‘Sir Julian, could I ask you about women?’
The assembled company laughed; it was a neat line. He could not afford to be unreceptive. He put the papers down again, shaded his eyes against the flare of the lights, and smiled charmingly.
‘I’ll try to answer. Which particular aspect of the female race were you interested in, Miss – er?’
‘Blenheim. Phaedria Blenheim.
Bristol Echo.
’
Ah, that one. The one who’d requested an exclusive. Clever stuff. She would need putting in her place.
‘Could you stand up, Miss Blenheim? Or rather Ms, as I would imagine you would wish to be addressed.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Phaedria, standing up and smiling at him from the back of the hall, ‘I much prefer to be Miss. I enjoy my status. I don’t count myself among the more militant feminists.’
More laughter, but rather more muted. Most people were simply staring at her. Julian tried not to sound impatient.
‘This is perhaps not quite the time for semantics, Miss Blenheim. Although I am sure we could have a very interesting discussion on the subject. What is your question, then?’
‘My question is how many women will you be employing? In your management team here, that is, rather than on the factory floor.’
Julian smiled again. He still couldn’t see her properly. But the voice (indisputably Oxbridge, although less ginny than he had imagined) was enough to tell him exactly what she was like: confident, assertive, and too clever for her own good, as his mother would probably have said had she been here.
‘As many as earn their place in it, Miss Blenheim. I have a
good record in equal opportunity. I have several women on the boards of several of my companies, both here and in the United States. Including the major parent company. You really should do your homework a little more carefully.’
‘Oh, but I have,’ said Phaedria, ‘and as far as I can see although your team on the board of Juliana and Circe is largely female, in the case of the hotels, and the pharmaceutical company, your record is less good. With the exception of Mrs Emerson, of course.’
A slight buzz went round the hall. Julian pushed his hair back. Brian Branscombe half stood up, but Julian shook his head at him, and smiled again into the lights. ‘Do go on, Miss Blenheim. I had clearly underrated your capacity for research.’
‘Thank you,’ said Phaedria, ‘I think I have made my point. The record in other companies and in particular in Europe is better. I thought perhaps as this was a new plant, you might feel you could be a little more bold.’
‘How interesting,’ said Julian. ‘Well, Miss Blenheim, as you are clearly something of an expert on management matters, perhaps you would care to submit a proposal to me. In writing, of course. I would be most interested to read it. In the meantime I can only say that there will be several women on the management team here in Bristol and in due course they will be available for interview to you and your colleagues.’
‘And you, Sir Julian. When will you be available for interview?’
‘Miss Blenheim, forgive me, but I was under the impression that was precisely what was happening now.’
‘No,’ said Phaedria, ‘this isn’t an interview. This is a floorshow.’
She was walking down to the front of the hall now. Julian suddenly saw her emerging from the blurred darkness; she took form, became more than a voice, a purveyor of silly questions, aggressive observations, posturing clichés; he looked at her and his breath was momentarily caught. A great cloud of wildly tangled curly dark hair, pale oval face, luminous dark eyes; young, so young she looked, younger than his own daughter, younger than any woman he had looked at sexually for years. And that was how, he realized suddenly, he was looking at her: as a man appreciating, admiring, desiring, a
woman. It happened with a speed, a force, that physically startled him; he felt suddenly confused, unable to remember what she had asked.
And Phaedria, sensing in some instinctive way the stab of emotion, the surge of interest, paused, looked at him more sharply and was moved by what she saw. Style he had, this man, and humour and a strange grace; but what hit her hardest was a sense of sexual energy, directed entirely at her. It was a cataclysmic moment that both of them would remember for the rest of their lives.
Brian Branscombe, finally deciding to arrest the tedious Miss Blenheim in her nicely shod tracks before she could do any more harm to his carefully orchestrated conference, stood up on the platform. ‘Miss Blenheim, thank you for your question. I trust Sir Julian has answered it to your satisfaction. Ladies and Gentlemen, a buffet lunch is now being served in the hospitality suite. Unfortunately, Sir Julian has to leave for London very shortly after lunch, for an urgent meeting, but he will be joining us briefly. You can put any further questions to me, or our press officer. Thank you for your interest and time. Do please adjourn next door.’
The guests and the press moved as one hungry man towards the next room; only Phaedria remained, standing quite still, her eyes fixed on Julian’s face.
‘Miss Blenheim,’ said Branscombe, a trifle impatiently, ‘do please go next door and help yourself to lunch.’
‘Well, I did wonder –’ said Phaedria, motionless still, ‘if I could have a few words . . .’
‘No, Miss Blenheim, you cannot. I’m sorry. Sir Julian has to leave very shortly. Sir Julian, let me take your papers. If you will just follow me . . .’
‘Just a moment, Brian. Miss Blenheim, was there anything else?’
‘A lot,’ said Phaedria briskly, seeming to wake, coming to herself again. ‘I’d like to ask you about so many things, Sir Julian.’
‘Miss Blenheim,’ said Branscombe again, ‘please. Sir Julian is on an extremely tight schedule. Do excuse us.’
‘Miss Blenheim,’ said Julian, ignoring him totally, ‘I do have to go. It’s quite true. But I would be happy to give you an
interview. I wonder what your plans are for the rest of the day? If you have time, you could fly back to London with me now and I could give you an hour or so. And then I’ll send you back again.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘I pay the pilot,’ he said, and smiled at her.
‘Right,’ said Phaedria, smiling back, ‘I do have the time. I’ll just call my editor. Thank you, Sir Julian. I do appreciate it very very much.’
‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said, and she thought she had never heard that word so blatantly caressed.
Branscombe, clearly irritated, showed her to his office, and she phoned Barry.
‘Barry? It’s Phaedria. Listen, I’ve got it. The exclusive. I’m flying back to London with Julian Morell now in his chopper. Stylish, huh? Expect me when you see me.’
‘Phaedria,’ said Barry in an agony of excitement and anxiety. ‘I need that copy tomorrow, sweetheart. Don’t forget.’
‘Barry,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m a pro. I told you, don’t you remember? First I’ll file the copy, then I’ll elope with Sir Julian. You’ll get it. Don’t worry.’
He did. He got it that night. She phoned it from Julian’s office. It was stereotyped, dull stuff. Barry read it disbelievingly. What he didn’t realize was that Phaedria Blenheim, journalist, had, with one fierce, decisive gesture, signed off.
Phaedria had not really expected to like Julian Morell at all. She had thought he would be interesting and charming but arrogant and shallow. She found him interesting and charming, and unpretentious and thoughtful.
She also found him sexually attractive; her senses had not recovered from the shock they had received. She felt disturbed and irritated with herself at the same time; sitting looking at him across his desk, her stomach still unsettled from the helicopter flight, she found it impossible to relax, to set herself aside, to concentrate on him and what she could extract from him. She knew he was sixty-two, but she found it hard to believe; he looked easily ten years younger. His hair was only flecked with grey, his skin was lightly tanned, he was very slim. He was superbly, if a little predictably, dressed: classic grey
three-piece suit, grey and white striped shirt (with a button-down collar, she noticed: ‘Are you the man in the Brooks Brothers shirt, Sir Julian?’ she had asked, and yes, he said, yes he was, his son-in-law brought him half a dozen of the things every time he visited New York, which was fairly frequently. ‘I wear them all once, and then file them away.’) His tie was red, with a black line in it, very discreet; his watch a wafer-thin Cartier, his links plain gold; there was no suggestion of vulgarity, of showmanship, he simply looked a beautifully dressed, conservative Englishman.
He was good to listen to as well, she thought, his voice was light and level, not aggressively public school, nor flattened out mid-Atlantic. It had great charm, that voice: an ability to take certain words and phrases and warm them, lend emotion to them, or to toss humour into a remark, self-mockery even, without a fleck of emotion crossing the bland face, the dark, dark eyes.
He sat and looked at her with such pleasure, such patent interest that Phaedria felt exposed, vulnerable; short of leaving the room, there was nothing she could do to escape his examination. He had said little in the helicopter, he had studied papers, signed letters, having asked her to excuse him: ‘Then when we get to my office, I shall be entirely at your disposal. Which I trust will please you.’ They had landed at Battersea Heliport, and been met by a pale blue Rolls Corniche convertible; Phaedria was surprised by this, the first hint of any real ostentation in him that she had seen. ‘Goodness,’ she had said, ‘what a nice car!’ and yes, he had said, he liked cars, he always had, they were one of his hobbies, as no doubt she knew, being such a careful researcher. ‘And do you like cars, Miss Blenheim?’ No, she said, not really, they were just a means of transport to her, but his other passion, horses, now that was something which she did love, and his eyes had danced over her face, and he had started to talk to her about horses thinking to discover she knew nothing about them at all, pleased and surprised to find he was wrong, that she could converse about bloodstock and flat racing and hunting with confidence and knowledge.
‘Do you have a horse, Miss Blenheim?’
‘Yes, I do. A hunter. A six-year-old grey mare.’
‘And what is her name, this young grey mare?’
‘Grettisaga.’
‘That is a very unusual name.’
‘Yes. It’s nice though, don’t you think? I expect you know the tale well?’
‘I fear not. Which tale?’
‘The Grettisaga. It’s a fourteenth-century Icelandic story. It has strong resemblances to Beowulf. William Morris has done a translation.’
‘I see. You are clearly a very literary person.’
‘Oh, not really. My father thinks I am woefully ill-read.’
‘And who is your very well-read father?’
‘His name is Augustus Blenheim. He’s an academic. He writes books and lectures on literary figures only about two other people have ever heard of. His current obsession is Charles Maturin, he’s an Irish gothic novelist. His dream is to be asked to make a television programme about someone, but I think it would be so minority viewing the channel showing it would go right off the air.’
‘And I suppose you owe your very unusual name to your father?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Phaedria with a cheerful sigh, ‘of course. Do you know who Phaedria was?’
‘Let me see. Did she not marry Theseus?’
‘Fraid not. You’ve failed the test. No relation to her whatsoever. That was Phaedra. Phaedria was a character in –’
‘I know,’ said Julian suddenly, ‘don’t tell me. In – not Chaucer, no, Spenser, wasn’t she?
The Faerie Queen.
’ He smiled at her triumphantly. ‘Do I pass?’
‘Do you know what quality she represented?’
‘No, I don’t think I can go that far.’
‘Well, then you do pass, but not very well. Although better than most. She was Wantonness.’
‘I see. And how well does your name become you, Miss Blenheim?’ He spoke lightly, he smiled charmingly, but Phaedria could feel him reaching out to her, making a small but irrevocable step towards intimacy, and she felt at the same time warmed and confused.
‘That is a question I never answer,’ she said. ‘Whoever asks it.’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘an unoriginal one, clearly. Forgive me.’
‘Very unoriginal. But yes, I do. Forgive you, I mean. Where are we going?’
‘My office is in Dover Street. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Your research was so extremely thorough.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry if I was rude. About your daughter and everything. I didn’t exactly mean to be.’
‘I forgive you. But why did you have to be at all? Exactly or otherwise?’
‘I had to get you to notice me.’
He turned slightly in the car and looked at her for quite a long time; his eyes moving slowly from her hair to her face, pausing there, exploring her own eyes so tenderly, so questingly that she looked away, briefly, confused, lingering on her mouth, and then, quite briefly, but with an unmistakable confidence, at her neck, her breasts; and then he smiled and said, ‘I don’t think you had to be even inexactly rude to do that.’
‘Not true,’ she said, pulling herself together after what she felt to be an endless silence. ‘Would I ever have made so much as another question if I hadn’t been so – so bothersome?’
‘Possibly not. And I would have regretted it greatly.’ He looked away from her then, out of the window for a moment; they were travelling slowly along the Embankment; the river looked beautiful, goldenly grey in the winter sunshine. ‘Do you like London?’
‘Only quite. I prefer the country.’
‘That’s nice. I think I do too. Because you can ride?’
‘Yes. And because I like space to myself.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a journalist.’
‘Oh,’ said Phaedria, ‘I’m not really a journalist. My editor is always telling me that.’
‘Really?’ he smiled, genuinely amused. ‘In what way are you not really a journalist?’
‘Not interested in the world at large. Not really interested in newspapers. Only my bit of them.’
‘Then why do you do it?’
‘Because I’m good at it, and I like writing.’
‘And interviewing famous people?’
‘Everyone says that. No, not interviewing famous people. Most famous people are extremely boring.’