‘I was told you would like that best.’
‘And who told you that Oliver?’ she said, smiling.
‘Oh everyone,’ he said, almost carefully vague, ‘open it, try it.’ It was beautiful, a fine gold bracelet, the clasp studded with diamonds; an extravagant present, something he would never normally buy her.
‘Oliver it’s lovely,’ she said, ‘thank you so much.’ And watched herself kiss him again.
‘I’m glad you like it. Tiffany’s is the most wonderful shop, with what seems like acres of counters, or rather glass cases, all filled with beautiful things. And this was the most beautiful of all.’
‘And did you choose it all by yourself?’ she asked, teasing him. He flushed.
‘Well – I had a little help.’
‘From Felicity, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ he said shortly, ‘yes, she did make a suggestion or two.’ He was clearly irritated; she supposed it was because she had teased him, implied that he couldn’t choose her a present without help.
There was a silence; then he said, ‘I did miss you, Celia, so much. It’s so good to be home’.
‘It’s good to have you home,’ she said. But she could not tell him she had missed him, could not get the words out.
After dinner they talked, he told her more about the trip, who he had seen, what he had done. ‘They are such hospitable, easy people. I can see why Robert likes it there so much.’
‘How is he? And Maud?’
‘Both well. The elder boy is still a problem, but they seldom see him. Maud is sweet. You’d like her. So would the twins. Well, they’ll all meet soon.’
‘And Lyttons New York?’
‘Doing very well. I’m delighted. Stuart Bailey is extremely clever. He’s found some remarkable new writers, I’ve brought some of the manuscripts back with me. You must read them.’
‘I’d like to,’ she said. ‘You don’t think Laurence Elliott is going to cause trouble with Lyttons do you? He does own a large percentage, as I recall.’
‘Forty-nine per cent. No, he hasn’t been near the place, apparently. I think it’s so far outside his area of expertise, he can’t really interfere.’
‘I don’t think that ever stopped anyone interfering in anything,’ said Celia drily.
And then it was time for bed; half afraid, she stood up, said, ‘You must be tired. I hope you sleep well.’
‘No, I’m not tired,’ he said, and his face was a mixture of emotion: tenderness, nervousness, and near-amusement. ‘I would like to come to your room. If I may.’
‘Of – of course you may,’ she said. Thinking that of all the things she had expected and worried over, this at least should have been spared her. And panic first hit her and then receded, as she reminded herself she had only to watch. She lay there, watching herself watching him as he climbed into bed, turned to her, took her in his arms. Watched herself lying there, hearing him tell her he loved her.
‘I have missed you so,’ he said. ‘I was wrong not to take you. It has made me realise what I have in you.’
He began to kiss her; and then very quietly, pulling away from her briefly, said: ‘I want you so much, Celia. So very much. But – help me. Help me, please.’
And then she watched herself again: and managed just a little more. But it was the hardest thing she had ever done.
Meridian was to be published on December 1st, and there were to be subscription dinners, running right through November, when the bookshop proprietors in major cities were invited to dine with the publishers and the author, and then placed their orders.
‘We might even be able to increase the print order after that,’ Celia said to Sebastian. ‘And then Oliver is planning a wonderful dinner for you on publication day.’
‘I hope you will be there,’ he said, reaching out a finger, tracing the shape of her face.
‘Sebastian, don’t. Not here.’
She was terrified of any hint of their relationship coming out in the office; he was reckless, kicking the door closed behind him, producing flowers from behind his back, kissing her passionately as he leaned across the desk, sitting on one of the sofas watching her, and telling her he loved her. She sometimes feared he did it deliberately, hoping they would be caught, that their affair would come into the open. He took appalling risks.
‘Of course I’ll be at your dinner,’ she said now, ‘although at one point it was going to be at the Garrick and then, of course, I couldn’t. I made a huge fuss.’
‘Good. I would have refused to have gone otherwise.’
‘Well that would have been really tactful wouldn’t it? Anyway, it’s at Rules now.’
‘Rules! Our restaurant.’
‘Sebastian, it is not our restaurant. In fact I have rather unhappy memories of lunching with you there.’
‘Nonsense. That was where I learned that you loved me. Or rather that I might hope that you did.’
‘What absolute nonsense,’ she said, ‘I was simply furious with you, no more than that.’
‘And upset. And – well disturbed. I was hugely pleased,’ he added complacently.
Celia was silent; she was still troubled by his wife, not by her existence but by Sebastian’s extraordinary attitude towards her, his rather calculating assumption that there was nothing to be done about her.
‘She is perfectly happy with the status quo. She wouldn’t even mind about you, my darling. She has everything she wants from me.’
She was afraid, like all adulterous lovers, to ask whether or not he still slept with her; she told herself that of course he could not, that they must live like brother and sister.
In any case, she had no right even to inquire; there was Oliver, after all, and since he had come home, she had slept with him more than once. She had to. It was difficult: it got no easier, it was dreadful. She lay, submitting to him, trying to respond, usually managing it in the end wondering if he could in some way feel, tell a difference in her, in the way she moved, the way she was with him. And by sheer force of will she kept her mind closed to Sebastian, to being in bed with Sebastian, and his tumultuous, almost arrogant lovemaking, telling herself that until she had known him, certainly until the war, Oliver and she had been marvellously happy, that they had adored making love as they had adored one another, that it made no sense to set him aside however notionally. Sex with him must not become something inferior, a duty. It was different, that was all: and none the worse for it. None the worse for it at all.
The combination of guilt and happiness made her increasingly tender to Oliver: solicitous of his interminable minor illnesses, his faddiness over his food, his lack of energy. Although even that had eased since he had been in America.
‘I think perhaps you are an American manqué,’ she said to him, laughing one day, ‘like your brother. Perhaps you should go and live there.’
She even welcomed his endless criticism; recommenced now after the brief respite of his return. It helped in some strange way, made her feel less bad. There were days when she hardly felt guilty at all: days when she was particularly patient, especially generous – and welcomed him into her bed.
On other days, usually when she had been with Sebastian, not necessarily in bed, just listening to him, talking to him, making the kind of complex arrangements necessary to all lovers, thinking how much she loved him, how much she wanted him, comparing the monotone of her life before him with the dazzling brilliance of what she knew now, she felt dreadful, almost sick with it, ashamed of how she was behaving, how she was deceiving Oliver. She often thought of her mother these days, of her long-standing affair, of the explanation which had once so shocked her: that it did no harm, rather the reverse, provided that it was kept well contained, within the boundaries of marriage: and thought how what she was doing was worse. For this was not sex; this was love. Despite her refusal to admit it, she knew it to be so. She had taken the love which she had once felt for Oliver, just taken it from him and bestowed it upon Sebastian. Even though Oliv
er did not know, he must inevitably one day be the poorer for it.
They neither spoke of nor even acknowledged the future, she and Sebastian: they kept it at arm’s length, a dreadful, daunting prospect that must be faced one day. Like childbirth, the pain of it was inexorable, and unavoidable. Either Oliver must go through it, or Sebastian, and in either case then so must she. But for the time being, it did not exist for them, they would not allow it to; for the time being they were savouring what they had, and it was extraordinarily sweet.
‘And I would like you all to rise now and raise your glasses to Meridian. Meridian and Sebastian.’
‘Meridian! And Sebastian!’
The champagne glasses were raised, shining golden in the candlelight. Everyone clapped. And smiled. A small and most exclusive gathering: Celia, Oliver, James Sharpe, a couple of senior editors, LM, who had come up for the occasion, Gill Thomas, at Celia’s insistence, Paul Davis, behaving well for once.
Oliver raised his hand and said, ‘I don’t have very much to say about this book, except that it is undoubtedly one of Lyttons’ greats. A superb piece of work, imaginative, original, truly enchanting. All my own children are completely enthralled by it – and given their different ages, I think that tells its own story. The subscriptions have far exceeded what I had expected, and as a result we already have a second printing – bringing the total up to nine thousand, with an additional five hundred for the colonies. Many, many bookshops have ordered showcards, in itself a rare distinction. There is already an excitement about it and with good reason. You must have seen the interviews in the papers, not only the literary ones, but personal profiles of Sebastian in The Times and the Daily Mail. I am told by my wife that this is entirely due to Sebastian’s looks and charm, rather than to his literary skill; I am not sure whether he would wish to know that or not. All my colleagues in the trade envy me more than I can say. I am totally delighted and proud to be the publisher of Meridian, Sebastian, and I wish you every possible success. All I ask is that you write another book very soon.’
More applause. Sebastian stood up. He had come alone to the dinner, despite being instructed to bring a guest.
‘I can’t bring Millicent,’ he had said to Celia, ‘much as she would love it. Because of you.’
‘Oh Sebastian, don’t be absurd,’ she said, (bravely, for she had dreaded that he would do so, more than anything). ‘You must bring her, it’s her moment as well as yours, you said yourself she has supported you through the writing of it.’
‘I know. But I can’t. I couldn’t have you in the same room, I couldn’t bear it. Looking at her, knowing I was married to her, and then looking at you—’
‘But Oliver will be there.’
‘I can endure that,’ he said soberly, ‘I’m accustomed to that. And so must you be.’
‘My Lady,’ he said now, with a gentle bow to her, smiling, ‘Ladies and gentlemen. What can I say? I have dreamed of a night such as this. And yet never dreamed it would happen. I am so very delighted with everything, and Oliver, I have to say that being published by you is quite marvellous for me. For more reasons than one.’
His eyes rested on Celia; she looked away. This is dangerous, she thought, he is playing with a very big fire. She looked at him, standing there in the candlelight, so absurdly handsome, so full of energy, then looked at Oliver, still so frail, although undoubtedly distinguished that night, in his white tie and tails, and she struggled for the hundredth, the thousandth time not to compare them, thought how odd that they should be here, the three of them, so disunited as well as united by this book, this powerful, dangerous catalyst, with herself drawing them together as well as driving them apart.
‘I would like to add my own particular thanks to Lady Celia,’ he was saying now. Oh, Sebastian, don’t, don’t. ‘Without her there would be no infinitely stylish publication, no sublime jacket – for which many thanks, Miss Thomas—’ he bowed to Gill briefly, and she bowed her own head in return – ‘no publication at all, perhaps.’
‘Oh now, steady on, Sebastian,’ said Paul Davis, and everyone laughed.
‘No, it was she who spotted the potential of the book, she who bid for it so successfully, risked the wrath of her husband by the size of that bid—’
Sebastian! Stop! But Oliver was smiling, blew her a kiss. Thank God for champagne, she thought, thank God for it.
‘And so I would ask you now to raise your glasses again. To the Lyttons, both of them, to the particular brand of brilliance they bring to publishing and the absolutely unique blend of their talents.’
‘Well,’ said Oliver as the car pulled up in front of the house, ‘that was a very successful evening. The whole thing is quite marvellous. And Sebastian is right, he does owe most of it to you. Praise well-earned my darling. Well-earned.’
She was so overcome with shame and guilt, as well as the joy of the public accolade, that making love with Oliver that night was easy and almost joyful in itself.
‘Tea would be very nice,’ said LM, ‘thank you.’
‘Good. I’m sorry the little chap won’t be with us, but at least I can meet you. Now I thought perhaps Fortnum and Mason—’
‘That would be delightful.’
‘Good. Four o’clock then. I shall be carrying a copy of The Spectator, and wearing a dark grey overcoat.’
As it turned out, so were several other men; but LM could not have failed to recognise Gordon Robinson. He was enormously tall, six foot five, rather distinguished-looking altogether, she thought, with thick silver hair and a thin, ascetic face. He bowed to her over the black homburg he had removed, and moved forward, smiling.
‘Mrs Lytton. How delightful to meet you at last. May I—?’ he indicated the chair beside her, which she had heaped with parcels.
‘Of course.’
‘Christmas shopping?’
‘Well – yes. Mostly for Jay, though. I’m afraid I spoil him rather. I try not to but—’
‘That’s what children are for,’ said Gordon Robinson, ‘or so I’ve always thought. I haven’t been granted the good fortune of a happy family myself, but I’m sure if I had, I would have been a most indulgent father.’
LM didn’t like to ask why he had not been granted the good fortune; it seemed rather impertinent.
She enjoyed her tea with him more than she would have believed; it was very good to have some adult company, other than Lady Beckenham and Dorothy, and he was, although rather serious, very agreeable and certainly very easy to talk to. He was a solicitor, working for a City firm; he lived on his own in St John’s Wood – which was why he had been in the area when he had knocked Jay down. He suffered constant remorse, he told her, at having placed his elderly mother in a nursing home.
‘I struggled on at home, with the help of a nurse, for as long as I could, but in the end it became impossible. I think she’s quite happy there, but—’
‘I’m sure she is,’ said LM firmly, ‘and I’m sure she would not want to be a serious burden to you.’
‘Indeed not. She is a rather – saintly person.’ His eyes were amused as he spoke; she liked him for that, for so clearly having a sense of humour.
He was an only child, he said, ‘A mixed blessing, but on the whole a good influence on a young life I think.’
‘I hope so. Jay is an only child. But he has several cousins whose company he enjoys.’
‘Oh really? Tell me Mrs Lytton, I don’t suppose you are in any way related to the literary Lyttons?’
‘Indeed I am,’ she said smiling at him, ‘and just to set the matter straight, Mr Robinson, it is Miss Lytton. Yes, my father founded the firm.’
‘No! Oh, how marvellous. Well, it is they who are publishing that children’s book I mentioned to you – oh how stupid of me, you would know that of course. Oh dear—’
He was so embarrassed that he flushed and stopped talking; LM was rather touched.
‘I think it’s very clever of you to know that at all,’ she said, ‘very few people ha
ve any idea who publishes books.’
‘Oh, I’ve always taken a keen interest in the subject. My father was a great student of English literature, and I collect early editions.’
He talked easily and happily after that for quite a time: LM sat absorbing him, his kindness, his gentle manner, his careful courtesy. She liked him very much.
‘I don’t often come up to London these days,’ she said as they parted at the front door of Fortnum and Mason, and he handed her carefully into a taxi, ‘only for occasions such as this, or a board meeting at Lyttons. But the next time I do, may I contact you? I could give you a first edition of Meridian for your collection.’
He seemed delighted, said that would be charming.
LM’s only concern, as she contemplated their future friendship, was what he would feel when he realised that she was not only Miss Lytton, but that there had never been a husband at all, that she had actually not been married to Jay’s father. Gordon Robinson seemed a rather old-fashioned man. Perhaps she should have explained that day; but then he might have thought she was being presumptuous. Anyway, did it really matter? If such a thing was more important than friendship for him, then that friendship was hardly worth having.
Meridian was quite clearly going to be the kind of book which broke records and made reputations – the reviews were superb, especially in the hard-to-please Observer and even the Manchester Guardian, so much so that the book went into a third printing. All the bookshops had put in record orders for Christmas, and every set of parents and grandparents in the land seemed to be buying it for a Christmas present. It was even rumoured that several copies had been ordered by the Prince of Wales for his innumerable godchildren.
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