CHAPTER 12
‘My darling, I want to take you to Paris.’
‘Paris! How romantic. Can we stay at the Ritz? And will you buy me lots and lots of positively wicked negligees?’
‘I’m not joking,’ said Cedric, plaintively. ‘Style are sending me to Paris. There’s a marvellous model there apparently, called—’
‘I know, Muthe,’ said Adele, ‘she was spotted in the reception of French Vogue, feeding her baby by the editor, who said, “I have just passed the Virgin Mary suckling her child, go and bring her to me.” Or something like that.’
‘Exactly like that. Adele, you’re such a star at gossip. Anyway, she has been booked for a beauty sitting for us, and I need you with me. They said they thought bare shoulders, but I think we need some dresses in case; they saw that job we did for Harpers and loved it, you know, the one with the sequinned cape, and I know what they really want is that all over again. So will you come, darling?’
‘I certainly will,’ said Adele. ‘Try and keep me away.’
‘I’m going to Paris,’ she announced to her parents at dinner that night, ‘next week. Won’t that be fun?’
‘With your photographer friend?’ said Celia.
‘Yes. Of course. It’s work.’
‘Oh. That,’ said Celia.
Adele sighed. ‘Yes, Mummy, that.’
‘I have to go myself next month,’ said Oliver, ‘we have a lot of books coming out this autumn. The explosion in the crime market over there is considerable. Georges Simenon is turning over a dozen a year; quite extraordinary. We are trying to find someone to compete with him, although not in volume terms of course.’
‘Is Luc Lieberman still working for you?’ asked Adele carelessly.
‘Of course. I’d forgotten, you rather liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Not particularly. I – just wondered.’
‘He’s married now. To the girl I told you about. The one who works for the couturier.’
‘Oh really?’ said Adele carelessly again. She ignored a small, illogical thud of depression somewhere deep in her stomach.
‘Yes. Anyway, I’ll tell him you’re going over, if you like, I’m sure he’d like to buy you lunch.’
‘Daddy, I’m sure I won’t have time for lunch. In fact, I probably won’t have time for anything. I just wondered if he was still there, that’s all.’
‘I remember him,’ said Kit. He smiled at his father. ‘I met him when he came over with that French author, I liked him a lot. He said when I was older I could go and stay with him, and he’d take me to see Josephine Baker dance. She—’
‘What an extremely unsuitable suggestion,’ said Celia. ‘How old were you then, Kit?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. About eight.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ said Oliver mildly.
‘Whether he meant it or not, it was a stupid thing to say to a little boy.’
‘Well I’m much older now,’ said Kit. He looked at his mother, a gleam of malice in his eyes. ‘I might just take him up on it.’
‘I’ll mention it to him,’ said Adele, ‘remind him. When do you go back to school, Kit?’
‘Adele!’ said Celia. There were times these days, Adele thought, when her sense of humour seemed to be completely failing.
‘The twentieth,’ said Kit, ‘so there’d be plenty of time. April in Paris – wonderful. Excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’
He left the room; Adele smiled after him. He had suddenly grown up: not so surprising really, since he had been at Eton for over a year. He loved it there: that wasn’t surprising either, Kit loved everything. He had the blithest of temperaments, was never bored, never out of sorts, extremely sociable – the Lytton set was the one everyone in his year wanted to be in – and while formidably clever, had none of the characteristics of the swot, being apparently more interested in having fun than pursuing the academic glory that came his way with horrific ease.
He had endured at fourteen none of the adolescent horrors; the beautiful child had become a handsome boy almost overnight. He had no spots, he didn’t blush, his voice had broken easily and naturally, being quite deep for a child in any case, he was tall without being gangly, his hands and feet looked the right size for him, rather than several sizes too big and even the golden curls for which he had occasionally been teased at school had mercifully disappeared into thick blond waves. Celia had fretted over his angelic looks as he went off to school, fearing an onslaught of homosexual advances for him; it was Boy Warwick, who had calmly and sensitively discussed the matter with him and how best to deal with it.
‘Nothing can save him altogether,’ he had said to Celia, who had revealed her fears to him, ‘but forewarned really is forearmed. I was very pretty, believe it or not, had a hideous time until I learned to box; that more or less stopped it. I’ll advise Kit to do the same.’
Celia said she could well believe Boy had been pretty and said she was more grateful than she could say if he would speak to Kit. ‘Oliver and Giles are both completely incapable of it, he’ll come away from any discussion more confused than when he went in.’
As time went on, Celia worried increasingly about Boy and Venetia. She had never moved from her view that they were basically ill-suited. Boy was too clever, had too brilliant a mind, too broad a base of interest to be satisfied by Venetia’s rather sweet silliness, her intellectual naivety. Despite her disapproval of his idleness, Celia admired his breadth of interest, his cultural knowledge. She still expected the marriage to fail; her hope was that Venetia would have found something else to absorb her and her energies before that time came.
But she did like Boy: she couldn’t help it. He was irrepressibly goodnatured, he was a most tender and loving father, he was generous to a fault, and an outstandingly loyal friend. There were innumerable stories of Boy Warwick lending large sums of money to friends in trouble, and then waving away any suggestion of repayment into the foreseeable future; indeed the loans were only so-called to spare pride and ease distress.
He was also extremely discreet; many a young married couple owed their continuing happiness to Boy’s ability to keep his counsel and not pass on the gossip or confidences that came his way. And they came his way with great frequency, for he was a superb listener and a surprisingly wise adviser.
He arrived at Lytton House one particularly lovely spring day, uninvited, and asked if he might see Celia; he had acquired a painting by an artist she had admired, and brought it to the office to see if she would like to buy it.
‘And I might take you to lunch, while you think about it. How would that sound?’ It was a measure of her fondness for him that she agreed; normally an arrangement to lunch with Lady Celia Lytton was booked at least three weeks in advance.
‘I prefer to eat at my desk in the usual run of things,’ she said, picking up her hat and gloves, ‘but I just happen to have a little spare time today. Where did you think we might go? I can’t be very long.’
‘The Savoy? It’s quite near...’
‘Venetia is in the club again,’ he said as they toasted her purchase of the painting with champagne. ‘I expect she has told you.’
‘She has, although not in such vulgar terms. Congratulations, Boy. She seems pleased, although I personally think four is rather excessive in this day and age.’
‘You had four children, Celia.’
‘I did indeed. But only three pregnancies.’
‘Ah. So you think it all looks rather what shall we say – uncontrolled? Vulgar even?’
‘I think Venetia will be worn out, Boy. No more than that.’
‘I see.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, I shall have to see she has plenty of rest. And help, of course. We already have a nursery maid to help Nanny.’
‘You need two nursery maids, with four children. I can tell you that.’
‘Of course, you had Barty as well. So actually – five. Although Kit was something of an afterthought, was he not? A breathing space so to speak. And a great delight no doubt for you and Oliver.’
His black eyes danced; she met them very steadily.
‘Yes. A great delight. As he has continued to be. Now about Venetia. You really must take care of her, Boy, she’s not terribly strong physically.’
‘I will, of course. She’s seeing her consultant tomorrow and I’m going with her. So don’t worry, I’m not oblivious to the dangers. Anyway, she seems to enjoy pregnancy. You’re not really worried about her, are you?’
‘Well – not really. And I do have to say, Boy, you are a very good father.’
‘I like being a father,’ he said rather unexpectedly. ‘I like children, I find them fascinating and fun, not in the least tedious like so many of my contemporaries.’
‘I wish – Sebastian was a better one,’ she said and sighed.
‘Yes, indeed. Poor little Izzie. Venetia tells me she is beginning to feel it.’
‘I think she is. She never goes near him now, she’s learned there’s no point. And I’m afraid she’s lonely, in that house with him and the nanny.’
‘We invite her to Berkeley Square as often as we can: she loves it there. But – she still has to go home at the end of the day. It’s very sad, she cries when she has to leave.’
‘Oh God,’ said Celia, ‘what on earth can we do about it?’
‘I don’t know, Celia. I really do not know. It’s a bloody nightmare. But if you can’t do anything with Sebastian, nobody can.’ He smiled at her: his most artless smile. ‘You’re such good friends. Tell me, how is Bunny Arden? I heard he and Cynthia dined with you and Oliver last week. Next time they come, do ask us. I’m longing to quiz him about the latest developments with Tom and his gang of roughnecks.’
Celia frowned at him. ‘I wouldn’t dream of inviting you. And I don’t know why you’re so hostile to Tom Mosley. He’s doing extremely well, he has up to 40,000 members now and with good reason. I would personally like to see him in government.’
‘I suppose you’re going to his ghastly meeting next week.’
‘Yes, I am. Why don’t you come, it might change your mind.’
‘It certainly wouldn’t. Celia, those people are mad. Baba Metcalfe is having an affair with Grandi.’
‘Well I like Grandi. And the Italian Embassy is glorious. You’d love to see his paintings, he has Titians amongst other things, and the most wonderful tapestries and mirrors from the Medici court.’
‘Yes, and have you ever wondered how he acquired them? Or rather how Mussolini did? Oh, I know it’s no use talking to you, Celia, you’re a woman in love.’
‘In love? Don’t be absurd.’
‘Not absurd at all. I mean with a new cause. A new ideology. Now then. That was the best fun, but I have to go, I’m afraid. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Yes, it has been fun, thank you. But you’re wrong about the British Union of Fascists. And where are you going now? Home?’
‘Where else? When I’ve been away from my wife and family all day.’
‘Give Venetia my love and tell her to rest.’
As she got into her car, she looked back and saw Boy hailing a taxi; he had quite a long conversation with the driver before he got in and the cab pulled away. Pulled away not down the Strand and therefore in the direction of Berkeley Square, but in the other direction, turning right across Waterloo Bridge. Of course it didn’t mean anything; anything at all. If he hadn’t said he was going home, she wouldn’t have given it a moment’s thought.
Celia returned to Lytton House in a slightly anxious frame of mind. Foolish of Venetia to have allowed herself to become pregnant yet again: very foolish.
She tried to discuss her anxieties with Oliver, but he was distracted, concerned about the poor state of the book trade. ‘Do you know, dozens of booksellers, particularly in the north, are going out of business. It’s extremely worrying. For all of us.’ Celia, who had been listening to him and indeed most of the publishers in London, talking like this most of her professional life and proposing radical remedies usually in the face of stiff opposition, frowned impatiently.
‘Of course. Of course it is. But it’s no use just talking about it, and publishing more and more books in the same old way. We have to think differently, Oliver, start doing things differently. I’m always telling you that.’
‘Yes, Celia, I had noticed. But—’
‘You’re so opposed to some of these token schemes. I think book tokens are a wonderful idea. And you know there are fifteen publishers now in on the cigarette token scheme. But not Lyttons. Why not?’
He looked distressed. ‘I just don’t like the idea, Celia. It’s so – shabby, somehow. Getting free books for cigarette tokens. Not in keeping with the nature of our business.’
‘Oh Oliver, really! Shabby. I’ll tell you what’s shabby. Our building. It looks appalling. It needs painting. Now I know we can’t afford it; perhaps if you were a bit more open to these ideas we could. What’s wrong with the working man having easier access to books? Which he couldn’t afford at all otherwise? I can remember a time when you would have encouraged such a thing with great enthusiasm. And I think we should do more offers through newspapers. The Daily Mail offered a complete Shakespeare for five shillings recently. Why don’t we do that? With all the Buchanan titles? Or the new crime series?’
He hesitated. ‘I suppose I’d feel a bit happier with that.’
‘Good. I’ll talk to them tomorrow.’
‘Celia—’
‘Oliver, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with the book trade. It’s what wrong with this government. It’s slow, it’s resistant to change, it’s frightened of doing anything radical, of shaking things up. Nothing is going to improve until that basic attitude changes. Now—’
‘Celia, not your friend Mr Mosley again, I do beg of you. There is a limit to even my tolerance. Now, did you want to talk to me about Venetia?’
‘I’m – moving,’ said Abbie. She didn’t quite meet Barty’s eyes.
‘Moving! Whatever for? Where to?’
‘Well – well, it’s rather exciting, really. To a house.’
‘A house! Abbie, how, why?’
‘Well – you know I mentioned my uncle David?’
‘The one who gave you the watch?’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, that’s right. Well he died; and left me some money. So I thought I’d buy a house with it. Not just fritter it away. I mean it’s an awfully good investment and—’
‘It must have been a lot of money.’
‘Yes. Well, quite a lot. It’s not an expensive house. Not a Lytton house.’ She grinned at Barty.
‘Yes. Yes, I see.’
Barty wondered, rather bleakly, if she was lying. She did lie a lot. It was the one thing that Barty didn’t like about her. Ever since the night of the concert, she hadn’t been able to properly trust her.
She’d told her about it, of course, mentioned the phone call, knowing that Mrs Clarence was bound to: Abbie had been vague, said oh her parents were so hopeless, she’d waited in the restaurant for ages for them. It was so obvious she’d been with someone else altogether.
Barty didn’t even mention hearing her return, or seeing the big car. There didn’t seem any point.
But it had hurt. It wasn’t as if she cared what Abbie did, or what man she might or might not have been in bed with. Why couldn’t she just have told her? Abbie obviously didn’t think she was as close a friend as she had hoped. She had, on the other hand, been wonderful over the business with Giles; had listened carefully, asking only the most relevant questions, comforted Barty, told her that she had done exactly the right thing, that she was proud of her for being so brave and so honest.
‘So many girls would have just gone along with it. Tried to persuade themselves they liked him really, or let him down lightly later on with a letter or something.’
She was very keen on honesty: in other people.
She didn’t often talk about her men friends: she said rather vaguely there was someone at the school who she liked a lot, but that he was married and so it was what she called difficult, and there were a couple of men who she and Barty both knew, amongst the crowd who went to concerts and the cinema, and whom she implied she was very fond of, what she called ‘close to’ even. Barty hadn’t observed much evidence of it, but as time went by, Abbie had become more of a mystery to her rather than less. And in spite of all her talk about frankness and freedom, and not being influenced by convention, her behaviour actually demonstrated, Barty thought, rather the reverse. She remembered Celia once saying that people who talked about sex all the time never did it; maybe in Abbie’s case that was true.
‘So where are you going to live?’ she said rather sadly. ‘I shall miss you.’
‘Well – in Clapham. It’s near the new school and everything. And of course I’ll miss you too. Anyway, you must come over all the time, there’s lots of room, you can always stay.’
‘Yes,’ said Barty, ‘yes I’d like that. Thank you.’
Later that night, lying in bed, she felt unaccountably anxious. It was more than Abbie moving away; there’d been something – odd about her. Different. What was it? What?
Probably just Abbie being obtuse. Setting out to confuse her, stop her guessing the real reason she was moving. How she had really been able to buy a house. But why? Why couldn’t she just tell her the truth?
Barty sighed; she really wasn’t very happy at all at the moment. Everything was – well, not exactly going wrong. But not right. Not right at all.
She had asked, straight away, immediately after Giles’s declaration of love for her, if she might be able to go away for a while, either to Paris or New York. It had seemed such a good idea, a sensible solution: but both requests had been refused. There was no job for her, and she could not and should not be foisted on them at a whim, Oliver had said almost sternly. She had been dismayed; what she really wanted was to leave Lyttons altogether, go to another house, but she had no excuse for making a move – unless there was an approach. She had just been promoted, given a rise and more responsibility, was thinking even of moving into a more expensive flat – and in spite of putting out a few gentle feelers, no approach was forthcoming.
But continuing to see Giles every day, having to work with him, discuss things with him on a daily, almost hourly basis, meet him at family occasions, particularly as they had always been such friends and so close, was horribly difficult. She had been truly shocked by his outburst, not just surprised; and at his patent misery at her rejection, wondered if she should blame herself, if she had encouraged him, spent long hours examining her behaviour towards him, wondering if the affectionate teasing, the kisses she gave him, however sisterly, the invitations to her flat, the acceptance of all his invitations to lunch or supper, the habit she had of taking his arm as they walked along, had all wrongly encouraged him, led him to think she felt more for him than she actually did.
If that were so, then she was paying a terrible price; he could scarcely look at her, never spoke to her except in the most formal terms, and went out of his way to avoid her to such an extent that she felt everyone must notice and be wondering why.
In the event, it was only Celia and Oliver who did – and then only because they all spent so much time together at Lyttons – and assumed, wrongly, that they must have had a quarrel.
Barty was shocked by the speed at which Giles’s engagement to Helena had followed his declaration of love for her; shocked and saddened that Giles should rush into a marriage with someone he didn’t properly love. She tried to tell herself he did love Helena, that he had been drunk that night, indeed she wanted to believe it, but she couldn’t. She knew he had been absolutely serious, recognised the grief and anger at her rejection in all its raw honesty: and now he was using Helena to ease his pain and lash out at her. It was terribly wrong.
But there was nothing she could do, nothing she could say, not even when he shuffled into her office, hardly looking at her, to tell her he and Helena were becoming engaged and he hoped she would be happy for them both. She had to smile, to pretend, to attend the engagement party, to kiss Helena, to say that yes, she would love to be a bridesmaid – and never suggest for an instant that she agreed with the twins about the dreadful mistake Giles was making.
Helena was all right; she was serious and unaffected and obviously loved Giles. But she was extremely self-absorbed and what could only be described as touchy, and, perhaps most importantly, particularly given the family she had married into, she lacked humour. She was also, which was the twins’ greatest complaint about her, rather dull company: a conversation with Helena was not a very diverting experience.
Barty had initially quite liked her, whether or not she was a suitable wife for Giles, and was inclined to be on her side, but as time went by, she changed her mind and not only because Helena’s attitude towards her changed. From a rather pressing affection in the early days she began to treat Barty with something close to condescension.
Frequent invitations to the house in Chelsea ceased – as much to Giles’s relief, she felt sure, as her own – and Helena’s eagerness to be her friend, to admire her and her achievements, her clear desire to co-opt Barty on to her side as a member of the Lytton opposition all faded. Moreover Giles did not seem happy; of course he would never have talked to her about his marriage, but he was often morose at work, especially in the morning, jumpy and defensive in meetings, unreceptive to ideas, and reacted with increased hostility to the slightest criticism, not just from Celia but Oliver as well.
It all made Barty’s own life rather difficult – and not much fun.
Helena was waiting impatiently for Giles to come home. To their dear little house in Walton Street. She had such wonderful news. Such very, very wonderful news. She was so terribly happy. At last . . .
At the very beginning, her joy at his proposal, at the discovery he loved her as much as she loved him and then all the wonderful rituals of engagement, choosing the ring, telling their parents, putting the announcement in the paper, receiving all the letters of congratulation – it had been too good to be true.
The family dinner at the Lyttons had been a bit nerve-wracking, she found Lady Celia terrifying, and the twins distinctly tiresome, with their endless silly telepathic talk and in-jokes, and it annoyed her too that Giles was so in awe of his mother, practically jumped every time she spoke to him: but Oliver she loved, he was so kind and gentle, and she liked Boy Warwick too, slightly against her will, for he wasn’t exactly the sort of man she approved of. And Kit was sweet and so good-looking, and of course Barty was charming. She seemed so fond of Giles too, assured Helena he had been the perfect brother to her all her life. It was a bit of a funny arrangement, Helena felt, the Barty one, and her mother had been distinctly withering about her: ‘She comes from a very poor family originally, as I understand, almost the slums. Of course she seems perfectly – all right now, quite PLU but one does wonder—’
‘PLU, Mother?’
‘People like us, darling.’
Helena, half shocked, half amused by her mother’s snobbery, felt bound to remind her at that point that her own grandfather had come from an area of London not too far removed from the slums himself: and since this was something Mrs Duffield Brown made a great effort to conceal and even to forget, along with the fact that she had married plain Leslie Brown and added her maiden name to his on their marriage, they exchanged quite heated words on the subject, culminating in Helena saying that that kind of snobbery was supposed to have completely died off after the war. She couldn’t tell Giles of course, he would have been upset, but she did make a great effort to be especially nice to Barty, and to tell her mother at every possible opportunity about her first from Oxford, and how brilliantly she did her editing job at Lyttons.
In the event the dinner party saw her mother almost completely silenced; the combination of the dazzling presence of the Lyttons en masse, and her anxiety that Leslie might let his accent or his story slip for just a moment was almost too much for her. She sat between Oliver and Giles, speaking only when spoken to and then only briefly, her appetite so adversely affected that Lady Celia was driven to enquire graciously if she was perhaps feeling unwell.
‘Oh, no, perfectly well, thank you – Celia,’ she said, feeling that continuing to call her daughter’s mother-in-law Lady Celia was a trifle obsequious.
‘Did you see Mummy’s face then?’ Adele said to Venetia afterwards. ‘The icicle smile if ever there was one. Poor old Mrs DB obviously didn’t know you dropped the Lady without invitation at your peril.’
‘Well, how could she?’ said Venetia. ‘Pretty frightful altogether, though I—’
‘So did I. Didn’t mind—’
‘No, he’s a poppet. And—’
‘Mm. Still not sure. She’s changed a bit since—’
‘Hasn’t she? Not nearly so—’
‘Never mind. Giles seems—’
‘I hope he is. I do so hope he is.’
The wedding had taken place the April after the dinner, and was generally pronounced a success; it was held at the Dorchester, Celia having made it plain without actually saying so that she did not consider Dorking in any way a suitable venue for her son’s wedding – ‘It’s the way she says Dorking,’ said Adele, giggling, ‘as if it were Sodom or Gomorrah’ – and the Duffield Brown house in Kensington was far too small. Helena looked lovely in white satin, and a rather flat veil, she carried a wonderful spray of lilies, and the attendants all wore palest pink. There were six grown-up bridesmaids including Barty and Adele, and six small attendants, including Izzie Brooke and the tiny Elspeth Warwick, both of whom looked so exactly like their mothers that people never stopped remarking upon the fact all day. Which would have been worrying, as Barty remarked to Kit, if Sebastian had been there, but he had refused, as he did almost all invitations these days. Abigail Clarence, invited to the wedding as one of Barty’s guests, had expressed great disappointment.
The reception was very lavish, with the Duffield Brown coffers open extremely wide, and Grandpa Percy, Leslie’s father, was the surprise hit of the day.
‘Who’d have thought it,’ said Venetia giggling, pulling off her hat and collapsing on to a sofa, ‘charming Grandmama like that, common as muck as they say, but she kept saying how marvellous he was, backbone of Britain and all that, and how he had such wonderful stories of his life at the steel works. Mrs DB was having a fit, apparently she was hoping he wouldn’t come at all.’
‘I think Grandmama did it just to annoy her. I think she and Mummy hatched it up on purpose,’ said Adele.
‘Quite possibly,’ said Venetia.
The honeymoon was a bit of a disappointment to Helena; she was pretty sure Giles hadn’t guessed, she’d worked awfully hard at being grateful and telling him how wonderful it had all been, especially it, but – well, maybe she just kept telling herself it would get better. Of course she had nothing to compare it with, but from everything she had heard and read, it should have been better than that. Quite a bit better. At least it hadn’t hurt – or not much anyway – which her mother had implied it would, which even some of the books had said it would; that had been a relief. And of course the kissing was lovely, with no clothes on. She’d really enjoyed it. And Giles had been quite good, hadn’t just – rushed at her, had stroked her breasts and told her he loved her. But then – oh, dear, then. It had been over so quickly. So terribly quickly. A few sort of thrusts and then he had groaned and she’d felt him shudder a bit and that had been that. Of course she’d pretended like mad, said how much she’d enjoyed it, and so on; but apart from the wetness, and the soreness, she would hardly have known it had happened.
But then, they had both been totally inexperienced. Well she was, and Giles had said he was almost. Which she’d loved him for really, but – maybe a bit more would have helped. And then they had both been very tired.
So – maybe, she thought through that long first night listening to him snore – she hadn’t expected that and it was very loud snoring, not exactly romantic – maybe when they had both settled down, got used to one another, weren’t so nervous and tense, it would be better. They had lots of time, in the next few weeks, to practise. Get better at it. But still – she had hoped for a bit better. And had been almost irritated by Giles saying hadn’t it been wonderful next morning. Over and over again. Yes, she’d said, yes, of course it had; and again, ‘It really was all right for you, was it, darling? You really – well—’ And, ‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘of course. It was very nice. Very nice indeed.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to say it was wonderful. She just couldn’t. When it was, she would say so. And it would be: of course it would.
The holiday part of the honeymoon was very nice; they had been lent a villa in the south of France, and the weather was gorgeous, warm and sunny, and Helena read a great deal, and they had had a lot of wonderful meals and went on long walks and Giles had told her how much he loved her and how happy he was and they had discussed their future endlessly, the big family they were going to have and Giles’s success at Lyttons. Helena was quite sure he was going to be a success; anyone could see he was extremely clever and he worked so hard.
‘You’ll be Mr Lytton the Third after your father retires,’ she said, ‘and you’ll run the most brilliant publishing house in London.’
Giles said he didn’t think his father would ever retire and his mother certainly wouldn’t; Helena told him that was nonsense.
‘It would be wrong and selfish of them to hang on. Depriving you of your chance. We won’t allow it.’
Giles didn’t seem to take quite such a positive view.
Settling into their house in Chelsea was fun, she loved getting it redecorated and properly furnished. And seeing her girlfriends from her new status of married woman, gossiping over long lunches. And learning to run a house and cooking for Giles sometimes – they didn’t have a live-in cook, Giles said he couldn’t afford it, just a cook-daily.
Helena didn’t mind that at all at first; but as the year went by, it began to irritate her. Giles really was paid rather little, he was always saying they couldn’t afford things. It was so mean when Lyttons obviously made lots of money and could afford to give him more. If she hadn’t had the allowance from her father, she wouldn’t even have been able to buy all the clothes she wanted. She was very keen on her role as wife and hostess, and for that you needed nice clothes.
She wanted to give lots of parties, but until the first Christmas she wasn’t allowed to: for the same enraging reason. Giles’s telling her they couldn’t afford things was the cause of their first big row . . . and the second and the third. After a bit she told him he had to ask for a salary rise, but he said he’d had one when they got married and couldn’t possibly ask for more.
‘What happens when we have children?’ she said and he said well then, obviously, that would be different. He didn’t like the fact she still had an allowance from her father either, but she said she needed it, and if he wanted it to stop, he’d have to do something about it.
She just hadn’t realised how much he was in thrall to his family; not just at work which was natural, but at home. If Celia said she wanted them at the house, they all had to be there; if she gave a party, they all went as semi-hosts. Except Barty, of course; she seemed to get out of all that.
After a bit, Helena ceased to think Barty was wonderful and began to resent her. Oliver obviously adored her, she had her own car which he and Celia had apparently given her on her twenty-first birthday, no reason why not of course, but still . . . and her job at Lyttons seemed quite important, she even had her own authors to look after now, ‘not any of the important ones of course,’ Giles had said, rather defensively. He was more and more defensive as time went on and touchy too. Sometimes they would sit right through supper not talking because he was in a bad mood. And quite often she would find him staring out of the window, looking morose and refusing to tell her what the matter was. That really hurt: that wasn’t what marriage was about.
And even Helena could see, without ever having spent an hour in the place, that Celia thought less of Giles than she should do. He didn’t seem to have a say in anything much; he was always rushing off early and coming home late because his mother had called some meeting; his job title – ‘Director of Editorial Administration’ – was vague, not nearly important enough for a person who was going to run the company, and even his office was small and dingy, not enough to earn him any respect.
And Celia did treat her as if she were some kind of fool. That really annoyed Helena; she might not have a degree, like Giles and Barty – if she heard once more about Barty’s first she thought she would scream – but she was extremely well read and she made a point of keeping up with modern fiction. Whenever she tried to talk to Celia about a book, Celia would look at her with that particularly cold amusement that Helena had come to dread and simply brush her off, make it plain that her views couldn’t possibly be of any value whatsoever.
By their first wedding anniversary, Helena was not exactly unhappy, but certainly not happy. Demoralised at her failure to contribute to Giles’s success, permanently resentful on his behalf, side-lined by his family. The twins really didn’t like her, she knew that, and the knowledge made her jumpy and self-conscious in their company. Kit was lovely, of course. But then he was away at school now – and the anguish expressed by Celia on that subject really annoyed Helena too, he was fourteen, for heaven’s sake, not eight as Giles had been – and then there was the baby. Or rather not the baby. Of course she hadn’t wanted one straight away, that would have been silly, and she had been very careful to use her contraceptive; but after Christmas she had decided it was about time to start trying. And nothing happened. For month after month. She went on and on having her period and every time she felt more upset and got more tense when Giles was making love to her and worried that because it was still not very good, she wasn’t getting pregnant. She became quite tearful. There was no one in the family whom she could confide in; finally she burst into tears in the company of a friend who recommended she see her doctor – ‘a woman, frightfully outspoken and modern, nothing would shock her, honestly’.
The doctor, middle-aged and rather jolly, was very matter of fact, and said it often did take a while to conceive; she managed to establish that their sex life wasn’t quite what it should be, and told Helena not to worry too much about that either.
‘Shame you’re not enjoying it, of course,’ she said briskly, ‘but as long as he ejaculates, you should be all right. Just keep working at it. Most women who don’t get pregnant don’t have enough sex.’
Helena, half shocked by this frankness, half relieved, went home and set about having enough sex that very evening; two more disappointing months went by and then suddenly, just as she had begun to despair, she missed her period and almost at once started to feel sick . . .
‘Mam’selle Adele?’
Adele nearly dropped the phone; she had forgotten the absurd name.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
She sat down on the bed, her legs suddenly weak.
‘Luc Lieberman. You remember me?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Adele.
‘I heard you were coming to Paris. Why did you not let me know? I feel quite – quite desolé.’
‘Well, there’s no need for that. Absolutely no need at all.’
‘But I would have liked to take you to lunch—’
‘Monsieur Lieberman—’
‘Luc, please.’
‘Luc. I’m not here on a social visit. Or even shopping. I’m working. Busy every minute. So – no time for lunches or anything.’
‘How extremely sad. Are you quite sure?’
‘Quite,’ said Adele firmly.
‘And what is this so important work? May I be told?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m a stylist. For a very famous English photographer.’
‘I see.’ There was a silence. This wasn’t going very well. Perhaps she should have been more – more forthcoming. It was just that he made her feel so nervous, so keen to impress him, she wanted to appear busier and more important than she was.
‘And how long are you staying in Paris?’ he said finally.
‘Oh – just four days.’
‘Are you happy with your hotel?’
‘Oh, very, yes. It’s perfect.’
Cedric had booked them both into a small, delightful hotel in the rue de Seine; Adele, whose previous experience of Parisian hotels had been confined to the Ritz, the Georges V and the Crillon, was enchanted by it. Set back in its own pretty courtyard, surrounded by art galleries, small restaurants and an enchanting open-air market, she felt herself to be truly in the heart of Paris.
Another silence. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘if you do not have time for a meeting, then so be it.’ It sounded very final; she should have been more friendly, she thought miserably, after all, he had sought her out, offered to entertain her.
‘Perhaps – perhaps coffee tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Coffee? That sounds a little – brief. I wonder – would you like to join me for petit déjeuner?’
‘That would be – lovely,’ she said quickly.
She heard his voice change again. Clearly he was not a man to be thwarted.
‘Good. You are so near the Café Flore, do you know it?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You should. It is a serious gap in your education. Boulevard St-Germain, just a little way along from your street. I will meet you there tomorrow morning. At eight-thirty.’
‘Tomorrow morning we start at seven,’ said Adele. Oh dear, that would make him cross again.
But: ‘Seven! I am very impressed! The next day then?’
‘The next day,’ she said. ‘Yes, that would be – all right.’
‘Good. At last. Eight-thirty. Le Flore. Au revoir, Mam’selle Adele.’
Why was she bothering, Adele wondered, as she put the phone down, why, why, why? He was married, he had found her foolish, he was much older than she was – and then there had been his terrible clothes. Now that was a really serious drawback. She would cancel it, just telephone him and say she couldn’t manage it after all. It would be much more sensible.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said to Cedric, as they ate dinner in one of the small restaurants near their hotel, ‘I have a breakfast appointment. I hope that’s all right.’
‘A breakfast appointment, darling? With whom?’
‘Oh – just a man.’
‘A man? Should I come too, chaperone you?’
‘Of course not. He works for Lyttons in Paris. He’s much older than me and married.’
‘Married! Well, my darling, don’t think that means anything to a Frenchman. The French believe absolutely in free love. Before and after marriage. Is he attractive?’
‘You wouldn’t think so,’ said Adele firmly.
‘How do you know? I can tell he is. I’m jealous already. Where are you meeting him?’
‘Le Flore.’
‘Le Flore! I’m more jealous still. Those waiters, so sympatique. They know all the secrets of Paris. I think I should come.’
‘You’re not to come,’ said Adele, ‘I want to meet him on my own.’
‘So selfish!’ said Cedric.
They had had a difficult day. Mostly because of the model: not the legendary Murthe, who had been ill, but another exquisite creature called Villette, who could, Adele said to Cedric, have given Celia lessons in perversity. She refused to wear the sequin cape Adele had brought, or the white fox stole, or even the gold fabric which the beauty editor pronounced as quite perfect. After two hours of Gallic shrugs, interspersed with brilliantly animated conversation with the hairdresser, which had brought even Cedric’s famous patience to breaking point, Adele had gone to one of the street markets and bought several metres of velvet in wonderful colours, deep blood-red and midnight-navy and dark fir-forest green; Villette had looked at it all disdainfully and then picked up the navy length and swathed it loosely round her lovely blonde head.
‘There it is,’ said Cedric. ‘There is our photograph.’
It wasn’t quite, since the velvet had wrecked the hair, and the hairdresser had a tantrum; but by four o’clock, with Villette looking rather like Diana Cooper in The Miracle, they had the studio shot and then on her own suggestion, went out into the brilliant rain-washed evening and set her against the fountains of the Place St-Sulpice, where she suddenly became sweet-natured and creative and stood barefoot and laughing on the edge of the fountains, her arms raised to the sky.
‘Not a beauty shot I fear,’ said Cedric, ‘but a wonderful image. If nobody wants it, I shall blow it up ten feet tall and put it on the wall of my studio.’
Next morning, she was sitting waiting at her table in the terrasse of the famous Flore, enjoying the people walking past, when a small car pulled up outside and parked right in the lane of traffic; Luc Lieberman hurried in.
‘Mam’selle Adele! Forgive me, I beg of you, for being late. The traffic – terrible. How extremely good to see you. And you are looking quite different, so grown-up and élégante, I feel quite intimidated.’
He looked very much the same, a little thinner perhaps, his intense dark looks sharpened, the clothes definitely improved, a cream shirt under a grey suit, and a grey slouch hat. A waiter in his long white apron and short black jacket stood behind him, holding a silver coffee jug: it was an archetypal Parisian scene. Cedric would have loved it; she should have let him come. She smiled up at Luc Lieberman.
‘If only it were true.’
‘What, that I felt intimidated? Oh, but it is.’
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ she said briskly, thinking how absurd that they were arguing already, ‘but actually I meant about my being elegant. Two days in Paris and I feel like a country bumpkin.’
‘But how absurd,’ he said, settling himself beside her, his eyes moving over her. ‘Why?’
‘Everyone here is so chic. London women just don’t have that, it’s an instinct like singing in tune.’
‘But you have so many great beauties, singing wonderfully in tune, Daisy Fellowes, Diana Guinness, Iya Abdy—’
‘Well there you are, one French, one Russian, only one English. Anyway, you seem to have a great knowledge of pretty London ladies,’ said Adele.
‘Well of course. Now what are you going to have?’
‘Oh – just coffee please. And croissants. Isn’t that what you French have for breakfast?’
‘No,’ he said smiling at her, ‘it is not. Let me guide you to a truly continental breakfast.’ He turned to the waiter, ‘Deux jus d’oranges, deux brioches, de la confiture, deux cafés au lait, et pour moi, deux oeufs. Would you like an egg, Mam’selle Adele? They are all ready and waiting for you, see.’
And indeed the eggs were, six of them, perfectly uniform in size, set in a round wooden egg stand on the table. Adele shook her head.
‘No, thank you. I’m not a breakfast eater.’
‘That’s because of those terrible English breakfasts.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Adele crossly, perversely eager to defend her country and its food. ‘I just don’t feel hungry in the morning. I’m like my mother.’
‘Ah, the beautiful Lady Celia. Certainly an advertisement for not eating breakfast. How is she?’
‘She’s very well.’
‘And your sister?’
‘Not quite so well. Enceinte, I think is the word.’
‘Very good. I did not realise you spoke French these days.’
‘I don’t. I just know a tiny bit.’
‘Well, the tiny bit suits you. She has other children, your sister?’
‘Indeed she does. This is the fourth.’
‘Very good. We believe in large families in France.’
He said this with great satisfaction, as if Venetia’s sole purpose in having so many children was to give pleasure to the French.
‘Are you a Catholic?’ she asked curiously.
‘No, no. My mother is Jewish. But my grandmother is a Catholic. They both grieve over the fact that actually I am neither. In the religious sense.’
‘And in other senses?’
‘How nice that we are speaking of the senses already.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes probing hers; she felt the familiar sensation of being disturbed, almost troubled, deep within herself. She looked away; he said after a moment, ‘But in answer to your question I feel a little of both. Which is uncomfortable at times. I suppose if I were to think very carefully about it, which I do from time to time, I would say I was Jewish. That is a more – consuming thing.’ He smiled again. ‘But my wife is not Jewish and that is a terrible thing for a Jew to have done. To marry out of the faith.’
‘Is it?’
‘But of course. When we have more time, I will try to explain it to you.’
‘Are we likely to have more time, do you think?’ said Adele. Now why had she said that? A silly flirtatious remark; not at all what she should have said, not grown-up and sophisticated.
‘I would certainly like it if we did,’ he said slowly.
She looked down, fiddled with the brioche she had picked from the basket. How did he do this, make her feel at once so disconcerted and so brilliantly, sweetly happy?
‘So.’ His tone was suddenly brisk again. ‘What are your plans for the day?’
‘Oh – we have to go into Style this afternoon. And Cedric, that’s who I work for, the photographer, you know, wants us to spend a few hours just wandering round Paris, looking for locations, taking what he calls notebook pictures.’
‘Cedric. What a charming name. Like Little Lord Fauntleroy, isn’t that right?’
‘How clever of you to know that. Yes. I suppose he’s a bit like Little Lord Fauntleroy altogether. Awfully pretty.’
‘I see,’ he said laughing. ‘Well that answers one of my questions. I have no need to be jealous, is that right?’
‘You have no need to be jealous, no,’ she said, ‘not of Cedric anyway.’
‘Good. Of anyone else?’
‘Maybe,’ she said coolly.
‘Well that is not fair. You must tell me, yes or no.’
‘Monsieur—’
‘Luc.’
‘Luc, you are married. It’s nonsense to talk of your being jealous.’
‘Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – human emotion is not affected by the marital status. I desired you when I first saw you, when I was single, and I desire you still.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Well – you hardly know me.’
‘What a very English remark.’
‘Yes, well, I am English,’ she said, confused by his conversation as well as his presence. ‘And therefore rather given to making English remarks.’
‘You sound cross. Don’t be cross.’
‘I’m not cross.’
‘I think you are a little. But it suits you. I noticed it before. Your eyes become even larger and your colour more brilliant. Now stop glaring at me and have a piece of this egg.’
‘I don’t want any egg. I don’t like egg.’
‘You will like this egg,’ he said, and scooped a piece out of the shell very gently and carefully, and ate it and then did it again and held the spoon to her lips, his eyes absolutely fixed on hers. She resisted for just a moment, then opened her mouth and let him feed her the egg. It was perfect, very soft and tenderly flavoured; she swallowed it slowly and then smiled.
‘That was – lovely,’ she said. It was a moment of extraordinary intimacy; the waiter watched them with interest. A most practised observer of human behaviour, he could recognise this instantly for what it was: the birth of a love affair.