One of the things she most enjoyed about him was the diversity of his intense recreations and pleasures; he was as pleased to be in Harlem jitterbugging as in his box at the opera, to be relating the latest gossip (at which he was surprisingly adept) as discussing world affairs. His mind was brilliant and savagely fast and his views on almost everything strong and often unpredictable; he was outrageously elitist, and she found it hard to hold her own, to defend the more liberal views she had been brought up on. One of his favourite tenets was that the rich served society far better than the poor – ‘They employ people, they pay vast taxes, they patronise the arts and commerce, it’s hugely important that they – we survive.’ Another was that everyone had their price: that everyone wanted something so badly they would do anything, even if it was something against their own moral code, to get it.
‘What about you, Barty, you with your great ambitions, what wouldn’t you do to become – what shall we say – the head of Lyttons? Or to become a noted member of that round table clique at the Algonquin, quoted in all the literary journals?’
Barty said firmly that there were many things she wouldn’t dream of doing, but he laughed at her and said he would remind her of it one day ‘when I find you on the horns of some moral dilemma’.
She struggled to remain independent, true to herself and her ambitions, to escape this onslaught on her time and attention but it was hard; one night she sat in her office determinedly until after eleven; when she emerged, he was there, waiting for her, reading.
‘I’ve been reading one of those children’s books Lyttons publishes, by Sebastian Brooke. Awfully good. What else should I read?’
‘Oh, Laurence, I don’t know,’ she said wearily.
‘You look tired.’
‘I am tired. I’ve been working.’
‘No you haven’t. You’ve been hoping I’d go away. No good, Barty. I’m here to stay.’
That was the night he took her to Elliott House. And tried to persuade her to go to bed with him.
‘No,’ she said fretfully, sinking on to one of the sofas in the great interior courtyard in the heart of the house, dazzled by what she had seen, by this demonstration of his vast wealth, and of his taste and sense of style displayed, the magnificent white and silver drawing room, the paved courtyard in the centre of the house with its fountain and glass rotunda, the long gallery, its walls hung with Impressionist paintings, the library, built with curving walls – ‘I’m told that was a challenge set by my grandfather to the architect’ – the indoor swimming pool, his father’s study, with its booklined walls, huge leather desk and even ticker-tape machine, kept exactly as it had been: ‘My mother insisted, as of course did I. Look, here we all are. Probably the last time I was properly happy. Until now.’
She looked at a photograph in a silver frame: of a handsome man, and a smiling, fine-looking woman in evening dress, hair swept up from her face, and two little boys, holding her hand.
‘Please, Barty,’ he said, ‘please. Come to bed with me. I want you so much.’
‘No,’ she said again. ‘No, Laurence, I won’t.’
‘But why not? Don’t tell me you have moral scruples. About going to bed with someone who is not your husband. That would be very disappointing.’
‘Of course not,’ she said, ‘at least not in the way you mean.’
‘Are you a virgin?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes meeting his steadily, ‘yes, I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I haven’t yet met anyone I wanted enough.’
‘Until now.’
‘Laurence, not until now. I still haven’t.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said, ‘I know you’re lying. But we’ll leave it for now. I’ll take you home if you like.’
Surprised and pleased by this, she said she would like it.
She became helpless, distracted, fearful of discovery, terrified of her feelings for him, determined not to give in to him – either physically or emotionally. She found it hard to work, she couldn’t eat properly, and she had trouble sleeping. She lost weight, she grew jumpy, nervous, quite unlike her usual serene self.
Maud, worried by this, questioned her endlessly; was she ill, was she worried at work, did she want to go home. Barty, worried on her own part by having to deceive Maud, said there was nothing wrong, and began to avoid her.
And then, inevitably, later than she would have believed possible, Maud found out. Or rather Jamie did: sitting with a prospective client over cocktails in the Palm Court, he saw her come in, look round, hesitate, and then as someone tapped her on the shoulder, watched her turn to him, smile, present her cheek to be kissed. To Laurence. His brother. The brother who had done so much to make his own childhood wretched, who had worked so hard to undermine his stepfather’s business, who had set him against everything and everyone to do with the Lyttons. Saw his brother take Barty’s hand and kiss it, saw him speaking intently to her, saw her listening, equally intently, saw her shake her head, then suddenly laugh and follow him outside.
Jamie made an excuse and left the client; just in time to see Laurence’s white Studebaker disappearing up Fifth Avenue. He felt terribly sick.
He told Maud: not straight away, he managed to keep it to himself for a few days, but when she began to fret to him about Barty, even asked him what he thought the matter might be, whether she had met someone who was treating her badly, Jamie told her. It was absurd not to: she was bound to find out anyway.
Maud sat looking at him for a moment in absolute silence; then she dropped her head into her hands and began to cry.
In a way, Barty felt better after the confrontation with Maud; at least the need for secrecy was gone, at least she could be open and honest. With herself as well as with the family. She felt calmer, released, relieved, painful as the conversation had been, able to think clearly, and to examine the situation from a clearer perspective.
That was the night she went to bed with Laurence for the first time.
He had been surprisingly sensitive about her misery, had let her cry, listened to her protestations of remorse, didn’t even try to argue with her, or tell her she was being foolish.
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ he said. They were in his house, sitting in the courtyard at its centre. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘I have, Laurence, I have. I’ve been disloyal to all the Lyttons and the Brewers too, they’ve been so good to me, I’ve deceived Maud, I should have—’
‘You should have what?’ he said.
‘I should – that is I shouldn’t – have got involved with you, I should have stopped it right at the beginning when you first—’
‘But I wouldn’t allow that,’ he said simply, as if stating a refusal to allow a child to disobey him, ‘it wasn’t up to you, it was my decision, you have nothing to reproach yourself with.’
‘Oh Laurence, don’t be absurd,’ said Barty, blowing her nose, smiling through her tears, ‘of course it wasn’t your decision, I have a mind of my own—’
‘It was my decision. I accept full responsibility.’
‘But I could have just—’ She stopped.
‘Just what?’
‘Sent you away.’
‘I wouldn’t have gone. And anyway, why should you have done that, missed out on all this – happiness?’
‘Happiness!’ She started crying again.
‘Yes, happiness. And love—’
She looked at him startled. ‘Love?’
‘Well, yes. Obviously. What else is this about?’
‘Well – I—’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ he said irritably, ‘of course it’s about love. You’re in love with me, aren’t you?’
‘I – don’t know. I haven’t said so.’
‘I’m aware of that. But nevertheless I do know it. Know that you are.’
There was a long, long silence then; it took all her courage to break it at all, certainly to pose the question, it was like l
eaping from a high building, or putting her hand into the fire, so monstrously dangerous did it seem, but it had to be said, had to be asked. And finally, ‘So – are you in love with me?’
‘Of course I am.’ He spoke almost roughly, looked at her as if she had asked a question so crass, so pitiful it scarcely deserved an answer. ‘Why else do you think I’ve been behaving as I have? Out of some kind of distorted sense of social duty, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just didn’t think – think that you—’
‘Didn’t think what? That I was capable of love, is that it? The family fiend, the cruel monster, Laurence Elliott with the heart of stone, you didn’t think he was able to love?’
‘No of course not,’ she said quickly, half frightened by the anger in his voice, ‘I just didn’t think you would love – me.’
‘Oh Barty, Barty, how very, very – I was going to say foolish, but I think stupid is more apt. Why on earth not?’
‘Because you’ve never said—’
‘I thought women were supposed to have intuition about this sort of thing. I despair. Of course I’m in love with you. I obviously should have made it plainer. You have to forgive me, I haven’t had much practice. What am I saying? I’ve never had any practice. I’ve never wanted to say it before.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. I’ve admired women, I’ve wanted them, I’ve enjoyed them. But it wasn’t in the least like – this.’
Barty looked at him; he was sitting staring at her; his expression was of bemusement, almost surprise. His eyes meeting hers, his extraordinary blue-green eyes, were absolutely without guile; there could be no doubt of his sincerity.
They were sitting on one of the elaborate wrought-iron seats near the fountain; Barty suddenly stood up, held out her hand to him.
‘Perhaps,’ she said quite quietly, ‘perhaps we should go to your room.’
And all next day as she sat at her desk, pretending to work, turning over proofs, marking pages, writing entries for the new catalogue; as she smiled at people when they came in, as she tried to give them sensible answers to their questions, as she tried, indeed, to work out what those questions meant; as she drank cups of tea and coffee, pushed aside her lunch, picked up her telephone and spoke into it when it rang; signed papers as they were set in front of her, order forms, receipts, invoices, even letters that she appeared to have dictated to the typist, she felt as if she were existing in some remote space, isolated from everything, where the only thing she felt to be real was the memory, her memory of being in bed with Laurence, and the pleasure he had given her, the intense, undreamed of, unimaginable pleasure. And even more than that, at the end of it, his voice telling her he loved her.
‘It’s too absurd.’ Venetia sighed. ‘Boy wants Henry to start having piano lessons. I’m sure he’s too young.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said her mother. ‘Barty was only seven.’
‘Yes, but Barty was a dutiful little girl, she practised. I know Henry won’t.’
‘He might. With the right teacher. Actually, I’ve got an idea for you there. That friend of Barty’s telephoned me the other day, wanted one of Sebastian’s books for her school raffle, do you remember her, Abigail Clarence?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Nice girl. Highly intelligent. And enterprising too. Anyway, she gives piano lessons. You might like to consider her. As a teacher for Henry, I mean.’
‘Well – it’s a thought. Yes, I rather liked her too. Why don’t you tell her to come and see me? Or telephone me, anyway. She could come here, I suppose, it’s a much better idea I think to learn at home. Do you know where she lives?’
‘Clapham, I think—’ Celia rummaged in her bag. ‘Yes, here’s her card. Why don’t you telephone her, have a chat. I really admire the way she’s making the best of her situation in life. Enterprise should be rewarded, I do think.’
A rebuke hung, however lightly, in the air.
‘And what is Jay doing at Lyttons, precisely?’
Helena’s voice had its sharpest edge. Giles sighed.
‘He’s working as a looker out. You know what they do, they—’
‘Yes, yes, you’ve told me. You told me how much you enjoyed it yourself. And how long is he going to do that for?’
‘Oh, Helena, I don’t know. A few months.’
‘And then? Senior editorship, I daresay?’
‘Helena, don’t be so absurd. Jay is doing his apprenticeship, as we all have done.’
‘Even Barty? Did she do the looking out?’
‘No, of course not. It’s not woman’s work. But she did other, quite humble tasks. Writing out invoices all day, that sort of thing. Anyway, I fail to see what Barty has to do with this. She’s not even here at the moment.’
‘True. But she will return, no doubt to some even better position. Meanwhile—’
‘Helena, I don’t think I can stand this very much longer. Please can we close the subject. Not just tonight but every night. I am doing my best at Lyttons—’
‘Giles, you are your father’s heir. And yet you work in that company long, long hours, for a comparative pittance, for a job that is little better than a clerk’s.’
‘Helena, what I need from you is support, not endless criticism. In due course, when I have earned it, I shall attain the position at Lyttons due to me. Until then—’
‘And what will that be I wonder? Chief Clerk?’
‘Helena, shut up!’ He heard himself with horror. He had never shouted at her, certainly never spoken to her in those terms. He looked at her, ready to apologise; but she was there before him, flushed and breathing heavily, her fists clenched.
‘I think, Giles,’ she said, and her voice now was full of menace, her face almost ugly in its anger, ‘I think you should speak to your mother about your prospects at Lyttons. Then perhaps you will believe me.’
‘My mother? What do you mean—’
‘I mean she has views—’ She stopped, clearly realising what she had said, how much too far she had gone.
‘Views on what, Helena? How do you know her views?’
‘I – don’t. I just worked it out for myself.’
‘Helena,’ he stood up, went over to her, grabbed her wrist, ‘have you been talking to my mother?’ His voice was quite quiet initially, then as she met his eyes, first reluctantly, then defiantly, it became louder, louder until, ‘Have you? Answer me, damn you.’
And in a low, reluctant voice, almost in a whisper, she did.
‘Oliver, I want to discuss something with you.’
‘Yes, Celia? Is it professional or personal?’
‘It could be both.’
‘I see. Well – what is it? I don’t have a lot of time, I’ve a meeting with LM in an hour about costings and—’
‘I – I would like to go to Berlin this August.’
‘Berlin? Good gracious, Celia, I had no idea you had an interest in German cities.’
‘It’s to visit the Olympic Games.’
‘I had no idea you had an interest in the Olympic Games, either.’
‘Well of course I do,’ said Celia irritably, ‘anyone would have, they are an extraordinary event, a display of the very best of sporting prowess drawn from all over the world. And this year—’
‘Yes, Celia? This year?’
‘Obviously they will be quite magnificent. As a spectacle, they will be unsurpassed. The opening ceremony will be quite extraordinary—’
‘Ah, yes. Herr Hitler will be present, no doubt.’
‘Well of course. This is a culmination of many years of work.’
‘Is he an athlete? I had not realised.’
‘Oliver, stop it! These games will also be seen as a demonstration of his desire for peace, for cooperation with the rest of the world, they represent the sporting ideal at its very best.’
‘Indeed? And who has explained all this to you? Lord Arden, perhaps? Your friends the Mosleys?’
‘Oliver, I h
ave been reading about it, for God’s sake. As you would have been, if you weren’t so hopelessly out of touch. There has been so much publicity about the opening ceremony alone, the fifty-three teams marching into the stadium—’
‘It sounds like one of Herr Hitler’s rallies at Nuremberg.’
She ignored him. ‘There will be five thousand of the finest athletes in the world there, I don’t see how you can fail to be – intrigued.’
‘And I find it appalling that you are intrigued. Celia, what is the matter with you? Have you gone quite mad?’
She was silent, thinking of the outline of her biography of Goering, the introduction already written, the tentative publishing schedule already drawn up, of appointments she had made through Lord Arden coinciding with her visit to the Games, even, possibly, one with Herr Hitler himself – she had to go, she absolutely had to. Apart from anything else, she would lose such face if she had to cancel it now; the Mosley set were extremely gratified with this unexpected boost to their cause, and that of the Nazi regime in Germany, from so intellectually impeccable a source.
As always when cornered, she saw a possible route out; she smiled at Oliver.
‘I – well, I thought, you see, we might do a book about the Games, there is an enormous interest in sport and health at the moment, look at the League of Health and Beauty, thousands of members, and everyone is dieting and exercising and there is the most marvellous woman photographer called Leni Riefenstahl going to the Games who—’
Something Dangerous Page 36
