We reached the London Clinic. I was feeling very sick by this time so I just thrust a five-pound note at the cab driver and
ran inside without waiting for change. At the reception desk I was directed to the appropriate floor but I had to force myself
to follow the directions.
‘Oh, Mrs Diaconi will be
so
pleased to see you … all the way from New York? Oh, she
will
be thrilled! Not a very nice day, is it? But they say the sun’s going to shine later …’
The nurse’s English platitudes washed over me but I barely heard them. We were walking down a long corridor and seconds later
she was opening the door at the far end.
‘Good morning, Mrs Diaconi! Now here’s a
lovely
surprise for you!’
The room was light and airy, freshly decorated, spotlessly clean. Scott’s secretary had organized the appropriate flowers,
chocolates and magazines, and making an immense effort I managed to look past these trappings of illness to the occupant of
the bed.
I had not seen her since 1959 when she had paid her last visit to New York and Sebastian had helped me to cope with her. I
remembered a woman with dyed black hair, a mask of make-up and a nauseating range of false small talk and affected mannerisms.
Her parody of various Hollywood sex-symbols had become more repulsive with her increasing years and by that time had made
her grotesque. Just to look at her had revolted me.
Fully prepared to feel revolted again I faced her, but nothing happened. For I was no longer the same woman as I had been
eight years ago in New York – and neither was she.
An old woman with dull grey hair, a creased face and a soft shapeless body was lying propped up in bed against the pillows.
Only her eyes were unchanged, the blue eyes which I had always refused to admit had been inherited by Benjamin. She looked
at me and those eyes softened with love.
‘Oh Vicky,’ she said, ‘how very, very good of you to come.’
And suddenly all I could hear was my father’s voice echoing down the years, and I remembered with terrible clarity that scene
at Kennedy airport after Scott had left for Europe. I remembered my father’s confessions about his desolate private life.
I remembered saying to him: ‘That’s why you stopped at nothing to take Scott away from Steve,’ and instantly, before I could
blot the thought from my mind I heard myself add the words which had never been spoken; I heard myself say: ‘And that’s why
you stopped at nothing to take me away from my mother.’
I saw then exactly what he had done.
He knew I had loved my mother. He had been afraid I might want to go back to her when I had become so unhappy at his unhappy
home on Fifth Avenue, so he had distorted the truth, bent it and rent it with his lies, so that I would wind up hating my
mother and loving him more than ever.
I went on looking at the mother who loved me and had gone on loving me through all the years of my neglect, and at last –
at long, long last – I was able to see her as she really was: no monster, no obscene personification of unmentionable vices,
but just a foolish woman who had made mistakes and paid for them, just another mother not as good as some but better than
others, just one more of my father’s many victims.
[11]
My father was at the airport when I returned to New York four days later after a long weekend spent with Scott. I had cabled
my father and told him to be there. Later he had tried calling the top London hotels to locate me, but I had refused to accept
his call when it reached the Savoy.
Walking out of the customs hall I saw him looking frail and anxious behind the barrier. As usual he had three or four satellites
in orbit around him but I took no notice. I just walked up to him and said: ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Vicky, what were you doing in London? What happened? What’s the trouble?’
I walked past him without replying and he hurried after me frantically. Outside the building his latest Cadillac, an unpleasant
piece of engineering in pale cream, was waiting at the kerb.
‘Vicky—’ He was gasping for breath. He stumbled as he crawled into the back seat beside me, and when I turned to look at him
I saw his hands were trembling as he opened his pill-box. ‘You must tell me – please—’
I tested the partition which separated us from the chauffeur and bodyguard, but it was tightly closed and I knew that any
conversation we had would be inaudible to anyone in the front seat. My father always soundproofed his Cadillacs as he often
spent the journeys to and from the bank in confidential discussions with his aides.
‘My mother’s been ill,’ I said shortly. ‘I had to go to London to make arrangements for her convalescence. I saw Scott too,
but we’ll get to him later. Right now I want to talk to you about my mother. I’m bringing her back to New York to live. She’s
going to have an apartment at the Pierre and you’re going to pay for it.’
‘Me?’ said my father, wheezing and gasping. He was ashen. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh yes, you do! You took me away from my mother and poisoned my mind against her!’
‘Oh, but … Vicky, surely you realize how things were? Your mother just didn’t deserve to have a wonderful little girl like
you—’
‘You’re the one who didn’t deserve me! I loved my mother and she loved me but you wiped her out of my life – Christ, it was
as if you murdered her!’
‘But I had to take action for your sake – all those men – the immorality—’
‘Oh, don’t hand me all that crap any more! My mother was a sexy
woman without too much brain who got herself in a mess. Yes, of course she had affairs after she divorced you – she wasn’t
a nun! But she always hoped to remarry, and after years of waiting to make sure she didn’t make the same mistake she made
when she married you, she found someone whom she felt could make her happy, and that someone was Danny Diaconi. Okay, so maybe
he was a gangster. But maybe he wasn’t; the Diaconi hotel chain was legitimate. Maybe it was just easy to think of him as
a gangster because he was Italian and his father had had shady connections, but what does a word like “gangster” mean anyway?
When I look at you I think maybe you’re more of a gangster than Danny Diaconi ever was!’
‘But Vicky, you hated Danny!’
‘I was jealous of him. I was a mixed-up little girl, a fact which you capitalized on and exploited to separate me from my
mother and keep me all to yourself!’
‘But I honestly believed it was in your best interests—’
‘How could you? How could it have been best for me to have been subjected to such brainwashing? I used to feel ill whenever
my mother’s name was mentioned! You’ve caused immense suffering not only to my mother but to me as well!’
‘Well, I … Look, I … Vicky, don’t be angry, please forgive me, I just couldn’t bear it if … Listen, just give me one chance
to make amends. The Pierre, you say? Okay, I’ll get the best apartment they have.’
‘You bet you will, and that’s just the beginning. Now you listen to me. I never want to hear you say another word against
my mother for as long as you live. You’re to treat her with decency and respect; you’re to treat her like a human being. Got
it? Okay, then get this too: if you ever do such a wicked thing again, we’ll be through. And I mean that. You can’t be allowed
to think you can get away with smashing up people’s lives time after time in order to further your own selfish sordid ends.
You’re my father and despite all I’ve just said I still love you – probably I’ll always love you no matter what you do – but
there comes a time when one has to take a stand, even against those you love, and that time has come, Father, this is it,
this is where I draw the line. You’re on the brink. Stay there or retreat and I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue our
peaceful coexistence. But you take one step beyond that line, and I’ll wash my hands of you for good. I’ve forgiven you for
what you’ve done to Scott. I’ve forgiven you – just – for what you’ve done to me. But I can’t go on forgiving you like this,
Father. I’m no saint, I’m your daughter, and this is the very last chance I’m giving you to change your ways.’
I stopped. There was a long silence.
‘Well, Father?’
‘Okay.’
‘Got it?’
‘Got it.’
We looked at each other. He was sweating lightly and there was a sick expression in his eyes.
‘Are you in pain from the asthma?’
‘Hm.’
‘Does this repulsive car have a bar? I’ll get you some brandy.’
But there was no bar and no brandy. I looked at him again and saw he had put his right hand on the seat midway between us.
I eyed that hand for a while, then picked it up and held it. His fingers curled gratefully, lovingly in mine.
We said nothing else for the remainder of the journey but when we reached my apartment building I invited him in – not to
the duplex but to my private apartment where we could be alone.
‘You want to say something else to me?’ whispered my father frightened as he followed me across the threshold.
‘Yes,’ I said, heading for the liquor cabinet and pouring him a double brandy. ‘I want to talk to you about Scott.’
[1]
‘Scott and I are getting married,’ I said. ‘We’re having a very quiet wedding next month in London.’
I had half-thought my father might collapse, but of course he didn’t. Neither did he panic, lose his temper, drain the brandy
in a single gulp or exhibit any other sign of weakness. On the contrary he showed all the signs of pulling himself together
with remarkable rapidity. My disclosures about my mother had been the real shock; my announcement about Scott was something
he must have feared in 1963, and as I watched him take a small sip from his glass to play for time I wondered if he was trying
to remember his part of a dialogue he had mentally rehearsed long ago.
‘Well, what a surprise!’ he said. ‘I always thought Scott was so set against marriage. How pleasant that I’ve been proved
wrong!’
I regarded him with extreme suspicion and said nothing. My father made a new effort. ‘Do you have an engagement ring?’ he
inquired guilelessly.
I drew off my glove and showed him the diamonds.
‘Very nice!’ said my father. ‘Congratulations – you must be very pleased and excited … A bit sudden, wasn’t it? Or have you
been secretly in touch for some time?’
I explained the sequence of events.
We were sitting on the long white couch, he at one end, I at the other, with a considerable space between us. By the window
my latest two pink fish, tended by Benjamin in my absence, were swimming dreamily in their aquarium. The room was cool and
shadowed.
‘Father, I know exactly what you’re thinking, but—’
‘Vicky, please don’t call me Father. It’s so cold. If you don’t want to call me Daddy any more, you can call me Cornelius.’
‘Certainly not! I disapprove strongly of children calling their parents by their first names! Oh Daddy, please try to be rational
about this—’
‘Am I hysterical? Am I gibbering unintelligible protests? Haven’t I just offered you my sincere congratulations?’
I had the terrible suspicion I was being outclassed and out-manoeuvred. ‘Were they sincere?’ was all I could say.
‘Of course. Any woman who can get Scott Sullivan to consider a trip to the altar has earned the most sincere congratulations
I can offer.’
‘You think he’s manipulating me, don’t you?’ I burst out. ‘You think he’s got all kinds of ulterior motives!’
‘I just think he’s wrong for you,’ said my father simply, ‘but so what? It’s none of my business. It’s your life.’ He stood
up.
I was caught off-balance. ‘You’re going?’
‘I’ve got to get to the office. Important meetings. But let me take you out to dinner tonight to reassure you I’ve no intention
of being unpleasant or making any attempt to stand in your way.’
‘Oh,’ I said, floundering in my surprise. ‘Well, thank you … but perhaps not tonight. I’ll be too tired – jet-lag – how about
lunch tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’ He looked around my quiet room as if admiring its peace and privacy. ‘Could we eat here? I get so tired of eating
lunch at expensive restaurants – although of course if you want a smart lunch I’d be only too happy to—’
‘No, I’ve just had a string of smart lunches in London. I like your idea of an informal meal. What do you want to eat? I’ll
get a take-out order from Hamburger Heaven.’
My father considered this carefully. ‘One hamburger medium well, with everything except onion rings. French fries and a large
Coke.’ His face brightened. ‘What a treat that’ll be!’
I found myself smiling at him as I rose to my feet. ‘I must go upstairs and see if the children are home from school.’
Outside in the hallway we paused together by the elevator shaft.
‘All I want’s your happiness, Vicky, believe me.’
‘Don’t scare me, Daddy. You were doing so nicely before.’
We embraced with a laugh, and although I tried to maintain my scepticism I couldn’t help thinking with huge relief: it’s all
going to work out, everything’s going to come right, I’m going to win in the end.
[2]
‘A double order of French fries!’ said my father happily. He dipped one in his plastic container of ketchup. ‘Delicious! Thank
you, sweetheart.’
‘My pleasure. And now perhaps you’ll tell me the real reason why you wanted this very private lunch.’
My father’s face altered subtly, emptying itself of expression so that the fine bone structure of his face stood more clearly
revealed. His slim figure and extreme good looks made him look uncannily young once he had his back to the light, and his
hair, still copious though now a pale indeterminate colour, heightened this illusion of youth. His eyes were a peculiarly
clear, starry grey.
‘I wanted to discuss your good news a little further, Vicky.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Unfortunately I can’t pretend it’s going to be an easy discussion.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least.’
‘I hope we can discuss the subject sensibly without getting upset.’
‘I hope so too.’
We stared at each other politely for a moment. Then my father started fussing with his hamburger, rearranging a lettuce leaf,
toying with a tomato slice, examining the pickle. ‘I meant what I said yesterday,’ he said. ‘You go ahead and marry him. I’m
not going to make a fuss, and afterwards I’ll do my very best to welcome him into the family as my son-in-law.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
‘However I would just like to make one small suggestion. Of course you’re under no obligation to listen to it.’
‘Of course.’
My father sighed, took a bite of hamburger, munched it, swallowed it and topped up his glass of Coke. I had had two French
fries and had just realized I couldn’t eat another mouthful. Abandoning the Coke I went to the liquor cabinet to fix myself
a martini.
‘I want to appeal to your maturity and common sense,’ said my father.
‘How attractive that sounds. I hope my maturity and common sense can rise to the challenge.’
‘I hope so too. Vicky, don’t rush into this marriage. Go to England next month and spend the summer with him, but live there
as his mistress, not his wife.’
I said nothing.
‘You didn’t mention it yesterday, but I presume you were intending to spend the summer with him while the children are up
at Bar Harbor as usual.’
‘Yes. I thought he should have the chance to adjust to a wife before he returns to New York and has to adjust to five stepchildren.’
‘Fine. Yes, that was what I figured. But why not marry in the new year after he’s returned to New York for good? Look Vicky,
let’s just forget for a moment that this man’s Scott. The fact that he’s Scott only confuses the issue. I’d give you this
same advice no matter who you planned to marry. You’ve got two marriages behind you now, and neither was an unqualified success.
Or, to put it bluntly, you’ve lived with two men and each time the relationship ended up in ruins. You can’t afford a third
mistake right now. It would be bad for you and for the children. If you do marry again, you’ve got to be sure it’ll work and
that’s why I think you’d be a fool not to have a trial marriage before you risk everything on a third trip to the altar.’
I sipped my martini and sat looking at my untouched hamburger. Presently my father started talking again.
‘I’ve no intention of making any pertinent observations about Scott’s potential ability – or inability – to adapt to married
life, but I’ll just say this: as far as I know Scott’s never made a success of living with anyone. Don’t you think it would
be only fair to him to live with him first before you wrap him up legally in a relationship which – although he may have the
best will in the world – he may find himself unable to handle? It seems to me not only the sensible, prudent thing to do;
it also seems to me to be the kindest and most considerate.’
He paused again but I was still unable to reply. I revolved the stem of my martini glass round and round between my thumb
and forefinger.
‘Live with him this summer in London,’ said my father. ‘Spend the fall in New York preparing for the wedding. Then marry him
in the new year—’
‘—after you’ve fired him.’
My father grimaced. ‘Don’t be stupid, Vicky. I’m not going to do anything which could possibly alienate you. Now pull yourself
together. The situation’s awkward enough without you trying to cast me as the villain of the piece.’
‘Can you promise me you won’t fire him once he’s my husband?’
‘Well, naturally! Do you think I don’t care whether or not we remain on speaking terms?’
‘I want to hear you promise.’
‘All right. I promise I won’t fire him once he’s your husband. As you know I can’t fire him before 1968 unless he’s been proved
guilty of some gross professional misconduct, and even then I have to have the consent of all the partners. So marry him before
January the first if you’re so nervous of me.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve every intention of marrying him before then. And what of the future? Are you retiring next year? And if
you are, what happens?’
‘I was afraid you’d ask me that,’ said my father. He rearranged the lettuce leaf again on his plate. ‘And now, Vicky, I’m
afraid we must come to the most difficult part of this interview, the part where I have to give you the news you don’t want
to hear. The truth is that whether you marry Scott or not, I’ve made up my mind that he’s never, under any circumstances,
going to obtain control of the bank.’
[3]
There was a dead silence. Then I felt so frightened that I drank the rest of my martini and rose to my feet to mix myself
another.
‘Now don’t panic,’ said my father. ‘This isn’t the catastrophe you think it is. You can’t see Scott clearly any more because
you’re in love with him but I see him very clearly indeed, and I’ve got everything figured out – yes, put down that martini.
You won’t need it, and even if you did need it you shouldn’t have it. The first thing you should always remember when you’re
in the middle of a difficult interview is to leave the liquor alone.’
‘Shutup.’ But I left the martini alone and sat down again opposite him at the table.
My father poured me some Coke. Then he said. ‘I’m going to stay
on until I can hand the reins directly to Eric. My asthma’s no better but it’s certainly no worse. I reckon I can make it.
I’ve got to make it. No choice. I wouldn’t trust any of my other partners to help me out. If Scott has to stay in the firm
he’d turn them inside out in no time flat once I was out of the way.’
‘Daddy—’
‘No, let me finish. I’ll be good to Scott. And I’ll be kind to him. I won’t tell him outright that he’s not going to get what
he wants. I’ll let him realize the truth painlessly over a period of years. I’ll keep postponing and postponing my retirement;
I’ll keep refusing to commit myself to any definite plan for the future. I’ll let him down easy, I promise, and he’ll adjust
and survive, I know he will. Scott’s one hell of a lot tougher than you think.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s more vulnerable than you could ever imagine.’
‘In some ways, perhaps – in certain areas of his private life. But in his business life he’s damned close to being impregnable,
and that’s why if I keep him in the firm – and I will, if that’s what you want – I’ve got to take certain precautions. For
example, I couldn’t have him here in New York. I won’t send him back to Europe because I’m sure you’d both regard that as
exile, but I thought I might have him open an office in California. How do you like the idea of a few years in San Francisco?
It’s only a few hours away by plane, and you’d still be in America, still be home in your own country. How pleased Sylvia
would be if you moved to San Francisco! She’s over eighty now, but still very active—’
‘Daddy, please … please …’
‘I’m sorry. I knew this would upset you, but it’s a question of options. I won’t fire Scott. But if I keep him in the firm
it has to be on my terms. If he can’t accept them, then of course he’s free to go to another house.’
‘He’s not free. He’s never been free. He’s locked up in the past and you’re refusing to produce the key that would let him
out!’
‘I’m afraid I don’t see the situation as dramatically as that,’ said my father politely. ‘I suspect the truth is much more
prosaic. Scott had this very understandable ambition to get the bank. He’s not going to get it, but he’s had a first-class
career as a banker and he’s certainly proved to everyone he’s a far better man than his father ever was – and that, if you
want my opinion, is the crux of the matter. So long as he’s proved that – and he has – I think he’ll find in the end that
life isn’t such a disappointment. Particularly if he has you to keep him happy. In fact you’ll play a very important role
in his readjustment. You’ll fill the void and give him something new to live for. He’ll be all right. It’ll all end happily,
you wait and see.’
‘But I can’t think why you’re so set against trusting him! Surely after Scott and I are married you can trust him to do nothing
which would hurt me?’
‘Why should I? Husbands hurt their wives regularly. Scott’s father nearly annihilated my sister. Scott himself may be capable
of annihilating you. I can’t give him control of the bank just because he’ll have had the remarkable foresight to marry you
and save himself from being fired.’
I jumped to my feet. ‘You bastard!’ I shouted at him. ‘How dare you imply that! How dare you twist everything and distort
everything and
pollute
everything—’
‘Not this time, Vicky. This river’s already polluted. All I’m doing is analysing the muddy waters. Thank you for the lunch.
I’m sorry this should have been such a difficult conversation, and please don’t make me regret that I paid you the compliment
of speaking plainly. I hope you’ll still consider my earlier advice even if you choose to ignore my last comments.’
He moved into the hall and opened the front door before glancing back. ‘So long, Vicky. Call me later when you’ve had the
chance to think over what I’ve said.’
The front door closed gently in my face.
I stood there listening to his quiet footsteps receding down the corridor, and then rubbing my eyes as if to erase a vision
I found intolerable I picked up the phone to call Scott.