Old Sins (85 page)

Roz had been carefully avoiding any involvement with Phaedria. She knew it was a mistake, that it was at best unbusinesslike and at worst childish, but she was angrily aware of the ever extending ripples of Phaedria’s power; she could feel them lapping on to the shores of her own empire, and for the time being, until she could find some way of defeating her, she was merely hoping that Phaedria would hang herself sooner rather than later on the huge lengths of rope Julian was clearly prepared to hand over to her.

She was also oddly and miserably jealous of Phaedria’s relationship with David. She had not thought about David sexually for years, he had become a much loved avuncular
figure, and she was relieved and happy that he and her mother had managed to become friends once more; but he was a person for whom she had a very special fondness, and it riled her dreadfully that he was clearly so close to Phaedria.

As well as riling her it interested her; not even Roz could believe (knowing David, knowing his singular attitude towards her father) that they were likely to be lovers; nevertheless there did exist the clear possibility that her father might think that was so. That seemed to Roz a very large case of dynamite indeed.

Julian came into the first liaison meeting looking particularly bland.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now hopefully, these can be kept short and not take up too much of our time. It may be that in due course the two of you can handle them yourselves and not need to involve me.’

Roz and Phaedria looked at him in a hostile silence.

‘My concern, as you both know, is that your work is, to an extent, overlapping, and there is a certain lack of communication. It is vital that there is a two-way traffic of information between you – clearly you, Roz, as president of the stores, need to be closely informed of Phaedria’s plans –’

‘In theory, yes,’ said Roz, interrupting him. ‘In practice, surely, as the London store is so exclusively Phaedria’s, there is very little input I can make. She seems perfectly confident and is moving very fast, aren’t you Phaedria –’

‘Roz, that is not the point, as you must realize,’ said Julian, his irritation beginning to surface. ‘Phaedria’s confidence and indeed her competence are not in question –’

‘I’m so glad,’ put in Roz sweetly.

‘Roz, I would be grateful if you will let me finish the occasional sentence –’

‘Sorry.’

‘What matters is that you should be aware of what she is doing, so that you can build it into your overall picture of the store development worldwide. London is crucial to that picture.’

‘Well, I do agree,’ said Roz. ‘It just seems rather dangerous that it should be potentially a separate entity.’

‘Roz, that is the whole point of these meetings,’ said Julian, his eyes growing very hard. ‘So that it is not a separate entity.’

‘So are you saying that if I disagree with any of Phaedria’s plans, I have the authority to block them?’ said Roz. ‘Surely not.’

‘Not block them, no of course not. But discuss them, talk your objections through, yes, certainly.’

‘I see,’ said Roz. She looked suddenly rather sleek.

‘How – detailed – might these objections be?’ asked Phaedria mildly.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I have no idea,’ said Julian. ‘That is clearly the sort of thing that will emerge over the weeks ahead.’

‘I think we should discuss them now,’ said Phaedria. ‘Obviously on large matters, budgets, designers, colour schemes for example, it would be not unreasonable for Roz to have a view –’

‘Not entirely,’ said Roz, looking amusedly arrogant, a prefect toying with a very new recruit to the first form.

‘But if,’ Phaedria went on, steadily, apparently unmoved by this, ‘I am to talk to Roz about every hat, bracelet, salesgirl before taking a decision, progress is going to be rather seriously halted. Just in case she disagreed with a great deal of what I was doing,’ she added sweetly.

‘Phaedria,’ said Julian, ‘if you cannot establish in your own mind the proper limits of your own influence, then I would have serious doubts about your ability to handle this project at all. I expect you and Roz to be able to work out a modus operandi and stick to it. That is all. Initially I will be available for consultation on it, if absolutely necessary. Please get to work implementing it straight away. Now then, I do feel that you need a really first-class assistant, Phaedria. Someone with a background in marketing and experience in design and retailing as well. Instinct alone is hardly sufficient under the very serious commercial circumstances you are operating in. Roz, I’m sure Phaedria would appeciate some help in finding someone. You have so many contacts. Give it a bit of time, would you?’

‘I’m very busy indeed at the moment,’ said Roz, ‘I don’t really have that sort of time to spare. Couldn’t Susan handle it? It’s her area.’

‘I don’t think so, no,’ said Julian. ‘Susan’s area, as you describe it, is overall company management, which may incorporate personnel, but certainly doesn’t include it as a day to day concern. Besides, you are in the retail field, every day, you must constantly meet people who would be suitable for the job.’

‘Not at assistant level, no,’ said Roz.

‘Then be kind enough to descend to it for a while,’ said Julian. ‘Now then, Phaedria, while I think of it, you’ll have to find someone to work with you on the design aspect of the store for a few weeks. C. J. needs Sassoon on some vital refurbishing of the hotels. He’s taking him off to the States next week.’

It was hard to say which of them was more angry with him.

‘Hallo, Roz. It’s nice to see you.’

Roz looked up. She had been sitting at her table at the Caprice for half an hour, after her lunch guest had gone, trying to concentrate on the spring promotions for Circe New York and the merchandising plans for Circe, Beverly Hills; roughly twenty-five of the thirty minutes had been occupied with a savage contemplation of Phaedria. The only consolation was that there seemed little chance of her having a baby while she was apparently so committed to her work.

She looked up. Michael Browning stood in front of her, his expression as wrily solemn as always, his dark eyes exploring her face with a tentative tenderness.

Roz actually felt her heart lurch three distinct times, moving within her; she closed her eyes briefly, trying to compose herself, and then, surprising herself with her calm, smiled back at him.

‘Michael! What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Looking for my raincoat.’

Roz relaxed, started to laugh.

‘Why should your raincoat be here?’

‘It was here last night. Now it’s gone.’

‘I expect you left it in a taxi, not here at all. Never mind your raincoat, what about you? Why are you in London?’

‘Oh, I’m buying a few little supermarket sites.’

‘How nice.’ She was silent, just looking at him, drinking him in.

‘Aren’t you going to ask a raincoatless man to sit down?’

‘Sorry. Do sit down. Have a coffee.’

‘That would be nice.’

He looked at her, quietly, studying her face, her hair, her clothes. She was wearing (and thanked God for it) a particularly flattering outfit: a short peplumed jacket, in navy suede, by Sonia Rykiel, with a long bias cut swirling skirt; it made her look taller, more graceful, more slender even than she actually was. Michael smiled at her.

‘You don’t seem to have changed too much.’

‘Why should I have?’

‘Well, quite a lot’s happened to you.’

‘I suppose so.’

Her heart was taking off again; keep calm, she said desperately to herself, keep calm, don’t think, don’t feel, don’t do anything. Helplessly, horrified she heard herself say, ‘It’s so nice to see you. I’ve missed you such a lot.’

‘I missed you too, darling.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘Why not?’

‘You know.’

‘Sorry. How’s married life?’

‘Fine.’

‘Good. How’s Baby?’

‘She’s wonderful.’

‘Good. And how’s work? Are you chairman of the board yet?’

‘Not quite. Nor likely to be for a while now, I fear.’ She attempted to sound lighthearted; she failed.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing much.’

‘So your old man’s got married again?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have to hand it to him. She looks very beautiful in her pictures. Is she nice?’

‘Very.’

‘Good. I guess you and she must be friends.’

‘Oh, we are.’

‘That’s some kind of a name she has.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Roz sounded suddenly savage. Michael grinned.

‘So that’s it?’

‘What is?’

‘You aren’t too fond of her?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Fine.’ He took a long drink of coffee, then looked round for the waiter. ‘I could do with a brandy. Want one?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘OK. You can share mine. I’ll get a double.’

‘I said I didn’t want one.’

‘Yeah, you said you liked Lady Morell, too, and that you were enjoying married life. We can share the brandy.’

‘Are you – married or anything?’

‘Nothing. Haven’t got over you yet.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not. Tell me about Pharaoh, or whatever her name is.’

‘Phaedria. There’s not a lot to tell.’

‘Is she going to found a new Morell dynasty? Lots of little tycoons?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Roz, speaking with great difficulty. ‘We aren’t exactly intimate.’

‘She’s very young. I bet she does.’

‘Possibly.’

He changed tack. ‘So tell me about Hubby.’

‘C. J. is just fine.’

‘I hear he’s doing very well, working for Daddy.’

‘That wasn’t very kind.’

‘It was the truth. It isn’t always.’

‘Well, he is doing well. Very well.’

‘Good. Here, have a sip.’

Her eyes met his over the brandy. She smiled. ‘How long are you here for?’

‘That’s a leading question. About five days. Could you fit lunch into your high-powered schedule?’

‘No, honestly, Michael, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

‘Why not? I think it’s a great idea. You can bring Pharaoh if you like. As a chaperone. I’d like to meet her. Or Hubby.’

‘He’s away.’

The moment the words were out she regretted them; she flushed, looked away, reached for the glass again.

He took it from her, turned it, and drank very deliberately
from the same place. Roz felt a hot, sweet melting deep within her; she forced a bright, fierce smile.

‘Dinner then?’

‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘OK,’ he said calmly. ‘Lunch will do. Where would you like to go?’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘The Connaught tomorrow?’

‘I have a meeting.’

‘Thursday?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll see.’

‘Fine. See you there at one. I’m staying there,’ he added.

It was all a foregone conclusion really. They lunched; Roz talked; Michael listened. She talked to him about all the things she had sworn she wouldn’t: about C. J., about Phaedria, about her terror of losing everything. He looked at her sorrowfully, and shook his head.

‘You should have married me.’

‘I know.’

‘I still have the ring.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I do. I take it with me everywhere. Can’t think how I haven’t lost it. Look. Here it is.’

He got it out and handed it to her; she opened the box, looked at it, remembering everything about the day he had first given it to her, Paris, the sunshine, the breakfast, the sex. Her eyes blurred.

‘Put it on.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Put it on.’

She put it on.

‘Great. Now let’s go upstairs and get married.’

Roz didn’t leave the Connaught until six o’clock the following morning. She had forgotten, or rather her body had, how sex could really be; the questing hunger, the frantic concentration, the way her body felt slowly and sweetly filled, and then the wild, glorious progression, deeper and deeper, bigger and bigger, as she rose, rode, swung, soared into orgasm.

She lay, the first time that afternoon, after she had come, half laughing, half crying, her body still throbbing, still shuddering gently, and wondered how she could have borne the stillborn dull despair of the sex she and C. J. had known lately.

‘That wasn’t too bad,’ said Michael mildly, reaching out his hand to her, stroking her face, moving down to her neck, her breasts. ‘I didn’t mind that so much. You?’

‘It was OK,’ said Roz, smiling as she had not smiled for months, warmly, peacefully, joyfully. ‘OK for starters.’

‘Jesus, I’ve missed you. All of you. Every last inch of you.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you certainly know them all, all those inches.’

‘I do. I’m glad to say. Did you miss me?’

‘Oh, not much.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Has it been worth it?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. No, of course it hasn’t.’

‘Good. Have you been happy?’

‘Not really. No.’

‘Excellent.’

‘You bastard.’

‘No, I’m not a bastard Roz, actually. I’m a regular nice guy. I’ve played by the rules. I’ve let you do things your way. I wasn’t even going to look you up. It was an accident I saw you there, in that restaurant. You’re the bastard. I imagine in your liberated world women can be bastards.’

‘I suppose so. Yes, you’re right. I know it. It’s all been my fault.’

‘And are you truly sorry?’

‘I think so.’

‘Truly, truly sorry?’

‘Yes, truly, truly.’

‘Good.’ He turned towards her, his hand moving steadily, purposefully, down over her flat, smooth stomach, into the hidden warmth he had just reclaimed. ‘Now, this may take a while, but I plan to make a little more of you my own again. After that we can order afternoon tea and have a talk.’

‘I don’t want to talk,’ said Roz, her voice low, desperate. She knelt up, pushed him over on his back, straddled him, drew his
penis into her wet, hungry body, threw her head back, and rode him, almost detachedly, plunging, thrusting, exhorting, demanding from him her long, long fierce eruption of pleasure.

And Michael Browning, detached also, looked at her face in all its ferocious abandonment, and wondered if there could be another woman anywhere with the same power to take hold of his heart.