No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (40 page)

‘It’s a wonderful piece of work,’ said Oliver, smiling gently at him,

‘truly wonderful. We are very lucky to have it.’

‘Thank your wife,’ said Sebastian, ‘she fought off all comers. Although,’ he added, ‘I looked at the publishing houses of London and thought that of all of them, I would feel most at home with yours.’

‘Good,’ said Oliver, ‘I’m glad. We must be doing something right. Well, what can I add to this discussion? The publishing schedule looks fine, and—’

‘No need to add anything,’ said Sebastian, ‘except your approval of the book, of course. I’m so delighted you’re happy with it.’

Oliver looked at him, and Celia, intercepting that look, saw just for a moment a faint glimpse of the pre-war Oliver, the one she had done battle with so many times, brilliant yes, innovative certainly, but quietly arrogant, intent on holding his own position. He would not like to be told he might have nothing to add.

‘Oh, I have a few suggestions,’ he said now. ‘I wonder if you’re quite happy with the jacket illustration? It’s very adult. And—’

‘I’m ecstatically happy with it,’ said Sebastian, ‘and besides, I do agree with you, it is very adult but that’s because the book is for rather adult children.’

‘I think that might be a mistake,’ said Oliver, ‘I personally think this will appeal to a huge range of children, but remember it will be mostly adults buying it. They may feel it looks a little alienating for a children’s book.’

‘Oliver, I don’t agree,’ said Celia, ‘there’s nothing alienating about the jacket, it’s beautiful. Magical. Anyone would be drawn to it—’

‘I understand everything you’re saying,’ said Oliver, ‘that both of you are saying, indeed. But I also know that there is a danger in making assumptions about such things. I have a long experience in books and—’

‘I do know that,’ said Celia, ‘of course. And so do I. But this book is unique, it’s like no other, it breaks entirely new ground. And I certainly don’t want some infantile illustration on the jacket—’

‘I’m not proposing an infantile illustration,’ said Oliver coldly,

‘Naturally. But I would like to see some alternatives. Something less abstract.’

‘I really doubt that I should like that as much,’ said Sebastian, ‘but we can certainly try, I suppose.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘I think we should. And of course we won’t proceed without your approval. Mind you,’ he smiled at Sebastian, then glanced at Celia, the smile fading, ‘we don’t usually allow our authors to make such decisions. You are very much in the minority.’

‘Well, that’s good to know,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s certainly one of the things I would have looked for in my publisher. To allow a writer no say in the design of his jacket illustration seems to me like allowing a parent no say in the name of his child. Heavens, look at the time. I must go. Thank you for your time, Mr Lytton. I appreciate your making the effort to see me. I know you’ve had a rotten time. But it’s good to know you must be feeling a little better.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘I am. And nothing is proving better medicine that becoming involved in the company again. I have greatly enjoyed this afternoon. Goodbye, Mr Brooke. Thank you for letting us publish your book.’

‘Thank your wife,’ said Sebastian, ‘as I said. She has been the architect of the whole thing. And is a most marvellous editor, too.’

‘Have you experience of other editors?’ asked Oliver, mildly. ‘I understood this was your first work.’

‘It is. But I have a great friend who is a writer. She has told me horror stories about editors.’

‘I see. Well, there are no such stories about Celia. As far as I know. Are there, Celia?’

‘No,’ said Celia. ‘no, I don’t think so.’

She wondered why suddenly she felt so chilled; chilled and depressed. ‘So you’ll brief that girl to do some alternative jackets, will you?’ said Oliver when Sebastian had gone. ‘Less abstract, I think. They can still be very beautiful, in keeping with the book.’

‘Oliver, I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Everyone loves that jacket, it’s so sophisticated and original.’

‘Precisely. And this is a children’s book. Shall I talk to her – what’s she called – or will you?’

‘Oh – I will,’ said Celia hastily. ‘Gill is her name. Gill Thomas, she’s exceedingly talented.’

‘James Sharpe will be back with us shortly,’ said Oliver, ‘he’s had a lucky war. Unlike Richard, poor devil.’

Richard Douglas had been killed at Passchendaele; Celia who had loved him dearly, despite many stormy editorial meetings and clashes of will and opinion, had been horribly distressed by the news.

‘Yes. Er – Oliver, about James Sharpe. I know he was Lyttons’ art director, but now—’

‘Darling, if you will forgive me, I think I might go home now,’ said Oliver, ‘I feel dreadfully tired. But it has been the most marvellous tonic, coming in today. And I like Sebastian Brooke very much. Nice chap. Hugely talented, obviously. I look forward to working with him. Tell me, Celia, how much exactly did you have to offer to secure the book?’

‘Well – quite a lot. I did try to talk to you about it, but you were still feeling very frail.’

‘I presume though, you discussed it with LM?’

‘No,’ said Celia, ‘actually, no, I didn’t. I didn’t get a chance. I had to make a fast decision. Paul Davis was saying that he had half London after it, and clearly that was true; several people have told me how lucky we are to have it.’

‘I wouldn’t trust Paul Davis if he told me night followed day,’ said Oliver, ‘dreadful fellow. I’m surprised Brooke is with him.’

‘In that instance, Oliver, I had to trust him. I felt I had to anyway.’

‘So—’

Celia took a deep breath and said, ‘Well—’ then salvation arrived in the form of Janet Gould.

‘Daniels is asking if you want him to wait here, with the car, Mr Lytton, or if there’s anything else he can do, either for you or Lady Celia.’

‘Oh, no. No I want him to take me home.’ said Oliver, ‘tell him I’ll be along imediately. Celia, we can continue this discussion at home. Unless you want to come with me now.’

‘No I can’t possibly come with you now,’ said Celia, not sure if she was amused or outraged at this suggestion, ‘it’s only half past four. I have an incredible amount to do yet. I’ll see you at dinner. Now be sure to have a rest, won’t you? You do look exhausted.’

‘Yes, yes. I will. Thank you, Mrs Gould.’ He smiled at her; his frail, weary smile. It was beginning to irritate Celia, that smile.

‘How are you Mr Lytton? It’s good to have you back in the office.’

‘Thank you. I’m feeling much stronger now, every day. And I shall be in at least twice a week, from now on. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’

After he had gone, Celia sat staring out of the window, trying to analyse where her sense of cold and depression had come from. It wasn’t from Oliver interfering in the jacket design; it wasn’t the thought of James Sharpe coming back; it wasn’t even the thought of having to tell Oliver what she had paid by way of an advance for
Meridian
. Suddenly she knew. It was Sebastian’s casual reference to his great friend who had horror stories to tell about editors. A female friend. Well, it was quite absurd of her to feel that. Of course he would have a female friend. He would have a hundred probably. Ridiculous of her to even think that he might not. She knew so little about him. Whether or not he was married, even, had ever been married. He was a complete mystery to her. Well, that was all right. Perfectly all right. He was one of her authors, nothing more. His friends, male or female, were of no importance whatsoever. She decided to cheer herself up by going to see her dressmaker.

For the upper classes at least, England was returning to her former self; the seals on the cellar doors of Buckingham Palace had been broken on Armistice night and the court had been revived with all its pre-war splendour. The great London houses, including the Beckenhams’ in Clarges Street, had been reopened, and the dust sheets shaken off, cellars re-stocked, domestic staff re-employed.

Celia needed day dresses, evening dresses, coats, shoes, and, above all, hats; the first Derby, followed by the first Ascot since the war were only a few weeks away and she had nothing to wear, absolutely nothing at all. She was going to both with her parents and her sister Caroline – Oliver having a marked aversion to horses in general and race meetings, however glamorous, in particular. She was looking forward to it enormously, desperate for some fun. She and her father were also going to one of the first post-war royal garden parties; Lord Beckenham particularly enjoyed those, and would wander round happily, teacup in hand, studying not only the young female guests, but the female palace servants, who were often rather pretty. Lady Beckenham had also been asked to give a dinner party for a court ball towards the end of June. And then there would be Giles’s first Fourth of June at Eton. That would be the best fun; the twins and Barty would come to that, she must get them something really very special to wear.

Serious as Celia was about her career, passionately as she loved her work, deeply as she still believed in, if not was quite able to adhere to, the socialist ideals of her youth, she also adored the official social scene, even while acknowledging its foolishness; she loved its colour, its glamour, its rituals. The fact that Oliver disapproved of it, was, this year at least, although she would not admit it, even to herself, an added factor in her enjoyment. He was happy for her to entertain at Cheyne Walk, indeed he greatly valued her skills as a literary hostess, but the pleasure she took in attending purely social events, her love of gossip and her mild addiction to such publications as the
Tatler
and
The Daily Sketch
, even her devotion to her wardrobe, all mildly distressed him.

Before the war he had reluctantly attended a few of the events, had even occasionally submitted to the rigours of court dress, with its velvet cutaway coat, knee breeches, silk stockings and cocked hat, but his experiences in the war, the horrors he had witnessed, had made such superficial formalities abhorrent to him, a betrayal of the person he had become, and he told Celia so. She had said she understood, and would not dream of forcing him, while adding that she did hope he wouldn’t object to her own attendance. Oliver, knowing that an objection would be in any case overruled, said that of course he would not.

He was, however, furiously angry about the five hundred and fifty pounds advance. It was a long time since she had seen him so angry.

‘How could you possibly commit that sort of money to one book, when by your own admission, Lyttons is in considerable financial difficulties? Without clearing it with anyone at all—’

‘Oliver, there was no one to clear it with.’

‘LM was there.’

‘She was, but—’

‘But what?’

‘I told you. I had to make this decision very quickly.’

‘Oh Celia, for heaven’s sake. You should never be rushed on something like that. You know perfectly well.’

‘Oliver, don’t talk to me as if I was some junior clerk. And, with respect, you weren’t there. You haven’t been there for some time—’

‘I hope you aren’t blaming me for that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m not blaming you. I’m simply saying that I knew exactly the situation, the difficulties we were in. As you do not. And I knew we had to have this book. Well, a big book. A book which would sell in huge numbers and gain us prestige. It was essential.’

‘I find it hard to believe that it was sensible give five hundred and fifty pounds to an unknown author, if we were in financial difficulties.’

‘Oliver, don’t over-simplify. He may be unknown, but you can see as well as I can that the book is extraordinary. The whole situation was extraordinary. The war was over, things were getting back to normal, everyone was fighting over properties. We had to be in there with a proper chance.’

‘Well,’ he said, after a silence, ‘I am deeply unhappy about it. Deeply. I don’t know how you can possibly justify it. Given the problems we have.’

‘I think I can justify it,’ she said, ‘but you have to trust me. Let me prove it to you.’

‘But, Celia, even if I did – even if you are right – the figures are very bad. I’ve been looking at them. The staff are going to be asking for wage increases. Prices are soaring. What you’ve given Sebastian Brooke represents two, or even three clerks’ wages for a year. How can you justify that to LM and to me?’

‘I – can’t I suppose,’ she said.

‘Is it too late to withdraw this offer?’

‘Oliver, of course it’s too late. The book is being typeset now, the jacket has been designed—’

‘It’s being redesigned.’

She ignored this with an effort. ‘Editing is under way, we would lose face, quite apart from it being an extremely unprofessional thing to do.’

‘He seems fairly committed to us. Do you think he would take a lower advance anyway?’

‘Oliver, no. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. It would be an appalling thing to do. If—’ she hesitated.

‘Yes?’

‘If you are absolutely set against this advance being paid, I am prepared to find it out of my own bank account.’

He stared at her; his face looked even more gaunt than usual.

‘You would find five hundred and fifty pounds out of your own income, to pay Sebastian Brooke?’

‘Yes. Yes I would. Doesn’t that illustrate the extent of my belief in
Meridian
?’

He still stared at her. There was a very odd expression in his eyes. ‘I’m not sure what it illustrates,’ he said, ‘but I am certainly not prepared to let you do it.’

That night, for the first time, he asked if he might come to her room. And haltingly at first, began to kiss her, to caress her; Celia, her body greedy, hungry for him, for sex, responded, felt herself liquid, achingly ready for him, began to move her hands over him, to kiss him harder, her mouth working on his. But then:

‘Not now,’ he said, pulling away from her, and turning back with a huge, heavy sigh, ‘not yet. Please. I’m sorry.’

‘But,’ she said, ‘but Oliver, I thought—’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, ‘I can’t. I wanted to hold you, to know you again. But that is all. For now. Please.’