CHAPTER 33
It was the small, unexpected things which hurt the most, Jenna had discovered. You could grit your teeth each day, say yes, your mother had died, that it was terrible, dreadful, but you could survive, you had to survive. You got up in the morning, went through the motions, you got dressed, went to classes, talked to your friends, ate your lunch, even occasionally found something funny, or interesting or both, even more occasionally found yourself actually wanting to do something, like play in a match, read the latest Seventeen magazine, try a new hairstyle. And then you’d go into your dressing-table drawer and find a bracelet your mother had lent you, that you’d forgotten to give her back, that you’d sworn you had given back, that there’d been an argument over, and you’d sit there, hearing her voice, hearing her say, ‘Jenna, you did not give me that bracelet back. Now go and look for it, please’, and you’d sit staring at the bracelet, seeing it most vividly on your mother’s wrist, her thin wrist, vividly at first, and then less so because the picture would be blurred by your tears.
Or there’d be a letter for her, lying on the mat, probably just a circular of some kind, or letters about shares or something, and you’d realise that to the people who’d addressed the envelope, typed her name, she was still alive, still able to pick letters up and open them and act on them, or throw them in the waste-paper basket, that she was not dead, not lying at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, out of reach for ever.
Or you’d be sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, flicking the pages of some old society magazine, and there she’d be at a party, laughing, talking, holding a glass, her hair as always drifting slightly untidily around her face. ‘Miss Barty Miller,’ it would say, ‘Chief Executive of the Lyttons publishing company with—’ and you’d sit there shocked, looking at her there, quite alive, perfectly happy, about to leave the party and come home again, come home for supper and chat and arguments, instead of being gone for ever, removed from the magazines and the parties and the Lytton publishing company, never coming home any more.
Those were the worst things.
And all the first times, those were difficult: the first back-to-school, the first exeat, the first family birthday – Cathy’s, it had been, early in April, and they’d all tried very hard, but Barty had always been so good at birthdays, she had not only given lovely presents, but had arranged fun outings or parties, found new games to play, that, try as they might, they all found themselves sinking suddenly into a dreadful aching silence, which had sent Jenna fleeing to her room in an agony of tears while Cathy and Charlie visited her one at a time to try to comfort her and failed absolutely.
And the first trip to South Lodge, their special place, hers and her mother’s where, ever since she was the tiniest little girl, she had been taken, where she had spent her happiest times, where, in the house that he had built, she had felt somehow closer to the father she had never known, that had been awful: to go there without her mother, to walk on the shore without her, stand on the verandah and look down at the ocean, hear the wind in the grasses, taste the salt in the wind, all without her, it was like a long, dreadful dream from which there was no awakening.
Cathy had been great; Jenna forgave her everything in those first few weeks: her silliness, her vanity, her nonsensical flirtatiousness with Fergal and indeed anyone else. She was genuinely grief-stricken herself, they cried together, and she told Jenna how much she had loved Barty, how much she would miss her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said to her, the very first night, ‘so sorry I said mean things about your mother sometimes. I didn’t mean them, she was so great.’
‘I said mean things too,’ said Jenna, touched by this confession, ‘mostly to her. I’d give anything in the world to have her back so I could say sorry. All those fights we had. But – ’ her lip trembled ‘ – but the last thing I said to her was that I loved her. That kind of – helps a tiny bit.’
‘You see, I just can’t remember my mother,’ said Cathy. ‘I was so small. I can remember what she looked like, and I can remember her being ill, having to go away quite a lot—’
‘Away? What, to the hospital?’
‘Yes. Like when she fell downstairs.’
‘She fell downstairs?’
‘Yeah, quite often.’
‘Oh,’ said Jenna, ‘maybe she was just terribly weak.’
‘Maybe. And I can just about remember sitting on her knee, and being hugged. But that’s all. So – there’s not so much to miss, I guess. And I did have my dad,’ she added.
‘Yes,’ said Jenna, ‘yes, you’re so lucky, Cathy, in your dad.’
‘Well – you get to share him,’ said Cathy. ‘I hope it helps a bit.’
‘It does. Thanks, Cathy.’
It did help, of course: more than a bit. Charlie was great, not just kind, not just concerned, but wonderfully sympathetic. He seemed to know when one of the unexpected things had happened, he was extremely worried when they first went to South Lodge, even asked Jenna if she’d rather be there alone; he spent hours talking to her, listening to her – and when she wanted it, rather than when it suited him. He never minded if she told him to go away when she was crying, rather than asking for a cuddle, never took it personally, and was genuinely grieving himself. She found that comforting too: that he missed and longed for her mother so much. It seemed to her dreadful that they should have been separated for those last few weeks and she said so; ‘It was so good of you, staying behind to take care of Mrs Norton. We all thought so. Did you speak to Mother before – before she left England that day?’
‘No,’ he said and sighed, ‘no, I didn’t. But I was all set to go and meet her at the airport and I was so excited, like a kid out of school. And then – ’ he stopped, his face working.
Jenna looked up at him and slipped her hand into his, gave him a kiss.
‘It’s so horrible isn’t it?’ she said.
He actually cried sometimes; she had heard him, alone in his study, late at night, a dreadful, painful sound, and he wept with her too, occasionally, holding her in his arms. She sometimes thought she could not have got through it at all without him, without knowing how much he shared her grief. Poor Charlie; life had been very cruel to him. Sally Norton had died; she had a second stroke very suddenly. Charlie went alone to the funeral; he said it would be more than the girls could bear. He came back looking rather pale and was very quiet, and they made a great fuss of him, cooked him his favourite supper, and then tactfully left him alone. Jenna thought she heard him on the phone later, arguing with someone; but she wasn’t sure. In any case, she felt it best not to interfere.
Everyone tried to help, of course; some more successfully than others. A lot of people said too much, pouring sympathy all over her like treacle. Tory and Venetia, for example: she liked them both, but she just didn’t need to be hugged and kissed and cried over. Izzie was wonderful, just quietly there. So was Noni, which was odd, seeing as how gushy she normally was, even more so than her aunt. Sebastian had been very untreacly, had asked if she’d like to come and see him, given her a giant hug on the doorstep and said he couldn’t think of anything to say, but if she wanted to talk, he’d listen.
‘Otherwise, we’ll just try and get through it together, shall we? I need some help sorting out some old manuscripts, want to help?’
Back home, Mr and Mrs Mills had been a bit treacly, but clearly so upset themselves that she’d forgiven them. Maria had cried endlessly, but Jenna had expected that; on the other hand, she talked about her mother for hours, and that seemed to help, it was all so warm and loving and realistic, somehow. She’d talk about the bad things too, well not the bad ones, but how Barty had been so fussy with them both, got so cross when they were untidy, how badly she used to cook but would still insist on doing it. It meant sometimes they even ended up laughing.
Lucas astonished her by writing the most amazing letter: so warm and funny and kind, telling her stories about what her mother was like when she was young, how he’d loved her tales about being in the ATS during the war, when she’d worked on the big guns, how she’d let someone into the barracks one night when she was on guard duty, not demanded the password, and he’d turned out to be some colonel person. And how he’d tried to teach her to do conjuring tricks but she was absolutely hopeless, and how she tried to teach him to climb trees, but he was too frightened.
‘She was so brave, always right at the top, and I’d be whimpering at the bottom, like the little weed I was.’
He’d been lovely after the funeral as well, came up to her and gave her a kiss and said he couldn’t think of a single thing to say except how sorry he was and how much he’d loved Barty. When she’d burst into tears later on, while everyone was leaving and he and Noni were saying goodbye, he hadn’t tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and hurried away, he’d hugged her and just stood there, holding her, not saying anything at all because it clearly wouldn’t work. He was a bit like Joe, she thought, in his own way; very quiet, but underneath the quiet, full of ideas and thoughts. Most of the family seemed to think he was awful; she really liked him.
And her uncle Jamie, he’d been absolutely lovely, so warm and unfussy and kind. She was always asking him if her father had been like him, and he said not in the least, he’d been much cleverer and more successful for a start, but she felt they must have had quite a lot in common, and it made her feel less alone, knowing he, at least, was there.
She now realised that she was, potentially at least, rather rich; Jamie had very gently gone through what her mother’s death meant to her in practical terms, had assured her that her immediate arrangements would not change, there would be funds available to supply everything that she needed.
‘But you don’t know exactly what – well, what her will – ’ she stopped, her lip trembling ‘ – what her will said.’
‘No, I don’t. Not yet. As soon as I do, of course, I’ll tell you.’
‘What about the houses, who will they belong to? Number Seven, and South Lodge?’
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. But we’ll get an idea very soon. I have to say I would be very surprised if they didn’t stay with you.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She looked at him. ‘So we don’t have to move, or anything?’
‘Of course not. Not the slightest chance. Unless you want to, that is.’ He smiled at her, his warm, lovely smile.
‘Of course I don’t. And – what about Lyttons?’
‘Well, as you know, your mother owned Lyttons personally. Fifty per cent is in trust for you, and the Lytton family have a thirty-two-per-cent share in Lyttons London. Now, that might change. The Lyttons have an option to buy the remaining sixty-eight per cent of those shares. That means that they have the right to buy those shares at a special price, to be agreed between their lawyers and ours and the trustees.’
‘I see. Well – I expect they will. I hope so, anyway. There seems to be rather a lot to sort out.’
‘There is quite a lot,’ he said, smiling at her gently again, ‘but you don’t have to worry about any of it. Kyle and I and Martin Gilroy, we are still the trustees of your estate, as we have been for most of your life, and we’ll look after it for you. We have a legal duty to act in your best interests, and to make sure that any decisions we take meet that test. And nothing is going to change for the time being, as I told you. You have plenty of money in your own trust fund, apart from what’s in the will. Any questions?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘except why did it have to happen, I guess. And – will Charlie get anything?’
‘Once again, I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘I hope he does. He ought to. I often thought it was kind of hard for him, having to accept everything from Mother.’
‘Maybe,’ said Jamie. He looked a bit odd as he said it, she thought. ‘And of course he has his company now, his classic car company, which is his, to run as he likes.’
‘Might he get something of Lyttons? That would be so nice. Could I do that anyway, give him some of my shares? I’d rather like him to be part of it.’
‘Only if I and the other trustees feel it’s in your best interests,’ said Jamie.
‘But they belong to me. Not the trustees.’
‘They are yours. But you’re a minor. Until you’re twenty-one, we have to decide all that sort of thing for you.’
‘But – why should you decide against it? Mother loved Charlie, they were really happy, I love him, he’s helped me so much. If I want him to have some shares, why can’t he, what harm could it do?’
‘I – don’t think it would do any harm,’ said Jamie, ‘I wasn’t suggesting that, it was just that the trustees have to take all these decisions for you.’
‘I see. Well, I can’t see why you should refuse. Can I make a formal request for that, please?’
‘Not yet,’ said Jamie, ‘we’re waiting for something called probate. That means the will being effective, indeed legal. It could take some time.’
‘How much time?’
‘Oh – many months. At least nine months, I’d say, possibly even a year.’
‘How could it, what’s so complicated?’
He explained some of the intricacies: she listened carefully.
‘OK. You know, I think I might be a lawyer, it quite intrigues me.
Anyway, the minute it’s granted, probate I mean, I want Charlie to have some Lytton shares. OK?’
‘OK, we’ll consider it very carefully.’
‘Jamie,’ she said, and suddenly he saw Laurence in her, in the set of the neat little jaw, the hardening in the blue-green eyes, ‘Jamie, it’s not a lot to ask. I want that. If it’s going to be my company, I want Charlie to have some of it. All right?’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll make a note, look, put it in the file ready for when we get probate. Then it can be discussed. I can’t do more than that, Jenna, it’s the law.’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ she said, and stood up, walked out, and slammed the door. He watched her. Sometimes it was hard to believe she was so young.
The Lyttons sat in the boardroom with Harold Charteris, the company secretary; he had had a call from Dean Harmsworth, the company secretary in New York, with whom he was on very good terms.
‘It seems there is a valid will,’ he said, ‘made and registered after Mrs Patterson’s marriage.’
‘So Charlie Patterson won’t get his hands on the company,’ said Celia. ‘Isn’t that right, Mr Charteris?’
‘Well – unless she decided to leave it to him.’
‘Absolutely out of the question,’ said Jay.
‘I – wouldn’t know,’ said Charteris carefully, ‘but it seems very unlikely.’
‘Did he give you any idea of the contents of the will?’
‘No. But he said he would as soon as possible. We may have to wait for probate to be granted unless the lawyers give us the details. They usually do. Probate will take a long time in my opinion, because of the complexity of the estate. And it’s always more difficult with privately owned companies, because it’s so much more difficult to establish the company’s value. Then the IRS have to move in—’
‘Who are the IRS?’ said Venetia.
‘The Internal Revenue Service. The US tax men. It’s going to take many, many months. A year, possibly longer. But your option is there to buy the shares in Lyttons London, that has nothing to do with the will. There is a time limit on the option, namely exactly one year from the date of Mrs Patterson’s death, and the American board must be notified that you wish to exercise your option, within that time limit. By my calculation, that takes us to the eighth of March 1959. After that, you have ten business days in which to pay for the shares. Failure to meet any of this timetable will mean you will lose the option. There is absolutely no leeway. I cannot stress enough how important this is. On the other hand, a year is a very generous timespan in which to exercise a share option.’
‘One would have expected generosity,’ said Celia, her voice just a trifle cool. ‘Barty was, after all, one of the family.’
‘Of course. Now, a notice in writing that you wish to exercise the option must be delivered to the company secretary of Lyttons New York; you can do that yourselves or our solicitors can do it for you. I would advise not delivering the notice until you are absolutely confident the funds are in place; after that, you will only have ten working days to obtain them.’
There was a silence; then, ‘Well, I think we should be able to find the money in that sort of time,’ said Giles.
‘I hope so. The first thing we must do is brief a firm of chartered accountants to put a value on the shares. They must be an independent firm, obviously, and will act as arbitrators between you and the trustees in America. Who of course, together with the existing directors, are now, for all practical purposes, running the company.’
‘What an appalling thought,’ said Celia. ‘What do the trustees know about publishing?’
‘Kyle Brewer knows a bit,’ said Venetia mildly. She couldn’t resist it; her mother’s antagonism towards the Brewers intrigued her.
Celia glared at her. ‘Very little, I do assure you,’ she said. ‘I have met him fairly recently, and I was quite surprised by his lack of grasp of some of the most basic things.’
‘I don’t think you need worry, Lady Celia,’ said Harold Charteris. ‘The editorial board in New York will still be in charge of editorial matters, I feel sure. It would be madness to change those arrangements.’
‘I’m sure Mr Charteris is right, Mother,’ said Giles, ‘and can I just say, Mr Charteris, we will work closely with you and the accountants. We’d better have a meeting with them as soon as possible.’
‘Very well. Now, you realise we could be looking at a very substantial amount of money here.’
‘Like – what?’ said Jay.
‘Obviously it’s very difficult to say. The shares are privately held, they have no published value. Normally, of course, a price is arrived at by comparison with the shares of a similar-sized company, but I would say, at a very rough estimate, we would be looking at not less than two million pounds. It could be more, the New York board will naturally want to talk the price up. You could be looking at a very high valuation indeed.’
There was another silence; then, ‘Well, we can raise that sort of money perfectly easily,’ said Celia. ‘There would be absolutely no problem.’
Charteris cleared his throat. ‘Hopefully not, Lady Celia, but there could be. The company has been doing pretty well over the past couple of years, but it is far from rich. In cash terms quite the reverse. The risks would be high. And—’
‘Mr Charteris,’ said Jay hastily, seeing Celia’s expression move from cold to icy, ‘what steps should we take, exactly? To raise the money? I know we’ve got twelve months, but what with the valuation and so on, we really can’t afford to waste any time.’
‘Well it isn’t entirely straightforward. If it was a public company, of course, there ought to be no problem finding a bank, to underwrite a rights issue. Small private companies such as this are in a much more difficult position. My advice would be to go to one of these outfits like ICFC. They—’
‘I do so loathe this fashion for using initials instead of proper names,’ said Celia. ‘So sloppy, so—’
‘Mother, please!’ said Giles. ‘Let Mr Charteris finish.’
‘ICFC stands for the Industrial and Commercial Finance Corporation, Lady Celia.’ Harold Charteris smiled at her.
He’s got the patience of a saint, thought Jay, and just as well. He could see Celia scuppering any attempts at a deal if they weren’t all very careful.
Celia nodded graciously at Charteris. ‘Do go on.’
‘They were set up with the precise purpose of encouraging entrepreneurial activity. To help small companies acquire capital. I would suggest a meeting with them at the earliest possible opportunity. They’re very helpful, very helpful indeed. Although – ’ he hesitated, glanced at Celia rather warily, ‘they will inevitably look at us with quite a beady eye. All money is loaned with a view to return on investment. And of course they want security.’
‘Well, we can offer them that. Lyttons itself represents a great deal of money.’
‘Not in terms they would understand, I’m afraid. A publishing company doesn’t have any assets, you see, and—’
‘No assets!’ said Celia. ‘Of course Lyttons has assets, this is one of the most successful publishing houses in the world—’
‘By assets, Lady Celia, I mean tangible ones. Properties, equipment, machinery, that kind of thing.’
‘He’s right, Celia,’ said Jay, ‘our assets are our authors. Apart from this very nice building and the warehouse in Kent, a few typewriters and so on, we don’t have anything we could actually put a price on. The true value of our company is impossible to calculate. It’s angels on the head of a pin stuff.’
‘I have never heard anything quite so absurd in my life,’ said Celia. ‘And I’m very surprised at you, Jay, even voicing such a view. Lyttons is a venerable publishing house, how can you possibly dismiss it as worthless?’
‘Mummy he’s talking about hard cash,’ said Venetia, ‘not our literary heritage. Please, Mr Charteris, do go ahead and arrange a meeting with these people. As soon as possible.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Jay, ‘we’ll make ourselves available whenever you need us. Now we have another immediate problem, in my view. Who are we supposed to report to?’
His answer came a week later, in a letter from Marcus Forrest to Giles.
‘I think we should meet as soon as possible to establish a chain of command. Perhaps you or Jay Lytton might come to New York, or, if you prefer, members of our board and editorial staff could come to London.’
‘Chain of command!’ said Celia. ‘Dreadful expression. I trust they are not going to try and suggest we are to be anywhere but at the front of such a thing.’
‘I think they might,’ said Jay.
Celia was at home having breakfast when the jewellery box arrived from Claridges. She nodded, took it from Mrs Hardwicke, and went upstairs to her room, where she sat looking at it for some time through a haze of tears. She had given it to Barty herself; it was very pretty, quite small, a travelling case, really, made of cedarwood. She tried to open it; it was locked. Just as well. Looking at Barty’s jewellery, some of which she had undoubtedly given her, lying there unworn, in some strange way abandoned, would have been extremely painful. Odd how it was these small things which hurt the most. Well, there was no rush. She would put it in her own safe, and give it to Jenna, the next time she saw her. That was what Barty would have wanted. And maybe there would be a key at the American house; it would be a pity to force the lock. ‘Oh Barty,’ she said aloud, smoothing the inlaid lid with her hand very tenderly, ‘oh Barty, I miss you so.’
Venetia looked at Adele, sipping tea and nibbling at cucumber sandwiches as if she was at a garden party, and thought how incredible it was that she should remember nothing of what she had been through during the last few hours.
She never did; this had been her third electric shock treatment, and each time Venetia expected her to come back from the treatment heavily traumatised, but each time she got the same rather vague smile, the same complaint of a ‘bit of a headache’, and then when they got home, the same polite acceptance of tea, of a piece of cake, and the same slightly vapid conversation.
Venetia always went with her; the first time Adele had been terrified, in spite of the doctor’s encouraging words. He had been franker, but equally reassuring, with Venetia.
‘Don’t look so anxious, Mrs Warwick. She’ll go into hospital – as my patient, into St Christopher’s – in the morning, at about nine. First we would sedate her, then give her a muscle relaxant and so on, she won’t even see the electrodes, they’ll be on the trolley behind her. As soon as the anaesthetic is effective, we place the electrodes on her head. What we’re doing is passing low voltage electricity through the brain, and the effect – to witness, anyway – is exactly like that of an epileptic fit.’
‘It sounds ghastly,’ said Venetia with a shudder. ‘Are you quite sure she won’t – won’t suffer?’
‘I’m quite sure. And please believe me, it should help her. Nobody knows quite how it works, but it does.’
‘And – how quickly?’
‘She’d have to have two, possibly three, treatments a week. Some people feel better immediately, some after four or five treatments. She’d probably have six altogether. After which most patients recover quite astonishingly from their depression, say they feel normal, in fact. It’s remarkable to witness. I really would advise it, she’s still very depressed, and she needs to face her past. It’s actually her past which I think is causing her greatest problems, not her present.’
‘Well – I’ll talk to her about it.’
She did; Adele was fearful, but resigned. She had great faith in Dr Cunningham, and if he thought ECT was going to help her, then she was prepared to be brave and submit herself to it.
And so they went: together, of course. They might now be two very different people, but they were still identical twins, still almost telepathically close, still uniquely able to understand and identify with one another. Adele clung to Venetia’s hand in the taxi, silent, white-faced with terror, and still begging that her sister be with her until she was unconscious. They agreed; Adele was wheeled away, and then returned to Venetia, and proceeded to sleep for a couple of hours. After that she was seen by Dr Cunningham and at tea time allowed to go home.
For poor Venetia, imagining her sister having wires attached to her head, then shocked into uncontrollable fits behind the closed door, the experience was far worse.
There was little effect the first three times; then after the fourth, Adele announced that she wanted to go to Woollands on the way home.
‘I’m so sick of looking like a fright. Do let’s. And have tea there.’
Venetia refused to allow that, but said they could go in the morning; Adele, a little subdued but otherwise cheerful, bought three suits, a dress and jacket and four pairs of shoes.
Dr Cunningham was delighted.
After the fifth session, she said she would like to take Venetia, her mother, Noni and Lucas out to dinner, ‘to say thank you’, and was able to discuss Barty’s death tearfully but easily; after the sixth and last, she announced what she wanted to do most in the world was go out with her camera and take some photographs.
A week later she said she wanted to go to Paris to see Madame André; would Venetia go with her?
‘I know that’s what I’ve got to do, Venetia. I should have done it years ago. I’ve got to – well, lay some ghosts. I feel as if I’ve been running away from it all, from the memories, and what really happened, from why I did it. I think if I go back there, face it all, I’ll feel better. I can’t see Bernard Touvier, who wrote to tell me Luc had been shot, he’s died. But Madame André is still there. Will you come, darling? Please?’
Venetia said she would; the next day Adele phoned her, her voice light with joy. Lucas wanted to go with them.
Jamie Elliott looked at Charlie, sitting in his office, clearly and genuinely distressed, his hands twisting together, his face pale and haggard, and felt considerable sympathy for him; while still noticing the perfectly cut suit, the fine lawn shirt, the Gucci loafers, the gold Rolex watch, and contrasting him with the Charlie Patterson he had first met, with his frayed shirt cuffs and down-at-heel shoes.
Charlie had suggested the meeting: ‘To discuss Jenna’s future. Just informally, of course, I don’t want to involve anyone else at this stage. But you are her uncle, after all, and I thought therefore we should be in close contact.’
‘Of course. But I don’t see there’s much of a problem at the moment,’ said Jamie, ‘she’s a minor, we will continue to administer her trust fund until she comes of age. You, as her stepfather, will continue to have daily care of her. And I’m sure you will do that conscientiously. She’s very fond of you, she was telling me that only the other day, when she came to have supper with me.’
‘That’s good to know,’ said Charlie, ‘and of course I’ll do – I am doing – everything in my power to take care of her, and to help her through this.’
‘I know you are. Now, in the immediate future, your own financial situation is, as I understand it, pretty straight forward.’
‘Well – I have the income from my new company. Which is fairly puny.’
‘Ye-es. But I mean the day-to-day stuff. You will clearly continue to take responsibility for her.’
He had been faintly surprised that Barty had not changed that arrangement, had not asked him – or Kyle – to take it on. But then, whatever else, Charlie was wonderfully good with Jenna, who loved him dearly. And, of course, she would hardly have expected a guardianship to come into play so soon. Poor Barty. He cleared his throat, fixed his eyes on Charlie.
‘Of course I will. And I want her to have as little change as possible in her life. For instance, I would like her to stay at Dana Hall. The fees would presumably come out of the original trust fund? The one not subject to the will.’
‘Oh, yes, they certainly would.’
‘And – her day-to-day expenses, her clothes, her spending money, the upkeep of her pony, all that sort of thing?’
‘Yes. All of it. Naturally, we would have to set up some kind of immediate system to enable us to pay all those bills direct, out of the estate, certainly until probate has been granted, but – yes. And the housekeeping, food and staff, that will come out of the trust fund too. Cathy’s school fees and other maintenance, I imagine you will meet from your own funds, the salary you draw from your own company.’
‘Yes, of course. Not that it is very lucrative at the moment. I’ve been forced to neglect it, obviously, what with other claims on my attention. But within the next few months, I hope I can nurse it back to life.’
‘I hope you can, too,’ said Jamie.
‘What happens to the company? To Lyttons?’
‘Lyttons?’ Jamie managed to look as puzzled as Charlie himself. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘Where will the shares go now? I’m very shaky on such matters.’
‘Well, it is, of course, subject to probate. Half the shares are already in Jenna’s trust fund, of course.’
‘And the rest? Is there any chance they might go on the market? Once probate is granted, and the way ahead is clear?’
‘I very much doubt it. Lyttons is not a publicly quoted company. Of course, the other trustees might feel now was the time to float part of the company, I believe that’s an increasing trend in England at least. But that wouldn’t happen in the foreseeable future.’
‘Well – ’ there was a pause. Charlie was clearly thinking, or pretending to think. ‘ – I am part of the family now. More than ever, it could be argued. Perhaps it might be possible for me to obtain a few shares?’
‘It – might be,’ said Jamie carefully, ‘but I’m not sure how. Lyttons is a family company. The Lytton family have an option to buy the UK shares, which I understand they intend to exercise. That is not subject to the will. Anyone who takes those shares under the will takes them subject to that option. You could put in a request, when probate has been granted, to buy some of the US ones. I have no idea how we would value them. But I could put it to the board—’
‘Yes, I see. Oh dear, we’re rushing ahead, rather, aren’t we?’
‘I’m not,’ said Jamie mildly.
‘Well, as you say, it’s all going to take time. There’s no rush. But the thing is – I would like to think I had a few shares, was part of the Lytton family firm. As I am raising a member of the family. A very important member.’
For which you clearly feel you should get a few free shares, thought Jamie. Oh dear. Jenna might love Charlie, she undoubtedly did love him; she was certainly very dependent on him emotionally. And Charlie was her legal guardian. But he was not to be trusted. That much was very clear. And there was still the ongoing matter of the forged cheques. Barty would still be alive but for that.
This was a chilling thought, which Jamie, like the handful of other people who knew the facts behind Barty’s return, tried to dismiss. It had been a ghastly accident; nobody’s fault. That was the only way to think about it. Otherwise they would all go mad.
Marcus Forrest smiled at Jay; Jay smiled back. They appeared to be two civilised, successful men, sharing a pot of excellent New York coffee. In fact they were gladiators, about to go into battle. A battle over editorial control of Lyttons London, and how far that control should extend. It was a difficult one.
‘Perhaps we should start by looking at how you functioned when Barty was alive,’ said Forrest. ‘As I understand it, you discussed virtually everything with her: major purchases, of books, that is, and the subsequent contracts, promotional budgets, publication schedules—’
‘Yes,’ said Jay, ‘that’s correct. But—’
‘Jay, let’s not get involved in further detail at this stage. And then she, and the board of course, had approval of your twice-yearly budgets, any major expenditure, staff changes at a senior level—’
‘Yes—’
‘Right. Well, I see no reason for that to change, do you? You and I can work in exactly the same way.’
‘I’m – not sure that’s going to be possible,’ said Jay. ‘Not in quite the same way.’
Marcus Forrest raised his eyebrows. He had rather fine eyebrows, very thick and blond; he was rather fine looking altogether, very patrician, very East Coast, fair, with a narrow face, a long nose, and very light blue eyes. He was tall, thin, elegant and very witty, good company; Jay had always liked him. And admired him, had admired Barty’s judgement in hiring him. He was clever, a brilliant editor, possessed of a good editorial instinct. Exactly like Jay. There was one big difference though; Forrest was an intensely hard worker.
‘Why?’ he said now. ‘Why can’t we go on like that? It seemed rather gloriously simple to me.’
‘Because,’ said Jay, ‘if you will forgive me for speaking frankly—’
‘Of course.’
‘Barty had a very clear grasp of the British market. We didn’t have to explain anything to her. She knew many of the authors personally, the old stalwarts, that is, she had met all the new ones; she knew the retail outlets, the major figures in English publishing, she had always been – in effect anyway – a Lytton.’
‘I see. And does being a Lytton – in effect – bestow upon one some special powers of editorial judgement?’
‘We like to think so,’ said Jay, with a grin, ‘although not always, of course. But – what I mean is, Barty was English. She absolutely understood the English market. Decisions could be quickly made. Explanations were inevitably brief. We had developed a shorthand. I think that to carry on in exactly that way would be difficult . . .’
Forrest nodded, as if in agreement; then he said, ‘Would you say members of the family had ever been able to get around Barty?’
‘No,’ said Jay. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘It’s a pretty formidable force you have over there. Headed by the redoubtable Lady Celia.’
‘Hardly headed,’ said Jay. ‘I’m the editorial director, Celia is more of a figurehead these days—’
‘Oh really? She seems very active in the company to me. Marvellous woman, I do admire her.’
‘We all admire her,’ said Jay carefully.
‘But – she must be what – late sixties? Early seventies?’
‘Something like that. Past retirement age.’
‘Well – yes. Past it. But not actually retired. Barty had been trained by her. And brought up by her. Had grown up with all of you.’
‘Yes. I don’t quite see where this is leading.’
‘It’s leading me, Jay, to certain conclusions. That an old woman is a powerful force in that company. Too powerful, some would say. That the one person who should have been able to countermand her was – let us say – in awe of her.’
‘Absolutely untrue,’ said Jay.
‘Indeed? I had observed a degree of deference in Barty when Lady Celia came over here.’
‘She might have appeared deferential. But Barty would never have agreed to anything she didn’t approve of.’
‘I’m not so sure. Those military memoirs of General Dugdale’s, for instance, you paid an absurd price for them. He was a friend of Lady Celia’s, I believe.’
‘Marcus, I don’t quite like—’
‘And I believe Lady Celia had expressed the view that you should republish the Buchanan saga?’
‘Yes.’
‘Barty didn’t like that idea. She told me.’
‘None of us was sure about it.’
‘She also told me she was afraid she’d have to let it through; that she would trust Lady Celia’s legendary judgement. Jay, I suggest to you that Barty was not completely in control of Lyttons London.’
‘She didn’t need to be,’ said Jay. He was growing indignant now. ‘She trusted us. We ran it.’
‘I know that. With what amounted to insufficient accountability. In my view. Given your shareholding in the company I would like to see that accountability increased. As for any lack of knowledge of the London market, I can easily rectify that. I intend to spend a fair bit of time there, getting to know it intimately. Precisely so that any judgements I make are well-informed. I thought I would make my first visit in about a month’s time. I have no intention of playing the heavy father, I assure you. Now, this new series about the queens of England by Lady Annabel Muirhead, is it really such a good idea? There are several rather similar works coming out next year and—’
Jay arrived back in London exhausted, and called a board meeting; he said it was absolutely essential they pressed on with exercising their share option.
‘It’s already, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, mid-April. And if we don’t get control of the company we’re just not going to survive.’
‘Dear, dear Madame André. Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you, I never thought I would, you know. Now this is my sister, my twin sister Venetia, and this is my son, Lucas. Can you believe it, Madame André, that little tiny boy you sent off with the toy cow in his hand is this young man?’
The fluent French stopped; Venetia had only understood half of it, but she was touched by Madame André’s response, a tearful rush of affection, cries of ‘Ma chère, chère Mam’selle Adele’, as she embraced first Venetia, then Lucas, commented on his height, his good looks – ‘comme il est beau, Mam’selle’ – on how he had grown up in the intervening years.
And Adele stood there, tears streaming down her face, smiling at the same time, and Lucas put his arm round his mother’s shoulders and stood there too, smiling, half embarrassed but quite clearly very moved, looking around him, at the dark poky room which was the last, the very last he had seen of Paris, almost twenty years earlier.
The name touched Adele more than anything: the name, the silly name which had first annoyed, then amused her, and that had finally been so powerful in its ability to evoke memories. She heard it again and again, spoken in Luc’s voice, hundreds, possibly thousands of times, over their short, difficult history, as she met him, fell in love with him, bore his children – and left him. Without saying goodbye. And then received the last, final, sweet, sad letter from him, telling her that he was going into hiding, sent ‘With all my love ma chère, chère Mam’selle Adele.’
Lucas was reluctant to leave; she was surprised. Like herself, he spoke perfect French; he questioned Madame André endlessly. Had she grown up in Paris? In what other districts had she lived? What had Paris been like during the occupation? What did she remember of him and his sister, and of course his papa, what could she tell him of him as a young man?
‘Your papa found this place for your maman,’ she said. ‘He came here one evening and looked at it, and told me he was bringing his young wife here, that she was English, and expecting a baby. I told him it was not ideal to live on the top floor with a baby, but he said he knew she would love it. He was very handsome, Lucas; you look very like him. And very charming, and so excited, it was to be a surprise for your mother, you see, she knew nothing of it.’
‘He gave me the key,’ said Adele, smiling at the memory, ‘over lunch at La Closerie des Lilas and then said he would take me to the door which it fitted. Or something like that.’
And then she stopped smiling as the memory began to hurt, and said it was time they left.
She sat in her room that first night at the small hotel where they were staying, just off the Boulevard St Germain, so dangerously near her memories, and felt at first that her heart would break. There she had lived with Luc, and their two small children, in what had, for the most part, been considerable happiness and there she had left him, driven away from him out of Paris, out of France, out of his life. Without – and again she thought it, forced herself to think it – without saying goodbye.
Lucas was going out with Venetia; Adele couldn’t face it. Venetia was treating him to what she called a posh dinner at Maxims; he had his father’s love of glamour, and was struggling not to appear too excited. Adele opened her window and looked out. It was still only seven and a perfect evening; Paris was bathed in the golden light which is its speciality, dancing on the tender young leaves of the chestnut trees, settling on the silver-grey rooftops. She could hear the car horns in the street below, the gendarme’s whistles, the pigeons calling, the unmistakable sounds of Paris; suddenly, she knew what she wanted to do.
She called Venetia in her room, and told her where she was going; and then left the hotel. She walked along the Boulevard St Germain, up towards the Place St Sulpice, until she could hear the fountains; she turned the corner and there they were, the long, leaping, noisy row of them. She stood there staring at them and suddenly she was no longer Adele, middle-aged, lonely and unhappy, she was the Adele who was twenty-four again, young, hopeful, tender, and in love. She could feel the handles of the pram in her hands, the wheels bumping on the cobbles, could hear little Noni laughing, see Lucas’s small face peaceful as he slept; she stopped at the corner, the corner of the street where she had lived all those years ago, and heard Luc calling her, laughing, breathless, trying to attract her attention, felt his arms on her shoulders, swinging her round to kiss her. It was safe, that life, that other happy life, safe in the past; she had not spoilt it by then, had not thrown it ruthlessly away, it was still hers to live and to savour.
She walked, more slowly now, into the shadows, along the rue St Sulpice, stopped outside the door through which Luc had led her that first day, the door into the courtyard, and then the door to their home, up on the third floor, to the tiny apartment where they had lived together for three long years, as Paris moved from peace into war, and for her, from happiness into pain.
She rang the bell; Madame André opened the door, her old face smiling with happiness that she had come back. ‘I was afraid, Mam’selle, I would not see you again. Certainly not today.’
She had aged a lot; she had seemed to Adele old at the time, in wartime Paris, but now she was really old, at least seventy, her face deeply lined, her grey hair sparse, but her dark eyes brilliantly alive.
‘May I come in? I would so like to talk to you some more.’
‘But of course. I am delighted to have a visitor, I am alone much of the time these days. But I am quite happy,’ lest Adele should feel sorry for her, ‘really very happy indeed.’
She made a pot of coffee, poured her some absinthe; the taste of the two together, the strong coffee, the liquorice-tasting aperitif that Adele had drunk so often to please Madame André, while disliking them both, took her back in time more vividly still, to when she would sit there in the dark little room, either too hot or too cold, while Noni chattered in the background and more often than not Lucas wailed on her knee . . .
It was hot that night; so hot that the window was open on to the street. They settled near it, in order to feel the faint breeze in the evening air, and Madame André smiled at her. ‘So – you want to speak some more?’
‘Yes,’ said Adele, ‘yes, Madame André, I do.’
Lucas studied himself in the mirror; he quite admired what he saw. Someone tall, slim, stylish (he hoped Venetia would agree to the silk shirt and admire the slightly pointed shoes); with the dark hair and eyes and slightly olive skin of his French ancestry. He was, he could see, very like his father; he had studied countless photographs. It made him feel, he wasn’t sure why, slightly superior to the rest of the family. Well, more interesting, anyway.
He went to the drawer to get out his wallet; he intended to buy Venetia a drink before dinner. And then remembered his mother had never given him the francs she had promised. Damn. He phoned her room: no answer. He tried Reception; they told him she had gone out.
He went along to Venetia’s room and knocked on the door; she opened it, still wearing her dressing gown.
‘I’m not ready yet. Sorry. Lucas, you can’t wear that shirt to Maxims. Nice shoes, though.’
Lucas sighed. ‘I’ll change the shirt,’ he said. ‘I was half expecting you not to appreciate it.’
‘It’s a lovely shirt. It’s just not suitable.’
‘Anyway, I know I’m early. Do you know where my mother is?’
‘Yes, she went back to see Madame André again.’
‘Oh – right. How long will you be?’
‘At least half an hour. I did say eight.’
‘I know you did. I’ll be downstairs, then. Changed into a nice dull shirt.’
‘Good.’
He looked at his watch; he’d have plenty of time. He did want the money; he’d feel such a kid if Venetia paid for everything. And he was sure his mother wouldn’t mind. He set off briskly towards the rue St Sulpice.
The street was empty and very quiet now; everyone was out in the squares and cafés. As Lucas neared Madame André’s house he could hear voices drifting out of the window, very clear on the still, evening air. Madame André’s and his mother’s.
Lucas had spent his life listening in to other people’s conversations; it was how he had learned a great many crucial things. He had absolutely no scruples about it.
He stood there quietly, leaning on the wall near the window, totally out of sight, and lit one of the Gauloises that made him feel slightly sick but which he was determined to master. And listened.
‘So, you have been married again, Mam’selle? You must forgive me, I must not continue to call you that.’
‘Oh, Madame, please do. It’s – well, it’s important. Yes, I have been married. And now I’m getting divorced.’
‘Mam’selle!’ The brilliant eyes were soft with sympathy. ‘You have not been lucky, I think.’
‘I don’t know, Madame. Maybe it’s me. That’s why I’m here, to try and find out what went wrong, why I did what I did.’
‘Because you had to.’
‘I did? Are you sure?’
‘But of course. There was no other way.’
‘But why? Because the Germans were coming? Others stayed, others were more loyal. After all this time, you know, I still feel so bad, so guilty, taking the children away—’
‘No, of course it was not because of the Germans. It was because – may I be honest?’
‘Please, please do.’
‘Because of him. Because of the way he treated you. That was why you went. He – he was betraying you.’
‘I know that. Of course I do. But – I should have talked to him about it, worked something out, not just rushed away as I did, leaving him here’ – her voice shook – ‘alone. I should have been braver, I should have been willing to stay.’
‘I think you have forgotten, Mam’selle, how brave you were.’
‘I was?’ Adele was astonished.
‘But of course. You know he wanted you to leave, he urged you to go home. And you longed to go, you told me so, home to your family and your mother, to have your children safe.’
‘Oh.’ She sat staring at her, across the dark, over-furnished little room, took a large sip of the absinthe and promptly regretted it. ‘Did I really?’
‘But of course. You refused, time and time again. You said your home was here and your place was with him and the children. Whatever the risk. I heard you arguing about it one day, the sound came down from your little balcony.’
‘Oh.’ She was silent, digesting this new, absolutely unfamiliar piece of her history, that was, nonetheless, so plainly true.
‘I was very fond of you, Mam’selle. But I wanted you to go. To be safe. I was very afraid for you.’
‘How did you know Luc was being unfaithful to me? He didn’t – didn’t bring her here?’
‘Of course not. But I saw him coming home late, I saw his face sometimes, distracted, irritable as he rushed in. I saw your disappointment when arrangements were changed, cancelled. I am an old woman and, more to the point, I am French, we have a great instinct for these things.’
‘So – it had been going on a little while, do you think? Well, I suppose I must have realised that.’
‘A little while, I think, yes. A few weeks, maybe one or two months.’
‘Oh.’ She wondered then: wondered very sadly, if Luc had been pressing her to go home so that he could be rid of her, could return to his wife. He had been very duplicitous; it was perfectly possible.
‘I was very fearful for you. And so very sad when I realised you had discovered it. Although it set you free to leave. I was glad of that at least. But you must believe me, Mam’selle, you were brave. Very brave and very true. For a long time.’
‘Oh,’ she said again. This was so different from what she had thought. She really had forgotten he had urged her to go: absolutely forgotten it. It made everything seem rather different . . .
Lucas left, swiftly, made his way back to the hotel, changed his shirt and apologised to Venetia for not having any money with which to buy her a drink.
‘I really wanted to.’
‘Lucas, it couldn’t matter less. Honestly. It was sweet of you to think of it even.’
He seemed rather quiet, she thought, quiet and slightly distracted.
Perhaps meeting Madame André had upset him; Adele had been afraid it might.
‘Who lives up there now?’ Adele said suddenly, indicating the top floor.
‘Oh – another young couple. With another baby.’
‘Plus ça change,’ said Adele, smiling. She felt much happier suddenly. ‘Plus c’est la même chose. That’s an expression in England too, you know.’
‘It is?’ Madame André hesitated. ‘Would you like to go up there, see the place again? I’m sure they would be pleased to show you.’
‘Oh—’ She flinched from that. ‘Well – I’m not sure. Not sure if I’m brave enough.’
‘You! Not brave? After what you did, made that journey all alone – come, I will ask them.’
And so it was that Adele stood once again in the small apartment, looking over the rooftops, and remembered not only happiness, not only love, but bitterness and the fierce, unbearable pain of betrayal. A betrayal, she now knew, that had actually rewarded courage, loyalty and selflessness. And she was able to look, finally, and with forgiveness, at herself and her flight from Paris, so many years ago . . .
