‘I’m afraid not,’ said Jane, irritation breaking into her bland tones. ‘We don’t stock a full bar. I can get you some more coffee, of course.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ said Roz, turning back into the room.
‘Here Jane, I’ll have the sherry,’ said C. J. hastily, stifling the thought of the bourbon he had been planning to ask for. ‘That’s very kind, very kind indeed. Would you like me to ask the others what they’d all like? Save you the trouble?’
‘Yes, thank you Mr Emerson,’ said Jane Gould, ‘that would be kind. I’ll see if I can hurry Mr Winterbourne along.’
C. J. went back into the main room, and across to the fireplace. ‘Phaedria, can I get you anything to drink? A sherry, or maybe something stronger?’
Phaedria Morell looked up at him and smiled. ‘That’s sweet of you, C. J., but what I’d really like is something hot. Coffee or something. And C. J., could you possibly ask Jane if she could bring in a heater of some kind, it’s so cold in here.’
C. J. looked at her in astonishment; the temperature in the room was a good seventy-five; he had already removed his jacket and was now glowing profusely in his Brooks Brothers shirt. Phaedria, who was huddled deep into the folds of her sable coat, her hands in the pockets, was clearly, he decided, suffering from shock.
‘I will if you like,’ he said, ‘but the fire is doing its best for you. Try the coffee first.’
Phaedria looked at the flames leaping in the gas-fired fake coal in apparent surprise. ‘Good heavens,’ she said, ‘do you know I hadn’t noticed it was alight? Don’t worry, C. J., I’m sure the coffee will do the trick. Oh, and do we have any idea why this is taking so long? We seem to have been here for ever. And where are the others?’
‘Not really,’ said C. J. carefully. ‘Apparently Henry is on the phone to the States. And Susan, and presumably Eliza and Peveril as well, are stuck in traffic. Now be sure to shout if the coffee doesn’t warm you up. Er, Camilla, would you like anything?’
Camilla North looked up slowly from her magazine, shaking back her heavy gold-red hair, brushing a speck of dust disdainfully from her cream silk dress; she looked immaculate, cool and in command, not in the least as if she had just made the flight from New York, and if she was fazed by being confronted by much of the Morell family, including her lover’s
widow, she certainly did not show it. She appeared to consider the question very carefully.
‘I’d like a mineral water, C. J., if that’s not too difficult. But still, not sparkling.’
‘Fine,’ said C. J. ‘Ice?’
Camilla looked at him in apparent astonishment. ‘Oh, no thank you,’ she said, ‘not ice. Not with water.’ She made it sound as if ice was as unsuitable an addition to water as gravy or black treacle. ‘In fact, C. J., unless it’s room temperature I won’t have it at all, thank you.’
‘Why not?’ said Phaedria curiously. They were the first words she had ever spoken to Camilla.
‘Well,’ said Camilla, seriously courteous, ‘iced liquid of any kind is very bad for the digestion. It predisposes the system towards gall bladder disease. Or so my yoga instructor tells me.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Phaedria, ‘I had no idea. I love it iced. Only the sparkling sort though.’
‘Well really, you shouldn’t drink that at all,’ said Camilla, ‘it is very seldom naturally sparkling, as of course you must know, and it often has a considerably higher content of salts.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Phaedria, ‘well that’s a shame. I hate the still sort.’
C. J. held his breath. He had been watching them warily all morning, half expecting them suddenly to hurl a stream of abuse at one another, fearful at the way they had settled together, either side of the fire, and here they were, discussing the relative virtues of mineral waters. Deciding that room temperature in Henry Winterbourne’s boardroom had to be practically boiling – why did the wretched man have to have that fire alight almost all the year round: tradition he supposed – he moved off in search of further orders.
‘Letitia,’ he said, crossing the room to another large wing-backed leather chair set at the end of the large mahogany table. ‘Would you like a sherry?’
Letitia Morell, Roz’s grandmother and one of the few people in the family C. J. felt properly at ease with, had also been reading a magazine; it was
Tatler
, as appropriate to her tastes as
Ms
was to Camilla’s, and she was totally engrossed in the social section, her eyes moving swiftly from captions to pictures and
back again. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘Roz’s school friend Rosie Howard Johnson. Did you ever know her, C. J.?’
‘Er no,’ said C. J., ‘no, I don’t think so.’
‘Well she’s just got married. To Lord Pulgrave. I always liked her so much. Such a lovely dress. Where
is
Roz? I’d like to show her.’
‘Er, I think she’s in the rest room,’ said C. J.
‘The what, darling? Oh, you mean the lavatory. Such a curious name they have for it in your country. Well anyway, never mind. Yes please, C. J., I’d love a drink. But not sherry; I do hate it, especially in the morning. I always think it’s rather common. I don’t suppose Henry has any champagne?’
‘I shouldn’t think so for a moment,’ said C. J. ‘Jane did say only sherry. I’m sorry, Letitia. Shall I go and see if I can find some for you?’
‘Oh, good gracious, no. Sweet of you, but I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Letitia. ‘I’ll have the sherry. It will be better than nothing. Oh dear, I seem to have been drinking much too much ever since Julian died. It’s the only way I can get through a lot of the time.’
C. J. looked at her tenderly. She was very old, eighty-seven, but until the death of her son three weeks ago she had very rarely looked anything near that age. Suddenly now she seemed smaller, frailer than she had been, a little shaky. But she was beautifully dressed today in a vivid red suit (from Chanel, decided C. J., who was clever at such things), sheer black stockings on her still-shapely legs, black low-heeled shoes; her snowy hair was immaculate, her almost-mauve eyes surprisingly sparkly; she was courage incarnate, he thought, smiling at her in a mixture of affection and admiration.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy you some champagne at lunch time if you like. Will that do?’
‘Of course. Thank you, darling. Oh, how nice, here’s Eliza. And Peveril. Oh, thank goodness. C. J., go and tell Roz her mother is here, it will calm her down a bit.’ C. J. thought this was very unlikely, but went off obediently in search of Roz; Letitia patted the chairs on either side of her and beamed at the new arrivals being propelled gently into the room by Jane Gould. ‘Come in, you two, and sit here with me. I was just
saying to C. J., Eliza, Rosie Howard Johnson has just got married. Did you go to the wedding?’
Eliza, Countess of Garrylaig, crossed the room and bent and kissed Letitia. ‘Hallo, Letitia, darling, how are you? We’ve had the most dreadful journey from Claridge’s, haven’t we, Peveril? It took almost as long as the entire trip from Scotland. We hardly moved at all for about forty minutes. No, no we didn’t go to Rosie’s wedding. Peveril doesn’t like weddings, do you, darling?’
Peveril, Ninth Earl of Garrylaig, half bowed to Letitia, and settled down thankfully in the seat beside her.
‘Morning, Letitia my dear. God, I hate London. Dreadful morning . . . dreadful. No, I don’t like weddings. The service always makes me cry, and the receptions bore me to tears. Saves on handkerchiefs to stay away.’
He beamed at her and patted her hand. He was tall, white-haired, charmingly courteous and acutely vague, and only came properly to life when he was pursuing some animal, fish or bird – and presumably, Letitia thought, his wife. He was dressed as always in extremely elderly tweeds; he looked, she thought, amongst the collection of people in the room, like a wise old buzzard settled briefly but very deliberately among a gathering of feckless birds of paradise. Quite why the dashing Eliza, then the Vicomtesse du Chene, formerly Mrs Peter Thetford and once Mrs Julian Morell, had married him only a few years earlier was something that probably only she herself and Letitia really understood. Even Letitia found it difficult entirely to accept; Peveril was nearer her own age than Eliza, and they seemed to have absolutely nothing in common. But then Eliza had always had a predilection for people considerably older than herself, and a talent for charming them; beginning with Julian Morell, so many years ago. And there was no doubt she was very fond of Peveril and was making him extremely happy. Letitia smiled at them both.
‘I’m afraid the only thing on offer is sherry, but after being stuck in that traffic, perhaps even that would be welcome. Or would you rather have coffee?’
‘Oh, I think coffee,’ said Eliza. ‘I do hate sherry. What about you, Peveril, darling?’
‘What’s that? Oh, no, not coffee, thank you. Dreadful stuff. I’ll just have a glass of water if I may.’
‘I’m sure you may,’ said Letitia. ‘I’ll ask Jane.’
Peveril looked round the room and his eyes rested on Phaedria. He beamed happily and went over to her; he had always liked her.
‘Morning, Phaedria my dear. How are you?’
Phaedria looked up at him and smiled back. ‘I’m fine, Peveril, thank you. It’s lovely to see you. And you, Eliza. I’m sorry you’ve had such an awful journey.’
Peveril studied her more closely.
‘You don’t look fine, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. You look a bit peaky.’
‘Oh, Peveril, don’t be so tactless,’ said Eliza. ‘Of course she’s looking peaky. Poor angel.’
She walked over to the fireplace and kissed Phaedria. ‘It’s lovely to see you, darling. I wish you’d come up and stay with us for a bit. It would do you so much good.’
‘I will,’ said Phaedria, clearly trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I will. But not just yet. Thank you,’ she added dutifully.
Eliza patted her hand. ‘Well, when you’re ready. Ah,’ she added, a thick ice freezing over her bright voice, ‘Camilla. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Eliza,’ said Camilla, smiling calmly back at her. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m extremely well, thank you. I don’t think, Camilla, you have ever met my husband. Have you?’
‘No, I don’t think I have,’ said Camilla. Her smile became more gracious still; in deference to Peveril’s age she stood up.
‘How do you do. I’m Camilla North.’
Only Peveril, Letitia thought, watching this cameo with a sort of pained pleasure, could fail to appreciate the fine irony of this tableau: the two wives of Julian Morell grouped with the mistress who had usurped them both.
He smiled, half bowed over Camilla’s outstretched hand.
‘Heard a lot about you, my dear. How do you do. Nice to meet you at last.’
‘Peveril,’ said Eliza briskly, ‘come along, let’s go and sit down with Letitia.’
‘I’ll sit down when I’m ready, Eliza,’ said Peveril firmly. ‘Been sitting much too long this morning as it is. Nice to stand up for a bit. Do sit down again, Miss North. You must be tired,
I believe you’ve only flown in this morning. I expect you’ve got that jet jag or whatever it calls itself.’
‘Jet lag,’ said Camilla, smiling at him again, ‘but no, I don’t suffer from that at all. I have discovered that providing I eat only raw food and drink nothing but water, I’m perfectly all right.’
‘Good lord,’ said Peveril, ‘who’d have thought it? Raw food, eh? So do you ask them to serve you your lunch uncooked? What an idea; I expect they’re pretty grateful to you, aren’t they? Saves them a bit of trouble. Raw food. Good heavens.’ He smiled at her benignly; Camilla, most unusually at a loss as to what to say, smiled back at him. Eliza turned rather irritably and looked out of the window.
Letitia smiled at Peveril and wondered if she dared make a joke about Camilla making off with Eliza’s fourth husband, as well as her first; she decided it would be in too bad taste even by her standards, and that Eliza would certainly not appreciate it; for want of anything else to do, she returned to her
Tatler.
‘Eliza, can I get you a sherry? And you sir?’
C. J. had come back into the room, and witnessed the tableau also; he smiled rather nervously at Eliza as she blew him a kiss. He was always rather afraid of what she might say or do. She was phenomenally tactless. And still so beautiful, he thought. What a mother-in-law to have. Poor Roz, no wonder she had all those hang-ups about her looks with a beautiful mother and grandmother. Eliza was forty-nine years old, awesomely chic, (Jasper Conran, who adored dressing amusing middle-aged ladies, travelled up to Garrylaig Castle twice a year with his designs and to stay the weekend), beautifully, if a trifle heavily, made up, her silvery blonde hair cut in a perfectly sculptured bob, her body as slender and supple as it had been thirty-one years ago when she had married Julian Morell.
‘No thank you, darling. Just some coffee,’ said Eliza. ‘And some water for Peveril, please. And C. J., what on earth is going on? I thought we were late. Nobody seems to be here. Where’s Henry? And what’s Roz doing?’
C. J. was beginning to feel like an air steward, nursing his passengers through an incipient disaster.
‘Roz is on the phone to her office. She’s worried about some meeting she has this afternoon. Susan is on her way. And I
don’t know what’s happened to Henry, I’m afraid. I’m sure its nothing to worry about.’
‘Well, let’s hope not.’ C. J. went off again with his orders. Eliza looked after him. ‘Poor C. J.,’ she said, apparently irrelevantly.
‘I do wish Susan would arrive,’ said Letitia fretfully. ‘She always makes me feel so much better. And Roz too, which is probably more to the point.’
‘Where is she?’ said Eliza.
‘She’s looking at houses with Richard. He has this plan to move down to the country. Wiltshire. Such a mistake, I think, when you’ve lived in London all your life. Of course everyone in Wiltshire is terribly nice.’
‘Everyone, Granny Letitia?’
It was Roz; she had come back into the room and heard her grandmother’s words; she was smiling for the first time that day. Letitia smiled back up at her.
‘Why don’t you come and sit here with me, darling? Yes, everyone. So many of the very best people live there.’
‘Granny Letitia, you’re such a snob.’
‘I know, darling. I’m not ashamed of it. In my young day it was a virtue. It was called having standards.’