‘Really?’ It was Roz’s voice; she was standing in the open doorway. ‘I don’t quite see that, Phaedria. Nobody
has
to use it. It can be locked up. It was my father’s office and you have no more claim on it than I do. We are absolutely equal partners in this company at present, and I fail to see why you should make assumptions, and indeed implications by taking your place at his desk.’
Phaedria looked at Roz; she was quite white, her green eyes blazing. She was dressed in black, and looked fierce, dramatic, almost frightening. Richard and Freddy shifted awkwardly in their chairs. There was a long silence; then Phaedria spoke.
‘Freddy, Richard, perhaps you would leave us for now. We have matters of policy to sort out, as you were saying earlier. We can continue this meeting tomorrow morning if you’re free. Any time – to suit you.’
‘Fine,’ said Freddy, gathering up his files. ‘We’ll sort out something between us.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Richard, rising to his full, gangling height, ‘and as you were saying, Lady Morell, it is essential that both you and Mrs Emerson should be present at all major meetings in future.’
It was a graceful, diplomatic remark; Phaedria gave him a grateful look.
‘Indeed. So shall we fix a time now?’
‘I’m afraid,’ said Roz, tapping lightly on the desk, where she had sat down, in a clear piece of territorial reclamation, ‘I shall be out of the office tomorrow. All day. This meeting, whatever it’s about, will have to wait.’
‘As you wish,’ said Richard, bowing to her ever so slightly. ‘We are at your service, Mr Branksome and I. Are we not, Freddy?’
‘Oh, we are, we are indeed,’ said Freddy, hastily leading the way to the door. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Morell, Mrs Emerson.’
The door closed behind them; Phaedria faced Roz, her eyes contemptuous. ‘Roz, whatever you may feel about me – and I can hazard a very clear guess – we do have to work together and I see no future whatever in holding public brawls. Please can’t we confine any emotional discussions to occasions when we are on our own?’
‘My God,’ said Roz, ‘my God, Phaedria, you have a lot of gall. You’ve known my father just over two years, and yet you’ve inveigled your way into his company, and now within days of his death you’re trying to step into his shoes. You have no right to sit at this desk, in this office, no right at all, nor to hold meetings with the executives of his company in it; the only rights you have here are mine as well, and I intend to see I don’t lose any of them.’
Phaedria looked at her in silence for a while. Then she stood and picked up her files, her notes, her briefcase. ‘You’re absolutely right, Roz,’ she said finally, ‘and I’m sorry. I was making assumptions which were quite wrong. Either we should share this office, which frankly I don’t see working, or I should have one of my own. This one, as you say, can be locked up. For the time being. One of us can move into it in the fullness of time.’
Roz stared at her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow you.’
‘Don’t you?’ Phaedria met her glance with a clear disbelief. ‘I’m surprised. One of us is going to have to win this war, Roz, sooner or later, and at that time, the victor can move in and claim the throne. Meanwhile I will speak to Sarah about an
office for myself. I’m going home now, I’ll see this room is locked before I go.’ She buzzed on the intercom. ‘Sarah,’ she said, ‘could you please speak to whoever is in charge of such things, and organize me an office. As near to Mrs Emerson’s as possible. Oh, and Sarah –’ she looked very straight at Roz for a moment – ‘make sure it’s at least no smaller than Mrs Emerson’s office, will you? I don’t want to be working under unfavourable conditions.’
Richard and Freddy had escaped thankfully to the sanctuary of the Palm Court at the Ritz and were drowning their anxieties and discomfort in extremely large whiskies.
‘I really hate to say this,’ said Freddy, ‘but I think we’ve seen the best of it.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Richard, ‘where is your spirit of adventure, of prospecting, Freddy? Enormous, immense fun lies ahead. I can’t wait, personally.’
Freddy looked into his glass mournfully. ‘I think you should remind yourself, Richard, old man, that we are not in this for fun. The company needs good housekeeping. If we are to have to sit by and listen while two harpies fight over every inch of it, then I see the property becoming extremely squalid and devalued very quickly.’
‘Oh, I don’t agree,’ said Richard. ‘I think they will both be devoting themselves very painstakingly to the housekeeping. I see every corner gleaming quite beautifully, myself. Just so that neither of them can come along and wipe an elegant finger over any of the surfaces, looking for dust left by the other.’
Freddy looked at him. ‘And who do you think is going to win the war?’ he said. ‘Roz, I suppose. She has the advantage that she has years of experience and she is an arch bitch.’
Richard raised his shaggy eyebrows. ‘How naïve you are, my dear old chap. I couldn’t agree less. I would back the charmingly gentle Phaedria Morell against her stepdaughter any day. Tough as all her elegant new boots, that lady, much as I like her. And she has charm on her side, and certain – what shall we say – personnel skills.’
‘Good heavens,’ said Freddy, ‘well, you may be right.’
‘Well, we shall see,’ said Richard. ‘She is very beautiful, is she not? Under other circumstances perhaps – but no. I am
after all scarcely out of my own wedding bed. Don’t look like that, I am merely jesting. Of course all heiresses are beautiful,’ he added. ‘Another drink, Freddy?’
‘What are you talking about? She’s not exactly an heiress. And I’m surprised at you. I thought you had a higher mind than that.’
‘How ignorant you are,’ said Richard. ‘Quotation, my dear old thing. Dryden. King Arthur. Just a passing comment. A great many most virulent little germs of truth in it, though. I’ll tell you one thing, Freddy. I see more and greater signs of grief in the daughter than the widow. Do you?’
‘God, I don’t know. You could be right. Yes, please, another drink. Oh, God, what a mess. Come back, Julian, all is forgiven.’
‘I don’t think it would be now,’ said Richard cheerfully. ‘Not by those two at any rate. Come on, Freddy, drink up. Then we’d better go and get on with those reports our new commandant has requested.’
Roz felt as if there was a great raw hole at the heart of her, that was bleeding endlessly; she thought she had not known what misery was until now. Had she not been propelled into this bitter battle with Phaedria, she thought that for the first time in her life she would have given in, lain down and let the world take care of itself. She felt weary, sickened, by her father’s treachery, and totally wretched at her loss. He had enraged her, fought her, and manipulated her ever since she could remember, and most of the misery she had ever felt could be lain at his door; nevertheless she had loved him deeply, helplessly. She had little of the comfort afforded to Phaedria, the tide of sympathy, love, concern that was flowing her way from every direction; she had not been with him at the end, there had been no reconciliation, he had died thinking she hated him, he had never known, would never know how much she had loved him, admired him, longed for his approval, how he had always, since she had been a tiny child, occupied the prime, the most important, the most tender place in her tough, hurt little heart.
During the long sleepless nights now, she lay and relived the happy times with him, the weeks they had spent together, at Marriotts, riding beside him on Miss Madam, looking up at
him, trying to do as well as he, braving wide ditches, long, long, fast gallops, anxious to earn his look of approval, his praise; walking the downs, talking endlessly, her small hand in his, dining with him alone in the huge dining room, while he solemnly had her glass refilled with wine and water and consulted her on whether he should buy this horse, that car; sitting beside him, driving some of those wonderful machines, long before she was legally old enough, up and down the drive and tracks of Marriotts, seeing his surprise and pleasure at her skill with them; the visits to New York, dizzier and more exciting all the time as she grew older; the intense pleasure and joy she had felt at his acceptance of her into the company, at his recognition of her skills, his delight at her success; even her wedding day she relived, most of it a panicky blurr, the happiest, the best moment being his face looking up at her as she came down the stairs at Marriotts in her dress, naked of everything but love, and his voice saying, ‘Rosamund, you are the joy of my life.’ And all through the years, the fear, the terror, the nightmare, that someone would come along, young enough to give him another child, who he would love as much, more, than he had loved her.
And now he was gone, and he had never known any of it; he had thought she hated him, despised him, that she wanted to see him hurt and wounded, when all she had really longed for was his unequivocal love.
In her anguish, all pride gone, lonely, fearful, she had phoned Michael in New York; he was polite, kind even, sympathetic over Julian’s death, but distant, declining her invitation to come to England. He had said very little but she knew what the refusal meant; I was not good enough while your father was alive, it meant, and I am not prepared to come running to you now that he is dead.
She even turned to C. J., but he was remote, withdrawn; he too had loved Julian, who had been a second father to him, and he was saddened by his death, he could not pretend feelings that did not even exist for a woman who had shown him nothing but coldness and distaste for so long.
She reflected too, in these long sleepless nights, on Phaedria, and her hatred for her; on how she was going to win
the battle that lay ahead, and what was to become of them all. And now there was the child; the child she had feared and dreaded for so long. Well, at least her father had never known about it. Or so Letitia had told her. That seemed to Roz something to be grateful for. Briefly she had pondered on another scenario: that the baby was not in fact Julian’s and he had known; could that have been the possible explanation of her father’s behaviour, the answer to the riddle? But in the end she had rejected that, it did not explain his equal cruelty – for cruelty it had to be seen to be – to her. On the other hand, she deserved cruelty; tossing and turning on the huge banks of pillows with which she tried to tempt sleep, Roz heard again and again her voice as she taunted her father into giving her the store: ‘You’re a liar, a liar and a cheat . . . how is Camilla . . . I want the store, I want it . . . I want . . .’ She seemed to have ended up with very little.
Next morning at breakfast she dispatched Miranda upstairs with Nanny, and turned to C. J. who was reading the
Financial Times.
‘C. J., I want to talk to you.’
‘Really?’ His face was blank, his voice pleasantly polite. ‘About what?’
‘I think we should get divorced.’
He looked at her, grave, detached. ‘You’re probably right. All right.’ He turned back to his paper.
‘C. J. –’
‘Yes?’
‘C. J., is that all you have to say?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ he said, with a calm smile. ‘What else could there be? My usefulness to you is over now. Your father is not here to punish you for divorcing me. Why keep me hanging around?’
‘Oh, C. J., don’t be so ridiculous. It’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t it? I think it is.’ He slammed the paper down and looked at her, his face white, his eyes blazing with fury. ‘For years, Roz, you’ve used me, simply to get what you wanted. A household. Status. Your father’s approval. Sex, I think, originally. I forget. Now you can’t quite think what I can do for you, I irritate you, so you are going to send me packing. Well that’s fine, I’ll go. But I’m actually not in a hurry. I rather like
this house. I love London. I have been commissioned to write a book about it. I would find it easier to do that from here. I have my study, and I don’t want to spend a lot of time looking for another place to live.’
‘C. J., you didn’t tell me about the book. What’s it about?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘there was no point. I knew you wouldn’t give a fuck about it.’ C. J. never used bad language; it was a measure of his despair about her. ‘It’s about the shifting location of fashionable London. Some very respectable publishers have commissioned it.’
‘I see.’
‘So I think I’ll stay for a while, if you don’t mind. Or even if you do. Besides, I don’t want to leave Miranda. I’m surprised at you, Roz, after all your endless horror stories about your own childhood, exposing your daughter to divorce.’
‘I think,’ she said, wincing within herself with pain, ‘we can handle it a bit better than that.’
‘Do you? So far I haven’t seen much proof of it, from your side. Anyway, I shall be leaving the company. You’d better have a board meeting about it. The hotels will need a new president. I’m going upstairs now to get Miranda. We go for walks every morning and look at the boats. I don’t suppose you realized that, did you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I didn’t.’
As he walked out of the door, she felt suddenly utterly alone.
‘C. J. is leaving the company,’ she said, walking into Phaedria’s office without knocking later that morning. ‘We had better discuss the consequences.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Phaedria, ‘really sorry. Glad for him, because I always felt he hated it, but sorry for us. He was so good at it.’
‘I don’t really think you have much idea what being good at running hotels implies,’ said Roz, ‘but yes, you do happen to be right, he was. Quite good, anyway.’
Phaedria looked at her. ‘Roz,’ she said, ‘we have to work together. Given that, don’t you think we should at least attempt to observe the formalities and be polite to one another? Apart from anything else, it’s so counter productive if we squabble all the time.’
Roz walked over to the window and looked out. She was silent for quite a long time. Then she turned, and looked at Phaedria slightly oddly.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘let’s attempt it. As long as you appreciate that it is only a formality.’
‘Oh, I do,’ said Phaedria, ‘I certainly do.’
She was dressed in brilliant red that day, her hair piled high on her head in a tumbled waterfall of curls; she was carefully made up, she wore the Cartier necklace that matched her rings, and a dazzling pair of diamond and emerald clips in her ears. Roz stood for a moment, skimming her eyes contemptuously over her.