The solution to their monetary problems came from a rather unexpected source: the doorman at the Bahamian Palace, who had grown fond of them, and saw them in a rather benevolent light.
‘You boys play tennis?’ he asked them one day as they wandered out blinking slightly into the sunshine after a long afternoon’s work in the shaded air conditioning of two of the hotel’s finer suites.
‘I do,’ said Billy, ‘played for Hampden. How about you, Miles?’
‘A bit,’ said Miles. ‘I could remember. Why?’
‘They need a new tennis pro here. I’d apply if I were you. Probably take on the two of you. It wouldn’t interfere with your other occupation, I wouldn’t imagine. Might even help it along a little bit.’ He grinned and winked at them. ‘Go and see the manager now. He’s by the pool.’
Miles and Billy played a test game, charmed the manager, who was pleased with the notion of what was clearly some old money on his staff, and Billy got taken on immediately. Miles was told
to go and polish up his game and then he might be allowed to work with his friend on busy days. Given his facility for sport, he was on the courts at the Bahamian Palace in three weeks.
They benefited in two ways: they had an income, albeit a modest one, and they were able, as the doorman had prophesied, to pursue their prey with greater and more graceful ease.
Billy’s parents were initially unhappy with the arrangement, but swiftly came round to the view that any employment was better than none, and at least were relieved of continuing to make Billy his modest allowance, which in their straitened circumstances was a relief; and Mrs Kelly was almost speechless with delight at the news, as presented by Miles, that he was working as sports and social manager of one of the island’s most prestigious hotels.
Miles, in possession of money for the first time in his life, felt strangely exhilarated. He had never properly made the connection between work and money; had not thought of getting a job as the route to worldly delights. In any case, worldly delights had never interested him before; the surf had come cheap. But sitting in the gilded air of the Palace, taking in heady whiffs of the rich aroma of real money, studying the women he was making love to, who somehow managed to look rich even naked, looking at their jewels, their clothes, feeling underneath his skin the sensation of silk sheets, savouring the almost sensual pleasure of good champagne, he felt a swiftly growing desire for more and more of it.
He changed his outward appearance; basing much of his style on Billy’s he cut off his long hair, he bought himself suits, and shirts and ribbon belts, and knotted silk cufflinks, and loafers and some L. L. Bean’s Norwegian pullovers, and a whole set of Lacoste sports shirts, and even, in a fit of strange sartorial madness, sent for some madras bermudas from Trimingham’s. He looked superb, an outstanding example of money of the very oldest kind.
He had proved, as Billy had suspected, a talented student of the social school Billy put him through; he learnt all the right preppy phrases and words and behavioural attitudes; he changed his accent slightly from his Californian drawl to something he based more on Tigs’ than Billy’s own; he learnt
to display the peculiar WASP-mannered brand of ennui rather than his own rather more ingenuous Californian laid-backness.
And yet he remained true to himself and his roots. He never lied about his background, never disowned Granny Kelly, never set aside his happiness and his loyalty to Samo High and his days on the beach. He became something interesting and unique: a carefully stylish, rich blend of old-money behaviour and modest philosophies. Put together with his looks, and his charm, and a genuine sweetness of disposition, he found hardly a door anywhere that would not open for him. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of anticipation. He wondered where he might find himself next.
Bristol and London, 1982
ON THE DAY
they were to meet, both Phaedria Blenheim and Julian Morell woke up feeling exceptionally irritable.
Phaedria switched off her alarm, sank back deep under her duvet, and explored the events of the day ahead for possible reasons. There was only one and it came to her very quickly. It had been her day off, and she had lost it; a day out hunting with the Avon Vale had been replaced with an as-yet-unconfirmed interview with some boring old fart of an industrialist.
‘Why me?’ she had said furiously to her editor the night before, shaking her head at the can of beer he was offering her. ‘You know it’s my day off, I’m going hunting. Jane’ll be here, and she can do it every bit as well as me, probably better because she’ll care. I won’t. Please, Barry, please don’t make me do it.’
‘I’m sorry, Phaedria, but Jane can’t do it every bit as well as you. I need you there tomorrow. It’s important. And you might like to remember I pay you to care,’ he added a trifle heavily.
‘But why? What’s so special? Some boring plastics company. What’s in that for the Women’s Page?’
‘Its chairman.’
‘Its chairman? Oh Barry, come off it. Since when did the chairman of a plastics company have anything interesting to say to women?’
‘Not just plastics, Phaedria. Pharmaceuticals. And cosmetics. And department stores and hotels. Don’t you ever read press releases?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, you should. Read this one and stop looking so bloody constipated and have a drink. Sit down. Go on.’
Phaedria glared at him, slung her coat down on his spare chair, took the can of beer from him and leant against the wall, skimming over the release:
Morell Pharmaceuticals to open Bristol Plant. For Immediate Release.
The multi-million worldwide Morell Pharmaceutical Chain opens its new plant, the most technologically advanced in Europe, in Bristol in two weeks’ time. The plant which is situated on the Fishponds Estate incorporates a factory, and a marketing and sales division, a research laboratory and a Conference Centre. It has been designed to entirely new specifications incorporating the very latest technology.
The Chairman of Morell Pharmaceuticals, Sir Julian Morell, knighted for his services to industry in 1981, will be coming in person to officially open the plant and will give a conference to selected members of the press at the same time. An invitation is attached.
There was much more about Sir Julian’s other business interests, his pharmaceutical work and its vast benefits to mankind in general, and those in the Third World in particular, the drugs he had launched (most notably one of the first low-dosage oral contraceptives ten years earlier) and his various extraordinarily well-deserved awards for services to industry. Phaedria read the release stony-faced and looked at Barry.
‘Still can’t see it. It sounds totally boring. I’m going hunting.’
‘Phaedria, you are not going hunting. You’re going to get an interview with Julian Morell.’
‘Barry, for Christ’s sake, it’s a press conference. Every half-assed reporter for miles around will be there asking him the same half-assed questions.’
‘I know that, darling. You’re going to get an exclusive.’
‘And what will be so big about that?’
‘Phaedria, you ought to read the papers a bit more as well as the press releases. Julian Morell is a great character. And a great womanizer,’ he added, ‘and he hasn’t given an interview for ten years. He’s developed a phobia about the press.’
For the first time Phaedria’s expression sharpened. She slithered down against the wall and sat on the floor, taking another can of beer from Barry.
‘OK. Tell me about him.’
‘More or less self-made. Impoverished second son of the upper classes. Well upper middle. Started with a tiny range of medicines, just after the war. Went into cosmetics. Then plastics, pharmaceuticals, paper. Department stores. That’s probably the big one. Never heard of Circe?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, there isn’t one in London – yet. But there’s one in Paris and Milan and New York. And Beverly Hills, I expect. Very very expensive. Makes Harrods look like Marks and Spencer, that sort of thing. Oh, and there’s a chain of hotels.’
‘Called?’
‘Called just Morell. Like – well, like – just Hilton. Anyway, he’s made a billion or two.’
‘And what about the women?’
‘Well, he’s only been married once. Can’t remember who to. But there’s been a lot of mistresses, all beautiful, and a lot of scandal. He’s always in the gossip columns.’
‘Barry, I didn’t think you read the gossip columns,’ said Phaedria, laughing.
‘A good journalist reads everything in the other papers,’ said Barry slightly pompously. ‘You have to. You need to know what’s going on. I’m always telling you that, Phaedria.’
‘I know,’ said Phaedria, ‘I know I’m bad. I just can’t be bothered half the time. I’m not really a journalist at all, I’m afraid. Not like you,’ she added, getting up and patting his hand fondly. ‘All right, you’ve intrigued me. I’ll go. I shall continue to complain, but I’ll go. Now, have you fixed the interview?’
‘No. They turned it down. That’s precisely why I want you to go. I reckon you’ll get one.’
‘Why?’
‘You know damned well why. Don’t play games with me. Now go home and get some beauty sleep. You’re going to need it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Phaedria. ‘All right, I’ll try. But I want another day off instead. And you can send Jane to the Mayor’s Banquet, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Don’t forget.’
‘All right, Phaedria,’ said Barry wearily, ‘I won’t forget.’
‘You probably will. But I’m not going to do it anyway. Night, Barry.’
‘Good night, Phaedria. See you tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps. I might elope with Sir Julian and never come back.’
‘OK, that’s fine by me, you can elope with him if you like, but get the copy in first. Bye, darling.’
‘Bye, Barry.’
Barry looked after her thoughtfully as she walked out through the newsroom. She had been with him two and a half years now on the
Bristol Echo
, and she drove him to distraction. She was everything he disapproved of in a woman and a reporter and yet he lived in dread of her leaving. She was a talented writer and a clever interviewer; she could persuade new thoughts and pronouncements out of anybody. The most over-done, rent-a-quote actor, the most cliché-ridden, party-lined politician suddenly, under the scrutiny and influence of Phaedria Blenheim, found an original line, an unpredictable view, which they read themselves with surprise and pleasure – and refreshed and invigorated their own tired battery of quotes with it for months to come.
She was also extremely beautiful, which was clearly another asset; she could persuade any man to talk to her and pour his heart out, and she had little compunction about publishing all kinds of intimate little confidences and details which had been made to her ‘strictly off the record this, darling,’ taking the view that any public figure who was fool enough to trust a journalist deserved absolutely anything he got.
On the other hand she was quite right when she said she
wasn’t really a journalist. Her knowledge of the world was extremely scanty; she scarcely knew who the Home Secretary was, and certainly not who ran Russia or China, or even Ireland, and more unusually in a woman, who Prince Andrew’s latest girlfriend was, or whether Elizabeth Taylor was marrying for the fifth or sixth time. She was actually far more interested in horses and hunting than seeing her name in ever-bigger bylines; her job financed her horse and her riding (just); Barry knew, and was alternately irritated and amused by the knowledge that she also capitalized on his rather indulgent attitude towards her to get days off when she wanted to hunt or attend a race meeting.
But she filled her pages (he had made her woman’s editor a year ago) with original and charming ideas, and always delivered the goods every week (even if they were dangerously close to deadline) and he knew it would be a hundred years before anyone as talented came the way of his paper again. And Barry Morgan would do anything, go through fire and water, endure death by a million cuts, if it was to benefit his beloved
Echo.
The paper gave him back a hundredfold all the work and heartache and care he put into it, and every week, as the first one came off the presses, he would take it and unfold it and look at it with a sense of pride and wonder and something else that was strongly akin to love.
Phaedria had been a complete novice, not a journalist at all, when she came to work for him as a temporary copy typist. He had been very taken with her straight away (apart from her ridiculous name, but she couldn’t help that after all); he found her attractive, she had a lot of dark hair and large brown eyes, and a rather stylishly severe way of dressing, and she worked hard and late if necessary; but the day she really won his heart was when she came into his office one evening with a piece of copy in her hand and a determined look on her face.
‘Mr Morgan, I was just wondering if you’d let me have a go at re-writing this.’
‘And what makes you think it needs re-writing?’
‘It’s awful,’ said Phaedria simply.
‘And why should you be able to make it less awful?’
‘I’m good at writing.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes.’
He met her eyes with a grudging respect and took the piece of paper from her hand. It was an account of a production of
The Mikado
and she was right. It was awful. He grinned at her.
‘All right, Miss Blenheim. Have a go at it.’
She came back half an hour later with the copy re-written.
‘It’s a bit better now, I think. Here you are.’
It was actually a lot better. It brought the entire evening – the production, the music, the audience, absolutely to life. Barry looked at her thoughtfully.
‘Have you got a job lined up after you leave here?’
‘No.’
‘What are you thinking of doing?’
‘I don’t know. My degree’s in English. There’s a lot of us about.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘The degree? Somerville.’
‘Ah.’
He had a deep mistrust of graduates, and of Oxbridge ones deeper than most. They weren’t merely self-confident, they were arrogant. They generally expected to come in and start writing an arts column immediately, and to take a deputy editorship as an encore three months later. But Phaedria didn’t seem too much like that. She was very self-confident, but it was the confidence of her background (upper to middle, he’d put it at) rather than the intellectual variety.