Old Sins

by Penny Vincenzi

  Julian seemed more jealous of her fame, of the column inches she was consuming day by day, than of the young men; she wasn’t sure if he was really unmoved by her lunch companions, the insinuations in the gossip columns, but he certainly seemed to be. It annoyed her a little; she would have liked him to exhibit at least a touch of possessiveness, but he did not, he looked at her with his cool blank gaze, when they were out together and she was surrounded with her circle, when the stories reached him or he read them in the paper, and said he hoped she was enjoying herself, managing to imply that it was both unlikely and unattractive if she was.

  Except in one case; one name on her lips, she knew, could cloud a morning, wreck a dinner, destroy a weekend; one man threatened her peace of mind and her marriage; the one man who paradoxically she had every reason to be innocently occupied with: David Sassoon.

  Julian Morell was working on a new cosmetic range. It was the first he had given his total attention to, put aside other work for, for years; he was totally engrossed in it, spending much time in New York with the chemists there. The concept was an absolute secret; nobody, not even Annick Valery, who was now directrice de beauté for Juliana worldwide, not even David Sassoon who was working on the packaging, not even Phaedria Morell who was supposedly privy to all the workings of her husband’s mind, knew absolutely what it was. It was a complete range, that everybody knew, it was to be highly priced, and very original, it was to be launched for Christmas, there was an all-time-high advertising budget, using posters, cinema and television, and a new model had been signed up exclusively to represent it, a brown-eyed ash blonde, called Regency, who was seventeen years old and who was reportedly consoling Mr Morell in his great unhappiness over the famously bad behaviour of his new young wife. Both the reports and the unhappiness were only a little exaggerated.

  Phaedria tried to talk to Julian about the range, to show her interest, to offer her opinion, but he brushed her aside almost contemptuously. ‘You know nothing about cosmetics, and besides you’re far too busy with your own life these days.’

  ‘Julian, that’s not true, I can make the time easily, you know I can, and I’d like to talk to you about it, it’s obviously terribly important to you.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, looking at her oddly, ‘that’s very good of you, but frankly I don’t have the time to go through it all with you, when really I feel you could contribute very little. But thank you for your interest.’

  Phaedria turned away, afraid he would see the tears behind her eyes; he still had the power to hurt her horribly.

  ‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘I’ll be away for a few days. We’re shooting some commercials in Paris.’

  ‘Could I – Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. A waste of your time. You must be extremely busy with Christmas planning for the store. I hope you can improve upon those designs for the window displays. They’re very poor, in my opinion.’

  ‘Yes well, if I was able to work with the right person – I mean people – they might not be so poor.’

  ‘If you mean Sassoon, I really cannot believe that you regard him as a suitable person to work on window displays. Phaedria, David Sassoon is head of corporate design in this company. He cannot be expected to concern himself with trivia. If I may say so, you are showing a severe lack of understanding of the areas of control and how to use them.’

  ‘You may say so,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and I expect you’re right. But the fact remains there’s nobody decent in the display department.’

  ‘That,’ said Julian, ‘is patent nonsense. There is considerable talent in the display department. It is entirely your responsibility to motivate it properly. Talk to Roz about it, I’m sure she’ll be able to help.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will.’

  He left for Paris in the morning, in his private jet, with Regency, David Sassoon and several people from the advertising agency. Phaedria, looking at the photograph the publicity people had organized and brought to her desk for approval, felt oddly bereft.

  When he came back three days later he was curt and short-tempered. She had been looking forward to his return, and had organized dinner at home for the two of them, and had a bottle of champagne on ice.

  ‘I’m sorry, Phaedria, I have to go out for dinner.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘What’s that? Oh, Freddy Branksome. And then I’m looking in on Roz and C. J. later. I have to talk to C. J. about the new Morell in Acapulco. Don’t wait up for me. I shall probably be very late.’

  ‘Julian –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Julian, I don’t mind waiting up for you.’

  ‘Darling,’ he said, and he managed to turn the endearment into something cold and distant, ‘I’d really rather you didn’t. I can’t concentrate on things if I’ve got half a mind on getting back.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘all right.’

  ‘Get those displays sorted out?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes, I think so.’

  ‘Roz any help?’

  ‘No. She’s – been away.’

  ‘Where, for God’s sake? The Beverly Hills Circe opening is only weeks away. She can’t afford to be away.’

  ‘Julian, I don’t know where she’s been. She’s probably been there.’

  ‘Oh, all right. I’ll find out from C. J. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Good night, Julian.’

  She waited until his car had disappeared from the terrace and then picked up the phone and called Dominic Kennedy. She had no intention of spending the evening alone with the Circe window displays.

  Roz had not been in Los Angeles. She had taken advantage of her father’s absence to go to New York for three days, ostensibly checking on Circe’s Christmas programme, but actually scarcely leaving Michael Browning’s penthouse and his bed. A couple of phone calls and his late-night conversation with C. J. made this abundantly clear to Julian; he was furiously angry.

  He sent for her in the morning; she came in looking wary.

  ‘Good morning, Rosamund. How are you?’

  ‘Very well. How was Paris?’

  ‘Excellent. And New York?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘How are the cosmetic promotions going in Circe? Particularly the gift with purchase?’

  ‘Very well indeed.’

  ‘Good. How clever you are, Rosamund.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Oh, a conversation I had with Iris Bentinck. She said you hadn’t been anywhere near Circe, and yet you seem to have managed to garner a considerable amount of information.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘If you’re going to lie, Roz,’ he said, ‘do it properly. Do some background work first.’

  ‘Yes well,’ she said, ‘you should know.’

  He looked at her and half smiled. He was always impressed when she stood up to him.

  ‘Well anyway,’ he said, ‘fortunately the promotions are going well. Now then, has Phaedria talked to you about the window displays here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll get her in. She needs some help.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Phaedria walked in; she looked tired. She had been dancing at Tramps half the night with Dominic Kennedy and a group of their friends; Julian had got home before her and gone to bed, merely asking her over breakfast if she had enjoyed herself. He looked at her now with something close to distaste.

  ‘Phaedria, if you talk to Roz after this meeting about the windows, she may be able to help before it’s too late. Is everything else under control for Christmas? It’s almost the end of August, you seem to be sailing very close to the wind to me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, meeting his eyes with equal distaste. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Good. Because I want you to go to Los Angeles for a few days next week.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want you to look at the store. I want your opinion on what’s going on there.’

/>   ‘I see. Both of us? Roz and me?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘No,’ said Julian. ‘Only you.’

  Roz walked out of the office.

  That night she talked to Michael Browning for over an hour on the phone, almost incoherent with misery and rage. ‘I hate her, I hate her, it’s so unjust, why should I have to endure it?’

  ‘Roz, it’s not her fault. Surely you can see that. It’s your old man. He has the two of you out there on that chess board of his he calls his company, and I would say it’s probably check. If not checkmate.’

  ‘All right then, I hate him. I hate them both.’

  ‘Leave them both and come with me. I won’t play games with you.’

  ‘No, I know you won’t.’

  ‘Please, darling. Don’t be so dumb. Just walk out on the lot of them.’

  She sighed. ‘Right now I feel I just might. I just feel so – used.’

  ‘Yeah, well you’re in the clutches of a real champion at that game.’

  ‘Maybe. I can’t help feeling it’s about time I got a break.’

  A week later she did. She was trying to contact C. J. in Washington; he had been there working on the new corporate image for the hotels with David Sassoon.

  ‘Your husband has gone to New York this morning, Mrs Emerson. You should get him at the Morell there, at lunch time.’

  C. J. was distant, cool. ‘I may stay here a few days. We’ve finished in Washington.’

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Is David staying there with you? Or is he on his way back?’

  ‘No. I thought you’d know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘He’s gone across to LA. Phaedria phoned him. She’s there. She wants him to look at Circe. I thought you’d be going.’

  ‘No,’ said Roz. Time seemed to have frozen round her. It was extremely quiet. ‘No, I’m not going. Well, enjoy New York, C. J. Give my love to your mother.’

  ‘Sure. Bye, Roz.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She and her father had their weekly progress meeting three days later. He was unsmiling, his eyes at their most blank.

  ‘Everything under control?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. I thought we might look at Sydney for a site for Circe. Why don’t you go over for a week or two and see what you think.’

  ‘You’ve always said Sydney was wrong for Circe.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. I was wrong about Beverly Hills.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take C. J. with you and Miranda. Make a holiday of it.’

  ‘Don’t try and charm me back into submission, please. I’m finding all these games with Phaedria very hard to take. And I certainly don’t want to go to Australia with C. J., I think I’m probably going to divorce him.’ She was only testing her father’s reaction; she had given a divorce almost no thought at all.

  ‘Roz, you can’t do that. Absolutely not.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘How will you stop me?’

  ‘If you do,’ he said, his face smooth, ‘if you even suggest such a thing, I shall give the stores to Phaedria. All of them.’

  Roz felt as if she had just fallen from a great height. She felt light-headed, dizzy, distant; he seemed a long way away.

  ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘I would. She has great talent. She’s original.’

  ‘And I’m not?’

  ‘Not specially.’

  ‘God,’ she said, ‘you really are a bastard. A manipulative, evil bastard. Well, do that. Give them to her. I don’t care. I shall go and work for Michael. That’s just fine.’

  ‘Oh, excellent,’ he said. ‘You can redesign By Now for him. That would be a good project for you. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosamund?’

  ‘I could do anything for Michael. He has enough money. I could start a new line of stores myself.’

  ‘You could. You wouldn’t have much expertise behind you, though. Not in him, would you? Not much flair. It would be very difficult. I have all the best people in retailing tied up. And if you found any brilliant new people, I should probably find I needed them more. And what do you think people would say? They would compare what you were doing very unfavourably, I would imagine. Poor Roz, they’d say, you see, she didn’t have it in her, really, it was all just handed her on a plate, she’s nothing without her father. You wouldn’t like that, would you? You need success and admiration and power. I think you would be making a huge mistake.’

  Roz suddenly hit him, sharply across the face; then she stood back, frozen into stillness, stunned by her own courage.

  Julian stood looking at her, equally motionless. He was breathing heavily. There was an odd expression on his face, almost one of puzzlement.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ cried Roz, almost in anguish. ‘Why? Why can’t you leave me alone?’ Tears had filled her eyes; she was very white.

  ‘Roz, Roz, don’t. Please don’t be so hostile. I’m trying to help you. Trying to save your marriage.’

  ‘I feel hostile. I hate you. I hate you more than I would have believed possible. And on the subject of marriage, maybe you should take a look at your own.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Where is that original, beautiful wife of yours right now?’

  ‘She’s in Los Angeles. I told her to go.’

  ‘She is indeed. And do you know who’s there with her?’

  ‘What do you mean? Nobody’s with her.’

  ‘Oh, yes they are. At this very minute David Sassoon is there. You didn’t know that, did you?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t have to. You can ring the Beverly Hills Hotel yourself and check. Like I just did. They’re both there, for another two days. Together.’

  Phaedria was lying by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel, when she was paged. ‘Call for Lady Morell. Call for Lady Morell.’

  She sighed. She was half asleep, sun-soaked, happy. She had been working for almost twenty hours and she wanted to stay where she was, not moving, for a little longer.

  She had enjoyed the last few days. She had been well aware of the personal risk she was running, calling in David; but when she had got to LA, had seen the way the designer there been very slightly over-extravagant with the open space, just minimally too cautious with colour, how the windows were just a fraction too close in feel to all the other windows up and down Rodeo Drive, she had, without any thought for anything at all except Circe, put in a call to Washington, where she knew he and C. J. were. She had expected only to talk to him, to describe the problems, maybe to put him in touch with the other designer; when he had said he was free and would come over, her spirit lifted at the thought of defying Julian, of showing him, if necessary, that she was not to be told what to do.

  Whatever the sexual and marital considerations involved, David’s arrival had solved her professional problems. He had stayed forty-eight hours, at least forty of which they had been awake and working, or eating and talking shop. They had both, oddly but tacitly conscious of their slightly compromising situation, avoided lengthy dinners or even any but the briefest sojourns by the pool, and the one time he had attempted to probe her feelings on her situation and her marriage she had closed the slightly forbidding shell of reserve she wore around herself and made it very clear that he was not to try to open it. It had been tempting, she longed for a confidant, yearned to talk not only about Julian, but Roz; but David was the least likely candidate for such a role and certainly not in the dangerous situation they were in, and she knew it.

  So now he was gone; she had driven him to the airport in a hire car, he had kissed her goodbye in a brotherly – or would it be fatherly – fashion, she wondered, and she returned to the Beverly Hills and its pool and its pampering power, to recover for a day or two.

  She needed to recover; she was not only tired from the strain of the last forty-eig
ht hours, but the previous few months. She was beginning to find Julian seriously dispiriting. His jealousy, his constant criticism, his arrogance were very destructive. She had tried to be tolerant, to remember Letitia’s words, but she was too busy fighting for her own survival most of the time to have any emotional energy left for him. What she would not do was give in, when she was quite convinced he was wrong. She was prepared to listen carefully to his point of view, to consider his criticisms, to take note of his experience, but after that she would, if it seemed necessary, come out fighting. And Julian didn’t like it.

  She fought him for the most part privately; and when necessary she fought him publicly, and fiercely; but she always fought fair. She never hit him below the belt. She never traded on her position, never carried some personal slight or quarrel into their professional life. As a result, long and bloody as the fights were, they usually ended in truce; Julian would be angry, outraged, but he respected what she had to say and think, and in the end he would not give in, but he would concede at least something.

  But it was difficult: difficult to hang on to her self-respect, difficult to work effectively and efficiently, difficult above all to nurture and enjoy what was after all a very young and delicate marriage. She felt increasingly alone in her struggle; she could not talk to Julian, he totally discouraged any attempt to confront their difficulties, and she was far too reticent and too loyal to discuss them with anyone else, even with Eliza, who clearly wanted to help her, and was always attempting to probe her feelings and her life. The only thing she could do, she felt, was move from day to day, feeling her way, trying to cope with it all, and hope that time would carry them into some calmer, less dangerous territory.

  So for all those reasons, she was tired, she had been enjoying her brief rest, and she didn’t want it to end. She remained motionless, merely raised a slender, sunbrowned arm; one of the small swarm of waiters who hovered permanently watchful near the pool appeared instantly in front of her.

  ‘There’s a call for me,’ she said, ‘would you bring me a phone, please?’