Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (19 page)

‘I don’t think that’s true,’ said Barty with a half-smile.

‘Of course it is. You should hear Maud on the subject. She reckons he’s in love with you.’

‘Oh, Adele, honestly! That really is ridiculous.’

‘I know. She’s such a romantic. Just the same, he is terribly fond of you. And he just – well, I think you should see him. He was just hurt, Barty, just lashing out. He wanted to hurt you back.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t discussed all this?’ said Barty, looking at her carefully.

‘Good God, no. Of course we haven’t. Do you think I could have said all this to Giles? Poor old chap. Anyway, I’ve got to go.’ She stood up, picked up her coat. ‘Venetia’s on her own, bit down, not too good at being preggers, I’m afraid, poor her.’

She looked at Barty consideringly in silence for a moment. ‘I know it must be quite – hard,’ she said, ‘to be you. Given the circumstances. But sometimes it’s been quite hard to be us. Given the same ones. Think about that, Barty. ’Night.’

She walked quickly to the door, gave Barty a small bright smile. ‘I’ll see myself down. You look absolutely terrible. Go to bed, I would. And go to Lyttons tomorrow and talk to Giles. Best thing, really. For all of us.’

Barty stood there for a while, staring after her. Thinking back to another time, so long ago, when the twins had been uncharacteristically kind to her, when her father had been killed in the war. It had been all the sweeter then, for its unexpectedness; it felt much the same now.

Giles arrived early at Lyttons the next day; as he walked past Barty’s office, he looked hopefully in. She wasn’t there. He sighed, went along to his own office and shut the door.

He was sitting working an hour later when there was a gentle knock on his door; he looked up and saw her. She was pale still, and very solemn, but her eyes were softer, more friendly.

‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo, Barty,’ he said carefully.

‘I wondered if – well, if you’d like to have lunch,’ she said, ‘so we could talk.’

‘I’d love it,’ he said, ‘I’d really love it, but I can’t. I’m so, so sorry, I’ve got to go over to the printers with my father. Oh, God—’

She grinned at him suddenly and it was the old Barty, warm, friendly, fun.

‘Don’t look so tragic,’ she said, ‘it’s not the end of the world. Tomorrow?’

‘I’d rather it was today. Could I – well, could I take you out to supper?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you like. That would be fun.’

Adele arrived at the studio holding her bronze figure. The atmosphere seemed even more strained than it had been the day before, indeed, it seemed to be open warfare, with the beauty editor insisting on a side parting, the hairdresser refusing, the model – one of the young actresses Cedric had mentioned – openly sulking and Cedric himself virtually in tears. He was so pleased to see Adele he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

‘How wonderful to see you. And oh, what an exquisite thing. Exactly,
exactly
what I wanted. But it must be worth a fortune. How sweet of your parents to lend it. Let us go and set her up on the table while those terrible people continue squabbling.’ He led her into the studio; a small round table, with carved legs, set with a dark velvet cloth, stood by a low chair. He put the figure down on it. They studied her.

‘Perfect,’ said Cedric, ‘quite perfect. Don’t you think?’ There was a silence. Then he said. ‘Only—’

‘Only—?’

‘Only the table’s not quite right. Suddenly. Not right for her. Too—’

‘Heavy? Dark?’

‘Exactly. She needs something light – glass, perhaps.’

‘Glass and chrome?’

‘Yes. Exactly. I don’t suppose you have one of those tucked away at home, do you?’ He managed to smile; but he was clearly anxious.

‘Sadly not,’ said Adele.

‘Oh, dear. You are right. We are right. But she is perfect. I don’t want to lose her.’

‘My sister has one,’ said Adele.

‘Has what?’

‘A table. A glass and chrome table. Quite small. We could borrow that. I know we could.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, absolutely. I’ll go now. It’ll fit in my car. I’ll be back before—’

‘Before the battle has been won in the dressing room?’

‘Oh, long before that,’ she said and laughed.

Venetia was out when Adele got to Berkeley Square: the butler showed her into the drawing room. It was an extraordinarily magnificent room, a symphony in white and chrome; it had been featured twice in
Vogue
. The ultra-fashionable decorator Lord Gerald Wellesley had been commissioned by Boy to do it; he had covered the walls and ceilings with silver leaf, the chimney breast with mirrored squares. The furniture was all extremely modern, white leather sofas, glass and chrome tables, an exquisite maple sideboard; the new tubular chrome lamps. A portrait of Venetia by Rex Whistler, wearing white satin and standing in a rather improbably green woodland vale hung on one wall, and a large white grand piano stood in one corner: Boy played jazz on it after dinner, rather well. There was a charcoal sketch on it, very well executed, of Venetia looking down tenderly at a newborn Henry; Boy had done that too, it was one of his latest hobbies. He had sketched Kit for Celia as well.

‘Venetia’s doing something terribly important at the dressmakers,’ he said now, walking into the room, ‘or something like that. Can I help?’

‘You can lend me a table,’ said Adele briskly.

‘A table? Is Lyttons in such financial trouble that you are driven to borrowing tables?’

Adele giggled. In spite of disapproving of Boy dreadfully, she still found it impossible not to be amused by him. ‘Not quite. It’s for a photograph. For the photographer who was taking our pictures yesterday. He needs one. I thought the one in the window there,’ she said, pointing. ‘I wouldn’t keep it for long.’

‘I’m not sure I want to help him,’ said Boy, ‘he sent Venetia home completely exhausted yesterday.’

‘That was my fault,’ said Adele.

‘Yours?’

‘Yes. I kept thinking of other things he could put in the pictures. Other ways he could take them.’

‘And today you are running round London finding him props for his photographs. Is he paying you, this gentleman?’

‘Goodness no,’ said Adele, ‘of course not.’

‘Well, I think perhaps he should. From the sound of things. Yes, all right, I’ll lend you the table. But I want it safely back again by this evening.’

‘Of course,’ said Adele.

‘And how are you going to get it there?’

‘In my car.’

‘It won’t fit in that silly little thing. I’ll put it in mine, send it round. Or I might even come myself. I’m rather curious to meet this gentleman. He obviously has great persuasive powers.’

Half an hour later, he was carrying the table into Cedric Russell’s studio, and informing him that he considered both he and Adele should be paid for their work on his behalf.

‘I hear she was being helpful yesterday as well.’

‘Oh she was,’ said Cedric, ‘hugely.’

‘Well,’ said Boy. ‘Talent should not go unrewarded.’ He winked at Adele. ‘I’m off. I’ll send my car back for the table. You can telephone Venetia when you’ve finished. Goodbye, my darling.’

He kissed Adele briefly, waved and disappeared.

‘What a charming person,’ said Cedric.

‘Sometimes,’ said Adele.

‘He’s obviously terribly fond of you.’

‘He’s terribly fond of himself.’

‘I see.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, that is not such a bad thing. We all should be up to our own standards. Now, let me see—’ He set the figure on the table, stood back, his hands clasped in pleasure. ‘Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. I’m so grateful to you. Now please don’t go away, because I might need something else.’

‘Oh, I hope you do,’ said Adele, ‘I’d adore it. This is such fun.’

Cedric looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a bit more of this sort of fun, would you? On a slightly regular basis?’

Adele stared at him. ‘Are you offering me a job?’ she said.

‘Oh – nothing so vulgar as a job,’ said Cedric. ‘Let us call it a kind of – commission. When I need something, I’ll ask you to find it for me. Just now and again. And pay you. What would you say?’

‘I’d call that a job,’ said Adele. ‘And I’d say yes.’

‘That was a lovely evening,’ said Barty, ‘thank you so much, Giles. What a nice place.’

‘I’m glad you like it. I do too. Not too – smart.’

‘No.’

She smiled at him; she had enjoyed herself enormously. Not the least part of her pleasure being derived from a new and totally heady feeling of self-assurance. She had kept hearing, even as she got ready, Adele’s voice saying, ‘he does absolutely adore you’, and ‘Maud reckons he’s in love with you.’ Of course it wasn’t quite true, it was only Adele’s usual nonsense, but just the same, she had always felt he did like her, enjoyed her company; now having that affirmed by what was really a rather unlikely source, she felt different, attractive, in control.

She even allowed herself to fantasise – very briefly – about what might happen if Maud was right and Giles was in love with her, and she with him; what an extraordinarily ironic situation that would be. Then she let her mind wander on to what Celia would have to say and do about it, and even the fantasy became alarming. The one occasion when Celia had suspected – quite wrongly – that there was something between them had been so horrific she could still not think about it without feeling sick. Of course there had been other, far more deadly issues that evening, other confrontations but – well, anyway, it wasn’t going to be an issue. She was terribly fond of Giles in her turn, but she most certainly wasn’t in love with him, nor did she find him physically attractive. Maud might consider him handsome, and she supposed he was, with his dark, rather dramatic good looks, but he wasn’t – well, sexy. Barty had had a couple of love affairs at Oxford; she was still a virgin, but she knew what physical desire felt like, and she knew she would not, in a hundred years, feel it for Giles. If you’d grown up with someone, with all the often unattractive familiarity that it entailed, of being there as he wandered about in his dressing gown, brushing his teeth, sulking at the family supper table, working his way through the agony of the breaking voice, the gangling clumsiness, the uncontrollable sweating and blushing of the young adult male, you didn’t suddenly look at him one morning and feel stirrings of passion. Giles would always be to her one of her best friends, her greatest confidants; for that very reason, she had absolutely no wish for him to become her lover. Just the same, it was nice to know he liked her so much.

She had cut off his apologies quickly, charmingly, saying it was quite all right, she had over-reacted, and expressed her own remorse at going to Celia about the crime list; for the rest of the evening they had chatted and laughed and talked more seriously about the matters of the day – most notably the growing problems of the Depression and the plight of the unemployed – as they had always done. And when Giles finally delivered her back to her door in Russell Square, she kissed him lightly goodnight and went up to bed, feeling quite extraordinarily happy.

CHAPTER 8

If you could see love, Barty often thought, it would look like Pandora and Sebastian together, in the room which had become Pandora’s home that spring. Barty spent a lot of time there; she loved Pandora and had always adored Sebastian, they both told her she was, of all their visitors, the most welcome and indeed, as Pandora’s pregnancy drew near its close, she would leave Lyttons occasionally as early as lunchtime at Oliver’s instigation.

‘You would be doing me a favour as well as them; I know Sebastian is so worried about her and worried about his work as well; if you are there, he’s told me, Pandora is happy and he can go to his study without too much anxiety. Or indeed guilt. You can take some proofs with you, and work on them there if you like; would you mind, Barty, it isn’t for very long and I would be so grateful.’

Barty said she would not mind in the least. She got the impression that Celia minded more than a little, while vehemently denying it, but it was tacitly agreed between her and Oliver that this need not trouble any of them.

The room was on the ground floor of what Pandora persisted in calling ‘Sebastian’s house’ in Primrose Hill and opened on to the garden; the weather was exceptionally fine and very often the French windows, overhung with wisteria, were open much of the day. The room was always filled with flowers; Sebastian saw it as his mission and the one small thing he could do for her, to have the white tulips and narcissi and lily of the valley she so loved delivered freshly at least three times a week, great bouquets of them, that were then set into vases and bowls and jugs on every available surface.

It was not normally a bedroom at all, but a large sitting room, with a very pretty fireplace; the large double bed that had been moved into it still left room for several small tables, a pair of regency drawing-room chairs, and some of Pandora’s favourite pictures, Victorian watercolours of the English countryside. Sebastian would lie beside her, not on the bed, but on a chaise longue he had had set beside it; he would read to her by the hour, often far into the night when she couldn’t sleep, or lie holding her hand, talking to her, arguing with her – they both loved to argue – regaling her with bits of gossip he had picked up from friends at the Garrick, where, at Pandora’s insistence, he still lunched two or three times a week, or from Celia, who was an almost equally good source.

As much as talking to her, he was happy simply to be with her, reading quietly, listening to a concert on the wireless, or simply sitting with her, holding her hand, occasionally lifting it to his lips to kiss it. He quite literally adored her, he would have died for her; he often said that his own life had begun again on the day he met her.

It was an extraordinary thing, Barty thought, how he had changed himself for her that summer, had managed to be quiet for her, to curb his restlessness, rein in his impatience. It was a long time now since she had heard the Brooke roar of rage: she remarked upon it, laughing one afternoon when he complained only mildly to the daily woman, who had tidied his study and put the day’s pages in a folder with those of the day before, a crime in Sebastian’s eyes on a par with murder.

‘But you will hear it again, my darling,’ he said, ‘I do assure you. When the little beast has been born, and Pandora is mine again, and I am no longer trying to be good.’

He always referred to the baby thus; when Pandora upbraided him for it, he would smile his most brilliant smile and say what else could he call anything that was causing her so much trouble. ‘But I am sure I will be able to forgive him when he is safely here. I will forgive everybody everything then.’

Pandora was suffering considerably. The baby was very large, she was unable to get comfortable for more than a few minutes at a time whatever she did; her blood pressure was very high, her hands and feet swollen. She couldn’t sleep, and she had developed a hugely irritating rash which plagued her, especially at night. But she remained astonishingly cheerful; she kept a chart, on which she ticked off the remaining days of her pregnancy, ‘and at least I know it won’t be any longer than this, because they’re going to induce the baby on 20 May if it hasn’t arrived by then. Barty, darling, pass me those cushions, would you? My two o’clock ones.’

She piled more cushions up as the day went on and she felt her discomfort more; in the mornings, especially if she had managed to get a few hours of sleep, she felt slightly better, but as she grew tired she found it increasingly difficult to settle herself into any kind of comfortable position.

‘But the thing is,’ she said, ‘I just want this baby so much, and I’ll have it for the rest of my life and a few months of feeling horrid is really not important. I honestly think Sebastian minds more than I do.’

Barty felt very frightened on Pandora’s behalf at the approaching birth; Venetia, only a few weeks behind her, simply carried a bump around, albeit a large one, but Pandora appeared to be all baby. It seemed quite impossible to Barty that it could emerge from her in what she knew to be the normal way; she felt Pandora would be torn completely in two. She was immensely relieved when Sebastian told her that she was very likely to be having a Caesarian section.

‘I don’t like it, of course, there are risks to surgery, but I cannot imagine that either she or the baby could survive a normal birth. Oh, Barty, I shall be so relieved when it is over. I would give everything I have to be able to have it for her.’

‘And you call that a job?’ said Celia. Her tone and her expression were totally contemptuous. Adele was encouraged.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes I do.’

‘Running around London, borrowing things?’

‘The right things. Yes.’

‘I see. How extraordinary.’

‘Not really,’ said Adele staunchly.

‘Adele, you have had a very good education. Not as good as you should have had, since you chose not to go to university, but you attended an excellent school, you gained your matriculation. You are hugely intelligent. You have had every advantage. And you plan to spend the rest of your life catering for the whims of some – some photographer.’

‘She said “photographer” exactly as if it were “pornographer”,’ said Adele later, laughing, reporting this conversation to Venetia. ‘She was terribly cross,’ she added with a touch of complacency in her voice.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Anyway, I said yes, that was exactly how I planned to spend it, although perhaps not quite all of the rest of it, and she just gave her snort, you know, and told me I was a great disappointment to her and Daddy, and walked out of the room.’

‘And after that?’

‘Nothing. It’s not being referred to. But – well, it is my life. I do want to do something with it. And I think it’s going to be utter heaven. Tomorrow I have to find an absolute pile of Vuitton luggage, and some zebra-striped fabric. That was my idea, Noël Coward has it in his studio, you see, so—’

‘It sounds terribly difficult,’ said Venetia.

‘Not really. You just have to think a bit. Vuitton will lend the luggage because the magazine,
Harpers Bazaar
—’

‘I like
Harpers
. I think it’ll do well.’

‘So do I. Anyway, it’ll give them a credit. That means they will put “luggage by Vuitton” under the photograph. And you can get the fabric at Swan & Edgar. So I shall just have to chat them up a bit.’

‘Terribly clever, if you ask me,’ said Venetia admiringly.

‘It’s not so much clever as having what Cedric calls an “eye”,’ said Adele, ‘we share the eye, we like the same thing. That’s what will make it work. Touch wood. So if he tells me to get some flowers for a photograph, and tells me what sort of photograph, I know exactly what sort of flowers; I got Constance Spry to do some the other day. Too heavenly, she used cabbage leaves and flower pods mixed in with the flowers. So original. Anyway, Cedric was thrilled.’

‘And you’re just going to work for him?’

‘Well, no. I mean at the moment, yes. But I’m hoping my fame will spread. You never know.’

‘I’m sure it will.’

‘Anyway, it’s terrifically sociable, I’m always haring about seeing people, really good chums, some of them, I was chatting to Sybil Colefax the other day, asking her what she had got in the way of wallpaper, I hadn’t seen her for ages. She’s doing brilliantly, you know, working with darling John Fowler – anyway, this is the new me, career girl. Just as well, still not a prospective husband in sight and—’

‘Maybe you could marry Cedric,’ said Venetia, laughing. ‘He obviously adores you.’

‘Fairies don’t get married, Venetia.’

‘Some of them do.’

‘Well, Cedric won’t. He wouldn’t want to marry anyone anyway, he just wants to have fun. Now listen—’

‘It would be fun, being married to you. I’d like it,’ said Venetia. She smiled as she spoke, but her eyes were sad.

She was not happy; in fact, she was actually unhappy much of the time. She had completely faced the fact – although not quite come to terms with it – that Boy was now utterly out of love with her and was, she feared, actually unfaithful to her. The fact that he was discreet, affectionate towards her and an exceptionally good father to Henry – not many men, after all, insisted on being present at bathtime every night and even on knowing how to change a napkin – was some comfort to her, but her sense of disappointment was acute. She was not quite sure how she felt about Boy herself; she was still extremely fond of him, even if she wasn’t still exactly in love.

Of course they didn’t have much in common, that had emerged quite quickly. He was really rather an intellectual, she had discovered, he had read almost everything, he adored music and particularly the opera, and he was intensely interested in and knowledgeable about modern painting. He had tried to interest her in that, but he didn’t seem to understand that it wasn’t her thing, and besides, ever since they had been married she had been pregnant or absorbed in nursery matters. It was hardly practicable to expect her to start rushing about going to art exhibitions; and she found the artists he brought home from time to time immensely tedious, all talking in terms she simply couldn’t understand about things she couldn’t begin to appreciate.

She wasn’t even sure about having sex with him any more; her pregnancy protected her for the most part from his sexual attentions, which she missed; she had enjoyed the whole thing very much in the early days, he was not only skilful and tireless in bed, but tender and imaginative as well, and she could still, when she allowed it, find herself taken to intense heights of pleasure. But such occasions now were rare; the spectre of a mistress, or mistresses, lay between them on the pillow, humiliating her and dulling her responses; increasingly, she liked to sleep alone.

His frequent declarations that he was about to join his father in the family merchant bank continued to prove invalid; he spent perhaps one day a week there, and one further lunch hour with prospective or existing clients, but it clearly bored him. The art gallery, on the other hand, took more of his attention, and indeed recently he had discovered more than one new talent which he then devoted some time and money towards developing; but he was happier still on the golf course or at the races – neither of which attracted her in the least – or at his stable yard. The result was that he had a great deal of time of his own in which to pursue any other interests he might develop; and if the rumours and Venetia’s instincts were to be believed, most of those took the form of pretty and amusing women.

It was not a happy state of affairs; but she could not quite establish in her own mind – particularly given the fact of her pregnancy – what she wanted to do about it, swinging between a desire to maintain the status quo of a highly luxurious lifestyle, considerable social standing, a secure home for her children and a longing to escape from the mesh of disappointment and humiliation that her marriage had become.

If she hadn’t had Henry – and Adele of course – she quite often thought she would go mad.

Abbie had a new job; ‘so much better than teaching all those snooty little girls, with their curls and their nursemaids and their closed-in, mean minds,’ she said to Barty, and Barty, who had suffered considerably from the mean minds of snooty little girls, agreed with her. It was not one of the august girls’ establishments of which she had dreamed, but an elementary school in Brixton.

‘It’ll be awfully different. I asked what were the biggest problems, meaning things like, you know, none of them ever having seen a book or been read to, and the headmistress said nits and fleas and spotting the difference between a bruise acquired in the playground and one from a father’s belt.’

Barty was silent; one of her earliest memories was of watching her father’s belt swinging at her brothers, and of her mother lashing out at her with the heavy wooden tongs she used to pull the washing out of the boiler. That had not happened often and Sylvia had been driven to it by her own desperation, but it had directly led, she knew, to her being taken home to the dubious safety of Cheyne Walk and the Lyttons.

‘On the other hand, it’s a wonderful neighbourhood, really close and – well, affectionate. The children may have nits and be sewn into their underwear for the winter, but they grow up in this kind of huge family that’s the street. And they’re so sharp and clever and some of them at least do seem to want to learn; I’m so excited about it, Barty, I really am.’

Barty told Celia about it, knowing she would be genuinely interested; she promptly offered a large box of children’s books for the school, ‘and tell your friend if she wants more she has only to ask’.

Abbie was surprised, but ‘I keep telling you,’ said Barty, still half surprised at herself in her defence of Celia, ‘she is a very kind and generous person.’

‘Well, all right. I’ll believe you. I must write to her and thank her.’

‘You should come and thank her in person,’ said Barty, ‘she’d like that. The only thing is, you’d find yourself agreeing to write a book about your experience of teaching in the slums or some such before you knew it.’