He grinned back at her. ‘Don’t be. Not many people stand up to her. Probably did her good.’
‘Well – I hope so.’
He looked immensely relieved, started whistling, threw a stone into the river. Barty watched him, feeling much happier. Happier and rather grown-up.
LM was sitting at her desk, finding it difficult to think even where she was, let alone what she was supposed to be doing, when Celia came in. She was holding something. One of the copies of The Buchanans.
‘I thought you might like this,’ she said, ‘it could be valuable one day. I thought we’d keep a couple whatever happens, just pulp four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight of them. I’m sure they won’t be counting that carefully.’
‘Oh – yes. Thank you, Celia.’
Celia stared at her. ‘LM, are you all right? You look rather – odd.’
‘Yes, I’m all right,’ said LM, ‘thank you.’
She smiled at Celia. Her discovery had changed rather a lot of things. She felt too confused to work out properly what, or indeed why, but one of them was that she could like Celia again. Stop feeling outraged about her and her behaviour. It was illogical, she knew, but that didn’t seem to matter.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll see you in the board room for this vile meeting.’
‘Yes. Yes, I won’t be long.’
LM wondered if Celia knew. About Felicity. Presumably she did. It certainly explained a lot. But – was that affair still going on, were Oliver’s increasingly frequent trips to New York, his expressed desire to have an office there, all cover for it? Surely not. He just wasn’t capable of it. Of such treachery. No, LM, stop deceiving yourself about him. He is. He most certainly is.
Her view of Oliver had been suddenly and almost totally changed. All at once he seemed both less admirable and more so: human she supposed. And a great deal more worldly-wise. With worldly-wise advice to offer. Advice that seemed suddenly irresistible. What exactly had he said? If you have a chance of happiness now, why not take it? He was right: she did have a chance. And it might not come again. It probably wouldn’t come again.
She sat looking at the book: a first edition. Gordon would love to have that; it had real rarity value. A first edition of a book that was never published. Of course most people could not be entrusted with it, but he could. Especially if he had some kind of relationship with the publisher.
LM pulled a piece of Lyttons’ writing paper towards her and wrote a short letter on it in her neat, careful hand; she put it into a large envelope, together with the book and sent for one of the messengers. She asked him to deliver it personally and as soon as possible to Mr Gordon Robinson at Messrs Oliphant & Harwood, Solicitors of Fetter Lane, London, EC4.
Then she went to join Celia and Oliver in the board room to have yet another meeting over the future of Lyttons. Or rather, as she greatly feared even Celia was going to have to agree, the lack of it.
‘There you are,’ said Jasper Lothian, ‘Plenty of time. Train isn’t even here yet. You get a porter, I’ll buy the tickets. I knew there was no need for all that fuss.’
Vanessa directed the porter to the down-train platform, hoping the train would come in and that Jasper would miss it. She feared there was little hope of that; and wondered, as she so often did, how she had stood living with him for almost thirty years.
‘Right,’ said Oliver, ‘I think we should gather our things together. We have to collect Peter Briscoe on the way.’
‘Brunnings are in Regent Street, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, in a rather beautiful building. That will be nice, at least.’
‘You mean – we won’t be able to stay here?’ Celia felt suddenly close to panic.
‘No, of course not. The upkeep of this place, with the huge rise in rates since the war, is astronomical. Since Brunnings do not propose to take more than half a dozen of us on, and since we shall be using their distribution system, our stock can merge with theirs. It clearly makes absolute economic sense for us to move in with them.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I see. I hadn’t realised that.’
‘Well it’s fairly obvious,’ said Oliver, ‘you must see that.’
‘I – hadn’t. How stupid of me. Will you excuse me a moment? I have to fetch some – some papers from my room.’
‘Of course.’
She went into her office; her beloved office, where she had spent so much of her life. The kingdom within a kingdom she had created for herself. The huge, leather-topped desk looked just as it always did, heaped with letters and books and diaries and files, every one of which she could lay her hands on in a moment, organised chaos of the finest kind; there were the booklined walls, the piles of dusty proofs and papers, some of them undisturbed for years, but the cleaners still forbidden to touch them; the two vases of always fresh flowers, one on the fireplace, one on the low table which she had managed somehow even throughout the war, to maintain and on either side of the fireplace stood her two beloved sofas, where she had read far into the night, slept from time to time, where authors sat while she studied their manuscripts and received her congratulatons, where she had been when the news came that Oliver was safe, and where Sebastian had first read Meridian to her, on that same extraordinary morning – and where he had often held her, and kissed her, where he had raged at her on that day when she had misunderstood his behaviour over the copyright fee. It held her whole personal history, this room, it was home in the truest sense, the only place she had ever felt completely safe, fully in control of her difficult, tempestuous life. And now she was to lose it, just as she had lost Sebastian: forever.
‘London! London! All passengers for London. London train leaving now from Platform Four. Platform Four for the London train. All classes for London, Platform Four.’
Guy climbed on to it. He felt infinitely weary.
Remorse slowly wormed its way into Jeremy Bateson’s consciousness. He shouldn’t have done that. Said he had no idea where Guy was. The Lyttons didn’t deserve it; Guy didn’t deserve it. It was hardly their fault that he had been so busy. Well, only very remotely. He decided he should ring Lady Celia back. Tell her where Guy was. Tell her he had gone to see Lothian. There was no need to go into any kind of detail. Just exactly that.
He picked up the telephone, asked for Lyttons’ number.
‘Oh, no, Mrs Gould, no more calls now. We’re late already. Come along, Celia – are you all right my dear?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’
She looked dreadful, Mrs Gould thought. She had obviously come back to work much too soon. Well, at least it was Friday. She smiled at them, turned back to the telephone.
‘I’m so sorry. Mr Bateson. They’ve just left, I’m afraid.’
The name pierced Celia’s misery; she felt as though she had been physically struck.
‘Who is it, Mrs Gould?’ she said.
‘A Mr Bateson. He wanted to speak to you.’
‘Oh. Oh heavens, Oliver, I must speak to him. Please.’
‘Well, be quick, I’ll go and tell Daniels you’re on your way.’
Oliver and LM went down the stairs; he was holding the door open for her when he heard Celia calling him. Her voice sounded odd: raw, excited.
‘Oliver. We must wait. Guy has gone to see Lothian, in Cambridge.’
‘Celia, we can’t wait. Nothing is going to change Lothian’s mind now. Certainly not a last minute plea from Guy Worsley. If you won’t come, we shall have to go without you.’
‘Can’t you delay the meeting? Jeremy really seemed to think this might be important.’
‘No, I can’t delay it. I’m sorry. What are you going to do?’
‘Stay,’ she said after a moment’s pause. ‘For a bit anyway. And don’t sign anything without me.’
Oliver left the building and slammed the door very loudly behind him.
Gordon Robinson was finding it hard to co
ncentrate. The depression which had invaded him as LM left the restaurant two nights earlier had not lifted, indeed it was haunting him. It felt rather physical, a combination of a dull headache and bad indigestion. He had not realised, until she had turned him down, quite how much he had hoped she would accept him. And how bleak the prospect was of life continuing along the solitary, old-maidish lines which had seemed so oddly satisfactory until a few months earlier.
He decided to take an early luncheon. He informed his secretary, picked up his umbrella – a constant companion, even on days of such brilliant sunshine as this one – and walked through the outside office, through the reception area of Oliphant and Harwood. As he reached the front door, a messenger came in with a package. He was not a boy, but a rather elderly man; he looked tired and uncomfortable. Well, it was very hot.
Gordon Robinson was a courteous man. He stood back for the messenger, then said, ‘If you want the desk, it’s over there.’
‘Can’t leave it at the desk,’ said the messenger. ‘Got to deliver it personal.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well, the desk will inform whoever it is for and ask them to come down.’
‘Yes, thanks.’
He looked round; the reception area was large and rather daunting, the desk behind one of the vast marble pillars. Gordon felt sorry for him.
‘Here, I’ll come over with you. Who is the package for, I might even know the person in question.’
‘It’s a Mr—’ the man looked at the package – ‘a Mr Robinson. Mr Gordon Robinson. From Lyttons Publishing.’
‘Good Lord,’ said Gordon Robinson. ‘Well, that’s me. I say, how extraordinary. Good Lord.’
The train was terribly crowded. The main one of the day to London, Guy supposed. He finally found a seat between two extremely stout ladies, and opposite a rather tall man with very long legs. He was dreadfully uncomfortable and thirsty. And bored. He had long finished his newspaper and the journey seemed a lot less appealing this way round, and with the early gloss gone from the day. There was a limit to how much interest there lay in the various illustrations of Cambridge and Frinton and Skegness. He wondered if he could afford a drink, or even a coffee. With great difficulty, anxious not to poke the two fat ladies in their well-padded ribs, he eased his hand into his pocket, pulled out the change.
Ninepence. The taxi to the Lothians’ house had been very expensive. Hardly a king’s ransom, but it would probably be enough to buy him a coffee. He eased himself up from between the padding, off the seat, climbed over the very long legs, and went out to the corridor. God he felt depressed. Depressed and foolish. How could he have done that? Jeremy had told him he was an idiot. Expecting Lothian to be there, just waiting for him. Now it could be days. Weeks even. He sighed, started making his way down the corridor.
There were suitcases all the way along it. People sitting on some of them, disgruntled because he had disturbed them. He felt pretty disgruntled with himself. The restaurant car was right at the front of the train; it meant going through the first class carriages. It was rather different in there. Lots of room, arm-rests betwen each seat, linen headrests, meshed luggage racks, brass fixtures on the doors and windows. Really nice. Bit like a gentleman’s study. There was no one sitting on suitcases in the first class corridors, either. Guy moved along it quite easily; then met a steward with a tray coming in the opposite direction. He stood back against the glass door of one of the compartments to let the man past.
‘Thank you, Sir. Very kind.’
As he went past, Guy turned idly to look into the compartment; it was empty. Presumably they were in the restaurant car, having lunch or a champagne breakfast or something, before coming back to their comfortable seats. He felt quite resentful. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Still, they could probably afford it because they were clever and successful; they wouldn’t do something stupid like going to see someone a hundred miles away without first checking that they were going to be there.
Nice luggage too: very nice. That was a lovely pair of matching leather holdalls up there. With wonderful matching leather labels. Superb. When he was a successful author, that’s what he’d have. When he’d finally got the better of Jasper – what a ridiculous name, like the villain in a pantomime – Jasper—
‘Oh my God,’ said Guy, aloud, ‘oh my God.’
And blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming; then read again, the magical, incredible, truly unbelievable words: Lothian. Basil Street Hotel, London.
‘Right,’ said Matthew Brunning, ‘I’ve looked over the figures, Oliver. They appear to be just as you said. Not – good. But nothing that we can’t sort out for you.’
Oliver managed to smile. LM didn’t try. This was hideous. Sort out for them. As if they were junior employees. She felt sick.
‘Now, let’s just run over this again. The modus operandi, as it were. Brunnings would take over Lyttons, in its entirety. Take on all its debts—’
‘And its assets,’ said Peter Briscoe.
‘Ah, yes, its assets.’ He spoke as if they were negligible, of no import.
‘We would acquire the backlist, and those with the Lyttons imprint would take on the new combined logo – I’ve had our art department draw something up, I’ll show you later – as each edition expired. The dictionaries and the other reference works would remain as your own imprint. I would insist on that.’ He smiled as if this were an act of extraordinary generosity.
‘We would retain certain key members of staff: you, Miss Lytton, and Lady Celia, of course. The rest would be open to negotiation. There will have to be some what shall I say – economies made on the staff front, as I’m sure you would agree. Your costs are – quite high.’
‘We employ very high-calibre people,’ said Oliver, ‘they don’t come cheaply.’
‘Of course not. But you know, we have found here that the high-calibre people, as you call them, are not necessarily the best. Heads of department can direct quite junior people very satisfactorily.’
‘They can indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘but you know, they can also direct them into conformity, away from ideas, from lateral thought, from questioning.’
‘Really?’ said Matthew Brunning. He sounded impatient.
He was a dreadful man, LM thought; what were they doing here? Oliver was right, one of the things which had given Lyttons its excellence, given all the great houses excellence, was allowing people to question. To say why not? To push boundaries back. And to make mistakes. And waste money.
‘What about the art department staff?’ she said. ‘Our editors?’
‘Well, we have our own art department. I would see that as a major area for rationalisation. Frankly, I do consider your studio costs are very high. As to the editors, as I say, I would consider each man on his merits. Again, we have many extremely competent people here.’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver, ‘yes, I see.’
Competent was exactly what they were, thought LM: competent and no more.
‘And, of course, all your administrative staff would probably have to go. With the exception of one or two, not necessarily senior people. Our finance director, for example, would not be looking for any assistance from yours.’ He smiled slightly grimly. ‘Especially in the light of—forgive me—a certain lack of attention to detail.’
‘I am Lyttons’ finance director,’ said LM mildly.
Matthew Brunning looked at her. He flushed very slightly. ‘Ah. I had thought—well—’
‘But you’re right. There has been a lack of attention to detail. For which I blame myself entirely.’ She did not attempt to explain further. There seemed little point.
‘Anyway,’ said Matthew Brunning, ‘clearly these are matters which can be resolved in the fullness of time. The main point of this meeting is to reach heads of agreement. To provide a formal launching point for the new publishing house.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ said Peter Briscoe.
‘Now, I wonder if you’d like to look th
rough this draft contract, Mr Briscoe. There are copies for you, Mr Lytton and you, Miss Lytton. Er—is Lady Celia joining us? I had thought—’
‘I hope so yes,’ said Oliver, ‘she has been delayed. She—she said she would be coming on to join us shortly.’
‘How long might she be? I have a luncheon appointment and . . .’
‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t be much longer.’
‘I’m going straight to the hotel,’ said Vanessa Lothian. ‘Are you going to your club?’
‘Yes, I think so. You wouldn’t like to have a quick luncheon with me first?’
She looked at him, appalled. Dick Marlone had already outlined in great detail what he had planned for the two of them at lunchtime.
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not hungry.’
‘Very well. Can you take my wallet a moment? I want to sort out some papers.’
‘Of course. Nearly there, look, Romford already. We should arrive easily by twelve thirty.’
And at the hotel by one, and in her room with Dick Marlone by one fifteen. Excellent.
Celia was pacing up and down reception, waiting with diminishing hope for a phone call from Guy Worsley, telling herself at the end of each five minutes that she would wait five more, when a very tall man with white hair came in at the door. He raised his hat to her.
‘Good afternoon to you. I—I wonder if I might leave this letter for Miss Lytton. Miss LM Lytton.’
‘Of course,’ said Celia, ‘I’ll give it to her myself. I’m about to see her. Thank you.’
‘No, thank you. How very kind.’
Celia smiled at him graciously. ‘Would you like me to give her a message? As I am going to see her personally?’
‘Oh no, no,’ he said, ‘no, the entire message is contained within that note. Er—do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Celia Lytton?’
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