Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (69 page)

Luckily, Mrs Wilson seemed not to be able to do that.

The funny thing was, it helped with Keir. Guilt made her less angry, fear made her more compliant. For the first time for weeks, she attempted – and managed – to seduce him (while wondering fearfully if she was in some way changed, if he could tell), and for the first time in weeks she asked him about his work, served him fish pie, sent him to sit down while she cleared away.

She felt better too; less used, more appreciated. She was under no illusions, she knew Marcus Forrest was not really in love with her – although he had whispered that he was falling in love as he undressed her, as she lay in his arms, afterwards, crying again with remorse. She knew that neither was she in love with him: she was merely attracted to him, flattered by him, and she liked him enormously.

She did feel ashamed: but not as much as she had expected. Which, of course, made her feel more ashamed. What was wrong with her? Was she a naturally wicked person, that she could sleep with the first man who had asked her after she was married, that a couple of champagne cocktails and a lot of honeyed words could persuade her into bed, when she had the serious responsibilities of a husband and two small children; and with a man who was, strictly speaking, her boss and her husband’s boss, how stupid was that?

What dangers had she exposed herself to, as she kissed Marcus, told him she wanted him, went into his bed, what hope for her career now? He had (being not only a skilful seducer but a clever man) tried to reassure her on those things: ‘Of course I’m your boss, of course I hold your husband’s future in my hands – at the moment, anyway. Do you really think I’m so amoral as to exploit all that? If you do, then you should leave, Elspeth, leave at once, and we need never see one another or speak of what has happened again.’

And while she had not quite believed him, she had not disbelieved him either; as she got to know him better, she liked him more and more. He was kind, thoughtful, considerate of her anxiety, gentle with her fears.

‘I am not exercising
droit de seigneur
either,’ he said another day, kissing her tenderly, ‘the fact that you work for me has absolutely no bearing on the fact that I find you beautiful, amusing, clever and extremely stylish. I would have pursued you even if you’d been working for Macmillans. I can’t say more than that.’

‘I shall test you on that,’ she said, kissing him in return, ‘I shall leave Lyttons and go to Macmillans, and see what happens.’

‘You will do no such thing. I still live in hope of your accepting my offer. But I tell you something else, Elspeth Lytton. For that is how I think of you. If you were free, I would be taking this thing very seriously. Very seriously indeed. I told you I was falling in love with you; I seem to have fallen quite a lot of the way in already.’

‘Well Mr Lytton, just a call to say everything’s in order.’ Gilmour’s dry, courteous voice gave nothing away. ‘We have everything we need, a ninepage report has come in to me and now I have only to pass it on to the board.’

‘Fine. Well – ’ Jay hesitated ‘ – you don’t have any – any indication of what their decision might be?’

‘I’m afraid not. I can tell you that I have put in a recommendation that they should consider your case sympathetically, but beyond that, it’s out of my hands now.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see. And I don’t suppose you can give me any idea of the timescale involved?’

‘I’m sorry, no. Probably a couple of weeks.’

‘A couple of weeks! That – that doesn’t leave us much time to find someone else. If we need to.’

‘I’m afraid not. Unfortunately you came to us rather late in your own timetable.’

‘That couldn’t be helped. We hadn’t got the valuation before.’

‘Of course not. Don’t worry, Mr Lytton, I’m sure it will be very sympathetically considered.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jay. He put the phone down, feeling rather sick.

In the middle of February, General Dugdale was doing some final pruning of his fruit trees before spraying them with a tar oil wash; it made a diversion from writing his memoirs. He had put in a couple of hours that morning, but he had a mild headache which appeared to be worsening and felt that a break would ease it. He planned to return to writing during the afternoon.

He had done the most painstaking research, poring over old battle reports, both in the newspaper archives, and regimental records, and visiting old comrades – including Boy Warwick – and reliving with them the time in the desert, with its fierce discomfort and camaraderie. He had over a dozen exercise books on his desk, all filled with notes in his immaculate copperplate handwriting.

He also enjoyed the actual writing; Celia had not been mistaken when she recognised a rare talent for intriguing, informative and tightly packed prose. So many memoirs were rambling and repetitious; General Dugdale’s were the reverse. They read like a thriller. Several newspapers, notably the
Observer
, had expressed a great interest in them; publication of the first volume of two was planned for late summer. There was only one problem: only about a quarter of even the first book was actually written. The General took great pride in his prose style, and spent many hours not just writing, but polishing and reworking, trying out different openings to chapters and paragraphs, reading sections aloud to his wife, looking for literary references which he could use both for chapter headings and within the text.

Celia phoned him at least once a week, to enquire how he was getting on and to ask if he needed any editorial guidance; he always told her it was all absolutely tickety-boo, or splendid, or going swimmingly, and realised, as he put the phone down, that he had moved forward very little from the last time she had called. He tried to speed up, but it was difficult; he began to find it rather stressful, and to sleep less soundly, rather, indeed, as he had slept in the desert, fitfully and lightly, waking every hour or so.

He supposed he should have told Celia that he was running behind schedule, but pride forbade it; he felt confident that he could make up for lost time if he really put his back into it.

It was a fairly warm day and the pruning shears seemed increasingly heavy; after about twenty minutes, the General felt unaccountably dizzy. He ignored it for a few moments, then realised he was actually quite unable to see the shears at all and walked rather unsteadily into the house, where he had some difficulty explaining to Mrs Dugdale what his symptoms were. Mrs Dugdale took one look at him and sent him to lie on the sofa in the drawing room – it was a measure of her concern that she didn’t make him take his boots off. Then she telephoned the doctor.

The doctor examined the General carefully, diagnosed a mild stroke and said he must rest completely for the next forty-eight hours.

The following morning the General woke up very early, feeling much better, and decided to get up and make a cup of tea for himself and Mrs Dugdale. Halfway down the stairs, he felt dizzy again; a loud crash as he fell to the hall floor was Mrs Dugdale’s first intimation of his second, and rather more serious, stroke.

Mrs Dugdale was reading to her husband when Celia telephoned; she explained what had happened, and said her husband had been worrying about the delay in finishing his memoirs. Celia was shocked, for she was very fond of the General but, feeling mildly panicky at the same time, managed to tell her that he mustn’t even think about returning to his task until he was completely well.

‘Just because the book is scheduled for the summer doesn’t mean it can’t wait. Tell him to concentrate on getting well.’

She put the phone down and decided to say nothing to Jay yet.

Mr Gilmour phoned Harold Charteris; could he come in and see him ‘and perhaps the Lyttons as well. I have some news for you.’

‘Of course,’ said Charteris. His mouth was suddenly completely dry. The news was not entirely good. The board were persuaded that Lyttons was possibly a worthy company for investment, but the terms were going to be tough.

‘How tough?’ asked Jay.

‘Well, as you know, we loan money at three per cent above bank rate. That is entirely normal for any investment company.’

‘Yes, we knew that.’

‘However, the board feel that they would want to take a larger share of the equity.’

‘Yes?’ said Giles.

‘We would require a forty per cent share,’ said Gilmour, ‘or at least thirty-five per cent.’

‘Forty per cent! But that’s’ – ‘extortionate’ he had been going to say, but stopped himself just in time – ‘that’s a rather large share, surely? We are seeking to retain control of our company, not lose it all over again.’

‘Not so large a share, Mr Lytton, no. Not in a case like this. We feel, given the nature of your company, its inevitable volatility, and indeed its size, we do need to retain a considerable amount of control. It’s a very small company, although fairly profitable, and as I say, it has no assets worthy of consideration.’

‘Mr Gilmour,’ said Celia, unable to bear this any longer, ‘you are talking about one of the oldest and most respected publishing houses in the world. It is not a very small company, and it has assets very worthy of consideration. We publish some of the finest authors in the world, we have a backlist which is the envy of the entire industry, and I do rather feel you can’t possibly know what you are talking about. Perhaps we should go elsewhere—’

‘I appreciate your literary heritage,’ said Gilmour, ‘and Mr Phelps was deeply impressed by it. Particularly the very successful
Deer Mountain
, and the forthcoming military memoirs. But, as I explained, when a financial corporation talks about assets, it means assets it can realise.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Giles. His face was white with tension; he felt extremely irritated and rather sick. This was all beginning to look, if not hopeless, then certainly very far from hopeful. ‘Well – I think we would like you to press on, Mr Gilmour. At least come up with an official proposal.’

Mr Gilmour said he would press on.

‘It’s outrageous,’ said Celia, ‘of course we can’t part with forty per cent of the company. Especially not to these people. I’d rather give up altogether. I will never agree to it. Never.’

Jay looked at her. ‘Let’s wait and see what they come up with, shall we? They know our feelings, maybe the offer will improve. It’s unwise, I feel, to give up at this stage.’

She said nothing; he took her silence as assent.

It actually meant she was wondering if, at last, she had to do it. To do the awful, the unforgivable thing.

‘Jay, I’m afraid I have some rather – difficult news.’

He looked up; she was looking nervous. Celia never looked nervous. It just didn’t happen.

‘What sort of difficult?’

‘General Dugdale has only written – well, part of the book.’

‘Oh God.’ He pushed his hands through his hair. ‘Well – let’s get in what he’s done, see if we can use that, or even ghost the rest.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because – because he’s only written—’

‘Written what, Celia? For God’s sake, come on, tell me the worst. It can’t be that bad.’

‘It is bad, I’m afraid.’ She took a deep breath, faced him very levelly. ‘He’s only written a little over a quarter of the book.’

‘Oh God,’ said Jay.

‘That’s appalling,’ said Giles, ‘that completely upsets the cash flow for the rest of the year. The one Gilmour’s presented to his people.’

‘I had realised that, Giles.’

‘Is there no hope at all? Of his finishing it?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Jay. ‘Old bugger’s quite ill, it seems. Not allowed to work for several months. Can’t anyway. Gone a bit gaga.’

‘We’ll have to revise the cash flow. It was quite optimistic, we can’t possibly keep the lid on this. At least we won’t have to pay him the second tranche of his advance. The one due on delivery of the manuscript. That was quite substantial.’

‘Giles,’ said Jay, sitting down opposite him, offering him a cigarette, lighting one himself, ‘Giles, I’m afraid we already have.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, Celia authorised it, just before Barty died. He asked her if she could help, if he could have it early, as his elderly mother had to go into a nursing home. He’s an old friend of hers, what do you expect her to do?’

‘She’ll just have to get it back,’ said Giles. ‘I’ll speak to her myself. That is outrageous, what she’s done, absolutely outrageous.’

Celia said it was out of the question that she should get the money back. ‘I couldn’t possibly worry Dorothy, she’s so upset already. It was such a love match, you know, she adores him to this day and—’

‘Celia, I’m delighted the Dugdales are still in love,’ said Jay, ‘but this leaves an enormous hole in our schedule. Not to mention our budget. Oh God, of all the times for this to happen—’

‘I suppose you mean the money people. We don’t need to tell them, surely.’

‘I’m afraid we do,’ said Jay.

‘But why? This is a publishing matter, not a business one and—’

Giles sighed heavily. ‘Of course they’ll need to know, Mother, those memoirs represent a large part of our projected cash flow for the second half of the year. The trade are promising big orders. It would be fraudulent to pretend they’re still in the schedule.’

‘Well,’ said Celia, ‘I’d rather put the money into the cash flow, or whatever it’s called, myself. In fact, I will, if you think it’s so important. How would that be?’

Jay stared at her. ‘That’s extraordinarily generous of you. We might – might have to take you up on it. Let’s see, shall we?’

God, the old girl must be rich, he thought, going back to his office. Tossing ten thousand pounds around as if it was petty cash. He’d personally be pushed to find ten pounds at the moment.

It seemed endless. Every day BISC seemed to need more information. A more detailed cash flow, fuller sales predictions, lists of authors, contracts, further publishing schedules. Greatly against his will, Jay had been persuaded to keep from Gilmour the news about the Dugdale memoirs.