Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (28 page)

It was, of course it was. Three pictures of herself and Geordie at the party, right across the top of the social page in the
New York Post
. Captioned ‘The Pearl Fisher’. The first showing Geordie’s fingers down her dress; the second him holding the pearl aloft; and the third her reaching up and kissing him.

Well – that was all right. It had only been a bit of fun. He had only been retrieving her pearl. And she had only been saying thank you. She started to read the article:

Geordie MacColl, whose new book,
Growing Down
, has topped the best-seller lists for several weeks on both sides of the Atlantic, was in romantic mood last night at his launch party. Isabella ‘Izzie’ Brooke, daughter of the famous children’s author Sebastian Brooke, and an old friend of Geordie’s, showed her gratitude in no uncertain terms, when Geordie rescued part of her broken string of pearls from the interior of her dress.

Geordie, who lives in London and is visiting New York without his English wife, later sat next to Izzie at the private dinner given by his publishers at the Italian Pavilion. They left together at the end of the evening.

‘Oh no,’ wailed Izzie. ‘Oh no, no.’

‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’

Nick Neill peered at her across the room.

‘Oh Nick, it’s terrible. Look at this, read it, it’s so awful.’

‘Let me see – hey, those are some nice pictures. You look very classy, Izzie.’

‘I don’t look classy,’ said Izzie. ‘I look like a trollop.’

‘No way, you don’t. You couldn’t. Pity they didn’t mention the agency, but there you go. Don’t worry about it. It’s only a bit of newsprint. Wrapping up garbage tomorrow. No one takes any notice of those things.’

‘Oh Nick, they do, don’t be silly. Whatever would Adele say if she saw it?’

‘Adele, who’s she?’

‘Geordie’s wife. One of my best friends.’

‘Well, if she’s got any sense she’ll say it’s a load of baloney and put it out with the garbage as well.’

‘But you don’t understand, they’re separated at the moment and—’

‘Well if they’re separated, what’s it matter anyway, for God’s sake? And it’s perfectly obvious he fancies you.’

‘Of course it’s not,’ said Izzie.

‘OK,’ said Nick equably. ‘He’s just play-acting. Now look, Izzie, I hate to mess with your personal publicity campaign, but those ads just came back from Joanie.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Izzie, closing the newspaper with a great effort. Joanie Morell was the advertising manager at Cleveland & Marshall, a modest publisher specialising in romances and thrillers. She was the bane of their lives, demanding, rude, impatient – and one of their biggest accounts.

‘Yeah. Old bitch. Look what she did. I stapled on a note saying “OK?” and she’s crossed the whole thing out and written, “OK to do over” all in red ink.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Izzie. She still didn’t move.

‘Honey, come on will you? We don’t have very long. Joanie wants this back after lunch, latest.’

Izzie put the paper aside and turned her thoughts to Joanie’s ad. Nick was right. It was much more important.

Lucas was never sure afterwards which of the two things had meant more to him: singly, neither was actually of very great importance. But coming together as they did, in a well-orchestrated sequence, they represented something very important, and what he thought of as the beginning of the end: of the anger, the sense of injustice, the feeling of alienation.

He had been walking down one of the corridors at school when he heard his name called by Mr Blake, one of the history masters.

‘Lieberman! I’d like a word with you, please.’

Oh God; more trouble. Westminster might be immeasurably better than Fletton, but it was never quite the same as it had been in the early days. Friends had moved on, changed, his place in the centre of his own clique was lost to him, he had become odd, not quite an outcast, but still not quite one of the crowd. And he had not managed to shed the attitudes he had developed at Fletton, of distaste for authority, and something that was not quite insolence but certainly not courtesy. He was not popular, either with the pupils or with the masters; it was a vicious circle, reinforcing his difficult behaviour.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I enjoyed hearing your views on the monarchy very much today. They were highly original.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

Lucas was astonished; he would have been less surprised if he had been rebuked for so forcibly expressing his views: that not only should England become a republic, but that the House of Lords should become a second chamber of elected peers, rather than hereditary ones. They were not sentiments very often voiced at leading English public schools.

‘I think you have a genuine talent for debate. I wonder how you’d feel about being one of Westminster’s representatives in an inter-school competition next term?’

‘I—’ more astonishment. Had they got the right person? ‘Thank you, Sir. Yes, I think I’d like that.’

‘Good. You’ve never joined the debating society, have you? Can’t think why not. Anyway, it’s never too late. Come along next week. Lunch time, Thursdays.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He walked on to his next lesson in a state of rather happy bemusement; he had always known he was clever, he was confident about getting into Oxford, but there were a great many boys at Westminster with similar gifts. This was something rather different: something special, something that not everyone, very few people indeed, could do, and moreover, in some strange way, something new, a fresh start, something that would make people think well of him, rather than badly.

It was a very pleasing thought.

There was a group of boys in the classroom when he went in; they were discussing a party to be held the next Saturday. Lucas, with his rather morose presence, didn’t often get asked to parties; he pretended not to care, but like every other rejection, it hurt.

‘You free on Saturday, Lieberman?’ asked Mark Davies. He was one of Lucas’s friends from the early days, who had more or less stuck by him.

‘Not sure. Why?’

‘Wondered if you’d like to come.’

‘What, to the party?’

‘What else, you idiot?’

Lucas shrugged, slung his books down on the desk, said nothing. This was proving an extraordinary day.

‘Well, would you or not?’

‘I – suppose so. Yes. Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me. It was my sister’s idea.’

‘Your sister! Why should she want me to come to your party? I’ve never met her.’

‘No, but she saw you at that service last week, in the Cathedral. Hasn’t stopped talking about you since. I told her she ought to have her eyes tested, but – well, no accounting for taste. She’s bringing a few friends along. Should be quite fun.’

Lucas went home that night feeling strangely happy. It was as if after years of isolation, of living in a hostile foreign country where he understood almost nothing, he had at last begun to learn its language and to feel welcome there.

‘Heavens!’ said Barty.

‘What?’

‘Noni is going to be in
Style
magazine.’

‘Really? How interesting. In what capacity?’

‘As a model.’

‘Surely not? She’s never shown any inclination for that sort of thing.’

‘No, I know. But apparently Adele forgot to book a model one day and Noni was there and she got roped in. Well, I always did think she was the most beautiful girl. So unusual. Aren’t you intrigued, Izzie?’

‘Yes, very,’ said Izzie. She didn’t sound very intrigued. She sounded completely uninterested. Barty looked at her sharply. She didn’t seem quite herself at the moment. In fact she wasn’t at all herself, distracted, jumpy. Barty was just a little anxious about her; about what just might be going on. She had seen the
New York Post
. Of course it was ridiculous, unthinkable: Izzie was the most deeply moral person. Adele and Noni were her dearest friends. She often said she didn’t know what she would have done without Adele in the various crises in her life. So – there couldn’t possibly be anything to worry about. Just the same, she was very glad Geordie had gone: down to Chicago and then San Francisco. And then he was going home. So she could relax and concentrate on her own problems. Which were quite pressing enough . . .

Sebastian had been very frank, as she had begged him to be, told her exactly what he thought, after warning her she wouldn’t welcome it.

‘I think he’s a perfectly nice chap. Very nice, in fact. But not good enough for you, Barty. Really not.’

‘In – in what way?’

‘He’s – oh God, I just don’t think he’s good enough for you. He’s a lightweight. Very charming, easy, all the things you said. But – well I don’t see this as a marriage of true minds at all. I don’t think he’s that – bright. And then . . .’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Well – he seems to me a bit lazy.’

‘How on earth could you tell that?’

‘Just listening to him. He was telling me about his business, how he’s never really managed to get it going since his wife died, how he’s had to sacrifice it to look after Cathy. I don’t think that washes, you know. She’s eleven now, not a baby—’

‘Sebastian, you really don’t know what you’re talking about. You always had Nanny, and Mrs Conley. Charlie can’t afford anything like that.’ Barty felt fiercely defensive of him suddenly. ‘Children go on being demanding, you know, go on being ill, having problems at school—’

‘I know, I know, but the child clearly spends a lot of time with you, including weekends. And it’s a really boom time in his industry. Everyone knows that. Dear old Robert was telling me. I just don’t think he’s making the most of it.’

‘Oh, Sebastian, that’s not so important. It isn’t for me, anyway. Anything else?’

She knew she sounded defensive; she couldn’t help it.

‘Oh Barty, I knew you’d be cross.’

‘No I’m not,’ she said, trying not to sound it.

‘You are. But you did ask me. I just don’t quite – trust him. Don’t ask me why. I couldn’t tell you. Oh, darling, don’t cry. I shouldn’t have started on this. You obviously care about him a lot. So if my criticising him has made that clear to you, it’s something.’

‘I just wanted you to like him,’ she said fretfully, ‘and that you’d think it was a good idea.’

‘Barty – it’s you who would marry him, not me. For God’s sake, you know him an awful lot better than I do. If you want to marry him, then you should. You’ve been alone for twelve years—’

‘Most of my life, it feels like,’ said Barty with a sigh. ‘It wasn’t exactly a very long time we had together, Laurence and me.’

‘There you are. If you’ve found someone you think you can live with, far be it from me to stop you. God in heaven, Barty, you’re – what are you?’

‘I’m forty-eight,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it, but I am.’

‘Well then,’ he said, ‘you may seem a child to me still, but you’re much too old to be taking advice on whether you should get married or not.’

‘Sebastian,’ she said, ‘if I hadn’t needed your advice I wouldn’t have asked for it. Thank you. And I shall heed it. So there.’

But what did heed exactly mean? Not the same as taking. She could listen to Sebastian, to Izzie, to Jenna, to all of them, she still had to make up her own mind. It was her life. People kept saying that. And it was true. She just wished she could decide if she liked how it was or not. And whether she would like it any better if she married Charlie Patterson.

‘Izzie?’

‘Geordie!’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine. How are you? And how’s Chicago?’

‘Cold. Windy. Lonely. I wish you were here.’

‘Geordie! Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Where – where are you going next?’

‘Oh, across to the West Coast. Should be fun. Ever been there?’

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Pity. It would suit you.’

‘Well – ’

‘I just wanted to say goodbye, really. If you’re not prepared to come down to Los Angeles and see me. It’s back to England after that.’

Izzie felt a pang: then, ‘Well, give my best love to Adele. And Noni, of course.’

‘I will. And thank you for a wonderful time, it’s been such fun.’

‘Oh—’ She stopped, gathering her new sophistication around her with a great effort. ‘Oh, no, Geordie, thank
you
. It
was
huge fun. Bye.’

She put the phone down and sat staring at it, her eyes very soft; Nick Neill, watching her from across the room, felt his heart contract with a mixture of very complex emotions.

She had decided; she was going to tell Charlie. Tell him that she couldn’t marry him. That she was terribly fond of him, that their time together had been absolutely wonderful, that she hoped they could still be friends, but she couldn’t marry him. It just wasn’t fair on him, she didn’t love him enough, he deserved something better, someone who really adored him, someone much younger possibly, who could give him more children. It would be selfish and wrong of her to marry him; and she must tell him immediately, so that he could get on with his own life.