In addition to her two years’ work experience, as her father rather contemptuously described it, Roz had just spent a year at the Harvard Business School and it had been the happiest of her life and the most fascinating. Cambridge had seemed like prep school by comparison. Money, deals, politicking, power, it all fascinated her, made her heart beat faster, gave her a sexual thrill. That was what she wanted, great slices of it; she was prepared to work and sweat and suffer for it. She didn’t want men falling at her feet or into her bed; she had sampled some of both, and it had left her for the most part bored and unimpressed. She wanted men where she decided to put them, preferably several seats beneath her on the board.
She knew, she felt in her bones that she would be able not just to deal with any business situation, but that she would win in it. When she looked at some of the hypothetical problems she had been set to crack at college, when she read the financial pages of the papers (which she devoured daily) it seemed to her she was almost clairvoyant; she could see not just to the end of a problem, a development, a takeover bid, but beyond it, considered not merely every angle that seemed relevant, but a dozen more that did not. She took not just facts and figures into her equations but people, situations, geography, history, even the seasons of the year and the time of day. She knew as surely as she knew her own name that she had a brilliant company brain; all she needed now was something to practise on. And she needed her father’s help to get it. And she didn’t relish it.
It was on occasions like this one that she stood back and saw very clearly exactly what her father was in real terms: a towering figure, one of the shrewdest, most ruthless men in the world, possessed of great power, and with a personal fortune that must come close to equalling Getty’s; he had a brilliant and innovative business brain, a perfect sense of timing and almost flawless judgement. He was respected, revered, indeed often feared; and fear was the emotion Roz was experiencing now. She didn’t actually think he would refuse her; that he would send her back to Marks and Spencer’s, tell her to join the dole queue; but he was going to have an opportunity to extract his revenge for her awkwardness, for her rejection of him over the last few years, and she knew he was highly likely to take it.
Well, she had learnt a few skills which might help her, she thought, since leaving Cambridge, including a modicum at least of tact and the ability to project charm. Her truculence, although still very much a part of her, was well hidden, and she had learnt to smile, to listen, to look for the good in people and situations, rather than pouncing and pronouncing on the bad.
The trouble was, as she very well knew, her father would not be in the least deceived by any act she put on; he would translate any fiction she presented him with into fact, recognize her and what she was trying to do through any role she played; what was more he was quite capable of stringing her along, of pretending to believe the fiction, to be impressed by the role-playing and then suddenly, without warning, confront her with the truth of the situation as he saw it.
But she could see through him as well; her painful childhood had taught her that much. She knew when he was lying, when he was plotting, when he was feeling remorseful; she also, more usefully, knew how to hurt him, and when best to do it. It was a poor substitute for daughterly love, and she was well aware of the fact, but she had long ago learnt that was a luxury she could not afford. One day perhaps, when she had proved herself, when she was in a strong position, when her father was impressed by her and was less able to set her aside whenever it suited him, then perhaps she could trust herself to tell him how much she loved him, and how much she wanted him to love her. Meanwhile, she had to proceed with much caution and care.
She rifled through the rails of her wardrobe; selecting first a Margaret Howell suit and rejecting it (too severe), a Jean Muir dress and trying it on (too grown up) and settling finally on a Ralph Lauren skirt, shirt and sweater, all in tones of beige, (young enough to be appealing, expensive enough to look assured). Eliza had picked out the lot for her (she would never have had the vision herself), and it suited her very well. She pulled on some long brown boots, clipped back her long dark hair, sprayed herself with Chanel 19 and looked at herself for a long time. ‘Just right,’ she said aloud to the mirror, ‘just right’; she looked well-bred stylish, with the faintest touch of college girl to make it more appealing. Her father would hopefully approve.
She put her diary, her credit cards, her wallet and her CV into a brown Hermes shoulder bag, slung her Burberry over her shoulders and went out to find a taxi.
Julian reached the chic whiteness of the Meridiana five minutes before her; ordered a bottle of Bollinger, greeted a few of the disparate people he knew there (Grace Coddington, fashion editor of Vogue, looking divinely severe in a Jean Muir dress, Terence Conran, charmingly jovial, a new cigar in one hand, glass of sancerre in the other, Paul Hamlyn), and watched his daughter swing in the door. He hadn’t seen her for months; after Harvard she stayed with friends in New York, and had only been back in London for a week; she’d lost weight, grown her hair, and as she bent to kiss him, he noticed she had acquired a very expensive-looking necklace – thick gold inset with diamonds and emeralds, which he certainly hadn’t bought her and her mother was unlikely to have given her – or that she would have bought herself. Interesting: who was she seeing with that sort of money?
‘Roz,’ he said. ‘How nice! How are you? Let me take your coat. I’ve ordered champagne. I thought it was a celebration.’
Raphael, manager of the Meridiana, came bustling over to them. ‘Miss Morell! How beautiful you look! How nice to have you back in London! Your father is a lucky man. What a charming luncheon companion, Mr Morell! Let me take Miss Morell’s coat and what would you like to eat? The quails are beautiful and we have some very nice turbot, cooked in a wine sauce with truffles, and then there is some fresh salmon . . .’ He launched into the restaurateurs’ litany; Roz sat down, took the glass of champagne, ordered some parma ham and a plain grilled sole and looked at her father with genuine, if slight concern.
‘You look tired, Daddy, have you been overworking?’
‘I expect so. I enjoy it, you know. It makes a distraction from my social life.’
‘Aren’t you enjoying your social life?’
‘Not much. How about you?’
‘Not much either. How’s Camilla?’
‘Camilla is very well,’ Julian said carefully, wondering how much she read the gossip columns. ‘We had dinner with the father of a friend of yours the other night. Tom Robbinson. Weren’t you at school with Sarah, or was it Cambridge? I know she was at your twenty-first.’
‘School. Haven’t seen her for ages. She was the despair of Cheltenham. She’s getting married, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, after Christmas.
He sighed. The thought of weddings always depressed him. ‘Nice necklace, Roz.’
‘Yes,’ said Roz, ‘it was a present.’
Her tone closed the subject. Julian opened it again.
‘From anyone I know?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘Someone I met at Harvard,’ said Roz quickly, seeing her father was fast growing irritated by her lack of communicativeness. ‘Someone called Michael Browning. He came down to give a lecture. He lives in New York. He’s divorced. I just see him sometimes. Can I have some more champagne?’
‘Of course,’ said Julian. He looked at Roz thoughtfully. He knew Michael Browning well. He had made a fortune out of soft drinks in California, moved to New York and into supermarkets, and ran his business by instinct and the seat of his pants. Not the kind of man he’d really want sleeping with his daughter, which seemed likely if he was buying her that sort of present. But maybe it was a hopeful gesture on his part. At any rate clearly Roz wasn’t going to give any more away just now. He changed the subject.
‘How’s Mummy?’
‘Fine.’ Roz sounded wary.
‘And the charming Mr Al-Shehra?’
‘Oh, ch
arming as ever. He’s a darling. So kind to me. He keeps a horse for me at the house they’ve bought in Berkshire, him and Mummy.’
‘How nice of him,’ said Julian shortly.
‘I ride with him sometimes. In the park. He’s absolutely superb.’
‘I wondered,’ said Julian, ‘talking of riding, if you’d like to come down to Marriotts this weekend. I’m hunting on Saturday, if that appeals to you, and I’d like to show you some of my new acquisitions.’
‘Will – will Camilla be there?’
‘No.’
It was a very final word. Roz smiled at him. ‘I’d love to. I haven’t been to Marriotts for ages. I’m dying to see the new colt I read about in Dempster. What’s he called?’
‘First Million. I’m hoping great things of him.’
‘Have you got anything I could ride on Saturday?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you bought any cars lately?’
Julian smiled at her. Nothing made him happier than an interest in his collection.
‘A very nice Ferrari. A Monza, 1954. Superb. And I’ve got a beautiful Delahaye in New York.’
‘Could I drive the Ferrari?’
‘Of course. Not to its capacity, unfortunately, in the Sussex lanes. It does one sixty.’
‘Then I’ll certainly come.’
‘Good.’
Roz put down her fork. ‘I’ve got something I want to talk to you about, Daddy.’
Julian looked at her, his eyes the familiar blank.
‘And what is that, Rosamund?’
Things weren’t going too well, Roz realized; he never called her Rosamund unless he was fairly displeased with her. She wished fervently she had been less awkward the last couple of times she had seen him.
‘It’s advice I really need, Daddy.’ She had rehearsed this bit of her script carefully.
‘About?’
‘About a job.’
‘A job? I see.’
He was looking at her with an odd rather shrewd amusement; Roz squirmed, but met his gaze steadily.
‘Could you elucidate things a little more?’
‘Well, you see, I’ve decided what I really want to get into is financial management.’
‘Why does that appeal to you? Something like marketing is much more fun. You’ve made a start there. You should stay in that.’
‘No, it’s the finance side that really interests me. I love working out what makes companies successful and how to make them more so. And which companies would work well with others. Takeovers, mergers, all that sort of thing.’
‘Does it?’ Julian looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Did you do much financial stuff at Harvard?’
‘Not as much as I’d have liked. I’d gone in on the marketing side. By the time I fell in love with money it was a bit late. But never mind. That was only college. There’s real life to come.’
‘Indeed there is. So what do you want me to do?’
‘Advise me.’
‘Really! That will make a change.’
‘Don’t be silly. You know I always ask your advice about important things.’
‘Perhaps. What particular advice do you want?’
‘Well, I’ve been offered a job. It is marketing, but they’ve said I can move around. Really get to know the company.’
‘Have you? By whom?’
‘Unilever. That’s what I need advice about. It’s such a huge company. Michael – lots of people have said it might swallow me up. What do you think?’
‘I don’t think the job’s good enough for you. You’ve got a good Cambridge degree, you’ve got some valuable experience, and you’re an honours graduate from Harvard. You don’t want to start working for some sweaty brand manager from East Anglia.’
‘How do you know he’ll be from East Anglia?’
‘They always are.’
‘Thats’ – ‘ridiculous’ Roz had been about to say, but she managed to stop herself – ‘really interesting.’
‘What is?’
‘That you don’t think I should do it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t think so either.’
‘And what do you think you should do?’
Roz put down her knife and fork and looked him very straight in the eyes. ‘Work for you.’
He hadn’t expected that, and he was impressed by it. It took a kind of courage for her to lay herself so totally open. He had it in his power to reject her absolutely and she knew it, and knew moreover, that it was quite likely. Clearly she had even more guts than he’d thought. He put them to the test.
‘I don’t think it’s possible.’
‘Why not? Is it because I’ve –’
‘Rejected me?’
He looked at her again with amused eyes.
‘Yes. Oh, Daddy, I was just being silly. Young and silly. I’m sorry if it hurt you. It must have seemed very ridiculous. Ungrateful. But you must have known I didn’t mean it.’
‘You seemed to at the time. And you weren’t all that young at the time. The last little conversation I remember was only about six months ago. How old are you now?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Well anyway –’ There was a long pause. Roz braced herself to look at him. He was smiling. ‘That’s not the reason.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the reason I can’t offer you a job is that we don’t take Harvard people. Company policy.’
Roz went limp with relief.
‘Daddy, that is just ridiculous. You’re joking.’
‘Not at all. I’m perfectly serious. I warned you before you went there. Only you were busy telling me it didn’t matter.’ He smiled at her again.
‘Well it’s mad.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, because Harvard people are the best. Brilliantly trained.’
‘That’s only your opinion.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a very valid, widely held opinion.’
‘By whom? Other Harvard people? Your friends? Michael Browning?’
‘No, people I’ve talked to. Companies I’ve applied to. They all want Harvard people. They say their power to analyse and apply theory to practice is outstanding. You’re losing some of the best business brains in the country with a policy like that. Whose cockeyed prejudice is it?’
‘Mine.’
‘You should change it.’
‘Convince me.’
‘How?’
‘From inside the company.’
‘All right, I will.’
She had become so absorbed in the argument that she hadn’t noticed where he was leading her. She stopped abruptly, looked at him furiously for a moment and noticed that his eyes were looking more benign than she had seen them for a very long time.
‘Oh God,’ she said, ‘I wish you’d stop playing games with me.’
‘I never stop that, Roz. As you should know. And besides, I really don’t much like Harvard people. Over-analytical. But of course you’re right, and one shouldn’t allow one’s prejudices to stand between one’s company and talent. So let’s see what yours can do.’
‘You’ll take me on then?’
‘Yes I will. Of course. To nobody’s great surprise, I’m sure. You’ll have to work extremely hard. I’m not being accused of nepotism.’
‘I will. I really will.’
‘What segment of the company most appeals to you?’
‘The stores.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too specialized, and you won’t learn enough.’
‘I don’t agree.’
‘If you’re going to work for me, Roz, you’ll have to learn to accept what I say.’
‘All right. For a bit. Cosmetics then, I suppose.’
‘Now that is wise. When we get back to the office I’ll phone Iris Bentinck and see what’s going. She’s the overall marketing director of Juliana.’
And occasional mistress of the Chairman, thought Roz.
She wondered if he had any idea how much she knew about him.
‘It might mean going to Paris or New York.’
‘That’s fine. I don’t mind. Specially New York.’
‘Really?’
Roz realized she had made a tactical error.
‘Only because cosmetics are so much more buzzy in New York. I’d really much rather be in London.’
She ended up where she least wanted to be, and where Julian wanted her most. Paris. So far the score was fairly even.
Letitia Morell had three visitors that afternoon. There was nothing she liked better than entertaining, and at the age of eighty-one she still gave excellent dinner parties. She was wickedly amusing, she broke all the rules, thinking nothing of sitting a beautiful nineteen-year-old next to an elderly relic of the British Raj fifty years her senior, or a confirmed homosexual to a highly desirable (and desirous) divorcee and watching them all having the evening of their lives. People would go to some lengths to get a dinner invitation from Letitia Morell; drop hints, ask her to dinner repeatedly themselves, phone her casually on some weak pretext, but it was none of it any good. To qualify you had to be good-looking and amusing and preferably both. You could be poor, socially modest in exceptional cases, not always entirely well mannered. But you could not be dull.
She also found herself with one of the busiest luncheon engagement books in London. She was always so full of gossip herself, and so eager and amused to hear it; most days her pale blue Rolls-Royce with her patient chauffeur inside it was to be seen, parked long after three outside the Ritz, or the Caprice, or her latest find, Langan’s Brasserie in Stratton Street, whose drunken and frequently disagreeable owner was so charmed by her that she claimed the distinction not only of a permanent table available to her, but of never having been insulted by him.
She still dressed beautifully; she found shopping a little tiring, but many of the designers were charmed and delighted to visit her in First Street with toiles and drawings and take her orders; and she was still very slim and trim, her latest passion (introduced to her by the Vicomtesse du Chene), being yoga. It was not at all unusual to arrive and find her dressed in leotard and tights, sitting in the lotus position in her drawing room.
It was thus that her first visitor, the Vicomtesse herself, found her that November afternoon.
Old Sins Page 45