Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (7 page)

‘I fancy being adored by Lady Celia is not an undiluted pleasure,’ said Pandora.

‘Of course not. But it’s better than not being adored by her, like poor Giles. And then Barty is extremely clever and her temperament allows her to take full advantage of that. And training as an editor at Lyttons is not exactly a bad way to start a career.’

‘Of course not. But – it’s what she said, Sebastian. I can so sympathise with that. About the gratitude. It must be so difficult.’

‘Quite difficult. I have had to endure it myself to a small degree. Not now of course, but in the beginning. When Celia first bought
Meridian
and fought for it so hard, and against Oliver too—’

‘Yes, yes. I don’t think I want to hear too much about those days,’ said Pandora. ‘Come along, my darling, let us go to bed. I’ve been missing you rather dreadfully . . .’

Later – much later – Pandora lay in his arms watching him sleep, and thinking how much she loved him.

The violence of her feelings for him had not only taken her by surprise at the time, they continued to shake and even shock her. A great dynamic force for pleasure of every kind, emotional, intellectual, physical. She was not entirely inexperienced; she had been deeply in love on every level with her fiancé, and during the twelve years since his death had had one or two lovers – ‘Well, two actually,’ she said, laughing to Sebastian when he pressed her for accuracy, but she had been largely frustrated, her energies mostly suppressed. Now the places to which she travelled in Sebastian’s bed, the experiences she shared with him there, were of a splendour and richness she had not imagined possible. Released by him, by his skill and tenderness and a considerable creative sexuality, her responses ran almost out of control at first; then she found she was able to offer him gifts of her own, a tireless sexual energy and curiosity, a clear, uninhibited delight. She could not have enough of him, would fall asleep finally sated and wake him, laughing gently at herself, a few hours later for more.

‘I’m an old man, my darling, I need my rest,’ he would say, but in truth was filled with joy and even relief that he could give her such pleasure. Love for her had always been before a finite thing, a part of life, one of its delights; but now what she felt was life and love become one thing, and the source of this delight, the man lying on the pillows beside her, was to become her husband within a few short weeks, to be hers and beside her for the rest of her life; she felt dizzy, almost shocked with love.

She knew much about him, about his past, he had told her ‘everything it is necessary for you to know’, kissing her tenderly after a long night of revelation, some of it surprising, a little even shocking; she sensed there might be still more. But she felt, curiously, content with what she had of him; and whatever had been left out of the telling, his most secret self, could wait to be revealed. He intrigued and disturbed her; it was part of his power to arouse her, not only emotionally but physically. Lying with him, as he led her on further and higher, exploring him slowly and sweetly, she felt she was making another journey, on another plane entirely; in time, she felt sure, she would have him all.

The holiday in the Cap d’Antibes villa was not a complete success; the twins were bored and irritable, refusing so much as to play tennis or get into the pool, Giles suffered so badly from the heat that he had to spend much of the time indoors, and Oliver contracted one of the stomach infections to which he was prone since the war. On the other hand Kit and Jay who had accompanied them, were blissfully happy, playing in the pool all day long, diving and leaping endlessly into it like rather noisy porpoises, Celia lay in a chair under the trees, oddly serene, reading manuscripts, and Barty surprised everyone, including herself, by becoming a sun worshipper, her face and body turning a perfect golden brown, her long tawny hair becoming streaked and lightened and her small nose developing pretty, tiny freckles. She was out by the pool early each morning, swimming energetically up and down with Celia, who was a most earnest disciple of the fashion for slimness and fitness. She had even tried to get one of the new ‘professors’ of fitness to come to the villa and teach them some physical jerks, but to her fury had left it too late.

The evenings were only modestly sociable; villas up and down the coast were filled with partying English and French, but Celia had decided (to her later regret) to take a small villa and very little in the way of staff. She therefore found herself unable to give the kind of large dinner parties that their neighbours were enjoying or to accept too many invitations; this made the twins even crosser.

Then, in the last week, Boy Warwick and a party turned up unexpectedly, having berthed for a few days in the Port de l’Olivette, and motored in to find them. Even Celia was pleased to see them and the twins were ecstatic, suddenly eager to show off their modest swimming skills, and showing a hitherto unrevealed passion for sailing.

But by the end of three weeks everyone, even Kit, had had enough.

On the last evening, Oliver announced that on the way home he was going to visit Constantine, the publisher in Paris with whom Lyttons had a reciprocal arrangement.

‘I have been talking to Guy Constantine on the telephone this morning, and he has several books to discuss with me, as I do with him; it seems foolish not to take advantage of being this side of the Channel. Celia, my dear, I imagine you will want to come with me; and Giles, it would do no harm for you to visit the Constantine offices and meet some of their people. Now—’

‘Paris!’ said Adele. ‘Oh, how lovely. Daddy, can we come too? We can do some shopping, we’re so behind with our winter wardrobes and—’

‘Of course you can come,’ said Oliver, smiling at her, ‘and I fancy you would rather enjoy Guy Constantine’s company. He’s a very charming man, although his English is rather limited.’

‘Oh, we wouldn’t want to get in the way of your business,’ said Venetia quickly, ‘would we, Adele?’ and ‘No,’ said Adele, ‘of course not. We’ll just amuse ourselves, you won’t have to worry about us.’

Oliver patted her hand. ‘Of course we won’t worry about you,’ he said, smiling at her.

How do they get away with it, thought Barty, realising with a degree of relief that she and the boys would be travelling home from Paris on their own. The complete lack of effort they put into their lives, the nonsense they talked – ‘behind with their winter wardrobes’ for heaven’s sake, the self-indulgence that marked every hour of every day; and yet even Celia let them get away with it. It was not what she would have wanted, that idle, pleasure-seeking life: not in the least. Just the same, she still couldn’t help feeling a little irked that no one seemed to expect anything more of them.

Of her own future nothing had yet been settled; Celia had talked about a job at Lyttons for her in rather surprisingly vague terms and, still more surprisingly, had accepted Barty’s request for a little time to think about it. She was altogether not quite herself at the moment, distracted, and slightly subdued; perhaps she was finally slowing down, losing some of her famous energy. After all, she wasn’t exactly young any more; she must be over forty now, although this evening, her tanned skin shown off by a narrow white silk dress, her dark hair gleaming in the candlelight, she looked particularly beautiful.

And many, many years younger than dear old Wol . . .

‘Girls, I need your help.’

Oliver had come down to breakfast at the Georges V on his own; the twins, already almost finished, anxious not to waste a moment of shopping time, looked at him with a degree of anxiety. ‘What with? And where’s Mummy?’

‘Your mother is not well. That’s the whole point. And—’

‘Mummy’s not well! But she’s always well.’

It was true; Celia’s good health was legendary, her only physical weakness being a tendency to miscarry, a problem no longer in any danger of troubling her.

‘Well, she is not well today. She had oysters last night as you know and—’

‘Oh God.’ Venetia shuddered. She had once had oyster poisoning herself and could not longer bear so much as to look at them on a dish. ‘I did warn her off. Poor, poor Mummy.’

‘I know. She feels perfectly dreadful; a doctor is with her now. Of course it’s not serious, but she will have to remain here for at least two more days. But I need a hostess for luncheon. I am taking Guy Constantine and his editorial director to Maxim’s and I don’t want to do it on my own.’

‘Why ever not?’ said Adele, genuinely puzzled. ‘It’s business, isn’t it? Why do you need a hostess? And anyway, where’s Giles?’

‘He’s at their warehouse near the Quai d’Orsay. In any case, this is a social arrangement,’ said Oliver impatiently. ‘I refused luncheon in the boardroom, said I would like to make a pleasant break in the day, that your mother and I would like to take them to luncheon, and they were delighted. We will have been talking business all morning, and I want this to be a relaxing occasion, with some light-hearted conversation. So I would like you to join us. Preferably both of you, but certainly one.’

‘But Daddy—’

‘Venetia,’ said Oliver and his voice had an entirely different note to it, ‘I don’t often ask you to do things for me. Your mother and I devote a great deal of time and money to making life pleasant for you. You have just had an extremely good holiday and the next few months are not going to be exactly difficult for you. Now, which of you is going to be kind enough, generous enough even, to accompany me to Maxim’s for luncheon?’

The twins looked at each other.

‘Both of us,’ they said.

They arrived at the Constantine building at twelve-thirty as instructed, having left their shopping at the Georges V and having looked cautiously in on their mother. She was asleep; the nurse in attendance put her fingers to her lips.

It was a glorious place, more like a house than an office, set in a courtyard just off the Avenue de l’Opera. The great double doors opened on to a vaulted hallway and a magnificent double staircase; a rather boredlooking male concierge directed them to the first floor, where they were asked to wait. Five minutes later their father, Guy Constantine and a third man appeared from one of the rooms.

Guy Constantine was about forty-five, short, slim and neatly handsome in the French style, his dark hair greying, his skin tanned, his suit and shirt impeccable. The other man was rather different. Adele looked at him, and felt, as she expressed it to Venetia later, ‘my insides sort of clutch at me’. He was dark also, but much taller than Constantine; his features were untidy, as if they had been somehow dropped haphazardly into place and left to be neatened up later. He looked, Adele thought, as if he might be Jewish; he was very dark, with extraordinarily penetrating, almost black, eyes, a large nose, a high forehead on to which a mass of thick black hair seemed to fall rather than grow, and a full mouth that would have looked girlish if the rest of his face had not been so strong. His smile, which was sudden and brilliant, revealed very white, albeit slightly crooked teeth; his hand, as he shook first Adele’s and then Venetia’s, was bony and very strong and warm.

‘Luc Lieberman,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘I am the editorial director of Constantine.
Enchanté
,
Mesdemoiselles
.’

‘How do you do?’ said Adele. She felt slightly dizzy; without quite knowing why. Luc Lieberman was absolutely not the sort of man she usually admired; his clothes left a great deal to be desired, being slightly crumpled and ill-fitting, the jacket sleeves just too short, the trousers just slightly too long. She waited for the feeling to pass; it persisted.

‘It is very sad,’ said Luc Lieberman, ‘that your poor
maman
is ill. Paris must do penance for her. Is she feeling any better?’

‘She’s asleep,’ said Venetia, ‘we just popped in to see her.’

‘Excellent!’ said Guy Constantine. He gave it the French pronunciation. ‘Sleep is what she needs. Now I thought you might like to see our rather beautiful building. Before we leave. Your father and I have a last few matters to discuss. Luc will show you around.’

Adele, who was normally quite impervious to the beauty of buildings, however breathtaking, said she would adore to see around this one; Venetia nodded slightly less enthusiastically.

‘And this is the boardroom,’ said Luc Lieberman, throwing open the door with a flourish. ‘Is it not beautiful?’

‘Oh my God,’ said Adele. ‘Oh, it’s – well, it’s divine.’

‘Almost, I think yes, it is,’ said Luc. ‘I think God might well have created it. If He had had a moment or two between dividing the light from the darkness and creating the beasts of the earth. And then I think He would have been pleased with His work here in Paris.’

The twins both giggled, slightly nervously. They could see he must be joking; on the other hand, his expression was very serious and they weren’t really used to so intellectual a form of teasing. They felt foolish and inadequate; it was an unfamiliar sensation.

‘I thought you would like it. Has your father not told you about this room?’

‘Of – of course he has,’ said Adele, and indeed she could dimly remember him sitting at the dinner table describing it, the jewel in the crown of this exquisite building, its art nouveau splendours, the perfect ceiling, the breathtaking fireplace, the Tiffany lamps, the elaborate wallpaper, the extraordinary table and chairs, seemingly carved out of glass; no doubt she had allowed her mind to wander as usual while he had been talking, into the more attractive country of dresses and dressmakers and whether she and Venetia should accept an invitation to this house party or that. She really must learn to be more – thoughtful – if she was to interest people like Luc. Well, interest Luc. She couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever wanted to interest more in the whole of her life.

‘Well, now. Shall we proceed to the archives?’

‘I – I wonder if I might – well, sit this one out?’ said Venetia with a dazzling smile. ‘I hurt my ankle this morning, running up the stairs. Would you mind if I waited here, Mr Lieberman?’