Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Don’t you think, Barty, that we have learned to recognise such qualities over the years? I have been in charge of Lyttons, Celia has been in charge of editorial excellence there, for twenty-five years. And I don’t think we’ve done too badly.’

  She was silent; then she said, ‘But there must be many other young people you could offer this job to.’

  ‘I daresay there are. A certain number, yes. But why should we go out and find them? Why not just have you?’

  ‘Because,’ she said, and her voice was thick with exasperation, ‘because I don’t want you to. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

  He was silent; then he said, ‘So, you want to try and make your way in publishing, do you?’

  ‘Well – yes.’

  ‘I see. Apply to other firms for other jobs?’

  ‘Yes. So it’s – fair.’

  ‘And do you think that these other firms won’t know who you are? Barty, you have grown up with all these people. You have gone to children’s parties at the Macmillans and the Murrays, you’ve danced with the Blackwood boys, you’ve dined with the Collinses. Do you really believe that they won’t bend over backwards to accommodate you, give you a chance? To please me and Celia, as well as you. Will that be fair?’

  She was silent.

  He looked at her. ‘Tell me, Barty, if none of this was – an issue, which publishing houses would you most admire at the moment?’

  ‘Oh – I’m not sure. Jonathan Cape, I suppose.’

  ‘Because of the Sitwells?’

  ‘Yes. Murrays. It’s so – so scholarly. Macmillans, they’re so innovative somehow, so commercially successful.’

  ‘All very interesting. And what about Lyttons?’

  ‘Well, of course.’

  ‘I think we have a little of everything; a good base in poetry, equalled by none in biography, thanks to Celia’s immense talent, a fine series of reference books, the Meridian books of course, a strong commercial list, look at the Buchanans, still going strong, a worthy rival to the Forsytes – if you knew nothing of us, wouldn’t you want to apply to us as well?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But—’

  ‘And then we are still comparatively small. Small enough for you to make your mark. If you have the talent. If you don’t, if we are wrong, then you will not survive with us for very long. I promise you that. As for making it easy for you, speak to Giles. See what he has to say.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘Barty.’ He leaned forward. ‘Please come to us. I want you to, I know we can benefit one another.’

  ‘Wol, I—’

  ‘There is something else,’ he said, not looking at her, picking up a pencil, beginning one of the elaborate doodles that often accompanied his thought processes, ‘for reasons which I don’t wish to go into, Celia is not entirely – happy at the moment. She is finding certain aspects of her life difficult. She’s very brave, she always has been, she would cut her own tongue out before admitting to it but – well, I would like to do what I can to help her. And it would make her feel very happy indeed to have you at Lyttons. She sees it as a rejection, your refusal, a personal rejection. I can understand your feelings; she cannot.’

  Barty thought this was highly unlikely, Celia was, despite her arrogance, immensely perceptive, but she said instead, ‘I’m sorry she’s not happy. Is there anything I should know about?’

  ‘No, no, and you certainly shouldn’t mention it. This is a conversation of absolute confidentiality. I know I can trust you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He looked at her. ‘I have seldom asked anything of you, Barty. I was perhaps less – happy about your arrival than Celia was, indeed I argued against it, I think I can tell you that now without fear of distressing you.’

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on his.

  ‘But you have given me great joy. As I told you that – that – well, on a particular occasion, you mean as much to me as my own children. And I hope I have given you whatever support you felt you needed in return.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course you have. And more—’

  ‘Except,’ his eyes twinkled at her, ‘except in the matter of your presentation at court. I found myself outflanked there. Had Lady Beckenham not intervened, I fear you would have been there making your curtsey along with the rest. However—’

  She smiled. ‘I expect I would have survived.’

  ‘I expect you would. However, I am going to ask you something now. Something I want you to do for me. In – I will not say not in return, that would be unfair, it would smack of emotional blackmail – in acknowledgement, perhaps.’

  She nodded again, knowing what was coming, thinking it was still emotional blackmail, but forced to recognise that he had every right to apply it.

  ‘Take the job, Barty. Come to Lyttons for a while – let us say two years. After that you will have made your mark, other houses will be after you anyway—’

  She smiled again. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Well, we shall see. But – will you do that? Please?’

  There was a long silence; then she said quietly, as she had known she would have to, ‘Yes, Wol. Yes I will.’

  ‘Good. And don’t think your life will be easy. As I said, ask Giles. He hardly has a feather bed to lie on at Lyttons.’

  ‘No. No, I know.’

  He stood up and kissed her. ‘Thank you, Barty. Thank you so very much.’

  She kissed him back and left the room quickly; she felt horribly near to tears. Up in her room she did start to cry; at the prospect of two more years at least of being indebted, of enforced gratitude. However Wol dressed it up, told her he was asking a favour of her, that was what it meant. And it wasn’t fair. It simply wasn’t fair.

  CHAPTER 4

  ‘I’m going out this afternoon,’ said Venetia. She spoke casually; rummaging in one of her drawers. She was wearing a drop-waisted grey crêpe dress, with a long string of pearls; a grey cloche hat lay on the bed.

  ‘Where?’ said Adele, but of course she knew.

  ‘To Boy’s flat.’

  ‘Oh yes? More paintings?’

  ‘Something like that. Yes. Damn. You haven’t seen the new cream leather gloves, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Venetia, don’t do it. Not a good idea.’

  ‘What? Oh, where are the wretched things?’

  ‘Venetia, don’t. Please.’

  ‘But why? I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. And that’s why I’m going.’

  ‘Well be—’

  ‘Of course I will. I’m not a complete idiot.’ She looked at her sister; her face was flushed. She tried to laugh. ‘Now I won’t be long. Promise. And you can have the car. I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘I don’t want the car. And you are a complete idiot.’ She sat down, picked up her Asprey cigarette case and lit a cigarette. Venetia noticed with something close to shock that her hand was shaking. She hesitated, tempted to stay, then took a deep breath and bent to kiss Adele on the top of her gleaming dark head.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’

  ‘Good,’ said Adele coolly. She picked up a copy of Vogue, started leafing through it. She was hating this: absolutely hating it.

  She hadn’t expected to mind about this love affair with Boy, had expected indeed to share it in all its excitement and discovery. They had, after all, had plenty of admirers before; had even literally shared a couple of them, taking it in turns to dine or dance with some unfortunate and unsuspecting young man, revealing the fact to him in fits of mirth only when they had successfully accomplished their mission.

  Usually, though, they went out in a foursome and conducted a critical post-mortem at the end of each evening. It was unusual for them to disagree; if someone amused or excited, or indeed bored, one of them, he would amuse or excite or bore the other and if one of them found a man particularly sexually attractive, then so inevitably would the other. The only exception to this had been Adele’s str
angely strong feelings for Luc Lieberman; but that had been different, he was not a potential boyfriend, he was much older than her, and he might be married or have a mistress for all she knew. He was outside their usual social sphere; he could not be compared in any way with Boy Warwick.

  They had each felt themselves to be in love more than once, had confided in and sought advice from one another, shared appallingly intimate revelations, and generally found any pleasure greatly intensified in so doing. They were still both virgins and their love affairs were of a highly restrained nature, but they were on the other hand very well-informed about how that innocence might be lessened or even lost. Several of their friends had crossed the great divide into sexual experience (and reported back on it in terms that ranged from the vague to the explicit), but the twins had felt no desire as yet to follow them.

  ‘We will if we really want to,’ Venetia said, as they sat dissecting an evening in the company of two particularly importunate young men, ‘otherwise there’s—’

  ‘Absolutely none,’ said Adele. And so it had been left.

  And then Venetia had really wanted to; with Boy. And, moreover, declared herself to be in love with him. And Adele found herself for the very first time in her life, experiencing a real and very harsh jealousy.

  ‘I have to. Really I do.’ Venetia had returned from a long afternoon with Boy, flushed, clearly upset.

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘I do, I do. Otherwise—’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Venetia suddenly started to cry. ‘You don’t understand. He makes me feel so – so silly. So young and naive. He says – well, he says he’s so fond of me, he just can’t understand me. Not wanting to.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know all that, but it’s not quite true. Is it? Not these days. Everyone’s doing it—’

  ‘Everyone’s doing it with Boy, you mean,’ said Adele, ‘or so he would have you believe.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ said Venetia, her voice cold suddenly. ‘That’s what this is about.’

  ‘Venetia, I do like him. I think he’s fun and frightfully attractive, and he obviously likes you. But – well, I do think he’s a bit of a bounder. And spoilt. He’s so used to getting his own way, he can’t cope with you refusing him. I just think – well, that you shouldn’t. Not with him.’

  Venetia was silent. Then she said, ‘Some of that may be true. But I do so adore him. And maybe—’

  ‘Venetia, I honestly don’t think that’s very likely.’

  Venetia looked at her. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. He was saying only the other night to Bunty that he thought it was time he settled down.’

  ‘I know. But he doesn’t mean half what he says.’

  ‘Well,’ said Venetia, ‘well I’m going to. I really want to, and he really wants me to and I just can’t see why not.’

  Adele sensed defeat. She sighed, looked at her sister very soberly, and then got up, went over to her and hugged her.

  ‘Does that mean it’s all right?’ Venetia said hopefully.

  ‘No. But it means – anyway, you will at least – won’t you—’

  ‘Of course. I’m not that stupid. Made the appointment already, actually.’

  ‘That’s good. I might come with you. Sooner or later I’ll need it too. I hope.’ She smiled with an immense effort and said, her voice quite different, ‘Now let’s telephone the newlyweds and ask if we can take them out to lunch tomorrow. I promised we would.’

  Pandora and Sebastian had been married quietly in early September; from Pandora’s own small house in Oxford. Celia and Oliver had offered Cheyne Walk on the evening of the first dinner, but Pandora had refused.

  ‘It’s sweet of you,’ she said, ‘sweet and generous but Oxford is home and I want our marriage to begin there.’

  ‘Well, that’s very understandable,’ said Oliver, ‘isn’t it, Celia?’

  Celia said that of course it was and enquired whether it might not be possible for Pandora to be married from her mother’s home.

  ‘Goodness, no. Even smaller than mine. Honestly a cottage. We don’t want lots of people, just our families, of course you are Sebastian’s, and my house will do perfectly.’

  It did: on a perfect golden day, they became man and wife in the Oxford registry office – ‘I always forget Sebastian was married once before, he doesn’t look divorced,’ said Adele, speaking for most of the family – and then over a wonderful, long, languorous lunch in Pandora’s garden, the air scented with late roses, and the sunlight as golden as the champagne. There were only twenty people there, half of them Lyttons; it was a delightfully unconventional occasion. The bride looked quite extraordinarily lovely, in a simple white crêpe dress, her arms full of lilies, white roses in her hair, and the groom looked, as always, absurdly handsome. He was dressed in a dark grey suit – not a morning suit, which caused Lady Celia Lytton considerable distress – and a cream silk shirt, and he looked like an illustration from one of his own wonderful books.

  Oliver made a charming speech, Kit read a poem he had written for the occasion entitled ‘The Wedding and Why’, which brought tears to several people’s eyes, including his mother’s and the bridegroom’s. Jay Lytton and Gordon Robinson played Mendelssohn’s Wedding March as a duet on Pandora’s piano while the cake was cut, Lily Lytton, in her last appearance before leaving with Jack for Hollywood, sang ‘Mad About the Boy’ quite exquisitely, followed by several other songs from her latest show by way of encore.

  Pandora’s mother, who was dressed rather unexpectedly all in white and bore a more than passing resemblance, several of the guests could not help thinking, to Miss Havisham, insisted on making a speech as well, and reciting ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds’ rather badly, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  Celia, dressed dazzlingly in blue and looking exceptionally beautiful and young, was at her most brilliant and amusing; only Barty noticed that as Sebastian raised his glass a trifle unsteadily to toast ‘my perfect bride’ LM reached out for Celia’s hand and held it tightly, but, as she had had a great deal of champagne herself, thought very little of it anyway.

  They left at sunset in Sebastian’s car for a honeymoon in Ireland.

  ‘That was utterly wonderful,’ said Venetia happily. ‘Giles, race you back to London. Last one home’s a cissy.’

  ‘I’m going with you two,’ said Kit, his eyes alight.

  ‘You are not,’ said Celia, ‘you are coming with your father and me.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy. It’s not fair, I want to be in the race.’

  ‘No one’s being in the race,’ said Giles, sounding (and hating himself for it) pompous, ‘because I’m not racing. I’ve had a bit too much champagne.’

  ‘I’ll race you girls,’ said Jack, whereupon Lily told him he wasn’t racing anywhere and that he should have learned about the dangers of driving while filled up with champagne several years earlier, and said she thought they should spend the night in Oxford at the Randolph.

  ‘You’re all spoilsports,’ said Adele, ‘well we’re going anyway. We have a party to go to.’

  ‘Whose party?’ asked Celia.

  ‘A friend of Boy’s,’ said Venetia casually. ‘And don’t look so disapproving, Mummy, he’s got three houses and a title. Bye, everyone. Lovely day.’

  Celia looking after them as the little Austin sped off down the road, felt anxiety join the other complex and violent emotions of the day; not just because they might drive too fast, or had had too much to drink, but because both of them, and Venetia in particular, had developed a certain studied vagueness about their comings and goings in the past few months. She knew what that meant; it was a device she had used herself in her own youth. It confused and diverted adult attention; in her case it had left her free to pursue and seduce Oliver. She must watch the twins more closely, she thought. And at least it would be a distraction from certain other matters.

&nbs
p; ‘My darling, I’m so lucky to have you.’ Boy Warwick lay back on the pillows of his extremely large bed and smiled into Venetia’s eyes. She smiled back. She was beginning to enjoy the bed thing. The first time had been difficult, painful even, lacking in pleasure; but each one since had been better, and today, this afternoon, had been wonderful. She had climaxed properly, for the first time, had discovered its intense joy, the rippling, rising and falling, beginning deep within her, the great well of warm, dark intensity drawing her in; she had heard a strange sound as it happened, a wild, primitive cry, and only realised afterwards, as she lay panting, wet with sweat, in Boy’s arms that it had been she who had made it.

  ‘I’m lucky too,’ she said, leaning over and kissing him. ‘Wonderfully lucky, and so happy, you can’t think how much. Oh, Boy, I love you, I really, really do.’

  He replied with a kiss, settled her so that she lay sideways with her head pillowed on his shoulder. He hadn’t yet told her he loved her; she wished he would, and she knew he must do; but she could wait. She could wait quite a long time.

  After a while, he sighed, set her gently aside, sat up.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have to be at my club at six. I must run a bath.’

  ‘Oh, Boy!’ She was hurt; she couldn’t help it.

  ‘My darling, we can share it. That was my idea. It’s a very big bath. I might even – we might even—’ He looked at her consideringly, reached out, traced her large, dark nipples with his finger, ‘Well, we must see what happens.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come along. We can collect some champagne on the way.’

  ‘Um – Boy, first I must – well—’

  ‘Must what, my darling? Oh – that! Yes, of course. My lovely, practical girl. Run along, into the bathroom with you. Turn the taps on while you’re about it.’

  Venetia went into the bathroom. She felt a little worried. She wasn’t sure that the anti-spermicidal jelly they had given her at the Marie Stopes clinic would work in the bath. Maybe she shouldn’t do it, should pretend she didn’t feel like it, that she had suddenly got the curse or something. Boy was very frank about such things; she could easily tell him. But – the thought of lying in a huge, hot bath with him, feeling him entering her again – that was still the best bit – climaxing again, that had been such heaven, such extraordinary, unimaginable heaven – could she do that again? If she could, it would be absolutely glorious. Oh, it would be all right. Of course it would. And she could douche extra thoroughly when she got home. She—