But then, they had both been totally inexperienced. Well she was, and Giles had said he was almost. Which she’d loved him for really, but – maybe a bit more would have helped. And then they had both been very tired.
So – maybe, she thought through that long first night listening to him snore – she hadn’t expected that and it was very loud snoring, not exactly romantic – maybe when they had both settled down, got used to one another, weren’t so nervous and tense, it would be better. They had lots of time, in the next few weeks, to practise. Get better at it. But still – she had hoped for a bit better. And had been almost irritated by Giles saying hadn’t it been wonderful next morning. Over and over again. Yes, she’d said, yes, of course it had; and again, ‘It really was all right for you, was it, darling? You really – well—’ And, ‘Yes,’ she’d said, ‘of course. It was very nice. Very nice indeed.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to say it was wonderful. She just couldn’t. When it was, she would say so. And it would be: of course it would.
The holiday part of the honeymoon was very nice; they had been lent a villa in the south of France, and the weather was gorgeous, warm and sunny, and Helena read a great deal, and they had had a lot of wonderful meals and went on long walks and Giles had told her how much he loved her and how happy he was and they had discussed their future endlessly, the big family they were going to have and Giles’s success at Lyttons. Helena was quite sure he was going to be a success; anyone could see he was extremely clever and he worked so hard.
‘You’ll be Mr Lytton the Third after your father retires,’ she said, ‘and you’ll run the most brilliant publishing house in London.’
Giles said he didn’t think his father would ever retire and his mother certainly wouldn’t; Helena told him that was nonsense.
‘It would be wrong and selfish of them to hang on. Depriving you of your chance. We won’t allow it.’
Giles didn’t seem to take quite such a positive view.
Settling into their house in Chelsea was fun, she loved getting it redecorated and properly furnished. And seeing her girlfriends from her new status of married woman, gossiping over long lunches. And learning to run a house and cooking for Giles sometimes – they didn’t have a live-in cook, Giles said he couldn’t afford it, just a cook-daily.
Helena didn’t mind that at all at first; but as the year went by, it began to irritate her. Giles really was paid rather little, he was always saying they couldn’t afford things. It was so mean when Lyttons obviously made lots of money and could afford to give him more. If she hadn’t had the allowance from her father, she wouldn’t even have been able to buy all the clothes she wanted. She was very keen on her role as wife and hostess, and for that you needed nice clothes.
She wanted to give lots of parties, but until the first Christmas she wasn’t allowed to: for the same enraging reason. Giles’s telling her they couldn’t afford things was the cause of their first big row . . . and the second and the third. After a bit she told him he had to ask for a salary rise, but he said he’d had one when they got married and couldn’t possibly ask for more.
‘What happens when we have children?’ she said and he said well then, obviously, that would be different. He didn’t like the fact she still had an allowance from her father either, but she said she needed it, and if he wanted it to stop, he’d have to do something about it.
She just hadn’t realised how much he was in thrall to his family; not just at work which was natural, but at home. If Celia said she wanted them at the house, they all had to be there; if she gave a party, they all went as semi-hosts. Except Barty, of course; she seemed to get out of all that.
After a bit, Helena ceased to think Barty was wonderful and began to resent her. Oliver obviously adored her, she had her own car which he and Celia had apparently given her on her twenty-first birthday, no reason why not of course, but still . . . and her job at Lyttons seemed quite important, she even had her own authors to look after now, ‘not any of the important ones of course,’ Giles had said, rather defensively. He was more and more defensive as time went on and touchy too. Sometimes they would sit right through supper not talking because he was in a bad mood. And quite often she would find him staring out of the window, looking morose and refusing to tell her what the matter was. That really hurt: that wasn’t what marriage was about.
And even Helena could see, without ever having spent an hour in the place, that Celia thought less of Giles than she should do. He didn’t seem to have a say in anything much; he was always rushing off early and coming home late because his mother had called some meeting; his job title – ‘Director of Editorial Administration’ – was vague, not nearly important enough for a person who was going to run the company, and even his office was small and dingy, not enough to earn him any respect.
And Celia did treat her as if she were some kind of fool. That really annoyed Helena; she might not have a degree, like Giles and Barty – if she heard once more about Barty’s first she thought she would scream – but she was extremely well read and she made a point of keeping up with modern fiction. Whenever she tried to talk to Celia about a book, Celia would look at her with that particularly cold amusement that Helena had come to dread and simply brush her off, make it plain that her views couldn’t possibly be of any value whatsoever.
By their first wedding anniversary, Helena was not exactly unhappy, but certainly not happy. Demoralised at her failure to contribute to Giles’s success, permanently resentful on his behalf, side-lined by his family. The twins really didn’t like her, she knew that, and the knowledge made her jumpy and self-conscious in their company. Kit was lovely, of course. But then he was away at school now – and the anguish expressed by Celia on that subject really annoyed Helena too, he was fourteen, for heaven’s sake, not eight as Giles had been – and then there was the baby. Or rather not the baby. Of course she hadn’t wanted one straight away, that would have been silly, and she had been very careful to use her contraceptive; but after Christmas she had decided it was about time to start trying. And nothing happened. For month after month. She went on and on having her period and every time she felt more upset and got more tense when Giles was making love to her and worried that because it was still not very good, she wasn’t getting pregnant. She became quite tearful. There was no one in the family whom she could confide in; finally she burst into tears in the company of a friend who recommended she see her doctor – ‘a woman, frightfully outspoken and modern, nothing would shock her, honestly’.
The doctor, middle-aged and rather jolly, was very matter of fact, and said it often did take a while to conceive; she managed to establish that their sex life wasn’t quite what it should be, and told Helena not to worry too much about that either.
‘Shame you’re not enjoying it, of course,’ she said briskly, ‘but as long as he ejaculates, you should be all right. Just keep working at it. Most women who don’t get pregnant don’t have enough sex.’
Helena, half shocked by this frankness, half relieved, went home and set about having enough sex that very evening; two more disappointing months went by and then suddenly, just as she had begun to despair, she missed her period and almost at once started to feel sick . . .
‘Mam’selle Adele?’
Adele nearly dropped the phone; she had forgotten the absurd name.
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
She sat down on the bed, her legs suddenly weak.
‘Luc Lieberman. You remember me?’
‘Yes of course,’ said Adele.
‘I heard you were coming to Paris. Why did you not let me know? I feel quite – quite desolé.’
‘Well, there’s no need for that. Absolutely no need at all.’
‘But I would have liked to take you to lunch—’
‘Monsieur Lieberman—’
‘Luc, please.’
‘Luc. I’m not here on a social visit. Or even shopping. I’m working. Busy every minute. So – no time for lunches or anything.’
‘How extremely sad. Are you quite sure?’
‘Quite,’ said Adele firmly.
‘And what is this so important work? May I be told?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m a stylist. For a very famous English photographer.’
‘I see.’ There was a silence. This wasn’t going very well. Perhaps she should have been more – more forthcoming. It was just that he made her feel so nervous, so keen to impress him, she wanted to appear busier and more important than she was.
‘And how long are you staying in Paris?’ he said finally.
‘Oh – just four days.’
‘Are you happy with your hotel?’
‘Oh, very, yes. It’s perfect.’
Cedric had booked them both into a small, delightful hotel in the rue de Seine; Adele, whose previous experience of Parisian hotels had been confined to the Ritz, the Georges V and the Crillon, was enchanted by it. Set back in its own pretty courtyard, surrounded by art galleries, small restaurants and an enchanting open-air market, she felt herself to be truly in the heart of Paris.
Another silence. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘if you do not have time for a meeting, then so be it.’ It sounded very final; she should have been more friendly, she thought miserably, after all, he had sought her out, offered to entertain her.
‘Perhaps – perhaps coffee tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Coffee? That sounds a little – brief. I wonder – would you like to join me for petit déjeuner?’
‘That would be – lovely,’ she said quickly.
She heard his voice change again. Clearly he was not a man to be thwarted.
‘Good. You are so near the Café Flore, do you know it?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You should. It is a serious gap in your education. Boulevard St-Germain, just a little way along from your street. I will meet you there tomorrow morning. At eight-thirty.’
‘Tomorrow morning we start at seven,’ said Adele. Oh dear, that would make him cross again.
But: ‘Seven! I am very impressed! The next day then?’
‘The next day,’ she said. ‘Yes, that would be – all right.’
‘Good. At last. Eight-thirty. Le Flore. Au revoir, Mam’selle Adele.’
Why was she bothering, Adele wondered, as she put the phone down, why, why, why? He was married, he had found her foolish, he was much older than she was – and then there had been his terrible clothes. Now that was a really serious drawback. She would cancel it, just telephone him and say she couldn’t manage it after all. It would be much more sensible.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said to Cedric, as they ate dinner in one of the small restaurants near their hotel, ‘I have a breakfast appointment. I hope that’s all right.’
‘A breakfast appointment, darling? With whom?’
‘Oh – just a man.’
‘A man? Should I come too, chaperone you?’
‘Of course not. He works for Lyttons in Paris. He’s much older than me and married.’
‘Married! Well, my darling, don’t think that means anything to a Frenchman. The French believe absolutely in free love. Before and after marriage. Is he attractive?’
‘You wouldn’t think so,’ said Adele firmly.
‘How do you know? I can tell he is. I’m jealous already. Where are you meeting him?’
‘Le Flore.’
‘Le Flore! I’m more jealous still. Those waiters, so sympatique. They know all the secrets of Paris. I think I should come.’
‘You’re not to come,’ said Adele, ‘I want to meet him on my own.’
‘So selfish!’ said Cedric.
They had had a difficult day. Mostly because of the model: not the legendary Murthe, who had been ill, but another exquisite creature called Villette, who could, Adele said to Cedric, have given Celia lessons in perversity. She refused to wear the sequin cape Adele had brought, or the white fox stole, or even the gold fabric which the beauty editor pronounced as quite perfect. After two hours of Gallic shrugs, interspersed with brilliantly animated conversation with the hairdresser, which had brought even Cedric’s famous patience to breaking point, Adele had gone to one of the street markets and bought several metres of velvet in wonderful colours, deep blood-red and midnight-navy and dark fir-forest green; Villette had looked at it all disdainfully and then picked up the navy length and swathed it loosely round her lovely blonde head.
‘There it is,’ said Cedric. ‘There is our photograph.’
It wasn’t quite, since the velvet had wrecked the hair, and the hairdresser had a tantrum; but by four o’clock, with Villette looking rather like Diana Cooper in The Miracle, they had the studio shot and then on her own suggestion, went out into the brilliant rain-washed evening and set her against the fountains of the Place St-Sulpice, where she suddenly became sweet-natured and creative and stood barefoot and laughing on the edge of the fountains, her arms raised to the sky.
‘Not a beauty shot I fear,’ said Cedric, ‘but a wonderful image. If nobody wants it, I shall blow it up ten feet tall and put it on the wall of my studio.’
Next morning, she was sitting waiting at her table in the terrasse of the famous Flore, enjoying the people walking past, when a small car pulled up outside and parked right in the lane of traffic; Luc Lieberman hurried in.
‘Mam’selle Adele! Forgive me, I beg of you, for being late. The traffic – terrible. How extremely good to see you. And you are looking quite different, so grown-up and élégante, I feel quite intimidated.’
He looked very much the same, a little thinner perhaps, his intense dark looks sharpened, the clothes definitely improved, a cream shirt under a grey suit, and a grey slouch hat. A waiter in his long white apron and short black jacket stood behind him, holding a silver coffee jug: it was an archetypal Parisian scene. Cedric would have loved it; she should have let him come. She smiled up at Luc Lieberman.
‘If only it were true.’
‘What, that I felt intimidated? Oh, but it is.’
‘I’m sure you’re not,’ she said briskly, thinking how absurd that they were arguing already, ‘but actually I meant about my being elegant. Two days in Paris and I feel like a country bumpkin.’
‘But how absurd,’ he said, settling himself beside her, his eyes moving over her. ‘Why?’
‘Everyone here is so chic. London women just don’t have that, it’s an instinct like singing in tune.’
‘But you have so many great beauties, singing wonderfully in tune, Daisy Fellowes, Diana Guinness, Iya Abdy—’
‘Well there you are, one French, one Russian, only one English. Anyway, you seem to have a great knowledge of pretty London ladies,’ said Adele.
‘Well of course. Now what are you going to have?’
‘Oh – just coffee please. And croissants. Isn’t that what you French have for breakfast?’
‘No,’ he said smiling at her, ‘it is not. Let me guide you to a truly continental breakfast.’ He turned to the waiter, ‘Deux jus d’oranges, deux brioches, de la confiture, deux cafés au lait, et pour moi, deux oeufs. Would you like an egg, Mam’selle Adele? They are all ready and waiting for you, see.’
And indeed the eggs were, six of them, perfectly uniform in size, set in a round wooden egg stand on the table. Adele shook her head.
‘No, thank you. I’m not a breakfast eater.’
‘That’s because of those terrible English breakfasts.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Adele crossly, perversely eager to defend her country and its food. ‘I just don’t feel hungry in the morning. I’m like my mother.’
‘Ah, the beautiful Lady Celia. Certainly an advertisement for not eating breakfast. How is she?’
‘She’s very well.’
‘And your sister?’
‘Not quite so well. Enceinte, I think is the word.’
‘Very good. I did not realise you spoke French these days.’
‘I don’t. I just know a tiny bit.’
‘Well, the tiny bit s
uits you. She has other children, your sister?’
‘Indeed she does. This is the fourth.’
‘Very good. We believe in large families in France.’
He said this with great satisfaction, as if Venetia’s sole purpose in having so many children was to give pleasure to the French.
‘Are you a Catholic?’ she asked curiously.
‘No, no. My mother is Jewish. But my grandmother is a Catholic. They both grieve over the fact that actually I am neither. In the religious sense.’
‘And in other senses?’
‘How nice that we are speaking of the senses already.’ He smiled at her, his dark eyes probing hers; she felt the familiar sensation of being disturbed, almost troubled, deep within herself. She looked away; he said after a moment, ‘But in answer to your question I feel a little of both. Which is uncomfortable at times. I suppose if I were to think very carefully about it, which I do from time to time, I would say I was Jewish. That is a more – consuming thing.’ He smiled again. ‘But my wife is not Jewish and that is a terrible thing for a Jew to have done. To marry out of the faith.’
‘Is it?’
‘But of course. When we have more time, I will try to explain it to you.’
‘Are we likely to have more time, do you think?’ said Adele. Now why had she said that? A silly flirtatious remark; not at all what she should have said, not grown-up and sophisticated.
‘I would certainly like it if we did,’ he said slowly.
She looked down, fiddled with the brioche she had picked from the basket. How did he do this, make her feel at once so disconcerted and so brilliantly, sweetly happy?
Something Dangerous Page 25
