Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (32 page)

CHAPTER 17

‘So Mummy, tell. What was he like? Did you like him, did Barty seem happy, was anyone else there, was the daughter nice?’

Celia lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and picked up the glass of champagne Venetia had poured for her.

‘I thought he was absolutely dreadful,’ she said.

She had been very upset by her visit. Barty had met her at Idlewild herself, driven her home, talking furiously, clearly anxious to avoid any questioning.

She had looked tired, Celia thought, and very thin, not at all as she should have done; she commented on it and Barty laughed it off, said she had been working too hard, it had all been very difficult. ‘But now I’m terribly, terribly happy.’

Charlie was there to greet them on the doorstep, a little girl on either side. Jenna threw herself into Celia’s arms, covered her with kisses; she had grown and grown up, Celia observed approvingly, was less bombastic, less argumentative, with an alarmingly adult sense of humour. The only sign of eccentricity was a watch worn on each wrist.

‘You remember I collect them. I have so many, I have to wear two at a time.’

The other child charmed her less; she was very pretty, and nicely mannered, but there was something sly about her. Celia was surprised she could be Jenna’s best friend.

And then there was Charlie. Her first reaction to Charlie was one of complete horror; he was standing there, so carefully posed with the girls, smiling an open, beguiling smile, holding out his hand to her, telling her how terribly, terribly pleased he was to meet her at last, how Barty never stopped talking about her, had told him everything she had done for her – Celia didn’t like that for a start, being cast so firmly in the role of benefactress, it made her feel old and rather like the Queen Mother. She said so, wanting to see how he would react; he simply smiled and told her he had also heard how she was the cleverest woman in the world. ‘And one of the most beautiful.’ She hated that even more – as if Barty would have said such a thing – and swept past him into the house.

By the end of dinner, she couldn’t imagine how she was going to get through the five days of her visit. He was appalling, so perfectly courteous, so charmingly deferential, hanging on her words, begging her to tell him more about England, about the early days of Lyttons, about Barty as a little girl, about her parents, about what he called her ‘other children’.

‘I think you must be under a misconception,’ she said firmly. ‘There was never any question of Barty being one of my children. She was always a Miller, I went to great lengths to keep her in touch with her own family.’

‘Of course. She told me that too, how much she appreciated it.’

Celia looked at him.

‘Now tell me about yourself, Mr Patterson.’

‘Charlie, please.’

‘Charlie. Yes. I presume your name is Charles? I think I prefer that. Until I know you slightly better.’

‘It sounds a little formal.’

‘I am a little formal, Charles. I come from a formal generation. I was born a Victorian.’

‘I cannot believe that’s possible, you look so young.’

She ignored that. ‘Anyway, do tell me about yourself. You are an estate agent, I believe?’

He told her about that: a little. About how hard it had been, carrying on with it after his wife died. He told her about his wife, that she had died of cancer, that he and Cathy had been on their own for over five years before he met Barty.

‘After that I didn’t really feel alone any more.’

He told her he had plans now to develop the business: the girls would be away at school, it would be easier for him.

‘And of course you will have the benefit of Barty’s maid, when they are home.’

‘Well – yes.’ He grinned at her; clearly determined not to be deterred by her outspokenness.

‘That was what convinced me that he was an absolute charlatan,’ said Celia to Venetia, ‘any normal person would have begun to be riled by me, but he went on playing his bland, easygoing role.’

She could scarcely sleep the first night; fretting over Barty, over the appalling mistake she knew she was making. In the morning she and Barty travelled to Lyttons together by cab; Charlie saw them off, smiling, from the doorstep. He was planning to take the girls over to New Jersey to visit a school friend. In Barty’s car. ‘Is that OK? Mine is acting up.’

‘Of course. You should get rid of that old thing, Charlie, it’s always letting you down. We’ll get a new one.’

‘Oh, I’m so fond of it, though. But maybe you’re right.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ said Barty. She didn’t speak aggressively, she sounded calm and rather unemotional.

‘No,’ said Celia, ‘since you ask me so directly. I don’t especially. He is not the sort of person who appeals to me. But I don’t dislike him. And I’m not going to marry him.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘He tries too hard. That always irritates me.’

‘Don’t you think that’s natural? He’s very nervous about meeting the whole family, and you especially.’

‘Absolutely natural. Of course. And I hardly know him. You presumably know him very well. So—’

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ said Barty, ‘actually.’

‘Well that’s rather serious,’ said Celia after a pause. ‘You should know the man you’re entering into a long-term relationship with.’ She looked at Barty. ‘Perhaps you should wait a little longer.’

‘Celia, I can’t.’ She sounded distracted. ‘Everything’s planned. You’re here. The girls are so excited.’

‘Not good reasons. Plans can be dismantled. Young girls get excited over anything. It could be new dresses tomorrow. I can go home again.’

‘Oh – please, please don’t. It’s just pre-wedding nerves I expect,’ said Barty. ‘I was hoping you’d settle them for me.’

‘What does Izzie think of him?’

‘Oh, she adores him. And really, you know, he’s the sweetest man. Gentle, thoughtful, very understanding.’

‘What about the money?’ said Celia abruptly.

‘What about it?’

‘Well – what arrangements are you making?’

‘I haven’t made any – yet. Apart from the fact that we are each becoming legal guardian of each other’s child. That seemed only sensible.’

‘Yes, of course. But Barty, you must sort out the money. It’s terribly important. Believe me. This is not a criticism of Charles in any way, it’s a simple fact.’

‘Oh I see. Well I – I suppose I should have, but it’s a delicate area. I don’t like to raise it. He’s very proud.’

So proud, thought Celia, he’s already living in your house, using your car and apparently doing no work whatsoever.

‘When I married Oliver,’ she said, ‘he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. My father bought the house in Cheyne Walk for us, and it was always understood that if I died first, the house would go to the children. Oliver wouldn’t hear of having it on any other terms. I admired him for that, as I did for so many other things. I really would advise you to sort all that out.’

‘Yes,’ said Barty, ‘yes, you’re right. I will.’

Celia changed the subject; her role, she felt, was to remain detached. She enjoyed her day at Lyttons immensely; although she and Barty met twice yearly, usually together with Giles or Jay, for editorial and financial review, this was rather different. She was alone with Barty, for a start, uninhibited by the presence of the others, free to listen to new publishing gossip, and to observe the New York market. She was fascinated by the success of
Marjorie Morningstar
a year earlier; it intrigued her that the novel, with its Jewish heroine, could combine romance and social realism, so succesfully.

‘There’s a wonderful story about
Marjorie Morningstar
,’ said Barty. ‘The red cloth binding, you know, wasn’t quite waterproof. Girls were taking it to the beach, and getting their white swimsuits stained. Lots of complaints. Still, it hasn’t done it a great deal of harm, I must say.’

The book seemed to Celia to echo her own pet project of the moment, Keir’s idea for a love story between a white girl and a black man in England. Barty had backed the idea from the beginning.

‘It sounds wonderful, and I’ve loved what I’ve seen. Of course I don’t think we could do that here. Colour prejudice is far too strong.’

‘It was Keir’s idea. You haven’t met him yet, you’ll like him, his parents are the most ordinary people, yet he’s a brilliant and charming young man, an ideal husband for Elspeth. I have, let us say, hopes for him.’

‘Really? With Lyttons? How intriguing. I must certainly meet him. Does he know?’

‘Of course not,’ said Celia.

Barty was lunching with one of the top women agents that day, had arranged for Celia to come too.

‘Unless you’re tired?’

‘Of course I’m not tired,’ said Celia.

‘She’s called Ann Friedman. I thought we’d go to the Mamiton. It’s one of the most “in” places at the moment. We’re meeting her at twelvethirty.’

‘That’s extremely early.’

‘I know. Lunches are earlier here. She’ll have been there since twelve, knocking back the Martinis, I’d put money on it.’

Lunch was a great success; the legendary Ann Friedman was delighted to meet the legendary Lady Celia Lytton, and cross-questioned her about the London scene and lists, which books had crossed the Atlantic, why she thought others hadn’t, was there the same fascination with religion, many of the non-fiction bestsellers in America had had a religious theme. ‘Interesting you should ask that,’ said Celia, ‘I wanted to do a book with Billy Graham.’

‘Very good idea. What happened?’

‘He wouldn’t.’

‘You mean you wouldn’t pay him enough.’

‘Possibly.’

Ann Friedman also expressed great envy of the greater sexual liberality of literary England. ‘We have to be so careful here. We’re still living practically fifty years ago. I’ll give you an example. Old Mrs Doubleday, you know, lives down in Hawaii and reads every book Doubleday publishes. And they listen to her comments. This is a firm worth two hundred million dollars. What do you think of that?’

‘Not a great deal,’ said Celia.

They parted on the friendliest terms and with an invitation for Miss Friedman to visit Lady Celia should she come to London.

Celia was less charmed by Marcus Forrest, Barty’s editorial director; she found him rather pleased with himself. But she didn’t say so; she felt she had done enough criticising for one day.

‘I thought we’d stay in tonight,’ said Barty, after an afternoon of budgets. ‘You must be tired.’

‘Barty I am not tired. I was hoping you’d take me to the Stork Club.’

‘The Stork Club?’

‘Yes. I’m assured by Sebastian it’s
the
place. He actually saw both Hemingway and John O’Hara there one night, he must have told you. I hear it’s a great favourite of the John Kennedys, such a charming couple, and the Hearsts—’

‘Oh there’s such a good story about the Hearsts,’ said Barty. ‘They threw a party there for about two hundred people and Mr Billingsley, he owns it, you know—’

‘I do know, of course.’

‘He refused to charge them. Said that way he’d never read anything bad about the place in the Hearst papers.’

‘Very sensible of him. Anyway, I want to go. We could take Izzie. Does she have a boyfriend? He could join us.’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ said Barty. ‘I wish she did. She’s too lovely to be on her own. She’s just got an apartment, she’s dying to show it to you.’

‘I know, we’re going to have an evening out down there just before your wedding. And I am to meet these fellows she works for. Well, what about the Stork Club?’

‘I – don’t think I could get a table. At this short notice,’ said Barty.

‘Of course you can. I’ll telephone, if you like. I’ll say I’m a friend of Hemingway’s.’

‘Celia!’

‘Well, I’ve met him. Several times. Terribly attractive.’

They went to the Stork Club that night, with Izzie. Celia had acquired a table – although not in the much-prized Cub Room. ‘And I didn’t even have to play my Hemingway card, just mentioned Lord Beaverbrook.’

She was entranced by the whole thing, by the famous real gold chain across the lobby, the mirrored bar, the large mirror-panelled main room. She sat at their table, drinking Martinis, and studying the crowd.

‘This place was a great favourite of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, you know,’ she remarked to Charlie, who was sitting next to her.

‘They arrived so late one night that Mr Billingsley had taken his shoes off, and couldn’t find them in time. He had to greet them in his stockinged feet. Wallis was frightfully amused.’

‘Wallis? Did you know her?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Celia, airily, putting yet another cigarette in the long holder she used at night, ‘they were both great friends of my husband.’

Charlie was for once silent.

She insisted on dancing with him, anxious that Barty should not think she was being judgemental or hostile; he was a very good dancer and she warmed to him slightly.

‘I love dancing,’ she said. ‘My husband, my first husband, that is, had two left feet. I found that rather irritating. Although my mother always said it was common for a man to dance well – reminiscent of a gigolo.’