‘The person I fell in love with never existed,’ said Phaedria bitterly.
‘Oh Phaedria,’ he said, and his eyes were full of pain. ‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said, tenderness for him rising up in spite of herself.
‘And other times?’
‘Other times – I suppose – he’s still there.’
‘So will you not do this for that person? Give up your work. You need not do nothing. We can find you something else to do.’
‘And who – who would – care for it? Take it on?’ she asked in a sudden reckless act of surrender.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said easily. ‘It would move back under the stores umbrella, I suppose. Does it matter?’
‘Yes, Julian. Yes, it does.’
‘Oh well.’ He sighed, reached for his watch and looked at it. It was the first sign that he was returning to real life. In a flash of temper she snatched it from him, threw it across the room; he looked at her startled and then he smiled.
‘I like making you angry. It does wonderful things to you. Remember the flight in the Bugatti?’
‘Of course I remember,’ said Phaedria. ‘I learnt a lot about you that night.’
‘I suppose you did. The darker side. Well, you lost a hero and gained a car.’
‘I’d have preferred to keep the hero.’
‘Phaedria, we have to live in the real world. That’s why I want you to give up the store. We have problems; Circe doesn’t help them.’
‘But –’ she began and then stopped. There was no point in arguing with him. He was too skilful, too devious for her. She always ended confused, half won over.
‘I suspect I have no choice. If I want to stay with you.’
He looked at her, startled. ‘Is there any doubt about that?’
‘It doesn’t seem there is, no.’
He kissed her hand, her hair, her face; he looked into her eyes and smiled gently, tenderly, with no hint of triumph.
‘I know you won’t regret it.’
He fell asleep then, and Phaedria lay beside him watching the early spring sunshine playing on the walls; she felt unutterably weary, bereft, bereaved, as if someone dear to her was lost.
A memo went round the company from Phaedria a week later. She had decided (so it said) that the work of continuing to run the store was too demanding for her to reconcile with the increasing demands of her life as Lady Morell. Launching it had been challenging and rewarding, but now she was anxious to pass on the day to day running to Rosamund Emerson, in her capacity as president of the stores division. She was confident that Mrs Emerson would preserve the store in the mould she had so carefully created, and that discussion between them had revealed that Mrs Emerson had no desire to change any of her concepts substantially. A memo sent out concurrently from Mrs Emerson said that she had enormous respect and admiration for Lady Morell’s work and hoped that she would continue to work with her on the store in a consultant capacity.
If Phaedria had not been so heartsore and Roz had not been so triumphant, they would both have argued a great deal with the actual author of the memos. As it was neither of them had the stomach for it.
‘You don’t look very well, Phaedria darling.’ Julian sounded concerned, anxious. ‘Why not go away for a few days?’
‘I don’t want to go away.’
‘Why not? You have the time now. Do you feel all right?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it might help. Where would you suggest?’
‘Why not LA? You liked it there. Get a bit of sunshine.’
‘All right. It does sound lovely. I have nothing else to do.’
She flew down to Los Angeles ten days later, spent three days lying by the pool, another one shopping and (unable to help herself) checking on Circe LA, and felt at least physically better. She was still wounded, still uncertain about how she should conduct this strange marriage of hers, but she felt she had at least the strength to go on trying.
Roz had been quieter, easier lately; she had scarcely seen her. It wasn’t just the triumph over the store: that seemed to have done her very little good. She looked dreadful; her misery over the break-up with Michael Browning was very obvious. Phaedria was curious as to what he might be like. She wondered if she would ever meet him. He had to be a man of formidable character to love Roz, but he obviously did – or had. And she had clearly loved him, too. It was strange to think of the Roz she knew experiencing an emotion as tender, as positive as love. It didn’t seem possible that her ferocious heart could contain it. But it obviously had, and now the heart had been broken. Sitting there in the sunshine, thousands of safe miles away from her, Phaedria could almost feel a pang of pity for her.
She felt a great deal more pity for C. J. He was having a very hard time; Roz was transferring all her misery, all her frustration, on to him. He could do no right: If he was away, even for a day, she demanded he come back again, if he was anywhere near her at all, she could patently not wait to get rid of him; if he agreed with her, she was contemptuous and if he disagreed she set about him like a harpy. Phaedria, who had only talked to him once on the subject, had decided that whether he realized it or not, he was merely biding his time, waiting for Fate to deliver him into a happier situation, more loving arms – after which he would be gone, she devoutly hoped, without even a pause for further thought. She would miss him, but she planned personally to help him pack.
Sitting by the pool eating her lunch the day before she was due to leave Los Angeles, Phaedria wondered what was to become of her. Was she to become one of the ladies who lunch? A bored, born-again shopper? No. Most assuredly not. She didn’t really want to work for Julian in any other capacity. She felt the whole circus would start again, and she couldn’t face it. Could she return to her writing? Get a job on a magazine? She couldn’t see it working. It would have to be a token, a charade of a job, given to her because of who she was, something to be dropped whenever Julian snapped his fingers and demanded her attention, to be with him, entertain him, stand at his side. That was not what she understood of work. Was there some other job she could do altogether? Run an art gallery? Start a stud farm? Become some designer’s patron? None of it seemed satisfying, or even real.
‘God,’ she said to the glass of champagne she was drinking, ‘what on earth is to become of me? What have I done?’
Well, it was too late now; she had done it. She had to live with it. And with Julian. For better or worse. For the hundredth, probably the thousandth time she asked herself if she was still in love with him and for the hundredth, the thousandth time, she had to say she didn’t know. She found it hard to imagine being in love with anyone at all at the moment; she lacked the emotional energy. Maybe when she had adjusted to her new life, she would start to feel again.
She had been very sobered by Julian’s attack on her when he had asked her to give up the store. Even while she recognized much of it had been unjust, there was no doubt at all that she had become much in love with her own image, her own hype, her dizzy, glossy lifestyle. And it wasn’t a very pretty thought. It was the ugliness of the thought, and realizing how far she had come from the direct, self-respecting person she had been, that had really persuaded her to give up the store, not Julian’s declaration of love for her. If she was about to turn into the sort of person she herself would have despised, something needed to be done about it. It had taken great courage, but she had begun.
She was due home on the Thursday midday; Julian had told her he was flying up to Scotland to talk to some forestry people for forty-eight hours, but that he would be back on the Saturday. He sounded loving, conciliatory on the phone; she found herself at least looking forward to getting home to him. Maybe it would all be worth it, if they could restore their relationship to some semblance of its original pleasure and delight.
She got to LA airport mid-afternoon; about to check in on her flight, she suddenly saw a flight to New York posted, leaving in an hour. Now
that would be fun. She loved New York. She could go to the apartment in Sutton Place tonight, she had the key, and then do a day’s shopping and visit the Frick, which she had never yet managed. Nobody was expecting her home; feeling like a truant schoolgirl she booked on to the flight.
It was late when she got to New York; midnight with the time change. She got a cab easily; she sat back, tired, happy, excited. She could sleep late, then have a day of self-indulgent pleasure all by herself. She still loved her own company.
The apartment in Sutton Place was in darkness; the doorman half asleep; she let herself in quietly, humming ‘Uptown Girl’, which had been playing on the in-flight stereo, under her breath, throwing off her coat, walking through to the kitchen, fixing herself a coffee. She felt suddenly alive, good again; a free spirit; she should obviously do this more often.
What she really wanted now was to sit in bed and watch a movie on TV. That would end a perfect day. She wandered back through the hallway and down the long corridor to the big master bedroom, still humming. Suddenly she heard a noise; quiet voices, then as she moved again, a responding silence. She waited; desperate with fear; and then, in the slowest of slow motion, she watched as the double doors of the bedroom opened. Julian stood there, wearing nothing but a robe, his face white and appalled; all she could see, take in, beyond him, was a white face and a mass of red-gold hair spread across the pillows.
The only real decision was exactly where to go. She could have gone home to her father, but the complexities of trying to explain to him what had happened were so daunting that in her weak, sickened state she could not face them. She could have gone back to her friends in Bristol, but somehow that offended her sense of rightness. She had moved beyond, away from them; they would not be able to help her now. And her current circle was too new, her position in it too ephemeral to be close enough.
Letitia had been supportive, and very kind, but when all was said and done, Julian was her son, she was in her late eighties and there was a limit to the amount of hostility and conflicting emotion she could be expected to be asked to bear.
David offered to take her in, to put her up, but that seemed unfair, she would only jeopardize his position in the company; he swore he didn’t mind, but it would clearly be an impossible situation for all of them. Eliza phoned, assuring her of support, sympathy, and a home for as long as she wanted it, but that too, although it appealed to her sense of humour, seemed to verge on the ridiculous and poor Peveril would find it very difficult to cope with; regretfully she turned the invitation down.
For want of anywhere else to go, she booked into Brown’s Hotel while she recovered her equilibrium and wondered exactly what to do.
Clearly she couldn’t stay with Julian; she had no intention of it; public humiliation was obviously a permanent possibility and she wasn’t going to expose herself to it. She had no need to starve; simply selling some of her jewellery would keep a family of fourteen in considerable luxury for many months. But what was she going to do with herself? She had been robbed, in that brief shocking moment, not only of her husband, and her love (for she did love him, very much, she discovered, in the sickening physical blow of her jealousy), but her home and her lifestyle as well. And in the midst of her rage and jealousy she felt guilt and remorse as well: would Camilla ever have reclaimed Julian, had she been the better, the more devoted wife that Julian had clearly wanted? And now her days were not only empty of Julian, they were empty of purpose, interest, with not even the doubtful new pleasure of playing the devoted wife. She knew she must, in time, try to get a job of some sort, but at the moment she had no stomach for it, she felt ill as well as wretched, she could only struggle through the days.
Everyone tried to help her in their different ways: Letitia implored her to reconsider; Eliza told her to take Julian to hell and back; C. J. wrote her a charming letter, assuring her of his love, support and friendship and promising to do everything he could to help; Susan phoned her, oddly concerned, saying how sorry she was; even Roz sent a brief note that said she was sorry to hear what had happened. It was a considerable gesture: Phaedria wondered what on earth could have inspired it. Guilt, she supposed.
She was right.
But of course nobody could help. She felt lonely, wretched and, most of all, worst of all, she felt a fool. How could she, naïve and unsophisticated, have possibly imagined she could accomplish a successful marriage with a man forty years her senior, of almost unimaginable wealth, power and influence? It was simply arrogance, as she now perceived it, and she felt deeply ashamed; of all her wounds this would surely take longest to heal.
The other thing she had to endure was physical illness; as April turned to May she became more and more listless, lethargic, increasingly nauseated. Her back ached, she felt dizzy, she had no appetite, she was losing weight. Eventually she went to her doctor.
Victoria Jones was young, and perceptive; she saw at once what was the matter with Phaedria, wondered at her blindness and decided she should lead her to the reason herself, rather than shocking her with it in all its complexity.
‘Well, obviously you aren’t going to be feeling well,’ she said briskly. ‘You’ve had a terrible time. How are you sleeping?’
‘I’m not.’
‘Appetite?’
‘Haven’t got one.’
‘Getting any work done?’
‘I haven’t got any to do,’ said Phaedria and burst into tears. ‘And that’s another thing,’ she said, sniffing into the tissue Victoria had handed her. ‘I keep crying. I never cry normally. I feel just – oh, unlike myself.’
‘Well, you’ve got plenty to cry about. Periods regular?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘When was the last one?’
‘Oh – I – oh, God, I don’t know. Does it matter?’
‘It might be useful. Here’s a calendar.’
Phaedria looked at it, absently at first, then more intently, going back over the weeks, thinking. Then she suddenly looked up at Victoria, her cheeks very flushed, her eyes bright with tears.
‘February sixteenth,’ she said quietly.
‘Nearly three months.’
‘Yes. I suppose it could be all the trauma.’
‘It could.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘Honestly no. Not put together with the nausea. The lassitude,’ said Victoria.
‘Oh, God,’ said Phaedria. ‘Oh, my God.’
She sat for a long time, looking out of the window, remembering when it must have been, when he returned from New York. From Camilla.
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well,’ said Victoria. ‘You could do several things. But I do think you ought to tell him. Even if you – well – considered termination, you ought to tell him.’
‘I suppose you’re right. I hate the thought, but I suppose I should.’
‘Take a few days, though, get used to the idea. It may change how you feel about everything.’
Phaedria looked at her and smiled shakily. ‘If you think this is going to mean the three of us can go off into the sunset together, you’re quite wrong.’
‘No, Lady Morell, I don’t think anything of the sort. But it’s still his baby. He deserves to know.’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria. ‘Yes, he does.’
She ignored Victoria’s advice; she did not take any time.
She phoned the house; yes, Sir Julian was expected back this evening after dinner. Pete had been told to meet him from the Savoy at ten. He was dining with an old friend. I wonder what her name is, thought Phaedria. It was the nearest she had come to a humorous thought for weeks; it quite cheered her up.
‘Right, well, thank you, Mrs Hamlyn. I might come back later, to get a few things.’
‘Oh, Lady Morell, it will be nice to see you.’
‘Thank you.’
She was sitting in the upstairs drawing room when he came in; she heard the car draw up, the door slam, his steps in the hall, then
heavily, slowly coming upstairs. She tensed, then stood up and walked to the doorway.
‘Hallo, Julian.’
‘Phaedria!’ He looked first startled, then nervously pleased. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I came to get some things. And I – I wanted to see you.’
‘I see.’ He sighed, looked at her searchingly. ‘You don’t look well. What is it?’
‘Would you expect me to look well?’ she said, suddenly angry.
‘I suppose not. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s – it’s nothing, really.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes, please. Just a glass of white wine.’
‘I’ll get it.’
He came back with a tray, her wine, a glass of brandy for himself on it.
‘Are you – managing all right?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you. You’d be surprised how well I’m managing.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t at all. I have the utmost respect for your capacity to manage. I miss you,’ he added, his voice very low. ‘I miss you terribly.’
‘Yes, I expect you do,’ she said, suddenly brisk. ‘Is Camilla not here to console you?’
‘No,’ he said, not attempting anything but the truth. ‘She won’t come. I think she’s ashamed.’
‘Ah.’
There was a silence. Phaedria drank a little of her wine. It tasted odd, made her feel sick again.
‘Excuse me, I have to get some water.’
‘Phaedria, what is the matter with you? There is something, isn’t there? And what do you want to talk to me about?’
‘Oh,’ she said, suddenly unbearably full of pain, unable to even think of telling him about the baby. ‘It’s nothing, just a bug I’ve picked up. I wanted to talk to you about the – the divorce of course.’
‘I see.’ A silence. Then: ‘Does there have to be a divorce?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, yes, I think there does.’
‘Is there no future in my telling you how sorry I am? That I love you? That I would give anything, anything, to have you back?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean I do believe you, that you’re sorry and you want me back, but I know it would happen again. If not with Camilla, then someone else.’
Old Sins Page 76