‘Of course.’ Roz was sitting very straight, her eyes fixed on her grandmother’s face. She looked pale.
‘Well you see, I thought – we all thought – that there might
be an explanation for your father leaving Miles that legacy which was fairly logical. Obvious even.’
‘I can’t think what.’
‘Can’t you?’
Roz looked at her with her blank, wall-eyed expression. ‘No.’
Letitia laughed. ‘Sometimes you look exactly like your father. Well anyway, what we all thought was that Miles might – well, have been Julian’s son.’
‘Oh.’ Roz tried to sound calm, disinterested, but her voice came out sounding rather shaky and weak. ‘How – how odd.’
‘Yes, well, it didn’t seem that odd to us. Quite likely, really. At least it would have explained a lot. But obviously we had to check it out.’
‘I – I suppose so.’
‘Well –’ the silence seemed very long. Roz was motionless, she put down her glass to conceal the fact that her hand was shaking. Letitia stood up, smiling at her. ‘Well, we were all wrong. Quite wrong. Your father was in New York and Paris during the relevant period. And then at home in London. I think that’s probably quite good news, don’t you?’
‘I suppose it would be,’ said Roz, still sounding odd. ‘If you’d been worrying about it. Yes. Thank you for telling me, Granny Letitia.’
There was another very long silence. Letitia went over to Roz and put her arms round her; Roz was smiling at her and crying at the same time.
‘That’s the thing I’ve been most afraid of,’ she said, ‘ever since I can remember, all my life.’
London, Sussex, Scotland, 1985
MILES SAT AND
listened carefully while Roz told him of an extremely generous bid from a consortium in Zurich for his share of the company. He said he would think about it. Then he sat and listened equally carefully while Phaedria outlined her
idea that a trust fund should buy his share of the company on behalf of Julia. He said he would think about that too. When he got back to Claridge’s that night, Candy told him she had been to supper with Letitia who thought it was a wonderful idea for Miles to join the company, and had all kinds of interesting and exciting suggestions as to what he might do there. Miles listened carefully to Candy as well. He kept all these conversations to himself. He wanted time to think.
Both Roz and Phaedria invited him and Candy for Christmas, but they refused. They wanted to be alone, together in London. They put their discussions on ice and had a pre-honeymoon. Miles took Candy shopping, and watched her, smiling and indulgent, as she fluttered like some dizzy overexcited little bird from shop to shop, store to store, from Joseph to Brown’s, St Laurent to Polo, Fortnum’s to Harvey Nichols. They went to shows, to
Cats
and
Chorus Line
and
Evita
and
Another Country
(through which Candy slept and Miles sat bewitched). They ate their way round London, dressing up to dine at the Ritz, gazing at the celebrities in Langan’s, picking their way through the chic, pretty dishes at L’Escargot, L’Etoile, the Caprice. Their favourite was the Ménage à Trois, serving only starters and puddings; one day they ate both lunch and supper there. And Candy liked the Great American Disaster; she said it made her feel at home.
On Christmas Eve they ate in style in the dining room at Claridge’s: Miles wore his new dinner jacket, made for him at Dimi Major, and looked so wonderful that half the women in the room forgot what they had been saying to their escorts when he walked across it. He ordered pink champagne, presented Candy with a very large and vulgar diamond ring he had bought from Garrard’s, officially proposed to her, and then said, ‘Come along, we’re going to have a Christmas to remember.’ Which they did, never leaving their suite, ordering the occasional snack from room service, and exploring each other’s bodies with a slow, lazy thoroughness and delight.
And all the time, the choices before him occupied Miles’ mind with an increasing intensity; and on the day after Boxing Day, he left Candy in London, hired a car and drove down to Marriotts and Phaedria.
Phaedria was very pleased to see him. She had found Christmas extremely depressing, alone with Julia, who had been fretful with a cold, and Augustus who was already excitedly occupied with his new subject, one of quite outstanding obscurity, even by his standards. She was Roswitha, a tenth-century German poet and nun, and Phaedria couldn’t help feeling that even her father’s loyalest followers might find her hard to enthuse over.
Phaedria was also, she was rather guiltily aware, ticking off the days to New Year’s Eve, when Nanny Hudson, a large cosy soul (disdainfully referred to by Mrs Hamlyn as Old Nanny Hudson), was arriving back from her holiday and she could take herself off to New York and Michael. Nobody except Nanny Hudson knew where she was going to be; her cover was a trip to the house on Eleuthera. She had explained to Nanny Hudson that it was very difficult for her to get away from the company and she needed a break, and that it was better for everyone to think she was somewhere other than where she actually was.
Nanny Hudson, who had not been born even the day before yesterday, was not entirely convinced by this explanation, but she was already very fond of Phaedria, and so delighted with the prospect of having Julia to herself for a few days she would have sworn that the moon was blue and that Phaedria had gone to have a personal look at it, in order to make sure nothing and nobody disturbed any of them.
Since his phone call to the nursery late that night when he had declared his intention of marrying her, Michael had made an assault on Phaedria’s emotions so intense and relentless she could now scarcely think about anything else.
She had argued with him for nearly an hour, then, standing looking down at Julia asleep in her crib; she had told him he couldn’t possibly know that he wanted to marry her, that he scarcely knew her, and that she certainly didn’t know if she wanted to marry him; that by the same token he could not even know if he loved her; that he could not, simply could not abandon Roz now, when she was so fearsomely (and frighteningly) unhappy (and she was able to explain at last why
she had put the phone down); she had said that she could not, and would not leave the company at the moment, that she had to see it through, get something resolved before she even began to decide what she wanted to do with her life; that she was still confused, grieving for and over Julian; that she needed time and space and peace to recover and rediscover herself. And when she had finished there was a long silence, and she wondered if she had gone too far, hurt him, rebuffed him, thrown him away, and then through the darkness and across the thousands of miles he had simply said, ‘Phaedria, I am not a fool. I know I love you. And I intend to have you. I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ and put the phone down.
He did phone tomorrow, and the next and the next and the next; sometimes the calls were romantic (endless declarations of tenderness, of admiration, of concern); sometimes reassuring (he promised her time, he swore not to talk to Roz until they both felt she could stand it, he listened while she fretted and worried and agonized); sometimes funny and anecdotal (he had lost another raincoat, befriended a tramp and had Franco bring them both dinner down to the sidewalk outside Trump Tower); bought Little Michael and Baby Sharon working scaled-down Cadillacs from Hammacher Schlammer for Christmas and he had been driving one of them in Central Park and nearly got arrested); sometimes sexy (when he talked her into a frenzy of desire, his raw, silky voice caressing her, wanting her, making her want, long for him with a physical force); and sometimes he would hardly talk at all, merely listen to her, asking her what she was wearing, thinking, reading, who she had seen, what she had done in the office that day, what Julia had been doing, how many feeds she was on, whether she liked her new home, what colour the nursery walls were, how Nanny Hudson was working out, who she had worked for before, whether Phaedria had been riding, swimming, where she had been shopping, what she had bought; the questions were endless, exhaustive, exhausting, like the phone calls, but they were nonetheless the pivot of her day, her link with happiness and calm, and through them she felt she had grown genuinely to know him, and begun properly to love him.
She was flying out on Concorde early on New Year’s Eve, and
staying with him for forty-eight hours; then to substantiate her alibi, flying down to Eleuthera for a couple of days – ‘Alone,’ she said firmly, ‘I had my honeymoon there, I can’t go there with you, not yet’ – and then back to London, crises, decisions, work.
She was excited, nervous, strung up; her only comfort and consolation Grettisaga, who she had woefully missed and who had equally woefully missed her, and Spring Collection, who was being trained seriously already for the Thousand Guineas.
‘She’s a great horse, Lady Morell,’ said Tony Price, patting the fine arched neck, running his hand down over her shoulder and down one long, strong, delicate leg. ‘Sir Julian certainly knew what he was doing when he bought her.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Phaedria. ‘Do you think she has a chance at Newmarket?’
‘It’s Mr Dodsworth you should really ask, he’s been training her, but I’d put a year’s salary on her myself.’
‘Oh, Tony, don’t,’ said Phaedria, laughing. ‘I’d feel terribly worried. Oh, I hope she does well. It would be a kind of marvellous memorial to my husband if she did.’
‘She will. Grettisaga’s looking well, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, thank you for looking after her so beautifully.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. She’s a nice horse. You must be thinking about a pony for little Miss Julia soon. Can’t begin too young.’
Phaedria thought of Julia’s heavy wobbly head, and her small neck which could not yet support it, her soft, limp little body flopping against her as she had slept in her arms after breakfast that morning, and said she thought the pony could wait a month or two.
Miles arrived at lunch time; he was driving a perfectly horrendous Ford Escort in a particularly vile shade of blue. Phaedria laughed as he got out of it.
‘Like your wheels,’ she said.
‘A bit of real style there,’ he said, laughing back at her. ‘This is a nice place, Phaedria. I really like it.’
‘Good. Come in and have a drink. I’d suggest you meet my father but he’s locked in his room with a German nun.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, she’s not real. Or hasn’t been for a thousand years. He’s writing a book about her.’
He shook his head at her, smiling. ‘You really are a wild family.’
After lunch she walked him round the grounds, showed him the stables, introduced him to Spring Collection. ‘And this is the real love of my life,’ she said, leading him over to Grettisaga’s stall. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’
‘She is,’ he said, carefully tactful, ‘I’m sure she is. I don’t really know an awful lot about horses, nothing at all as a matter of fact, but she looks as if she has the right bits in the right places, a leg at each corner, that sort of thing.’
‘There’s a book called that,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘It’s by someone called Thelwell. Very funny.’
‘English funny or would it make me laugh?’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, ‘do we really not make you laugh?’
‘Not often,’ he said, ‘but I’m learning to live with you.’
‘Good.’
‘Could we go for a walk? Is Julia all right?’
‘She’s fine. Nancy’s here.’
‘Who’s Nancy?’
‘The housekeeper.’
She spoke carelessly, casually; she had come totally to accept the fleet of people who were wherever she went to see to her, feed her, warm her, care for her. Miles looked at her shrewdly.
‘You like it all, don’t you?’
‘Like what?’
‘Being rich. The lifestyle.’
‘I suppose so. I’ve got used to it.’
‘I suppose you do. I suppose I will. I haven’t yet. I feel as if I’m at a party and soon I’ll have to go home.’
‘But you want to go home, don’t you?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes I do. Sorry. Anyway, what did you want to talk about?’
Her heart was thumping; had he made up his mind so quickly?
‘Oh, you know, things.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Well, you see, I’ve been thinking about your suggestion
about buying my share for Julia. It’s a neat idea. I like it. And you’re right, probably she should have it. And it would kind of solve my problem. I wouldn’t have to actually choose.’
‘No. But?’
‘Well, two buts. It would still mean effectively that I’d gone against Roz. That you’d got control. In a way.’
‘No, Miles, it wouldn’t. I’ve explained, there would be a trust fund, trustees, I couldn’t make big decisions still about the company against Roz’s wishes.’
‘No, but Roz would know that come Julia’s eighteenth birthday – or eighth, probably, the way you lot carry on – you and she, that is you and Julia could sweep the board. I don’t feel comfortable about that.’
Phaedria looked at him sharply. ‘You like Roz, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I do. I really do. I think she’s a bitch, but I like her. I think she’s had a raw deal. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not your fault, I guess lots of it’s her own, but it still hasn’t been easy for her. Losing her dad twice over, losing the company probably, getting divorced, losing this guy of hers. He must be a real schmuck.’
‘Why?’ said Phaedria. She was beginning to find the conversation uncomfortable.
‘Well, he never even came over when she was feeling so bad. Never tried to understand what she was going through, made allowances for her.’
‘Miles,’ said Phaedria carefully. ‘You may be a very perceptive person, but you don’t know very much about this particular situation. I don’t think you should make judgements about it.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged, smiled at her. ‘Maybe I don’t. All I’m saying is she’s had a tough time, and I don’t want to make it tougher for her.’
‘Right. So you don’t want to sell to Julia?’
‘Nope. Well, not yet. I might, but not yet. I want to think a little longer. I just thought I should let you know.’