‘I do have one kind of an idea.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If you went and worked for this company, you’d have some money, wouldn’t you?’
‘I guess so. But I don’t intend to.’
‘Hang on. I mean, you’d be a pretty rich guy that way too. And you could keep your shares, and then you wouldn’t have to choose.’
‘Candy, that is really dumb. I don’t want to work for the company. It’s awful in there. Believe me. Anyway, I don’t want to work for any company.’
‘Oh, all right.’ She sighed. ‘It just seemed a kind of a solution. And I’d quite like to live in London for a bit.’
‘We could do that anyway, if you want to. But I am not going to go and work in that hellhole.’
‘Not even for a while? I’d kind of like being shacked up with a tycoon.’
‘Candy, I’m getting jacked off with this. Just shut up, will you? I’m not going to work there, OK?’
‘OK.’ She looked up at him, and smiled and then slithered slowly down in the bed, kissing, licking his chest, his stomach, and then with exquisite slowness and delicacy, began lapping at his penis with her tongue. She would change his mind. She always did. And this was one of the ways she did it.
Roz was riding in the park when she had the idea. She had taken to riding early in the morning recently; it cleared her head for the day, made her feel better, and in any case she loved horses: she had forgotten quite how much until she cantered along the Row the first morning, savouring the uniquely satisfying pleasure of feeling a powerful, well-schooled horse beneath her; she resolved to make the time to find a house in the country for the weekend, and take possession of the horses her father had left her. It would be lovely for Miranda, too, who was nearly old enough to ride, and was proving a tough, courageous little person (more me than her father there, Roz thought with satisfaction).
Then she sighed and her heart dropped leaden-like to the bottom of her new riding boots. Any thought of the future led her to thoughts of Michael, and thence into depression; she had not heard from him again, and she knew she would not, that this time she had gone too far, abused their relationship, doubted his word, humiliated him publicly. She had decided with hindsight that probably he and Phaedria had been telling the literal truth; it would have been unlike him to have started what amounted to an adulterous affair without at least some kind of an early warning to her; and it would have been so crass, so insensitive to have started it with Phaedria of all people at this particular time in all their lives, that it really didn’t bear too close scrutiny.
And here it was, two weeks before Christmas, and they were in the middle of this nightmare and no immediate hope of it being resolved in any way. If ever. The more she thought about it, the more she got to know Miles, the more hopeless a prospect that seemed to be. He was so transparently nice and guileless, he wasn’t going to be able to bear to do the dirty, as he saw it, on either of them. What he really wanted was a small sum of money, nothing like the eighty million he was going to inherit, and to be left alone. Roz would gladly have given it to him anyway, just handed it over to put him out of his misery, but that wasn’t going to solve anything for Phaedria and herself. Someone, somehow, had to break this deadlock before they all went mad: but how?
A thought suddenly came to Roz that was so petrifyingly obvious that she froze rigidly on her horse. He sensed her withdrawal, her sudden lack of empathy with him, and tossed his head, pulling at the bit. ‘Sorry, old thing,’ said Roz absently, reining him in, leaning down, patting his neck. ‘Sorry.’
She walked him very slowly along the Row, thinking, her mind racing furiously. Suppose, just suppose, that someone else offered to buy Miles’ share. An outside bidder. Someone nobody knew. Well, it was possible. Why shouldn’t they? Nobody really knew about it at the moment, but someone could have got to hear. Miles would sell gladly. He couldn’t wait to get back to California and shake the dust of the whole thing off his feet. And he wouldn’t have to make any decision. He would be spared all the trauma and he would simply get the money. It would be marvellous for him. Roz suddenly saw, very vividly, Miles’ glorious heartbreaking smile, and smiled herself. She also found herself dwelling briefly on Miles as a man. She did find him horribly disturbing. It was his sexual self-confidence that really got to her, more than his charm or his looks, the way he so overtly put himself on the line, told her, quite frequently (with a look, a smile, a remark, a touch) that he could, should she wish it, take her, please her, delight her. And the slight regret he always managed to convey each time she turned down his tacit, delicious invitations. Probably, she thought, if she had in fact accepted them or even one of them, he would be horrified, would close up, turn away, hurry home to Candy, and in her present state with her own self-confidence at a low ebb, she was not about to put it to the test. Nevertheless, he remained there, in her subconscious and her sub-senses, a source of turbulence and odd pleasure. Keeping company with her fear . . . So: present him with an escape route, in the form of a buyer for his share of the company, and he would breathe a sigh of relief and escape. And the escape route could be so extremely anonymous, and probably very formal, a small merchant bank or consortium of people, that he would never dream of looking into it, behind it, he would simply, gratefully sell. At a very good price: Roz had no intention of depriving Miles of a cent of his due. And then, in the fullness of time, the small merchant bank or consortium would be persuaded to sell its share back – for an even better price – to its rightful owner. The person who should have had it in the first place. Who was the true heir to the company? Who could run it with more skill, more understanding, more creativity, than anyone? The daughter of the founder. Rosamund Emerson. Née Morell.
Oh, God, it was brilliant. Brilliant. But would she get away with it? Would anyone suspect? What if they did as long as it was after the sale had gone safely through? It wasn’t fraudulent. Well, maybe morally, but not technically. She was going to give Miles the best possible price. The consortium or third party would genuinely exist. It would emerge out of nowhere, probably from another country, maybe Switzerland, with an eye on the potential of the company. It was an entirely natural acquisition. The board probably wouldn’t oppose it. People like Freddy Branksome and Richard Brookes might even welcome it. They were very weary of the current situation. Even if they did oppose it, they couldn’t do anything. The company was a private one. It was entirely up to Miles. The difficult thing would be ensuring he didn’t suspect anything. But then, he would be trying not to. He would be grateful, eager to get out of the stranglehold. So he might not look at it too hard. Phaedria wouldn’t be able to do anything. They were Miles’ shares. Nobody, nobody at all would be able to do anything.
There was no doubt about it, it was a stroke of genius. She knew it would work. It had to. And then, then it would all be as good as hers.
Miles flew back into London two days later. Having had to confront the awful fear, he felt he had to force the others to do the same. Candy was right, it was very unlikely, totally unlikely that none of them had already thought of it. They might even have discussed it amongst themselves, decided he would have not considered it, and that he should not be party to any of those discussions. The thought both irritated and amused him.
He phoned Letitia as soon as he had checked back into Claridge’s.
‘Hi, it’s Miles. Could I come and talk to you?’
‘Miles! How nice. I thought we’d lost you for a while. Yes, of course. I’ve had my lunch, I’m afraid, but I’m sure we can find you something.’
‘Thanks.’
Letitia put down the phone with a sense of foreboding. He had sounded uncharacteristically purposeful. She had a horrible feeling she knew what he wanted to talk to her about.
‘Mrs Morell,’ he said, lounging (none too purposefully) on her sofa, his long legs thrust out in front of him, ‘there’s something I really think we should all look at.’
‘Yes?’
‘It �
� well, it may seem a bit – well, upsetting for you.’ His blue eyes were wide, troubled. ‘But I really have to talk it through.’
‘Miles,’ she said, smiling at him gently, ‘I’ve learnt, over a long life, that you can’t run away from being upset. It’s better to confront it and get it over with.’
‘Yeah, well, I wish I’d confronted this a bit sooner. And got it over with. And you’re the only person who can help. At least at this stage. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘OK. Well – that is – oh, hell, this sure is hard.’
Letitia smiled. ‘Let me see if I can help you. Would it have anything to do with you and – my son?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, it would.’
‘You think maybe you might be – his son?’
He stared at her, very seriously at first, then his face slowly softening into relief and humour.
‘You really are a great person. I thought you might have the vapours or something.’
‘I don’t have the vapours very easily. Besides, why should I have the vapours at the thought of you being my grandson? It’s a delightful thought. I agree, with certain complications attached.’
‘Yeah, well . . . Anyway, yes, I do think that. That he might be my father. I hate the idea. I can’t tell you how I hate it, but – oh, I’m sorry, that sounds really gross . . .’
‘Not at all. You loved both your parents. They were obviously very special people. You want to belong to them.’
‘Yeah. That’s exactly right. It’s kind of nice of you to understand. But – well, it does seem to make some sense of it all. That’s all. And I thought you might be able to help me find out how likely it was.’
‘I think I can. I shall have to talk to the others, though. Is that all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have thought about it too. In the end, however logical it might seem, I decided it was unlikely. You certainly don’t look like Julian. But I’m sure we can establish the truth beyond any doubt if we really put our minds to it.’
‘All right. Thank you. I can’t tell you how much better I feel already.’
‘Good,’ said Letitia, ‘I think I do too. Now, you pour yourself a glass of wine, and one for me, I got some Californian chardonnay especially to make you feel at home, and I will ring Eliza. First of all, though, just tell me again when your birthday is.’
‘January second, 1958.’
Eliza and Peveril were just finishing a very late lunch when Letitia rang. Peveril was anxious to be off, he had planned to spend the whole day with the gamekeeper stalking his deer, and Eliza had detained him that morning in bed, and then right through lunch discussing the possible colour scheme for the morning room she was redecorating; he heard her greeting her mother-in-law with great relief, knowing the call would be a long one and afford him ample time to escape. There were times, even in flagrante, when he felt it might have been better to have married someone slightly more in sympathy with his way of life, although he always tried to crush the feelings immediately as ungrateful.
‘Darling, of course I’d love to come down, but I really have to ask Peveril,’ she was saying. ‘Just a minute, he’s trying to say something.’
‘You just go ahead and do whatever you want, my dear,’ said Peveril, walking with what he hoped was not indecent haste from the room. ‘Fine by me. Plenty to do.’
Eliza blew him a kiss and returned to Letitia.
‘He says he doesn’t mind. I think actually he finds me a bit of a strain, Letitia.’
‘He wouldn’t be the only one, darling.’
‘Thank you. When do you want me to come?’
‘Tomorrow if you can. I have Miles here. He’s worried about something.’
‘Ah,’ said Eliza. ‘All right, Letitia. If it means I can see something of Miles, just try and keep me away.’
She arrived the following night for dinner, looking radiant and chic in a white damask jacket and tapestry trousers, her silvery hair coiled up on top of her head.
‘Eliza, you look divine,’ said Letitia. ‘Where on earth did you get those clothes, marooned up there in the Highlands?’
‘I didn’t get them in the Highlands. I’m surprised at you, Letitia, even thinking such a thing. They’re from Crolla. I just popped in on the way over. I knew you’d be looking marvellous – which you are, I don’t know quite what Chanel would do without your custom – and I wasn’t going to be outdone. Do you like it?’
‘I love it. I shall go tomorrow. Drink, darling?’
‘Champagne, please. Where is Miles? I hope I haven’t gone to all this trouble for nothing.’
‘No, he’s coming over later. I wanted to have a word with you first. Eliza – have you – that is, yes of course you have, you must have done – have you – thought that Miles might be . . .’
Her voice tailed off. Eliza looked at her in amusement, taking the glass of champagne she held out.
‘Can I guess what you were going to say? That Miles is Julian’s son? Yes, of course I’ve thought it. Straight away. It seemed such an obvious solution. But I didn’t want to worry anyone in case none of you had thought it too. Yes, I’ve thought about it a lot.’
‘And? How do you feel about it? Does it upset you? And do you think it’s possible?’
‘Well, I’m afraid nothing Julian did has any power to hurt or worry me any more. I think it’s just ridiculous, the whole thing. But yes, I suppose it’s very possible. Quite likely in fact. What about you? Does it hurt you?’
‘A bit.’ She looked troubled and very old suddenly. ‘He’s just turning into more and more of a villain before my eyes. And I loved him so much.’
‘Oh, darling, don’t be sad. Of course you loved him. He was worth loving. That doesn’t change the fact that he was – well, difficult.’
Letitia smiled a little weakly. ‘I think difficult is a serious understatement. But all right, I’ll accept that for now. I just do hope it’s not true. But I think we have to try and find out. Miles has been worrying about it. And I daresay Roz and Phaedria have too. And we’ve none of us said a word, afraid to frighten each other. Silly, really. It has to be faced.’
‘Yes. Anyway, what do you want me to do?’
‘Well obviously, darling, try and help me work out where Julian was in – let me see, in late March, early April, in 1957, the year before Miles was born. Nobody else can. With the possible exception of Camilla.’
‘Oh, God, I’d hate to have to ask her.’
‘Well, we may have to. We can get C. J. to do it.’
‘Of course. Well, let’s think. March. March. He went in – when – very early spring, didn’t he? No, it wasn’t. It was actually the autumn before. So he was definitely spending most of his time there. My birthday is in April. I know he was home for that. I can remember being so pleased that he came back. Roz was only tiny. But that’s the middle of April. And he was there pretty solidly before that. Goodness, Letitia, I don’t know. I don’t seem to be able to help at all.’
‘I feel very much afraid,’ said Letitia darkly, ‘we may be driven to Camilla.’
C. J. was in his study when Eliza phoned. He was happy these days, happier than he had been for a long time. He felt he was gradually re-establishing himself as a person in his own right, the sort of person he would more have wished to be; he was happy with Camilla, he was planning on moving to New York to be with her, he was gradually shedding his associations with the Morell family with a sense of great relief, as he might have done a badly fitting, unflattering suit of clothes.
‘C. J. How are you, darling?’
‘I’m well, thank you, Eliza. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, darling, something madly intriguing, actually. It’s something to do with Miles. And Camilla. Listen, C. J., have you ever wondered exactly who Miles might be? You have? I thought so. Well, now listen . . .’
‘Yes? Yes, this is Lady Morell? Who? Oh, yes, of course I’ll take it. Michael? Hallo
, how are you? Good. Yes, of course I’m missing you. What? No, Michael, I just can’t come for Christmas. I’m sorry. I’d love to, but I can’t. What? Well, because I’ve arranged to have my father down to Marriotts, and although I could easily tell him it’s still June and put him off for several months, everybody else might notice. Yes, I do want to see you, terribly, but it can’t be at Christmas. Sorry? Well, what about Roz? Don’t you think she might hear about it? I just can’t contemplate a showdown with her now, Michael, not with everything at fever pitch. Yes, I know you’re at fever pitch, but you’ll just have to wait. What? Well of course you can wait. Try a cold shower or two. Anyway, what about Little Michael and Baby Sharon? They won’t be too pleased to find me there, at the bottom of the tree on Christmas Eve. Nor will their mother. It’s just a hopeless idea, I’m afraid. Lovely but hopeless. Anyway, I don’t want to be away from Julia, her first Christmas. No, I know she won’t know anything about it, but I will. Oh, God, Michael, just stop it, will you? I’m not coming. Yes, I know I’m a hard woman. What? Oh, now that just might be possible, I suppose. Oh, God, it would be so lovely. I wonder, I just wonder if I could. What do you think? Do you think anyone would know? I suppose not. They’ll all be staying up in Scotland for Hogmanay. Yes, I really, really think I could. Oh, it would be so exciting. No, I think I’ll leave her behind. It’ll only be two days or so, won’t it? She’s going off me now anyway. She’s hit the bottle. I’ve gone down three whole sizes. Well, you may have preferred it, but that wasn’t the object of the exercise. Yes, all right, I do promise. I’ll book – no, on second thoughts, you’d better do it, book the flight right now. New Year’s Eve. Early. Early as you can.’
C. J. had phoned Camilla hesitantly. He hated reminding her of her early days with Julian Morell; it did not upset her in the least, but it certainly served to upset him. Apart from anything else, he did not greatly care to reflect that he had been a very small boy at the time. It made him feel somehow foolish and seriously disadvantaged.
Camilla, however, was quite unmoved. ‘Dare I ask you why you want to know what he was doing that year?’ she said with what was for her a considerable flash of humour. ‘I wonder, could it be anything to do with Miles Wilburn’s birthday?’
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