Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (34 page)

He didn’t look at Helena as he said that, but there was the faintest edge to his voice, an edge of wry rebuke for his wife, that Helena recognised and which gave her courage.

‘And where is Giles?’ said Celia, momentarily diverted from her argument. ‘Why is he not here at your side, Helena, does he know that you are here?’

‘No,’ said Helena, ‘of course not. He is out of the office for the day.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver. ‘At the printing works. Overseeing the printing of the new catalogue.’

‘You see,’ said Helena, feeling her face flush, not caring, ‘you see, I feel that is exactly the sort of thing he should not be doing. That is surely what clerks are for. It’s hardly work on a par with – well, with an editor.’

That had been a mistake; she shouldn’t have said that. She could see Celia’s face change, watched her mind pounce.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘now we have it. This is pique, is it not? That Barty Miller has been promoted and Giles has not.’

‘No,’ said Helena. ‘Not at all. Of course not. I’m – I was delighted to hear about Barty. But Giles is a Lytton. He is your oldest son. And he’s thirty, he’s been working here for several years now, he should surely be working alongside you, helping you shape the company. Commissioning books, directing authors, that sort of thing. Not overseeing the printing of some – catalogue.’ She brought the word out vehemently.

‘Catalogues are very important, Helena,’ said Oliver quietly. ‘They are our lifeblood. And—’

‘Helena,’ said Celia, interrupting him, ‘I think perhaps I should explain a few things to you. Publishing is a complex and very difficult business. It relies perhaps more heavily than most on instinct. All the best publishers have a kind of sixth sense, about what will do well, what people will want, not now but next year, in three, five years’ time. My husband has this to an extraordinary degree. It is what has put Lyttons where it is today. Now I am very sorry to have to tell you that at this moment in time, Giles does not seem to have that instinct. Indeed I would say Kit shows more promise in that direction than he does.’

Helena fielded this remark without comment. Celia’s adoration of Kit was a by-word in the family; she would have proposed him for Prime Minister had it been within her gift.

‘Now Giles is sound, of course,’ Celia said, ‘he has a good business sense and I have to admit that on the design side of things he has a certain flair. But he is no more able to take over any part of the actual running of Lyttons at the moment than – well, than you are.’

She brought this out in a tone of absolute contempt; Helena felt herself flinch.

‘I see. And did you explain this to Giles?’

‘Of course. That his time has not yet come, that he must continue with his apprenticeship until his judgment matures and with it his confidence. You need great confidence to run a business of any kind, Helena.’

‘Yes, I do know that. I also know there is more to a business – any business – than its creative side. I know that from my father.’

‘Aluminium!’ said Celia, in a voice that implied that aluminium could be best compared with pornography. It gave Helena courage.

‘Yes. Aluminium. And my father runs one of the most successful companies in England, selling it.’

‘So I was given to understand. By your grandfather, at your wedding. A rather biased view, perhaps. I hardly think you can compare selling – ’ she paused ‘ – saucepans with books.’

Helena managed to ignore this. ‘The business side of the company, its financial stability, is just as important as next year’s products. Which are quite innovative, I do assure you. I don’t imagine you would denigrate Miss Lytton’s role in the company. To her face at any rate.’

‘I see you haven’t understood what I have been saying at all. LM’s role is not simply about financial stability. It is about the overall running of the company, areas to invest and proceed in, and requires every bit as acute a grasp of publishing as ours does.’

‘It appears I don’t understand anything,’ said Helena. She suddenly felt rather near to tears; it kept happening, something to do with her pregnancy she supposed. She swallowed hard, met Celia’s eyes bravely nonetheless. ‘But the thing I find hardest to understand is how you can employ your own son as a glorified office boy. Giving him absolutely no status, no responsibility; Giles is intelligent, extremely intelligent, well read, he has a very good head for business. I have heard what you said, but I’m afraid I quite fail to see how you can under-use those talents as you do. And undermine what he does do. As his wife, I find it hurtful. Extremely hurtful.’

‘As his wife, Helena,’ said Celia, ‘your role is to support and encourage him, rather than to usurp his position here.’

‘Usurp it?’

‘Indeed yes. To imply it is of little importance, that he is indeed a glorified office boy as you put it. That more than anything implies a lack of grasp of the situation. And I find it, as I said at the beginning, quite extraordinary and rather shocking that you should come to us, behind his back, making it plain you consider he is incapable of speaking for himself. I can only hope that for his sake he never comes to hear of this interview. Now you must excuse us; we are very busy here, and I imagine you have duties at home.’

This last was delivered with a look so withering, so full of contempt that Helena felt the tears start again. She stood up quickly, afraid Celia would notice, would despise her further.

‘I do indeed,’ she said, ‘yes. Good afternoon, Oliver, Celia. Thank you at least for listening to me.’

‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Oliver. He looked uncomfortable, upset. ‘Can I arrange a taxi for you?’

‘No, no thank you, I have my car.’

She half ran from the room, hurried down the corridor, out into the street. Safely in her car, she put her head down on the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry: she cried for a long time, but the tears were as much of rage on her own behalf as outrage for Giles, mingled with a degree of panic. She had achieved nothing, nothing at all, except to bring down a great deal of opprobrium on her own head. She had, if anything, diminished Giles in his parents’ view. And worst of all, she had had her own view of him diminished as well. That Celia should have managed to accomplish that was truly unforgivable.

But as she drove home, her mood changed, became steely calm, as steely as Celia’s own. One day, one day, she promised herself, she would have her revenge on Celia. She would show her; show her that she was not a silly, vapid woman with – what was it she had said – duties at home. So far she had felt only a certain dislike for her, mingled with admiration and a respect for everything that she had achieved. Now the admiration if not the respect was gone, and what she was experiencing was something much closer to hatred.

CHAPTER 15

‘New York! Would I like it! Oh, Wol, that is so exciting. Thank you, thank you. But – I thought you said—’

‘I know, I know,’ he said, patting her hand, ‘but that was months ago. Now it seems they do have room for you. And if you’re still of a mind to go, then you may. We shall miss you of course, but—’

Barty said she was absolutely of a mind to go. It was, without doubt, the best thing that could possibly have happened; it solved all her problems at a stroke. She wasn’t sure indeed, how much longer she would have been able to endure the situation. She had felt better for a while, after talking to Sebastian, had taken his advice and stopped even considering telling anyone; but guilt, anxiety, and acute sympathy for Venetia dominated her feelings and affected her behaviour, especially at family gatherings. And there were, as always, several of those, including most hideously, Venetia and Boy’s wedding anniversary: she had fretted for hours over how she might get out of that, but short of hospitalisation, she knew Celia for one would never accept any excuse. Finally, Sebastian had telephoned her, said with his usual discretion that he knew how she must be feeling and that he would be there (‘I know how you dislike these things,’ his actual words had been, ‘me too, but I think we must for Venetia’s sake, don’t you?’). Touched beyond anything, she had known she must now go, known, moreover, that she would now be able to bear it.

She missed Abbie too; she had felt quite unable to continue with the friendship, but it was a huge gap in her life, she missed her dreadfully, and she remained horribly aware of her, haunting her, a dangerous difficult entity.

They had had a stormy exchange, when she had told Abbie so; Abbie had accused her of misplaced loyalty, of placing what she called her pathetic pseudo-family ties against friendship, but Barty stood firm.

‘I can’t go on being your friend, Abbie, and if you can’t see that, then there is no point my trying to explain.’

Abbie said she didn’t want her to explain, that she and Boy were having a harmless relationship of benefit to everyone involved, including Venetia, and that she could only feel sorry for Barty if she found that difficult to cope with.

‘I thought you were above such bourgeois nonsense,’ were her last words; Barty left her and went home and cried for a long time, unsure what she minded most, Abbie’s betrayal of her, or being called bourgeois.

And then Giles had been – very difficult again: not quite hostile, but not friendly either, arguing with her in meetings, avoiding her whenever he could. She knew why that was, of course: it had been her promotion to senior editor, while his position had remained the same. She had worried about it at the time, when Oliver and Celia had first told her, knew it might cause trouble.

She was not to know quite the form of that trouble, nor its extent; nor could she possibly have guessed that in being able to send her to New York Oliver had solved one of his greatest problems also.

That of Giles and his increasing resentment towards Barty.

Stuart Bailey had written to Oliver, as he had promised he would, to let him know when he had a vacancy. He had met and liked Barty, and welcomed now the idea that she might fill it. Of course he would not necessarily have done so, had she not been who she was: for perhaps the first time in her life, Barty recognised the benefits of inherited privilege and tried to ignore the guilt. The job was only that of junior editor, but she didn’t care; she would have gone to clean the offices had it been proposed.

It was all terribly thrilling; she could hardly contain her excitement as well as her relief. London was obsessed with everything American at that time; from the music to the cars, from the dances to the skyscrapers – and of course the films, the wonderful wonderful films, the musicals, Busby Berkeley’s extravaganzas and Fred and Ginger, dancing their way into everyone’s hearts, not to mention the wonderful sparkling comedies with William Powell, Mae West, Jean Harlow, Ruth Chatterton.

Jack and Lily had actually written to say that if Barty had time, she must go and stay with them in Hollywood: at that point she really did begin to think she must be dreaming. Hollywood: home of the movies, as they called them: Hollywood which Cecil Beaton, who spent a great deal of time there photographing the stars, had described as being ‘very much what one was told Heaven was like when one was a child’.

If she had time indeed . . . it was all much too good to be true.

She was to go out in November, and initially stay with Maud and Robert.

‘Winter in New York isn’t exactly a delight,’ Stuart Bailey had written, ‘very, very cold indeed. The only thing I can say is it’s better than the summer. But I hope you will be happy here.’

Barty was sure she would be; Maud and she had already exchanged letters, and Jamie, whom she had met and liked at Giles’s wedding, had sent a funny card saying he would be happy to find her an apartment. Even Kyle Brewer, the son of Robert’s partner whom she had met in childhood, and who worked for Macmillans, had written her a little note, saying he was looking forward to meeting her but that she needn’t think she was going to publish a single book that he wanted.

Only Celia was predictably hostile to the idea; she told Barty she hoped she would enjoy New York, but that she was far from thinking it was a very good idea.

‘You are doing so well here, and when you get back, who knows what may have happened, we can’t keep a job open for you indefinitely, this young man we’ve hired to take over your work may prove to be extremely talented, and the Americans are a strange people, very pushy and vulgar. I hope you’ll be able to cope with it.’

Barty, who had been assured by Wol her job would be waiting for her at the end of the year she was to spend in New York, said of course she didn’t take anything for granted, and she hoped her experiences would benefit her work: and thought to herself that anyone who could cope with Celia herself, not to mention the twins and Lady Beckenham, could manage a fair amount of pushiness.

At her leaving party, she made a very pretty little speech about her gratitude to Celia and Oliver for the superb training she had received and how she knew it would equip her for anything New York might demand of her. Later, Celia kissed her with tears in her eyes and Sebastian gave her one of his bear hugs and said he had rarely been more proud and fond of anyone and that he hoped New York would properly appreciate her.

‘I think they will,’ he added, giving her the rather reluctant slow smile that had become his trademark these days, ‘they know quality when they see it, Barty.’

Barty, already over-emotional and over-excited, burst into tears.

She went up to Primrose Hill the next day, as he had said slightly stiffly that she might, to say goodbye to Izzie.

She found her sitting with her nanny, playing with the dolls’ house Jay and Gordon had built for her; she jumped up and flew into her arms.

‘Barty, Barty, hallo. I’m so glad you’re here, can you stay for tea? Father is out, so it would be quite all right.’

That sad little remark seemed to Barty to tell a hundred stories.

Over hot anchovy toast, Izzie’s favourite, she told her why she had come: it wasn’t easy. Izzie set down her piece of toast and sat totally still, staring at her, her huge eyes filled with tears.

‘You mean – really away, for a long time?’

‘Quite a long time,’ said Barty carefully, ‘a year, but I will be back, I promise.’

‘But – but who will come and see me then?’ said Izzie.

‘Well, Henry and Roo and Elspeth of course, and their mummy and Aunt Adele and Lady Celia and Wol—’

‘Henry and Roo don’t come here,’ said Izzie, wiping her eyes. ‘Sometimes I go there. If Father lets me. Please Barty, please don’t go.’

‘I’ve – I’ve got to, Izzie. I’m sorry. I’ve got to work there. But I promise I’ll write a lot and send you pictures—’

‘Letters aren’t any good,’ said Izzie.

‘Of course they are.’

‘No, they’re not. Letters don’t hug you. And anyway, I can’t quite read.’

‘Izzie darling, your father will read them to you. I’m sure.’

‘He doesn’t read to me,’ said Izzie, her eyes heavy.

‘Well Nanny will. And I’m sure other people hug you, I’m not the only one who does.’

‘You nearly are,’ said Izzie and burst into tears again.

They were sitting in the drawing room, Izzie on Barty’s lap, when Sebastian came home; Izzie was quieter, but still visibly upset, sucking her thumb.

‘Isabella, it’s time for your bath. Up you go to Nanny.’

‘Oh Sebastian, don’t make her go. We’re having – fun.’

‘I’m sorry, Barty, but I like Isabella to keep to a routine. And it’s not fair on any of us, including her nanny, if it’s upset. Isabella, go on, do as you’re told.’

She got off Barty’s knee obediently, without argument, and walked out of the room, looking neither at her father nor at Barty until she reached the bottom of the stairs. There she turned and the expression on her face was of such adult resignation and control, Barty felt quite frightened. Suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer. She had nothing to lose after all.

‘Sebastian.’

‘Yes, Barty?’ His face was sombre, almost harsh.

‘I’m sorry if this upsets you, and I know it will, but I wish—’

‘Yes?’

‘I wish you could try to be more loving to Izzie. She’s nearly six now, old enough to notice. She’s growing up into such a sad little person.’

‘Barty—’

She ignored him. ‘It’s not her fault, what happened. I know it was dreadful, but you can’t—’

‘Barty, I think it’s probably time you left. I really can’t listen to this sentimental twaddle.’

‘It’s not—’

‘I said leave. Now. I am surprised that you of all people who knew and loved – loved – ’he stopped, then ‘ – my wife, should be so incapable of understanding how I feel.’

‘Sebastian, of course I don’t understand – exactly. Nobody could. I know how dreadful it was.’

‘Of course you don’t.’ His voice had risen; she felt quite frightened. ‘You couldn’t know anything about it. Now bloody well leave me alone. The child is perfectly all right. She is well looked after, she isn’t mistreated in any way—’

‘But Sebastian,’ said Barty, and it took every piece of courage that she had, ‘Sebastian, she isn’t getting any love.’

‘Get out,’ he said, ‘just get out. And be good enough to remember, please, that neither am I.’

‘All right, all right. I’m going. But – Sebastian, don’t look at me like that. You are loved. Very much. By all of us, all of us who ever loved you. Nothing has changed, nothing at all.’

‘Everything has changed,’ he said quietly, and his face was ashen suddenly, and drawn with pain, ‘everything has changed for me. Now goodbye, Barty. I hope you are happy in New York.’

Nanny, watching from the window as Barty drove away in her little car, turned to swaddle Isabella in a thick bath towel. She was silent, seemed almost in shock, sucking her thumb and gazing in front of her, apparently unseeing.

From downstairs, came a dreadful sound; ugly and raw, going on and on. Nanny knew what it was; she had heard it before. It was Sebastian weeping.

Barty enjoyed the voyage to America even more than she had expected. In spite of the time of year, the Atlantic was unusually calm and, in any case, she enjoyed the thirty-six hours of rough weather they did run into, enjoyed the feeling of the ship riding the waves, never once felt in the least unwell.

Oliver had insisted on a first class cabin for her – ‘We can’t have you roughing it, what would our American colleagues think?’ – and she spent her days reading happily on the deck in the wintry sunshine, a thick blanket wrapped round her legs, swimming in the small inside pool and even playing deck tennis with one of the many young men who were intrigued by her solitary status and her air of serene independence. She even once or twice ventured into the steam room and sampled the other tortures of the beauty parlours, but found them as tedious as she had expected, and returned to the more natural delights of the sea and the wind. She did not find the scenery – or rather the lack of it – remotely boring, rather the reverse; the endlessly changing colours of the sea and the sky, from dawn to darkness and the vast stretches of brilliant night sky and stars all seemed to her quite extraordinarily beautiful.

One day she saw a school of dolphins, leaping joyously out of the water; they followed the ship for almost an hour, and she watched them, spellbound.

Sebastian wrote of their near-cousins, the Phindols, in his Meridian books, creatures that could fly and sing as well as swim and they, amongst all his creations, had fascinated her most. She must remember to send some pictures of them to Izzie; she wondered when she might start to enjoy her father’s books and if he would read them to her and decided rather sadly that of course he would not.

In the evening, she dined at her table, chatting politely to the other guests; they were not for the most part companions she would have chosen, being rich Americans, but they were extremely friendly and interested in her and what she did and still more so in telling her where they had been and what they had seen on their European tours. And every night she slept deeply, rocked in the cradle of the sea, her dreams untroubled by small, unhappy children or large, unhappy men.

And the arrival of the ship in New York harbour at dawn would fill some of her happiest dreams ever afterwards: the astonishing buildings etched into the grey mist, the Lady, as the Americans called the Statue of Liberty, holding her torch high to welcome them in, the famous, almost mythical, places she had read about, the Woolworth Building, the Empire State reaching to the sky and the delicate lace-work of the Chrysler etched out of it in silver.

It was magically beautiful; and as the sun tipped them all, dispelling the mist and turning the water from grey to blue, Barty felt as if in some strange way she had come home.