Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (33 page)

She had discovered Charlie was something of a snob; it gave her great pleasure to play up to it.

She enjoyed her night out with Izzie and the boys enormously. Izzie was beside herself with pride over her apartment, the first floor of a very pretty house in Greenwich Village, just off University Place. It had one large room, which she used as a sitting room, a bedroom, an apology of a kitchen (carved out of the bedroom) and a rather splendid bathroom with a large rolltop bath and lion’s feet. The street was tree-lined and pretty and was full of friendly people, Izzie said.

‘It’s the most marvellous place to live, every other person seems to be a writer or an artist. And there are the most wonderful bars, with such stories to tell. Right out there, for instance, on University Place, is the Cedar Tavern. People like Jackson Pollock drink there – you’ve heard of him?’

‘Of course.’

‘They don’t have any money or phones at home, and the Tavern takes messages for them all day long. And they just run up a tab at the bar and pay for it with pictures. It’s really pretty, we could have a drink there, if you like.’

‘I certainly would.’

‘The boys will be here soon, they are longing to meet you. They’re rather awestruck by – well, by your title. You mustn’t mind.’

‘Not as much as their not being awestruck,’ said Celia, smiling at her.

The boys were indeed awestruck; they half bowed over Celia’s hand as Izzie introduced them to her, and were both very quiet for the first ten minutes.

‘Izzie tells me you are extremely clever,’ said Celia graciously.

‘Well, we try, your – your Ladyship.’

‘Do please just call me Celia.’

Izzie stared at her; she must really like them.

‘And how’s Izzie doing?’

‘Oh extremely well. She has great talent. We’re most terribly proud of her.’

‘And so am I. Well, shall we go?’

‘I told Celia we’d take her to the Cedar Tavern.’

‘Izzie you can’t take Lady – your – er – Celia to a place like that.’

‘Why on earth not?’ said Celia.

‘There’s some real rough types go in there. And it’s terribly noisy.’

‘I am not averse to rough types. And neither do I mind noise. I want to see it.’

She sat in the Tavern in one of the wooden pew-like seats, drinking bourbon, admiring the Tiffany lights and the wooden panelling, and the Jackson Pollocks hanging behind the bar just as Izzie had said.

‘Robert Lytton introduced me to bourbon,’ she said to Izzie. ‘I’ve always liked it although I wouldn’t drink it in England. Can I tempt you, gentlemen, or are you staying with beer?’

‘This really is turning out to be some evening,’ said Mike Parker.

‘I thought they were charming,’ Celia said to Izzie at the end of the evening, as the boys went off to find her a cab, ‘and clearly very talented. Is Barty using them?’

‘A bit, yes. I absolutely love them,’ said Izzie. ‘They’ve been so good to me.’

‘You realise, of course, that Nick is in love with you?’

Izzie stared at her. ‘Celia of course he isn’t. Don’t be ridiculous. And anyway, they’re in love with each other.’

‘You mean they’re homosexuals? I don’t think so.’

‘No of course I don’t. They couldn’t be less so. I just mean they’re completely interdependent. No room for anyone else. And the agency of course. Honestly. Now – tell me, Celia, what do you think of Charlie?’

‘Oh – he seems perfectly pleasant. I haven’t formed much of a judgement yet. Do you like him?’

‘Very much. He’s sweet. And Jenna adores him, which is important, isn’t it? I don’t know how I would have coped with a new mother at her age. But maybe a father is different.’

‘Maybe. Anyway – this time tomorrow, they’ll be married. I understand they’re going away for a few days.’

‘Yes, up to the Catskills. I think Charlie would have liked to stay at South Lodge, but Barty’s awfully funny about it. About him going there. She doesn’t seem to mind the rest of us.’

‘Well, we’re family,’ said Celia soothingly. ‘Ah now, here are the boys with a cab. It has been so nice to meet you both,’ she said, ‘and thank you for a wonderful evening. That last bar we went to was splendid.’

The last bar had been the slightly infamous White Horse Tavern on Hudson Street, where they told her she might see Jack Kerouac or Brendan Behan; she was disappointed in that, but had a wonderful time nonetheless, talking to anyone who would listen, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking glass after glass of bourbon. Before that they had gone to Chumleys and she had sat beneath the rows of book covers and signed photographs of Hemingway and O’Neill and Scott and Zelda and before that . . . Izzie couldn’t really remember before that.

‘She’ll be half dead in the morning,’ whispered Mike to Izzie.

She was not of course, she was up early, drinking coffee and sipping grapefruit juice when Cathy came into the kitchen.

‘Good morning Catherine.’

‘Good morning,’ said Cathy, slightly warily. She was rather in awe of Celia.

‘Well, this is a great day. I understand your grandmother cannot attend.’

‘No. No, she wouldn’t come.’

‘I thought she was ill.’

‘No, she’s not ill. She just doesn’t like—’ she stopped.

‘Doesn’t like what?’

‘Oh – big parties,’ said Cathy quickly. ‘She’s a little shy.’

‘Oh really? I always think shyness is a form of arrogance. To think that everyone should be taking any notice of you. Do you see much of your grandmother?’

‘No. That is – well, sometimes. I used to, anyway.’

‘I’d have thought she’d have wanted to keep in touch with you. Have you to stay and so on. I love having my grandchildren to stay.’

‘She doesn’t have room,’ said Cathy after a moment. ‘That’s the main thing.’

‘Is that so? But—’ she stopped. It wasn’t fair to quiz the child. Puzzling, though; Barty had told her that Sally Norton was very well off, had paid Cathy’s school fees.

‘Well, I expect you’ll go and see her afterwards, show her the pictures and so on.’

Cathy smiled at her, a sickly-sweet smile. Like her father’s, thought Celia, exactly the same.

‘Yes, I expect so.’

‘And where does she live, your grandmother?’

‘Oh – in Brooklyn.’

‘Does she have a house there?’

‘No, she – Oh, hi, Daddy.’ She seemed relieved to see him; Charlie kissed her, smiled briefly at Celia.

‘Well, we have a lovely day for our wedding. How was your evening, Celia?’

‘Quite wonderful. We went to a series of bars, and ate dinner at a restaurant so crowded I couldn’t imagine how they got the tables in there in the first place, never mind all the diners.’

‘It’s fun down there. I admire your energy. You were very late home.’

‘Oh I have a great deal of energy,’ said Celia. ‘I inherited it from my mother. She always said being tired was a form of self-indulgence. She went hunting three times a week, well into her eighties. And ran a school during the war.’

‘Really? How fascinating. Now I have to go out and get some more coffee, Maria has been so busy with the lunch menu she forgot the basics. Cathy, you want to come with me, honey?’

‘Yes please,’ said Cathy.

Celia returned to the
New York Times
; after about five minutes the kitchen door opened and Barty came in. She was very pale and looked upset.

‘Is Charlie here?’

‘No, he’s gone out to get some coffee. Apparently your maid forgot it.’

‘No she didn’t. We have at least three packets in the cupboard. How odd. Oh well . . .’

‘Can I make you some?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Are you all right? You look rather – strained.’

‘Celia I—’

‘Yes?’

She appeared to be about to embark on a serious conversation. Celia waited, filling the kettle, ladling coffee into a jug.

Barty looked at her, fiddled with her hair, sat down, stared at her hands. Then she said, ‘Celia, I just – well, I just went up to—’

‘My darling.’ It was Charlie, returned with a packet of coffee. ‘You’re not supposed to let me see you this morning. Now go on back to bed at once, Cathy will bring you some breakfast on a tray, won’t you, darling? What time is your hairdresser coming?’

‘Oh – at ten,’ said Barty. She still sounded odd: strained and odd.

‘Well then, you can have another hour’s beauty sleep. Not that you need it. Run along. I can’t have a weary bride.’

She walked out dutifully, smiling at him rather wanly. Celia watched her go.

‘I’ll take her breakfast in,’ she said to Cathy.

‘No, no, we’re both doing it, aren’t we Jenna?’

Jenna had appeared in the kitchen now, her red-gold hair tousled, her face still sleepy.

‘Yes, it was the plan and then I’ll help Mother get ready. That’s all right, isn’t it, Charlie?’ She looked anxious.

‘Of course. We can’t have our plans disrupted.’ He looked at Celia and for the first time he wasn’t smiling, his guard was down. ‘The girls have been planning today for weeks, Celia, I know you’ll understand.’

She decided not to argue.

The ceremony at City Hall was simple and sweet; Barty, composed and happy, looked beautiful in a cream wool suit and hat, carrying a posy of blood-red sweetheart roses. Charlie wore a new dark-grey suit and looked alarmingly handsome; the girls, also in cream, carrying matching posies, watched and listened intently, smiling, holding hands.

When the Justice of the Peace said, ‘I now declare you man and wife,’ and Charlie bent to kiss Barty, Cathy burst into tears.

Silly child, thought Celia irritably, silly, selfish child, intruding into Barty’s big moment.

The lunch at the house was easy and happy; Robert Lytton and Felicity and John Brewer had been asked to join them, and, although Celia was clearly not over-fond of Felicity, their company was, in fact, a welcome and warming addition to the party.

A great deal of champagne was drunk, and Charlie had arranged for a pianist to attend, a surprise for Barty, who was visibly touched and delighted. The large white grand piano – which Celia privately considered rather vulgar – was in the drawing room, but could be clearly heard at exactly the right pitch in the dining room. He played entirely classical music; ‘I was afraid if he played anything modern, or even from the Thirties or Forties it would bring back sad memories,’ Charlie said to Felicity Brewer.

Robert made a very charming speech, saying what a delight it was to have Charlie and Cathy in the family. Celia rose to her feet at this point, not to be upstaged by another Lytton, and said how honoured she was to have been invited as the sole representative of the English branch of the family, and how she knew Oliver would have been delighted to see Barty so happy. Jamie also made a speech, saying how honoured he was to have been chosen as Charlie’s supporter, and how happy he was that Barty and Charlie wanted him to remain part of their family.

He did not mention Laurence by name; he did not have to. Everyone was aware of his presence. Especially Barty.

While she was changing, Celia tapped on the door.

‘You looked so lovely, and so very happy. Congratulations, Barty, my darling. I was very proud of you.’

‘Thank you. And thank you so much for the glorious bronze figure. Did you get her in New York?’

‘No, in London. Adele helped me find her. She’s pure Deco, absolutely Adele’s thing. Are you – all right?’

She would never have asked so direct a question usually; but she had been so struck by Barty’s distress that morning that she wanted to give her a chance to talk before saying goodbye.

‘Oh – yes,’ said Barty, clearly aware of exactly why she was asking the question, while not acknowledging it. ‘Yes, of course. A bit tired, perhaps, but – Celia, could you just help me with these buttons – so silly to choose a back fastening.’

And that was that.

If only, if only she hadn’t gone up to Charlie’s study, as it already was called, that morning; if only she hadn’t found that chequebook, pushed to the back of a drawer, as she looked for the name and telephone number of the limousine company who were to drive them down to City Hall that day. The chequebook on their new joint account, already half used, several of the stubs blank, several filled in with the names of people and firms she had never heard of. Of course it was all perfectly all right, they must be simply – well, suppliers for the wedding perhaps, and for the honeymoon bookings and things for the girls. It was nothing to worry about. She would have asked him about it any other day. It was simply that she couldn’t then.

But it did worry her. All day it worried her. And when she finally did ask him, it led to the first real row they had ever had; and certainly the first row of their married life.

CHAPTER 18

Who was that screaming? God, it was her. How awful, how disgraceful, how could she – oh God, here it came again. One pain so quickly after another. She couldn’t bear this much longer.

‘Now, Mrs Brown, come along. With the next pain, I want you to bear down – try to relax just now – that’s right – ’

Relax, thought Elspeth, relax? How could anyone relax with this agony going on, tearing your body apart? She had been told that if she did her breathing exercises – much extolled in the clinic – she would remain in control, that the pain wouldn’t ever become unbearable, that it would even be quite pleasurable. Pleasurable! This horror, this overwhelming pain, and the woman screaming her head off in the next cubicle wasn’t helping . . .

‘Right – Now! Bear down. Now! Come along, Mrs Brown, you’ll have to do better than that, your bairn will never see the light of day at this rate. Now, a big deep breath of the gas and air, and – Mrs Brown, pull yourself together, this isn’t helping anyone, and certainly not your baby – ’

And then suddenly in the middle of the pain and the misery and the longing for Keir, for her mother, who had promised to be there, only it had all happened too soon, the baby had decided to arrive early, longing for anyone she knew, anyone other than this fierce, dour woman, suddenly it was all different and she knew what she was doing, and she pushed hard, right through the pain, that seemed to burst into splinters and again and then again and—

‘There. A lovely little girl. Oh, she’s beautiful, Mrs Brown, quite beautiful, now let me just – there. Oh, her daddy will be proud of her. Such lovely blue eyes. There, there you are.’

Her daddy wouldn’t be absolutely proud of her, thought Elspeth, taking the small indignant bundle into her arms, gazing at the furious red face, the screwed-up eyes, the frantically waving frondy fingers. He’d wanted a son, had known the baby was a son – but who cared, she was lovely, perfect.

‘I think we should call her Cecilia,’ she said to Keir. He was too relieved – after her thirty-six-hour ordeal – and too happy to disagree. Certainly too relieved and happy to wish the baby was a boy.

‘Girls are much more fun,’ was all he said, taking the baby in his arms, kissing her small now-tranquil face, ‘look at your grandmother.’ Even in her hour of happiness, Elspeth felt more than mildly irritated that he hadn’t said, ‘Look at you.’

Even Venetia could do nothing with Adele. Noni was in despair; Lucas was worried, little Clio patently distressed. Adele was tearful, lethargic, suffered terribly from insomnia. The doctor had prescribed sleeping pills, but she refused to take them, said they made her feel muddled and more depressed. ‘I just don’t understand why he won’t come home,’ she said, ‘when I’ve explained that Lucas is leaving, going to university. What other reason can there be?’

Venetia felt there very likely was some other reason, but nevertheless appealed to Geordie for help.

‘I’m sorry, Venetia. There’s nothing I can do. Lucas’ll still be there a lot of the time. All the old problems would start again, I’m sure of that. I honestly don’t think there’s any point—’

‘But Geordie, couldn’t you just for now – try – it would mean so much to her.’

‘I don’t think you understand,’ he said, ‘this is a one-way street: it was her choice that I left. She refused to consider any other solution. Nobody seems to understand how hurt I was by that. Nobody.’

‘Of course I do. But—’

‘Look,’ he said finally, ‘I’ve got one suggestion. Adele could come here for a few weeks. With Clio. Leave Lucas in the house. He’s old enough. That might work.’

But Adele refused to consider it. ‘I can’t do that. Disrupting Clio’s life, disrupting mine for that matter. What about Nanny? And of course I can’t leave Lucas on his own, he’s doing his exams. And what about my studio, my work?’

‘But Dell, you’re not doing any work,’ said Venetia patiently.

‘I am. Of course I am. No, it’s no good, that’s a very hostile suggestion of Geordie’s if you ask me. Very hurtful for Lucas. Very destructive all round. I won’t do it. Sorry.’

Venetia reported back to Geordie; he sighed.

‘I didn’t think she’d agree,’ he said, ‘you know sometimes, Venetia, I think it’s that boy she’s in love with, not me.’

The strain on Noni was considerable; she felt responsible, while being quite unable to do anything constructive. She tried talking to Lucas about it, but apart from saying he was quite happy to be left at home, and telling his mother so too, he couldn’t really help very much. Adele refused to talk to him, saying he mustn’t be worried, especially when he had his exams to do.

‘It’s not because of me Geordie won’t come home,’ he said to Noni, ‘not any more. It’s because he doesn’t want to, he likes his freedom. He knew she’d never agree to going there. It was just a clever ploy of his. He’s a selfish pig, Noni, and she’s better off without him.’

Noni didn’t bother to argue with him; in any case, she was beginning to feel he was right. She felt a deep unease at Geordie’s apparent lack of real concern for her mother’s distress.

She spent hours listening to Adele, comforting her, trying to advise her, occasionally attempting to brace her up; without the excitement and glamour of her new career, she would, as she often said, have gone quite mad herself.

And the excitement and glamour were considerable; she adored it.

She was astonished how swiftly she had caught on as the new face of the Fifties, as an article in the
Tatler
had christened her. Every photographer was after her, every magazine and advertising agency; her agency, Ann Knight, chosen with the help of Laura Proctor-Reid, were advising her most shrewdly, cherry-picking jobs, turning down much she was offered.

‘The big money, of course, is in advertising,’ said Ann Knight, a tough, shrewd woman who looked not unlike a model herself, with her dramatically dark hair drawn back into a tight chignon, her perfectly tailored suits, her long elegant legs, her brilliantly red nails. ‘But we have to choose those jobs with great care. The really big campaigns, a cosmetic contract, absolutely fine, but we mustn’t over-expose you. I don’t want to see your face on hosiery advertisements for instance—’

‘Or lingerie,’ said Noni hopefully, who had been horrified by an offer of several thousand pounds which had come in that very morning for an exclusive contract with Maidenform bras.

‘Well obviously not,’ said Ann Knight, ‘we leave that work to the lingerie models.’ She spoke as if such creatures were only a little better than prostitutes. ‘No, we want the glossies, not the weeklies.
Woman’s Own
telephoned me this morning asking for you for a beauty shot, I said it was very unlikely, but I would get back to them after I had talked to you. We don’t want to get you a reputation for arrogance. And then some really good advertising campaigns, as I said, and I am hoping we can get you over to America as well.’

‘America!’

‘Yes. Irving Penn has expressed an interest in you, and Roland Klein has wired me, asking to see some of your pictures.’

‘Goodness how exciting,’ said Noni.

She learned fast; how to do her make-up, changing her look from day to night, how to put on false eyelashes, style her hair. She built up a wardrobe of underwear, shoes, stockings, belts, jewellery, which she carried round everywhere with her in a huge leather bag. This was for the advertising work, rather than the editorial; a fashion editor would accessorize any photograph down to the last button, but even then it was not unknown for a pair of shoes not to turn up from the manufacturer, for a belt to be too big – or too small.

She learned to go on standing in the same pose until her back ached, her legs throbbed, while she got cramp in one of her feet; she learned not to complain when she was tired, cold, hot, knowing that the money she was paid was as much for her ability to perform in the way a photographer asked as for her looks. She learned which photographers were easy to work with, which were unreasonable, which bad-tempered, and how to deal with each of them. She learned how to work with other models, how not to upstage the stars, how to cope with jealousy from the older ones, threatened by her youth. Above all she learned how to develop and project her own style, so that whatever she was asked to wear and do, she remained in some indefinable way herself, instantly recognisable but never predictable.

By April she was an acknowledged star; it was not only her rather unusual beauty, her very dark eyes, her white skin, her lovely graceful body, it was her versatility. She could look as elegant and thoroughbred as Barbara Goalen and Suzy Parker, in ball gowns and couture suits and dresses, but, when required, she could look more youthfully chic in Chanel style, in her pastel tweed suits, complete with camellia, and long loops of pearls; or even like the teenager she was. Indeed, a shot in the April edition of
Vogue
, of her hanging half out of a tree in turned-up blue jeans and one of the huge coarse-knit sloppy-joe sweaters which were the rage that spring, her smile wide and infectious, her hair caught up in a loose ponytail, was bought from
Vogue
and used as the main picture in
The Times
to picture an article on the new freedom of the young. It named her personally: ‘Oenone Lieberman, just nineteen years old and a shooting star in the fashion world’, and went on to say that she was also to be frequently seen in one or other of the hot nightclubs of the capital.

She had not expected to enjoy the social scene; she and Izzie had in common a dislike of parties and dances, and of what they called chitterchat, and she had flatly refused to do the season and be presented at Court like her Warwick cousins; now she discovered, as her fame grew and with it her popularity, that what she had disliked about dances in particular, was the sense of failure, a lack of conquests, a dread of the familiar pattern of disappearing partners, of withdrawing to the cloakroom, with the other wallflowers, to apply lipstick and perfume for the tenth time in an evening and pretend they were having a wonderful time. Elspeth had told her a dreadful story of a girl in her year whose mother had forced her into doing the season, and shipped her off night after night to dances, often in the country, where she knew no one and where she considered herself successful if she was offered one dance.

But somehow it was different now for Noni: when charming and rich young men invited her to the Mirabelle, with its mid-restaurant fountain and great bank of flowers, or to dine and dance at Quaglino’s (known as Quags) or the Café de Paris, with its evening-dress-only rule, and its brilliant cabarets. She saw Noël Coward there one especially dizzy night, and Jack Buchanan, and danced into the small hours herself. Princess Margaret, so incredibly beautiful, was often there with her friends, the exuberant, glamorous Margaret Set, smoking endlessly through her long cigarette holder.

Sometimes, if it hadn’t been for the anxiety she felt about her mother, Noni would have thought life was too good to be true.

Being a mother was not too good to be true, Elspeth thought; she was astonished by how exhausted she felt. The week in hospital had been fine, fun even. She had really enjoyed it, the sense of achievement, the way her milk had flowed, the friendship with the other mothers, the comparisons with all the other babies, knowing with total satisfaction that Cecilia was more beautiful than any of them, the sharing of the physical problems and discomfort, the lewd conversations after supper, when the husbands had been sent home.

Elspeth was shocked that these women, apparently so dominated by their husbands, so dependent on them, could also speak about them with such derision, laughing about their sexual demands. But they did; and moreover they were generally completely in control of their households, in control of arrangements, of routine, of budgeting. It seemed the husbands handed over their wage packets and the women then doled out rations for drink, the dogs, and the working-men’s clubs they all belonged to.

Elspeth resolved to talk to Keir about this when she got home; she hated the way it was the reverse in their household, her housekeeping money handed over by Keir each week. God knows how she would have managed if she had not had her own money, which of course Keir knew nothing of. It made her feel wretched, beholden to him, without any kind of status of her own.

She went home feeling confident and quite cheerful, with at least a purpose now to her days; within a week she was in absolute despair. The milk, which had flowed so obligingly in hospital, dried up like a spent spring, and Cecilia, instead of sleeping sweetly for three or four hours at a stretch, wailed miserably after two and through much of the night.

Elspeth was sore still, she had had to have several stitches which hadn’t quite healed; it hadn’t mattered in hospital where the nurses helped her with warm salt baths and comforting words, but now it seemed rather more important and worrying, and her nipples were cracked and sore where the baby sucked endlessly. The pain as her hard little gums took the breast was so intense that Elspeth had to take painkillers before each feed; she would sit there, with her teeth clenched and tears of despair blurring her view of the small dark head.

Keir took a week off to look after them both, but actually did very little, apart from cooking unnecessarily elaborate meals and complaining about the crying, which disturbed his sleep and his work.

She was relieved when he went back to work, but then found herself still in her nightdress when he came home, a pile of nappies waiting to be washed, and a supper unprepared. After three weeks, she began to think she would go mad, frightened by the violence of her misery and by her feelings towards the crying baby. When Cecilia slept she would look down at her, overwhelmed with love, but the moment the dreadful demanding noise began again, frantic anxiety would arise, like bile in her throat. More than once she picked Cecilia out of her cot and shook her in her despair and then stopped, horrified at the look of shock on the small crumpled face, and rocked her for hours, crying herself, and telling her how sorry she was.