The Rich Are Different (93 page)

I was overcome with shame for him, horribly embarrassed. An old man sinking into his dotage, talking nonsense, crying for his lost youth … It was repulsive.

‘… so I shall retire from the New York office, and whether you accept me or not I shall settle in England. I want to see Alan grow up. How nice it would be if he became an Oxford don! Now at last I can understand why my mother wanted me to enter academic life and how horrified she was when I was drawn into banking. I don’t want Alan to follow in my footsteps. I want him to be happy, and I know he’d be better off without the burden of my wealth and position. Only a young man like Cornelius can shoulder a burden like that without being crushed by it, and I don’t want Alan to grow up like Cornelius.’

Everything stopped. Slowly the world which had revolved around Paul ever since I could remember began to disintegrate. An era came quietly to an end and keeled forward into an open grave.

I turned the page.

‘I feel guilty about Cornelius,’ my great-uncle had written with his characteristic emotional detachment. ‘He works hard, he hero-worships me, he’s well-behaved, civil and obedient – yet I remain lukewarm. Ironically I suspect that this unadulterated loyalty which I should find so flattering is in fact symptomatic of the fatal flaw in his personality. He would indeed be loyal to me under any circumstances – no scruple would deter him, no law would stand in his way, no social tradition would carry any weight with him whatsoever. Despite my immoralities, which I admit are considerable, I have always had a very keen sense of right and wrong and have suffered accordingly from guilt. But no such suffering will trouble Cornelius because he has no true concept of right and wrong. He’s not immoral but amoral, and try as I will I can’t think of him as a son.

‘In fact if the truth be told, he’s very much the son of his father, a tough ruthless little man who despite his fanatical church-going habits was quite one of the most unchristian men I’ve ever met. However, I have to admit he was devoted to Mildred and mild as a lamb in her presence. Strange how these mavericks who can conduct business so unscrupulously are often devoted family men – and I shall look forward to proving the validity of
that observation if you’ll only allow me to live with you again at Mallingham!

‘My darling, take your time to think about what I’ve said and do not, as you did tonight, reject me out of hand. I know the discovery of my illness must have been a great shock to you, but I can’t believe you don’t still love me when I love you so much. Remember – I’d give up the world for you.

‘All my love, darling, now and always, PAUL.’

It was the only letter he had written by hand and the only letter he had not signed Catullus.

I sat looking at his signature for a long time.

After a while I got up and began to walk up and down the room. My mind was confused, my thoughts disjointed. I felt as if someone had died.

A long time later – I’m not sure when it was – I realized I was looking through the photographs again. I searched and searched, not knowing what I was looking for, and then I saw
her
face and I took the picture in my hands and I got up again and began to walk up and down, up and down, and all the time I looked at her face and after a while I realized what I had at heart always known, that she was a destroyer, that she had destroyed my respect for Paul, destroyed my sister’s marriage, destroyed all my hopes of co-existing amicably with Steve. She would destroy the bank too if she acquired too much power, I could see that clearly, and more clearly still I could see she wanted to destroy me because I was the one man who would always stand in her way.

Sweeping the photos into the file I tried to close the lid but the hasp refused to fasten. Something was jammed against the spine, and when I had pulled out the quizzes I found a long brown envelope had wedged itself at a contorted angle to prevent the lid from lying flat.

I glanced carelessly inside and saw some kind of document. All legal papers had the same smell, but this document was different from the normal legal brief. This document had a foreign picturesque appearance.

After some time spent deciphering the archaic language I deduced that in the summer of 1922 that part and parcel of land known as Mallingham Hall in the parish of Mallingham in the County of Norfolk had been conveyed by certain people acting on behalf of Master Percy Slade to Mr Paul Cornelius Van Zale, banker, of Number Six Milk Street in the City of London for the sum of four thousand five hundred pounds.

I checked the envelope for the inevitable papers relating to the conveyance later to Miss Slade, but the envelope was empty. I re-examined every item in the file, but there were no other legal papers and no reference to the ownership of Mallingham. Absentmindedly I wandered to the cabinet where I kept my various private papers, extracted my copy of Paul’s will and read it from end to end.

I sat thinking, idly fanning myself with the will as I reconstructed the past. He had bought the place for her when she was broke and had obviously planned to give it back to her but she had skilfully used his ownership of her property to keep all his sentimental memories alive. However, since
he had omitted Mallingham from his new will in 1926 he must have been on the verge of conveying the property to her at the time of his death.

That explained why Steve had been chasing the file; I could well imagine an agitated Miss Slade exhorting him to find the conveyance which betrayed that Paul was the owner of her home. What I still failed to understand was why my lawyers had treated Mallingham as if it didn’t exist, but then I saw that the issue had remained submerged because all the relevant documents had been suppressed. The Van Zale lawyers in London would have the correspondence relating to the 1922 sale, but the deeds would have been handed over to Paul, and no doubt when Miss Slade had continued to live at Mallingham before and after his death the London lawyers had assumed he had conveyed the property to her through some other legal channel. Meanwhile the lawyers in New York were either ignorant of the transaction or else had wrongly believed Paul had already divested himself of the estate through a conveyance involving the London lawyers. It would have been the obvious assumption to make when no deeds relating to Mallingham were found among Paul’s papers. In fact on further reflection I thought it was hardly surprising that the paltry little manor house, so insignificant in comparison with the rest of Paul’s real estate, should have been lost in the testamentary shuffle.

There were no prizes for guessing who had the rest of the documents – and who had suppressed them. I wondered why she had never approached me, laid her cards on the table and offered to buy the place for herself. It was almost as if she had known I would have seized the chance to pay back some of Sylvia’s suffering with interest, almost as if she had known we were to end up not merely rivals but enemies; but that was fanciful. Back in 1926 no one could have known that. Yet it was almost as if someone had warned her against me. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she had avoided me like the plague, but there was no denying she had never communicated with me and now there she was, still living at Mallingham, still acting as if she owned it, still demonstrating that possession was nine-tenths of the law.

I made a mental note to get my lawyer to check the Statute of Limitations, though I didn’t see how any such statute could run in her favour while she was deliberately concealing the true facts of the case from the legal owner. However, there was no doubt that she had decided she could well afford to play a waiting game.

And so could I.

I smiled. It was two o’clock in the morning but my talent for long-range planning was in full flower. I no longer felt limp with emotional exhaustion. My mind was clear and my body was tense with excitement.

I had to get my priorities right. That was always the key to successful planning. First Lewis and absolute control of the bank in New York. Then Steve. The London Office was ultimately subject to the headquarters at Willow and Wall, and once the New York office was under my thumb he would find himself outflanked. And then …

I picked
up the photograph of Miss Slade. The dark eyes, still luminous with surprise, stared at me as if making some private challenge and the wide smile prompted me to smile wryly in return.

‘Some day, Dinah,’ I whispered softly to her. ‘Some day …’

1933–1940

[1]

Steve
telephoned in the early evening. I was in the bedroom of my new house in Chesterfield Street which I had bought following the twins’ birth when we had overflowed my pied-à-terre in Eden Mews. I liked living in Mayfair. I could stroll to work across Berkeley Square, and the park was so convenient for Nanny. My house was only a stone’s throw from the Curzon Street house which Paul had rented in the summer of ’22.

I was filing my nails, listening to Reginald King and his orchestra on the wireless and wondering if I had reminded Cedric to harangue the salesmen about the special properties of the new facial mask. My memory was not as good as it had once been. I wondered whether to blame advancing age, too many cocktails or the increasing number of details which required my attention at the office, and I was just deciding that it was once more time to delegate authority to my subordinates when the telephone rang.

I did wait for Wetherby to answer it, but then deciding the caller was Geoffrey I picked up the receiver of the extension by my bed.

‘Hullo?’

‘Hullo Dinah,’ said Steve. ‘Guess who?’

‘Oh Lord,’ I said, ‘I can’t bear parlour-games before dinner. What a clear line this is! You sound as if you’re just down the road.’

‘I am,’ he said. ‘I’m back at the Ritz.’

‘Good God!’ Belatedly I realized that no international operator had heralded his appearance. ‘Why didn’t you let me know when we spoke last week that you’d be coming to London? How long are you here for? Is Emily with you?’

‘No, she’s in Paris. I’ve left her.’

‘You’ve
what
! My God, you American bankers are a barbarous crowd! Haven’t you any idea how to treat women beyond sleeping with them, getting them pregnant and leaving them in the lurch? It’s so beastly immoral! Honestly, I think it’s time someone spoke out in defence of the women you, Paul and Cornelius seduce and abandon!’

‘Hell, Dinah, there are two sides to everything—’

‘Yes, and I’d like to hear Emily’s! I’ve a damned good mind to ring her up and ask her to stay!’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’

‘All right, you monster, I suppose you want me to hold your hand while you sob on my shoulder. Look, can I phone you back later? I’m just going out to dinner.’

‘Who with?’ he
said at once. ‘Anyone I know?’

‘Yes, Geoffrey Hurst.’

‘Oh, old Geoffrey!’ He made no effort to disguise his relief. ‘How’s he doing these days?’

‘Very badly,’ I said coldly. ‘His wife was killed last month in a car accident. I’m helping him recover from the shock.’

There was a brooding silence. At last he had the decency to say: ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Please give Geoffrey my sympathy. Listen, Dinah—’

‘I really must go now, Steve.’

‘But wait a minute!’ he shouted. ‘How are the kids? Are they with you in town? Can I stop by later tonight to see them?’

‘The twins,’ I said, ‘are at Mallingham. ’Bye, darling.’ And I slammed down the receiver.

I was shaking from head to toe. For a minute I walked up and down muttering: ‘Damn him! Damn him!’ and then I pulled myself together, clambered into my latest silk negligée and headed downstairs for the stiffest of whisky-and-sodas.

[2]

I did not tell Geoffrey that Steve was back in London. I considered he had enough problems of his own, but before we had finished our dinner at Boulestin’s he twice asked me to tell him what was wrong. I declined. On our return to Chesterfield Street I guiltily invited him in for a nightcap, but now it was his turn to decline. He was tired, he had had a long day, tomorrow promised to be unusually busy … The well-worn excuses slid courteously off his tongue, but I knew he was hurt that I had refused to confide in him.

I was just watching his Armstrong-Siddeley drive away when I noticed a large black car trying to hide itself around the corner in Hay’s Mews. As I hesitated on the doorstep the car crept forward, skirted a lamp-post uncertainly and trickled downhill towards me. It looked like a brand new Bentley. It probably was. Steve could never be in a country twenty-four hours without buying the first car which caught his fancy.

I walked into the house, slammed the front door, but changed my mind and opened it a crack. Plunging into the dining-room I prepared to ransack the sideboard for brandy but discovered I had lost the key. I was just peering distractedly into a vase of flowers when I heard the front door close.

I froze. Various opening remarks ranging from the enraged: ‘You bastard, how dare you batter your way back into my life again!’ to the grovelling: ‘Please come back – I’ll do anything you want!’ all roared through my mind, but when his shadow fell across the doorway I was mute.

He was speechless too. He stood filling the doorway and blocking the light from the hall. I had forgotten how big he was, just as I had forgotten how striking he could look in his expensive American clothes. He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit with a pearl-grey tie, and his curly brown hair,
silver now at the sides, was trying to spring up after being flattened with water. The lines were deeper in his face but his eyes were that same hot electric blue and he still looked, to paraphrase Lady Caroline Lamb, rough, tough and dangerous to know.

I had to sit down. I was just wondering idiotically what on earth I had done with the sideboard key when Steve groaned with typical honesty: ‘Jesus, Dinah, how on earth did we get into such a mess?’ and sank down opposite me at the dining-room table. The chair creaked beneath his weight and the table shuddered as he leant forward on his elbows. The mask of raw sexuality which he so often felt compelled to wear in the presence of women dissolved and as he smiled at me with that friendly naïvety which I remembered so well one of his huge hands slid impulsively across the table and caught my wrist in a tight affectionate clasp.