No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (74 page)

‘Why especially now?’

‘Well, with the baby.’

‘The baby? What’s the baby got to do with it?’

‘Oh Oliver,’ said LM impatiently, ‘a great deal, obviously. Your wife having an affair is one thing. Being pregnant is quite another.’

There was a very long silence; the room was icy-still. Even the ticking of the clock seemed an intrusion. Then: ‘I simply don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Oliver. ‘I wanted to discuss Lyttons, its future, whether it is actually viable any more. I would still like to do that. If you don’t mind.’

Lily was out of step; she knew she was. Damn. Once it happened, it was so hard to get back in, All the other girls were on the left foot, she was on the right. Do it double time Lily, just once, then you’ll be all right. No, it hadn’t worked. Still out. Again. Phew. That was it. She saw Crystal’s eyes widen from her place at the back of the stage; she had noticed then. Which meant everyone would have done. It was so unlike her. So terribly unlike her. She just didn’t make that sort of mistake. She knew why of course: it was Jack. Asking her to marry him. It had thrown her completely. She felt totally confused, almost shocked. It was one thing to speculate idly, quite another to be confronted with it: forced to make a decision. What, what in the name of heaven was she to do? Cripes! Nearly did it again. Stop it, Lily, don’t think about it yet. Concentrate on what you’re doing.

But what should she say? What could she say? She knew what she wanted to say. Yes. She really did. She loved Jack and she knew now he loved her. But marriage. How could she marry him? Just thinking about the wedding made her worry: with all his posh relations, not just the Lyttons, but Celia’s parents, on one side, and hers on the other, her grandpa who’d been a coalman, and her gran who belched all the time once she’d got a glass of anything inside her. And her dad, imagine Celia’s mother the countess or whatever she was, asking her dad what he did for a living and him telling her about his fruit and veg stall.

But it wasn’t just the wedding; it was ever after. Whatever they did, wherever they went, they’d be different. Her friends, all dancers and actresses, and the odd model and shop assistant, and his, all army officers and gentleman farmers and stockbrokers. It was all right in nightclubs and at parties, but in real life . . . And then there was the thing about houses: Jack liked everything simple and a bit battered-looking and she liked it all prettied up. She’d noticed the expression of shocked amusement – hastily covered up – when she’d suggested she make him some pretty curtains to replace his scruffy old ones. And when she’d asked him when he was going to be able to afford a carpet to cover the wooden floor. ‘I’m not,’ he’d said, sounding quite pained. That sort of thing mattered in the end.

And when they had children, then what? Would they be posh little buggers, sent off to school at eight like Giles had been, and Jack himself come to that, bullied to bits, which was supposed to be good for them, God knew why, or would she be allowed to keep them at home with her, looked after, nice and safe and happy?

No. As the number finished, Lily decided. No. It had to be no. It would be very painful for a while, but after that they’d both be happier. Much happier. She’d have to tell him that night, after the show; she’d asked him for time to think, he’d obviously been surprised and hurt, had thought she’d just say yes right away. And then they wouldn’t see one another any more. It was the only way. It really was . . . Lily suddenly realised her eyes were full of tears; she ran to the dressing-room, slammed the door buried her face in her arms and cried for quite a long time. Then she cleaned up her face, changed, and went out to meet Jack.

‘Is it really that bad?’

LM had forced her mind on to Lyttons with an effort; she looked at Oliver and saw from his face that it was.

‘It is extremely bad. The figures are dreadful. The Mutiny book has hardly sold fifty copies and it’s cost a fortune. This action of Lothian’s is going to cost us thousands and thousands. We just don’t have it. And Brooke leaving is the last straw.’

‘What about the backlist?’

‘Modest at the moment. Certainly not enough to save us. These high printing charges and now the new wage demand – well, we simply can’t cope financially.’

‘So now what?’

LM had a sudden vision of their father, the last time she had seen him in the office, sitting at his big desk, surrounded with proofs, still totally involved with everything, his gentle old face stern as he pointed out to her a record number of typographical errors.

‘It’s detail that matters in publishing,’ he had said, ‘remember the horseshoe and the nail and the kingdom which it lost. Let your typesetting charges go up, and then you’re overspending on your printing budget. That has to be allowed for in your cover price and that has to come out of your profits. Every tiny thing is important; always remember that.’

Well, they had forgotten it; forgotten a lot of tiny things. And big ones. And they were all to blame. Even she. She should not have buried herself down in the country, she should have kept a much stricter eye on things. She should have known that neither Oliver nor Celia would have any kind of a sense of detail or be properly concerned with the minutiae of finance. It would have been perfectly possible. If she could spend time on her wretched archaeology, she could spend it on Lyttons’ administration and accounts. Oliver was clearly to blame; he should have taken a much closer interest in the Buchanan affair, her father had always closely questioned any new author, especially a young one, about his sources. And she had advised him to take out libel insurance many times. As for Celia: well, Celia’s only crime – against Lyttons that was – was bringing about the defection of Sebastian Brooke. A huge moneymaker for them gone. His sales would have easily counter-balanced the Buchanan losses. Certainly would have bought them time to find another saga.

‘Father would have been very cross with us,’ she said, trying to lighten the occasion a little.

‘Don’t talk about Father,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ve thought about him every hour of every day, since this wretched business all began. And – although I may have a solution, he wouldn’t like that either.’

‘A solution? What?’

‘Brunnings have made me an offer. They would meet all our debts, keep us viable.’

‘And take us over?’

‘Yes.’ His face was very drawn. ‘Take us over completely. We would simply become one of their imprints. We would be allowed to continue with the reference book list as Lyttons, but that would be all. Everything else would be published under the Brunnings imprint. Not,’ he added, trying to smile, ‘not that it would be a great deal.’

‘Oh God,’ said LM, ‘Oliver, we can’t do that. We just can’t.’

‘I don’t think we have a lot of choice,’ he said, ‘except to close down altogether. Anyway, we have until Friday. To make up our minds. I’m sorry to spring it on you, but I had a long meeting with Brunnings today.’

‘It seems very pressing of them.’

‘They can see they’re in a strong position. That we don’t have much choice.’

‘It isn’t very gentlemanly.’

‘LM, publishing is no longer a gentlemanly profession, I’m afraid.’

‘What does – what does Celia think?’

‘I haven’t troubled her with it’ he said, and he did not meet her eyes, ‘not when she is unwell. I thought we would spare her.’

‘Oliver,’ said LM, and it was a moment of absolute revelation to her and the beginning of an exoneration of Celia and what she had done, ‘Oliver how can you possibly not involve Celia in this? Celia is Lyttons as much as you or I. It would be outrageous of you to keep it from her.’

‘I don’t agree,’ he said, his pale blue eyes very hard suddenly, ‘I don’t agree with you at all. And I would prefer that you did not discuss it with her. Dr Perring said she should be spared any extra strain. It would be terrible if this caused her to lose the baby, LM.’

LM stared at him. Everything was beginning to become rather clear. If Oliver wanted a revenge, he could hardly find a better one.

‘I’m sorry, Oliver,’ she said, ‘I think I know Celia rather better than that. If anything caused her to lose the baby, it would be seeing Lyttons sold out over her head. Apart from anything else, she is on the board. You have no right to keep it from her. And if you don’t tell her, then I most certainly will.’

Jack sat staring into his glass. The glass of champagne, filled from the bottle he had bought to celebrate his and Lily’s engagement. Only there was no engagement and nothing to celebrate. Lily had said, very sweetly and gently, that she simply did not feel able to accept his proposal.

‘It’s not that I’m not very fond of you, Jack. I am. But – I just don’t want to get married. Not to anyone. Not yet. And not for a very long time either,’ she had added, seeing his face, thinking he was going to propose a long engagement, believing that she would marry him in the end. ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘But Lily—’

‘And anyway,’ she said, her voice growing more determined, ‘anyway, I may be going to Broadway next year.’

‘Broadway!’

‘Yes. CB is taking the show over there, he’s rather keen for a group of us to go with him. And I really don’t think I could resist that.’

That had hurt more than anything. To think that Lily, his Lily, should set aside marrying him, just for the chance of being in a Broadway show. It was almost unbearable, it hurt so much. He sighed heavily, refilled his glass.

‘Jack, hallo. You look as if you’ve lost a shilling and found sixpence.’ It was Gwendolyn Oliphant. He liked Gwendolyn, even if it was she who told Lily the rumours about Celia. She was fun and she was pretty. But she was engaged to Bertie Plumrose. Engaged. Everyone was getting engaged. As he would have been by now. He looked at Gwendolyn’s finger; a large ring sparkled on it.

‘Where’s Bertie?’

‘Getting the car. We’re going down to the coast. Why don’t you come?’

‘The coast?’

‘Yes. We’ll be there in a couple of hours. It’s so hot, and we thought it would be awfully jolly down there. We could swim. Come on, Jack. Join us.’

He was tempted; anything was better than just sitting here. ‘Is it just you and Bertie?’ he said. He had no desire to play gooseberry. Tonight of all nights.

‘Heavens no. About ten carloads. Last one in the sea’s a cissy. Look, finish that drink – where’s Lily?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Jack.

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Gwendolyn looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Oh dear.’ She put her arm round him. ‘In that case, you must certainly come. Cheer yourself up. We’re going to have a picnic on the beach. Champoo and cocaine, Bertie’s got loads, plenty enough for you, it’ll be such fun.’

‘Weell—’

‘Darling Jack! I knew you would! Bertie, darling, over here. Jack’s coming with us, aren’t you Jack?’

‘Yes I am,’ said Jack firmly, ‘and won’t you help me finish this bottle before we go?’

‘No, you have it,’ said Bertie, ‘I’ve had a skinful already. Glad you’re coming though, old chap. See you on the road.’

There was a knocking on the door: gentle at first then louder. Celia sat up.

‘Come in.’

It was Barty; she was white-faced and shaking.

‘Please come,’ she said, ‘Mum’s so bad. The nurse says she thinks we should get her to hospital.’

‘I’ll come at once.’

She pulled on her robe; looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Crisis time. The worst possible. She followed Barty upstairs; the nurse was bent over Sylvia, bathing her forehead. She turned as they came in.

‘She’s very poorly,’ she said.

Sylvia was tossing on her pillows, her eyes brilliant in her flushed face. Her hands were twisting together and she was pulling at the sheet.

‘It’s very bad. Very, very bad,’ she said, in a harsh, low voice. ‘Can you give me anything for it, for the pain?’

‘You’ve had as much as you can for now, Mrs Miller. Dr Perring hasn’t given me any more for you.’

She seemed to accept this. Then, ‘Can you get Lady Celia? I want her, I want to talk to her.’

‘I’m here, Sylvia,’ said Celia, sitting down by the bed, taking her hand. ‘I’m here.’ She turned to the nurse. ‘Go and telephone for Dr Perring quickly. The phone’s in the hall.’

‘Of course.’

‘Need her here,’ said Sylvia. ‘Need her to help me. Get her, please.’

‘Need who, Mum?’ said Barty. She sounded dreadfully frightened. Celia wrung out a cloth in cold water, bathed Sylvia’s forehead. She kept pushing it fretfully away.

‘How much longer?’ she said. ‘How much longer now?’

‘She keeps saying that.’ The nurse had returned. ‘She thinks she’s in labour, I just realised, they always say that.’

‘Yes we do,’ said Celia with a sigh, ‘and what did Dr Perring say?’

‘He’s coming, and he’s sent for an ambulance.’

‘Good. Barty darling, don’t be so frightened. She’ll be better in hospital.’

‘But—’

‘Nearly over,’ said Sylvia, ‘the pains are so bad. It must be nearly here.’

‘There, there,’ said the nurse soothingly, stroking her forehead.