‘How very sad,’ said Briscoe. ‘What a lot of tragedies the war caused.’
‘Indeed. Anyway, she’s buried herself in her work, lecturing at one of the women’s colleges. Lady Margaret Hall I think.’
‘I made her a musician, of course,’ said Guy ‘and had the boyfriend killed, not injured. It seemed more – appropriate.’
‘Mr Worsley, I have read the book. I am aware of the dissimiliarities, thank you.’ Peter Briscoe was beginning to find Guy Worsley and his self-justification very trying. ‘Mr Bateson, was there any real talk about Lothian having an affair?’
‘A lot of talk, yes. He had a rather flirtatious manner. And he was the sort of person who attracts gossip. And about one girl in particular. She was at the house a lot. And he was seen with her, out for walks and in the town and so on. But then, she was originally befriended by Mrs Lothian, as I said.’
‘But there was never any real scandal?’
‘No. Well, nothing concrete. Not while I was there, anyway. Or afterwards, as far as I know. And – if you were having an affair with a student, you’d be a lot more discreet than that. I mean with hindsight, I’d say he rather worked the whole thing up. Out of a sense of mischief, you know?’
Briscoe looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I think I know,’ he said.
‘So what we’re left with,’ he said to Oliver later, ‘is a skeleton of similiarity. The master is horribly like your hero, and there was talk of an affair: apart from that, and the wife’s money, there is very little they could point to. Well, a broken-hearted daughter, but for a very different cause.’
‘So are you saying we don’t have so much to worry about?’ asked Oliver. He sounded hopeful. Briscoe looked at him; he looked weary almost to the point of sickness. The temptation to reassure him was almost overwhelming.
‘I’m afraid we do have a considerable amount to worry about,’ he said, ‘It would be very wrong of me to tell you otherwise.’
‘Mr Brooke to see you, Lady Celia.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t see him now. Tell him – ask him to wait in reception, please, Miss Scott. I’ll come down in about quarter of an hour.’
‘Certainly, Lady Celia.’
She had scarcely put the phone down when her door shot open and Sebastian came in. Celia could not remember seeing anyone so angry in her entire life: not her father when she had left a gate open to one of the fields and all the cattle had got out on to a main road; not her mother when she had told her she was pregnant and had to marry Oliver; not Oliver when he came back from the war and saw what she had done to Lyttons in his absence. On all those occasions she had felt able to face the anger, accept it, deal with its consequences, defend herself even. Today she was quite simply frightened. He slammed the door behind him, leaned against it. His voice was low, but violent.
‘What exactly, in the name of God, do you think you’re doing?’ he said.
She was silent.
‘You tell me you love me. You tell me you are going to leave your husband for me, you tell me you have told your husband the samething . . .’
‘Sebastian, be quiet. This is no place for this discussion—’
‘I am being quiet and this is the place for it. You tell me you are going to leave him, and on a particular day, at a particular hour. I wait for you, all day. For many, many hours. I telephone you and you tell me you will telephone me back. You don’t. All day and all fucking night.’
‘Sebastian, stop it.’
‘—All fucking night I wait for you. Every car, every footstep I hear, I think is you. No message, no phone call, nothing. Absolutely nothing at all—’
‘Sebastian, please—’
‘And then today, you instruct me through your receptionist to wait another fucking fifteen minutes. Or fifteen hours. It would be all the same to you, no doubt. How dare you, Celia, how dare you treat me like this.’
‘I—’
‘No, don’t. I don’t want to hear explanations, or justifications, or pleas for time, or any other fucking, bloody filthy nonsense. Your behaviour is disgraceful, you are disgraceful. You lack courage and you lack integrity and you lack humanity and you even lack courtesy. I am disgusted by you, absolutely disgusted.’
She sat silent, staring at him, looking into the face of rage. He walked over to the sofas, sat down on one of them suddenly.
‘I simply do not understand you, Celia. I do not understand you at all. What is the matter with you, how have you come to this?’
‘Sebastian, please—’
‘I’m going away,’ he said, ‘I’ve decided.’
‘Going where?’
‘To America.’
‘America?’
‘Yes. On an extended lecture tour. I’ve had an offer from an
American publisher. I’ve had enough of this. Of this and you. I hadn’t told you, because I wasn’t even prepared to consider it, thinking in my infinite foolishness that you might mean what you said, that you might actually be intending to come and live with me. There was always enough to discuss – all about you, needless to say. Sweet Jesus, was there a lot to discuss, Celia. Your husband, your children, your career, your life. I don’t recall more than a phrase or two being thrown in my direction. I should have taken some kind of hint from that, I suppose. It should have given me some kind of clue to your self-obsession, to your total lack of interest in anything to do with me. Anyway, I’m going. And as soon as I possibly can: I cannot wait to get out of this city, this country, away from you and anything to do with you. Rather fortunate I hadn’t actually signed that contract for Meridian Times Two. Macmillan have made me a very generous offer, and Collins are waiting with an even higher bid, I’m told. Paul Davis has been urging me to accept it. Of course I had said it was out of the quesiton. I find myself oddly eager to consider it now.’
‘Sebastian, you can’t do that.’
‘Ah! So now we have it. That would be serious, wouldn’t it? Never mind losing your lover. Losing your bestselling author, your discovery, your protégé. That would really hurt. Well, I hope it does, Celia. I hope it hurts you horribly and terribly. Hurts and humiliates you as much as you have hurt me.’ He looked at her, then said more gently, ‘I loved you so much. I would have done anything, anything in the world for you. I would have died for you, if you had asked me. Do you know that?’
She said nothing.
‘I really don’t think,’ he said finally, ‘that you know what love is at all. Except for yourself, of course. You are pretty well besotted with Lady Celia Lytton and that’s about the beginning and end of it, as far as I can see.’ He stood up. ‘Goodbye, Celia. I do apologise for having taken up so much of your time. It must have been extremely inconvenient for you.’
‘Celia, there is something I would like to talk to you about.’
‘I’m sorry?’
She looked at Oliver across the dinner table; the day had passed, somehow, in a terrible haze of pain. She had no idea what she had done in those hours after Sebastian had gone; she had obviously remained in her office for the rest of the day, because Daniels had driven her and Oliver home together, and she must have signed some letters, because at one point a pile of them had been there, and then later had gone again, and she could see she must have checked some proofs for the same reason. She remembered dimly talking to Lady Annabel, and to Edgar Green, and she had obviously smoked several cigarettes, because her ashtray was rather distressingly full at the end of the day. Dr Perring would not have approved.
She had also, somehow, eaten some dinner; she had looked in surprise at her plate as Brunson had removed it and seen that it was at least halfempty, and the same applied to the wine Oliver had poured for her, it was no longer in the glass. But what she had eaten and what the wine had tasted like, even whether it had been red or white, she could no more have said than she could have walked on the surface of the Thames or flown through the air.
She looked at Oliver now, said, ‘I’m sorry?’ again, trying to make sense
of his words.
‘I said there was something I would like to discuss with you.’
Not now, dear God, not now, when it was finally too late; not now when the right moments, the proper opportunities had come and gone too many times; not now when everything was so desperately and dangerously changed; not now when she lacked the strength or the courage for any discussion at all, even the likelihood of an improvement in the weather.
‘Oliver, I really am terribly tired,’ she managed finally to say.
He looked at her intently. ‘You look very pale.’
‘I’m fine. Really.’
‘Good. You must go to bed early, try to get some sleep. But before that, there is something I really think we should consider.’
‘Yes?’
Not a holiday, please God, not even a weekend away with him, not time alone with him, misery, loneliness undiluted by work, the staff, the children.
‘I think we have to discuss the condition of Lyttons with LM. Urgently.’
‘With LM!’
‘Yes. We are in considerable difficulties, I’m afraid. As a partner, she is entitled to know. And in any case, her views are always so sound, I would appreciate having them.’
‘Considerable difficulties?’ she said stupidly, incapable of imagining what they could be. ‘What sort of difficulties, Oliver?’
He sighed, looked irritated. ‘Well – this action of the Lothians obviously. For a start. That will cost us very dear, unless they drop it completely. Which is highly unlikely.’
‘Yes, I know.’
This was better: distraction. Anaesthesia for the pain. It was real pain, like childbirth, coming in waves. Every now and again so bad she thought she must cry out with it, then receding again, leaving her exhausted, but briefly easier.
‘And then – well I hadn’t liked to trouble you today, you were obviously so very busy. But I fear we are about to lose Brooke.’
‘Really?’ Keep calm, don’t look at him, have another glass of wine. How quickly, how very quickly he must have acted. Oh God. ‘Surely not?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Paul Davis telephoned me today, Macmillan have made him an offer I cannot match. Certainly not at the moment. So—’
‘How unfair,’ she said carefully, ‘after all that we’ve done for him.’
‘Yes. But – well he has done a lot for us. Made us a great deal of money.’
‘Even so—’
‘Well, that’s the name of the game. Authors do move around, don’t they? Especially when they become valuable and powerful. I feel angry and hurt, of course I do, but I cannot, in all honesty, blame him. I am considering the matter, obviously but I don’t think we can afford to keep him.’
‘I’m so sorry, Oliver.’ For it was her fault, in truth. Had she not fallen in love with Sebastian, had an affair with Sebastian, enraged and humiliated Sebastian, he would never have considered leaving Lyttons. Although they had never properly discussed what he would do if . . . Stop it, Celia. Concentrate.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘Well. There it is. And then—’ he looked down, fiddled with his fruit knife, ‘and then there is the matter of Jack’s list.’
‘Yes?’
‘Although the Mutiny book will do tolerably well, I believe, it has been very expensive. Too expensive.’ He hesitated, then finally met her eyes. ‘An error of judgement on my part, I fear.’
That must have required great courage. She said gently, ‘I have made a great many of those, Oliver. Besides, you don’t know yet how well it will do.’
‘I think I do. A limited sale, inevitably. And I have to say I’m unwilling to allow him to commission further books, for now, at least. A cheaply produced military book is a contradiction in terms. We need to invest in the backlist, and in authors who will sell in large quantities with any money we do have. So a decision must be taken there—’ he looked at her, looked down at his wine glass. ‘I’m actually talking about Jack’s future here, you see. At very best, I’m going to have to tell him that there can’t be any more military books for a year or so.’
‘I do see. Yes.’
‘And LM really must be consulted. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, Oliver, of course I would agree.’ And thought that really, LM would not be over-impressed with either of them; one way and another, they had managed to bring Lyttons to a dangerously low point.
‘Lyttons have written back to say there is no question of the book, or indeed any part of it being rewritten,’ said Howard Shaw, ‘and that they intend to go ahead with publication, as planned.’
‘I see. So—’
‘So I think we should write back and say we are seeking an injunction to prevent them.’
‘And you think we’ll get it?’
‘I’m fairly confident. If we don’t, if the judge decides against us, and if they go ahead and publish, then we can certainly sue for libel. And I think we shall get considerable damages.’
There was a moment’s hesitation; then Jasper Lothian pushed back his silver hair and said, ‘Fine. Please do whatever you think best.’
‘But I must ask you again – forgive me, but the judge will – there is absolutely no question of any uncomfortable details of your private life coming out in court?’
‘Absolutely none. There was no liason with any girl, at any time.’
‘And you are prepared to swear that on oath?’
‘Of course.’
‘I feel such a wretch,’ said Guy Worsley gloomily, ‘such a stupid, useless wretch.’
Jeremy Bateson looked at him; he was quite drunk, and he looked very tired.
‘Well,’ he said, rather helplessly, ‘you didn’t mean any harm.’
‘No. Of course not. But how could I have been so foolish? I don’t know, I just thought – it was so long ago—’
‘Not so long.’
‘I suppose not. But anything before the war seems in another lifetime.’
‘Indeed it does.’
‘And – I still think – well, I know that most of the book is entirely fiction. It was only the starting point.’
Bateson was silent.
‘The girl—’
‘Yes?’
‘The one who there was talk about. I mean the particular one.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t suppose – well, she’s still there? At Cambridge?’
‘Highly unlikely,’ said Bateson with a grin, ‘she must be twenty-four at least by now.’
‘Yes. You don’t remember her name?’
‘Briscoe asked me the same thing today. I’ve racked my brains, but I really can’t. I think her Christian name was Sarah. Or Sally. Or even Susan. Something beginning with S. But you know how it is, you always think that and then it turns out to be B or W. But I promised to look up the records. If I saw the name I’d certainly know it. I’ve got some old newspaper cuttings, details of degrees, you know I’m going to dig them out tonight.’
‘Are they at your flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come and help you.’
Several hours later, Jeremy Bateson looked up from his piles of papers and grinned triumphantly at Guy.
‘Got her!’
‘No! Really?’
‘Yup. Susannah! That was her. Susannah Bartlett. Graduated in 1915. Absolutely no doubt about it. God, so she’s twenty-six now.’
‘Fantastic!’ said Guy, ‘bloody fantastic. God, what a relief. Well done, Jeremy. Where does she live, how soon can we see her? Oh, I can’t wait to tell old Lytton.’
‘Hold on,’ said Jeremy. ‘That was five years ago. She could be anywhere. Anywhere at all.’
‘How do we find her then?’
‘We can write to the college authorities. Ask them if they have an address for her. That’s the only thing we can do.’
‘Well, come on,’ said Guy, ‘what are we waiting for? Give me some paper, Jem, and I’ll write straight away. They’re bound to know, aren’t the
y?’
‘The only thing they’re bound to know, Guy, is where she was living then. She could have moved, married, left the country—’
‘Well if we don’t write, we certainly won’t find her,’ – said Guy impatiently. ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. This is a huge break, it’s bound to help, surely to God.’ Jeremy looked at him; he was standing up now, almost jumping up and down on the spot, pushing his hands through his already wild hair, his eyes shining. He was quite literally childlike, he thought, impetuous, impatient, full of endless enthusiasm and excited by ideas and possibilities. The very qualities which made him so brilliant a storyteller; the very ones that had led him and Lyttons into this appalling mess.
‘Yes all right,’ he said, ‘I’ll get you some paper.’
Lily looked at Jack; he had an absurd smile on his face, and he was standing on his chair, doing the one-step, really rather better than usual. She checked his glass: it was still almost full. But – he had a look about him that she didn’t entirely like. Euphoric. Almost foolish. Brillianteyed. Lily knew that look. It was induced by cocaine. A lot of the girls in the show took cocaine; Lily herself had tried it, and thought it was wonderful, until a friend took too much champagne with hers, went into a coma and was rushed to hospital. Lily had never touched it since. Other people could take it if they liked; she didn’t want to risk getting into that sort of condition.
But Jack had discovered it recently and was taking rather too much, Lily thought. They had been at a party when he first tried it; it was one of the theme parties that were so much the rage. In fact, you could hardly go to, or give, a party that wasn’t a theme. Masked parties, Greek parties, circus parties, Mozart parties, swimming parties, treasure hunt parties, parties where you had to go as someone else. This particular party had been a treasure hunt and had turned into a motor chase across London, ending in a picnic breakfast on Hampstead Heath, where the final clue had been at the swimming ponds. And over breakfast, as the dawn broke, someone had offered somone else some cocaine, ‘Just so we don’t start feeling sad, now the party’s over’, and after a while everyone was taking some. Very little. Just a sprinkle in the breakfast champagne. And Jack had found himself feeling rather terrific, he said. And in no time at all was very enamoured of it indeed.
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