Wicked Pleasures

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Co-run,’ said Charlotte, correcting him automatically.

  ‘Well all right, co-run. In any event, you can hardly blame him for lording it over you now, while he has the opportunity.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Charlotte gave him a watery smile. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. So what do I do? Don’t tell me to start telling him I think he’s wonderful. I’d be sick all over his Quotron.’

  ‘What’s a Quotron?’ said Charles. ‘No, of course not. But I think you should altogether give a little. I still don’t know you very well yet, Charlotte, unfortunately, but I can see that you are a formidable package. I think you should act a little helpless, if you could bring yourself to do that. Not just with this Gabe person, but everyone. Ask for a little help. Don’t mind looking silly now and again.’

  ‘Oh God, I can’t stand looking silly,’ said Charlotte fretfully. ‘Do I really have to?’

  ‘Well, it’s only my opinion,’ said Charles, ‘and I’m only a humble barrister. But I think you should try it.’

  They had become very close, very quickly. As she had said to Max, whom she had sought out, breathless and excited after the first meeting (knowing it was unwise, but wanting, needing to talk to someone), ‘I know he’s my father, Max, I just know it. I looked at him sitting there in the restaurant and there he was.’

  ‘But how did he actually tell you?’ said Max. ‘I can’t believe he sat down and said, “Hey, young lady, yes, I am most definitely your dad, let me tell you all about this affair I had with your mother.”’ He looked sulky and wary; Charlotte sighed.

  ‘No, of course he didn’t. We danced around one another for a long time first. It came out in bits, as we talked, in between sort of – well, checking up on one another. About halfway through lunch, he suddenly said, “It can’t have been easy, tracking me down. Via that robe.” And I said no, it hadn’t been, but it had been very exciting and I’d been determined to do it. And I said it had been wonderful to see Ireland, that bit of Ireland, and I had never in all my life thought anywhere so beautiful. Then he said suddenly, “Tell me more about your family. How is your Uncle Baby?” Then he said, and looked terribly terribly sad, that he had been so upset when Mummy died, he had read about it in the papers, and he thought of writing to us all then, but wondered what he could possibly say. And then I said, I don’t know why but I suddenly felt brave enough, probably because I’d had quite a few glasses of wine by then, and it just all came out in a rush, I said, “Look, this is an awful question, and terrible cheek, but did you and Mummy have an affair?” And he said, looking really quite angry, “Yes it is, terrible cheek,” and he really didn’t think he could possibly discuss such a thing with me, and why should I have thought that anyway? Which I took to mean a sort of go-ahead. In an obtuse way. And I said, well, because I had discovered we had this very irregular family background. But that perhaps he was right and I shouldn’t discuss it with him. And then he said, looking very solemn and also rather embarrassed, yes, he had had an affair with Mummy. He said it very quietly and rather sadly. And then he asked me if I could possibly tell him what sort of irregular family background I’d meant. And I said, well, you know, that we’d found we all had different fathers. All three of us. And that Daddy knew.’

  ‘Charlotte. You can’t go blabbing that all over London.’

  ‘I wasn’t blabbing it all over London. Max, I told you, I know this man is my father. And he’s honest and honourable and I just knew it was all right. To talk to him.’

  ‘How very fortunate for you,’ said Max.

  ‘So then he said, yes, they had been lovers, for quite a long time, and he’d loved her very much. And that he’d always suspected I was his child, even though she denied it, and ended the affair as soon as she’d found out she was pregnant. He said he’d seen pictures of me from time to time, in the papers and so on, and felt even more sure.’

  ‘Do you look like him?’

  ‘Yes and no. He has dark curly hair, and blue eyes and a lot of freckles. He’s not exactly skinny, that’s the thing that’s most like me. But it’s more than that, there’s something about him, that makes me feel – well I don’t know, at home. Can you understand that, what I mean?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Max. ‘Did he have any idea why she might have had this affair? And conceived you deliberately? When she was only recently married?’

  ‘No. He didn’t. He said he had never been able to understand it. He said she was obviously a very nice person, that she was utterly loyal to Daddy –’

  ‘Oh, extremely loyal!’ said Max. ‘Funny kind of loyalty, sleeping around all over the place.’

  ‘Not all over the place. Just with him.’

  ‘Oh yes, sure, and with Georgina’s father and my father.’

  ‘Well, I think the one thing we really do know is that we don’t know anything much yet. We have a long way to go. A lot of discoveries to make.’

  ‘Yes, well you’re all right, aren’t you? You’ve found your father, and surprise surprise he’s charming and clever and civilized and nice. Everything works out for you, doesn’t it, Charlotte? Everything.’

  ‘Max,’ said Charlotte quietly, ‘Max, I’m terribly sorry you’re so upset. That you mind so much.’

  ‘I could never understand,’ he said, ‘why you didn’t mind more. You obviously have a lot of our mother in you.’

  Charlotte turned and walked out of the room.

  She saw Charles St Mullin several times after that and before she left for the States; they lunched twice a week. They never talked about Virginia again, they talked about each other, what they did, what they enjoyed, each of them feeling they could not have enough.

  Charles was charming, civilized and amusing; he was only modestly successful as a barrister, and he lived with his wife Grace in a house in Fulham with their three children, two girls and a boy, and had some difficulty paying their school fees. Grace was a music teacher, she gave piano and flute lessons, and the youngest child was very talented and had won a music scholarship to St Paul’s Girls’ School. ‘Thank God.’

  He had a great love for his old home and for Ireland: ‘I should like to go there with you,’ he said slightly regretfully, ‘but I think it cannot be.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Grace knows about –’ said Charlotte and no, he said hastily, no of course not, she must never know. They never returned to the subject again.

  Charlotte was utterly delighted by him; he was warm and affectionate and very appreciative of her. She spent hours telling him about her hopes and fears, her ambitions, the tortuous convolutions of the family relationships, about her worries about Georgina and her greater ones for Max. ‘God knows what will happen to him when I’m not here to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘How I would like to meet them all,’ said Charles. ‘But I am afraid it is not to be.’

  ‘I’m afraid not too,’ said Charlotte. ‘Not for a long time anyway.’

  ‘Talking of time,’ he said, jumping up, ‘I must go. I’m late back already.’

  ‘It’s been lovely – again,’ said Charlotte. ‘Probably I won’t see you again before I go. Promise you’ll write?’

  ‘I promise.’ He gave her a kiss.

  She watched him go out of the restaurant. He was a little overweight, and his slightly shabby suit didn’t flatter him. He looked tired although he was so determinedly smiling and cheerful; his life obviously contained a lot of worry. It would be nice to be able to spoil him a bit, she thought. That was what fathers were for.

  She took his advice about Praegers very seriously. She got back and tried very very hard to crack the hostility; she knew it was no use trying to get friendly with Gabe, but she went out for drinks with the others after work, more or less forcing herself on them. It was very hard; she knew they didn’t want her to go, but couldn’t refuse. She laughed at all their jokes, asked their advice, told endless stories against herself. It didn’t seem to work. Two weeks before Christmas, she went out to get a sandwich at
lunchtime, and rushed back to a report she had to finish, hardly noticing that the large outer office was empty. An hour later she did notice; it was still empty. They all came back at four; they had gone for a Christmas lunch and had either forgotten her, or chosen not to tell her. Charlotte wasn’t sure which explanation she found more hurtful.

  Two days later she was walking along the corridor towards the end of the day when she bumped into Gabe. ‘Oh, there you are,’ he said, dumping a corrected set of minutes into her hands. ‘Look, get these Xeroxed, will you, and distributed. The boys and I are going out for a small celebration. See you later.’

  Charlotte took the minutes and wandered back in the direction of the Xerox machine. She looked down at them, to see which of the dozens she had done that week they were, and found them blurred; it took her a few seconds to discover the reason: that she was crying. She fled in the direction of the office she shared with Gabe, and finding it mercifully empty, sat down with her head on her arms and started to cry, quite quietly, but very hard. She would probably have gone on for some time, had she not felt a hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice that combined an odd softness with what she now recognized as a thick Brooklyn accent, saying, ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’

  Charlotte turned round sharply and looked up into a face that was so genuinely interested, so sympathetic, so concerned, that (those being such unfamiliar qualities to her these days) she cried harder than ever. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, hiccuping mildly into an already sodden Kleenex, ‘really sorry. I’m not doing the cause of the professional woman a lot of good here, am I?’

  ‘The professional woman can take care of herself,’ said the owner of the face, passing her a handkerchief. ‘I never liked her too much anyway. Here, blow your nose on this, it’s spare and dry.’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t. Really,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘I promise you, I always have a spare handkerchief for ladies in distress. My raincoats I lose, my handkerchiefs I keep. It’s a different way round from most people.’ He smiled at her. ‘Now what is the matter?’

  ‘Oh – nothing. I’m being a baby,’ she said, blowing her nose and looking at him. He had an extraordinarily nice face; not good-looking but oddly sexy, with its concerned brown eyes and slightly lopsided smile.

  ‘I like babies. Boss been unkind to you?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Nasty people, bosses. I have been known to be quite unkind on occasions myself. What do you do here?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlotte, with a sigh, ‘not a lot. And I don’t like what I do.’

  ‘I should leave in that case,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing worse than doing work you don’t like. I’m quite serious. You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘So what misfortune brings you to this godforsaken city?’

  ‘Oh – the opportunity,’ said Charlotte. ‘Of working here.’

  ‘I should hurry home. Whereabouts in England do you live?’

  ‘In Wiltshire,’ she said and at the thought of it, the rolling hills, Hartest, the kitchen fire, Nanny and Mrs Tallow, she started crying again.

  ‘I never went to Wiltshire,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I only know London and Scotland.’

  ‘My grandmother lives in Scotland,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘She does?’ he said. ‘I wonder if I ever met her. Is she anywhere near Edinburgh?’

  He gave Edinburgh at least five syllables; Charlotte had to laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘So who is this sadistic boss of yours? I wonder do you know Baby Praeger, by any chance? I’m looking for him.’

  ‘Wrong floor,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’ll take you down. Yes, I know him. He’s my –’ She stopped herself. She didn’t want this sympathetic stranger thinking she was pulling rank. ‘My boss’s boss.’

  ‘Now listen,’ he said, ‘I really mean you should leave here if you’re unhappy. It’s crazy spending your days somewhere you don’t like. It’s the most important thing in the world, I always think, your work. Or rather being happy in it.’

  Charlotte stood up and said, ‘I can’t really leave. Honestly I can’t. I wish I could, though. Thank you for being so kind. And for the handkerchief. Follow me.’

  They were halfway down the corridor when they met Fred, lost in a cloud of cigar smoke, his arm round Freddy’s shoulders.

  ‘Michael!’ he said. ‘Looking for me?’

  ‘No, I’m looking for Baby. We have a little bit of business to finish. I got lost and this very kind and rather sad young lady is showing me to Baby’s office. You should take better care of your staff, Fred. I found her weeping into her company minutes.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Fred slightly ominously. ‘Well, people who work here have to learn to be a little resilient. And I really don’t have time to watch over every tiny emotional crisis. All right, Charlotte, I’ll show Mr Browning to Baby’s office.’

  Charlotte smiled rather weakly at her new friend and made her way back to her own office. So that was the legendary Michael Browning. It had been a very big coup for Praegers, getting some of his business. He was worth at least three billion dollars, she had heard, most of it from his BuyNow Supermarkets; he had not been in the least how she had imagined, from all the awestruck descriptions she had heard of him. Gabe had had to do a report for him only two weeks after she had arrived, and had gone into paroxysms of nerves and hyper efficiency. Charlotte would never have dreamt the instigator of such neurotic activity could be a person with spare handkerchiefs to dry the eyes of weeping females and spare time to listen to their troubles. She could have fallen in love with Michael Browning, no trouble at all, given even half an opportunity. Which of course she wouldn’t be.

  She had just settled back at her desk, sorting through the minutes Gabe had given her, when her phone rang. It was Fred.

  ‘Get down here, will you?’ he said. His voice was expressionless.

  Charlotte brushed her hair, sprayed herself with Diorissimo, dabbed some make-up onto her still blotchy face and set off down the corridor again. If she was to have the pleasure of renewing Michael Browning’s acquaintance, she wanted to look as good as possible.

  She wasn’t: Fred was alone.

  ‘How dare you,’ he said, ‘go whining and whingeing to a client? An important client. How dare you?’

  He was terribly angry; Charlotte, who had never seen anything but adoration in his eyes, suddenly discovered a new Fred Praeger, and why everyone was so frightened of him. She met his eyes steadily. ‘I didn’t know he was a client and I didn’t go whining to him. He – he found me. Crying.’

  ‘Crying! In the office!’ Fred looked at her contemptuously. ‘For the love of God, Charlotte, how old are you and what do you think you’re doing here? This is not some fancy house party, this is a business. Involved daily in the transaction of several billions of dollars. Kindly try to remember that and adopt a professional approach to it.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Charlotte, you’re in a grotesquely privileged position here.’

  ‘I am not! That’s not true. Gabe Hoffman treats me like – like dirt.’

  ‘And has it not entered your pretty, pampered little head to think why? Because one day, unless my patience fails me, and Baby’s patience fails him, you will be in a position to treat Gabe Hoffman like dirt. And he knows it. You may find that a pleasing prospect. I do assure you, Charlotte, he does not. What he’s doing is extracting revenge. Before rather than after the event. Try to remember that. And behave yourself in future, otherwise it isn’t going to happen. Ever.’

  She went home for Christmas, exhausted, discouraged, sore at heart. She managed to persuade everyone that she was having a wonderful time, except for Nanny, who found her sitting in the library on Boxing Day, staring blankly out of the window.

  ‘It’s not quite right for you at the bank, is it?’ she said.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Charlotte. She was too tired to argue with Nanny. ‘How
did you know?’

  ‘You’ve put on weight,’ said Nanny severely. ‘You always did eat too many sweets when something upset you.’

  She got back to New York on 2 January and went back to work on the third; she sat on the downtown express train and felt more miserable than she could ever remember, apart from when her mother had died. She walked rather slowly up out of the Wall Street subway and up William Street towards Pine Street. It was only seven o’clock and it was still dark. The narrow streets seemed as heavy as her heart. She remembered how she had felt as she had walked that way the very first morning, how excited she had been, and she wondered, just for a moment, if it was worth it. Then she physically gritted her teeth. ‘This won’t do, Charlotte Welles,’ she said aloud. ‘Pull yourself together.’

  She had scarcely walked into the door, asked for her key, when Baby suddenly appeared at the bottom of the staircase. He was white, and he was breathing very heavily.

  ‘Baby!’ By common consent they had dropped the Uncle. ‘Happy New –’

  Baby ignored her. He didn’t even see her. He walked straight past her and out of the door. Charlotte had never seen such rage and such determination on his good-natured face.

  Baby had come into the bank that morning early, walked into Fred’s office and told him he was asking Mary Rose for a divorce.

  ‘Apparently he has a – a mistress,’ Betsey told Charlotte later, hardly able to look her in the eye, ‘and she’s pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant!’ said Charlotte. She was silent for a moment and then the English schoolgirl spoke. ‘Golly.’ She was torn between shock that anyone of Baby’s generation could be so foolish and so irresponsible and a certain sneaking pleasure that the uncle she loved so much was at least still having some fun out of life.

  ‘Yes, dear. I’m sorry, you must find this so upsetting. Apparently this girl lives in London. She’s English.’