Sarah could not stand Roz. She drifted in and out of her father’s life whenever it suited her, cool, remote, demanding, and as far as Sarah could see, he tried endlessly to please her for extremely limited reward: he bought her everything she wanted (the latest offering had been a yacht which she kept moored on the waterfront near her father’s hotel in Nice), allowed her the run of his houses and hotels all over the world,
and would always cancel anything at all, however important, to have lunch or dinner with her when she deigned to visit him.
Sarah had just switched on the coffee machine that foggy morning, and she was wondering if she was brave enough to broach the subject of an extra week’s leave at Christmas, when the phone rang.
‘Julian Morell’s office.’
‘Miss Brownsmith. Good morning. How are you?’
The voice was pitched quite low for a woman; at once sexy and brisk. A voice men didn’t know quite how to react to. It belonged to Roz, and Sarah’s heart sank.
‘I’m well, thank you, Miss Morell. And yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you, Miss Brownsmith. Is my father there?’
Sarah felt Julian needed Roz on such a day like a dose of strychnine; nevertheless she was the only person in the world, apart from his mother and Camilla North, who she could not refuse to put through.
‘He is, Miss Morell, but he’s . . .’
‘Tied up at the moment. Of course. What else? Is he free for lunch?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Put me through to him, would you, Miss Brownsmith?’
Sarah did so. Two minutes later Julian pressed the intercom.
‘Sarah, cancel my lunch with Jack Bottingley, would you. And book a table at the Meridiana. I’m meeting Roz there at one.’
Roz put down the phone. She was actually feeling a little nervous. It was one thing persuading her father to see her at the snap of her fingers, to give her whatever she desired as soon as she asked for it, but what she wanted from him today was something rather more considerable than a yacht, a horse, or a new wardrobe from Paris or New York. Moreover it meant going in for some considerable diplomacy on her part, some nibbling at least of humble pie, neither of which she had any talent for or practice in. Nevertheless it had to be done.
Roz had decided that the time had come to claim her birthright. She had wearied of pretending she didn’t want it; of working, albeit hard, a trifle half-heartedly for other people, for Jamil Al-Shehra, for Marks and Spencer’s, even for Camilla
North (who she had to admit had taught her a great deal). What she wanted to do now was work for her father, to serve her apprenticeship, and to start scaling the real heights. And she knew she would scale them fast.
In addition to her two years’ work experience, as her father rather contemptuously described it, Roz had just spent a year at the Harvard Business School and it had been the happiest of her life and the most fascinating. Cambridge had seemed like prep school by comparison. Money, deals, politicking, power, it all fascinated her, made her heart beat faster, gave her a sexual thrill. That was what she wanted, great slices of it; she was prepared to work and sweat and suffer for it. She didn’t want men falling at her feet or into her bed; she had sampled some of both, and it had left her for the most part bored and unimpressed. She wanted men where she decided to put them, preferably several seats beneath her on the board.
She knew, she felt in her bones that she would be able not just to deal with any business situation, but that she would win in it. When she looked at some of the hypothetical problems she had been set to crack at college, when she read the financial pages of the papers (which she devoured daily) it seemed to her she was almost clairvoyant; she could see not just to the end of a problem, a development, a takeover bid, but beyond it, considered not merely every angle that seemed relevant, but a dozen more that did not. She took not just facts and figures into her equations but people, situations, geography, history, even the seasons of the year and the time of day. She knew as surely as she knew her own name that she had a brilliant company brain; all she needed now was something to practise on. And she needed her father’s help to get it. And she didn’t relish it.
It was on occasions like this one that she stood back and saw very clearly exactly what her father was in real terms: a towering figure, one of the shrewdest, most ruthless men in the world, possessed of great power, and with a personal fortune that must come close to equalling Getty’s; he had a brilliant and innovative business brain, a perfect sense of timing and almost flawless judgement. He was respected, revered, indeed often feared; and fear was the emotion Roz was experiencing now. She didn’t actually think he would refuse her; that he would
send her back to Marks and Spencer’s, tell her to join the dole queue; but he was going to have an opportunity to extract his revenge for her awkwardness, for her rejection of him over the last few years, and she knew he was highly likely to take it.
Well, she had learnt a few skills which might help her, she thought, since leaving Cambridge, including a modicum at least of tact and the ability to project charm. Her truculence, although still very much a part of her, was well hidden, and she had learnt to smile, to listen, to look for the good in people and situations, rather than pouncing and pronouncing on the bad.
The trouble was, as she very well knew, her father would not be in the least deceived by any act she put on; he would translate any fiction she presented him with into fact, recognize her and what she was trying to do through any role she played; what was more he was quite capable of stringing her along, of pretending to believe the fiction, to be impressed by the role-playing and then suddenly, without warning, confront her with the truth of the situation as he saw it.
But she could see through him as well; her painful childhood had taught her that much. She knew when he was lying, when he was plotting, when he was feeling remorseful; she also, more usefully, knew how to hurt him, and when best to do it. It was a poor substitute for daughterly love, and she was well aware of the fact, but she had long ago learnt that was a luxury she could not afford. One day perhaps, when she had proved herself, when she was in a strong position, when her father was impressed by her and was less able to set her aside whenever it suited him, then perhaps she could trust herself to tell him how much she loved him, and how much she wanted him to love her. Meanwhile, she had to proceed with much caution and care.
She rifled through the rails of her wardrobe; selecting first a Margaret Howell suit and rejecting it (too severe), a Jean Muir dress and trying it on (too grown up) and settling finally on a Ralph Lauren skirt, shirt and sweater, all in tones of beige, (young enough to be appealing, expensive enough to look assured). Eliza had picked out the lot for her (she would never have had the vision herself), and it suited her very well. She pulled on some long brown boots, clipped back her long dark hair, sprayed herself with Chanel 19 and looked at herself for a
long time. ‘Just right,’ she said aloud to the mirror, ‘just right’; she looked well-bred stylish, with the faintest touch of college girl to make it more appealing. Her father would hopefully approve.
She put her diary, her credit cards, her wallet and her CV into a brown Hermes shoulder bag, slung her Burberry over her shoulders and went out to find a taxi.
Julian reached the chic whiteness of the Meridiana five minutes before her; ordered a bottle of Bollinger, greeted a few of the disparate people he knew there (Grace Coddington, fashion editor of
Vogue
, looking divinely severe in a Jean Muir dress, Terence Conran, charmingly jovial, a new cigar in one hand, glass of sancerre in the other, Paul Hamlyn), and watched his daughter swing in the door. He hadn’t seen her for months; after Harvard she stayed with friends in New York, and had only been back in London for a week; she’d lost weight, grown her hair, and as she bent to kiss him, he noticed she had acquired a very expensive-looking necklace – thick gold inset with diamonds and emeralds, which he certainly hadn’t bought her and her mother was unlikely to have given her – or that she would have bought herself. Interesting: who was she seeing with that sort of money?
‘Roz,’ he said. ‘How nice! How are you? Let me take your coat. I’ve ordered champagne. I thought it was a celebration.’
Raphael, manager of the Meridiana, came bustling over to them. ‘Miss Morell! How beautiful you look! How nice to have you back in London! Your father is a lucky man. What a charming luncheon companion, Mr Morell! Let me take Miss Morell’s coat and what would you like to eat? The quails are beautiful and we have some very nice turbot, cooked in a wine sauce with truffles, and then there is some fresh salmon . . .’ He launched into the restaurateurs’ litany; Roz sat down, took the glass of champagne, ordered some parma ham and a plain grilled sole and looked at her father with genuine, if slight concern.
‘You look tired, Daddy, have you been overworking?’
‘I expect so. I enjoy it, you know. It makes a distraction from my social life.’
‘Aren’t you enjoying your social life?’
‘Not much. How about you?’
‘Not much either. How’s Camilla?’
‘Camilla is very well,’ Julian said carefully, wondering how much she read the gossip columns. ‘We had dinner with the father of a friend of yours the other night. Tom Robbinson. Weren’t you at school with Sarah, or was it Cambridge? I know she was at your twenty-first.’
‘School. Haven’t seen her for ages. She was the despair of Cheltenham. She’s getting married, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, after Christmas.
He sighed. The thought of weddings always depressed him. ‘Nice necklace, Roz.’
‘Yes,’ said Roz, ‘it was a present.’
Her tone closed the subject. Julian opened it again.
‘From anyone I know?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘Someone I met at Harvard,’ said Roz quickly, seeing her father was fast growing irritated by her lack of communicativeness. ‘Someone called Michael Browning. He came down to give a lecture. He lives in New York. He’s divorced. I just see him sometimes. Can I have some more champagne?’
‘Of course,’ said Julian. He looked at Roz thoughtfully. He knew Michael Browning well. He had made a fortune out of soft drinks in California, moved to New York and into supermarkets, and ran his business by instinct and the seat of his pants. Not the kind of man he’d really want sleeping with his daughter, which seemed likely if he was buying her that sort of present. But maybe it was a hopeful gesture on his part. At any rate clearly Roz wasn’t going to give any more away just now. He changed the subject.
‘How’s Mummy?’
‘Fine.’ Roz sounded wary.
‘And the charming Mr Al-Shehra?’
‘Oh, charming as ever. He’s a darling. So kind to me. He keeps a horse for me at the house they’ve bought in Berkshire, him and Mummy.’
‘How nice of him,’ said Julian shortly.
‘I ride with him sometimes. In the park. He’s absolutely superb.’
‘I wondered,’ said Julian, ‘talking of riding, if you’d like to come down to Marriotts this weekend. I’m hunting on Saturday, if that appeals to you, and I’d like to show you some of my new acquisitions.’
‘Will – will Camilla be there?’
‘No.’
It was a very final word. Roz smiled at him. ‘I’d love to. I haven’t been to Marriotts for ages. I’m dying to see the new colt I read about in Dempster. What’s he called?’
‘First Million. I’m hoping great things of him.’
‘Have you got anything I could ride on Saturday?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you bought any cars lately?’
Julian smiled at her. Nothing made him happier than an interest in his collection.
‘A very nice Ferrari. A Monza, 1954. Superb. And I’ve got a beautiful Delahaye in New York.’
‘Could I drive the Ferrari?’
‘Of course. Not to its capacity, unfortunately, in the Sussex lanes. It does one sixty.’
‘Then I’ll certainly come.’
‘Good.’
Roz put down her fork. ‘I’ve got something I want to talk to you about, Daddy.’
Julian looked at her, his eyes the familiar blank.
‘And what is that, Rosamund?’
Things weren’t going too well, Roz realized; he never called her Rosamund unless he was fairly displeased with her. She wished fervently she had been less awkward the last couple of times she had seen him.
‘It’s advice I really need, Daddy.’ She had rehearsed this bit of her script carefully.
‘About?’
‘About a job.’
‘A job? I see.’
He was looking at her with an odd rather shrewd amusement; Roz squirmed, but met his gaze steadily.
‘Could you elucidate things a little more?’
‘Well, you see, I’ve decided what I really want to get into is financial management.’
‘Why does that appeal to you? Something like marketing is much more fun. You’ve made a start there. You should stay in that.’
‘No, it’s the finance side that really interests me. I love working out what makes companies successful and how to make them more so. And which companies would work well with others. Takeovers, mergers, all that sort of thing.’
‘Does it?’ Julian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Did you do much financial stuff at Harvard?’
‘Not as much as I’d have liked. I’d gone in on the marketing side. By the time I fell in love with money it was a bit late. But never mind. That was only college. There’s real life to come.’
‘Indeed there is. So what do you want me to do?’
‘Advise me.’
‘Really! That will make a change.’
‘Don’t be silly. You know I always ask your advice about important things.’
‘Perhaps. What particular advice do you want?’
‘Well, I’ve been offered a job. It is marketing, but they’ve said I can move around. Really get to know the company.’
‘Have you? By whom?’
‘Unilever. That’s what I need advice about. It’s such a huge company. Michael – lots of people have said it might swallow me up. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think the job’s good enough for you. You’ve got a good Cambridge degree, you’ve got some valuable experience, and you’re an honours graduate from Harvard. You don’t want to start working for some sweaty brand manager from East Anglia.’