‘If you do that, you only end up with something else. Quite possibly worse,’ said Oliver. ‘Herr Hitler, for example.’
He glanced at Celia as he spoke; she was crumbling a piece of bread with immense savagery.
‘Please do not speak of that man to me,’ said Luc quietly. ‘I tremble when I think what will become of all of us, if he gains any more power.’
‘Indeed?’ said Celia. Her voice was cool, politely interested, but touched somewhere with a slight derision. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell us why.’
‘He is a madman. There is no doubt in my mind of that. In anyone’s mind. A dangerous madman. He has a mission, to clear the face of the earth—’
‘The earth? Surely not.’
‘Very well. But certainly the face of Europe, of every party and people and creed of which he does not approve absolutely. To create his pure, Arian race. He would have me off to one of his concentration camps, for a start.’
‘You!’ said Adele. It was the first time she had spoken all evening.
‘But of course. I am Jewish. My mother was Jewish, there would be no hope for me.’
‘But you’d have to give him cause to – well, to send you off, surely?’ said Jay.
‘Not at all.’
‘That’s clearly nonsense,’ said Celia, ‘there is no possibility that you would be sent to a concentration camp simply because you had Jewish blood. Those are just foolish, irresponsible rumours, I do have that on the best possible authority.’
There was a silence; then, ‘I do not know from where you get your information, Lady Celia, but it is erroneous.’ Luc’s face was sombre as he looked at her. ‘Surely you of all people have read of the public burning of books by Jews, and by those whose views are not his own, people such as Freud, Brecht, your own H.G. Wells.’
Celia was most unusually silent.
‘Have you not heard of the restrictions upon free speech in Germany, or that Jewish actors have been banned in Germany, or that Jews are being expelled from the army, and the civil service—’
‘I had heard some of these – rumours,’ said Celia, ‘of course. What you seem to forget, Monsieur Lieberman, is that Germany was in the most appalling, virtually bankrupt state, particularly after the Depression, and that Herr Hitler has done a great deal, everything, some would say, to restore its fortunes. And I would add that with most of the German people he is extremely popular, and with good reason. He—’
‘Oh, Lady Celia, please! Do not be deceived by the cheering crowds, the pretty pictures of small children presenting him with flowers. Beneath the surface there are appalling things going on, and if he is not stopped, then not only Jews, but much of the civilised world will be in mortal danger. I shall hope very much to be proved wrong, but it seems – unlikely. And now, if you will excuse me, I think I must return to my hotel. I am very tired and we start early tomorrow. Thank you for a delightful evening. It was most kind of you.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Oliver looked strained and upset; he glanced at Celia. She was flushed, her dark eyes brilliant. ‘We understand. Let me see you out, get your coat.’
‘What was that about?’ said Jay, as the front door closed. ‘He seemed upset.’
‘He was upset,’ said Oliver, coming back into the room. ‘As you would be, if you were Jewish and found yourself engaged in such a discussion and in such company. I hope you were well pleased with your defence of your friends, Celia, and the offence it clearly gave. Goodnight.’
‘It was too awful,’ said Adele next day, reporting this to Venetia on the telephone. ‘Mummy was so angry, just swept out of the room, and half an hour later I could still hear them. Daddy talking quite quietly in that cold, angry voice of his and her almost shouting at him. Poor Luc, I think it was very difficult for him. I hadn’t realised, you know, how – well, how Jewish he is. I mean how Jewish he feels. Or how threatened. Stupid of me, I suppose, but – and there was Mummy, practically waving the swastika. Oh dear.’
‘How did he feel about it today?’
‘I don’t know. We haven’t spoken. Upset, I expect. Got to go. Bye, see you this evening.’
‘Who was that, Adele?’ said Celia; she had come down the stairs dressed to go to Lyttons. Adele studied her; she was looking very beautiful, in a black ankle-length dress, a large diamanté brooch on the lapel, and a wide-brimmed hat trimmed in black and white. It was a new look she had developed recently, harder, more obviously glamorous. Adele wondered what had inspired it: her new circle of friends, perhaps. It was certainly the style favoured by Mrs Simpson.
‘It was Venetia,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh I just wondered. You and Monsieur Lieberman are having supper with her tonight as I understand it.’
‘Yes. Well, he was very kind to me in Paris, gave me lunch and so on. I thought—’
‘It’s all right, Adele.’ Celia’s eyes were half amused as she looked at her. ‘You have every right to have supper – or – ’ there was a pause ‘ – lunch with Monsieur Lieberman, if you want to. But I think perhaps I should warn you that a – closer relationship might not be in your best interest. He is married, he is much older than you and—’
‘Jewish?’ said Adele.
‘That is hardly relevant.’
‘I think it is. To you. I am aware of all those things, Mummy, I’m twenty-four now. I am perfectly capable of making my own decision about relationships. And I feel rather – upset, incidentally, that you should find his being Jewish in some way undesirable. Because I think you do.’
‘Adele,’ said Celia. Her colour was very high now; her eyes a brilliant blue. ‘That is outrageous. We have many Jewish friends. As you know. The Rosenthals, the Friedmanns, the Rothschilds—’
‘Yes, yes, I know. So that’s all right, isn’t it? Very tolerant of you. But I did think that your telling him so clearly that his anxieties were nonsense was at best rude and at worst insulting. I was terribly embarrassed. And anway, how could you know?’
‘I’m sorry you were embarrassed, Adele. I know, because I have access to some excellent information on the subject. As I said at dinner, I thought he was speaking irresponsibly.’
‘In which case, it will be perfectly all right for me to be friends with him, won’t it? If that’s what you’re worrying about. And I did wonder if I mightn’t bring him to Diana Guinness’s ball. I haven’t got a partner yet.’
‘A very bad idea,’ said Celia, and her voice now had the steely edge to it that had set boundaries for her children all their lives, ‘very bad indeed. There will be many people there who will – what shall I say – who will feel that he has some very ill-founded and foolish ideas. He could possibly be made to feel – uncomfortable. I would not wish to inflict that on any guest of mine.’
‘How considerate of you,’ said Adele. ‘In that case he certainly wouldn’t wish to attend. And neither would I. Thank you, Mummy. Now you must excuse me, I have to go to work.’
It always irritated her mother almost beyond endurance, to hear her talking about her work. It was a small but very sweet piece of revenge.
‘I’m afraid I’m on Oliver’s side,’ said Sebastian, ‘I think that new lot of yours are appalling. Appalling and dangerous. I’m surprised at you, Celia.’
He sighed, then smiled at her rather sadly. She studied him; trying to find something more than a distant, dusty shadow of the man who had walked into her office all those years ago with his manuscript, a man wonderfully handsome, impatiently arrogant, brilliantly alive, in a moment that had changed her life for ever. She couldn’t find it.
‘I suppose it’s partly jealousy,’ he said. ‘I don’t like all this talk about you and Bunny Arden—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Absurd rumours—’
‘Are they, Celia? Are they really?’
She looked at him very steadily.
‘They are, Sebastian, yes.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something. He’s very attractive. And Cynthia is distinctly
—’
‘Dull?’ She laughed. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. She has a very interesting sex life—’
‘Not horses? Don’t tell me.’
‘Sebastian, you sounded quite yourself for a moment then. No, not horses. But she likes grooms apparently: grooms and jockeys. And in their own habitat where possible.’
‘What, in the stables?’
‘In the stables.’
‘How – original. Whoever told you that?’
‘Bunny.’
‘Well, I suppose he should know. Husbands usually do.’
Another silence.
‘Sebastian, come to dinner on Saturday. Please. Barty will be there, and Jay and Kit of course, the first thing Kit said when he got home was when could he see you.’
‘Did he? Well that would be – nice.’ He hesitated. ‘Would LM—’
‘No, she wouldn’t. But she was very upset the other day, Sebastian, I don’t know what you—’
‘I was very upset too,’ he said briefly, ‘but I have written to apologise. And she has, I think, accepted that.’
‘Sebastian, don’t you—’
‘No, Celia. Not you as well, please.’ He was silent, then said, ‘I want to talk to you about the early chapters of the new book. I’m worried about them.’
‘You’re always worried about all your chapters,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do please come on Saturday, Sebastian. If not for me, then for Kit.’
‘For Kit,’ he said, and just for a moment there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes, ‘for Kit, all right, I’ll come.’
‘Barty my darling, you’re very quiet.’ Sebastian, who had been placed next to her, smiled at her, proffered the bottle of wine. She shook her head, covered her glass. She felt sick, physically dizzy, dreadfully shocked. Had it been any other occasion, she would have cried off, said she was ill, had a sick headache. But Jay and Kit had both telephoned her, in her new flat – her new, smart flat in a mansion block just off Grafton Way, and said they were so looking forward to seeing her and she didn’t have the heart to fail them. She’d been looking forward to it too, and to seeing Sebastian; it was only what fate had done to her that evening, placing a hand on her back, pushing her into the revelation, the discovery that had changed her life for ever: pushing her into a dark mix of shock and indecision and fear.
Had she not seen the newly published Handful of Dust in Hatchards, where she had gone to see the manager; had she not thought how much Abbie would enjoy it and bought it; had she not realised that she had two hours to spare before she need arrive at Cheyne Walk; had she not found Abbie’s telephone engaged for almost twenty minutes; had she not decided to break the cardinal rule of their friendship, not a new rule, one Abbie had made very early on, of never arriving at one another’s doors unannounced; had she not then passed a flower stall on the way and decided to get Abbie some of the yellow roses she loved; and had she not therefore arrived in Abbie’s street precisely when she did, just as another car, a rather horribly familiar car, a cream Audi convertible, arrived in the street and pulled up outside Abbie’s house: then she would not have known, life would have proceeded along routes she knew and recognised and she would be feeling happy, enjoying herself. But she had been there in that moment, and she had seen the car.
It was then that she had begun to feel frightened; so frightened that she wanted to drive away, turn her back on it all, save herself from having to sit there witnessing it and therefore be able to tell herself that it hadn’t really happened at all: and indeed she did put her own car into reverse and start to move backwards down the street. Only even then fate pushed her harder, more roughly still, for a van came up behind her, stopping her progress, hooting its horn and she was obliged to pull forward and let it pass, and when it had gone, it was too late and she found herself sitting there, staring at the person who had got out of the Audi, holding a large bouquet of flowers in one hand and a large carrier bag from Fortnum & Mason in the other and who then walked down the path to Abbie’s front door and – and at this point Barty closed her eyes, willing herself not to have seen what she did see but it was too late – she had seen it, had seen the visitor push a key into the door of the house and let himself in.
The visitor was Boy Warwick.
CHAPTER 14
‘If you don’t speak to her I will. I mean it. It’s outrageous, the whole thing. Now which of us is it to be?’
‘I really don’t see—’
‘Giles.’ Helena tapped her foot. She always did that when she meant something. ‘Giles, it’s not right. That you should be paid so little. It’s insulting, both to you and to me. And if, as you say, your father refuses to reconsider, then clearly you must talk to your mother. And about your position at Lyttons.’
‘My position?’ said Giles. ‘What about my position?’
‘It’s too – modest,’ said Helena, ‘you should have the title of director, a proper board director that is, and considerably more authority. You’re not a boy, Giles, as your parents seem to think, you’re thirty this year. My mother thinks it’s quite absurd that you don’t have more status in the firm.’
‘Your mother doesn’t run Lyttons, dearest,’ said Giles. He was beginning to grow very weary of hearing what Mrs Duffield Brown thought about most things, but particularly about his own professional life.
‘I know that. But she is quite – experienced in these things. Her own father had a very successful company, in which she was involved much more than you’d think.’
‘I know that, Helena. She’s told me about it.’
‘Of course. Well, anyway, this is getting us nowhere. You must speak to your mother and demand a salary rise and a promotion on to the board.’
‘But Helena—’
‘No, Giles. You have earned it. After all, it was you who saw through that deal with the Daily Express. And who deals with Associated Booksellers day after day, sorting out problems? Talking to that difficult woman there – what’s her name, the one who calls publishers the enemy—’
‘Hilda Light. Do you know, she once captained England at hockey?’ he said in an attempt to divert her. He was not successful.
‘You deal with her. And with the book token people.’
She was extremely well-informed on every aspect of Giles’s day-to-day professional life, she questioned him closely about it each evening when he came home. It was not a time he always enjoyed.
‘Helena, I just don’t think—’
She interrupted him. ‘They take you and your input entirely for granted,’ she said, ‘and it’s not fair.’
‘Well – I’ll think about it. But—’
‘No, Giles, you must do it. And I do mean it, otherwise as I said, I shall do it for you.’
‘Helena, that is absolutely out of the question,’ said Giles, ‘it would be completely counter-productive.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘Because you don’t understand the business, you don’t understand Lyttons, and you certainly don’t have the authority to discuss with my parents what they should do about my position there. Now please, dear, don’t even mention such a thing again. I will speak to them, I promise you. But when I feel—’
‘No, Giles, not when you feel anything. By the end of the week.’
Giles sighed. He knew better than to argue with her on this subject.
‘I’ll speak to them,’ he said, mentally crossing his fingers.
‘Good.’ She kissed him. ‘You have serious responsibilities now, Giles. A family. You have to meet them.’
‘I realise that. Now – shall we go up to bed?’
‘In a little while,’ said Helena. ‘I’d like to finish reading this article first. It’s most interesting, it’s about the early effects of the Labour party taking control of the London County Council. I think you should read it.’
Later, lying in bed watching Giles as he undressed, smiling at her in the way that told her exactly what was coming, she sighed inwardly. His performance
in bed still afforded her very little pleasure. On the other hand, it had produced Mary and, in due course – next year if she was lucky – would produce another. A boy, she hoped. She didn’t like Venetia having the only boys in the family: or Celia’s constant references to the fact.
So what did she do? What could she do? There was no obvious, right thing. If she told Venetia, or indeed any of the Lyttons, it would cause dreadful unhappiness; if she didn’t, and they found out, then she was hideously implicated. Even though she disapproved so strongly of what Abbie had done that she felt hardly able to speak to her. Either way she had lost her friend, her best friend: a fine judge of human nature she had turned out to be too, Barty thought, remembering how pleased she had been to find someone who was nothing to do with the Lyttons, who she could claim as her very own. Abbie had not only betrayed Venetia, she had betrayed Barty too.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ she had said in exasperation when Barty had confronted her with her discovery, ‘stop talking like a betrayed wife, Barty. He’s not your husband. It’s nothing to do with you.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ Barty was shouting now, angry tears pouring down her face. ‘Of course it’s to do with me. Venetia is a Lytton, I grew up with her—’
‘Yes, and she was vile to you. I’m surprised at this display of loyalty.’
‘Abbie, for God’s sake. That was when we were children. I don’t terribly like Venetia, but she’s family. My family in a way. I work for her parents. They brought me up. And you’ve – you’ve stolen her husband.’
‘Hardly stolen. Don’t exaggerate, Barty. He loves Venetia, he told me so, he’d never leave her.’
‘Funny sort of love,’ said Barty.
Abbie shrugged. ‘He’s a man. Look, Barty, I know you’re shocked and upset. I – well, I do understand really. I’m not specially proud of what I’ve done. But – look at it from my point of view. He made all the running. I didn’t chase him. I’d never have seen him again if – well, if he hadn’t telephoned me.’
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