Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Paris!’ said Adele. ‘Oh, how lovely. Daddy, can we come too? We can do some shopping, we’re so behind with our winter wardrobes and—’

  ‘Of course you can come,’ said Oliver, smiling at her, ‘and I fancy you would rather enjoy Guy Constantine’s company. He’s a very charming man, although his English is rather limited.’

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t want to get in the way of your business,’ said Venetia quickly, ‘would we, Adele?’ and ‘No,’ said Adele, ‘of course not. We’ll just amuse ourselves, you won’t have to worry about us.’

  Oliver patted her hand. ‘Of course we won’t worry about you,’ he said, smiling at her.

  How do they get away with it, thought Barty, realising with a degree of relief that she and the boys would be travelling home from Paris on their own. The complete lack of effort they put into their lives, the nonsense they talked – ‘behind with their winter wardrobes’ for heaven’s sake, the self-indulgence that marked every hour of every day; and yet even Celia let them get away with it. It was not what she would have wanted, that idle, pleasure-seeking life: not in the least. Just the same, she still couldn’t help feeling a little irked that no one seemed to expect anything more of them.

  Of her own future nothing had yet been settled; Celia had talked about a job at Lyttons for her in rather surprisingly vague terms and, still more surprisingly, had accepted Barty’s request for a little time to think about it. She was altogether not quite herself at the moment, distracted, and slightly subdued; perhaps she was finally slowing down, losing some of her famous energy. After all, she wasn’t exactly young any more; she must be over forty now, although this evening, her tanned skin shown off by a narrow white silk dress, her dark hair gleaming in the candlelight, she looked particularly beautiful.

  And many, many years younger than dear old Wol . . .

  ‘Girls, I need your help.’

  Oliver had come down to breakfast at the Georges V on his own; the twins, already almost finished, anxious not to waste a moment of shopping time, looked at him with a degree of anxiety. ‘What with? And where’s Mummy?’

  ‘Your mother is not well. That’s the whole point. And—’

  ‘Mummy’s not well! But she’s always well.’

  It was true; Celia’s good health was legendary, her only physical weakness being a tendency to miscarry, a problem no longer in any danger of troubling her.

  ‘Well, she is not well today. She had oysters last night as you know and—’

  ‘Oh God.’ Venetia shuddered. She had once had oyster poisoning herself and could not longer bear so much as to look at them on a dish. ‘I did warn her off. Poor, poor Mummy.’

  ‘I know. She feels perfectly dreadful; a doctor is with her now. Of course it’s not serious, but she will have to remain here for at least two more days. But I need a hostess for luncheon. I am taking Guy Constantine and his editorial director to Maxim’s and I don’t want to do it on my own.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ said Adele, genuinely puzzled. ‘It’s business, isn’t it? Why do you need a hostess? And anyway, where’s Giles?’

  ‘He’s at their warehouse near the Quai d’Orsay. In any case, this is a social arrangement,’ said Oliver impatiently. ‘I refused luncheon in the boardroom, said I would like to make a pleasant break in the day, that your mother and I would like to take them to luncheon, and they were delighted. We will have been talking business all morning, and I want this to be a relaxing occasion, with some light-hearted conversation. So I would like you to join us. Preferably both of you, but certainly one.’

  ‘But Daddy—’

  ‘Venetia,’ said Oliver and his voice had an entirely different note to it, ‘I don’t often ask you to do things for me. Your mother and I devote a great deal of time and money to making life pleasant for you. You have just had an extremely good holiday and the next few months are not going to be exactly difficult for you. Now, which of you is going to be kind enough, generous enough even, to accompany me to Maxim’s for luncheon?’

  The twins looked at each other.

  ‘Both of us,’ they said.

  They arrived at the Constantine building at twelve-thirty as instructed, having left their shopping at the Georges V and having looked cautiously in on their mother. She was asleep; the nurse in attendance put her fingers to her lips.

  It was a glorious place, more like a house than an office, set in a courtyard just off the Avenue de l’Opera. The great double doors opened on to a vaulted hallway and a magnificent double staircase; a rather boredlooking male concierge directed them to the first floor, where they were asked to wait. Five minutes later their father, Guy Constantine and a third man appeared from one of the rooms.

  Guy Constantine was about forty-five, short, slim and neatly handsome in the French style, his dark hair greying, his skin tanned, his suit and shirt impeccable. The other man was rather different. Adele looked at him, and felt, as she expressed it to Venetia later, ‘my insides sort of clutch at me’. He was dark also, but much taller than Constantine; his features were untidy, as if they had been somehow dropped haphazardly into place and left to be neatened up later. He looked, Adele thought, as if he might be Jewish; he was very dark, with extraordinarily penetrating, almost black, eyes, a large nose, a high forehead on to which a mass of thick black hair seemed to fall rather than grow, and a full mouth that would have looked girlish if the rest of his face had not been so strong. His smile, which was sudden and brilliant, revealed very white, albeit slightly crooked teeth; his hand, as he shook first Adele’s and then Venetia’s, was bony and very strong and warm.

  ‘Luc Lieberman,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘I am the editorial director of Constantine. Enchanté, Mesdemoiselles.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Adele. She felt slightly dizzy; without quite knowing why. Luc Lieberman was absolutely not the sort of man she usually admired; his clothes left a great deal to be desired, being slightly crumpled and ill-fitting, the jacket sleeves just too short, the trousers just slightly too long. She waited for the feeling to pass; it persisted.

  ‘It is very sad,’ said Luc Lieberman, ‘that your poor maman is ill. Paris must do penance for her. Is she feeling any better?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ said Venetia, ‘we just popped in to see her.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Guy Constantine. He gave it the French pronunciation. ‘Sleep is what she needs. Now I thought you might like to see our rather beautiful building. Before we leave. Your father and I have a last few matters to discuss. Luc will show you around.’

  Adele, who was normally quite impervious to the beauty of buildings, however breathtaking, said she would adore to see around this one; Venetia nodded slightly less enthusiastically.

  ‘And this is the boardroom,’ said Luc Lieberman, throwing open the door with a flourish. ‘Is it not beautiful?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Adele. ‘Oh, it’s – well, it’s divine.’

  ‘Almost, I think yes, it is,’ said Luc. ‘I think God might well have created it. If He had had a moment or two between dividing the light from the darkness and creating the beasts of the earth. And then I think He would have been pleased with His work here in Paris.’

  The twins both giggled, slightly nervously. They could see he must be joking; on the other hand, his expression was very serious and they weren’t really used to so intellectual a form of teasing. They felt foolish and inadequate; it was an unfamiliar sensation.

  ‘I thought you would like it. Has your father not told you about this room?’

  ‘Of – of course he has,’ said Adele, and indeed she could dimly remember him sitting at the dinner table describing it, the jewel in the crown of this exquisite building, its art nouveau splendours, the perfect ceiling, the breathtaking fireplace, the Tiffany lamps, the elaborate wallpaper, the extraordinary table and chairs, seemingly carved out of glass; no doubt she had allowed her mind to wander as usual while he had been talking, into the more attractive country of dresses and dressmakers and wheth
er she and Venetia should accept an invitation to this house party or that. She really must learn to be more – thoughtful – if she was to interest people like Luc. Well, interest Luc. She couldn’t think of anyone she’d ever wanted to interest more in the whole of her life.

  ‘Well, now. Shall we proceed to the archives?’

  ‘I – I wonder if I might – well, sit this one out?’ said Venetia with a dazzling smile. ‘I hurt my ankle this morning, running up the stairs. Would you mind if I waited here, Mr Lieberman?’

  ‘Do please call me Luc. I would be désolé of course. But I understand. I am so sorry about your foot. Is it very painful for you?’

  ‘Oh, it’s – nothing. Really. I’ll be quite happy here. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’

  She smiled at him; her eyes met Adele’s in absolute complicity.

  ‘D’accord. Come with me, then, Mam’selle Adele. That is, if you would be interested in the archives.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I’m sure I would. And Luc, do please call me just Adele. There’s no need to be formal.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and his voice was courteously surprised, ‘oh, but I thought there was. Your father is, after all, my patron. I feel I have to show his eldest daughter some degree of respect.’

  ‘How do you know I’m his eldest daughter?’

  ‘Your mother told me.’

  ‘She did?’ said Adele. ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, the last time we met. She showed me some photographs of you.’

  ‘Really?’ Adele was astonished. Her mother was normally not the sort of woman to go round showing pictures of her children to anyone, let alone total strangers, and even less likely to impart rather intimate information as to which of her two twins had been born first. And yet – she could see why. There was something about Luc Lieberman that invited confidence, intimacy even; he drew you into his rather intense personality, and you found yourself – well, lost.

  ‘I can’t imagine why you should have been interested in learning such a thing,’ she said, looking away, fiddling with the clip of her handbag.

  ‘Mam’selle Adele,’ he said, and his face was very serious indeed, ‘I would be interested in learning anything about you. Anything at all. But now that I have met you, I am not surprised to learn that you are the older of the two of you. You seem the older.’

  ‘Oh, goodness,’ she said, and tried to laugh again, ‘does it really show, do I have grey hairs and wrinkles coming already?’

  ‘No grey hair or wrinkles, no,’ he said, ‘but you seem to be more grown up than your sister. Just a little.’

  ‘Really? Goodness,’ she said, feeling silly and not in the least grown up. ‘Do please let me see the archives. I’m sure they must be fascinating.’

  Lunch at Maxim’s was pure pleasure. The twins had been there before of course, never tired of its splendours, the Lautrecs, the atmosphere, the lamps, the waiters with their long white aprons, the wonderfully chic Parisiennes pushing food delicately around their plates. Hair much longer here, they noticed, and skirts marginally so, and those dear little closefitting small-brimmed hats; all important things to be taken back home.

  But for Adele, sitting next to Luc, concentrating (in a way that was quite new to her) on everything he said, however complex, struggling to follow when he and Guy and their father broke into French, these were secondary things. She felt, still, slightly dizzy, shaken somehow to her innermost self; not the familiar Adele at all, but someone nervous, tentative almost, examining what she said before she said it, and quite often deciding to remain silent, lest she should sound foolish, and yet at the same time vividly, almost painfully happy. Venetia, she noticed, was perfectly herself, chattering away to Guy, and indeed anyone else who would listen, about their morning’s shopping, their holiday in Antibes, how much she adored Paris; Adele felt slightly astonished by it, that Venetia could not be as affected by the occasion as she was, but was grateful for it nonetheless.

  ‘Now, we have a wonderful new book to publish,’ said Oliver, smiling at his daughters across the table at the end of the meal. ‘A discovery of Monsieur Lieberman’s. It’s about the war, and it’s called Lettres tristes. It’s a novel, written in the form of a correspondence between an English soldier and a girl he meets as he journeys home wounded from the trenches. He arrives home, knowing he is in love with her, knowing he will never see her again and expected to marry his English fiancée. Very moving, very moving indeed, and I think exactly the right time to publish. With the war receding from us in time.’

  ‘Indeed, Monsieur Lytton. And the author, Marcel Lemoine, is such a charming man. In fact, I was going to suggest, that when you publish the book in England, if you were planning a little reception for it, then he could perhaps come to London himself. I’m sure the English would like him. He did fight in the trenches himself, it is a book based on real knowledge.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Luc Lieberman, ‘he is an exceptional man. The only problem as I see it is that he doesn’t speak very much English, but – maybe Lady Celia could help. Her French is good I believe.’

  ‘Well, my French is quite good actually,’ said Adele, ‘and I would love to meet Monsieur Lemoine, I think it’s a marvellous idea to have him over for the publication. And of course you should come too, Monsieur Lieberman, as the discoverer of this great talent.’

  ‘That would be a delight,’ he said.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Venetia, ‘and when did you develop a talent for speaking French, Adele? You’ll have to have some lessons pretty quickly.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Adele, ‘I mean tais-toi. There, you see, I do remember quite a lot. It was one of my best subjects.’

  ‘Which doesn’t mean much. And views on publishing all of a sudden too. Oh, it’s all right, I thought he was—’

  ‘Isn’t he? So – so sexy.’

  ‘Yes. Terrible clothes, though.’

  ‘Terrible. I thought that probably meant—’

  ‘Possibly. Can’t assume it, though. They’re not all—’

  ‘No Frenchwoman,’ said Adele firmly, ‘would let her husband go round looking like that.’

  ‘What about her fiancé?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Do you? Anyway, we must—’

  ‘I’ll ask Daddy. Not Mummy, she’d guess. She never—’

  ‘No, but she obviously liked him too.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She told him I was the oldest. Of us two.’

  ‘How absolutely extraordinary,’ said Venetia.

  ‘I know. I just feel, Venetia, that he’s well – that he’s—’

  ‘Important?’ said Venetia.

  ‘Yes. Very important.’

  ‘Barty, my dear—’

  His voice came from his study as she walked through the hall.

  ‘Yes, Wol?’

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’

  Barty’s heart sank; she knew what it was about.

  ‘This is – difficult for me,’ he said, sitting back in the big leather swivel chair at his desk. ‘Sit down, my dear, sit down. Now then—’

  She sat, silent, determined not to help him in any way.

  ‘Celia tells me you have turned down our offer of a job at Lyttons.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s right, I would have told you as well, but you were away—’

  ‘I know, I know. That’s not the problem. It’s just that—’

  A long silence; Barty fixed her eyes on him politely.

  ‘Well, Celia is very upset.’

  Barty felt angry suddenly. Celia had no right to be upset; emotion was irrelevant. This was a business matter, not a family one. She said as much to Oliver.

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t quite true, Barty, is it?’

  She looked at him steadily. ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘Now you know it’s not. Celia loves you, she has worked very hard to help you over the years and—’

  ‘Wol, please. That’s not fair.’

  He sighed.
‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. You know it’s not. I didn’t ask to come here, I didn’t ask to leave my family. I know it was a wonderfully generous thing to do, and of course I have had incredible opportunities, that I would never have dreamed of. But—’ She stopped.

  ‘But what?’

  It was no use; she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say how much of it had hurt, how much damage as well as good Celia had done; and besides, Wol knew that, she had told them both once, one dreadful night when she had still been a child, when other, far more dreadful truths had come out, none of them would ever forget any of it, not a word that had been spoken.

  She took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Wol, I want to do things on my own. I think I’d feel this even if I was a Lytton—’

  ‘You are a Lytton. In many ways.’

  She allowed him that.

  ‘All right. If I was a Lytton by birth. I don’t want to have things handed to me on a plate, I don’t want to have it all made easy for me, I don’t want people saying, “Oh, she’s only got that job because – because they brought her up.”’

  ‘Barty, they won’t. You got a First Class degree in English Literature. From Oxford. No one can achieve that without extraordinary talent. And application, of course.’

  ‘You should know,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘you got one too.’

  ‘It’s easier for a man.’

  ‘Oh, Wol!’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true. But anyway, we want you to come and work at Lyttons because we think you will help us. Not to do you a favour. I hope we are more professional than that. We think you will make a very good editor; we think you have great potential.’

  ‘How can you tell?’