‘We put our bikes on the train. It’s such fun. And we go to the theatre together a lot too, up in the gods, and to the cinema all the time. I love the cinema, don’t you? The way you can just lose yourself in it. You ought to come with us sometimes.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Giles. ‘I’d like that a lot.’
‘And bring Helena too. I like Helena so much, she’s—’
‘Barty,’ said Giles, ‘that’s what I want to talk to you about.’
‘What, Helena?’
‘Well – not exactly.’
‘What, then?’
‘Um—’
‘This sounds rather serious,’ she smiled at him, ‘too serious for a restaurant maybe. Shall we have coffee at my flat?’
‘Oh – yes. That’s a good idea. I’ve got my car outside.’
‘Come on then.’ She stood up. ‘Goodness, I feel quite dizzy. The champagne, I suppose. It was lovely. Thank you, Giles. It was all lovely.’
He looked at her. She was so pretty, no, that was the wrong word, so beautiful almost, with her great big eyes and her golden brown hair. She was a bit flushed with the champagne, and with laughing so much; she was wearing a navy-blue jumper with a low v-neck, and quite a short skirt, and her long, long legs were encased in shiny white stockings. She had wonderful legs, even the twins said they envied them; and her bosom was quite – remarkable too, smaller than Helena’s but very sort of high. God, if only, if only he wasn’t a virgin. If only he knew how to approach a woman, what to do. He’d hardly ever kissed anyone properly. It was so awful. Suppose things went really well and Barty did say she – liked him, he’d hardly know what to say or do to her after that. Of course she wouldn’t want to – to do it, thank God, but he would want to kiss her, hold her, caress her. He’d have to get some experience before he got married, he’d simply have to—
‘Come on, Giles, wake up. It’s getting late.’
They reached her flat quite quickly; Giles sobered up completely on the way. It was mostly terror.
She unlocked the door, put her fingers on her lips. ‘I’m not supposed to have young men in my flat. But you’re family, so it doesn’t count.’
He wasn’t sure that that was very encouraging.
She led the way upstairs, shut her own front door, and put the kettle on.
‘Hot chocolate? We should have Maud here.’
‘I’m glad she’s not,’ said Giles. His voice was a bit too loud; he could hear it himself.
‘I thought you liked Maud.’
‘I do. But – oh, Lord. Barty, that’s not—’
‘Not what?’
‘Not what I’d want right now.’
‘Oh.’ She looked awkward suddenly. ‘Well anyway, here you are. Hope it’s all right.’
‘Of course it is. Can we sit down?’
‘Yes.’ She gestured towards her lumpy sofa; he sat down and she sat rather pointedly away from him at the other end.
‘Well come on,’ she said, smiling, ‘tell me what it is you want to talk to me about.’
‘I – oh God, Barty. I don’t know how to start.’
‘At the beginning? In the best traditions?’
She pushed back her hair, smiled again; he leaned forward and said, ‘All right. At the beginning. Barty, I’ve always – that is I’ve always—’
‘Yes, Giles? Always what?’
There was a long silence: then, ‘Loved you,’ he said and his heart was thudding so hard he felt she must be able to hear it.
‘Well,’ she said quickly, ‘and I’ve always loved you. Goodness, what would we have done without each other, all those years. Certainly what would I have done?’
He felt sick; she hadn’t understood. Or chosen not to understand. He must move on quickly, before he lost courage.
‘No, Barty, that’s not what I mean. Not like that, not love like that. I mean really love. I love you, Barty, so much. I think you’re beautiful and clever and so so good, and – well, I suppose what I’m saying is I can’t imagine ever loving anyone else nearly so much. I – oh God, darling Barty, could you – that is—’ He moved towards her, nearer, reached out, took her hand. She allowed that, didn’t snatch it away, he leaned forward, thought yes, it’s going to be all right, I can kiss her, I can do that at least, I know how to do that, she seems to want—
‘Giles, no,’ she stood up suddenly, ‘no, please. Don’t spoil it, don’t spoil what we’ve got.’
‘Spoil it?’ he said, leadenly confused. ‘Spoil what, Barty, what do you mean?’
‘I mean spoil our friendship.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because that’s what we’ve got. Such a wonderful friendship. I do love you, Giles, but only – only as a friend. I really meant it. I can’t imagine my life without you, you mean more to me than anyone. But – but—’ She stopped.
‘But you don’t – you couldn’t—’
‘No, Giles, I couldn’t. I’m so, so sorry. I think you’re clever and fun and I love talking to you, but I don’t – well—’
‘You don’t find me attractive?’ he said, suddenly angry, with her as well as himself. ‘You don’t want to kiss me. You couldn’t imagine going to bed with me.’
That was awful; he shouldn’t have said that. But she didn’t seem shocked.
‘No, Giles, I really couldn’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t think of you like that at all. I grew up with you, you were always there, like a brother, like Billy—’
‘Have you been to bed with anyone?’ he said harshly. He didn’t know why, but it seemed to matter.
She met his eyes steadily. ‘No. No, I haven’t. Not yet.’
He wasn’t sure if that was worse or better. Better, he supposed; she couldn’t really know if she wanted to or not.
‘But I – well, I have wanted to. With some people.’
Worse. Definitely worse.
‘Giles, I do love you. Honestly.’
‘Don’t,’ he said, still angry. ‘Now you’re patronising me. You don’t love me. You like me, you think of me as a brother, as poor old Giles, not clever, not amusing, not a Lytton, just a poor oaf whom nobody admires or fancies. I suppose I should be grateful you like me even. If you do. You’re probably only being kind, saying that.’
‘Giles, I am not being kind. Not in the way you mean. If I was, I’d be lying to you, pretending, letting you kiss me. Only it wouldn’t be kind, really, because I’d be taking the easy way out. Pretending I felt more – differently – than I do. Not being honest which is what you deserve.’
‘Deserve! That’s rich.’
‘I mean it. You do deserve it. You deserve someone lovely and attractive and – and warm, who wants to – to get married and have babies and things. I don’t, Giles. However I felt, I’m not what you want. I don’t want to get married for years and years, certainly not have babies. I want a career, I want to do really, really well in life—’
‘My mother has done really well in life,’ he said bitterly, ‘and she was married and had babies.’
‘Yes, and you never saw her. That’s not what you’d want, Giles. But I do. When I do get married, I still want to work. Even when I have children, probably. Like – well yes, like your mother, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t mind. If that was what you wanted, made you happy, you could do what you wanted – oh, God, this is ridiculous,’ he said suddenly. ‘Why are we having this conversation, you don’t even want me to kiss you, now for some reason you’re telling me how you want to work when you have children. It’s absurd. Ridiculous. I’d better go. I’m – I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. Embarrassed you. It won’t happen again.’
He stood up then somehow and got to the door; when he looked back, she was staring at him, her huge eyes wide with distress, her hands hanging limply at her sides.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said and her voice sounded hoarse, almost a whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, Giles.’
‘Good night,’ he said, and pulled the door after him and ran downstairs and out to his car. When
he was safely inside, he buried his head on the steering wheel and cried for quite a long time, sobbing very quietly, as he had not done since he was eight and lying under the blankets in his bed at school, utterly wretched, when he had felt his parents had abandoned him and his sisters had usurped him, and the only person who cared about him in the whole world was Barty.
Then he started the car and drove very slowly home.
CHAPTER 12
‘My darling, I want to take you to Paris.’
‘Paris! How romantic. Can we stay at the Ritz? And will you buy me lots and lots of positively wicked negligees?’
‘I’m not joking,’ said Cedric, plaintively. ‘Style are sending me to Paris. There’s a marvellous model there apparently, called—’
‘I know, Muthe,’ said Adele, ‘she was spotted in the reception of French Vogue, feeding her baby by the editor, who said, “I have just passed the Virgin Mary suckling her child, go and bring her to me.” Or something like that.’
‘Exactly like that. Adele, you’re such a star at gossip. Anyway, she has been booked for a beauty sitting for us, and I need you with me. They said they thought bare shoulders, but I think we need some dresses in case; they saw that job we did for Harpers and loved it, you know, the one with the sequinned cape, and I know what they really want is that all over again. So will you come, darling?’
‘I certainly will,’ said Adele. ‘Try and keep me away.’
‘I’m going to Paris,’ she announced to her parents at dinner that night, ‘next week. Won’t that be fun?’
‘With your photographer friend?’ said Celia.
‘Yes. Of course. It’s work.’
‘Oh. That,’ said Celia.
Adele sighed. ‘Yes, Mummy, that.’
‘I have to go myself next month,’ said Oliver, ‘we have a lot of books coming out this autumn. The explosion in the crime market over there is considerable. Georges Simenon is turning over a dozen a year; quite extraordinary. We are trying to find someone to compete with him, although not in volume terms of course.’
‘Is Luc Lieberman still working for you?’ asked Adele carelessly.
‘Of course. I’d forgotten, you rather liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Not particularly. I – just wondered.’
‘He’s married now. To the girl I told you about. The one who works for the couturier.’
‘Oh really?’ said Adele carelessly again. She ignored a small, illogical thud of depression somewhere deep in her stomach.
‘Yes. Anyway, I’ll tell him you’re going over, if you like, I’m sure he’d like to buy you lunch.’
‘Daddy, I’m sure I won’t have time for lunch. In fact, I probably won’t have time for anything. I just wondered if he was still there, that’s all.’
‘I remember him,’ said Kit. He smiled at his father. ‘I met him when he came over with that French author, I liked him a lot. He said when I was older I could go and stay with him, and he’d take me to see Josephine Baker dance. She—’
‘What an extremely unsuitable suggestion,’ said Celia. ‘How old were you then, Kit?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. About eight.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ said Oliver mildly.
‘Whether he meant it or not, it was a stupid thing to say to a little boy.’
‘Well I’m much older now,’ said Kit. He looked at his mother, a gleam of malice in his eyes. ‘I might just take him up on it.’
‘I’ll mention it to him,’ said Adele, ‘remind him. When do you go back to school, Kit?’
‘Adele!’ said Celia. There were times these days, Adele thought, when her sense of humour seemed to be completely failing.
‘The twentieth,’ said Kit, ‘so there’d be plenty of time. April in Paris – wonderful. Excuse me, I’ve got work to do.’
He left the room; Adele smiled after him. He had suddenly grown up: not so surprising really, since he had been at Eton for over a year. He loved it there: that wasn’t surprising either, Kit loved everything. He had the blithest of temperaments, was never bored, never out of sorts, extremely sociable – the Lytton set was the one everyone in his year wanted to be in – and while formidably clever, had none of the characteristics of the swot, being apparently more interested in having fun than pursuing the academic glory that came his way with horrific ease.
He had endured at fourteen none of the adolescent horrors; the beautiful child had become a handsome boy almost overnight. He had no spots, he didn’t blush, his voice had broken easily and naturally, being quite deep for a child in any case, he was tall without being gangly, his hands and feet looked the right size for him, rather than several sizes too big and even the golden curls for which he had occasionally been teased at school had mercifully disappeared into thick blond waves. Celia had fretted over his angelic looks as he went off to school, fearing an onslaught of homosexual advances for him; it was Boy Warwick, who had calmly and sensitively discussed the matter with him and how best to deal with it.
‘Nothing can save him altogether,’ he had said to Celia, who had revealed her fears to him, ‘but forewarned really is forearmed. I was very pretty, believe it or not, had a hideous time until I learned to box; that more or less stopped it. I’ll advise Kit to do the same.’
Celia said she could well believe Boy had been pretty and said she was more grateful than she could say if he would speak to Kit. ‘Oliver and Giles are both completely incapable of it, he’ll come away from any discussion more confused than when he went in.’
As time went on, Celia worried increasingly about Boy and Venetia. She had never moved from her view that they were basically ill-suited. Boy was too clever, had too brilliant a mind, too broad a base of interest to be satisfied by Venetia’s rather sweet silliness, her intellectual naivety. Despite her disapproval of his idleness, Celia admired his breadth of interest, his cultural knowledge. She still expected the marriage to fail; her hope was that Venetia would have found something else to absorb her and her energies before that time came.
But she did like Boy: she couldn’t help it. He was irrepressibly goodnatured, he was a most tender and loving father, he was generous to a fault, and an outstandingly loyal friend. There were innumerable stories of Boy Warwick lending large sums of money to friends in trouble, and then waving away any suggestion of repayment into the foreseeable future; indeed the loans were only so-called to spare pride and ease distress.
He was also extremely discreet; many a young married couple owed their continuing happiness to Boy’s ability to keep his counsel and not pass on the gossip or confidences that came his way. And they came his way with great frequency, for he was a superb listener and a surprisingly wise adviser.
He arrived at Lytton House one particularly lovely spring day, uninvited, and asked if he might see Celia; he had acquired a painting by an artist she had admired, and brought it to the office to see if she would like to buy it.
‘And I might take you to lunch, while you think about it. How would that sound?’ It was a measure of her fondness for him that she agreed; normally an arrangement to lunch with Lady Celia Lytton was booked at least three weeks in advance.
‘I prefer to eat at my desk in the usual run of things,’ she said, picking up her hat and gloves, ‘but I just happen to have a little spare time today. Where did you think we might go? I can’t be very long.’
‘The Savoy? It’s quite near...’
‘Venetia is in the club again,’ he said as they toasted her purchase of the painting with champagne. ‘I expect she has told you.’
‘She has, although not in such vulgar terms. Congratulations, Boy. She seems pleased, although I personally think four is rather excessive in this day and age.’
‘You had four children, Celia.’
‘I did indeed. But only three pregnancies.’
‘Ah. So you think it all looks rather what shall we say – uncontrolled? Vulgar even?’
‘I think Venetia will be worn out, Boy. No mor
e than that.’
‘I see.’ He smiled at her. ‘Well, I shall have to see she has plenty of rest. And help, of course. We already have a nursery maid to help Nanny.’
‘You need two nursery maids, with four children. I can tell you that.’
‘Of course, you had Barty as well. So actually – five. Although Kit was something of an afterthought, was he not? A breathing space so to speak. And a great delight no doubt for you and Oliver.’
His black eyes danced; she met them very steadily.
‘Yes. A great delight. As he has continued to be. Now about Venetia. You really must take care of her, Boy, she’s not terribly strong physically.’
‘I will, of course. She’s seeing her consultant tomorrow and I’m going with her. So don’t worry, I’m not oblivious to the dangers. Anyway, she seems to enjoy pregnancy. You’re not really worried about her, are you?’
‘Well – not really. And I do have to say, Boy, you are a very good father.’
‘I like being a father,’ he said rather unexpectedly. ‘I like children, I find them fascinating and fun, not in the least tedious like so many of my contemporaries.’
‘I wish – Sebastian was a better one,’ she said and sighed.
‘Yes, indeed. Poor little Izzie. Venetia tells me she is beginning to feel it.’
‘I think she is. She never goes near him now, she’s learned there’s no point. And I’m afraid she’s lonely, in that house with him and the nanny.’
‘We invite her to Berkeley Square as often as we can: she loves it there. But – she still has to go home at the end of the day. It’s very sad, she cries when she has to leave.’
‘Oh God,’ said Celia, ‘what on earth can we do about it?’
‘I don’t know, Celia. I really do not know. It’s a bloody nightmare. But if you can’t do anything with Sebastian, nobody can.’ He smiled at her: his most artless smile. ‘You’re such good friends. Tell me, how is Bunny Arden? I heard he and Cynthia dined with you and Oliver last week. Next time they come, do ask us. I’m longing to quiz him about the latest developments with Tom and his gang of roughnecks.’
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