Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (71 page)

‘Pray God we won’t.’

Brian Gilmour arrived in a self-important hurry, together with his assistant, a small nervous creature called John Peters. They accepted some coffee, waved away the plate of biscuits, and Gilmour pulled out some folders.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘I hope you’ll be pleased with what I have to tell you.’

They weren’t: they were hugely disappointed. They could have the money: at 3 per cent above bank rate. They had expected the high rate; that was the good news. But BISC were adamant; they wanted a 40 per cent shareholding.

‘We’ll need to talk about it, of course,’ said Giles wearily, ‘if you could give us a few hours. Obviously we can’t take much longer. But that is a very high percentage and we really need to be sure we are all happy about it. Or rather,’ he added, unusually outspoken, ‘that we can live with it.’

Gilmour nodded. ‘Of course. Just give me a ring. If you’re agreeable, then the paperwork can be done very quickly. I know you have a time problem. Get back to me before the close of business today, if you would; otherwise I have to tell you it’s likely we might withdraw. We have another client most keen to accept our terms. But you have priority, at this stage.’

‘It’s absolutely out of the question,’ said Celia. ‘I will not part with forty per cent of Lyttons. That’s all there is to it. And I’m sure you will all agree with me.’

Jay sighed. ‘Not necessarily.’

She swung round to face him.

‘What do you mean? What on earth do you mean?’

‘Look, Celia, I’m sorry and I understand your feelings on this, but we’ve got to be realistic. There’s no point resisting a further forty per cent stake when the Americans currently hold seventy per cent.’

‘I don’t quite follow you, Jay.’

‘What I mean is, we only hold thirty-two per cent ourselves. New York have sixty-eight per cent. If we go with BISC, and get the shares, then we’ll still be twenty-eight per cent better off. You must see that.’

‘I don’t. I think it’s open to debate that we’ll be better off. At least the Americans are Lyttons.’

‘It’s true,’ said Venetia, ‘at the moment we’re only dealing with Lyttons New York. Who are at least publishers. We’d be going in with people who don’t know a book when they see it. Unless it’s full of figures. On the other hand, I really don’t think I can face much more of Marcus Forrest. I’d go for these boys. We’d have a bit more control.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Giles, ‘that whatever happens, the future’s pretty bleak. I still think forty per cent is ruinous. I just don’t think it’s worth taking the offer. Swapping one set of dictators for another.’

‘Giles, it’s March the fifth,’ said Venetia, ‘if we give up on these people now, we’ll never find anyone else.’

‘I think that’s right,’ said Charteris. ‘Not in the time, anyway. There is absolutely no leeway.’

‘Well, I won’t give my vote to it,’ said Celia. ‘And that is final. It would break Oliver’s heart.’

‘Oh Mummy, don’t be so bloody melodramatic.’ Venetia pulled out her cigarette case, passed it round. Jay took one. The others refused. It seemed oddly symbolic; dividing the group further. Venetia lit up, blew out a cloud of smoke; Celia promptly started to cough, waved the smoke away.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘you’d like to tell me in what way you consider I’m being melodramatic.’

‘Daddy’s not here. It might break his heart if he were, but it can’t. And we’re fighting to survive, could I remind you. Daddy would like that.’

‘He wouldn’t want this company in the hands of money people,’ said Celia.

And so it went on. Finally, at five-thirty, Giles said, ‘Look we have to tell them something this evening. We seem to have absolute stalemate. What do you want me to do?’

‘Wait until tomorrow,’ said Celia suddenly. ‘Please.’

‘Celia, we can’t. We’ll lose them.’

‘I don’t believe that. I’m sorry.’

Jay sighed. ‘Could we take a vote on that? On our being prepared to risk losing the money?’

‘I’d vote in favour,’ said Giles, surprising everyone.

‘So would I,’ said Venetia. She smiled at her mother: a quick, warm smile. We’ve been through too much together, that smile said, to give up now.

‘Very well,’ said Jay. ‘I think it’s madness, but—’

Celia smiled at him.

‘Thank you,’ she said. And set off for home to do the awful thing.

Douglas Marks trudged along the bleak lane. It was a long way; it seemed much more than four miles. The air was freezing, and it was getting dim now, despite it only being three o’clock. He had gone to the pub first, a chilly, dispiriting place with a one-bar electric fire which seemed to have absolutely no heat in it and a landlord as unwelcoming as his premises.

School House was quite big; an ugly white rectangle, set against a hill.

A small hill. A mountain it certainly wasn’t.

Marks pulled his camera out of his pocket and took another picture. It just might come out, despite the poor light. He walked up to the door, pulled a long metal bell handle. It jangled endlessly in the silent darkness behind the door. Nothing happened.

He tried again; then walked round the side of the house. There was a car, quite a new, smart-looking Vauxhall parked there; someone must be in. He went back, pulled the bell again, not too hopefully. And this time it happened.

Someone came, someone who could only be described as an old retainer, a small, grey-haired woman, wearing a drab grey dress and a white apron.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon. I wonder if I might see Miss Scott. Miss Joanna Scott.’

‘Miss Scott? Who are you?’

‘My name is Douglas Marks. I’m a solicitor. From London.’

She shut the door again. Marks stood there in the cold darkness, feeling rather as if he was in a bad film.

Finally she opened the door again. ‘You’d better come in.’

He stood there, waiting, for what seemed like a long time; it was oddly silent in the house, no sounds of people talking, or even moving about, no radio playing. But the house, or what he could see of it, was wellfurnished, newly decorated, it seemed, with a thick carpet on the stairs, velvet curtains at the window. Obviously Joanna Scott had been spending her royalties on her house.

The retainer returned. ‘Follow me.’

Marks followed her into a big room. It was less cold in here, there was a fire burning, and a thick rug in front of it; the curtains were closed. It was very dark.

‘Mr Marks? I am Joanna Scott. You’re from Rawlinsons, I presume. Is it about the settlement?’

Marks looked at her; her voice was quite refined, she was well-dressed, her hair immaculate, and she was at the very least in her late sixties. And she was in a wheelchair.

Celia stood in her room looking at herself in the long mirror, wondering if it was a little unsubtle to dress for the part as much as she had. To put on her most flattering dress, to make up her face with such care, to wear the diamonds Lord Arden had given her, which she had never really liked and had hardly ever worn. Well, she lacked the strength to change now; she would just have to be unsubtle. She took a deep breath and opened her door, set out along the corridor. She had been thinking about this for so long, wondering if she possibly could do it, shrinking from the insensitivity, the crudity of it, hoping against hope she wouldn’t have to do it.

But – she couldn’t bear to let everything go without at least trying. It would be a betrayal of Lyttons; a betrayal of everything she cared about.

Lord Arden was standing by the fire, smoking, drinking gin and tonic; he stubbed out the cigarette.

‘Sorry my dear. Thought you wouldn’t be down just yet.’

‘That’s all right, Bunny. I’ll havea G and T, please.’

‘You look tired. Feeling all right?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

She was tired; she was always tired these days. Maybe this new man her doctor was sending her to would be able to offer some help.

‘Bunny,’ she said, ‘I want to speak to you about something.’

‘Oh yes?’ He was busy with the drinks tray; he didn’t look at her.

‘I—’ Oh God, this was difficult; how could she do it, after the years of coolness, of indifference, of excluding him from her life. ‘I – had hoped not to have to ask you.’

‘For the money, you mean?’

She was astonished; so astonished that she sat down abruptly, feeling quite faint.

‘You all right, my dear?’

‘I’m fine. Yes, thank you.’ She took the drink. ‘I – I just didn’t think you’d taken much of it in.’

‘Celia, really. How absurd you are. You must consider me very stupid indeed.’

‘Of course I don’t. But—’

‘I did wonder when you’d get around to it. Seemed to be taking an awfully long time.’

‘Oh dear,’ she said. Relief hit her; relief at not having to actually frame the words, face him with them.

‘I’d love to help you, Celia. Love to help you get Lyttons back.’

‘You would?’

More relief. She should have done this before, been tougher, braver. She smiled at him one of her brilliant, dazzling smiles. ‘Oh Bunny—’

‘Of course. I know what it means to you.’

‘So much. Everything. Well’ – she added, hastily tactful – ‘almost everything.’

‘But I can’t.’

‘You can’t?’ It didn’t make any sense at first.

‘No. I just don’t have it. Nothing like it. Oh, I know, I’ve got all this land and property. I know everyone thinks I’m as rich as Croesus. But I’m not. Income tax is so frightful these days. Well, you know that, for God’s sake. Dreadful, these people in control of the country now. No one would think there was a Conservative government in. No, I’m afraid I really am borrowed up to the hilt. Every acre is borrowed on, several times over. Nothing in the bank; in fact, if I died tomorrow, Coutts would be quite grateful. Huge overdraft there.’

‘Oh,’ said Celia. ‘Oh, I see.’ She felt rather dazed.

He looked at her. ‘I’m sorry, old girl,’ he said, coming over to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, ‘so sorry. I kept trying to raise the subject, but you never seemed to want to talk about it. I’d like to be more involved in your affairs, you know, like to help you. I wish you wouldn’t shut me out so much. Of course I can’t help with the literary side, and I suppose I’m a lousy businessman, or I’d have some money in the bank. But I could listen to you, make the odd suggestion. I’m not entirely stupid.’

Celia looked at him; at this kind, infinitely generous man who she had married on a whim, an awkward, selfish whim, to whom she had seldom been more than courteous, often impatient, occasionally quite cruel, and she felt some rather unfamiliar emotions. Guilt. Remorse. Embarrassment, even.

And something else; something extraordinary. A kind of relief. Relief that she didn’t, after all, have to abuse his good nature, take his money. He was too good for that, too innately generous. It would have been too much to ask. Or rather to take. Even if it had meant saving Lyttons.

‘Of course I know you’re not stupid, Bunny,’ she said finally. ‘And – I’m sorry. Sorry I shut you out. I always thought – well, that you wouldn’t want to be bothered with my problems.’

‘Well, I would,’ he said, graciously ignoring the lie. ‘It’s all I can do for you, it seems. Listen to you. So – although I can’t lend you the money, I might have a view on things. Why don’t you tell me about it? While we have dinner?’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, ‘yes, I think I’d like that, Bunny. Very much. Thank you.’

‘This is a great story, lad. Well done. Lot of good stuff. I like the drab house outside and all the luxury inside. Some mountain. We’ll give it a big splash at the weekend.’

‘Not before then?’

‘No, it’s a natural. Certainly for the end of the week.’

Marks looked at his features editor.

‘I think it’s a bit of a risk. Someone else might get hold of it.’

‘Oh, rubbish. It’s only a few days. We’ll run it on Thursday. You don’t want it getting lost in some nonsense about the new Common Market, do you?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Marks meekly.

The following morning, Celia called a meeting in the boardroom.

‘I think we should go with these people. I agree. At least we’ll have some degree of control.’

Venetia looked at her in astonishment. Her mother was famous for never changing a decision; her mind, once made up, went into what Jay had once described as rigor mortis.

‘Mummy! We’re awfully glad, aren’t we, Jay? But – why? What’s altered?’

She sighed; she looked very tired. Looked her age, in fact, Venetia thought.

‘Nothing’s altered. Well, nothing that affects our situation I’m afraid. We should accept their offer. At least it’s one in the eye for the Americans.’

‘Well, that’s marvellous,’ said Jay. He spoke quite quietly. He felt as if he was walking on ice which was not just thin, but already cracking. ‘I’m delighted.’

He smiled at her; even now, he could hardly believe it, felt terrified it was a sudden whim, that a serious argument presented to her now would make her swing away from her decision again.

‘I’m not glad,’ said Giles. ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses, Mother.’

He could hardly have said anything better calculated to confirm Celia’s position; Jay felt like cheering.

‘How very interesting,’ was all she said.

‘I shall go and call Gilmour immediately,’ said Charteris.

He was afraid that the delay might have been fatal; but Gilmour said that with a little goodwill on both sides, they should be all right.

‘Talk about a photo finish,’ he said, ‘but I think the Lytton head is just about in front.’

‘Thank God,’ said Jay.