Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (39 page)

‘I know,’ she said, ‘there’s nothing more reactionary than the English book trade. They are still living in the Victorian age. You should hear Barty on the subject. Although many of the New York houses are not much better, you’d be surprised. They seem to think that books will sell themselves. The entire business inclines to the view that the overt pursuit of money and sales is vulgar.’

‘You don’t,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘Have you always been so ahead of your time?’

‘Always,’ said Celia firmly.

He became very interested – to Giles’s intense irritation – in the packaging of the proposed paperback imprint.

‘The only books that look modern, cheer the bookshops up, are the paperbacks,’ Keir said to him one morning.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Some of the Pan covers are really great. I was talking to a chap called Godwin, very interesting ideas, he’s taking over Better Books, opposite Foyles, you know—’

‘Yes, I did know,’ said Giles shortly.

‘Clearing it out, cheering it up. Do you have a name for the paperback list yet?’

‘No. No I don’t.’

‘They all have very strong animal associations, I notice. Animals and birds. I wondered about Centaur.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes. Seeing as the centaur was a mythological creature, half man, half horse—’

‘I was aware of that,’ said Giles.

‘I thought it rather appropriate. It gives the idea of the paperback some gravitas – and then the background colours could be white, or at least light grey, like the centaur, they’d be very noticeable.’

‘Keir, I’m sorry, but I do have a lot of work to do this morning,’ said Giles, ‘and I don’t think you can quite appreciate that all these things have to be settled by careful discussion at board level, not by a quick chat in the corridor.’

‘No,’ said Keir, ‘I didn’t.’ And he went to see Celia.

As a result, and over lunch at the Savoy, Centaur was put forward as a title to Jay, who loved it and proposed it at the next board meeting. In the absence of any feasible alternative, it was adopted; Giles was furious. And most of his fury was directed inevitably at Keir.

Barty was lunching with Geordie at the 21 Club after a meeting with Bantam in the famous 666 building to settle his paperback deal. She was enjoying his visit; she had been missing everyone in England terribly.

‘I love it here so much,’ she said, looking around the restaurant, ‘and there’s supposed to be a secret room, you know, a sort of cellar inside another room, the size of a small bedroom with no windows, where the really big contracts are signed. I’ve never seen it myself, but it’s part of publishing folklore. Laurence used to bring me here. Well, he brought me to most places, of course.’ There was a silence; she looked down at her hands. Then up at the ceiling. ‘One day,’ she said, smiling at him quickly, ‘one day I’m going to have one of Lyttons’ vans hung up there.’ It was one of the unique services the ‘21’ provided for its better customers: hanging models of their company trucks and planes from the dining-room ceiling.

‘Right. And my racing colours will adorn one of those guys standing on the steps outside,’ he said. ‘But maybe not just yet.’

‘Jenna loves those jockeys,’ said Barty, smiling, ‘she had her photograph taken with them last year, the maître d’ let her climb up on to the balcony and pose with them. By the way, how’s Clio?’

‘Clio’s heaven. Want to see a picture?’

She smiled at the snapshot of the six-year-old Clio, all dark eyes and curls and dimples. ‘Geordie, she looks exactly like Adele.’

‘I know it.’

‘How is Adele?’

‘Oh – she’s fine.’

He clearly wanted to avoid the subject; as much as she did of Charlie.

‘Now, tell me about Lyttons New York. How’s it doing?’

‘Oh – all right. We need your new book. How’s that coming along?’

‘Slowly. But it’s a good theme. I’ve gone back to my first love, society murder.’

‘Oh that’ll do well.’

‘I hope so. I’m fascinated by these Kennedys, you know. They really are like a royal family here. Funny, when old Joe was once a bootlegger, and now he’s so uppity. Determined to see Jack president, by all accounts.’

‘Yes. I wonder if he’ll manage it.’

‘You bet he will. I met him once, just before they left London. I never saw anyone with such naked ambition in my life. Anyway, the family in my book are not a million miles away from them. Of course no one’s in the running for president, that really would be considered libellous, but they’re a rich, spoilt, close clan, ferociously ambitious in business—’

‘A bit like the Lyttons,’ said Barty mildly.

He grinned at her. ‘A bit.’

She was worried about Lyttons New York, she said; it wasn’t performing as it should, competition was hotting up. Places like Simon & Schuster never stopped signing people and she hadn’t had a big popular book for a while. ‘Except yours,’ she said hastily.

‘You mean a really popular book don’t you?’

‘Yes. That can go into paperback and sell zillions. That’s where the money is now. Well I don’t have to tell you that. God, they’re so powerful, these paperback houses, they seem sometimes to own the world. And it means prices are being pushed up. We’re doing all right, but we don’t have a lot of money to play with, to buy books. I know they’re doing their own paperback imprint in London, I think it’s a marvellous idea and I love the name—’

‘Isn’t it good? Brainchild of Celia’s new favourite, Keir, you know.’

‘I was very surprised to hear he was working for Lyttons, I thought he was a teacher.’

‘He was. But he’s made the switch. I can see exactly where Celia’s mind is going, and so can some of the others I think. Giles can’t stand him.’

‘Oh dear. Poor Giles.’

‘Poor old Giles.’

‘I could do with a bright young spark here, to be honest,’ said Barty. ‘I’m feeling a bit creaky.’

‘What about Marcus Forrest?’

‘Well he’s wonderful, of course, but we really need new young blood as well.’

‘There must be plenty of it about.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But I don’t seem able to find it. Marcus is joining us for a drink, by the way.’

‘Good.’ Geordie liked and admired Marcus Forrest; Barty had hired him as senior editor five years earlier, and he was now editorial director; she had poached him from Delacorte, from right under the nose of the legendary Helen Myer. Geordie could still remember her glee at having accomplished it; he had been in New York and she had practically flown into the King Cole Room at the St Regis, where they were meeting for a drink, and told him. He looked at her now, and couldn’t imagine her doing anything like it; the gloss had gone from her, the excitement, the sheer delight in doing her job and running her company. What had gone wrong?

‘Anyway, I’m sending the family down to South Lodge this summer and staying here for July, at least, getting my head down. I want a real contemporary tear-jerker – a bit like Celia’s
Contrasts
novel, which I think is marvellous, incidentally. I may even have to commission one. Oh, now look, there’s Fred Nolan. He publishes the
G Report
, have you ever seen it?’

‘No.’

‘You’d adore it. It’s a gossip sheet about publishing and everyone reads it. I’ll send you a copy down to the Algonquin.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I hear you’re seeing Izzie on Saturday,’ she said lightly.

‘Yes. I’m going down to see her apartment and then take her out to supper. Can you come too?’

‘I can’t, I’m afraid. Cathy and Jenna are appearing in a school concert. You’re lucky I didn’t invite you along to that.’

‘I wish you had,’ he said, ‘I’d have loved it. Now, when are you coming to England? The family are beginning to think your husband has two heads.’

Barty wasn’t sure why she was looking forward to the trip to England so little. She should have been longing to introduce Charlie to everyone. Whatever his faults, he was very charming, very well-mannered. So was Cathy; she and Jenna would delight everyone.

She had decided – with a degree of relief and what felt like a reprieve – that she couldn’t spare the time before Kit’s wedding. And they certainly couldn’t go twice.

Charlie had become very angry about it, he accused her of trying to keep him from her family, of being ashamed of him even, ‘I’m not the success Laurence was, am I, bit of a lame duck, to introduce into your glittering dynasty?’

She told him not to be ridiculous, saying it was quite simply pressure of work, she couldn’t take two long trips in one year: he had raged at her, accusing her of putting her work before everything, and then returned remorseful as always, begging her forgiveness.

‘You must understand, darling, I do feel I need to meet them. But of course if you’re too busy – that’s different.’

He never stopped trying to persuade her away from Lyttons, away from work, was constantly coming home with travel brochures, which were supposed to tempt her and actually irritated her beyond endurance. She supposed, to be fair, it was difficult for him, he had very little to do, while she was always working.

But then – he could be working too. She was prepared to back him. She had several times asked him what he would like to do in the long term; he always said vaguely that for the time being Cathy needed him. ‘And Jenna too, for that matter.’ When they were away at school in the fall, then he’d think about it.

‘But not real estate,’ he said firmly, ‘I am up to here in real estate.’

Beyond that he refused to go.

He had seemed very happy, on the other hand, at the prospect of taking the girls to Southampton for the summer.

‘We’ll have a great time,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘do all sorts of things. As long as you promise to come down for August.’

Barty promised she would: without committing herself to quite how much – or little – of August it would be. She was, although she would have hated to admit it, looking forward to the peace and tranquillity. She was going to miss Jenna; but having the place to herself would be awfully nice.

‘Venetia! Hallo, it’s me. I just had to tell you, I feel so much better today. It’s like some clouds have just rolled away and let the sun back in.’

‘Oh, darling, I’m so glad.’

‘Yes, and that’s not the best thing.
Record
, you know, the American magazine, have asked me to do a job for them. I can’t believe it. It’s only a little job, but – I’m going to do it.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve got to find some third-class train carriages and photograph them. Preferably in a siding somewhere. You know they’ve abolished them?’

‘I didn’t but—’

‘Well they have. End of an era stuff. Anyway, it’s a very “me” assignment. I’ve just rung the press office, and they’re looking for some for me.
Record
want them within the week. I’m really excited, Venetia.’

‘Darling, so am I.’

Barty had written to Sally Norton, but she hadn’t replied. She was clearly very odd; there was no point pursuing her. She obviously didn’t want to have anything to do with any of them: that was all it meant, nothing mysterious or odd. Barty would just put the whole subject out of her head. For good.

Charlie and the girls were leaving for South Lodge at the beginning of the next week. Term was over; the concert had been a great success. Jenna had played a solo and got an encore; for the hundredth, the thousandth time, Barty longed for Laurence to be able to see her. Every success, every landmark, in some odd way hurt more. So many things about her he would have loved, admired, been proud of. And a lot of things he wouldn’t, she thought, reminding herself before she got too sentimental, of the real Laurence; there would have been terrible rows about noisy record players, neglected homework, haircuts without permission, clothes that were too old for her, books and magazines that were too facile, music that was too trashy.

He would have demanded absolute obedience, unwaveringly high standards, devotion to her studies, early nights, a nun-like social life probably, Barty thought, until she was twenty-one. There would certainly have been no mixed parties, jazz clubs, sleepovers, no experimenting with make-up, fashion binges, posters of crooners on her wall. Not without an enormous struggle, anyway. It would have been very, very uncomfortable; on the other hand . . .

‘Izzie this apartment is lovely,’ said Geordie, smiling, ‘really lovely.’

‘Isn’t it? I’m so thrilled with it. It’s a bit of a mess still, I’m afraid.’

She had spent all morning cleaning it, washing the windows, putting flowers in jugs on every available surface, then carefully mussing it up again, a magazine slung down there, a sweater draped over a chair here, lest it look as if she was trying too hard. Which she wasn’t. Of course she wasn’t.

‘You’ve done it so nicely, I love it. Except maybe for that lamp.’ He smiled at her, indicated a bright-pink china table lamp which stood on the side table. ‘I hope I’m not offending your sensitivities when I say that it doesn’t quite match up to the rest.’

‘I know. I got it in the thrift shop. It came free with the table.’

‘Expensive at the price, I’d say.’

‘One day, when I’m rich and famous, I’m going to have a real Tiffany lamp, you know? With the stained-glass, leaded shade. All in reds and blues. I’ve seen exactly the one I want.’

‘My favourite, too.’

‘Really? Can I offer you a drink?’

‘He sat down in the big chair by the window in her sitting room, looked down the pretty street.

‘It’s awfully like London.’

‘Celia said that. Maybe that’s why I like it. Later I’ll show you around the neighbourhood.’

‘I know it a bit. I spent some of my youth here. Do you go to Chumleys?’

‘Of course I do. I adore it. Haven’t seen Mrs Chumley’s ghost yet, but I live in hope. I thought we’d go there for a drink later – unless you don’t have time, of course.’

‘Izzie, I have all the time in the world. For you.’

He was only teasing of course. Of course. She must keep telling herself that. It was just Geordie, being uncle-like.