Old Sins (22 page)

‘New ground is its lifeblood. But it will be expensive, won’t it? How are you going to finance it?’

‘I think I can get the money in New York. If not, I’ll raise it here. I’m sure I can.’

‘What does Eliza – Mrs Morell think about it?’

‘I haven’t talked to her about it,’ said Julian shortly.

‘I see.’

‘I’m going to have a brandy. Do you want anything?’

‘Of course not. I never drink at lunch time.’

‘Or any other time, I know. Except Bucks Fizz of course.’

‘Yes,’ she said smiling at him, able at last to remember that evening with pleasure rather than pain. ‘But not at lunch time. Anyway, you go ahead. I’ll have a cup of tea.’

‘Now that really will upset the Caprice. How’s the Labour Party?’

‘It’s fine. I – I hear Mrs Morell is taking an interest in it.’

‘Oh,’ said Julian lightly, ‘only its politicians. She likes having them at her dinner table.’

‘What is Foot really like?’

‘Absolutely charming.’ He was clearly impatient of Eliza’s political leanings. ‘What about you? Are you going to end up an MP, do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said very seriously. ‘I’d like to, I really would. I do love politics, and I’d enjoy getting something done about some of the things I care about. But I don’t know if I’d ever manage it, they’re not too keen on women in the Labour Party, you know, although they certainly ought to be. It would be such a huge struggle to get adopted even, years of fighting and in-fighting, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that. And it would mean my giving up my job, probably, and I certainly don’t know if I could face that.’

‘Well, I certainly couldn’t,’ said Julian.

He spoke very seriously. There was a silence.

‘Well, anyway,’ said Susan lightly, ‘it’s out of the question at the moment. The girls are still at home. Maybe when they’re grown up.’

‘Maybe. I must say I can’t quite adjust to the thought of you shirking a fight. You used to thrive on them.’

‘I know. But I’m older now. Maybe a bit wiser. Anyway, for the next two or three years my work on the South Ealing council will keep me quite busy enough. Then I’ll see.’

Julian looked at her. She was one of those women who improve with time, who grow into their looks and their style. When she had been young, her features had been too angular, too harsh for beauty, prettiness even, and she had had neither the money nor the skill to improve upon the raw material. She was still very thin, and not classically beautiful, but she had developed an elegance, she wore clothes well; her hair hung smoothly on her shoulders, a beautifully cut bright brown. She dressed simply but with distinct style; today she was in the shirt dress so beloved of the fifties, in soft navy wool, with a full skirt that swirled almost to her ankles, and pulled in tightly at the waist with a wide, soft red leather belt, and plain red court shoes. Her skin was pale, but clear, her eyes a dazzling light blue; on her mouth, her most remarkable feature, she wore a
shiny, bright pink lipstick. She looked expensive, glamorous even; what was missing, Julian thought to himself, was jewellery, she never wore any, and her look needed it, it would suit her and her stark style.

‘You look terrific,’ he said with perfect truth. ‘Is that the new autumn coral?’

‘It is. Mango, it’s called. I like it best out of the range. Mum says it’s tarty, so I know it must be good and strong.’

‘It’s terrific. Sarsted’s doing a good job, don’t you think?’

‘Very good.’

‘And how is Mum?’

‘Much the same.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Well, I don’t have to live with her any more.’

‘Susan,’ said Julian suddenly. ‘Why don’t you come to New York with me? I could use your opinion, and it would be fun.’

Susan looked at him very steadily for a long time.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said at last.

‘Why not?’

‘You know why not.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘Don’t you want to come?’

‘Oh, Julian,’ she said, with a sigh that seemed to consume her entire body, ‘I’d love to. You know I would. But I can’t. And I do think it’s a terrific idea, your store. Now let’s get back. It’s late.’

‘I do hope,’ he said, half smiling, half serious, ‘you know what you’re turning down. A whole new chapter in your life.’

‘Julian, don’t play games with me.’

‘I’m not playing games,’ he said, ‘I mean what I say. I think I’ll need you there.’

She looked at him sharply, trying to interpret his words, to disentangle his motives. It was not easy, and most people didn’t begin to try; he had a capacity to talk on two or even three levels at once, leading people deliberately to think that he was talking business when he meant pleasure, that he was serious when he was not, that he was careless when he was deeply concerned. He had brought it to a fine art; he used it to trap people, to confuse them, to disorient them; and it meant he could play cat
and mouse in a business or a social or sexual context until he had manoeuvred his opponents into a position from which it was very hard for them to escape, without looking foolish. Susan was one of the very few people who was unfazed by this; she dealt with it as she did with everything: directly.

‘Julian, if you’re tempting me with promotion, some lofty new position, I would like it spelt out before I waste weeks of my very busy life finding out exactly what it might be, and if you’re tempting me with yourself I can resist. Just.’ She smiled at him. ‘So either way, probably we should get back to the office.’

He sighed. ‘Will I ever get the better of you, Susan? Persuade you to do something you don’t totally approve of?’

‘Certainly not. Are you coming back? Or are you going to waste even more company time than you have already?’

‘You go on,’ he said, ‘I’ll follow.’

When her taxi was out of sight he walked along Piccadilly, up Regent Street and into Mappin and Webb. He spent a long time there, looking, selecting, and rejecting; finally he chose a two-strand pearl necklace with a diamond clasp and a pair of pearl and gold stud earrings. When he got back to the offices he went into her room and put the box on her desk.

‘What’s that?’

‘Thank-you present.’

‘What for?’

‘For liking my idea. For not coming to New York. And because you deserve it. No strings. But I shall be very offended if you don’t take it.’

Susan opened the box, looked at the pearls in silence for a long time, and then at him. Her eyes were very bright and big, and suspiciously moist. ‘You won’t have to be offended. Of course I’ll take them. And wear them every day. They’re simply beautiful. Thank you very much, I – I just don’t know what to say.’

‘Well,’ said Julian lightly, ‘you are simply beautiful too. So you suit one another, you and the pearls. I’ll keep you informed about New York. Just in the hope you might change your mind.’

But they both knew she wouldn’t.

New York in the autumn of 1956 was a heady place. It had taken a long time to recover from the depression; in 1939 half a
million people in the state were still receiving public assistance. But by the mid-forties the big business giants – IBM, Xerox, General Electric – were all becoming corporations; a new governor, Thomas Dewey, had set schemes for state universities and new highways into motion – six were built in the decade following the war – and Harriman and Rockefeller poured money into the state. In 1955 the new state thruway from New York City to Buffalo was opened, and soon after that construction began on the St Lawrence Seaway.

The new highways meant the real birth of the commuter to New York, and the birth of the suburb; paving a way for ambition, opportunity, and the American dream; they also paved an increasing drift, for the less fortunate, to the ever-growing ghettos. But in the commercial heart of the city there was money, real money, more and more of it, up for grabs. And Julian Morell was in grabbing mood.

He stayed, with Philip Mainwaring, at the Pierre Hotel, shrine to luxury and a slightly old-fashioned glamour, just on Central Park – and an inspiration for their cause, filled as it was with spoilt, lavished-upon women and extravagant, indulgent, men.

They had a huge success with Juliana; Bergdorf’s, Bonwit’s and Sak’s all bought it, and promised Julian special displays and promotions when he launched his new young perfume,
Mademoiselle Je
, in the spring. He set up a recruitment drive for consultants selling his range in the stores, interviewing them every morning in his suite; he was looking not just for women who could sell the products but who could communicate with the customers, sympathize with their anxieties, reassure them, make intelligent suggestions. It was a difficult task; he was looking for a type of woman who would not normally consider selling cosmetics behind a counter. He had managed to find them in London, but it was more difficult to find this particular breed in New York, mecca of the hard sell. At last, after days of intensive interviewing, Julian found a handful and hired them at just over half again the salary all their rivals were getting and said he would pay them no commission. ‘That way,’ he said to Philip, ‘they aren’t hammering away pushing unsuitable stuff at women who don’t want any more than advice. It works in London; it’ll work here.’ Then he turned his attention to looking for his building.

They worked their way steadily through central New York for days, marvelling at the soaring erratic beauty of the place; up and down the huge avenues. Sixth and Fifth, Lexington and Park; down the side streets; examining new buildings, conversions, buildings in use as offices, even already as shops. It was exhausting, depressing and began to feel hopeless.

‘Maybe,’ said Philip as they walked slowly back to the Pierre one evening, ‘we should think of building.’

‘No,’ said Julian, ‘no, I know we shouldn’t build. I know we need something with a past.’

‘Julian, we must have looked at everything with a past in New York City and a lot without a future,’ said Philip, ‘this place doesn’t exist, you have to rethink.’

‘No,’ said Julian, ‘I’m not going to rethink. We’ll find it. There’s no rush. Come on, let’s have a martini, it’ll cheer you up, and then I’ll see if anything’s come in for us during the day.’

He ordered two martinis and went to the desk to pick up his mail: a huge armful of real-estate agents’ envelopes. He carried them over to Philip in the bar, laughing. ‘Come on, Philip, plenty to do. We needn’t be bored.’

‘I long to be bored,’ said Philip gloomily, downing his martini in one.

‘Oh, nonsense. Where’s your spirit of adventure? Have another one of those to stiffen your sinews a bit and – Oh, look, here’s something from a residential agent. That’s interesting.’

He opened the envelope. A photograph fell out of a beautiful house, about a hundred years old, tall and graceful, five storeys high, with beautiful windows, classic proportions. It was just off Park Avenue on 57th, and it was being offered for sale as a possible small hotel. Julian looked at it for a long time in silence.

‘That’s it,’ he said, ‘that’s my building. Jesus, that’s it. What do they want for it?’

‘Julian, that’s a house,’ said Philip. ‘You can’t convert that into a shop.’

‘Of course I can,’ said Julian, smiling at him radiantly, ‘a house is exactly what I want. I don’t know why I didn’t realize before. Come on, Philip, let’s go and look at it now.’

‘But it’s dark,’ said Philip plaintively, ‘we won’t be able to see it.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, man, don’t be so negative. Haven’t you heard of electric light? It’s all the rage. Come on, we can do it easily before dinner.’

They got in a cab and travelled the few blocks down to 57th. There they got out and walked slowly along the street until they reached the house. It was nestled between two other, taller buildings, a small elegant jewel. A light hung over the front door like a canopy, showing off its perfect shape, its delicate fanlight. It was a very lovely house. Julian looked at it in silence; he crossed the street and looked at it still longer. Then he crossed again and knocked at the door.

It was over two years before the store opened. An expensive two years.

The first thing Julian had to do was find the money to buy the house, and to do the conversion. Most of the larger banks were not over-helpful. Morell’s, and indeed Juliana did not have the substance, hold the authority in New York, that they did in London. Julian tried the merchant banks in London, but they were reluctant to put money into an untried venture in New York.

He was just about to try to raise a personal loan when he was put in touch with a young man called Scott Emerson, who headed up one of the investment divisions at the Chase Manhattan Bank and who was earning a reputation as having a shrewd eye for a clever investment. Julian went to see him, armed with photographs, cash flows, prospectuses, his own company history and his burning, driving enthusiasm; he came away with a cautious promise – ‘a definite maybe’ Julian told Susan and Letitia on the phone to London – and a life-long friendship. Scott lived with his wife Madeleine and their two children (‘Nearly four,’ he told Julian proudly over lunch that first day. ‘Madeleine’s expecting twins’) on Long Island; he invited Julian to spend the weekend there, and Julian fell promptly in love with American family life. Unlike most Englishmen, he found the way American children were encouraged to talk, to join in a conversation, to consider themselves as important as adults, charming and interesting; he thought of his small daughter brought up by Eliza and her nanny in the nurseries at the top of the house, and resolved to change things.

‘You must bring Eliza to stay here next time you come,’ said Madeleine, smiling at him over Saturday breakfast. ‘We would just love to meet her, she sounds so interesting and so young. It’s quite an undertaking, marrying a man with such a huge and demanding business at her age. She’s obviously a coper.’

‘Well, she’s very busy,’ said Julian, carefully ignoring the comment on Eliza’s capacities as a wife. ‘Our child is very young. But yes, I’m sure she’d like New York, and of course to meet you. Perhaps for the opening of the store.’

‘Well, that’s –’ Madeleine had been going to say ‘two years off but decided against it – ‘a really good idea.’ Something in Julian Morell’s face told her he was not a man to argue with, especially on the subject of his wife.