Old Sins (68 page)

‘Where did you go to school?’

‘In London.’

‘St Paul’s, I suppose.’

‘Well, yes.’

He liked the way she played it down.

‘Why did you come here then?’

‘Oh, I like newspapers and magazines. I was a reporter for the university paper. I edited my school magazine. But I’m not sure if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.’

‘What else are you interested in?’

‘Fashion. I wondered about buying.’

‘While you’re wondering, how would you like to try a stint here?’

‘What as? A typist?’

‘Well, typist, cum dogsbody, cum very occasional junior reporter.’

‘I certainly would. I’d love it. Thank you very much, Mr Morgan.’

‘You won’t earn much.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Good.’

She had very quickly stopped being a typist and a dogsbody, forgot about fashion buying and became a full-time reporter. She worked very hard, she didn’t mind what she did, and she was nice to have around. She was a touch abrasive, and she knew her value, but it did not make her arrogant, she mixed in with the others, she learnt to drink and swear and swop filthy jokes, she became in short one of the blokes. And she was extremely happy.

Barry grew very fond of her; often, when everyone else had gone home, they would go to the pub and talk. She was a good listener; almost without realizing it he had told her everything about his marriage, his career, his love for the
Echo
, and his one great terror in life, which was retirement.

It was a long time before he found out much about her. It came out gradually in bits and pieces, tiny pieces of confidences spilled over just one too many beers, or in the intimacy born of working closely together long and late. She was an only child and she had looked after her father ever since she was ten years old, when her mother had run away to South America with his best friend and had never properly communicated with either her husband or her child again.

Augustus Blenheim was an academic, and earned his living lecturing in literature and writing biographies of virtually unknown writers; it was him that Phaedria had to thank for her name. ‘No it isn’t Phaedra,’ she would say patiently, a hundred, a thousand times over the years, ‘it’s Phaedria. Different lady.’

And then she would explain (or perhaps not explain, according to her audience) that Phaedria was one of the characters in Spenser’s
Faerie Queen
, and the personification of Wantonness; why any father, most people would wonder, while keeping their wonderings to themselves, should inflict upon his daughter so strong an association with such a quality was a
considerable mystery. But Phaedria did not seem to have held it against him; it was a pretty name, and she liked it, and besides she loved him so much she would have forgiven him far more, and much worse.

They had lived together, father and daughter, in the same small house in Chelsea all their lives; and Phaedria had come home from school every day with a mountain of homework and had shopped and cooked for him before settling down to it. At the weekends they did the housework together, went to the cinema, visited friends (mostly academic or literary colleagues of Augustus’s), experimented with recipes, played chess and talked interminably. They were all the world to one another; it was a perfect marriage. Phaedria had few friends of her own age, and she was perfectly happy with her father’s. Occasionally one of the less reticent women in their circle would tax Augustus with Phaedria’s rather unconventional social life, or suggest to her that she went to more parties and perhaps even on holiday with her contemporaries, but they would both politely say that things were perfectly satisfactory as they were, and ignore any attempts to change anything. Nobody ever managed, or even tried, to come between them.

The effect on Phaedria of all this was complex. It made her fairly incapable of relating to any male very much under the age of her father; it matured her in some ways emotionally and retarded her in others. It made her self-reliant; it meant she was not daunted by any person, however brilliant or famous, or any situation, however difficult or challenging; it also ensured that she remained a virgin.

Even at Oxford, when she finally began to make friends with men who were her contemporaries, she found herself completely incapable of entering into a sexual relationship with any of them. Having missed out to a large degree on any kind of emotional education, having had no mother, sisters or even friends to talk to about sex or love, or how she might feel about anything very much, she grew up self-contained, and innocent. She learnt the facts about sex from school and books; she had to handle her first period, her early sensations of desire, and the transformation of her own body from child to woman, entirely alone.

She entered her third year at Oxford intacta, with a
reputation for being fun, funny, clever and beautiful and absolutely not worth even trying to get into bed. Men initially saw her as a challenge, but confronted by her patent lack of interest in the matter, gave up. Nevertheless, she was popular; she had a capacity to listen and a lack of self-interest that made both sexes pleased to have her friendship. But she remained, unknown even to herself, very lonely.

And then she had met Charles Fraser-Smith, the darling of the gossip columns, blond, tall, heavily built, a superb rugger and polo player and a brilliant classics scholar; what nobody at Oxford ever knew was that he was homosexual.

From the beginning the slight aura of apartness they both carried with them, their talent for communication, their physical attractiveness, their ability to listen, drew them together. They spent more and more time with one another. They drank, danced, talked and walked together; what began as a joky, raucous evening after a particularly triumphant rugger match became the closest of friendships. They liked the same things, the same places, the same people; they enjoyed the same food, the same books, the same jokes, the same films. If one was invited to a party, the other would arrive; if one refused, the other would not attend. Phaedria introduced Charles to cooking, he introduced her to horses. He kept two polo ponies and a hunter at livery just outside Oxford and he taught her to ride. She fell in love with horses with a passion she had never felt for any man, and became a brave and skilful rider with remarkable speed. They rode out together early most mornings, initially with Phaedria on the leading rein, later cantering easily beside him; it was another factor in their relationship and the delight they took in each other’s company. Their taste, their humour, their friends, their opinions were always compatible, usually indistinguishable, and they enjoyed being with one another more than anything else in the world. To see them apart was a rarity; what nobody was quite sure about was whether they were actually lovers.

One night, in Charles’ room six months into their relationship, over a bottle of gut-rotting beaujolais left over from a party the night before, he suddenly sighed and took Phaedria’s hand. She snatched it away.

‘Don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to.’

‘Phaedria, I’m only trying to hold your hand.’

‘Yes, and then you’ll try and kiss me and then you’ll try and get my knickers off,’ said Phaedria with a sigh.

‘I won’t. I swear.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ah! I think I detect just a smidgen of a note of indignation.’

‘You certainly don’t.’

‘What then?’

‘Just interest.’

‘How arrogant of you! Just why should I wish to get your knickers off?’

‘Not arrogant at all. But most people do, I’m very sorry to say.’

‘Well I don’t.’

‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am, Charles, but I still find it – well, a bit interesting.’

‘That I don’t want to?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want me to tell you? Really?’

‘Yes. Yes. I do.’

Charles took a long draught of the beaujolais, grimaced and got up. ‘I’ll have to have something a bit better to drink before I can face this, I think. Hang on a bit.’

‘Gracious!’ said Phaedria. ‘It must be serious.’

He turned to look at her, a bottle of whisky in his hand. ‘It is.’

He sat down again by the fire, handed her a glass of whisky, took her hand again. ‘Phaedria, can I really trust you? I have never told anyone before, ever. This is quite a moment.’

Phaedria looked at him, her face very composed, her dark eyes brilliant in the firelight. ‘Charles, you know you can.’

‘OK. Here we go. Phaedria, I am not as other men. I feel the love that dares not speak its name. I’m a poofter, my darling, a queer, a nancy boy. Now what do you think about that?’

‘I think it’s wonderful,’ said Phaedria simply.

‘Well,’ he said, smiling rather shakily at her, ‘oh, well, that’s all right then. Good God. What a relief.’ He was silent for a moment, gazing into his glass. ‘Oh Phaedria, if you knew how I’ve dreaded telling you and how much I’ve longed to. I’ve nearly done it a dozen times and then been too afraid.’

‘You fool!’ said Phaedria. ‘What on earth did you think I was going to do. Rush out of the room screaming? Have the vapours? Honestly, Charles, how insulting. You’re my best friend. And I really do think it’s wonderful.’

‘Oh,’ he said, taking her hand again and kissing it. ‘I do adore you. It’s you that’s wonderful.’

‘Yes,’ said Phaedria, ‘I am. Now tell me all about it.’

They sat there all night talking; he had heard of her childhood, now she heard of his; insensitive father, doting mother, beating at prep school, buggery at Eton, and finally delicious seduction by a French actor he had met on a train on his way back from the Dordogne.

‘And now what do I do, Phaedria? Can’t face women, can’t face men.’

‘Literally,’ said Phaedria, and giggled.

‘No, but should I admit it, or fight it and hope it’ll go away?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t think there’s much hope of that. I should own up if I were you, and go and find someone to love. There’s no real disgrace to it any more, surely.’

‘Oh, Phaedria, I think there is. What do you think my family would say? How would the illustrious firm of stockbrokers who have already committed themselves to taking me on react? What would Dempster make of it?’

‘A lot. But it wouldn’t do any harm here, surely. There’s lots of them – you – jumping in and out of bed with each other.’

‘I know. I can’t stand that set, though. And it would do me quite a lot of harm, actually. The real world would hate it. And it wouldn’t do my sporting career any good either. Would I get my rugger blue? Not a hope.’

‘Well, you’ll just have to keep quiet then,’ said Phaedria. ‘I certainly will.’

‘I know you will. I think you’re marvellous. I really really love you.’ He poured the last dregs of the whisky bottle into her glass. ‘Will you be my friend, Phaedria? For better for worse? For richer for poorer?’

‘In sickness and in health,
pro homo et hetero
,’ said Phaedria, holding out her arms. Charles crawled into them. They were both very drunk. They slept for what was left of the night on the floor in front of the fire, and in the morning she was seen leaving his room. Their reputations were made.

After that they more or less lived together. An engagement was assumed inevitable. They would lie peacefully together at night, totally unaroused by one another, laughing at the drama they were creating. And every so often Charles would disappear to London for a night and come back just slightly morose; Phaedria was indulgently amused.

Then one Saturday Phaedria had a fall from her horse. She wasn’t seriously hurt, but she was mildly concussed; she was taken to hospital, X-rayed and sent home pale and shaken. Charles put her to bed, made her some soup, read to her, and then suggested he went to his own room.

‘No,’ said Phaedria miserably. ‘I want you here. Please stay.’

Charles lay down very gently on the bed beside her and took her hand. He kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. He nestled closer towards her; she turned towards him and he took her in his arms. He kissed her very gently on the lips; she looked at him and touched his face and smiled.

‘I love you so much,’ she said.

‘I love you too.’

‘Kiss me again.’

He did.

Something shot through Phaedria, something fiery and delicious and achingly painful; something confusing and hungry; something vaguely remembered, something suppressed, something denied. She pressed further against Charles, turned his head, kissed him full on the lips.

‘Charles,’ she whispered, ‘Charles.’

‘Yes, Phaedria?’

‘Charles, could you try to pretend I was a beautiful young boy?’

‘No, Phaedria. But I could think you were my best, my most dearly beloved friend, and do what I can for you.’

‘Would you?’

‘I will.’

It wasn’t really so very good. Inevitably Phaedria found it painful, and Charles lacked almost every kind of experience that she needed. But as he sank down into her, moving as gently and as tenderly as he could against her tension and her resistance, and as she relaxed and softened, and as he kissed
her and explored her new, untravelled depths, she felt a stirring and a fluttering, very very faintly, that promised to grow and grow; and she began to move too, desperate for more, greedy, frantic. And then Charles shuddered and came, and the echoes faded, the feast she was reaching for receded, and he was helpless for her, and kissing her and saying he was sorry; and there were tears in his eyes.

‘Don’t,’ said Phaedria, ‘don’t, you did so much, you showed me such a lot, it was so wrong of me to ask. Thank you.’ And she fell asleep smiling.

When she woke up he was sitting by the window, looking at her, bleak and anxious.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Phaedria, restored to her normal self-confidence and spirit, ‘do stop it, Charles. This is no time for a tragedy. We did jolly well. And just think,’ she added, ‘at least I’m not a virgin any more. We’re lovers. Isn’t that terrific? We’ve made everyone’s dreams come true.’

They never made love again, and Phaedria had never made love with anyone else. But she had not forgotten the echoes and the hunger, and she supposed that one day she might find someone to satisfy it.