Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (40 page)

And in a low, reluctant voice, almost in a whisper, she did.

‘Oliver, I want to discuss something with you.’

‘Yes, Celia? Is it professional or personal?’

‘It could be both.’

‘I see. Well – what is it? I don’t have a lot of time, I’ve a meeting with LM in an hour about costings and—’

‘I – I would like to go to Berlin this August.’

‘Berlin? Good gracious, Celia, I had no idea you had an interest in German cities.’

‘It’s to visit the Olympic Games.’

‘I had no idea you had an interest in the Olympic Games, either.’

‘Well of course I do,’ said Celia irritably, ‘anyone would have, they are an extraordinary event, a display of the very best of sporting prowess drawn from all over the world. And this year—’

‘Yes, Celia? This year?’

‘Obviously they will be quite magnificent. As a spectacle, they will be unsurpassed. The opening ceremony will be quite extraordinary—’

‘Ah, yes. Herr Hitler will be present, no doubt.’

‘Well of course. This is a culmination of many years of work.’

‘Is he an athlete? I had not realised.’

‘Oliver, stop it! These games will also be seen as a demonstration of his desire for peace, for cooperation with the rest of the world, they represent the sporting ideal at its very best.’

‘Indeed? And who has explained all this to you? Lord Arden, perhaps? Your friends the Mosleys?’

‘Oliver, I have been reading about it, for God’s sake. As you would have been, if you weren’t so hopelessly out of touch. There has been so much publicity about the opening ceremony alone, the fifty-three teams marching into the stadium—’

‘It sounds like one of Herr Hitler’s rallies at Nuremberg.’

She ignored him. ‘There will be five thousand of the finest athletes in the world there, I don’t see how you can fail to be – intrigued.’

‘And I find it appalling that you are intrigued. Celia, what is the matter with you? Have you gone quite mad?’

She was silent, thinking of the outline of her biography of Goering, the introduction already written, the tentative publishing schedule already drawn up, of appointments she had made through Lord Arden coinciding with her visit to the Games, even, possibly, one with Herr Hitler himself – she had to go, she absolutely had to. Apart from anything else, she would lose such face if she had to cancel it now; the Mosley set were extremely gratified with this unexpected boost to their cause, and that of the Nazi regime in Germany, from so intellectually impeccable a source.

As always when cornered, she saw a possible route out; she smiled at Oliver.

‘I – well, I thought, you see, we might do a book about the Games, there is an enormous interest in sport and health at the moment, look at the League of Health and Beauty, thousands of members, and everyone is dieting and exercising and there is the most marvellous woman photographer called Leni Riefenstahl going to the Games who—’

‘Celia, no, you will not go to Berlin, as the guest of Lord Arden or indeed anyone else and Lyttons will most assuredly not be publishing anything whatsoever about the Olympic Games. I hope that is quite clear. I have told you before, I find your continuing association with those people deeply distressing, not to say offensive, and I must request that it ends immediately.’

‘Oliver,’ said Celia, after a long silence, ‘I find myself rather puzzled by your attitude. It seems to me to border on the autocratic. Well, you may be able to prevent me from publishing a book about the Olympic Games, it will only be one more publishing opportunity lost after all, but certainly not from attending them. And with whom I choose moreover.’

‘Celia, I don’t know what has happened to you,’ said Oliver, and his voice was very low, ‘but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Through all our difficulties in the past, I have felt that you were willing at least to take note of my wishes and—’

‘My God, your hypocrisy is breathtaking,’ said Celia. ‘Perhaps you might try to decide exactly the kind of person you are. You hide behind this façade of sweetness and reason, Oliver Lytton, the perfect gentleman, the liberal, always prepared to listen, while in reality you are deeply bigoted. You’ve brought it to a fine art, and I am absolutely weary of it. You aren’t brave enough to argue with me publicly, no one ever has the faintest idea how extraordinarily unpleasant you can be. It’s cowardice, Oliver. But then that’s not so out of character, is it?’

‘Celia – ’ said Oliver, and his face was very drawn, his eyes almost hollow in his thin face, ‘Celia, I would like to say—’

‘You may say whatever you like. I am going to Munich and I am going with whom I please. I do hope I make myself absolutely plain.’

She stood up, walked towards the door, then turned and faced him; he was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. He looked up at her, and she saw his eyes were filled with tears: just for a moment she felt remorse, hesitated and then reconsidered his attitude, his bombastic, arrogant attitude, so skilfully and cunningly disguised.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘do pull yourself together. We have Hatchards coming shortly, and some serious matters to discuss. Or perhaps you would rather I wasn’t there, just brought in the coffee tray and then went back to my desk, or even went home to prepare for a dinner party. Just let me know, Oliver; if you’re not careful, that’s how I’ll start behaving and then we’ll see how well Lyttons fares, shall we?’

She slammed the door and went into her own office and sat there shaking; Janet Gould, taking in first Celia’s post and then Oliver’s, often said afterwards, in the light of what happened, that it was impossible to say which of them appeared more upset.

‘Miss Clarence? Good morning, Miss Clarence. It’s Venetia Warwick here, you may remember me from my brother Giles Lytton’s wedding. Yes, that’s right. Look, my mother tells me you give piano lessons. My husband feels our little boy, he’s just seven, is ready to learn. I’m not at all sure that he is, but I wonder if you’d be kind enough to come along and see him, see what you think. Henry’s home this week, if you could manage it, it’s half-term. I’d pay for your time, obviously, and we have a piano here of course . . . oh, yes, later this morning would be fine, no time like the present, is there? About midday? Berkeley Square, Number seven. Thank you. I’ll look forward to seeing you.’

So there was a God, thought Abbie, putting down the phone; not in her wildest dreams would she have imagined orchestrating that. She wasn’t quite sure what might happen next; but the thought of being able to study Venetia on her home ground, and of the severe fright Boy would get at the news she had been there, was quite gratifying enough. For the time being at least.

It was unfortunate enough that Jay should have been in Celia’s office that morning when Giles arrived, still in a white-hot rage; still more unfortunate that he should have been leaning over her desk, pointing out something to her, and very much more that she should have been so clearly amused by it, that at the very moment that the door opened she should have been saying, ‘How clever of you to—’

‘Notice that,’ she had been going to say, and what Jay had brought to show her was a request from a customer asking for ‘a signed copy of Lady Celia Lytton’ and what he had just said, laughing, was that if she could possibly oblige with such a thing, then that would be a very valuable promotional item. But it was very clear to Giles’s eyes that Jay, the new favourite, the latest threat, was discussing something with Celia on a one-to-one basis, that their relationship was not the normal one enjoyed between apprentice and editorial director, that he had clearly said or done something that had earned her approval as well as her amusement, something that she was proclaiming as very clever. Giles tried and failed to think of one thing that he had ever done to earn such an accolade – and as a result, his request to speak with her urgently, in the boardroom and at once, sounded threatening as well as uncivil.

‘Very well,’ she said coolly, ‘if it’s really important. Jay, perhaps—’

‘Of course,’ said Jay, scooping up the papers from her desk, moving out of the office swiftly, smiling at Giles awkwardly as he left. Giles did not return the smile.

‘Well, Giles,’ said Celia, ‘what is this private and urgent matter you need to discuss with me?’

‘It’s my future,’ said Giles, ‘that’s what it is. And the fact that you have chosen to discuss it with Helena—’

‘Ah,’ said Celia, ‘so now we have it. I hardly chose it, Giles, she forced the discussion upon me. A mistake, she should not have come.’

‘I agree with you there,’ said Giles, ‘and she realises that now. She was obviously hoping I would never know. Nevertheless, the fact remains that you criticised me quite heavily to her. Cast aspersions on my abilities and doubts on my future. How dare you, Mother, how dare you undermine me to my own wife, whatever your views might have been—’

‘I was driven to it,’ said Celia. She was flushed, her own eyes brilliant. ‘Driven to it by Helena’s stupidity. And lack of sensitivity, for that matter—’

‘Sensitivity!’ said Giles. ‘Yes, of course a quality you would appreciate and recognise very well, wouldn’t you, Mother? I simply cannot believe that you could have said what you did to Helena. And Father, I gather he was there. And neither of you have ever had the courage to talk to me about my failings, as you see them. It’s appalling.’

‘Giles, you mustn’t over-react,’ said Celia carefully. ‘I doubt if Helena related the conversation accurately. And her view of what was said will have been coloured by her attitude to you. As I recall, I merely expressed my doubts over a very early rise to board director level. Which is not—’

‘No, Mother, that is not what you said. You said – ’ he produced a notebook ‘ – here, I wrote it down, you see. To be sure of not missing anything important. I am “lacking in the publishing instinct” it seems. And “incapable of taking over any aspect of the running of Lyttons”. I’m afraid I’m not able to perceive that as a simple doubt over the timing of my promotion to board level.’

Celia was silent.

‘What’s more, I think Helena’s right. She feels my contribution to Lyttons and my position as your heir should be recognised formally, now. I’m sick and tired of scrabbling about, of struggling to earn your approbation, of being grateful for the smallest crumb of reward. When Father was my age, you and he ran this company—’

‘Giles we were—’

There was a silence; a long, agonising silence, then Giles said, ‘You were what? Capable? In possession of the publishing instinct? Or simply in a position to do so, because Edgar Lytton had so conveniently died? I wonder. Well, I’m not prepared to wait for you to die, it’s clearly a very long way off, or even Father, although that may be rather sooner from the look of him—’

And then everything blurred and telescoped into a hideous sequence, of realising that Oliver had come into the room, had heard at least the latter part of the discussion, of looking at him, ashen, dreadfully drawn, of him saying, ‘Giles, please—’, of Giles turning on him and saying, ‘No, I’ve had enough, quite enough, of this wretched dictatorship you call a company, of waiting for recognition, of seeing people like Jay and – and Barty overtaking me, watching you take wrong decisions, did that occur to you? No, clearly it didn’t, did you ask me about the Penguin proposition incidentally? No, you most certainly did not, nor did you take any notice of my memo, my report saying we should have gone in and at once, and that we should most certainly cooperate with one of the book clubs. I think it’s time you both came out of the self-satisfied cocoon you inhabit and looked hard at the profitability of this company. You’re living in the past, especially you, Father, resting on the laurels of those wretched Meridian books, which are frankly not what they were, and the Buchanans, come to that, the same could be said of them. And unless you do give me some kind of proper hearing and recognition, I’m of a mind to leave Lyttons, go to another house, a more forward-thinking, democratic place which isn’t run along the lines of the Third Reich which you and your appalling friends, Mother, so admire—’

And then Oliver’s voice rising, rising in an anger of his own and saying, ‘How dare you speak to us like that, and in particular to your mother’ before he faltered and then collapsed entirely, his face grey, his lips etched in white.

He lay on the floor, absolutely still, staring up at them; then Celia spoke, absolutely calmly, and told Giles to phone for an ambulance, then she sat down by Oliver and took his hand and said over and over again, as if he were a small child, ‘It’s all right, Oliver, it’s all right, everything’s all right, there, there, lie still, it’s all right . . .’

Boy Warwick had told his wife that he would be out until at least teatime that day on account of an important series of meetings, ending with an architect who was going to meet him at the premises he had found for his own auction rooms in the King’s Road; but at eleven-thirty, in between talking to the head of Impressionists at Sothebys and the head of eighteenth-century furniture at Christie’s, he found himself without some important catalogues and telephoned Venetia to ask her to have them delivered by the chauffeur. Venetia, however, was not at home, although due back quite shortly; after a brief debate with himself as to whether he could ask Donaldson to find the catalogues on his desk, he decided to go home and collect them. It was only, after all, five minutes’ walk. Ten at the outside.

‘Right,’ said Venetia, ‘Henry, come along, into the drawing room. Miss Clarence has come to see you and decide whether she can teach you to play the piano. Here’s the piano, Miss Clarence, it’s a very good one, I believe, my husband plays it, mostly jazz, I’m afraid—’

‘This is a wonderful piano, Mrs Warwick.’

‘Is it? Good. I’m not frightfully musical myself.’

‘Lovely drawings,’ said Abbie, indicating the set of charcoals on the piano, four of them now, of Venetia with each newborn child.

‘Do you like them? Yes, my husband did them. It’s a bit of a hobby of his.’