‘We’ll do it,’ she said aloud, looking down at the considerable hump which was now situated where her flat stomach had been, stroking it tenderly, smiling at it. ‘We’ll do it. For your daddy’s sake. No, not for your daddy’s sake, forget I said that. For your mother’s. I’m the one that counts around here. Don’t you forget it.’ She closed her eyes; she felt her head slowly skimming into the lack of coherent thought that means sleep is imminent. She allowed her mind to wander; she thought about the little boy with blond hair, the woman, the beloved mother. Poor Lee, she thought drowsily, poor Lee. Dying so young. In – 1971. The words formed a refrain in her head: Dying so young in 71, dying so young in 71.
And then she sat up suddenly alert, her heart thudding, her hands damp. In 1971. Lee had died in 1971. The year Sarah had said Julian had been so depressed. When he had begun to go to Doctor Friedman.
She turned on the bed, reached for the phone, dialled Doctor Friedman’s number feverishly, her mind a tumult.
‘Mrs Durrant? Could I speak to Doctor Friedman, please? This is Lady Morell. Yes, it’s very very urgent. Very urgent indeed.’
Chapter Twenty-two
London, Nassau, Los Angeles, New York, 1985
‘NASSAU?’ SAID ROZ. ‘Nassau? Are you sure?’
Andrew Blackworth was used to being patient. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure, Nassau is where Bill Wilburn last saw his nephew.’
‘Well, go to Nassau, of course,’ said Roz impatiently. ‘I don’t care in the least how expensive it all is. You seem to be doing quite well. Do you have anything further in the way of information, or is it just Nassau?’
‘Nothing at all. But I don’t see that as an insurmountable obstacle.’
‘No, I would hope not. Yes, do go on down there, Mr Blackworth. At least for a few days. Keep in touch though, won’t you? I don’t want you to disappear utterly.’
Andrew Blackworth assured her he would not, and put down the phone. He sighed. Nassau was certainly not going to be as nice as San Francisco.
C. J. was just beginning to think about making his excuses for leaving Oyster Bay and his mother earlier than he had promised when he remembered that Phaedria had asked him to talk to Camilla before he left. He sighed. He didn’t particularly like Camilla, but he could see that he was in fact probably the best person to talk to her. There were no violent emotions raging in his breast against her, or indeed in hers against him; they had had a civilized working relationship, she had been perfectly courteous and composed with him at the reading of the will; he viewed her a great deal more benignly than a lot of other people in the family.
He walked through into the hall and dialled the number of her agency. Miss North was out, they said, taking a late lunch; could she call him back in around a half hour?
Certainly, said C. J., any time, he would be in all afternoon. The secretary sounded very shocked at any suggestion that Camilla would fail to call within the half hour, and took his number. Almost exactly thirty minutes later the phone rang.
‘C. J.? Hallo. This is Camilla North. You rang me.’
‘I did. How are you, Camilla?’
‘Extremely well, thank you. C. J., I’m glad you phoned. I can imagine what it’s about, or I think I can, and I do actually have some news for you. I didn’t know quite what to do with it. That is, I didn’t know who to call. Could we meet for a drink? Perhaps the Palm Court at the Plaza?’
‘Sure,’ he said, intrigued.
Camilla was waiting for him when he got there. She really was a lovely woman, he thought, studying her before she had seen him; nobody would ever think she was forty-eight. No wonder old Julian had been so besotted with her. She was dressed in a loose white silk dress with wide shoulders and sleeves cut off sharply at the elbows; she was tanned, her long legs were bare. Her red-gold hair was clipped back from her face, she wore no jewellery except a heavy gilt chain and matching bracelet from Chanel. She looked classically, sleekly beautiful. C. J. went up to her and held out his hand.
‘C. J. How formal!’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s very nice to see you. I was sorry to hear about you and Roz.’
‘Yes, well, thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s never easy, is it?’
‘Well, of course,’ she said, very cool, very composed, ‘I have never been married, and therefore never divorced. But I have been through a break-up or two.’
She smiled at him, and he noticed for the first time the lines of strain by her mouth and a shadow in her eyes. It must have been very hard on her, Julian’s death, indeed the whole ghastly business. No sympathy, and plenty of pain.
‘Yes,’ he said, gently commiserating, ‘I know. What would you like to drink?’
‘A Bloody Mary, I think. To go with my day.’
‘How is the agency? And what are you doing in this God awful place in August?’
‘Working. I have a lot on. And you?’
‘Oh, same kind of thing.’
‘I heard you’d left the company.’
‘I have. I’m researching a book.’
‘C. J.! How nice. What on?’
‘London,’ he said, and then seeing her puzzled eyes, ‘I’m here visiting my mother.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘I see.’
‘So what news do you have for me, Camilla? It sounds intriguing.’
‘It is. Deeply intriguing. I have a lead for you. Let me tell you about it.’
She told him. C. J. listened entranced. ‘That is – very interesting. Very interesting indeed.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh – oh, well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. I found some stuff in Julian’s desk.’
‘My goodness, C. J.,’ said Camilla, her eyes dancing with amusement, ‘you are doing a great deal of research! Your mother can’t have seen a great deal of you on your visit to her.’
He looked at her and smiled, and she thought how extraordinarily nice he was, quite the nicest person in that whole ghastly clan; maybe it had something to do with his nationality. Camilla had a deeply inbred chauvinism. She was also struck for the first time by how attractive he was. He did not have exactly striking looks, but they were the kind she liked and understood: gentle, well bred, understated. He was always so well dressed, too, and his manners were perfect; Camilla settled more deeply into her chair and prepared herself to enjoy the evening ahead more than she had expected.
‘Yes, well,’ he said, ‘I do find the whole business so intriguing, and Phaedria needs some help.’
‘Ah,’ she said, with a stab of irritation at the name. ‘Yes. How is Phaedria?’
‘Not very well. Pregnancy doesn’t seem to suit her. And Roz is giving her a hard time.’
‘Roz gives everyone a hard time. Anyway, tell me the significance of what you found in Julian’s desk.’
‘Well, it kind of ties in. Location-wise at any rate. Camilla, did he ever go to LA a lot when you knew him?’
‘Oh,’ she said, and there was a great humour in her eyes, ‘who could tell where Julian ever was? But no, not as far as I can remember. Indeed he always rather resisted the idea of having a store there, or a hotel. He said he didn’t like the place.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘Yes. Well, he was an intriguing man. Whatever his faults. Tell me what you found.’
He told her. ‘Camilla, do you remember Julian getting any calls ever from someone called Lee? Lee Wilburn?’
‘No. No, I don’t. But then he got an awful lot of calls.’ She looked at him and smiled suddenly. ‘He was very very clever at covering his tracks. I doubt if he’d have had anyone call him at home.’
‘No, but maybe in an emergency?’
‘Maybe. But it’s all so long ago, isn’t it? I mean it’s hopeless trying to pick up trails at this distance.’
‘I guess so. Although we don’t seem to be doing too badly.’
‘No. No, you don’t. So what will you do now?’
‘I think, if you don’t mind, I might talk to this J
oanna Holden on Long Island. Can you give me her number?’
‘Of course.’
‘This is very nice of you, Camilla. I don’t really see why you should help any of us.’
‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘Well, I felt very bad about my being in the apartment that night. I didn’t behave very well altogether. I’d like to make amends.’
‘Well, you’re very generous. Can I show the family’s appreciation by buying you dinner?’
She looked at him consideringly. ‘I think that would be a really very attractive idea, C. J. Thank you.’
They had a very pleasant and relaxed dinner and (both being lonely, frustrated and in need of some harmless diversion) ended the evening, to their mutual surprise and immense pleasure, between Camilla’s linen sheets.
C. J. went to see Joanna next morning. He liked her immediately, she was pretty and sharp and funny; and she was only too delighted to talk about Miles.
She had obviously been seriously in love with him; she still talked of him with a kind of wistful intimacy. He had been her best friend, she said, as well as her boyfriend; she had met him on the beach at Malibu in 1975. ‘Ten years ago, goodness, aren’t we all getting old.’
He had been living with his grandmother, a nice old lady called Mrs Kelly, and he had been at Santa Monica High School. ‘Then Mr Dashwood came along and put him through college. Sent him off to Berkeley. Miles was very clever, he did really well.’
‘Who was Mr Dashwood?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Joanna. ‘He was a bit of a hazy figure. I only met him very briefly once. He hardly ever came to see Miles. But he was a friend of the family, and he was quite rich, I guess. Anyway, he did a lot for Miles. Miles never really liked him, though, I don’t know why.’
‘He should have done,’ said C. J. ‘If he put him through college. That isn’t cheap.’
‘No, I know. Anyway, Miles was very very hurt because Mr Dashwood wouldn’t give him a job in his company. That was when he went off and became a beach bum. Miles, I mean, not Mr Dashwood. And he said he’d never see him or speak to him again.’
C. J. was beginning to dislike Miles intensely.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Oh,’ she said, her face shadowy, ‘I guess it was about 1981. Yes, that would have been it. I tried, we all did, to change Miles’ mind, to make him get a job, do something with his degree, do something useful, he was awfully clever, and very – well, attractive, presentable, you know, but he just wouldn’t. He was so angry and kind of strange suddenly. He just went off and more or less dropped out of all our lives. I used to go and see him and his granny sometimes in the evening, but somehow I felt he didn’t want me any more either. So I gave up too.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’ asked C. J., his heart beating suddenly rather fast.
‘Well,’ she said, looking suddenly guilty. ‘Well, I do. But you mustn’t tell Holden. If you ever meet him. He wouldn’t like it.’
C. J. looked very serious. ‘I promise I won’t.’
‘I’ll go and get it.’
She came back with a rather faded colour snapshot. ‘It’s very old. I don’t suppose he looks a bit like this now. But anyway, there you are. I got rid of all the others.’
A face smiled at C. J. It was an indisputably nice face. A very good-looking face, probably, he thought, if you could see it properly. With long, blond hair falling on his shoulders, blue eyes, and a ravishing smile. He was wearing a white T-shirt, he looked happy, relaxed, very Californian, and he had signed the picture: ‘Jo, from Miles, all my love.’
‘I can’t – I couldn’t – ?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry, I really would rather you didn’t take it. It’s kind of personal.’
‘Of course.’
‘What are you going to do?’ she said.
‘What would you suggest? Do you have any idea where he might be?’
‘None. But you could look over in LA. He might well still be there. On the beach. Try his granny. I can give you the address. Oh, and I tell you who you could talk to. Father Kennedy at the refuge in Santa Monica. He and old Mrs Kelly were great buddies. Miles used to say she was his temptress.’ She laughed. ‘If only you could have seen her. But she was so good to Miles. And he did love her. He really really did.’
‘And you have no idea where we could find this Mr Dashwood?’
‘Honestly, no. I mean, he could be anywhere. England. New York. Anywhere.’
‘Why England? Why do you say that?’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Because he was English. Sorry, I thought I’d told you that.’
Margaret Friedman looked at Phaedria Morell across her desk.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Ask me some questions.’
‘When – when my husband came to see you, was he very unhappy?’
‘Fairly. Certainly not happy.’
‘No, well, silly question I suppose. Was he – well, had he lost someone he was very fond of? Had someone died?’
‘Yes.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes.’
Phaedria was silent for a while. ‘Was she – was she his mistress do you think?’
‘I think she could have been.’
‘Was he still in love with her when she died?’
‘In a way, perhaps. But, he was more sad than heartbroken. I think she was much more of a dear friend. I got the impression your husband was not over-rich in close friends.’
‘No,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m afraid that’s right.’ She looked at Margaret Friedman. ‘Did he talk much about a little boy?’
‘Not a great deal. This lady did have a little boy. And your husband was concerned about him.’
‘What about her husband, do you know anything about him?’
‘Yes, he had also died. Earlier. A year or two, I think.’
‘I suppose that would explain why Julian was so concerned about the little boy. He was an orphan.’
‘Indeed.’
Phaedria looked at her and sighed. ‘I feel you’re keeping an awful lot from me.’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘You’ve told me why. You said you had to know more about me before you could tell me anything very much.’
‘I think I’ve told you a lot. I’m keeping my side of the bargain quite well. Let’s talk a bit more about you now. How are you feeling?’
‘All right. Very tired. But less sick.’
‘I really meant emotionally.’
‘Pretty bad. I miss Julian terribly, of course.’
‘Of course. Do you feel anything as well as sadness?’
‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, suddenly meeting Margaret Friedman’s detachedly interested eyes. ‘Yes I do. I feel angry. Absolutely furious. I don’t see how he could possibly have done this to me. Half the time I’m grieving because I love him, and the other half I’m raging because I hate him. It’s awful.’
‘It’s healthy.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, don’t you think so? If he was still alive and he’d done it you’d be furious. Why should his being dead make a difference?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Phaedria. ‘But it does, because it’s so much worse. I can’t talk to him. Find out why he did it, why he hated me so much.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t hate you. Quite sure. But if you really thought, hard and constructively, you might find a few clues as to why he decided to do it.’
‘I have thought. I’ve thought and thought. I can’t come up with anything except that he wanted to make me miserable.’
‘Let me help you think. We may come up with something better than that. All right?’
‘All right.’
Pete was waiting outside with the car when she came out, drained, exhausted, but strangely more peaceful.
‘Dover Street, Lady Morell?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said and sighed, and then on an impulse, ‘no, Pete, could you take me to First St
reet, I’d like to see Mrs Morell. It’s only twelve o’clock, she’s sure to be there.’
‘Certainly.’
‘And, Pete, let’s stop off at Harrods, and we can get her some flowers.’
‘Very good, Lady Morell.’
She sank back in the car, her mind blank, vaguely anxious that she should be in the office, but equally sure that she would be unable to cope with its demands for an hour or two. It would be nice to see Letitia; she was always so comforting, so affectionate, such fun. It would be nice to talk over the past twenty-four hours with her, but she couldn’t; it would be unfair, too much for her to cope with. She had survived Julian’s death surprisingly well, but she had aged a lot just the same, and the ongoing stress of the mystery was taking its toll. She really was the pivot of the family, Phaedria thought; what would they all do without her? Even Roz talked to Letitia from time to time, and loved her. She managed to transcend all the rivalries, all the passions, all the jealousies and in-fighting and yet without ever being pious or sanctimonious, indeed she managed to defuse it all, make it seem rather amusing and silly. It would be nice to see her now, nice just to talk to her. She wondered if she should have warned her she was coming, but no, she always encouraged people to just drop in, and it was a good time, just before lunch, she wasn’t resting or anything, and she wouldn’t have gone out.
Pete pulled up outside the house. ‘Shall I wait, Lady Morell?’
‘Yes, please, Pete, I’ll only be a short while, and we may be able to give Mrs Morell a lift somewhere as well.’
She scooped the bunch of white lilies she had bought into her arms, walked up the steps to the front door and knocked three times very briskly. The door opened at once; Phaedria found herself looking up into the mournful face of Michael Browning.
Her first instinct was to bolt. Nobody (except perhaps Doctor Friedman) could have told her why, but it was extremely strong; however, it was plainly also ridiculous, and undignified. She stood there looking at him; he looked back at her in silence.
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