Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (49 page)

‘It’s the house where I grew up, it’s nothing to do with Lord Arden, and it’s much nicer really than some hotel. I think we should do it there, unless you mind terribly, of course.’

Clementine, who secretly fancied the idea of being married from the house where the Lytton dynasty had been quite literally conceived, said she didn’t mind in the very least and would consider it an honour; Celia was so touched when they asked her that she burst, most uncharacteristically, into tears.

It was not to be a very large wedding, about a hundred guests; the ceremony would be in Chelsea Old Church. Clementine was anxious about wearing a traditional wedding dress, she said she was too old and that she’d look like a wedding cake, but she had finally found something simple enough to satisfy her, and had been growing her rather schoolgirlish red curls as fast as she could, so that she could wear them up.

She was going to look beautiful, Venetia said to Adele (having been given a preview), and it was a terrible shame Kit wouldn’t be able to see her. Clementine was the sort of person you could say those things to, she added; Adele, it seemed, was not. She burst into tears and said she thought that was the saddest thing she had ever heard in her entire life. The wedding was upsetting her altogether; Venetia supposed that Kit reminded her inevitably of Izzie.

‘Darling don’t cry,’ she said, calling on all her patience with a great effort, ‘it’s lovely, he adores her, she adores him, they’re going to be terribly happy, and have lots of babies. Who would have thought Kit’s story would turn out such a happy one?’

‘You never know with stories,’ Adele said. ‘The happiest ones can turn sad, look at mine.’

Venetia had been to see Dr Cunningham, to tell him how worried she was about Adele. He told her that he was extremely worried too, that she didn’t seem to be responding to the drugs any more, and that he was seriously considering giving her electric shock treatment. ‘She is really very ill, you know.’

Venetia was horrified; electric shock treatment had always sounded to her absolutely barbaric.

Dr Cunningham tried to reassure her.

‘It would be done under a general anaesthetic, she would know nothing about it, and we are achieving remarkable results with it. Anyway, I don’t want to broach it with her just yet—’

‘Do you think she should be alone so much? It worries me terribly.’

‘It’s difficult; her home is clearly her refuge, she finds it reassuring, and her children are there, aren’t they? As well as the nanny and other staff. Let’s leave that a little longer. If she doesn’t improve by March, say, I think perhaps we should take her into a nursing home and broach the subject of the electric shock treatment with her then.’

People talked about falling in love; it was so very apt. It did feel exactly like falling; it started slowly, you thought you could save yourself, you tried to steady yourself, grabbed at things, grabbed at sanity, at caution, at common sense, and somehow missed them all. Then things moved faster, you could see yourself losing control, feel yourself going, half afraid you were going to hurt yourself, half unable to even think about it, and then you did fall, you landed, and lay there, looking up, the view absolutely changed, feeling foolish, dazed – and very, very happy.

And it had all begun with what the Americans called a strep throat . . .

‘Darling, you’ll have to do the presentation today on your own. Think you can manage that?’

Izzie gulped. It was quite a presentation: to their new account, the chain of art shops, on an important new line they were planning for the spring, a series of literally pocket-sized art books about the Old Masters, which could be collected. She had come up with a very good copyline, or so she thought, A Gallery in Your Pocket, but she wasn’t very good at presentations.

‘Nick, I can’t. I really can’t. You know how I hate it.’

‘Sweetheart I’m sorry, but you have to. Mike’s ill. Strep throat. Can’t speak, even if he wanted to. And I have to go see Joanie. Do we stand Joanie up? I don’t think so.’

‘Couldn’t I go and see Joanie? It’d be less frightening.’

‘And less productive. You know she prefers fellers. No, it’s the Lady Isabella show at Art World. OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘Yes, OK.’

She felt quite sure it wouldn’t be; but working with the boys had taught her one thing. You had a go.

‘There’s my girl. You’ll be great. Just remember, look up at the stars.’

‘I’ll remember.’

The team waiting for her was not too formidable: the two sales managers, and the marketing director. Just the same, when she got up to speak, Izzie felt violently sick, so sick indeed that she really felt she might throw up then and there, in the boardroom, couldn’t muster a sound other than a rather awkward squeak; her throat seemed to have closed up as well. But they were on her side; the marketing director, whose name was Dick Gross, said, ‘You know, you’re a lot better looking than the other fellers.’

She giggled and then she was away, flying smoothly confident into her presentation.

And they liked it, liked her copyline, liked the promotional ideas (like getting a half-price voucher with one book to redeem against the next, getting a free poster when the whole set was complete), then took her out to lunch, where they told her they were thinking of doing a modest radio campaign and could they have her suggestions for that?

She arrived back at the office in high spirits, flushed with triumph and rather a lot of wine; Nick was there.

‘Hi, darling. You come through?’

‘Just about.’ She told him; he came over to her, gave her a hug.

‘You’re a clever girl, Lady Isabella. We must send you out some more. In fact, I think we’ll just stay right here in future and see what you can bring back for us. A radio campaign, eh? That is really something. I’ve dreamed of that for years.’

‘I know you have. And I’ve already thought of an idea.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Music for each artist. Like, say, Debussy for the Impressionists, Beethoven for Rembrandt. Something like that. And then the tag line is “Listen to the pictures. Or better still, come along and see them.” ’

He sat there gazing at her in absolute silence. Then he said, ‘You really do have it all, don’t you? Just wait till I tell Parker about this. Oh, shit, Izzie, let’s go tell him now. Might cheer him up.’

So they went round to the apartment they shared, with a bottle of champagne; Izzie had been there before, but never failed to be struck by its appalling state. It wasn’t exactly dirty, but the mess was fearsome, they had no furniture except the bed, a clothes rail and a TV. Everything they possessed was in piles on the floor. Books and ornaments in the living room, sweaters and shoes in the bedroom, towels in the bathroom. Only the kitchen made any pretence of being equipped; there was a sink filled with (mostly clean) mugs and plates, a double gas ring and a very old refrigerator, piled high with a mountain of tins and packets.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nick had said, seeing her face as she gazed at it all the first time, ‘we never cook, except to make coffee.’

It was looking especially bad that day; Mike had the curtains closed, and for the first time she saw them in all their horror: brilliant orange nylon with purple flowers, hanging in sagging loops off the minimum number of rings, about four on each side, with a large hole in one of them and the hem unravelled on the other. Mike was awake, and clearly feeling dreadful, but he struggled to sit up and punched the air when they told him the news. He blew Izzie a kiss, and then snatched the bottle of champagne Nick had bought on the way home and insisted on opening it. Having been rather shaken about, and there being no glasses ready, the contents took on a life of their own, and spurted all over the room, and particularly on Izzie, who was sitting on the bed. Mike lay back on his rather greylooking pillows and stared at her, appalled.

‘Honestly, don’t worry,’ she said laughing, ‘it doesn’t stain or anything.’

‘Darling, you’re soaked,’ said Nick. ‘Look at your shirt.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does to me. Apart from anything else, you’ll smell like an old wino and I’m going to take you out to dinner. You’d better have one of mine. Here you are, you like this one? Or this?’

He rifled through the clothes rail that stood at the side of the room, it contained a number of the luridly striped shirts they both loved. She looked at them and said carefully, ‘I don’t quite see myself in one of those. Look, just lend me a T-shirt, I’ve got my jacket. I can rinse the shirt out and come back for it, and the rest of my things. Unless of course we’re going to the Waldorf or something.’

Nick looked pained.

‘Isabella, please. Where else would I take you? Chinatown?’

‘I hope so,’ said Izzie.

She borrowed a T-shirt, combed her hair, blew Mike a kiss and they left.

They had a good time, drank too much, talked endlessly about life in general and the dazzling future of Neill & Parker in particular. Nick told Izzie a lot of very bad jokes and they went back to the apartment so that Izzie could collect her things. Mike was asleep, sprawled across the bed. Nick stared down at him.

‘Poor guy. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the sofa.’

‘You don’t have a sofa,’ said Izzie, looking round the chaotic room.

‘OK, on the floor.’

‘You can’t sleep on the floor.’

‘Why not? We have a carpet. And a sleeping bag.’

‘Nick! That’s silly, I’ve got a sofa, why don’t you come back and crash on that?’

Nick looked at her; she looked at him, and just for a moment, an odd, slightly shaky moment, there was something there, something disturbing, something utterly unexpected. And then it was gone again, almost before she had noticed it, certainly before she could allow it to concern her.

‘Go on. You’ll be much more comfortable.’

He hesitated; again, just for a moment, then said, ‘I’d be proud to sleep on your sofa. Let’s go.’

They were both rather drunk; Izzie settled Nick on the sofa, with a lot of giggling while she dragged a couple of blankets out of the bathroom cupboard, kissed him briefly goodnight and went to her room. She suddenly felt terribly tired and lay down on her bed just as she was, fully clothed. Only for a moment; she would just close her eyes and then when she felt better, when the room stopped whirling, she would get undressed.

She fell asleep at once; and then woke at three, terribly hot, very confused, with an aching head and a raging thirst. She pulled off her clothes, still half asleep, unable to find her nightdress in the dark, and then decided she must get a drink of water. She was halfway across the living room, which lay between her bedroom and the kitchen, when she remembered Nick. Remembered him; but then thought he must be asleep. And rather than turn back, she walked on into the kitchen, didn’t see him, lying there, looking at her. She filled a jug of water, took a glass and turned back; and then she did see him, and saw he was looking at her, very seriously and sweetly studying her, his eyes moving over her, and too late, she tried to cover her breasts with her arms, and promptly dropped the jug of water.

‘Oh shit,’ she said, ‘oh shit. Nick that was – that was – well, you should have said something.’

‘Like what? Like “I can see you?” or “Am I dreaming?” or “That is a truly beautiful sight”?’

‘Oh don’t joke,’ she said, cross now, as well as embarrassed, ‘it isn’t funny—’

‘It certainly isn’t,’ he said, ‘it’s very far from funny. Run along, back to bed, I’ll clear up the water.’

‘But I want the water,’ she said irritably, ‘that’s what I got up for.’

‘Then I’ll bring you some more. Go on, quick now, before my eyes fall right out of their sockets.’

‘Nick!’

She half ran into her room, dived into the bed, and sat with the covers pulled up to her chin; she could hear him moving about, clearing up the mess, then he knocked at the door.

‘May I come in?’

‘Yes, of course.’ He was carrying the jug and a glass, and wearing, she was relieved to see, a shirt and some boxer shorts. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much, just put it down there, if you don’t mind.’

‘I don’t mind at all. Shall I pour you a glass?’

‘No. No, it’s all right, I’ll do it.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘if I embarrassed you. I wouldn’t have done it for the world.’

He looked so remorseful, his long, rather beaky face mournful, his dark eyes so filled with misery that she smiled at him. What did it matter, after all? He was like a brother to her, they both were.

‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘honestly. Quite all right. It was – well, it was silly of me.’

And then, suddenly, without having the faintest idea why, because it was clearly not quite the best thing to do, she reached up to give him a kiss. Meaning just to show some affection for him, sisterly affection. A goodnight kiss. Only somehow, he didn’t kiss her cheek as she had thought he would, his mouth brushed on hers, and she felt her own mouth move, very gently, under it, letting him know what she suddenly wanted. Wanted very much. And then there was another of the shaky, sparky moments; they felt it, both of them, acknowledged it, their eyes met, and then he looked quickly away, stood up.

‘I feel this isn’t quite what I should be doing,’ he said, ‘I feel like the kind of guy I don’t really approve of. Maybe I should just – just go back to bed.’

‘Sure,’ she said, ‘good idea. Sleep well, Nick. Thanks for the water.’

And then lay awake until it was quite light, feeling alternately foolish and oddly happy, wondering what on earth might have happened if she hadn’t sent him away. She heard Jenna’s voice suddenly, her clear little voice saying, ‘Both those boys are so in love with Izzie’, heard her father saying, ‘What a delightful notion’, and saw the words in Noni’s spidery writing, ‘I hear the boys are both in love with you.’

Was it true? Could it be true? Of course not. She set the thought aside with a great effort of will. It was ridiculous: quite, quite ridiculous. It was just that he had seemed – well, to find her attractive. But then, what man wouldn’t be aroused by the sight of a completely naked girl walking past his bed, and then respond when she invited him to kiss her goodnight? She’d wanted him to kiss her, though: very much. And she’d wanted to kiss him too. It was very odd; she’d never felt anything remotely like that for either of them. And Nick wasn’t the sort of man she fancied normally; not in the least good-looking, certainly not well-dressed. Maybe she’d just been drunk. Yes, that was it. What a way to behave; how crass and undignified. Hadn’t she learned any lessons at all? She finally fell asleep as the dawn broke, to dream feverishly about walking naked into her presentation, and realising that one of the men in the room was Geordie . . .