Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (79 page)

Another suggestion that the leading authors should read from their own works was dismissed as verging on the narcissistic, but clearly there must be a major reading from
Meridian
and this great honour fell to Rupert Lytton, Tory and Jay’s younger son, an angelic-looking child of nine. And then there were the eulogies: who would give them? Sebastian was an obvious choice, and yet his position was slightly delicate; Kit was another, but he had said he would find it impossible.

‘And this time, I mean it, I simply could not stand up there in front of all those desperately important people and talk about her,’ he said, ‘sorry.’

Jay, for all his easy social charm, was not a natural speaker, said he would rather not; and Giles said that he himself would be hopelessly stiff and nervous.

‘You two?’ he suggested to the twins; they considered it carefully but rejected it again.

‘We’d just sound silly. Girls shouldn’t do that kind of thing.’

‘Of course they should,’ said Giles, ‘you’re supposed to be modern and forward-looking.’

‘I think,’ said Venetia, ‘we should have two eulogies. One from someone quite young, and one from someone quite old. Which means it could be Sebastian. Somehow, if he wasn’t the only one, it wouldn’t be so – difficult. And I know he’d love to do it, he’s such an old ham.’

‘And the young?’

‘Goodness, I don’t know. Elspeth, maybe?’

‘Possibly. If she’d do it. She’s a bit fragile at the moment.’

‘Is Keir coming?’

‘He’s been invited, obviously. You’re not suggesting—’

‘Of course not. I just wondered.’

‘I think it should be a woman, Giles is quite right. She was such a champion of women. And Elspeth’s the only suitable Lytton. The others are too light-weight—’

‘Even Noni?’

‘Even Noni.’

‘I’ll ask Elspeth,’ said Venetia.

Elspeth said she couldn’t possibly.

‘I might, if everything was all right, but I feel a bit – on shaky ground. People will sit looking at me, thinking I’ve been abandoned by my husband—’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t.’

‘Mummy, they would. I’d think they were, anyway, which is what matters.’

‘Have you heard from him?’

‘He wrote and thanked Giles for inviting him to the service.’

‘Good,’ said Venetia brightly.

‘Well – not really. He doesn’t feel he can accept.’

‘That’s understandable, I suppose. Unusually sensitive, under the circumstances.’

‘Mummy—’

‘Sorry. Any other news?’

‘No. Except that he’s found a proper flat, in Fulham, not just that awful room in Balham—’

‘Good.’

There was a silence; then Elspeth said, slightly tentatively, ‘I have got one suggestion for the young person.’

‘Yes?’

‘Jenna.’

‘Jenna! But she’s not even a Lytton.’

‘Well – she is, in a way. She’s Barty’s daughter. Barty was an honorary Lytton, she was brought up with you. She was more of a Lytton than Sebastian. I think she should be represented. And she’s very impressive. Jenna, I mean. Hugely self-confident, has that wonderful voice, sort of husky, like Barty’s—’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Venetia, ‘and maybe ask the others. But I don’t think they’ll like the idea.’

To her surprise, after the initial shock, they did: Jenna was a great favourite, she cut a swathe right through all the family complexities, she had been one of Celia’s pets.

‘But she might not agree,’ said Giles.

‘Well – we’ll write and ask her, shall we, Dell? Ask her from both of us. That’ll make it easier to say no, if she doesn’t feel she can cope.’

‘Why?’ said Giles.

‘It just—’ said Venetia.

‘—will,’ said Adele.

Jamie Elliott and Kyle Brewer faced Charlie across Kyle’s office. It was plain from both their expressions that they were finding the situation distasteful.

‘We understand from Jenna,’ said Jamie, ‘that you have financial problems.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And that you might have to take your daughter away from Dana Hall.’

‘Also correct.’

‘Jenna is finding this rather distressing,’ said Jamie.

‘I think that’s natural, don’t you? It distresses me and she’s quite fond of me, you know. Cathy is like a sister to her—’

‘Of course. We appreciate all that. And she has asked us to help you. Financially.’

‘She didn’t have to do that,’ said Charlie earnestly.

‘She didn’t?’ said Kyle, his eyes gimlet-hard. ‘I’m afraid I rather think she did. Having heard of your plight. She’s a very tender-hearted, very loyal girl. It might have been better if you hadn’t told her—’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Charlie, dropping his guard suddenly, ‘I was married to her mother. I’m her legal guardian. I’ve been looking after her ever since Barty died. It hasn’t been easy.’

‘We’re aware of that. And of how fond of you Jenna is. And, incidentally, what a very good job you have done.’

‘Well, thank you so much,’ said Charlie, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Clearly I’m not all bad. Even by your impossibly high standards.’

‘Charlie, we want to help you—’

‘No you don’t. You absolutely hate the thought of helping me. You want to help Jenna. Well, that’s OK by me. Help is help, however you dress it up.’

‘Indeed. Now, it has been agreed by the trust that it will pay your daughter’s school fees, and her attendant expenses there, these to be defined in writing very carefully.’

‘Oh really? How do you mean, exactly?’

‘Well, her extra lessons, her clothes, her travel, that sort of thing. We would want receipts, obviously, from you—’

‘To make sure I won’t be slipping any gold watches in, handmade suits, that sort of thing? You guys disgust me. What kind of generosity is that?’

‘Charlie, I would advise you not to start cutting up rough,’ said Kyle, ‘it really isn’t very sensible.’

‘Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Would you like me to lick both your asses, or just one of ’em?’

They ignored this.

‘We are also prepared,’ said Kyle, ‘to pay off your debts. We understand you have got into the hands of some rather unpleasant people—’

‘Yeah!’ said Charlie. ‘They have something in common with you guys.’

Kyle looked steadily at him.

‘Charlie, I do warn you, we could still change our minds about this.’

‘No, you couldn’t, Jenna wouldn’t let you.’

‘She doesn’t actually have the choice. Anyway, we are prepared, out of Jenna’s trust fund, to pay off those debts. We will do it for you, we want all the details, names, addresses, bank accounts—’

‘You mean you’re not letting me get my hands on anything really dangerous. Like the money.’

‘That’s about the size of it, yes. This to be set against your inheritance from Barty’s will.’

‘What?’

‘You heard,’ said Kyle.

There was a long silence: then Charlie said, ‘Jesus, you guys do take all. Fucking millions in that fucking fund and the guy who’s done most for Jenna over these past two years gets fucking peanuts out of it.’

‘Charlie—’

‘Oh for God’s sake. Listen to me, you two sanctimonious pricks. Two things here: one is that my debts are rather larger than my inheritance, as you call that chicken feed Barty’s chucked at me. The other is that unless you pay this honestly and fairly, that is to say, without setting it against any fucking thing, I’m off. Leaving. Turning my back on that poor benighted kid, leaving her at the mercy of that anally retentive tribe in England, and indeed you two charming heaps of shit. What do you think that’d do to her? She really does care for me, you know. I keep her going. She’d be pretty well done for if I went. That plucky little heart of hers would break. Oh, and by the way I do care for her too. A lot.’

‘We do – realise that,’ said Kyle. He spoke with difficulty.

‘Oh, you do? And you’re not prepared to do anything for me in return? I see.’

‘Charlie, please.’

‘No. I won’t please. I want what’s due to me, what anyone with an ounce of decency could see that I should have. OK? So do I get it or not? Huh?’

‘Would you give us a moment, please?’ said Jamie.

‘Sure,’ he said, suddenly more himself again, ‘sure. I’ll wait right here. I’ve got nothing else to do. My business has collapsed. Largely because I had to sell it in a hurry, thanks to you. No, you go ahead, take as many moments as you like.’

Ten minutes later they came back and told him they would unconditionally clear his debts, and that his legacy from Barty would be unaffected.

Charlie thanked them, gave them the information they had asked for and left.

At the corner of the street, using a public box, he put in a call to Jonathan Wyley.

‘I’m sorry I never answered your last letter,’ he said, ‘family problems. I’ve decided though, I’d like to go ahead. If you’re quite sure there’s no need for Miss Elliott to be involved at this stage.’

‘Absolutely no need. Provided you can give me written evidence that you are indeed her guardian. I’m delighted. Shall we make a date for you to come in, then?’

‘Yes, fine. I’ll call you when I’m home, and have my diary. Thanks.’

Charlie walked the several blocks home. Half relieved that his debts were to be settled and he’d get the loan off his back, half so angry still he could hardly see.

He’d show those fuckers. All of them. Lyttons, Elliotts, Brewers, the whole fucking lot of them. He wasn’t quite sure how, but he would.

CHAPTER 43

Giles was finding his mother’s diaries the most addictive thing he had ever read. He read them every night now, before he went home, drawn to them like a rather lugubrious bee to a honeypot, opening the safe when everyone had finally left, and working through them methodically, one by one.

It was not entirely pleasurable; certain incidents, particular revelations were more than uncomfortable, they were actually distasteful to him, and even shocking. He felt deeply awkward reading them, it was like watching his mother, his father and Sebastian, spying on them, listening to their conversations, observing their actions, unseen and unheard.

Giles also discovered that there were three missing. One was for the current year, which was understandable. She would hardly have come to the office to deposit it in her safe when it was only half finished. But the two others were more of a puzzle. One was for 1909, and the other, exactly ten years later, 1919. The first was the year before the twins were born, when Barty joined the family, and the second the year before Kit’s birth; the diaries simply weren’t there. It intrigued him greatly; if there had been many others missing, he might have assumed they had got lost, but every other year was there, neatly filed in order. Why not those?

He tried desperately to remember the significance of 1919; he had been fourteen, away at school and – what else? It was so hard to pinpoint memories. Barty would have been twelve. But there was one memory, and it increased his anxiety: memories of a half-comprehended drama, involving Barty, dreadful scenes taking place two floors below him at Cheyne Walk. He had never really discovered what happened that night; his mother had forbidden, and Barty firmly discouraged, any discussion about it. He remembered her dreadful distress, of course, over something she had refused to divulge, remembered her being hysterical, crying hour after hour and also the appalling scene when Celia had found the two of them lying on his bed, as he tried to comfort her, could still hear Barty screaming at her, saying dreadful, violently hostile things.

After that, doors had been slammed shut, entry barred; and he had never known any more. It had seemed to involve Sylvia Miller, Barty’s mother, who had just died, and Celia herself; beyond that there was nothing.

The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that this episode must be the missing link; he could find nothing else in the diaries which he had read remotely relating to or resembling it. He tried to tell himself that perhaps his mother had not kept diaries for those years, that she had been too tired or too busy; it was unlikely but possible.

But certainly the entry for 1 January 1910 sounded as if it followed on from something else:
Such an exciting new year. We go into it with one child and will leave it with three. I am very tired this morning, hardly surprising after the party last night, but feel very well indeed. Next appointment with Dr Perring tomorrow. I so hope he’s as positive as last time
. . .

No, that was not the first entry after a long break.

So – where was it? Where was 1909? With 1919 and 1959: but where? He checked the beginning of 1920 for clues. That was the year Kit was born. The first of January was a very positive entry:
A wonderful evening, everyone here. Baby very active! So different from last New Year, when we were beginning to worry about losing Lyttons.

No, it didn’t sound as if she’d missed out a year’s diary-keeping there, either. There must be a link: the one explaining the other . . .

There were other, dreadful things too, relating episodes from his father’s life at the front, during the First World War, one so dreadful it kept him awake all night, and after that a revelation so intimate, so personal, he felt sick and ashamed to have read it at all. For weeks after that he left them unread, swearing to read no more; but found himself compelled back to them again.

It was not all dark, not all revelation, of course; there were wonderful stories about the early days at Lyttons, about Celia and LM running it almost single-handed during the war, the truly touching story of LM’s love affair with Jay’s father, and of how Celia had arrived just in time to save Jay from adoption; the inspiring story of Billy Miller and Lady Beckenham, how she had rescued him from the despair of being eighteen years old and a victim of war, having lost not only a leg, but the will to live. Lady Beckenham had taken him on as a stable lad and given him his life back.

And the best thing of all,
Celia had written,
is that I can face Barty again. She had lost faith in us entirely.

Much more about Barty and how much Celia had loved her; more, he felt sometimes, and quite bitterly, than about himself.

She is truly precious to me,
one entry ran,
I feel I have created her as much as I have my own.

And then there was Celia and Sebastian: on and on it went, year after year, the story of that absolute love, fierce, loyal, unswerving, surviving so much; he reached March 1920 and read through, his eyes blurred with tears:
Kit is here and he is ours, mine and Sebastian’s, and nothing can ever take that from us.

Sometimes I hate Sebastian, sometimes I am so angry with him I would like to kill him; sometimes I think I never want to see him again. But whatever I feel for him, I love him. More and more. It is as simple as that.

And even the sorrow and outrage he had felt for his father was muted, somehow lessened. Indeed the entry when Oliver died explained and excused much about that love affair and about how the three of them had conducted their lives within its confines.
Oliver is dead and my heart feels quite broken. Were it not for Sebastian, I would want to die.

They could not be destroyed, these diaries; they were infinitely precious.

Keir was so cold towards her; it hurt so much. Nothing, it seemed, could crack that coldness; not even asking him to stay for a meal, to discuss things, to make plans, even, to tell her what he was doing. He simply said they had nothing to say to one another.

Elspeth saw him every week, because every weekend, he came to take the children out. There was no doubt that Keir adored his children. And they him. Watching them greet him, Cecilia with whoops of joy and shouts of ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ Robert with his wide, heart-hurting grin, holding out his plump arms, seeing them cry when he left them again at the end of the day. It was all very painful. But not as painful as when he nodded to her briefly, before he turned away and said ‘Next Saturday, then’, and left without a further word. Not even, ‘How are you?’ or ‘Is everything all right?’ She marvelled at his hardness, his cruelty. He was a little mad, it seemed to her; he must be. He was utterly convinced of his own moral superiority – which was, she supposed, in absolute terms, superior indeed; whatever marital crimes he had committed, of neglect, of withdrawal of affection, of diminishing her, they could hardly be compared with adultery. She really did only have herself to blame.

There was one huge consolation, of course, and that was her work. She now spent three days a week at Lyttons, absolutely revelling in it. She had her own list (since Keir had left the firm), her own office, even her own staff, a secretary and an editorial department: two junior editors, one of them only a little younger than she was, and a trainee. It was wonderful. She was not only looking for novels to publish, and then buying them, with a sureness of touch which surprised even Jay; she was constantly having ideas for new fiction as well. She spent a lot of time discussing them with Clementine, who said talking about books was all she was fit for at the moment: ‘I can’t imagine having the energy to write anything ever again.’ She was very pregnant and realising, as she confided to Elspeth, that she was going to be looking after not just one child but two.

‘I adore Kit, of course I do, but he is immensely demanding, he’s been spoilt all his life and I’m afraid he’s not going to take kindly to second place when the baby arrives.’

‘Tough,’ said Elspeth, ‘he’s going to have to.’

But for all her brave words and her visionary ideas, she was without her own overgrown child; and she missed him horribly.

Clementine was actually very large indeed.

‘I’m almost glad Kit can’t see me, I look so hideous.’

‘Of course you don’t, you look beautiful,’ said Elspeth.

‘Oh really? I don’t think so. I never could quite buy this idea that women were never more lovely than when carrying three stone extra on their stomachs. And it is nearly three stone, I’ve just gorged my way through it. It’s been quite nice, though.’

‘How does Kit feel about the baby?’

‘Well, obviously he’s thrilled. Although every so often he says something sad about not being able to see it. I can understand that. He’s a bit down altogether at the moment, still so upset about his mother. He feels terrible about missing all that time when he was sulking about her marriage, you know. So this baby has quite a lot of work to do.’

‘I’m sure it will manage,’ said Elspeth cheerfully.

Lucas was working at Lyttons while waiting for his National Service callup; he was enjoying it enormously. He was only allowed to perform very menial tasks, which he didn’t seem to mind in the least; his favourite being working in the post room. Elspeth was astonished, remembering the arrogant Lucas of only a few years earlier, but he told her he was intending to take the company over one day and there was a proud tradition of chairmen starting their days in the post room.

‘You get to know everyone, you get to study the hierarchy, and you find out what everyone’s really like. I have great plans for the company already.’

‘Oh you do, do you?’ said Elspeth. ‘Are we allowed to hear them?’

‘Of course. My main observation so far is that we’re very undercapitalised. We need a lot more money. And that’s easily dealt with, we should go public. Do a rights issue. We could still retain overall control and we’d have the funds to expand. It’s got to happen, everyone in publishing is doing it.’

‘It wouldn’t be hard to talk me into it,’ said Elspeth, ‘I’ve thought it myself, and so has Keir. And I think Jay might be persuaded. But Mummy and Giles – never!’

‘Well, that would be three against two,’ said Lucas.

She stared at him. ‘Lucas, you’re not on the board, you don’t have any shares. Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Oh, I’ll get some,’ he said confidently.

Still a little arrogant then. She looked at him thoughtfully. There really was a new generation of Lyttons; it would be very interesting to see how they worked out . . .

The following Saturday Elspeth spent the day at Cheyne Walk, they had all been helping Adele settle in.

‘Got any nice young ladies at the moment, Lucas?’ asked Elspeth, taking a cocktail from him. He was rather proud of his expertise with cocktails.

‘Dozens, of course. Queuing up outside my room every night.’

‘Izzie thinks Jenna’s got a crush on you.’

‘Good,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘I think she’s very sweet. I tell you, in about three or four years, that girl is going to be quite glorious-looking. Those eyes, and that hair! And I really admire her, she’s got such guts. She’ll have to wait a few years, though, it’d be cradle-snatching at the moment.’

‘Lucas, you are so arrogant,’ said Noni, ‘why should she wait a few years for you?’

‘Because I’m irresistible,’ he said, ‘so charming and amusing and so romantic-looking.’

The trouble was, Noni thought, punching him hard, it was true. At least these days he was nice . . .

It dropped on to Annabel Elliott’s breakfast table like a stick of dynamite. A stick of dynamite with the fuse alight. A letter to her solicitor from some Manhattan attorneys. She had thought, at first, it was a letter asking her to be on some charity board or other and was pushing it aside, when the words began to sink in:

. . . will petition Under Section 28 of the New York Decedent Estate Law to attain an order against the trustees of the Laurence Elliott Trust to show cause why they should not provide the equal share of your late husband’s estate to Miss Jeanette Elliott, born March 17, 1945, to which she is entitled . . .

‘Oh my God,’ said Annabel Elliott, and reached for the telephone to ring Gregory Pollack, her lawyer.

Pollack was initially reassuring, saying he had felt it was a try-on, a desperate measure by a greedy family and that he would look into it further; by the time Annabel reached his office two days later, he had become rather less sanguine.

‘I’m afraid that they do have a case. We can dispute it, of course, but under the law, she is indeed entitled to a third of the estate.’

‘But – she wasn’t even mentioned in Laurence’s will.’

‘Presumably because he could not have known about her. He was killed before she was born. God knows why the wife’s chasing the money now. Possibly she’s in financial trouble, she only got the houses, and a small share portfolio as I recall, and that type of person tends to let money go to their head.’

‘She’s dead,’ said Annabel Elliott.

‘Dead!’

‘Yes. I read about it in the paper. She was killed in a plane crash, about eighteen months ago, flying back from England. You remember she was English?’

‘Yes, of course. How very interesting. So who is the child’s guardian?’

‘Obviously someone with an eye to the main chance.’

‘So it would seem. Well, I’ll write to Wyley Ruffin Wynne and tell them we shall contest their petition.’

‘Can we do that?’

‘Of course. They have to prove that she is indeed Mr Elliott’s afterborn child—’

‘Not very difficult, I imagine. What else?’

Pollack hesitated.

‘Not a lot else, is there, Mr Pollack? As I understand it. This child – Jeanette, named after Laurence’s mother, incidentally – has a right to a third of the estate. Quite simple. What sum of money are we talking about, I wonder? Somewhere in the region of thirty million dollars, wouldn’t you say? I hope the trustees have looked after it carefully.’