; she had gone rather pale.
‘And what was the name of this boyfriend?’ she said.
‘Miles,’ said Joanna. ‘Miles Wilburn.’
Doctor Margaret Friedman looked at Phaedria across her desk.
‘Good morning,’ she said, her eyes taking in an enormous amount without appearing even to have left her diary: the beauty, the pregnancy, the money. Margaret Friedman did not know a Ralph Lauren shirt from a Marks and Spencer one, nor a Cartier ring from a junk job from Fenwick’s, but she could nonetheless tell you in an instant where a client stood in the socio-economic scale, what kind of school they had been to, which kind of car they drove, whether they lived in town or the country, whether they had any children. It was one of the things that made her so good at her job.