No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (49 page)

‘I don’t feel that diminishes his in any way.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. But I felt it important that he should put it in perspective.’

‘It’s a great pity he didn’t feel able to tell me about it. I would have felt quite differently.’

‘You weren’t here. Most of the time. You were away at Colchester, and then you went to France. How could I trouble you with a small boy’s problems at school? I was encouraging the children to be brave for you, not to worry you.’

‘Did you know exactly what those problems were?’

‘Well, not exactly, no.’

‘You didn’t know he was being beaten, bullied.’

‘No, I didn’t. I thought just teased—’

‘He was made to wear a nappy. Clearly there were some kind of sexual implications, as well. It was appalling, Celia, I can’t believe you let it go uninvestigated.’

She looked at him steadily. Then she said, ‘I had no idea it was as bad as that. Of course I didn’t. If I had—’

‘Then don’t you think you should have known?’

‘Yes! Yes of course I should. But there were a dozen reasons why I didn’t. I was taking charge at Lyttons. The children were tiny. I was pregnant. You were leaving me for what seemed like an almost certain death. Of course I should have done more. But I was fighting a very lonely battle of my own here, Oliver. I would ask you to remember that, to take it into consideration. I am deeply sorry about it, and I shall apologise to Giles myself, of course.’

‘And I suppose you think that will exonerate you, make everything all right?’

‘No, of course not. But it will make Giles realise that I do care about him.’

‘I think,’ said Oliver, ‘it is probably a little late for that. I am going to bed now, if you will excuse me. Goodnight.’

‘Laurence, good morning. Robert Lytton here.’

‘My secretary said – well, never mind. What do you want?’

‘Yes, I said I was Henry Rea from Rea Goldberg. Sorry about that small deception. I wondered if we could meet for lunch. Just a few small matters I’d like to go over with you.’

‘I really don’t think we have anything to say to one another, Robert. And certainly not over lunch.’

‘I have a great deal to say to you,’ said Robert. ‘You may not have much to say to me. Perhaps you would prefer to come and see me at my office.’

‘I have no desire to come to your office. What is this about? I really would be grateful if you would—’

‘It’s about Hagman Betts, Laurence. And the mysterious way they keep winning contracts from us.’

‘I really don’t see what that has to do with me.’

‘On the contrary, it appears to have a great deal to do with you.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It begins with a cheque. For fifty thousand dollars, made out to Nathaniel Betts.’

A miniscule pause: then, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, I’m afraid.’

‘I think you do. I suspect – without being able to prove it of course – that this fifty thousand represents the difference between what they would have had to quote in order to make the last job profitable, and what they actually did quote. Something like that, anyway. And then there are all those nasty little items in the press. More or less implying that we are incompetent as well as expensive.’

‘The press can only write what they know.’

‘Correction. They write what they are told. And, my foolishly blind eyes having been opened by the news of that cheque – I don’t know why I never thought of you before – I did a little research. I have contacts in publishing here, of course – through my brother. The reporter was asked where his information came from; about the refusal of finance, the particularly interesting quote about Hagman Betts being imaginative, and Brewer Lytton, by implication, much less so. It transpired that a young man from Betts had taken him out to an expensive dinner and plied him with bourbon, on the pretext of supplying him with an article on architecture in the city generally.’

‘This is all so tenuous,’ said Laurence. ‘You’re paranoid. It just doesn’t mean anything at all.’

‘Possibly not. In a court of law. But I am as capable of spreading rumour as you are, and I still have a great many friends in the banking fraternity. Your hostility to me is well known. It wouldn’t be difficult to believe that you are out to do me down. And it would be interesting for people to know you have been paying large sums of money to Hagman Betts out of your own pocket. No doubt, filtered down from the bank.’

Another pause. ‘I have never heard of anything quite so absurd. Clearly anxiety and depression have led to some kind of paranoid delusion. I feel almost sorry for you.’

‘Not paranoia, Laurence. Nor a delusion. Fact. Absolute fact.’

‘This is absurd,’ he said, sounding slightly less sure of himself. ‘You have absolutely no proof of any such thing.’

‘Oh, but I do. Your cheque book came into my possession. Your personal cheque book. I have returned it now, delivered it myself to Elliotts, in an envelope marked for your personal attention. But I have taken the liberty of taking some photographs of the cheques. I have a small photographic studio in my house; it was quite easy to do. I printed them myself, in my own dark-room, you have no need to worry that any of this might leak into the outside world. But—’

‘Celia, I must talk to you.’

‘Of course. Oliver, I have some more poems by Felicity Brewer here. They’re truly charming. I would like, if you agree, to publish a small collection of them. Illustrated, I think. They—’

‘Yes, good idea. I like them too.’

‘Oh.’ Celia had been prepared for a long discussion, and then a long argument.

‘Anyway, I can talk to Felicity about it myself. I’m planning to go to New York in a month or two—’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes. I want to visit our office over there, it’s long overdue, and, of course, I want to see Robert.’

Jealousy stabbed her: it was both personal and professional, but especially that he should be excluding her from something so crucial to Lyttons’ development as a major house. ‘I didn’t know. Can I come?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, it will only be a very brief trip.’

‘Oliver, I really would like to.’

‘No, Celia, I don’t want this turning into a major production. I’m sorry. Just a few days—’

She gave up; there was clearly no point in arguing.

‘Now, it is on the subject of illustration that I really want to talk to you.’

‘Yes?’

‘I have had a letter from James Sharpe. This morning. He is much better, indeed quite restored to health, and—’

‘Good. I’m delighted. He’s had a bad time.’

James Sharpe had indeed had a bad time; shrapnel wounds to his spine had left him in considerable pain, with his mobility permanently, although not seriously impaired.

‘I fear I shall never be able to tango with Celia again,’ was how he put it to Oliver, but it was a little more serious than that. He could walk only slowly, with a limp, and leaned heavily on a cane: or rather canes. He was something of a dandy, and his blithely courageous spirit seized on the fact that canes could come with ivory handles, silver handles, could be made of ebony, mahogany, could be exquisitely carved, could be designed for town or country: he was acquiring a collection as extensive as his wardrobe of suits and overcoats.

‘So – is he coming back?’ asked Celia casually.

‘He is indeed. He says he feels more than ready, and that it will hasten his recovery more than any medicine or surgery.’

‘Well, of course. I am the last person to argue with that.’

‘I know you are,’ said Oliver. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

‘Incidentally I spoke to him about the military list. He thought it had considerable potential. He envisaged some large, quite lavishly illustrated books. He agreed with me that they would lend Lyttons extra authority at the present time.’

‘Really?’ said Celia. She did not dare argue any more about the military list. She was only thankful that Jack had not broached the subject with her himself. She expected it whenever he was at home for dinner; which was rarely. Perhaps an unusual streak of sensitivity was holding him back.

‘Anyway,’ Oliver was saying, ‘when James comes back, there will obviously be no place here, for Gill Thomas.’

There was a silence; then, ‘What did you say?’ said Celia.

‘Celia, it does irritate me the way you do that.’

‘What?’ she said, playing for time.

‘Pretend you haven’t heard me, when what I have said is simply something disagreeable to you, or that you wish to argue about. I said there would be no place here for Gill Thomas when James Sharpe comes back.’

‘Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course there is.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t. James will be reinstated as art director and—’

‘But that is so unfair. So terribly unfair.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t see that. James was our art director before the war. He will be our art director again now that it is over.’

‘Oliver, that’s impossible. I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Gill has been art director for years now. Very successfully.’

‘I think that’s open to debate.’

‘It is not open to debate. Her work is renowned in the profession. It’s original, distinctive, always relevant. And besides, she has been so loyal, worked so terribly hard.’

‘I’m afraid that applies to many women who have been moved into men’s jobs.’

‘Oliver, it’s not a man’s job. It’s a creative, difficult, demanding job, which Gill does superbly. Her sex has nothing to do with it.’

‘It is a man’s job here. And I always said that when the war was over, people would get their jobs back. I don’t think you can deny that.’

‘Well – no. But—’

‘Did you appoint Gill Thomas art director?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I did. Because she deserved it. And because – well because she had had another offer. From Macmillan. And we needed her here.’

‘You appointed her art director to keep her from Macmillan. That was rather – irregular.’

‘Of course it wasn’t irregular. It happens all the time, in peace and war. You hear that a talented member of staff is leaving to take up another offer, so you move to keep them.’

‘Not with a job belonging to some one else.’

‘Oliver, James Sharpe wasn’t here. He was in France. There was no one doing the job.’

‘Then you should have made her, at best, acting art director. What did LM have to say about it?’

‘She – she—’ Celia stopped.

‘I thought so. She was against it. I’m glad some sense prevailed here in my absence. Well anyway, whatever the rights and wrongs of the matter, Gill must go. Or step down, but I don’t imagine she will be very happy about that.’

‘She might. I shall certainly ask her. Or into a parallel position. Such as creative director or design director. Something that would keep them both happy.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Oliver. His eyes were very cold. ‘I don’t like Miss Thomas’s work. I think it is vulgar and populist. I think it is in no small part responsible for the deterioration of Lyttons’ literary standing.’

‘Of course there hasn’t been a deterioration in Lyttons’ literary standing.’

‘I think you must allow me to be the judge of that. Let us say its perceived literary standing then. She’s certainly contributed to that.’

‘Oh Oliver, really. She has won such praise for her covers. For the romantic novels—’

‘Exactly. The trashy novels which we are no longer publishing.’

They weren’t: the list had been closed after a bitter row.

Celia fought to keep her temper.

‘As for
Meridian
. . . Everyone will be talking about that cover.’

‘Ah but in what terms? You like it, and Brooke likes it, and no doubt the art department likes it, but I really doubt very much if the public will. Certainly if sales are not as good as you seem to think they will be, I shall have a very shrewd idea as to why – not.’

‘LM loved it.’

‘Well, she is hardly an arbiter on such matters.’

Celia was silent.

‘Anyway, James will be back in a month. Will you talk to Miss Thomas, or shall I? I’m perfectly happy to do so if you feel you can’t face it, I fancy you have made her something of a friend, always a mistake, I think.’

‘And James Sharpe isn’t your friend, I suppose?’ said Celia. ‘Oliver, this is appalling. I just don’t know what to say to you. Except that what you propose is unfair, and unjust, not to mention a dreadful piece of professional misjudgement.’

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Oliver, ‘I think perhaps I had better talk to Miss Thomas.’

‘You dare!’ said Celia. ‘You just dare.’

She walked out of the office and slammed the door; when she got back to her office, she realised she was crying. She walked over to her desk, sat down and dropped her head into her hands.

‘Celia,’ said Sebastian’s voice, ‘Celia, whatever is the matter?’

He was sitting on one of the sofas; she hadn’t seen him. She looked up at him, brushed her tears away impatiently, tried to smile.

‘You look terribly upset.’

‘I am terribly upset,’ she said.

‘What about?’

‘Oh – it doesn’t matter.’

‘It obviously does. How about telling me about it? Over lunch?’ There was a silence. Then Celia said, very simply, meeting his eyes with hers in an implicit acceptance of everything, ‘Yes, Sebastian. Yes, I’d like that very much. Thank you.’

CHAPTER 19

‘Darling, I’m going to need lots of new dresses. Lots.’

‘Really? Well you shall have them, you deserve them. But are you going to tell me why?’

‘I’m going to London. Well, I have been asked to go to London.’

‘London!’

‘Yes. But not till the spring; it’s all right, don’t look so alarmed. I have a letter from Celia Lytton saying she wants to publish my poems. Isn’t that wonderful? In a single volume, “obviously a slim one,” she says, “but we would illustrate it, possibly with line drawings. I have briefed Gill Thomas, who used to work for Lyttons and has set up her own design studio, and she is very excited about it. Something rather in the style of Beardsley, she says, only softer.” Doesn’t that sound just too marvellous?’

‘It sounds terrible.’

‘Why?’

‘I hate Beardsley,’ said John, his face deadpan.

‘Oh John! Not the illustrations, the whole thing.’

‘I know, my darling. I’m only teasing. I’m wonderfully proud of you. It’s marvellous news. May I come to London and meet your publishers, or would you prefer to go alone?’

‘Of course I’d adore you to come. But actually—’ she went back to the letter, ‘they’re coming here. Well Oliver Lytton is. He’s coming out quite soon, he says: to see Robert and to visit the office here. Goodness, he must have changed since we last met him: that was before the war.’

‘Yes, and I remember your being rather irritatingly taken with him,’ said John.

‘Was I?’ Felicity’s face was carefully blank. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘Well I do. I got very tired of hearing about how romantic he was, how – Byronic I think was your description—’

‘John Brewer, I would never have used such a word. About anyone.’

‘Actually you did. Anyway, he seemed nice enough. Rather quiet.’

‘Quietness is a rather nice quality I think,’ said Felicity, ‘especially when you live in a house full of extremely aggressive males.’

‘Are we extremely aggressive?’

‘Extremely. With the possible exception of Kyle.’

‘Oh. Well anyway, I’d rather the aggressive male than the aggressive female. Celia seemed to me excessively so.’

‘Well – she’s a strong character, certainly,’ said Felicity, ‘but—’

‘Strong! She’s a nine force gale. Beautiful though. Anyway, my darling, this is all very thrilling news. We must go out and dine tonight to celebrate. Where would you like to go?’

‘Oh, I really don’t mind. Anywhere at all.’

‘I shall take you to the King Cole Room at the St Regis. You’ll like it there. Very fashionable.’

‘I’d love that. And I can see the famous mural. The Maxwell Parrish one that everyone’s talking about. I hear it’s stupendous.’

‘It’s certainly very large. Not quite to my taste, but still. Now darling, I must go. We have a huge meeting with the architects at nine thirty.’

‘For the new hotel?’

‘For the new hotel. Work starts in a week and they’re still messing about with the roof. That atrium, I told you about, remember?’

‘Oh – yes. I still can’t get over how marvellous it is that you got it after Hagman Betts had the contract.’

‘Yes, it was indeed marvellous,’ said John, smiling at her conspiratorially. ‘But that’s show business. As they say.’

‘Some show. You don’t think there’ll be a problem, even now?’

‘Absolutely not. Everything’s in place, finance, construction workers, the lot. The only problem we’ve got, thank God, is finding the time and the men to cope with everything. That block on West 62nd is starting next week, and now Rea Goldberg are pressing us as well.’

‘Rea Goldberg!’

‘Yes indeed. They want a new prestigious building somewhere off Wall Street, and their architects have told us we can have the contract provided we can guarantee it will be ready by the Spring. I think,’ he added, standing up and folding the
New York Times
in his usual overmethodical way, ‘they’re busy proving they never felt anything but warmth towards us. In case we might feel tempted to sling any mud at them. It’s a small world down there.’

‘I’m surprised you want to work for them.’

‘Oh but we do,’ said John cheerfully, ‘very much. We’ve put in a pretty high estimate. Amazingly, they’ve accepted it. Goodbye, my darling. Work hard. I’ll see you this evening at the St Regis. Seven thirty, and be sure to wear something really splendid. As befits a famous writer.’

‘You’ve got a very clever mother,’ he said to Kyle, as they waited for the architects to arrive, ‘she is now officially a poetess. Lyttons are to publish an entire volume of her work. Illustrated even. In the spring. Isn’t that marvellous?’

‘Marvellous,’ said Kyle. He felt a sudden, leaden depression. If only he were involved in that world. Books. Illustrations. Poetry. Prose. Instead of this one, of office blocks and reinforced concrete and roofing materials and planning permission.

He had finally decided he should join the family firm, in the absence of anything else; all his applications to newspapers and indeed publishing firms had been rejected, and his father was so extremely keen to have him on board. And of course, as even his mother had pointed out, it was a wonderful opportunity for a young man, going into a successful family firm, into a secure and lucrative future. ‘Which journalism certainly wouldn’t be, much as you might enjoy it.’

That had clinched it, really; that in spite of her own literary ambitions and talents, she seemed to favour real estate for him. She was probably right; he certainly seemed to lack demonstrable literary talent. And the one firm which might, of course, have employed him, had he asked them, Lyttons New York, was out of the question. He simply wasn’t prepared to have them take on an embarrassment, simply because he knew the family. If he went into publishing, it would be on his own merits.

‘I want you to tell me you love me.’

‘I can’t. I really, really can’t.’

‘Why not? You know you do.’

She did know it; she knew it very well.

Sebastian had invaded her, not only her body, moving in on it with a power and near-violence which had left her shaken, almost shocked by her response, and still physically stirred by it days later, but her mind, her emotions, all her senses. He absorbed her totally; she moved through the days feeling no longer herself, but some strange, disenfranchised creature, no longer the brilliant, cool, controlled Celia Lytton she had always known, but someone foolish, tremulous, half-coherent. She could not believe it did not show physically, this possession, could not imagine that, as she sat at her desk, in restaurants, in her own drawing-room, talking to editors, illustrators, having discussions with agents, conversing with Oliver about projects both professional and domestic, that people could not hear and see that she was quite different, no longer, completely herself, but half Sebastian, filled by his ideas, his words, his passions.

She had not expected that; she had thought that the affair which she had finally, and with such fear and joy embarked upon, would absorb her physically, possess her emotionally, even disturb her intellectually, but that she would be able to remain in control, to say yes, I am having an affair with Sebastian, say even that it was wonderful, face up to its consequences, to the lies, the emotional discomfort, the constant anxiety. But what she found herself in the midst of was an obsession; nothing she did or said or thought or felt had any interest unless it related to him. When she was not with him she could think only of the next time she would be; when she was with him, time stopped, she had no interest in anything beyond it.

Physically, the affair was astonishing; even allowing for long years of frustration, and for the intense pleasure she had always found in sex. But that first time with Sebastian, lying in his bed through the long afternoon, she had been taken to a new place entirely, a place of pleasure so violent that it was almost shocking, and yet also piercingly, intensely sweet. Afterwards, she would remember, remember her body and the things which it had done, how it had climbed, hung, hovered in suspension over the pleasure, now swooping, now flying, now feeling yes, yes, this time, it must be, it must come, yes now, now, yet able to wait, somehow quiet, somehow still, afraid to move lest the sensation became again too fierce, too much to bear. And when finally she did come, pushing, breaking, falling on the violence of it, over and over again, she did not shout or cry out as she had always done before, but remained absolutely silent, concentrating on the experience, an experience she could never have imagined, and certainly had never known.

‘All right?’ he said gently, a long time later, through the peace.

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling, opening her eyes to look at him finally, seeing him changed, absolutely different, no longer a man she desired, was intrigued by, wondered about, was afraid of, but someone totally familiar and important to her, converted by the unique power of sex.

‘So, now what is to happen to us?’ he said, and she replied that she didn’t know, nor did she care, that the future was of no interest to her, nor was the past. She cared only about what they had accomplished in that hour or so, and in the hours preceding it when they had talked and been silent, discussed and agreed, uttered assurances and reassurances, laughed and even come close to tears, pursuing all the rituals of a yet-to-be consummated affair, before being unable to wait any longer and leading one another upstairs to bed.

In the end, of course, reality intruded; reluctantly, she dressed, went downstairs, and out to his car. He drove her to Swiss Cottage and there she got a taxi and went back, not to Lyttons, but to the house, constructing on the way an elaborate tale of an absentee author, an enraged agent, some missing proofs, and some tortuous traffic. In the event none of it was necessary, Oliver had been first at a conference and then dining with another publisher, and came home full of excitement at a scheme to introduce an award for literary excellence.

Celia, pretending to have been asleep – when she had been lying in the darkness, her mind and her senses still raking rapturously over her afternoon – sat up, smiling enthusiastically, interested. Oliver, surprised and grateful for it, went to bed contented himself; and Celia told herself, for the first time, the age-old lie beloved of adulterers, that being so happy could do her marriage no harm, indeed, on the contrary, it might do it some good.

But still she refused to tell Sebastian she loved him; it seemed the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate infidelity. Until she said that she was – emotionally at least – safe.

It had been Sebastian’s idea that Gill should set herself up in a studio. ‘You can give her lots of work, and she will get work elsewhere, too. Macmillan clearly thinks highly of her. It’s a far better solution than having her stay on at Lyttons, irritating the hell out of this fellow, and him irritating the hell out of her.’

Celia had taken Gill out to lunch and put the proposition to her. ‘And I will guarantee you enough work for the first year to more than cover your overheads. For a start there will be work to do on
Meridian
, Christmas showcards and things like that. And then I’m doing a biography of poor Queen Anne; I would terribly like you to get to work on her . . .’

Sebastian also made her feel better about Jack and his military list; ‘It may fail, but if it keeps Oliver happy, gets him off your back, what does it matter?’

‘Sebastian, of course it matters; it could lose Lyttons a lot of money.’

‘Well – it might. And it might not. Publishing is altogether such a gamble, it seems to me. Anyway, I’m surprised you’re so opposed to it, I thought you rather liked Jack.’

‘Of course I like him,’ she said irritably, ‘I adore him. He actually keeps me sane a lot of the time at home. But he’s hardly the right person to be in charge of a publishing venture.’

‘My darling, I think you can only give in gracefully. Otherwise, it seems to me you intrude on two sacred areas: Oliver’s view of his publishing company, and his affection for his younger brother. Probably in a few months, when and if he sees it’s not working, he can sort it out for himself. Meanwhile let them all lose Lyttons a lot of money. It can afford it, I’m sure.’

She wasn’t sure that Lyttons could; but she decided he was right and she should give in.

James Sharpe had moved back, and was driving her insane; she had forgotten how unoriginal his work was, or seemed to be, how steeped in the old traditions of book design and illustration, how reluctant he was even to try a new typeface, how often he said, ‘We have never done that before’. It was odd, given his personality, which was fun; she supposed he had hidden behind that, and now had been overtaken by the war. But patient in her radiant happiness, feeling that she must pay for it, she stood beside his drawing board for hours, admiring his work, exclaiming over his ideas – before going off, half-guilty as if meeting a lover – to see Gill and brief her for other, more important books.

And visiting Gill did become, from time to time, a cover for her visits to her other, more important lover. As always in her life, love and work were inextricably interwoven.

There were considerable plans for the publication of
Meridian
. Even Oliver, irritated as he was by the fuss over it, and by another feeling he did not choose to examine, knew he had a star quality book; and felt, somewhat unwillingly, that this purchase of Celia’s would go a long way towards restoring Lyttons as a prestigious house. It was a children’s book to be sure; but in the mould of
Alice in Wonderland
, a book which adults would admire as much as children enjoyed it, a book which would be talked about and coveted, sit on grown-up bookshelves as well as in nurseries. The print order was considerable: seven thousand, with three thousand more to go out to the colonies, to India, South Africa, Australia. It was also priced quite highly, at seven shillings and sixpence.

LM had argued for this, before she left them; ‘I know it’s a lot of money, but it’s going to be beautifully produced, the illustrations are lovely, and in colour after all, and it’s on very superior paper, I think we can get away with it.’