Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I’m – not sure,’ said Barty and flushed.

  He looked at her: ‘In love, are you? With this Elliott chap?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes I am. But—’

  ‘Well, I only met him once and loathed him. Arrogant little tick.’

  ‘Sebastian—’

  ‘Oh, I daresay he’s better now. Grown up a bit. Giving you any trouble at Lyttons?’

  ‘No, of course not. What do you mean? How could he?’ Celia had said something like that as well.

  ‘Perfectly easily I’d have said.’

  ‘But how? Apart from trying to stop me working late and things like that?’

  ‘How? Barty—’ He stopped, stared at her, his dark-blue eyes genuinely puzzled. ‘You must surely know, someone must have told you.’

  ‘Know what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Oh God. No one has told you. I suppose everyone assumed you knew. Barty, Laurence Elliott owns forty-nine per cent of Lyttons New York.’

  CHAPTER 19

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re making it up.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m not making it up, it’s true.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘ I – can’t.’

  ‘Liar, liar, your pants are on fire.’

  ‘Stop it,’ cried Izzie, and she burst into tears, ran from the classroom into the corridor, where she bumped headlong into Miss Parker, her form teacher.

  ‘Isabella, do look where you’re going. You know running is against the rules. Whatever is the matter, why are you crying?’

  ‘I – don’t know,’ said Izzie. Miss Parker, who was a perceptive young woman and very fond of Izzie, as well as saddened by her lonely, apparently parentless life, looked at her intently.

  ‘Being teased?’

  ‘Oh – no,’ said Izzie, with a quick smile.

  ‘You must tell me if you are. There are some quite difficult little girls in your class. They don’t mean any real harm, but they – well, I need to know.’

  ‘It’s – not that,’ said Izzie and she burst into tears again.

  Miss Parker led her gently into a classroom and shut the door. ‘Come along. Tell me about it.’

  Izzie told her.

  ‘I see. Well, we must try and convince them, mustn’t we? No use my saying anything to them now, they’ll know you’ve been telling tales. As they would see it. But perhaps we could do something much more clever. Leave it with me.’

  Two days later, Izzie was sitting eating her breakfast when the door flew open and Sebastian came into the room. He was clearly very angry, his eyes almost black and his face taut and white.

  ‘Isabella, how dare you talk about me at school?’

  ‘Father, I—’

  ‘Telling people I’m your father, complaining when they don’t believe you. Why should they believe you and why mention it at all—’

  ‘But Father, I’m so proud of you—’

  ‘Proud of me!’ He was silent, staring at her, the rage evaporating and replaced by the usual cold distaste.

  ‘Yes. Very proud of you, everyone at school likes your books and—’

  ‘I never, ever wanted to encourage this sort of thing. I don’t want you mixed up with my writing life. Did you suggest I came to give a talk at school?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Izzie. She put her cup down, stared at her father, feeling sick.

  ‘Well where did they get the idea from?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really, really don’t know.’

  ‘Well you can tell them I won’t. I’ll write and tell them myself of course, that I don’t wish to be taken advantage of like this, but – it really is very wrong of you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes Father,’ said Izzie very quietly.

  ‘I don’t want to hear anything about this ever again. I’ve got enough problems without getting mixed up with some absurd school.’

  Nanny, who had listened to this in silence, suddenly spoke.

  ‘Mr Brooke, I’m sorry, I know this is nothing to do with me but—’

  ‘You’re right, Nanny, it isn’t.’

  ‘But I do feel it’s unfair to blame Isabella for this incident. You are after all well known as a speaker at schools. I had heard of you long before I came to look after Isabella, you spoke at a school attended by two other little girls I cared for—’

  ‘Look, as you yourself just said, this is nothing to do with you. Absolutely nothing. Now Isabella, do you understand? I don’t want to hear any more about this?’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Izzie, very quietly.

  ‘Good. Now finish your breakfast and go to school. You’ll be late. Good morning, Nanny.’

  When he had gone, Nanny looked at Izzie; her eyes were filled with huge tears, overspilling on to her long lashes.

  ‘Don’t cry, Isabella. I’m sorry if I made things worse.’

  ‘You – didn’t,’ said Izzie, swallowing, ‘really you didn’t. It’s just that—’

  ‘Just what? Tell me about it.’

  They arrived a little late at school that morning; Nanny walked with Izzie to her classroom where Miss Parker was taking the register.

  ‘I’m so sorry Isabella is late,’ she said in her clear, calm voice to Miss Parker, ‘but her father, Sebastian Brooke, the author, you know, had an urgent meeting with his publisher, and needed the car. We had to come on the bus.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right,’ said Miss Parker. Her eyes met Nanny’s in absolute complicity. ‘I do hope Mr Brooke was not late for his meeting. And that the new Meridian book will be out in time for Christmas as usual.’

  ‘Oh there’s no doubt about that,’ said Nanny, ‘I’ve seen the new cover myself. Good morning, Miss Parker. Thank you so much.’

  Izzie would not have been human, had her eyes not met her tormentors’ in a moment of absolute triumph.

  Just the same, she knew something was wrong, that her father was behaving strangely, was even more bad-tempered than usual. She heard him shouting on the telephone, shouting at dear Mrs Conley, shouting at her of course when she made even the slightest noise on the stairs – but she was used to that.

  What was more worrying was that several times, recently, she had heard him making the awful noise; a noise that she had heard once or twice before. If a child had made it, she would have called it crying. She had also heard him moving about the house in the middle of the night; she had looked at her little clock and the small hand was still on two or three. And he looked awful, like a giant in one of her story books, really much older, with his hair all on end, and his clothes crumpled.

  Izzie didn’t exactly like her father, but she was concerned for him and she wanted to please him more than anything in the world; and without being quite sure why she felt she must bear some responsibility for his misery. He didn’t see many people after all, there was hardly anyone else who could have upset him. And when another night she heard him being sick, over and over again, while all the house was alseep, she began to be very worried indeed. She would have to talk to Kit about it; he would know what to do.

  Kit was still her hero, the person she loved more than anyone else in the world. When he came to the house it seemed warmer, happier, and she felt safe and didn’t worry about what she said or did all the time. Even now he was so grown-up, sixteen years old and as tall as Sebastian, he still had lots of time for her, played games with her in the garden, read her stories – including, of course, the Meridian books – and was teaching her all sorts of fun things like card games and draughts and Ludo. Sebastian liked Kit too, he didn’t get cross with him much, and didn’t seem to mind particularly if they played noisy games in the garden, like hide and seek.

  Kit had even managed to persuade Sebastian to let him put a swing up for her, in the old apple tree; she spent long hours on it, drifting backwards and forwards, gazing up into the branches and making up stories of her own in her head. Sebastian never joined in the games of snap and draughts, but he would occasionally stand watching
them together, and once when she had missed a snap, he actually tapped her shoulder and nodded at the table so she saw it. She remembered that for weeks afterwards; it was the sort of thing other fathers did. And once or twice, when they were having tea together, he would come and sit with them; he wouldn’t talk to them much, just read the paper and drink his tea, but still, he was actually there with them, not locking his study door and shutting them out. She sometimes thought if Kit could come and live with them, she might have a much more ordinary sort of life.

  Adele faced Luc steadily. She had never seen him actually angry before; he could be irritable, he was certainly moody. But now he was white, his almost-black eyes hard under his thick brows, his mouth somehow folded in on itself. They were talking in the Luxembourg gardens, sitting in the sunshine facing the memorial to Murger. He was one of Luc’s favourite writers; and he had taken her to Bohème at the Paris Opera to explain to her why and for an evening of what Luc called romantic French glory.

  Adele had hoped, therefore, it would be an auspicious meeting place; it seemed she was wrong.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘so you have known this for – what? Several weeks, I calculate.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, several. But with Daddy being ill and—’

  ‘You found yourself too busy to tell me this. This most important thing. Or perhaps you just decided it was not very important to you. Not important enough to impart.’

  ‘Luc, of course I thought it was important. I told you. I was – very distressed about my father. For the first few days after he became ill, I didn’t leave the hospital. None of us did. And then – well, I didn’t come to Paris for weeks, as you know. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone. Anyway, I wasn’t quite sure. But it’s perfectly all right. I can see you’re angry about it.’

  ‘I am angry,’ he said and his voice was quite quiet, deadly in its rage, ‘very, very angry. How dare you keep this to yourself, make decisions on your own about what you might and might not tell me—’

  Adele suddenly lost her own temper. ‘I have to do everything else all on my own,’ she said, ‘manage, within this – this relationship. If it deserves such a name.’

  ‘I’m sorry? Our relationship doesn’t deserve a name?’

  ‘No, not really. Because it isn’t a relationship. You give me nothing, Luc, nothing at all.’

  ‘What? I give you nothing?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Except a – a fuck, when it suits you.’

  ‘Don’t dare speak to me like that,’ he said, his voice even lower. ‘Don’t dare use that word either. Or to say I give you nothing.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. A few presents, a dinner now and then. Apart from that, just – sex. You’ve hardly ever given me any time. When did we have a whole day and night together, Luc, when? Always you have to go back to your wife, I have to understand, that is the way it has to be. No promises, no discussions, nothing. Just your protestations of love. Well, I don’t have the patience for that sort of love any longer, Luc, or even the stomach. I’m quite glad we’re having this conversation, it’s the nearest to being honest you’ve ever been—’

  ‘I have always been honest with you, Adele. Always.’

  ‘Oh really? That’s very interesting. Funny sort of honesty, if you ask me. You say you love me, you adore me. And then turn your back on me and go back to your wife. I wonder if she would see that as very honest? Does she know about me, Luc? I’ve often wondered.’

  ‘She knows you exist. That I have a mistress. She accepts it. In the—’

  ‘Don’t say it again, Luc, or I warn you, it might be the last thing you ever do say. The bloody French way, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? Well I don’t like the French way any more. I prefer the English. I’m only sorry I’ve seen so much of the French, you in particular. Goodbye, Luc. And don’t try to contact me, because I don’t want to hear from you or see you ever again. It’s over, finished. You find yourself another – mistress. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A mistress, someone to go to bed with when you can find some time away from your marriage. Someone decorative and amusing, someone who makes your life more interesting. I think I deserve a better title than that. Goodbye, Luc. I’d like to say it’s been wonderful, but it hasn’t. It’s been very upsetting quite a lot of the time. And I think I’ve been very patient. Very patient indeed.’

  She stood up, and her head suddenly swam, the treacherous nausea overcoming her. Just for a moment she stumbled, and just for a moment she thought he would see her distress, come to her, help her. But he didn’t.

  Adele took a very deep breath, and walked slowly and as steadily as she could away from him. Him and his life.

  ‘Is that Miss Clarence?’

  There was no mistaking that voice: clipped, light, a bit breathy.

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s me.’ What did she want, had she—

  ‘Good morning, Miss Clarence. This is Venetia Warwick. I don’t know if you’ll remember me.’

  Just about, Venetia, just about.

  ‘Yes, of course I do. How – how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just wondered if – if I could come and see you.’

  ‘Come and see me? Well—’

  Now what did she do? Boy had frightened her so completely that day, after he’d come in and found her in the house. Told her if she so much as dared to speak to any member of his family ever again, it would be the end of everything. She had behaved with absolute discretion ever since; unsatisfactory as their relationship was, she didn’t want it finished. She supposed that might mean she was actually in love with him.

  ‘It’s nothing – nothing terribly important. In fact, you might think me a bit silly. But – I rather wanted to have some piano lessons myself.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I had hundreds when I was a little girl, never practised of course, and wasted what little talent I had. And my husband is so frightfully musical, he often says what a pity it is I’m so hopeless, I thought I might surprise him. And I could start all the children off with the piano myself, I thought, as well. I just thought it would be a good idea. But perhaps you’re too busy—’

  Abbie seized on this gratefully. ‘I am. Awfully busy. I’m sorry. I just haven’t got any – any spaces at all, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, never mind. It was just an – an idea. You don’t have any friends who teach, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t, I’m afraid. I’m sorry. But thank you for thinking of me.’

  Abbie put the phone down, shaking slightly. That had been close. Silly, stupid, spoilt bitch. God, she must be dense. She didn’t deserve to have Boy as a husband: Boy with his brilliant mind, his wit, his fascinating conversation. They were a disgrace to the women’s cause, women like her. Fifty years out of date. Venetia Warwick probably wouldn’t even care if they took the vote away from her.

  Well it had been worth a try. She still wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to see Abigail Clarence again. It was just the awful nagging, niggling feeling that something had been wrong that day: that moment. And that maybe if she saw her again, talked to her a bit, she could – pin it down. Probably she was completely mad. Almost certainly she was completely mad: had imagined the whole thing.

  It was just that it had gone on and on nagging at her: the sensation that there was something between Boy and Abigail Clarence that she was excluded from. And he had been odd when she had talked to him about the music lessons. Nothing that she could pin down, just tense. And awkward. Boy was never tense and very seldom awkward.

  Oh it was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Just as well her plan hadn’t worked. She was like all jealous wives, imagining she’d seen things that simply weren’t there. Abigail was hardly Boy’s type, anyway; with her rather bohemian looks and clothes. He liked glamorous women. She’d do much better getting on with her life, putting it out of her head, being a good wife to Boy. They were going on holiday in a week, to a villa near Antibes; she and the children were going on the train and Boy was f
ollowing in his latest toy, his own plane, landing on the tiny airstrip at Nice. She would instruct her maid to start packing for that today, tell Nanny to get the children’s clothes and toys ready, cable the cook and butler there with instructions.

  She really had far better things to do and worry about than premonitions about Abigail Clarence.

  ‘Mrs Warwick!’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Well – I’m very busy. As I said.’

  ‘You don’t look very busy,’ said Venetia briskly, and indeed Abbie realised she didn’t, wearing a pair of wide-legged silk pyjamas (a present from Boy), a cigarette in one hand, a book in the other.

  ‘No. But I am expecting someone.’ God this was frightful: suppose Boy turned up. But he wouldn’t, he’d said he wouldn’t be coming that day.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ said Venetia, ‘I would like to come in though, if I may.’

  She had no idea what she was going to say: she half wished she had never set out on this absurd mission. She was looking for reassurance as much as anything. Thinking that if she got to know Abigail a bit better, talked to her, observed her, she’d be able to convince herself.

  And somehow, she felt she just had to explore it all further. She was never going to be able to settle down to enjoy her holiday with it unresolved. The worst that could happen was that she would look a bit stupid. And if Abbie didn’t know Boy, that really didn’t matter.

  ‘What a pretty house,’ she said, following Abbie into the small drawing room.

  ‘Yes. I like it.’

  ‘I thought you lived near Barty.’

  ‘I did. But I was left some money and I thought I’d like to have a house of my own.’

  ‘You and Barty, such independent spirits,’ said Venetia lightly. ‘I do admire you. I would never have thought of getting my own place.’