‘Your father. Mind me using his shower.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz, and there was a wealth of sadness in her voice suddenly. ‘No, I’m afraid he can’t mind. He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miles. ‘Recently?’
‘Fairly recently. Back in May.’
‘Were you close?’
‘In a way, yes,’ said Roz in tones that made it clear the subject was closed. ‘Come on, let’s go. I can’t wait to hear Henry’s voice.’
Henry’s voice was irascible. ‘Well of course I was worried. Why on earth didn’t you ring me earlier, Roz? Parsons has been waiting at Heathrow for over an hour. I thought Miles had done a bunk.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz, ‘you don’t have to worry about him. He’s not the bunking kind. He’s upstairs having a shower. Shall I bring him over?’
‘I think that would be best. But Roz –’
‘Yes, Henry?’
‘I think I should talk to him alone. Preliminarily. If you don’t mind.’
‘Really, Henry, what do you think I’m going to do? Abduct him? Offer him my body in return for his support and his share?’
‘No, of course, not,’ said Henry irritably. ‘But I think in the interests of protocol . . . Legal procedure . . .’
‘All right, Henry. Protocol has it. I’ll wait outside the door. Tell your secretary to get me a glass, would you?’
‘What for?’
‘Why, so I can hold it to the wall and listen, of course. Why else?’
She sounded, Henry thought, unusually cheerful.
Michael Browning sat in his office on Madison Avenue and thought about Roz. He felt, deep within him, stirring through his outrage a sudden sense of mild remorse. She did, after all, have a point. It was a pretty blunt one, but it was a point. His visit to Phaedria had not, he felt bound to admit to himself, been entirely innocent. He had not gone with a view to seducing her, but he did find her immensely attractive, and he had very much wanted to see her. On an adultery scale of one to ten, his behaviour would certainly have rated a seven. With her cooperation, it would almost certainly have hit ten. Otherwise, he thought mournfully, downing his fourth strong coffee of the day, he would have told Roz. No, he wouldn’t. If Phaedria had been a sixty-five-year-old harridan, with cross eyes and a wooden leg, Roz would have been jealous, because of who she was, the hold Phaedria had over her. As it was, with that hair and those eyes and that body – Michael wrenched his mind away from a contemplation of Phaedria’s body with an effort and turned his attention back to Roz. Should he make a move? Hell, he’d made so many. It was always he who made them. She just waited, and took. And if he did ring her and apologize, then what? Back on the merry-go-round, the eternal ding-dong of sharing her with that company of hers and her obsession with it. And sharing it certainly wasn’t. It was one piece for him, and then around five thousand for the company. He’d had the rough end of that particular deal for what felt like years.
He wondered why and how he had stood it for so long. He supposed because he loved her. Had loved her. Did he still love her? He thought about her for a minute, saw her face as it was in the rare moments when she was relaxed and happy, with her white skin, her snapping green eyes, the heavy jaw that caused her so much anguish. He thought of being with her, of her swift, sharp mind, her salty humour, her capacity for lateral thought.
She was greedy, was Roz, but her greed did not stop at money, and at power, it made her a desirable woman; her physical appetities were considerable, she loved good food, she had a rare appreciation of fine wine (and could drink him under the table if she chose to) and her sexual prowess was remarkable. Michael had not known many women – in fact only perhaps one other, and she had been a whore from the Bronx – who could come to orgasm as many times and with such evident triumphant pleasure as Roz could.
But the price he paid for her was high. Too high. There was probably very little future in once again trying to stick the relationship together again. The thought saddened him, grieved him even, Roz had been the focus of his sexual and indeed his emotional thinking for so long, but it was probably best now to leave it lying there, on the floor of the Rainbow Room, shattered, but at least dramatically, splendidly so, than go round patiently picking up all the endless tiny fragments and looking at them, endeavouring to see how they could be put back into a whole.
He thought of Phaedria suddenly; so different from Roz, and yet alike in some ways, with the same stubbornness, the same drive, the same courage. She was certainly not the gentle grieving young widow that the media had tried to turn her into. He admired her guts enormously. He admired a great deal about her. He wondered if they did indeed have any kind of future together. It was far too early to say. She might be, she undoubtedly was, sexily, divinely beautiful, she might be funny and interesting and original, but that did not necessarily make her into a woman he could love. What he did know was that he wanted to see her urgently, now, soon, more than anything in the world.
What was the time in California? Eight o’clock. She’d be having her breakfast. He picked up the phone, dialled the hotel, asked for her bungalow.
‘Phaedria! Hi, it’s me, Michael.’
He heard her voice, low, relaxed, almost amused.
‘Hallo. Why aren’t you working? It’s Monday morning.’
‘I know.’
‘Well?’
‘I can’t work.’
‘Why not?’
‘I keep thinking of you.’
‘Well, that’s ridiculous. You’re supposed to be a tycoon. You can’t be distracted that easily.’
‘I’m not distracted easily.’
‘Oh.’ He heard her thinking. Then: ‘Michael, I do think we shouldn’t pursue this relationship at all.’ She gave it the heavy, English, almost schoolmistressy emphasis.
‘We don’t have a relationship. I’m just trying to think what one would be like.’
‘Dangerous.’
‘Maybe. Well, I just thought, you’re leaving there, when? Friday?’
‘Thursday.’
‘I didn’t really complete my business in LA. I might have to come back and have a couple more meetings very urgently. If I did, would you have dinner with me?’
‘No.’
‘Lunch?’
‘No.’
‘A glass of water?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘Michael, listen, I –’ she was silent.
‘I’m listening.’
‘I just don’t think –’
‘I don’t want you to think.’
‘But Roz –’
‘Roz will never forgive either of us. We may as well make the most of it.’
‘But I have to work with her.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Michael, of course I do.’
‘You could do something quite different.’
‘Really? Like what?’
‘You could sell up and marry me.’
‘Oh, don’t be so absurd.’
‘That’s not a very flattering response to a proposal.’
‘You know you didn’t mean it.’
‘I might have done.’
There was a long silence.
‘Phaedria, I’m coming over anyway. I’ve decided. I’ll be in LA tonight. I shall be under your window at moonrise with a violin. You can turn me away if you like.’
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. ‘Oh, all right. I shouldn’t say that, but all right.’
‘Bye, honeybunch.’
‘Goodbye, Michael.’
She put the phone down smiling, wondering where in the name of heaven, or hell for that matter, this was going to lead her. It rang again almost immediately. It was Father Kennedy.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you are still here. I wondered if I should catch you.’
‘Yes, Father, I don’t leave until Thursday.’
‘Ah, then, I’m glad I rang. You were asking me for a photograph of Mr Dashwood?’
Phaedria’s heart began to thump rather painfully.
‘Yes. Yes, I was.’
‘Well I remembered. Of course I have one. It was taken at Miles’ graduation. I took it myself. I found it last night, turning out my desk. Now would you like to see it? It’s a very nice picture of Miles as well.’
‘Yes, Father, I would,’ she said slowly. ‘I would really like to see it very much. Perhaps I could come down and get it this morning, after I’ve been to the hospital for Julia.’
Miles was rather quiet going across London in the car. Roz looked at him.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure. Just a little – well, nervous I guess. About what I’m going to hear.’
‘I promise you,’ said Roz, putting her hand on his arm, ‘there is absolutely nothing to be nervous or worried about. The news is good. Interesting but good.’
Henry was waiting for them in the doorway of his offices in Lincoln’s Inn, looking properly and impressively serious when the car drew up.
‘Roz! Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Henry. May I introduce Mr Wilburn?’
‘How do you do?’ said Henry, taking Miles’ outstretched hand.
‘Hi,’ said Miles.
‘Come along in,’ said Henry, leading the way.
Miles came out of Henry’s office a while later looking a little shaken.
‘Henry!’ said Roz, ‘the poor man’s as white as a sheet. What on earth have you been doing to him?’
‘He hasn’t been doing anything to me,’ said Miles, mustering a smile. ‘Just breaking the news.’
‘And?’
‘And I think I need a while to take it in. Suddenly I do feel rather tired.’
‘Look,’ said Roz. ‘Let’s go back to Dover Street. There’s a bed up in the penthouse, you can have a nap there if you want to. Meanwhile I’ll get my secretary to book you into a hotel. Then you can make any calls or whatever you want to do.’
‘OK,’ said Miles. ‘Thanks.’
‘Er, ROz, could I have a word?’ said Henry. ‘About the contracts.’
His rather long, solemn face distorted into a strange grimace; Roz suddenly realized he was trying to wink. With a great effort she nodded solemnly.
‘Of course. Excuse us, will you Miles?’ She followed Henry into his office. ‘Now then, Henry, what do you think?’
‘Well, he does seem to be an extremely nice young man, and I really have no doubt at all that he is indeed Miles Wilburn,’ said Henry. ‘He showed me his birth certificate and his passport, and a letter from his college professor at Berkeley. His story about this Dashwood character is so extraordinary and so consistent with everything that Bill Wilburn said, it just has to be true, whatever it means. We now know so much about Miles, through the various stray ends everyone has picked up, your detective, and C. J.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Roz with a slightly sour expression. ‘C. J.’s detective work was very impressive. I’m surprised he shared it with you, when he seemed to be acting on Phaedria’s behalf.’
‘Roz, it’s in everybody’s interest to get this thing sorted out,’ said Henry rather severely, stifling the memory of his early favouritism of Phaedria’s cause. ‘C. J. felt we should pool our knowledge and I think he was right. Especially with Lady Morell being away and so on.’
‘Quite,’ said Roz tersely. ‘Well anyway, Henry, what happened?’
‘Well, I told him simply that he had been left two per cent of your father’s company. And that on account of the extraordinary structure of the will, that it was a controlling two per cent. I thought that was quite enough for now. Well of course there isn’t any more to be said anyway. And he hasn’t been left any money as such. Oh, and I asked him again if he had any idea who your father was, if he was quite sure he had never met him, why he thought he could possibly have been left this – this legacy.’
‘And?’
‘And of course he hadn’t.’
‘Well,’ said Roz. ‘Perhaps in the fullness of time we shall all find out.’
‘I certainly think he’s feeling a little shell-shocked.’
‘I expect he is, poor chap. Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.’
Going back in the car, Miles said, ‘I feel like that guy in the fairy story. You know, the one who was a frog and then the princess kissed him and he turned into a prince. He must have felt pretty confused as well.’
‘Goodness,’ said Roz. ‘I hope Henry didn’t kiss you.’
Miles laughed. ‘No. But you know what I mean.’
‘I think I do. It’s an extraordinary business, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is. I have to tell you my initial reaction is to just give it back.’
‘Is it now?’
‘Yeah. I don’t want to get mixed up in some billion-pound company. It isn’t me.’
‘Well, don’t think about giving it away, for a start,’ said Roz briskly. ‘At least sell it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Miles doubtfully. ‘Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘And then,’ said Roz carefully, ‘who would you sell it to?’
‘I don’t know. Who would you suggest?’
‘Well,’ said Roz, carefully lighthearted. ‘Me of course.’
He turned to look at her, not lighthearted at all, very very serious. ‘Would you want it?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Well because – oh, dear, Henry obviously hadn’t explained things properly to you at all. That would immediately give me the controlling interest in the company.’
‘Yes, he did explain that. Sort of. But why would you want that?’
‘If you can’t see that,’ said Roz, equally serious, ‘there’s no point my trying to explain it. But anyway, much as I want it, I wouldn’t dream of letting you hand it over just like that. Whatever you may hear about me in this company, and I do assure you, you will hear a great deal, not all of it, indeed very little of it, good, I do actually have a few scruples. I wouldn’t dream of letting you hand it over just like that. I would like you to sell it to me because I had persuaded you to for good sound commercial reasons, but I have no desire whatsoever to just walk away with it and leave you wondering why you let it go. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Miles. He looked at her consideringly. ‘You’re kind of an interesting person.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Tell me about the other one.’
‘Which other one?’
‘The one who has the other forty-nine per cent.’
‘Oh,’ said Roz. ‘Phaedria. The grieving widow.’
‘Sounds like you don’t have too much time for her.’
‘No,’ said Roz. ‘No, I don’t. Maybe you should get someone else to tell you about her.’
‘So she’s where?’
‘She’s in California. Taking an unconscionably long time to recover from having a baby.’
‘Why did she have it there?’
‘Because she’s a fool,’ said Roz.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Miles easily. ‘I would think it a pretty nice place to have a baby. I plan to bring my children up there.’
‘Do you now? Do you plan to have a lot of children?’ asked Roz, eager to draw the conversation away from Phaedria Morell.
‘Yup. Like all only children, I yearn for brothers and sisters. And like all only children, I yearn for a large family of my own.’
‘I see. Is this large family imminent?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Miles. ‘Candy – my girlfriend – is only eighteen. Her dad is pretty much against us getting married. He’s a rich guy,’ he added. ‘He has a big business.’
‘Really. What’s his name?’
‘Mason McCall.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Roz. ‘Sweeties.’
Miles looked at her with new respect. ‘You guys really all have got it together, haven’t you?’
‘We have to,’ said Roz.
When they got back to Dover Street, a pale
blue Rolls was outside.
‘Goodness,’ said Roz. ‘News travels fast. That’s my grandmother’s car. She must have heard you’ve been found, and come to meet you.’
She was right. Letitia was standing at Roz’s desk, dressed in a cream silk suit, leafing happily through Roz’s in-tray.
‘Granny Letitia! How lovely to see you!’ said Roz, kissing her fondly. ‘How are you?’
‘Perfectly well, darling, thank you. I haven’t seen as much of you as I would like, or that great-granddaughter of mine.’ She looked at Roz critically. ‘You look very thin. And tired. You’ve been overworking.’
Only Roz could have fully appreciated the wealth of meaning and double meaning in Letitia’s voice; she smiled at her brilliantly. ‘Not really. You look wonderful. Whose suit?’
‘Do you like it? Thank you, darling. Bruce Oldfield. Such a charming young man. Speaking of charming young men,’ she said, turning the full force of her violet eyes, her dazzling smile on Miles, ‘you must be Miles.’
‘I am,’ he said, looking at her bemusedly, holding out his hand. ‘And it certainly is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you. I am Letitia Morell. Founding grandmother of this company. So they finally found you. My goodness, there is so much we want to know, and you must be worn out, poor chap. And hungry, I should think. Roz, why don’t we take him to lunch you and I? We could go to Langan’s.’
Lunch was a great success. Letitia grilled Miles through the first course, about his childhood, his growing up in California, and in particular his days on the beach (‘it sounds wonderful’), and then he grilled her through the second about her days as a debutante, life in London between the wars, and the Prince of Wales with whom she claimed an ever closer acquaintance with every year that passed. Eventually they parted – Letitia reluctantly to First Street, Roz to the office, and Miles to his much-postponed sleep.
Miles let himself into the penthouse again, and walked into the little bedroom. He felt utterly and unaccustomedly exhausted. He supposed it was a combination of the long night flight, the champagne at lunch and the considerable trauma of the morning.
This really was all something else. It was like some kind of a bad B movie. Billy hadn’t been so far off when he had said something about him being Lord Fauntleroy. What a mob to get mixed up with. It was dynamite. There was that nice sexy bitch downstairs, nothing wrong with her, Miles thought easily, that a good screw and a bit of TLC wouldn’t sort out; the funny old lawyer, straight out of Dickens, and the marvellous old lady. She was something else. He would like to see a great deal more of her. And then there was the other one, the missing one, who Roz was clearly dying to feed ground glass to, three times a day before meals. What could she be like? The old lady was obviously very fond of her.
Old Sins Page 94