No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (61 page)

There was a long silence; then Howard Shaw said, ‘Professor, I have to tell you that I agree with you. This could possibly be actionable. I think we should ask to see the manuscript.’

CHAPTER 23

‘I have to talk to you,’ said Sebastian. His voice, usually so level and easy, was tense, even on the phone. Celia’s heart lurched.

‘What about?’

‘I – don’t want to say on the telephone. Could we meet?’

‘I could have a quick luncheon. Very quick. Then I have to go. I’ve got to see Lady Annabel about Queen Anne.’

‘Right. Let’s see – somewhere safe. Lyons Corner House? Bottom of the Strand?’

‘Sebastian! How romantic.’

‘Elspeth knows,’ he said.

‘Knows?’

‘Yes, about us. She knows. She told me so.’

‘She what?’ Celia felt physically dizzy; the bustling restaurant, with its hurtling conversation, its scurrying waitresses, blurred before her eyes. ‘Sebastian, she couldn’t have.’

‘She did. She said she’d guessed. That lots of people had.’

‘Oh my God.’ She sat very still, taking deep breaths. This was awful; this was what she had so feared, the thing that had seemed so inevitable. Yet against all logic, they seemed to have escaped. But – how could they? What kind of vanity had allowed her to think that their adulterous liaison would be allowed to escape attention? Attention and discovery?

‘Did she say any more?’

‘Not much. I shut her up. I was rather drunk.’

‘Oh Sebastian! What were you doing with Elspeth anyway? How did it come up?’

‘Well – we were at the Forty-Three. On Saturday night.’

‘You were at the Forty-Three? With Elspeth Granchester?’ Her expression was sharp, irritated; he grinned at her and tried to take her hand. She shook his off.

‘So you don’t like that?’

‘Not very much, no.’

‘You were at a wonderful country house party. With your husband.’

‘And a lot of dreadful other people. And I could hardly help being there.’

‘Celia – that’s so unfair.’

‘Unfair?’

‘Yes. Am I not allowed to accept any social invitations? Am I to remain in solitary confinement in my own house until you graciously condescend to visit me?’

She stared at him, frowning; then, ‘Oh this is ridiculous,’ she said, ‘we have more important things to talk about. Does – does Oliver have any idea? Did she say?’

‘Celia, I’ve told you. She said very little. I didn’t want to ask her anything. I don’t know any more than that she’s guessed. That lots of people have. Those were her very words.’

‘Oh God,’ said Celia wearily, ‘I’ll have to talk to her.’

Robert wrote to Oliver: to say that Kyle had been for what was initially a chat, but by some extraordinary piece of serendipity turned out to be an interview: with one of his contacts, a small publishing set up, called Guthries; John Guthrie had interviewed him. Someone had decided to leave that very day, and John Guthrie had jokingly said he didn’t suppose Kyle would want his job?

Kyle had said that he most certainly would, and John Guthrie had shaken his head and said he most certainly wouldn’t.

‘This is a glorified office boy’s job,’ he said, ‘nothing but running errands, and delivering things.’

Kyle had said he would love to do run errands and deliver things; it took about twenty minutes to persuade John Guthrie he meant it. Even then he told him to go away and think about it.

‘I’d only be a glorified office boy, apparently,’ he had told his father and Robert, smiling at them rather nervously, ‘in the promotions department. But it’s the best place to learn, they said.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Robert, ‘doesn’t it, John?’

‘If that’s what you want,’ said John Brewer, ‘it does indeed sound wonderful.’

‘And – you would – understand? If I took it?’

John looked at Robert; Robert’s eyes met his in absolute complicity. ‘We would be very sad to see you go, obviously,’ he said, ‘but it is so clearly where your heart lies, that it would be wrong to try and keep you.’

The relief on Kyle’s face, he wrote to Oliver, was both touching and almost funny.

‘Elspeth? Elspeth, this is Celia. Could I – that is could we – talk?’

‘Darling, of course. What about? Our dresses for Ascot? I have been wondering about my hat for Ladies’ Day, I’d adore to have your opinion.’

‘No, Elspeth. Something a little bit more serious than that.’

‘What could be more serious than hats? Sorry, Celia, I can tell you’re not in the mood for jokes. Yes, of course. Do you want to come and have tea? Tomorrow perhaps. Or is that too soon for your madly busy life?’

‘No. No, that would be very nice. Thank you. About three thirty?’

‘Lily, my darling—’

‘Yes?’

‘I wondered if you might fancy – well, coming back to my place.’

‘Your place, Jack? I didn’t know you had one.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. You know. My rooms at Cheyne Walk.’

‘You want me to come to where you’re living now?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do, awfully.’

Lily stared at him.

‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life,’ she said finally.

‘What? But darling, why?’

‘You expect me to come to your brother’s house, where I presume he is at this very moment, asleep. Probably with Celia?’

‘Yes, darling, that was the idea.’

‘Presumably you’re not thinking of just having a cup of tea there?’

‘Well – no. Not just a cup of tea.’

‘Jack, I think you must be quite mad,’ she said.

‘I don’t understand. You said no more seedy hotels, and of course I respect that. That’s why—’

‘So instead you’re going to smuggle me up the stairs in the middle of the night. Hoping no one will hear us. Like some – some tart. Have a bit of how’s-your-father. And then smuggle me out again. Or are you planning to offer me breakfast? With the Lyttons, and all the children.’

‘Well—’

‘Oh, no, Jack. You’ve got me quite wrong. I’m not that sort of girl at all. If you want us to go on being together, you’re going to have to do a bit better than that. Get a place of your own for a start. And stop treating me like some – some cheap bit of fluff. I’m a career girl. I have more self-respect than that. Now I’m going to go home. Back to my digs. And the answer’s no, before you’ve even thought it. Very strict, my landlady is. Now get me a taxi please. I’ve got a big rehearsal tomorrow, first one for the new show. I don’t want to be worn out before I even get there.’

Jack could see there was no point in arguing with her. When Lily was cross, she was cross. He couldn’t see quite why she was so cross, but he’d clearly done something very wrong. He found a taxi for her, and after she’d told him not to get into it, that she wanted to get straight home to a nice peaceful bed, he decided to go home himself. There didn’t seem much charm in staying on his own at the Grafton Galleries now. Well not on his own but without Lily. He went inside, back to his table, and said goodnight to everyone.

‘Where’s Lily?’ said Crystal.

‘Gone home. I’m in the doghouse. Not sure why.’

‘She might have told me, we could have shared the cab.’

‘I’ll take you home,’ said Jack, ‘I’ve got my car.’

‘You sweetheart. Would you really? Can you let me have one more dance, I promised Guy Worsley I’d show him the Black Bottom.’

‘I could have done that,’ said Jack.

‘OK. We’ll all three of us do it.’

Guy Worsley was not a dancer; he conceded the floor after a very short time to Crystal and Jack. Afterwards, he called them over.

‘Champagne?’ He was very drunk.

‘Yes please,’ said Jack.

‘How are you, old chap?’

‘Oh – all right. Bit of a bust up with Lily.’

‘That’s a shame. What about?’

‘Don’t quite understand really. You know what they’re like.’

‘I do,’ said Guy. ‘No idea at all what you did?’

‘Well – bit of an idea. Tell me what you think.’

He told him; Guy shook his head.

‘You can’t do that, old man. You’re supposed to show that you respect them. I once asked a girl from the town back to my room at Oxford. There was hell to pay. Said I was putting her virtue at risk. What virtue? I asked myself.’

‘I thought you could get sent down for having a girl in your room,’ said Jack.

‘You could, in theory. It was usually the girls who got sent down. No, you don’t want to believe all that. Hotbeds of sex, universities are. Not just the undergrads, either.’

‘Really? I thought all those academics thought of nothing but ancient Greek or whatever.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Well, read my book.’

‘I thought it was pure fiction,’ said Jack, laughing.

‘Impure fiction more like it. No, it’s based on fact. Very loosely, of course.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. That’s why it’s so frightfully good.’ He laughed. ‘Crystal, lovely angel, come and sit on my knee. How very beautiful you are. Anyway, if I were you, young Lytton, I’d get myself a little place of my own. To take Miss Lily to.’

‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I do know I’ve got to. It’s just that it’s so difficult to find anywhere decent. And it’s so – easy living in Cheyne Walk. And cheap. Well, free.’

‘Better not let your brother hear you saying that. He might feel he was being taken advantage of. Is the lovely Lady Celia here tonight?’

‘No,’ said Jack, ‘no, she was going to come with us, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Seemed a bit upset. Something had gone wrong with a book, apparently. Hope it wasn’t mine.’

‘Or mine,’ said Guy Worsley.

‘Oh my goodness,’ said Janet Gould. ‘Oh dear.’

She was reading through the morning’s post, sorting it into its usual neat piles: one for herself to deal with, one for Oliver’s personal attention, and one for discussion between them. The letter she was holding fell very much into the discussion group. Urgent discussion. She picked it up and walked into his office; miserable, already, at having to add to the burdens which seemed to be piling on to his frail back. He always looked so tired these days, tired and worried. Publishing had been so straightforward, so – well, so gentlemanly once. Before the war. Now it seemed to be getting more and more unpleasant every day. Everyone demanding more and more money, the print unions getting so powerful . . .

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Lytton. There’s a letter here which seems rather – worrying.’

‘Oh dear. Not another demand from the printers?’

‘No. Worse than that. Well it might be.’

She handed it to him, watched him read it, watched his face first pale, then flush.

‘This is absurd,’ he said, ‘absolutely absurd. Outrageous even. Mrs Gould, get me our solicitors on the phone, would you? As soon as you can.’

‘Celia, darling! Lovely to see you. Come and sit down. Tea? I’ve had the most hideous morning, had to go to the dentist, horrible drilling, have you ever had it? And then I went to my corsetiere and I’ve put on half an inch everywhere. Have to do something about myself. How do you manage it, Celia? You’re so blissfully thin. Sometimes I quite long for the old days when one could nip the middle bit in and let the bosom and the hips spoosh out. Oh well. Sugar? No, of course not. Cake?’

‘No thank you,’ said Celia,

‘What are you going to wear to Ladies’ Day? I know that’s not what you want to talk about, but it’s still bothering me.’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Celia. ‘Elspeth, can we – can I just discuss things with you. About – well you must know what about.’

‘Darling I don’t, no. I had the most marvellous time with Sebastian on Saturday night, by the way.’

‘So I hear.’

‘You’re not jealous are you? I do hope not, we didn’t—’

‘Of course I’m not jealous,’ said Celia impatiently, ‘but I have to ask you Elspeth. As a friend. As a trusted friend.’

‘Ask me what?’

‘How did you – that is, when did you – find out?’

‘Find out? Find out what?’

‘Oh Elspeth don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well. About Sebastian and me.’

‘About – Sebastian – and – and you – ?’ Elspeth was speaking very slowly; her face was flushed and her eyes brilliant. ‘Celia, what are you talking about?’

The room was very quiet, very still; Celia stared at her, and felt icy cold and rather sick. Then she said, ‘You didn’t know, actually, did you? You didn’t know at all.’

And, ‘No,’ Elspeth said, and a small nervous smile started to dance round her mouth, ‘but – but I do now, darling, don’t I?’

‘Oliver, don’t look like that. Whatever is it, what’s happened?’

Guilt, fear, gripped her; she had not expected a confrontation so soon. And wondered why she was still lying, still pretending.

‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘just look at it.’

She took the letter, seeing the heading on the paper: Solicitors . . . Cambridge . . . felt weak with relief. Selfishly, wickedly relieved. At what was, after all, only a reprieve. How long could she stand this, for God’s sake. How long? She read the letter, hoping he wouldn’t notice her shaking hand. It seemed first unintelligible to her in her confusion, then baffling.

‘But Oliver, why should this Lothian man want to see it?’