Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (68 page)

Charlie waited, trying to distract himself; Wyley Ruffin Wynne’s offices were on the sixty-third floor of a building on Sixth Avenue; just uptown from Radio City and the United Nations building. Behind Jonathan Wyley’s head, he could see the great sprawling spatter of high-rise New York, the completed buildings, gleaming in the frosty sunshine, together with the cranes and scaffolding and labourers on those that were still unfinished. A few wispy clouds trailed across the intensely blue sky, in the distance a helicopter whirled on its self-important way.

Jonathan Wyley still said nothing, just stared at his pad of paper, at the notes he had made on it; Charlie stood up, unable to bear the tension any longer, walked over to the window, looked down, far, far down at the toy cars and people and trees, and wondered how much it really mattered.

‘Do help yourself to coffee,’ said Wyley, indicating the tray and the jug on a table beside him, and he reached for one of his books, flicking through the pages; his clock had a loud tick, an irritatingly loud tick, Charlie thought. Edgy clients would find that very intrusive.

Finally, Wyley pushed away the book and the pad and the pencil and leaned back in his chair, looked at Charlie and said, ‘Oh yes. You – we – do most definitely have a case.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Charlie. ‘Oh my good God.’

Just before Christmas, Marcus Forrest came over to London; Elspeth was sitting at her desk at home when he phoned her.

‘Can I take you out to lunch one day? Or can’t you tear yourself away from your children for that length of time?’

‘Of course I can. I’d love to have lunch. Thank you.’

That’d be one in the eye for Keir; she’d be very sure to tell him about it. All about it.

In the event she didn’t. Not all.

It started out perfectly all right; he’d booked a table at the Caprice in a rather secluded corner, was waiting with a bottle of champagne on ice at his side.

‘I thought a Lytton girl like you would expect champagne.’

‘Hardly a Lytton girl at the moment,’ said Elspeth soberly.

‘Oh what nonsense. You look more like your grandmother every day. That’s a compliment, by the way, I’ve seen pictures of her when she was young and thought how beautiful she was. You have her talent, too.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said carefully.

‘What did you mean, then?’ His eyes on her face were intrigued.

‘Oh – I’d better not tell you. Bit indiscreet.’

‘Have some champagne. That usually induces indiscretion.’

She smiled and looked around her. She loved the Caprice, the curved banquettes, the tables spread with pink cloths, the atmosphere it had of a rather feminine drawing room.

‘It’s gorgeous here,’ she said, sipping her champagne.

‘I’m sure you often come here.’

‘I – used to. When I was young.’

‘And now, of course, you’re so terribly old.’

‘I feel it,’ she said, ‘sometimes. As if life is passing me by.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to feel.’

‘Isn’t it? Sorry, I’m not being very festive. This is so kind of you.’

‘Not in the least kind,’ he said, ‘it’s a piece of self-indulgence, actually. I like having lunch with pretty women.’

‘Well,’ she said, looking round, ‘there are plenty here. My cousin Noni comes here a lot. With all her aristocratic beaux.’

‘She really is beautiful. I could have sworn there was talk of her getting engaged.’

‘There was. To some weedy peer. But it’s all off, thank goodness. We didn’t like him at all. She’s going out with an actor now. Some friend of Tony Armstrong-Jones, who’s done some pictures of her for
Vogue
. She was so thrilled about that, she says he’s the most brilliant photographer she’s ever worked with. She says he takes risks. He took one of her riding a bicycle, or rather just as she was falling off it. But so you could still see the clothes. She’s such a success herself, Noni, we’re all so proud of her—’

‘Your family is full of success,’ he said, ‘it runs in its veins. You’ve got a very high percentage of it in your blood, I’m quite sure of that.’

‘I – hope so.’

She smiled at him, thought how charming he was and how good-looking. He was wearing a perfectly cut suit with rather narrow trousers and a very pale pink-and-white striped shirt; he was exactly the kind of man she really liked, smooth, easy, interested in what she had to say. Not difficult and terse and bad tempered . . .

‘You’re not married?’ she asked suddenly, pushing away her plate, only half emptied.

‘No, I’m not. Is there something wrong with that? I can order you another—’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it was delicious, I’m just not very hungry. I never am when I’m—’ she stopped.

‘When you’re what?’

‘Nervous, I suppose.’

‘Now why should you be nervous?’ he said, and his tone was astonished. ‘If anything, it’s me who should be nervous, having to entertain someone who must regard me as being as old as time.’

She laughed. ‘Of course I don’t. I was just thinking—’ she stopped again.

‘Elspeth, you have to start finishing your sentences. I’m finding it rather disconcerting. Now what were you thinking?’

She looked at him; very directly. The champagne had taken effect, she was dizzying up nicely, as Amy put it.

‘I was just thinking you were exactly the sort of man I most liked,’ she said.

They started to talk easily then; flirtatiously at first, then about Lyttons, about work, and more seriously. He wasn’t married, no, he said, he was divorced. ‘We had a very good marriage, at first. Then I discovered my mistress.’

‘Your mistress!’

‘Yes. Work. And devoted more time to that than to my wife. We had two children by then, she was very busy, it was rather easy to slip apart.’

‘I know all about that,’ she said.

‘You do? I thought you were so devoted to your husband.’

‘Devoted!’ said Elspeth, and suddenly found her eyes filled with tears.

Marcus Forrest looked at her in horror then tactfully away as she rummaged in her bag for a handkerchief.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too. Not that you cried. Unlike most men, I rather like tears. But that you’re not happy. Do you – do you want to tell me about it?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, managing to smile and then, ‘why do you like tears?’

‘I find them rather sexy,’ he said unexpectedly, ‘a letting go. And an indication of a tender heart. Of course they’re not always, but—’

‘I’m not sure that I have a tender heart,’ she said, ‘any more.’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ he said, and he reached out a hand and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. ‘I’m quite sure you do. You’d be working for me if you didn’t.’

She ignored the ‘me’.

‘I’m afraid not. Keir wouldn’t allow it.’

‘Wouldn’t allow it?’ He sat back, staring at her. ‘That is just about the saddest thing I ever heard. That someone as talented, as ambitious as you, should be held back because of—’ He stopped, then said, ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

‘I’m afraid not. No. It’s the marriage or the job.’

‘So you chose the marriage. And you say you’re not tender-hearted.’

‘I feel very tough-hearted,’ she said suddenly, plunging recklessly into a ravine of confession. Dangerous confession. ‘I feel hurt and angry, all the time. I can hardly bear to think of him there, at Lyttons, doing all the things that I should be doing, I certainly can’t bear to talk to him about it at the end of the day.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘so very, very sorry. Is there nothing I can do about it?’

‘No. Nothing. Nobody can.’

‘Well, if you do think of some way I can help, just let me know. And now perhaps we should talk of happier things. Like – where should I take some very boring booksellers for dinner this evening? What shows should I see while I’m in London? Where can I buy a present for my daughter?’

‘Well,’ said Elspeth, ‘you should take the booksellers to the Savoy. You should see
The Entertainer
. It’s marvellous, with Laurence Olivier. And the present for your daughter, I can help with. Just go to Harrods. They have everything, absolutely everything, from dolls to roller skates to—’

‘Pretty dresses?’

‘Lots of pretty dresses.’

‘Then let’s go and choose a pretty dress together. If you have the time, that is.’

Elspeth met his eyes in absolute complicity.

‘I have plenty of time,’ she said.

The stores were spangled with Christmas lights, filled with people in holiday mood. Elspeth followed him, smiling, as he threw himself into a frenzy of shopping. He bought presents by the armful: toys, dresses for his daughter, and a cashmere sweater for the ex-Mrs Forrest. After a moment’s hesitation, Elspeth bought an identical one for herself.

‘Nothing for your husband?’

‘No,’ she said firmly.

He looked at her and laughed. ‘He doesn’t need presents to my mind. He has you.’

They visited Harvey Nichols as well, where he bought the ex-Mrs Forrest some scent.

‘Arpège,’ said Elspeth, ‘how lovely.’

‘What do you wear? Chanel? You seem like a Chanel girl to me?’

‘Never tried it.’

‘I shall buy you some, then.’ He looked down at her and smiled. ‘On one condition. You only wear it when you are with me.’

‘Bit of a waste,’ she said, laughing.

‘Will it be?’ he said, and his eyes were serious suddenly. ‘If I had my way, Elspeth, you would wear it a great deal.’

She said nothing, but he opened the packaging and the bottle and dabbed some, very slowly, behind each of her ears.

It was an extremely erotic moment.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘it’s tea time. No point my going back to Lyttons now. Why don’t we have tea at the Ritz? And look in on Hatchards at the same time, see how we’re doing there.’

They took a cab to Hatchards in Piccadilly; wandered round looking at the displays.

‘We’re doing well, aren’t we?’ he said. ‘That book of Jay’s, the threeparter, it’s selling like the proverbial hot cakes.’

‘He’s very clever, don’t you think?’ said Elspeth.

‘Quite. Not as clever as your husband, though. Oh dear, how indiscreet of me.’

‘I won’t tell him,’ said Elspeth briskly, ‘don’t worry.’

Deer Mountain
was also doing extremely well, had a small table all to itself on the bend of the stairs.

‘I was wrong about that,’ Marcus said, ‘it’s reprinting for the fourth time, Giles tells me.’

‘Yes. Did you like it?’

‘I hated it,’ he said, ‘but it’s a brilliant piece of work. Although there’s something about it that makes me uneasy.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t quite know. It’s just a bit too – perfect. And where’s the author?’

‘She’s a recluse,’ said Elspeth, ‘she doesn’t want publicity.’

‘Then why publicise her deer, her lonely mountain, her life? Someone will find her, they’re bound to.’

‘I think you’re horrid,’ she said laughing.

‘Well, maybe. Let’s go and have tea.’

They walked along Piccadilly, and settled in the Palm Court of the Ritz, spreading their bags out around them.

‘I’ve never known a man to like shopping,’ she said, looking at his packages.

‘Oh I’ve always liked it,’ he said, ‘I’m very acquisitive, you see.’

‘What do you like to acquire?’

‘Oh – just about everything. Pictures. Antiques. Clothes. Pretty women.’

She smiled at him, utterly, dangerously relaxed. ‘I suppose you have lots of those.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘not many. Not many come up to my very high standards, you see.’

The harpist, seated by one of the biggest palms, was playing rather incongruously a medley from
West Side Story
, the waves of chatter from all the tables rose and fell, more and more people arrived, swooped on their friends and kissed them ecstatically. It was all deliciously excessive, she thought, and said so; ‘I suppose you like excess?’ she asked, smiling at him.

‘Of course. I’m very greedy.’

Elspeth met his eyes directly; there was a silence, then, ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Could I have another glass of champagne? And another of those wonderful cucumber sandwiches?’

‘Suddenly you’ve got an appetite. Does this mean you are no longer nervous?’

‘Not nervous at all,’ she said, and then impulsively leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I’ve had such a lovely time. Thank you so much.’

‘It was entirely my pleasure,’ he said and then, ‘that scent suits you, really very well.’

He put his hand under her chin, kissed her back; only this time on the lips, very gently, but she still felt it, his warm mouth moving on hers, and – of course – her own responding, stirring just slightly, the sensation echoed in her, deep, deep within—

‘Sir, Madam.’ The Ritz waiter stood above them, deferentially disdainful. ‘Some tea?’

‘No thank you,’ said Marcus Forrest. They both started to laugh.

CHAPTER 36

Christmas had been awful. The worst thing yet. She had known it would be, of course, but she hadn’t expected anything quite so bad. Jenna had actually been planning to go to England, to spend it with the Millers. They had invited her, and she had thought it was absolutely the answer.

Charlie and Cathy had been sweet, encouraged her to go, said they’d be fine; and surely they would be, she thought, they could see other people, not just her and her friends and relations. She had written to Celia and said she was coming and asked if she could see her, and perhaps Adele and Venetia, and Celia had written the loveliest letter back, saying she would adore to see her, and to have her to stay for a few days if the Millers could spare her.

‘I have something for you, too,’ she wrote, ‘it’s waiting here for you. Something of your mother’s. Best love, Celia.’

She had been really excited, and almost happy, especially about seeing the Millers. She had bought a few new clothes, presents for everyone, received lots of letters from them all, saying how much they were looking forward to seeing her.

They set off for the airport, a week before Christmas: and then it happened. Very suddenly, while they were checking her on to the flight, shocking her with its violence, a shaking, first hot, then icy panic, a sickness in her stomach, a pounding in her head, a need to run away: and a realisation that she absolutely could not get on an aeroplane.

‘I – can’t go,’ she whispered to Charlie, clinging to his hand like a small child, trying to control herself, control the tremulous tears, the violent shuddering. ‘I can’t go, I’m too afraid, I can’t, oh Charlie, I’m so sorry.’

He had been wonderful, had sat down with her on one of the seats and held her, cuddled her, kissed her and said it was all right, of course she mustn’t go if she didn’t want to, there was no need, it didn’t matter.

She stood up, said she must go the lavatory, but then found her legs too weak to support her; Cathy put an arm around her and helped her in and she sat there, crying and shuddering, horrified at herself, at her lack of courage, at the mind-emptying power of her fear.

‘I can’t understand it,’ she kept saying. ‘I came back with you and Charlie. I didn’t think about it then, why am I now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cathy said helplessly, ‘but maybe you were so shocked then you didn’t think about it properly, or maybe you had me and my dad. I don’t know, Jenna, but it doesn’t matter, you don’t have to go. I was dreading you going, anyway,’ she added with a rather shaky grin. ‘We were going to be pretty lonely.’

Somehow that made Jenna feel better; even so, she felt dreadful about letting down everybody in England, and insisted on speaking to Joan and Billy herself.

‘Don’t you worry, my lovely,’ Joan had said, ‘we’ll miss you, course we will, but there’s always next year. It’s natural you shouldn’t want to get on a plane, I wouldn’t either, horrible things.’

She phoned Celia too, afraid that she would be rather disapproving, but she was wonderful and told her she quite understood, and that it was just as well she hadn’t got over to England and then not felt she could go back. ‘Or perhaps that would have been better. I think I’d have liked that,’ she added, and Jenna could hear her smiling. ‘I quite understand, my darling. And so will everyone else. You’ve been so brave. You deserve a bit of a wobble.’

So they had gone home again. She and Cathy had arranged a Christmas dinner at lightning speed, with Maria’s help, and invited Jamie and the Brewers for the evening, as her mother had always done; they had said they couldn’t come, they already had a big party arranged, but invited them over there. It seemed a good idea and she had rushed out and bought lots more presents; Charlie had already got a tree and it stood where it always did, on the outside balcony of Number Seven, the lights shining out into the darkness, and she had thought maybe she was even glad she wasn’t going to be in England. They would go to the midnight service at St Bartholomew’s, she and Cathy were going carol singing with their friends and they would go skating on Christmas Eve, as they had always done, then walk home, all the way up the brilliant streets, savouring the day ahead . . .

And then Jenna realised what they had all done; they had arranged Christmas exactly as Barty had always done, because they didn’t know any different way to do it, were spending exactly the same kind of day, doing exactly the same things, seeing exactly the same people – only without her. And suddenly every moment was dreadful, every moment a reminder, stockings without her, presents without her, pulling crackers without her, carving the turkey without her, going round to Jamie’s without her, an aching blank where she should have been, an emptiness in the room so strong that she could see it, see her mother not being there.

Time was ticking on rather horribly, Giles felt. It was now January, they had exactly two months in which to find two million pounds and BISC were moving with dreadful slowness. Brian Gilmour of BISC had phoned Harold Charteris early in December to say he was sending in their specialists to have a look at the company, and to see if he felt he could recommend it to the board as an option for a loan.

‘Two people will be coming. One of our financial people will want to have a look at your accounts department, talk to your accountant, take a look at your balance sheet, that sort of thing. He’ll evaluate your building, see what he thinks that’s worth, and the warehouse, of course. And then there’s a very nice young fellow, name of Peter Phelps, I’m sure you’ll like him, he knows quite a bit about your area, has looked at several publishing companies for me. He won’t disrupt things too much, I hope, just make some enquiries in various departments, see what’s happening, what you propose to publish over the next three years or so, what your sales figures have been over the past two or three years, and so on.’

This enraged Celia. ‘I don’t know what this person expects to find – that we are publishing pornography, perhaps? Everyone knows what we’ve published, and the sales figures are there for all to see. I hope they don’t imagine we’ve been distorting them or something like that.’

‘No, Lady Celia,’ said Charteris patiently, ‘of course not. But they do want facts. Facts and figures, that’s what the whole thing is about. You can’t expect someone to hand over this sort of money without being sure the company is sound.’

‘Well clearly it’s sound. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.’

This was such a wildly inaccurate statement that Charteris chose to ignore it altogether.

‘And how long is all this going to take? We’re very busy at the moment, we can’t afford to spend days on end with people answering stupid questions.’

‘Gilmour tells me it’ll take about two or three days. They will then put together a report for him, and he’ll decide whether to recommend it to the board or not.’

The day before Peter Phelps arrived, Jay took Celia out to lunch. ‘I know this all seems very tiresome to you, Celia, but it is essential. We can’t proceed without these people. So it really is in our interest to be helpful.’

Celia looked at him. And then gave him her most conspiratorial smile.

‘Of course I’m going to be helpful,’ she said, ‘whatever made you think I might not?’

Peter Phelps, on arriving the next day, found himself greeted in the foyer by Lady Celia Lytton personally; she swept forward, a rather dramatic figure in dark turquoise, with a large black hat on her head, trimmed with turquoise feathers, clasped his hand in both hers and said, ‘Mr Phelps, how very, very good of you to come. You must let me know exactly what you would like me to do to help you in your work. And I would be most honoured if you would join us all for lunch at the Dorchester. My husband, Lord Arden, will probably be joining us.’

Peter Phelps, who lived in a small house in Pinner and spent his weekends birdwatching with his sister, managed to murmur that he was very grateful but he preferred to take a rather brief lunch hour, if Lady Celia wouldn’t mind. ‘Time is of the essence in our business, do please forgive me,’ and he followed her to the boardroom. There she had set up a full display of every book published by Lyttons over the past three years, complete with sales figures, a range of catalogues, and a document outlining publishing plans for the next three years.

‘I do hope this will be enough for you,’ she said graciously, ‘my nephew, Jay Lytton, and my son Giles will be with us shortly, to answer any questions you may have. I’m so sorry you aren’t able to join us for luncheon, my husband will be most disappointed.’

As Lord Arden was up in Scotland shooting, this was fairly unlikely; but Peter Phelps was not to know that.

He was particularly interested in
Deer Mountain
. ‘Such a wonderful book, I bought it for my mother for Christmas’, and the prospective memoirs of General Dugdale. ‘I would enjoy that very much. Are you expecting a large volume of sales from that, Lady Celia?’

‘But of course. We publish in late summer and it should sell right through into the autumn. A second volume will follow next year. I shall see you are sent a signed copy. General Dugdale is a great personal friend of mine.’

‘How kind,’ said Peter Phelps.

He left at the end of the following day looking a little dazed, but with most of the small notebook he had brought with him filled with his neat, closely packed handwriting.

‘I think that went rather well,’ said Celia. ‘I hope I behaved with enough grace, Jay.’

‘Of course you did.’

She supposed it had been worth it; at least if it worked, she wouldn’t have to do the awful thing.

It was very odd being an adulterous woman. You felt at one and the same time very good and very bad. Very good because you knew you were still attractive, still sexy. And bad – well it was obvious why you felt bad. Although rather glamorously bad. Most of the time, Elspeth felt as if she was watching a film about herself. It was very exciting.

She supposed she would have felt much worse, much more wicked, if Keir was being nice to her. But he wasn’t; he was being foul. Cold, distant, argumentative; he had still never thanked her, or even expressed appreciation for turning down Marcus Forrest’s offer. It wouldn’t have hurt him, and it would have helped her a lot. In fact, it would have made all the difference.

All the difference when Marcus Forrest invited her for another lunch when he came back to London in January; all the difference when he had told her he had been thinking of her ever since he had left; all the difference when he reminded her to wear her Chanel No. 5; all the difference when, as he kissed her goodbye, having made no improper suggestion of any kind, he had said that if she would like it, he would certainly like to see her again; all the difference when some flowers arrived for her, thanking her for sparing the time to see him, and asking her to lunch again the next time he came – ‘not for several weeks, I’m afraid, but I shall look forward to it greatly if you will agree.’

And certainly all the difference when he did come back in February, when Keir was away overnight (to address a conference of Scottish booksellers where it was thought his Scottishness would help) and Marcus invited her for cocktails at six at his hotel. It had turned out the cocktails were being served in his suite; after two, he kissed her and she responded in the most helpless, hopeless way, kissing him back in an agony of desire (while knowing it was the most stupid thing she could possibly be doing).

And then somehow she was lying on the bed, on Marcus’s bed, and he was undressing her, kissing her, telling her how much he wanted her and how beautiful she was, dipping his finger in the champagne at his side and tracing first her face and then her nipples with it, then licking it off, slowly and deliciously. It was too late by then, far too late, to do anything except melt away beneath him, and let him lead her into the most glorious wonderful sex.

But when it was over, finally, when she had travelled so far and so high that she had to fall, fall endlessly into a deep, splintering, breaking delight, she lay, exhausted, absolutely terrified by what she had done.

‘It’s all right,’ he said gently, over and over again, trying to soothe her, ‘I understand. Of course you feel dreadfully disloyal and wicked, and – well, I had no right to do that. I feel ashamed.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ she said fretfully. ‘Why should you feel ashamed, I let you do it, I could have said no to lunch. I could have sent back the flowers, I could have refused the cocktails, I could have run from the room screaming—’

‘I would have followed you,’ he said gently, ‘and I would have offered more cocktails and I would have sent you more flowers and bought you another lunch. I am quite hard to resist, when I have fixed my mind on something.’

And even then she kept thinking that if Keir had been nicer to her, if he had allowed her to take the job, if she had not been feeling so hurt and angry, then a second onslaught from Marcus Forrest, even a third, might have been possible to resist.

Just possible. He was very, very attractive she thought, on the way home to Battersea in the taxi, rehearsing her explanation to Mrs Wilson for her lateness (an important author suddenly arriving, demanding attention), checking her face again, reapplying her lipstick, smoothing her hair, wondering if it showed, if someone like Mrs Wilson could look at her and know that only an hour earlier she had been writhing about in bed with a man who was not her husband, crying out with pleasure and weeping with remorse.