No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (51 page)

His eyes rested on Celia; she looked away. This is dangerous, she thought, he is playing with a very big fire. She looked at him, standing there in the candlelight, so absurdly handsome, so full of energy, then looked at Oliver, still so frail, although undoubtedly distinguished that night, in his white tie and tails, and she struggled for the hundredth, the thousandth time not to compare them, thought how odd that they should be here, the three of them, so disunited as well as united by this book, this powerful, dangerous catalyst, with herself drawing them together as well as driving them apart.

‘I would like to add my own particular thanks to Lady Celia,’ he was saying now. Oh, Sebastian, don’t, don’t. ‘Without her there would be no infinitely stylish publication, no sublime jacket – for which many thanks, Miss Thomas—’ he bowed to Gill briefly, and she bowed her own head in return – ‘no publication at all, perhaps.’

‘Oh now, steady on, Sebastian,’ said Paul Davis, and everyone laughed.

‘No, it was she who spotted the potential of the book, she who bid for it so successfully, risked the wrath of her husband by the size of that bid—’

Sebastian! Stop! But Oliver was smiling, blew her a kiss. Thank God for champagne, she thought, thank God for it.

‘And so I would ask you now to raise your glasses again. To the Lyttons, both of them, to the particular brand of brilliance they bring to publishing and the absolutely unique blend of their talents.’

‘Well,’ said Oliver as the car pulled up in front of the house, ‘that was a very successful evening. The whole thing is quite marvellous. And Sebastian is right, he does owe most of it to you. Praise well-earned my darling. Well-earned.’

She was so overcome with shame and guilt, as well as the joy of the public accolade, that making love with Oliver that night was easy and almost joyful in itself.

‘Tea would be very nice,’ said LM, ‘thank you.’

‘Good. I’m sorry the little chap won’t be with us, but at least I can meet you. Now I thought perhaps Fortnum and Mason—’

‘That would be delightful.’

‘Good. Four o’clock then. I shall be carrying a copy of
The Spectator
, and wearing a dark grey overcoat.’

As it turned out, so were several other men; but LM could not have failed to recognise Gordon Robinson. He was enormously tall, six foot five, rather distinguished-looking altogether, she thought, with thick silver hair and a thin, ascetic face. He bowed to her over the black homburg he had removed, and moved forward, smiling.

‘Mrs Lytton. How delightful to meet you at last. May I—?’ he indicated the chair beside her, which she had heaped with parcels.

‘Of course.’

‘Christmas shopping?’

‘Well – yes. Mostly for Jay, though. I’m afraid I spoil him rather. I try not to but—’

‘That’s what children are for,’ said Gordon Robinson, ‘or so I’ve always thought. I haven’t been granted the good fortune of a happy family myself, but I’m sure if I had, I would have been a most indulgent father.’

LM didn’t like to ask why he had not been granted the good fortune; it seemed rather impertinent.

She enjoyed her tea with him more than she would have believed; it was very good to have some adult company, other than Lady Beckenham and Dorothy, and he was, although rather serious, very agreeable and certainly very easy to talk to. He was a solicitor, working for a City firm; he lived on his own in St John’s Wood – which was why he had been in the area when he had knocked Jay down. He suffered constant remorse, he told her, at having placed his elderly mother in a nursing home.

‘I struggled on at home, with the help of a nurse, for as long as I could, but in the end it became impossible. I think she’s quite happy there, but—’

‘I’m sure she is,’ said LM firmly, ‘and I’m sure she would not want to be a serious burden to you.’

‘Indeed not. She is a rather – saintly person.’ His eyes were amused as he spoke; she liked him for that, for so clearly having a sense of humour.

He was an only child, he said, ‘A mixed blessing, but on the whole a good influence on a young life I think.’

‘I hope so. Jay is an only child. But he has several cousins whose company he enjoys.’

‘Oh really? Tell me Mrs Lytton, I don’t suppose you are in any way related to the literary Lyttons?’

‘Indeed I am,’ she said smiling at him, ‘and just to set the matter straight, Mr Robinson, it is Miss Lytton. Yes, my father founded the firm.’

‘No! Oh, how marvellous. Well, it is they who are publishing that children’s book I mentioned to you – oh how stupid of me, you would know that of course. Oh dear—’

He was so embarrassed that he flushed and stopped talking; LM was rather touched.

‘I think it’s very clever of you to know that at all,’ she said, ‘very few people have any idea who publishes books.’

‘Oh, I’ve always taken a keen interest in the subject. My father was a great student of English literature, and I collect early editions.’

He talked easily and happily after that for quite a time: LM sat absorbing him, his kindness, his gentle manner, his careful courtesy. She liked him very much.

‘I don’t often come up to London these days,’ she said as they parted at the front door of Fortnum and Mason, and he handed her carefully into a taxi, ‘only for occasions such as this, or a board meeting at Lyttons. But the next time I do, may I contact you? I could give you a first edition of
Meridian
for your collection.’

He seemed delighted, said that would be charming.

LM’s only concern, as she contemplated their future friendship, was what he would feel when he realised that she was not only Miss Lytton, but that there had never been a husband at all, that she had actually not been married to Jay’s father. Gordon Robinson seemed a rather old-fashioned man. Perhaps she should have explained that day; but then he might have thought she was being presumptuous. Anyway, did it really matter? If such a thing was more important than friendship for him, then that friendship was hardly worth having.

Meridian
was quite clearly going to be the kind of book which broke records and made reputations – the reviews were superb, especially in the hard-to-please
Observer
and even the
Manchester Guardian
, so much so that the book went into a third printing. All the bookshops had put in record orders for Christmas, and every set of parents and grandparents in the land seemed to be buying it for a Christmas present. It was even rumoured that several copies had been ordered by the Prince of Wales for his innumerable godchildren.

Oliver was happier altogether as Christmas approached; Lyttons’ volume of war poetry had been acclaimed in all the review pages, the sales of the dictionaries and classical works were climbing again, enhanced by a two-volume edition of Greek myths, and they had also made an excellent acquisition of a biography of Queen Anne, at once a most learned and enchanting work by the famous Lady Annabel Muirhead. This was the latest in a series of brilliant biographies she had penned, but the first to be published by Lyttons. Celia had acquired it, after lengthy and painstaking negotiation, the point at issue not being, for once, the the size of the copyright fee, but Lady Annabel’s need for reassurance as to the quality of the finished volume.

‘I have finally decided to entrust Queen Anne to you,’ she told Celia, ‘poor woman, can you imagine, seventeen children, and only one surviving infancy. I feel that a house which can publish anything as superbly as you have done
Meridian
must be right for me. But I will insist upon approval of the finished manuscript; I have not had entirely happy experiences with editors in the past. I have learned caution.’

Celia said that of course she would have final approval; and the contract was signed. This did much to ease Oliver’s criticism of her; he was grudgingly gracious about her role in the acquisition, although rather less so of the commercial value to Lyttons of
New Lives for Old
, her account of women’s lives during and after the war, which had gone into a fourth edition.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course I’m pleased that it’s doing well, but it is still not the kind of book I would have actually seen us publishing.’

Celia managed, with an enormous effort, to remain silent.

But, ‘Oh really, Oliver,’ said LM, who had come up to London for the monthly board meeting, something she had begun to attend regularly again, to Celia’s huge relief, ‘do stop banging on about what kind of book we ought to publish. Times are hard; provided the books are half-decent, and they sell well, we ought to be grateful to be publishing them.’

Oliver said nothing; but afterwards, in the privacy of her office, LM told Celia she thought he was becoming rather dangerously out of touch.

‘Understandable, I suppose, with the war and so on, but he’s been back a while now, I really think you have to stand up to him, Celia, or we’ll end up publishing an awful lot of stuffy nonsense nobody wants to read.’

Celia went over to her and hugged her; ‘I do miss you,’ she said simply.

On the subject of Jack and his military list, however, she did not get LM’s support.

‘I don’t think it’s such a bad idea,’ LM said, ‘it’s the sort of stuff people will buy for their libraries. Not a big sale perhaps, but – well, I think you should agree. I shall give it my vote.’

Celia feared that LM was driven in part, at least, by the same rather blind devotion to Jack as Oliver; but LM read her thoughts.

‘I’m none too sure Jack should be doing it,’ she added, with a slightly grim smile, ‘but you can keep an eye on him. He’ll tire of it in no time, I’m sure, and move on to something else. And meanwhile, he does have some very valuable contacts. And the idea of your great-grandfather’s diaries making a book is very sound I think.’

‘It’s the only one that is sound if you ask me,’ said Celia, but she finally gave the project her vote. She could hardly fight three Lyttons.

‘My darling!’ said Jack, coming into the drawing-room late that night, as she sat reading, ‘let me crush you in my arms and show my gratitude. Here – thank you present.’

‘Whatever for?’ said Celia, although of course she knew, returning his kiss just a little coolly.

‘Well, for letting me join your wonderful company. Oliver made it very clear it wouldn’t happen until you gave it your approval.’

‘Did he?’ said Celia. She was very surprised.

‘Absolutely. You know how he thinks your opinion on everything is only just below God’s. Go on, open your present.’

She opened it: a small box from Aspreys. Inside was a gold brooch, in the shape of a tree, studded with small flowers made of diamonds; it was very pretty and clearly very expensive. She smiled at him, let him pin it on to her dress.

‘Darling, that looks beautiful. It was made for you. They must have seen you passing or something.’

‘Jack, it’s lovely. Absolutely lovely. I adore it. Thank you. But you can’t go spending all your money on things like this. If you’re going to work for Lyttons, this will represent about five years’ salary.’

‘Five years’ salary well spent. Yes, Oliver named some pittance. Anyway – I’m absolutely thrilled. And I intend to work very hard.’

‘You’ll have to,’ said Celia, ‘we’re very exacting employers. No more eleven o’clock breakfasts for you, young Jack.’

‘Of course not. I shall be there morning, noon and night.’

‘I think that might interfere rather badly with your social life,’ said Celia, laughing, ‘but it sounds exemplary, nonetheless.’ She looked at him. ‘Tell me Jack, whatever made you think of this in the first place? This rather late entry into the world of publishing?’

‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘I don’t know. It just – came into my head.’

‘Oh,’ she said, nodding, her expression carefully innocent, ‘oh I see.’ She was too fond of him to tell him she had discovered that he had been trying to get jobs in the City for six months, and been turned down by everyone. It was a horribly familiar story, one told by army veterans at every level of society.

She smiled at him; she could afford to be generous.

‘I’m going out now, anyway,’ he said.

‘Out!’ She looked at the clock. It was after eleven. ‘Oh Jack, you make me feel so old.’

‘Yes. Got a girl to meet. Absolute smasher.’

‘Really? That’s unusual. The lovely Stella?’

‘Good Lord no. Got a bit tired of Stella. Bit of a gold-digger, between you and me.’

‘Surely not? Well, you’re well rid of her then. So – this one – What’s her name?’

‘Lily. Lily Fortescue.’

‘Pretty name. And – let me guess – an actress?’

‘Yes. Absolutely wonderful. She’s in a new revue.’

‘Really? And – is she beautiful?’

‘Terribly beautiful. Anyway, I must go, or I’ll be late. I’m taking her out to supper. Night darling. Thank you again.’

Celia smiled after him fondly. Whether or not the military list was successful, it would be fun to have him in the office.