‘Someone?’ said Oliver, smiling at him gently. ‘A female someone, are we to presume?’
‘Indeed. Yes. A female someone. Someone very special, very – very – well, someone who has become very important to me.’
‘This is rather sudden,’ said Celia. Her voice was very quiet. She had become quite still, an absolute contrast to Sebastian; not only was her body totally motionless, but her face as well, quite expressionless, her eyes blank. ‘Do tell us more.’
‘I will. And yes, it is rather – sudden. I have only known her for – well, for a month. Altogether. I met her at another reading I gave. She works for the Bodleian.’
‘Indeed?’ said Celia.
‘Yes. She is a librarian there.’
‘A librarian!’ said Celia. Her tone implied that prostitution might have been preferable.
‘Yes.’
There was a long silence. Then Oliver said, ‘Well, do go on, my dear old chap. Are we to know a little more about her, her name perhaps?’
‘Her name is Pandora. Pandora Harvey. She lives alone, in Oxford, in a small house—’
‘I imagine she would not require a large one,’ said Oliver, clearly anxious to leaven the mood. Sebastian looked at him gratefully, and smiled.
‘Indeed. I mean, indeed not. She is thirty-one,’ he added, eager now to give as much information as possible, ‘and very charming, and, of course, beautiful. I would have told you about her before, but I felt – what can I say – embarrassed. That I should have – that this should have – happened—’ Sebastian hesitated, then went on, speaking faster with each phrase. ‘Happened so unequivocally and so suddenly. At my rather advanced age.’
‘You make it sound very – serious,’ said Celia. Her voice was louder now.
Sebastian looked at her. There was a long, a very long, silence. Then, ‘It is – serious,’ he said, ‘very serious indeed.’
‘Well,’ said Celia with a rather slight, but gracious, smile. ‘I’m sure she has every virtue. And of course we look forward to meeting her.’
‘You will,’ said Sebastian, ‘of course you will. Very soon. Because you see – well, because we are to be married.’
There was an absolute silence. Then, ‘Married!’ said Celia, and the word cut through the stillness, so loudly it was almost shocking. ‘You are going to be married?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘I see,’ she said, and it was as if Oliver was no longer in the room, no part of this conversation, had indeed no need to be. ‘Soon?’
‘Yes, Celia. As soon – as soon as it can be arranged. We see no point in waiting.’
‘I see,’ she said again, and sat back in her chair, staring at him: and then she raised her hand to take a cigarette, knocking over the glass she was holding; the red wine spread slowly across the white tablecloth, sinister and somehow threatening, and looking horribly like blood.
CHAPTER 3
‘Oh, my darling, congratulations. I couldn’t be more delighted, or proud. It’s wonderful news. You must be thrilled. I’m going to organise a big party to celebrate.’
‘Oh no, please don’t!’ Barty felt the familiar panic rising. ‘Honestly, Aunt Celia, I’d rather not.’
‘But – why not? You deserve it and it would be fun—’ She sounded hurt; Barty promptly felt mean. It would be the least she could do, really, to allow Celia to give her a party, small thanks for all her support, both financial and moral through her three years at Oxford. She took a deep breath, forced enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Yes. Yes, of course it would. I’d love it. Thank you. But – maybe not for a week or two. I’m awfully tired and—’
‘Of course. Whenever you like. Three weeks, perhaps? Summer is really more or less over here by then, I’m afraid.’
What she meant, Barty thought, was that the summer season would be more or less over. She smiled; the seriousness with which Celia still addressed the social calendar always amused – and astonished – her. There she was, brilliantly clever and innovative, as important to Lyttons as Oliver himself, if not more so, wielding immense power over authors, books, editors, illustrators, indeed over the entire publishing industry: and she remained obsessed with all the nonsense of her upbringing, country house parties, the London season, race meetings, balls, court dinners, royal garden parties, titles, society gossip – it seemed to Barty, even after all the years she had known Celia, quite extraordinary. And this year, with the twins’ coming out, it had dominated her thoughts and indeed her life more than usual. Well, it didn’t really matter to her; although there had been the hideous time when she had said she really thought Barty should do the season, to have a dance, to be presented. Barty could never remember being so frightened. She had begged Wol to try and talk Celia out of it, but he had said he wouldn’t have a chance; she had even started talking about dates and courts when Lady Beckenham heard of it and told her not to be so ridiculous, and that if she wanted to make both Barty and herself a laughing stock then she was going the right way about it.
‘It’s those absurd socialist principles of yours,’ she said, ‘and I absolutely forbid it.’
Barty, who had been called to the room by Celia while this discussion took place, lest she might wish to express a view, found it difficult to see quite how socialist principles could be applied to a presentation at court, but she accepted Lady Beckenham’s intervention with intense and silent relief. She knew better than to express any emotion of her own, for fear of misinterpretation; but she knew she was safe. Lady Beckenham was the only person in the world who could tell Celia what to do.
Anyway, this was different; a party to celebrate getting a First Class Honours degree in English Literature from Oxford, however terrifying and embarrassing, would at least have some point to it. Again she took a deep breath and said, ‘I think that would be lovely, Aunt Celia. Thank you.’
‘Good. Let me have a list of people you would like to invite yourself as soon as possible, won’t you? And Wol and I will take you out to dinner tonight to celebrate. I expect Giles and the twins and Kit will want to come too. Shall I tell Giles about your success, or would you rather do that yourself?’
‘I’d like to tell him if you don’t mind. Maybe when he gets home—’
‘Oh, I think you should telephone him now. I don’t think I can keep it a secret for long. What did the twins say? They’ll be thrilled—’
Barty said the twins weren’t up yet; she could hardly say what she knew, which was that they would be fairly uninterested in her success, merely annoyed at the contrast with their own lack of academic achievement. ‘But Kit is really excited.’
‘Of course he is. Tell Cook to make a special lunch. Goodbye, darling. Congratulations again.’
‘Thank you. For everything, I mean. See you later.’
She put the phone down, thinking sadly as she always did on such occasions how much her mother would have loved to hear about this, how proud, if uncomprehending, she would be, how she would cry with emotion and then tell Barty how silly she must think her. Billy would be pleased of course; she could tell him. And that was it; nobody else in her own family would understand what she had achieved, nor care. There was no point in telling any of them.
It was at such moments that Barty felt truly alone . . .
‘She’s got her beastly first,’ Venetia walked into their sitting room; Adele was painting her nails.
‘Oh God, now there’ll be trouble. Can’t you just hear Mummy going on and on about it. Did she tell you?’
‘No, Kit did. He’s very excited. They want to take us all out to dinner tonight to celebrate.’
‘Can’t we find something to do?’
‘Don’t think so. Everyone’s away, aren’t they?’ She sounded cross. Adele knew why. Boy was on a cruise in the Mediterranean. He had asked Celia and Oliver if she and Adele could go too, but they had refused, on the grounds that there were no chaperones. Venetia had pointed out that Boy’s mother and her latest lover would be
there, but Celia had said briskly that Letitia Warwick, as she still thought of her, was no chaperone for anyone and that her latest lover was no better than a gigolo.
‘Moves from one rich divorced woman to the next. And he’s a dago,’ she had added, clearly feeling that entirely settled the matter.
The Lyttons were taking a villa in the south of France a little later in the year; ‘Madly fun that will be,’ Adele had said darkly, ‘no one but the family, not even Sebastian. God, it’s depressing.’
Their season over, the twins were extremely bored. Several of their friends had already put engagement announcements over moony photographs in the Tatler; for such stars in the social firmament, they had not done as well as either they or their mother might have hoped.
‘Well, we’d better go. I suppose. I mean it is rather clever of her, we mustn’t be mean. But I don’t want to have to talk about it over lunch as well. Let’s go shopping quickly. She’s got Kit after all . . .’
Brunson came into the morning room; Barty smiled at him.
‘Telephone, Miss Miller.’
It always surprised her to hear that. She had been Miss Barty to the servants for so long, until she had gone to Oxford in fact. Then by some strange social process, via Celia she supposed, she had become Miss Miller: more important, a grown up, but at the same time awkwardly further removed from the Lyttons.
‘Oh, thank you, Brunson. Who is it?’
‘It’s Mr Miller, Miss Miller.’
Billy! How had that happened? He never phoned, wasn’t allowed to, naturally.
‘Billy? Hallo, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Just wanted to say congratulations. Well done. You deserve it.’
‘Oh, Billy, thank you. But how did you know and how—’
‘Lady Beckenham come to tell me. Running into the yard, all excited. Said I had to come up to the house and telephone you.’
‘Oh, Billy! That’s really kind of her.’ Barty’s eyes filled with tears; she swallowed hard.
‘Yeah, well, she is kind. Course she is. I know that more than anyone. Anyway, pleased as punch she was. So am I. You got brains, Barty, you really have. Mum would have been pleased, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Barty, ‘yes, she would.’
‘Barty, my darling, it’s Sebastian. I just wanted to congratulate you. It’s fantastic news. I’m so proud of you. Not that I have any right to feel pride, but – well, I’m thrilled.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Oliver. I went into Lyttons this morning. He and Celia are sitting there looking like cats that got a whole cow-full of cream. Can I buy you lunch?’
‘Kit and I are having lunch here,’ said Barty. ‘Cook’s already at work on a feast, I don’t like to disappoint her. Why don’t you come too?’
‘Well – it’s tempting. Will the Terrors be there?’
‘No, they’re going out.’
‘Then I might. No, then I will. I’d love to see you.’
He arrived just before midday, with a huge bunch of roses in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. He handed the champagne over to Brunson and took her in his arms and hugged her.
‘You clever girl. You clever, clever girl. It’s so marvellous. Pandora sends lots and lots of love.’
‘Thank you. Send mine back, won’t you. Is she well?’
‘Very well. Busy with plans for the wedding.’
‘Which is to be in September, Wol said. At her house in Oxford. Lovely idea, it’s so pretty.’
‘I know. I think so too. I’m having the devil’s own job persuading her to come down and live here afterwards though. She wants to stay there.’
‘Why don’t you?’ said Barty.
‘Because I love my house in London.’
‘Well, why not spend half the time in each?’
‘Oh, much too complicated. Everything is always in the wrong place at the wrong time, clothes, friends, parties. And where would I keep my books?’
‘Well, you could keep one set in each place.’
‘Have you been talking to Pandora?’ said Sebastian suspiciously.
‘No, of course not. It just seems quite – obvious to me. And it is so lovely, her house.’
‘So is mine. Now come along, let’s open that champagne. Kit, hallo old chap. How are you? How do you feel about this brilliant creature in our midst? Something to live up to, eh?’
Kit grinned, shook his hand then gave him a hug; they were extremely fond of one another. Barty watched them as they sat together on the sofa, chatting easily, and thought how oddly alike they were. Both with the same golden looks, both so easily charming; two of her favourite people in the world. One of the proudest moments in her childhood had been when Celia had asked her if she would like to be Kit’s godmother. And Sebastian had always been so kind to her, such a good friend, so interested in everything she did. And she was so proud of knowing him, the most famous children’s author of his day, probably the most famous ever – except, perhaps, for Lewis Carroll. All her friends had been so impressed.
For years she had had something of a crush on him; even now, she thought he was quite absurdly handsome. He hated his looks, said they were a liability rather than an asset, not in the least suited to a children’s author and it was true, he looked more like a film star or at the very least some rather romantic poet. His hair was still dark gold, his eyes an astonishingly brilliant blue, his features perfectly sculptured; he resembled, everyone said, a blond Rudolph Valentino. He was quite heavily built, and had been a fine athlete until an injury in the trenches early in 1916 had left him with a permanent limp – which of course added to his romantic image. Women found him irresistible, and his photograph on posters in bookshops sold a great many books to susceptible young mothers, looking for presents for their children. Even LM agreed he was extremely good-looking, and the twins were always saying he was swoon-making – their latest silly expression. Only Celia seemed impervious to his looks; the twins had once asked her if she didn’t think he was the most handsome man in the whole wide world, including the ones on the silver screen, and she had said quite crossly that she had never really thought about it and that she was a great deal more interested in whether his next book was going to be delivered on time and not be as late as the last one had been.
Barty sometimes wondered if Celia liked Sebastian at all; her attitude towards him was very cool, and she seemed to enjoy nothing more than arguing with him at the slightest opportunity. Giles had reported that she had been absolutely vile to him when he had turned up two hours late for the twins’ birthday dinner: ‘poor chap, he’d only been working as usual, giving a second reading because the first one had sold out’, and that she’d been horribly awkward about meeting Pandora. ‘But then she suddenly gave a big dinner party for her and was unbelievably charming and kept saying Sebastian didn’t deserve her.’
Sebastian actually felt much the same about Pandora himself; and at finding her at a time when he had never thought to experience any such emotion ever again. Men of forty-seven, with a considerable past, containing one marriage and several love affairs, selfish, solitary men, set in their ways, with a breathtakingly successful career to absorb their attentions and their lives, did not, could not, expect to fall in love. And yet he had done so: helplessly, joyously and without any kind of warning.
It had been her voice that he had first fallen in love with; he had been sitting in the Bodleian library after a reading, signing what appeared to be an unstoppable flow of his books, smiling courteously up at his young readers and their parents as they came up to the table one by one, saying he was so glad they liked the latest, that it was most interesting that they still preferred the first, that no, he did not actually have a favourite of his own, that yes of course he would put ‘To Freddie’ above the signature, that no, naturally he would not mind signing an old copy of the first edition, when he had heard it. That soft, low, extraordinarily sweet voice, that nevertheless could be heard quite clearly above
the hubbub, offering to fetch him more books from the pile of boxes in the corner; he looked up and saw a small heart-shaped face, a pair of large brown eyes, a gently sympathetic smile, and felt a pang of what he could only call recognition, but so violent it was like a physical blow, leaving him feeling odd, disorientated, slightly dizzy.
‘That would be very kind,’ he had said, trying to steady himself, to find normality, ‘but of course only a few, or get someone to help you, find Mr Jarvis, he usually—’
She smiled again, and turned away; she was small, he noticed, very small, with a long snake of golden brown hair falling down her back, held by a large tortoiseshell slide, and she moved swiftly, gracefully, almost gliding across the room. When she came back with the books, and opened a few of them at the title page, ready for signing, he thanked her profusely and felt bereft when she left him; at the end of the function, he saw her carefully documenting what had been sold and went across to her.
‘I was so grateful for your help,’ he said, ‘thank you.’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said, ‘it was nothing. I enjoyed your talk,’ she added, and went back to her task; he felt at once dismissed and encouraged.
‘I get so tired of it,’ he said, and ‘Of what?’ she said, looking up after a long moment, as if distracted, and unwillingly so, from what she was doing.
‘The talk. I do it so often, and it seems to me to be so boring. It probably is,’ he added, ‘but they seemed to enjoy it this afternoon, didn’t they?’
‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ she said.
‘And quite a good number of people, didn’t you think?’
‘Oh, I did. Yes.’
‘It’s always a strain, you know. Wondering if anyone will come, wondering if they’ll laugh at the right moment, all that sort of thing.’
‘I imagine, yes.’
‘You never get used to it. Not really. Absurd, isn’t it?’
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