Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (32 page)

‘Jewish?’ said Adele.

‘That is hardly relevant.’

‘I think it is. To you. I am aware of all those things, Mummy, I’m twenty-four now. I am perfectly capable of making my own decision about relationships. And I feel rather – upset, incidentally, that you should find his being Jewish in some way undesirable. Because I think you do.’

‘Adele,’ said Celia. Her colour was very high now; her eyes a brilliant blue. ‘That is outrageous. We have many Jewish friends. As you know. The Rosenthals, the Friedmanns, the Rothschilds—’

‘Yes, yes, I know. So that’s all right, isn’t it? Very tolerant of you. But I did think that your telling him so clearly that his anxieties were nonsense was at best rude and at worst insulting. I was terribly embarrassed. And anway, how could you know?’

‘I’m sorry you were embarrassed, Adele. I know, because I have access to some excellent information on the subject. As I said at dinner, I thought he was speaking irresponsibly.’

‘In which case, it will be perfectly all right for me to be friends with him, won’t it? If that’s what you’re worrying about. And I did wonder if I mightn’t bring him to Diana Guinness’s ball. I haven’t got a partner yet.’

‘A very bad idea,’ said Celia, and her voice now had the steely edge to it that had set boundaries for her children all their lives, ‘very bad indeed. There will be many people there who will – what shall I say – who will feel that he has some very ill-founded and foolish ideas. He could possibly be made to feel – uncomfortable. I would not wish to inflict that on any guest of mine.’

‘How considerate of you,’ said Adele. ‘In that case he certainly wouldn’t wish to attend. And neither would I. Thank you, Mummy. Now you must excuse me, I have to go to work.’

It always irritated her mother almost beyond endurance, to hear her talking about her work. It was a small but very sweet piece of revenge.

‘I’m afraid I’m on Oliver’s side,’ said Sebastian, ‘I think that new lot of yours are appalling. Appalling and dangerous. I’m surprised at you, Celia.’

He sighed, then smiled at her rather sadly. She studied him; trying to find something more than a distant, dusty shadow of the man who had walked into her office all those years ago with his manuscript, a man wonderfully handsome, impatiently arrogant, brilliantly alive, in a moment that had changed her life for ever. She couldn’t find it.

‘I suppose it’s partly jealousy,’ he said. ‘I don’t like all this talk about you and Bunny Arden—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Absurd rumours—’

‘Are they, Celia? Are they really?’

She looked at him very steadily.

‘They are, Sebastian, yes.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s something. He’s very attractive. And Cynthia is distinctly—’

‘Dull?’ She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. She has a very interesting sex life—’

‘Not horses? Don’t tell me.’

‘Sebastian, you sounded quite yourself for a moment then. No, not horses. But she likes grooms apparently: grooms and jockeys. And in their own habitat where possible.’

‘What, in the stables?’

‘In the stables.’

‘How – original. Whoever told you that?’

‘Bunny.’

‘Well, I suppose he should know. Husbands usually do.’

Another silence.

‘Sebastian, come to dinner on Saturday. Please. Barty will be there, and Jay and Kit of course, the first thing Kit said when he got home was when could he see you.’

‘Did he? Well that would be – nice.’ He hesitated. ‘Would LM—’

‘No, she wouldn’t. But she was very upset the other day, Sebastian, I don’t know what you—’

‘I was very upset too,’ he said briefly, ‘but I have written to apologise. And she has, I think, accepted that.’

‘Sebastian, don’t you—’

‘No, Celia. Not you as well, please.’ He was silent, then said, ‘I want to talk to you about the early chapters of the new book. I’m worried about them.’

‘You’re always worried about all your chapters,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do please come on Saturday, Sebastian. If not for me, then for Kit.’

‘For Kit,’ he said, and just for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes, ‘for Kit, all right, I’ll come.’

‘Barty my darling, you’re very quiet.’ Sebastian, who had been placed next to her, smiled at her, proffered the bottle of wine. She shook her head, covered her glass. She felt sick, physically dizzy, dreadfully shocked. Had it been any other occasion, she would have cried off, said she was ill, had a sick headache. But Jay and Kit had both telephoned her, in her new flat – her new, smart flat in a mansion block just off Grafton Way, and said they were so looking forward to seeing her and she didn’t have the heart to fail them. She’d been looking forward to it too, and to seeing Sebastian; it was only what fate had done to her that evening, placing a hand on her back, pushing her into the revelation, the discovery that had changed her life for ever: pushing her into a dark mix of shock and indecision and fear.

Had she not seen the newly published
Handful of Dust
in Hatchards, where she had gone to see the manager; had she not thought how much Abbie would enjoy it and bought it; had she not realised that she had two hours to spare before she need arrive at Cheyne Walk; had she not found Abbie’s telephone engaged for almost twenty minutes; had she not decided to break the cardinal rule of their friendship, not a new rule, one Abbie had made very early on, of never arriving at one another’s doors unannounced; had she not then passed a flower stall on the way and decided to get Abbie some of the yellow roses she loved; and had she not therefore arrived in Abbie’s street precisely when she did, just as another car, a rather horribly familiar car, a cream Audi convertible, arrived in the street and pulled up outside Abbie’s house: then she would not have known, life would have proceeded along routes she knew and recognised and she would be feeling happy, enjoying herself. But she had been there in that moment, and she had seen the car.

It was then that she had begun to feel frightened; so frightened that she wanted to drive away, turn her back on it all, save herself from having to sit there witnessing it and therefore be able to tell herself that it hadn’t really happened at all: and indeed she did put her own car into reverse and start to move backwards down the street. Only even then fate pushed her harder, more roughly still, for a van came up behind her, stopping her progress, hooting its horn and she was obliged to pull forward and let it pass, and when it had gone, it was too late and she found herself sitting there, staring at the person who had got out of the Audi, holding a large bouquet of flowers in one hand and a large carrier bag from Fortnum & Mason in the other and who then walked down the path to Abbie’s front door and – and at this point Barty closed her eyes, willing herself not to have seen what she did see but it was too late – she had seen it, had seen the visitor push a key into the door of the house and let himself in.

The visitor was Boy Warwick.

CHAPTER 14

‘If you don’t speak to her I will. I mean it. It’s outrageous, the whole thing. Now which of us is it to be?’

‘I really don’t see—’

‘Giles.’ Helena tapped her foot. She always did that when she meant something. ‘Giles, it’s not right. That you should be paid so little. It’s insulting, both to you and to me. And if, as you say, your father refuses to reconsider, then clearly you must talk to your mother. And about your position at Lyttons.’

‘My position?’ said Giles. ‘What about my position?’

‘It’s too – modest,’ said Helena, ‘you should have the title of director, a proper board director that is, and considerably more authority. You’re not a boy, Giles, as your parents seem to think, you’re thirty this year. My mother thinks it’s quite absurd that you don’t have more status in the firm.’

‘Your mother doesn’t run Lyttons, dearest,’ said Giles. He was beginning to grow very weary of hearing what Mrs Duffield Brown thought about most things, but particularly about his own professional life.

‘I know that. But she is quite – experienced in these things. Her own father had a very successful company, in which she was involved much more than you’d think.’

‘I know that, Helena. She’s told me about it.’

‘Of course. Well, anyway, this is getting us nowhere. You must speak to your mother and demand a salary rise and a promotion on to the board.’

‘But Helena—’

‘No, Giles. You have earned it. After all, it was you who saw through that deal with the
Daily Express
. And who deals with Associated Booksellers day after day, sorting out problems? Talking to that difficult woman there – what’s her name, the one who calls publishers the enemy—’

‘Hilda Light. Do you know, she once captained England at hockey?’ he said in an attempt to divert her. He was not successful.

‘You deal with her. And with the book token people.’

She was extremely well-informed on every aspect of Giles’s day-to-day professional life, she questioned him closely about it each evening when he came home. It was not a time he always enjoyed.

‘Helena, I just don’t think—’

She interrupted him. ‘They take you and your input entirely for granted,’ she said, ‘and it’s not fair.’

‘Well – I’ll think about it. But—’

‘No, Giles, you must do it. And I do mean it, otherwise as I said, I shall do it for you.’

‘Helena, that is absolutely out of the question,’ said Giles, ‘it would be completely counter-productive.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Because you don’t understand the business, you don’t understand Lyttons, and you certainly don’t have the authority to discuss with my parents what they should do about my position there. Now please, dear, don’t even mention such a thing again. I will speak to them, I promise you. But when I feel—’

‘No, Giles, not when you feel anything. By the end of the week.’

Giles sighed. He knew better than to argue with her on this subject.

‘I’ll speak to them,’ he said, mentally crossing his fingers.

‘Good.’ She kissed him. ‘You have serious responsibilities now, Giles. A family. You have to meet them.’

‘I realise that. Now – shall we go up to bed?’

‘In a little while,’ said Helena. ‘I’d like to finish reading this article first. It’s most interesting, it’s about the early effects of the Labour party taking control of the London County Council. I think you should read it.’

Later, lying in bed watching Giles as he undressed, smiling at her in the way that told her exactly what was coming, she sighed inwardly. His performance in bed still afforded her very little pleasure. On the other hand, it had produced Mary and, in due course – next year if she was lucky – would produce another. A boy, she hoped. She didn’t like Venetia having the only boys in the family: or Celia’s constant references to the fact.

So what did she do? What could she do? There was no obvious, right thing. If she told Venetia, or indeed any of the Lyttons, it would cause dreadful unhappiness; if she didn’t, and they found out, then she was hideously implicated. Even though she disapproved so strongly of what Abbie had done that she felt hardly able to speak to her. Either way she had lost her friend, her best friend: a fine judge of human nature she had turned out to be too, Barty thought, remembering how pleased she had been to find someone who was nothing to do with the Lyttons, who she could claim as her very own. Abbie had not only betrayed Venetia, she had betrayed Barty too.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she had said in exasperation when Barty had confronted her with her discovery, ‘stop talking like a betrayed wife, Barty. He’s not your husband. It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ Barty was shouting now, angry tears pouring down her face. ‘Of
course
it’s to do with me. Venetia is a Lytton, I grew up with her—’

‘Yes, and she was vile to you. I’m surprised at this display of loyalty.’

‘Abbie, for God’s sake. That was when we were children. I don’t terribly like Venetia, but she’s family. My family in a way. I work for her parents. They brought me up. And you’ve – you’ve stolen her husband.’

‘Hardly stolen. Don’t exaggerate, Barty. He loves Venetia, he told me so, he’d never leave her.’

‘Funny sort of love,’ said Barty.

Abbie shrugged. ‘He’s a man. Look, Barty, I know you’re shocked and upset. I – well, I do understand really. I’m not specially proud of what I’ve done. But – look at it from my point of view. He made all the running. I didn’t chase him. I’d never have seen him again if – well, if he hadn’t telephoned me.’

‘He telephoned you? I don’t believe it,’ said Barty, thinking back to the fateful evening when Abbie had first met Boy. ‘I seem to remember him giving you his card.’

‘Well – yes. Yes, all right. I did ring him. But only about the bursary thing.’

‘Oh Abbie,’ Barty would have laughed if it hadn’t been so serious. ‘And then what? Did you accept his invitation to dinner when it came? Or did you tell him you couldn’t even consider it not only because he was married but also to one of the Lyttons? Given my relationship with them? I wonder.’

‘Oh, Barty, Barty, I’m so sorry.’ Abbie was contrite suddenly, and in tears. ‘You’re the only person I’ve been worrying about. Truly. I don’t care about Venetia, spoilt rich creature with nothing in her head but clothes and the servant problem. No wonder Boy finds her boring—’

‘How do you know that? Did he tell you?’

‘He – implied it.’

‘I see. Well, I don’t see Venetia quite like that. She is rich and she is spoilt. But she’s also rather vulnerable,’ said Barty.

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes. She was married at nineteen, a mother at nineteen for God’s sake. Boy has fooled around ever since—’

‘How do you know that?’ Abbie’s voice was suddenly wary.

‘I just – do.’

‘You said you didn’t know.’

‘No one’s actually told me, if that’s what you mean. But of course I – picked it up. I thought he was behaving better lately actually. Venetia’s seemed happier. Anyway, this isn’t getting us anywhere. But you’re all right, aren’t you Abbie? With your nice little house in Clapham and your Uncle David’s money, I don’t know how you could lie to me about it, I really don’t.’

‘It wasn’t a lie,’ said Abbie. ‘I was left some money. I wouldn’t take that sort of money from Boy. I wouldn’t dream of it. But he wanted me to move away from Russell Square for obvious reasons.’

‘He might have bumped into me, you mean?’

‘Well – yes. So he helped me get a mortgage. I didn’t have quite enough. Nothing more than that.’

‘On very favourable terms, I daresay.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Abbie.

‘I won’t shut up. I think it’s despicable, what you’re doing. Absolutely despicable.’

‘But why?’ Abbie’s expression was genuinely puzzled. ‘I still don’t think I’ve done anything so wrong. Venetia doesn’t know, I’d never tell her, never break her marriage up, I’m probably improving it for her, keeping her husband happy.’

‘Oh really,’ said Barty, ‘don’t expect me to fall for that old line. Of course you’re not improving things for her. You’re helping Boy to cheat on her.’

‘He’d cheated anyway. You said.’

‘And what did he tell you? That he’d never done it before, that his wife didn’t understand him, all those pathetic lies? Oh, I can see, yes, that’s exactly what he did say. God, Abbie, how could you fall for it? He’s such a rotter, such a selfish rotter.’

‘I know he is,’ said Abbie unexpectedly, ‘it’s one of the reasons it sort of seemed – all right.’

‘And Venetia?’

‘I told you. I’d never do anything to hurt her.’

‘God help me,’ cried Barty, ‘except sleep with her husband. I would never have believed you were so twisted, Abbie. Or so – bad.’

Abbie suddenly dropped her head into her hands.

‘Stop it,’ she said, ‘please, Barty, stop it. I can’t stand this any longer.’

She started to cry: heavy, wretched sobs. Barty sat looking at her; she felt no sympathy for her at all. Finally she said, ‘I’m going home. I don’t know what I’m going to do. You’ve made my life absolutely impossible, Abbie. I can’t ever remember feeling so awful.’

For days she suffered, unable to think what to do. Every time Celia or Oliver called her into one of their offices she expected them to have found out, every time her phone rang, especially at home, she thought it would be Venetia, saying how could you have done this to us all. She didn’t want to see Abbie, she dreaded seeing Boy, most of all she dreaded seeing Venetia. Once Adele phoned her to say she wanted to ask her something and Barty was nearly sick with fright; but it was only to see if she would be able to attend some function. Barty said she wouldn’t and Adele was clearly a bit miffed.

In the end, worn out, sleepless with indecision and despair and a sense of double betrayal, she found help from the most unlikely source: Sebastian.

He found her in her office one lunch time, asked her if she’d like to join him for a sandwich and was clearly distressed when she burst into tears.

‘Barty, this won’t do. You’re the family rock, whatever is it?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ she said in between sobs; he lent her his handkerchief, put his arm round her and when she’d finished crying, insisted she came out with him anyway.

‘I suppose it’s some man,’ he said and Barty said yes, it was; he went on lending her clean handkerchiefs of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply – ‘I used to lend them to Celia in the days when she cried’ – and saying he really thought she’d feel better if she told him about it: and finally, desperate for advice and comfort, thinking he was the nearest to a dispassionate adviser she had, she did.

He was wonderful: calm, sensible and hugely pragmatic.

He told her it was nothing to do with her in the strictest sense, and that she should do absolutely nothing. ‘You can bear no guilt, you have no moral responsibility. There is no point telling Venetia, she will be dreadfully unhappy. Time enough for that when and if she finds out. Which she may never do. You would be amazed how long it can take for this sort of news to arrive at what you might call its true destination. And I’m sure the relationship won’t last very long anyway. I can see you feel betrayed by your friend, but there is little to be gained by berating her. She is a very selfish and self-indulgent young person, hugely attractive as she is.’

‘You think so, do you?’ said Barty, blowing her nose.

‘Oh I’m afraid so. She’s not just physically attractive, she has that kind of enterprising spirit which demands sexual interest.’ He sighed. ‘In another life, I would have found her intriguing enough to want to know as well.’

She was silent for a while: then ‘And Boy? Should I tell him? That I know?’

‘Absolutely not. That would implicate you dreadfully.’

‘And – how do you view him?’ said Barty. She was beginning to feel better.

‘Oh, Boy is a law unto himself. Not unlike Abbie in many ways, attractive, charming, selfish, looking for pleasure. Of course he’s a renegade, but – well, in many ways he’s not such a bad husband.’

‘Sebastian! I can’t let you get away with that, it’s a terrible thing to say. He’s an adulterer.’

‘Not the biggest crime in the book, my darling,’ he said after a moment, ‘really not. As perhaps you will come to appreciate one day.’

‘But—’

‘He takes care of Venetia, and she is an irritating, rather empty-headed woman, much as I love her. He’s generous, he’s a wonderful father, he’s unfailingly good-natured. Of course in lots of ways, what he’s doing is very wrong. I’m not suggesting he should be honoured for it. Just that it could be worse. Anyway, it certainly isn’t anything to do with you. Your best route, indeed your only one, is to keep quiet, and learn to live with it. It’s a hard lesson to learn, that one, but a crucial one. And if it does come to light, ever, and anyone throws any blame in your direction, I shall make sure they understand and take it back pretty damn quick. All right? Now dry your eyes, I haven’t got any more hankies. And you’d better be getting back to Lyttons, or Celia will be after us both like an elegant avenging fury. I’m in trouble enough already, the book’s terribly late. Normally she doesn’t complain about that, but this time she’s after me. Come on, darling, one day at a time, that’s my motto. Always has been.’

‘Oh Sebastian,’ said Barty, giving him a kiss, ‘I do wish—’

‘No don’t,’ he said, ‘don’t say it. Please, please, Barty, don’t say that.’

Celia was trying very hard not to scream. It was driving her mad. The negativity and blindness, the refusal to face facts and see things as they were. She looked at Oliver, wearing the expression she had always most hated, that of vague superciliousness, his mouth folded stubbornly in on itself, his pale-blue eyes meeting hers in absolute defiance, and thought she had never been nearer to just walking away, out of the room, out of Lyttons, out of what was left of her marriage.

‘Oliver, please, please at least think about it. Properly.’

‘There’s nothing to think about.’