Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (35 page)

Well, Charlie certainly wasn’t perfect; but whatever love she had felt for him was waning fast.

They were going to Southampton for Easter; there was no possible reason not to. She had waited for a long time before suggesting it, until the girls did in fact; but as Easter drew nearer, she realised she was dreading it. It was the first time since they had married, the first time she had to properly share it with him; she even tried the diversionary tactic of proposing a skiing trip. But the girls had already done that, and wanted to go to South Lodge.

‘It will be perfect,’ Jenna said plaintively, ‘getting warmer, lovely for riding, and such fun to be there as a proper family.’

As they drove out, Barty felt increasingly wretched; and she knew why. The girls were chattering and giggling in the back, singing Frank Sinatra songs, Charlie was alternately joining in and talking to her about the arrangements. Could they do an Easter Egg hunt, could he maybe have some riding lessons, what about a party, invite the neighbours, to celebrate their marriage.

Barty’s stomach rolled into a tighter and tighter knot; she felt sick, she had to stop several times to go to the lavatory, she thought at times she would scream, especially at the suggestion of the party. She had even postponed telling the Mills about her marriage until a month ago, knowing that they, too, would feel a sense of awkwardness at the arrival of a new master in Laurence Elliott’s house: the house he had allowed no one into after Barty had left him.

They arrived at tea time; Mr Mills was out in the drive waiting for them.

‘Congratulations Sir,’ he said, shaking Charlie’s hand, ‘and to you Miss Miller.’

She loved him for that; for avoiding the use of her new married name.

She was having tea with the girls when Charlie came down: white-faced with rage in a way she had only seen him once before.

‘Can I speak with you?’ he said.

‘Of course.’ She put her cup down; felt her stomach heave. She knew what it was about.

‘Not in here.’

She followed him out silently; the girls looked at one another, and clearly by mutual consent went outside and down across the long lawn to the shore.

He was in the drawing room, his eyes almost black with rage.

‘Did you know the Mills had put us in the guest suite?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did you ask them to do that?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘Barty – ’ there was a long silence; then, ‘ – Barty you are married to me now. Before, I could understand it – your phobia about sharing this place with me.’

‘It is not a phobia,’ she said steadily.

‘It is a phobia. You can hardly bear to have me in the area, let alone in the house. Your precious house, that Laurence built for you—’

‘He did not build it for me.’

‘Well, bequeathed to you. Where you were so – so happy together.’ His tone was very harsh. ‘You and he.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’

‘His house, his staff – his bedroom.’

‘Yes.’

‘But not any more, Barty. He’s not here. You are married to me and I want to sleep with you in that room. How do you think it makes me feel in front of Mr and Mrs Mills—’

‘I don’t care how it makes you feel in front of Mr and Mrs Mills. I don’t care how it makes you feel at all. I can’t and I won’t sleep with you in that room. I’m sorry. Now if it’s not acceptable to you, you can leave, but I have nothing more to say about it. I’m going for a walk. If you do decide to stay, dinner will be at eight.’

He did stay: of course. He was waiting for her when she got back, with some flowers which he had driven into Southampton to buy, expressing huge remorse, saying all the usual things, the careful, graceful things to which she could not possibly object: that he had felt so hurt, so diminished, it had come out as rage, as tactlessness, that of course he understood, he would have felt the same if it had been Meg’s house, Meg’s room, it was just his own foolish pride. And jealousy because he loved her so much.

She listened, accepted the flowers, kissed him, said she was glad he understood so well, apologised for any tactlessness on her side; they ate dinner, slept in the guest suite, made love, and Easter passed, if not entirely happily, then tolerably well.

But only tolerably. And this time she felt no remorse.

‘Mother, what is this book?’

‘What book is that Giles?’

‘This book that you’ve put in the autumn schedule.
Black and White
, I think you’ve called it.’

‘That’s a working title. Far too crude, of course.’

‘I don’t recall our discussing it.’

‘You don’t? How odd, I’m sure I do. Ask Jay, he knows about it.’

‘I have. He says it’s very much your baby, but he’s happy about it, if I am.’

‘And – ?’

‘Well I’m not very happy. Nor am I unhappy. How could I be, when I don’t know anything about it?’

‘Oh Giles. I’m sorry. Let me tell you about it. It’s a very exciting project. It was Keir’s idea—’

‘Keir’s? Since when did Keir have anything to do with this company?’

‘Since he came up with the idea for this book. He’s an extremely clever young man, Giles. I’m very impressed with him. I was talking to him one day, and he suggested we commission this book. It’s about a young black man, recently arrived in this country, and a white girl, who fall in love and decide to marry.’

‘A love story!’ His tone was derisive. ‘Well, that certainly won’t be the Book Society’s choice. I thought we were endeavouring to keep Lyttons’ literary status in the market.’

To be the Book Society’s monthly choice was what every publisher wanted for every major book. It meant a minimum of 15,000 sales; it also meant considerable status. Books were chosen by a distinguished panel, headed by the high-profile reviewer Daniel George, whose brainchild the Society had been; they were bound in buckram, with leather labels on the side, and people placed them on their shelves with great pride.

‘It could be. This is a love story which tackles a very important social issue. Do you know how many of these people have come to live here, and do you know the kind of problems they are up against? That we are all up against? I thought not. Let me tell you—’

After a few minutes he held his hand up.

‘All right, Mother, I get the idea. Very dreadful, I’m sure. But – a book? About that?’

‘Yes. It will attract huge attention. It will get a lot of publicity as well. The colour problem is genuinely a burning issue.’

‘And this chap – Hugh Meyrick – who’s writing it. Where did you find him?’

‘He submitted something else. He’s new, but with careful editing—’

‘And who is doing that, Keir?’

His voice was raw with derision; she met his eyes steadily.

‘Of course not. You’re being ridiculous. Although he will be reading it. As will a friend of his, who is teaching in Brixton and who gave him the idea.’

‘I see. Well, perhaps the whole thing had better be published privately, by you and this new team of yours.’

‘Don’t be absurd, Giles. You sound very childish. I think I should edit it personally.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. It’s very much my project after all. I’ve met Keir’s friend, a charming young man. We can work on it together with Hugh Meyrick. I do have a little experience of editing, you know. And you didn’t object to my taking over the Clementine Hartley book, after Elspeth left. That will also be a great success this autumn. And will undoubtedly be the Book Society Choice. I do assure you, Giles, I know what I’m doing. I haven’t yet quite lost my touch.’

Giles looked at her; and wanted to hurt her, puncture her arrogance more than he could ever remember.

He sat back in his chair, picked up a pencil from his desk, started twirling it in his fingers. It was a habit he had had ever since he had been a small boy; he knew it irritated her.

‘You know, of course,’ he said, ‘that Clementine and Kit are going to be married?’

CHAPTER 19

‘Darling, we want to talk to you.’

‘Oh. You look very serious.’

‘We feel very serious.’

‘Oh – well, OK.’

Izzie sat up very straight at her desk, put down her pencil.

‘What is it?’

‘We’re – we’re kind of in – difficulties.’

‘What sort of difficulties?’

Mike looked at Nick.

‘She asks what sort of difficulties! How many sorts of difficulties are there? Only one, baby. The sort that means you can’t pay the rent, or your staff, or even for lunch at the deli.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

‘We’ve hung on a long time. Things looked better for a while – but well, I guess we just don’t have the resources.’

‘But Nick, we’ve been doing more work than ever this summer. Two new accounts, even Joanie has been pleased with us. I don’t understand.’

‘Let me explain. It’s called Cash Flow. You send in a bill, client doesn’t pay, you send a reminder, client still doesn’t pay, you don’t like to get heavy in case they walk out on you, go somewhere else for copy – do you know that Joanie, just for instance, has over a thousand dollars out on invoice to her? Hasn’t given us a dime since January.’

‘But that’s disgusting. She shouldn’t be allowed to do that. We’re so small and they’re so big and—’

‘You try telling that to Joanie, darling.’

‘Well I’d like to. In fact I think I will.’

‘No Izzie, you won’t. Won’t help. Joanie is our biggest client—’

‘And what’s the use of that if she doesn’t pay?’

‘Well, she will eventually. She always does. Anyway, she’s not the only one. There’s three or four more, all hanging on to their money. And we can’t sustain that. It’s always been the way. The big boys can wait. We can’t.’

‘It’s terrible.’ Izzie was silent, thinking with particular loathing of Joanie Morell, Joanie with her arrogance, her rudeness, the way she had the boys grovelling after her wherever she went. Sometimes when Izzie went to one of Cleveland & Marshall’s sales conferences, one of the boys would go too; Joanie would treat him like a personal servant, throwing her coat at him to hang up for her, tapping her long red nails on the table while he pulled out her chair, demanding he get her drinks, sandwiches, taxis (many of which she often forgot to pay for). It was disgusting; she shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

She looked at them, so downcast, so hopeless, and felt a wave of love for them. They were her family now, as much as her father and Barty; she couldn’t fail them.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘I can still afford lunch at the deli. Let me treat you both. No, I insist. As long as we can go to Katz.’

The boys looked at one another.

‘I guess we could just about agree to that.’

Katz Deli was at the bottom of Second Avenue, and it sold pastrami sandwiches to kill for, as Nick frequently said. Izzie adored it. She led them in that morning; they were early, even for a New York lunch, eleventhirty. They went over to the counter, collected their pastrami on rye and their coffees, and sat near the back, gazing gloomily and silent down the great long white-tiled expanse that was Katz, as if it might offer them some sort of solution.

‘So,’ said Izzie finally, defeated as always by her sandwich.

‘So, Lady Isabella. Mind if I have another?’

‘Not at all. I’m terribly impressed you can manage it. Go ahead. You could get me a slice of apple pie though. A small one.’

‘Ain’t nothing small here,’ said Nick.

‘Anyway,’ he said, finally pushing his plate away, picking up his mug of coffee. ‘This looks like the end of the road. We have to say goodbye to you.’

‘Oh no!’ Izzie felt close to tears. ‘You can’t fire me.’

‘We’re not firing you, we’re letting you go. You’ll get another job, easy. With your background and the experience we’ve given you.’

‘I’m not going,’ said Izzie firmly. ‘I’m just not. You can’t make me, you need me to do the work, I have so much in hand and—’

‘Darling we can’t pay you.’

‘So? I’ll work for nothing. For a bit, anyway.’

They sat and stared at her for a long time. Then Mike spoke.

‘Izzie,’ he said, ‘we always knew you had class.’

That night, Izzie took Barty out to supper. She was surprised by how willing she was; she had expected to have to wait for her to have a free evening, but Barty said she couldn’t think of anything nicer, that Charlie and the girls were going to the movies.

‘Don’t you want to go with them?’

‘Oh – no thanks. It’s the latest great epic from Cecil B. de Mille.’

‘What,
The Ten Commandments
? Barty, I’d adore to see that.’

‘Well go with them then.’

Was she imagining it, or was Barty’s voice irritable?

‘Of course I don’t want to go with them. I want to see you. Shall we eat down here, or in Chinatown?’

‘Chinatown’d be good. There’s a great new place on Bayard Street apparently. Let’s meet there at seven. I’ll look forward to it.’

Izzie was shocked by the sight of Barty; she hadn’t seen her for weeks, she had got very thin, and – she could only describe it as lacklustre. Her tawny hair, her eyes, even her skin looked dull, seemed to have no life; nor did her manner – or her conversation.

Izzie couldn’t bear it; she took Barty’s hand and said, ‘Whatever is it? You don’t look well.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Barty, smiling at her quickly.

‘Or happy.’

‘I’m fine. Really. Please, Izzie. Let’s not talk about me. I haven’t seen you for ages. I want to hear all about the boys, about your job . . .’

‘Well – not too good, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, no! What’s happened? Tell me about it.’

Izzie did. Barty listened intently, her eyes suddenly brighter, manoeuvring her chopsticks in her long fingers with great skill.

Then she said, ‘Let’s get some lychees. I still feel hungry, can’t think why. Now listen, Izzie. I think I might have an idea . . .’

Celia would not have believed it was possible for anything to hurt so much. All the pain of her life, all the loss and grief and fear, appeared like the over-inflated emotions of adolescence by comparison. That Kit, her beloved Kit, not only her favourite child, but her favourite human being, should do this to her, turn his back on her with such absolute finality, announce his engagement, his love for someone, someone, moreover, who she knew, then plan his wedding, and a whole new life, while barring her from it absolutely: it was unthinkably cruel. She felt as if she would choke, vomit even, the shock a physical presence in her throat and her stomach.

She went home that first day and locked herself in her room; she felt ill, she ached, every inch of her skin felt sore, she was feverish. She lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense in some way of Kit’s behaviour, to find an excuse for it even, dry-eyed at first, then weeping endlessly, a great flood of grief and pain and outrage. Kit, who she had loved so very much, who had been at the heart of her life from the moment he was born, and who had wrenched himself from it. Kit had done this to her, rejected her with a harshness and a cruelty that was beyond imagination. She relived his whole life that night, the joy of his birth, of his brilliant childhood, the exceptional promise of his youth, and then his brief career as a pilot, and his hideous descent into blindness and despair. And then finally, the triumph, the discovery that there could be happiness for him, and success too. Not a day, not an hour even, had passed that she hadn’t thought of him, been concerned for him, cared for him. And he had turned his back on her so absolutely, torn her out of his life with a ruthlessness which was so thorough, so final, that he might as well have died, for all she had left of him. It was truly hardly to be borne.

She refused dinner, paced the house for most of the night, and finally left for the office without breakfast, there to remain for a further eighteen hours. As always, work was her solace.

Lord Arden, as always helpless in the face of her moods, swiftly realised there was no way in which he could help and drove himself up to Scotland, leaving a note to say that she had only to telephone him and he would come straight back to London. He knew she would not.

He also knew – for he was not quite as emotionally inept as he seemed – that, entirely illogically she blamed him for what had happened. If she had not married him, if she had remained single, or had married – well, had married someone else – she and Kit would still be close, still be all the world to one another. The fact that the marriage had been largely her idea was neither here nor there; their relationship had most effectively removed Kit from her life. As, initially, it had removed Sebastian. He had come round, of course; for which Lord Arden found himself relieved rather than jealous. Sebastian absorbed a great deal of Celia’s emotional energy, improved her temper and relieved him of the tedium of hearing about Lyttons day after day.

Why a woman with a great deal of money, who could have spent the final decades of her hugely successful life travelling, entertaining her friends, and enjoying the pleasures of the countryside – and she was a superb shot – should choose to lock herself up all day with a lot of silly bickering people and a mountain of paperwork, was completely beyond him.

Still, he had married her, and he had to make the best of it. And when things were good they were still pretty good. When Celia sat at his table at Glennings, after a day’s hunting or shooting, her mood steadied by physical exhaustion and being out of doors, charming his guests, flattering him, when she came to kiss him goodnight, bringing his hot toddy with her on a tray, when she stopped fussing and fretting over her London life and her children (he often thanked God he had never had any children, they seemed nothing but trouble), he felt profoundly happy and grateful that she had married him. It was just that most of the time, she did none of those things, working endlessly at Lytton House, entertaining her publishing friends in Cheyne Walk, saying quite truthfully that they bored him and he them, so it was much better that way. He was alone; and quite lonely.

And now, with this dreadful new upset, it seemed unlikely he would see her for quite a while.

It had been very cruel of Kit; Sebastian rebuked him quite harshly.

‘I find it very difficult to believe you should have wanted to hurt your mother quite so much.’

‘She hurt me quite as much,’ Kit said briefly, ‘what she did was unforgivable and I can’t find it in my heart to include her in my plans.’

‘Well, I don’t think it was so unforgivable. I’ve told you her reasons, and she would explain it to you herself if you would allow her to. It may sound very warped to you, and to an extent it does to me, but it makes perfect sense to her, and I suspect it would have done to Oliver.’

‘Oh really, Sebastian! Don’t talk such rot.’

‘I don’t think it is rot. There’s a logic behind it. If she’d married me, it would have been a public statement that she’d always loved me. It would have looked very disloyal to his memory. And that would have hurt you too. Anyway, I can see there’s no point talking to you. But I would beg you to consider inviting her to your wedding. Apart from breaking her heart it will split the family in two, I don’t know if you’ve thought of that . . . What am I, for instance, supposed to do?’

‘Well I’m sorry,’ said Kit, ‘but it was her decision to do what she did, it was she who split the family in the first place. I find it very difficult to understand how the others can have accepted it—’

‘Maybe because they are not quite so intimately touched by it,’ said Sebastian gently. ‘Kit, it was all a long time ago, and—’

‘She married Lord Arden a year after her husband died. And no, I will not invite her to my wedding. I don’t want her there. She could hardly attend without him—’

‘She attended Barty’s wedding without him.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Well,’ said Sebastian with a sigh, ‘I can see it is hopeless. But I think it’s very cruel.’

Kit did have a cruel streak; there was no doubt about it. And Sebastian had a horrible idea he knew where it came from. Of course his life and its considerable problems had no doubt contributed to it; becoming blind at the age of nineteen, any prospects of a career at the bar brought to an abrupt end, being abandoned by his sweetheart, falling in love again and having the path to that happiness barred most cruelly as well, through no fault of his own – none of these things were conducive to a sanguine approach to life. And yet he had found success. He did have a brilliant career. And now he was in love again: with a most delightful and clever young woman. Sebastian liked Clementine enormously.

They had had long conversations about Kit, about her life with him, about how difficult it would be; she was brave and blithe about it, convinced that they would be extremely happy together.

‘I love him so much as he is, you see, I never knew him any other way. He’s Kit to me, and he’s what I fell in love with. I know he’s difficult and bad-tempered at times, but who wouldn’t be?’

Kit had told her about his difficult history, she said. ‘He felt I should know and I think he was right. It might have been a hard thing to – discover by chance. I won’t tell anyone, of course. But it explains a lot. Poor Izzie; it must have been so very dreadful for her.’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Sebastian, remembering the savage misery of those terrible days, ‘it was. But she has become very self-reliant as a result. And it would have been a disastrous marriage. She would have simply become his slave which would have been very bad for both of them.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Clementine, ‘I certainly have no intention of becoming his slave. I’m a bit daunted by joining that clan, though, I can tell you.’

‘Oh they’re all right, if you take them individually,’ said Sebastian. ‘Don’t let yourself think of them
en masse
. For the most part, they’re not so remarkable. Except Celia, of course.’

‘Yes. Poor Celia.’

She had tried, also without success, to persuade Kit to invite Celia to the wedding.