‘Not at all,’ said Oliver. He sounded angry suddenly, ‘you knew all the problems. About Lothian, the Mutiny book, Brooke’s defection. The only thing I haven’t discussed with you is a merger.’
‘Oh really! Such a small thing. The end of Lyttons. Nothing really. Hardly worth mentioning, even. Good God, Oliver, how could you? When Lyttons is everything to me; you know it is, when I’ve spent my entire life working for its success, when I am a Lytton – you betray me, keep me out of the decision—’
‘It’s not your decision,’ he said icily, ‘it’s mine. I shall make it. And you are not a Lytton. Not in that sense of the word. Goodnight.’
If he wanted revenge, Celia thought, too angry, too outraged even to cry, he had surely found it. And wondered if this, finally, was the sign she had been looking for.
Up on the nursery floor, Giles and the twins heard the angry voices, the slammed doors. Giles tried to ignore them, but the twins hung over the bannisters, struggling to hear more.
Barty was not there; she was spending the night in Balham, with Frank and his family and Billy. She had accepted the invitation without a great deal of enthusiasm, since Frank’s wife was wary of her, difficult to talk to. But Frank had wanted her to go, and so had Billy and besides, she had thought, if she was there, she could easily, first thing in the morning, go and see Mrs Scott again. And talk to her about what was becoming an obsession, troubling her almost as much as her grief over her mother’s death.
‘LM—’ said Gordon. He looked nervous, uncomfortable. He ran his hands through his white hair.
‘Yes, Gordon?’
‘I – wondered if we – that is if you – could – oh, dear, I’m finding this very difficult.’
LM smiled at him.
‘Would you like me to help? Or would that be presumptuous of me?’
‘No. No, of course not. I mean—’
‘You wondered if we could be more than friends. Is that right?’
He blushed bright red. His forehead was damp. His expression was almost desperate. Then he said, ‘Well – yes. If we could consider that. One day.’
‘One day! Do we have to wait such a very long time?’
He looked embarrassed.
‘I’m not sure. I wouldn’t want to rush you in any way. But if you could think about it—’
‘Gordon,’ said LM, ‘I don’t need to think about it. It would be marvellous, I think. Really.’
‘Oh. Oh well. Oh, I say. My dear—’
Even in her happiness, LM was struck by how absurdly different he was from Jago, how extraordinarily different his courtship had been. She had made love with Jago that first night; Gordon Robinson was proposing it after many weeks – months. Well – it was perhaps as well. It would avoid comparison. Of any kind – She allowed her mind to roam forward a few hours and felt a pang of such violent pleasure and delight she could hardly bear it. She lifted her wine glass, took a large sip and leaned forward to tell him.
‘I – have no idea how we should proceed—’ he said after a while, but he reached over the table and covered her hand with his. ‘Whether you would agree to an actual engagement straight away. A formal one, that is—’
LM’s heart lurched uncomfortably. She had not expected this. ‘An engagement!’
‘Well, yes. Oh, now I’ve worried you. Clearly we should leave it a while longer. But I would—’
‘I hadn’t thought of an actual engagement,’ she said carefully. Wondering how she felt.
‘Not yet, of course. I can see that now. Well, it can wait. If I know you are willing to consider it, that is happiness enough for me. I—’
‘Gordon,’ said LM, ‘Gordon, have you ever been engaged before?’
‘No. No, I haven’t. There was only one young lady, with whom I felt myself very much in love, but – well it was all rather unfortunate—’
‘What happened?’ She smiled at him, reached out and touched his face. It was such a sweet, kind face. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well – it transpired that she – well that she had had a relationship before—’
‘What, you mean she’d been in love before?’
‘No, no, that wouldn’t have troubled me. One can hardly expect to be the first and only love of a woman’s life. I would not be that to you, of course. I realise that.’
‘No. No, indeed. There is Jay, after all—’
‘Yes, and you have had a husband. But—’
‘Gordon, there is something—’
‘No, no let me finish. It’s important. My – my dear.’ He was clearly very pleased by this endearment. He said it again. ‘My dear LM.’
‘My dear Gordon. My very dear Gordon,’ she said, smiling at him. She reached for his hand, pressed it; he became scarlet again, looked around the restaurant anxiously, as if fearing some kind of retribution.
‘Anyway,’ he said, after a while, ‘I discovered that she had had a – a – physical relationship. With a man.’
LM suddenly felt rather sick.
‘Yes?’ she said, ‘and—’
‘Well, you see – as you know, I am a Christian. To me, marriage is sacred. The only way to consummate a – a—’
‘Physical relationship?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘So you broke it off?’
‘Yes, I did. I felt I had to. I couldn’t respect her any more. And therefore could not—’
‘Could not love her?’
‘No. Well, certainly could not respect her. Which to me is an essential part of being in love.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see. Gordon, forgive me for asking this but – since we are talking of intimate things – are you – that is have you ever had a close relationship with anyone?’
He stared at her; he was pale now, and very agitated.
‘I have not,’ he said, ‘no, I could not. Having not married. How could I? It would have been very wrong.’
‘Yes,’ said LM, ‘yes I see.’
Suddenly her joy was quite gone. She felt very near to tears. Wretched in every way. This would not do. It could never do. It could never work. She was a woman of considerable passion and experience: even though she had been celibate for many years now. She had had several lovers, and one of them had fathered her child. She no longer believed in God; she did not actually believe in marriage. And here she was, contemplating a serious relationship with a man who was, at fifty years of age, a virgin, committed to strict Christian rules and beliefs. It could not be; it could never be. And there had to be a reason to give him: a good one—
‘I – I do thank you,’ she said, stuggling to keep her voice steady, ‘for the great honour you have shown me. But I think – well I think it is probably – for the foreseeable future at least – not the best idea. I still feel a great loyalty to Jay’s father. It would seem a betrayal.’
‘Oh,’ he said and he looked so dejected, so absolutely downcast that she almost relented, tried to tell herself it would, after all, be possible to make it work. But it would not. It really would not. And the sooner it was settled, was put behind them both, the better. For both of them.
‘So – I have to say no,’ she said. And it was one of the most difficult things she had ever said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, I understand. Of course. But – well, should we continue as we have done? As friends. And maybe in time—’
‘No, Gordon,’ said LM, dredging up the courage from she knew not where – God perhaps – ‘no, I think not in time. Not ever, really.’
‘But you said – earlier—’
‘I know. But I’ve been thinking about it, even as we talked and—’
‘Very well,’ he said standing up, and she thought she had never seen anyone look quite so sad, ‘of course I appreciate what you have said and your honesty. You must let me take you home now.’
‘No, really,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t. I will get a taxi. I promise I will,’ she added, ‘don’t look so worried. Good – goodbye, Gordon.’
She held out her hand. ‘And thank you again. For everything.’
‘Goodbye LM,’ he said.
She looked back as she reached the door of the restaurant; he was sitting, with his head down, just staring at the table. It was all she could do not to rush back over to him and tell him that she was wrong, that she would like to consider an engagement. But she knew she could not. It would never, ever do.
CHAPTER 31
LM put the phone down; in its own way that call had been the last straw. This little slut of an actress, saying no, she wouldn’t come and see Jack, she was very busy with rehearsals, but to send him her best wishes.
‘It might cheer him up,’ LM had said and the girl had said she didn’t know about that, but she really couldn’t come.
‘But I’ve still got his wallet,’ she said, ‘I meant to bring it round this morning before you went, but—’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to get up early for something so unimportant,’ said LM coldly. ‘No doubt you were up very late last night, dancing—’
‘No, actually I—’ said Lily, but LM had put the phone down.
In her misery, her sense of despair at the new emptiness of her life, the clear knowledge that she would not, at her age and in her situation, find another man to love her and whom she could love, in that dull aching misery, speaking at all was an effort: speaking to someone she felt innately hostile to was impossible. She picked up her coat and hat and rummaged in her bag for the key to Celia’s car, which she had borrowed for the day; she couldn’t find it, tipped the contents of the bag out on her desk. A note from Gordon Robinson, thanking her for the first (signed) edition of Meridian was amongst them; she stood staring at it, watching it blur with tears.
Lily made a face at the phone. Old witch. Well, she’d certainly had a lucky escape from acquiring her as a sister-in-law. Maybe if she’d only let her explain about the wallet, that she’d stayed with Crystal last night, that the wallet was at her parents’ house in Bromley and it was impossible to get it before Miss Lytton left for Lewes, she’d have been a bit nicer. Anyway, it didn’t matter. She could just leave it at Lyttons this evening; or maybe give it to the old girl then. She was sure to be going to visit Jack again. Dear Jack. God, she missed him. God this was difficult.
Mary Bartlett felt quite sorry for Guy Worsley. He really did seem a nice young man, pleasant-faced and very polite. It was a great pity they hadn’t been able to find his telephone number, so that he’d had to make the journey for nothing, With his hopes so high. Still, he shouldn’t have embarked on this in the first place. If, indeed, Professor Lothian was right about his motives. It was underhand and – well – wrong.
Just the same, his face as she told him Susannah wasn’t there, that she had had to go out for the day, and wouldn’t be able, in any case to see him after all, was very crestfallen. Very crestfallen indeed. In fact his whole body seemed to droop in disappointment and despair. Poor young man.
‘I really am very sorry,’ she said, ‘sorry you’ve had to come all this way for nothing. Can I get you a drink of lemonade or something? It’s terribly hot.’
Guy Worsley thanked her courteously, said it was quite all right, that he didn’t want anything and set off down the path, drooping more than ever.
Giles was looking out of the window when Barty came back. She was walking down the Embankment and looked very upset. Poor Barty. It must be dreadful for her: she had no mother now and no father. And she had loved her mother so much. In spite of the rather fragmented nature of their relationship, she had loved her more than anyone. It was a great credit to his own mother, Giles thought, that she had worked so hard to ensure Barty saw her so often. He might not approve of what she had done exactly, but he did admire that. He decided to go down and meet her. Perhaps she’d like to go for a walk. Or even – go up to Sloane Square, where they could have a lemonade in the cafe at Peter Jones.
He ran down the stairs and opened the door. She stared at him, as if she hardly knew who he was. She looked dreadful. Utterly dreadful. White-faced and shocked, her eyes huge and dark-ringed.
‘Barty,’ he said, ‘whatever is the matter?’
‘I – don’t feel very well,’ she said. And was extremely sick, all over the hall floor.
The last day. Inside the final last twenty-four hours. Sebastian was leaving at ten on Friday morning. It could be that she would never talk to him again. Certainly not as a lover, not as a beloved. Perhaps cool chat at literary parties, cold exchanges over contracts, and in many years’ time, it was possible there’d be friendly reminiscences at other people’s houses. And she would be herself again: happy, whole, in command of what happened to her. Even that hurt: that love in all its anguish might ease to such a degree.
He had kept his word: he had not telephoned, had not written. Several times she had picked up the phone, asked for his number, for what purpose she did not know: certainly not to tell him anything, for there was still nothing to tell. And had then rung off before there was an answer. And returned to her wrack, her solitary torture.
She had hoped that Oliver’s behaviour over the merger would settle her mind; the way he had set her aside, ignored her wishes, denied her position in the company. It did: for a while. But after her first brief rage, she lapsed back into a strange inertia, an inability to move away from her own intense concerns. It had become almost self-perpetuating, that inertia; unfamiliar to her, but overpowering. She felt very unfamiliar altogether; she could hardly recognise herself.
‘You don’t look too good, I must say,’ said LM. She sat down by Jack’s bed, began to unpack the bag she had brought him, sweets, biscuits, fruit, the kind of things she would have packed for Jay.
‘Well thanks. I haven’t had much access to barbers or tailors,’ said Jack plaintively.
‘Of course not.’ She managed a smile.
‘You don’t look too good yourself,’ he said, studying her, ‘is anything wrong?’
‘No. I’m a little tired, that’s all. What happened, Jack, what did you do?’
‘I honestly don’t know. Came round a corner, trying to catch up with the others, hit a tree or something, don’t remember any more. Quite a bit of champagne inside me, I’m afraid.’
‘Jack! You are a fool. You might have killed someone.’
‘I might have killed myself. I suppose you wouldn’t care.’
‘Of course I’d care.’
‘Not many people would.’
‘Now Jack, that’s absurd.’
‘No it’s not. I’ve helped to wreck Lyttons for Oliver. Lost touch with all my old regimental friends. And then – Lily.’
‘What about Lily?’ she said carefully.
‘You – haven’t heard from her?’
‘Well – not really. She has your wallet by the way.’
‘Ah. I wondered where it was. I’m afraid that means it’s over then.’ He sighed, pulled miserably at a loose thread in the bedclothes.
‘You’re better off without her, I would say,’ said LM, ‘she doesn’t seem a very caring sort of person to me.’
‘Oh, you’re wrong there, LM. She’s very caring, very kind. And I could have sworn she cared about me. She’s been so loyal, such a brick, always interested in what I was doing. We’ve been – close for quite a long time. She’s jolly pretty too,’ he added, ‘and a terrific actress.’
‘Really?’ said LM drily. ‘Altogether a paragon then.’
‘Yes, actually. That’s why I don’t understand any of this. I mean it all ended so suddenly. I asked her to marry me and—’
‘To marry you?’ This was a huge step; Jack had seemed the eternal bachelor.
‘Yes. Well, I – I loved her, LM. Still do. And I thought it was time I settled down. Anyway, that was what did it. Seemed to put her right off me.’
‘Well – obviously she didn’t feel ready to settle down herself,’ said LM carefully.
‘No. No I suppose that’s it. She said she might be going off to Broadway, or som
e such nonsense.’
‘There you are then. Obviously she’s married to her career.’
‘Obviously.’
‘We don’t seem to be very lucky in love,’ said LM, ‘any of us.’ He looked at her. ‘You too?’
‘Well – you know.’
‘Yes. And – Oliver?’
‘The less said about Oliver’s marriage, the better I should like it,’ said LM.
‘You know too?’
‘Yes, I know too. Dear oh dear. What a mess that is.’
‘I don’t know why he doesn’t throw her out on the street,’ said Jack.
‘That would seem a bit harsh. But he does persist in being excessively saintly about it all. It – it irritates me. And I don’t understand it.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Jack, grinning at her almost cheerfully, ‘it’s very hard being younger brother to a saint.’
Guy Worsley felt almost as if he might burst into tears as he trudged back down the road towards the station. So much for cracking the case, saving The Buchanans, saving Lyttons. What a beast this girl must be. Not even having the courtesy to phone him. Raising his hopes, sounding so friendly and so helpful: he still couldn’t believe it of her. Well: that was that. Absolutely that. No more hope. He might as well go back to teaching. No one would look at anything he wrote ever again. Thank God he hadn’t said anything to Oliver Lytton, raised his hopes. At least he was spared the humiliation of having to tell him he was back at square one.
He sighed. It was terribly hot. He looked round to see if he could see a shop anywhere that might sell him some lemonade: he almost wished now that he’d accepted Mrs Bartlett’s offer. There didn’t seem to be anything. Just rows and rows of over-neat houses. God he hated the suburbs. Well he would probably have to live in one himself. And not even as nice a one as this. He’d thought he’d be rich on the strength of The Buchanans, be able to buy himself a really good house in the country. Fine chance of that.
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