Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (86 page)

‘Want me to—’

‘No. No, thank you. I’ve got to deal with this on my own. He’s suggested lunch at the Dorch on Wednesday. Nice neutral ground. Oh dear.’

‘Are you going to take some pictures of Fergal? Just in case?’

‘Oh—I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so. He’s going down to Ashingham the weekend after, to see all the others, they’re all there, so he’ll meet Fergal then. Oh, it’s such a stupid, ridiculous mess. I should have told him right at the beginning, shouldn’t I, and then—’

‘If you say that once more I’ll scream,’ said Adele cheerfully. ‘Now look, can you think of anywhere at all I might find a full-length mink coat? In this day and age?’

‘’Fraid not. You’ve asked—’

‘Oh yes. And Grandmama. I might have to declare myself beaten on this one. Shame. It’s for the most heavenly new art director. At
Style
. Cedric’s really cross this time, he wanted him all to himself. Not that he seems the sort to fancy Cedric.’

Boy wasn’t enjoying his leave as much as he had expected. The first few days had been marvellous, simply waking up to cool mornings—even the warmest English summer day seemed chilly—and the unbelievable luxury of having a bath whenever he wanted it, albeit only five inches deep, the last he’d had had been on leave in Cairo—the absence of sand in everything, the air no longer thick with flies . . . all that sort of thing.

But he very shortly began to feel lonely. He was staying at his flat in Pont Street, and although that too had seemed wonderfully luxurious for a while, he was beginning to long for companionship. For so long now he had been with people more or less twenty-four hours a day, all with the absolutely common aim of beating the enemy, enduring so much together, the heat, the discomfort, the triumphs and the defeats, the loss of friends—they had become his family, his fellow officers and his men, closer to him in many ways than his actual family had ever been.

It seemed absurd to be nostalgic for warm beer and the eternal bully beef, shared in fierce discomfort, but after a few days that was almost what he felt. The desert war was said to have been a very personal war, shared intensely by its protagonists; they had been so far removed from the rest of the world, he had often thought, it was like being alone in the universe, especially at night, so huge was the sky, so great the physical solitude.

He had seen a few friends in London of course; but everyone was so busy, so distracted with their own lives, even the women seemed to be doing some kind of work, and there was so little common ground. Somehow conversations about deprivation and difficulty seemed shallow, set against what he had known and endured; he became visibly irritable one night when a woman who had very kindly asked him to dinner complained constantly about the problems of stretching her petrol ration and doing much of her own cooking. She would not be asking him again, he thought, and felt remorseful.

He was looking forward to seeing his children; but even that was overshadowed by the prospect of a forced meeting with this new baby. And he was frankly dreading his encounter with Venetia; he felt so angry with her, so resentful, and so—what? Foolish, he supposed: cuckolded. It was deeply unfair, of course, when he had cheated on her so much, and under far more serious circumstances, but he couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t. He didn’t know how he was going to approach her, what he was going to say, whether he should leave her to broach the more difficult matters or raise them himself . . .

He was beginning to regret having suggested the Dorchester; somewhere quieter might have been better, there might be friends there who would interrupt their conversation, make references even to Venetia’s new lover, whoever he might be. On the other hand, it would be better than a one-to-one confrontation with no distractions of any sort. Which was precisely, of course, why he had suggested it in the first place.

Well—it was only a lunch. And then, with luck, they could part on a constructive and friendly basis.

‘You look tired, Miller.’ Parfitt looked at her consideringly. ‘What you been up to? Lover boy’s not home, is he?’

‘No. No, of course not,’ said Barty hastily. Thinking how shocked Parfitt would be if she had known what unspeakable things she had been up to.

While she had been with Laurence, she had thought of nothing but him; he had always done that to her, forced her to focus absolutely on him, driven all other demands and considerations away. But now, removed from him once more, from the pleasure and the pain, it was as if John were with her, beside her, shocked, hurt, absolutely betrayed.

How could she be doing this? She, so clear in all her moral choices, so firm in all her moral judgments, how could she be deceiving a man she had promised to marry, declared her love for, a man so good and so kind and so gentle he deserved not so much as a frown of irritation, the slightest suggestion of sharpness from her? How could she, after the mildest, most unconvincing of protests, the slightest, briefest of hesitations, have gone to bed with a man she had left in a fury of rage and grief, a man with no morals, no integrity, so unstable and obsessive that he had gone to the lengths of marrying another woman purely to distress her? How could she have allowed herself to be seduced by him with such pathetic and distasteful ease?

There was no hiding place for her, no possible excuse. She had not been lonely, neglected, ill-treated, she had been loved, cared for, admired; she thought remorsefully of Adele, waiting literally for years now for the man she loved, and Venetia too, both of them displaying infinitely more virtue than she was capable of. She was not bored or deprived, she was deeply involved in something she enjoyed, she was warm, well fed, comfortable, surrounded by friends.

Wherever she looked she found the same: a treacherous, self-seeking, self-indulgent woman. And she was ashamed to be her.

She wondered if there was something wrong with her, some severe psychological flaw in her make-up, hitherto unsuspected, that she could behave so badly; she felt physically sick, and so disgusted was she with herself, that she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, and was distracted and miserable. Until she was with him again, when she became wildly, helplessly happy, and so incapable of keeping the promise she continually made to herself—to give him up, to send him away, to tell him it could not, must not go on—that the very idea was laughable.

She did try once; and he smiled at her and said, ‘Do you really think I would allow that to happen again? I’ve lost too many years with you already, Barty.’

And he did seem to have changed; he was just slightly less demanding, just a little more conciliatory. He listened to her more, considered what she said; he even acknowledged that she might have some grounds for feeling some guilt and emotional discomfort: ‘Although how you could promise yourself to another man, I really cannot imagine, when it was me you really loved.’

‘Laurence, that is so outrageous. You married another woman, had children by her.’

‘I’ve told you, that was only to distress you.’

‘You’re mad,’ she said, and then saw that he was smiling.

‘I love you,’ he said, ‘so very, very much.’

She was silent; he looked at her, the smile gone.

‘Barty?’ he said. She knew what he meant. Said nothing. ‘Barty?’ he said again.

And then she did say it: slowly, painfully, fighting the truth of it, knowing she had to give in.

‘I – do—love you,’ she said, her voice very low.

‘Good,’ he said, his own voice changed, quite brisk with satisfaction. ‘That is settled then. So when shall we be married?’

‘Married! Laurence, I’m not going to marry you.’

‘I don’t see why not. I’m here, you’re here, I love you, you love me, we are both free. Of course we must get married.’

‘Laurence, of course we must not.’

‘But—why not?’

‘Well—’ She stopped. There was indeed only one reason; and it was not a good enough one. For him.

‘Give me time,’ she said, ‘please. It’s – it’s not right. Not yet.’

‘It’s very, very right,’ he said, kissing her, ‘but I will give you a little time. If you really want it.’

‘I really want it.’

And she went back to her torture chamber, more distressed even than ever before.

‘Mrs Warwick? Mr Pickford of Gamages here.’

‘Oh—hallo, Mr Pickford.’

‘Mrs Warwick, I’m in the vicinity, I wondered if I might come and see you. I am told you have the first bound copies of Mr Lytton’s new book.’

‘Mr Lytton’s?’ said Venetia stupidly. She was so nervous at the prospect of seeing Boy she hardly knew her own name.

‘Yes indeed. Christopher Lytton’s. What is its title? It escapes me for a moment, but I do know that Hatchards have seen the book and—’

‘Oh, you mean
Seen and Heard
.’ She was rather proud of that title, she had thought of it herself.

‘Yes, of course. I presume the title is based on the well-known quotation?’

‘Yes. That children should be seen and not heard.’

‘Very good. Well, anyway—’ He paused.

Venetia looked at her watch. She should be leaving in a quarter of an hour: leaving for the Dorchester and lunch with her husband. Or rather ex-husband. Still, it was only a short walk away.

‘Well—it would be very nice to see you, Mr Pickford. But I’m afraid I don’t have very long, I’ve got a luncheon appointment.’

‘Oh dear me, it won’t take long. Just enough to have a look at the book and the cover of course, and to discuss how many we might take. The last one was a great success, we could have sold twice the quantity we did.’

‘Of course,’ said Venetia. There was no point, after all, in losing an important order. She was going to need her career in the future. In fact, the lunch with Boy was little more than a business meeting itself. What was it he had said? To discuss future arrangements. Well, then.

Mr Pickford was late: he didn’t arrive until ten to one. And then the girl who was manning the reception desk had been engaged on a telephone call when he arrived, and so it was almost five to one before he was in her office.

Even then, he was painfully slow, considering the cover, debating (again) the title, discussing the price (five shillings), deploring the paper quality (so thin you could see the print on the other side), calculating aloud the number of copies he might take.

Venetia looked at her watch: almost ten past one.

‘Mr Pickford,’ she said, ‘I really do have to go. It’s—’

‘Of course, of course,’ he said, ‘how very remiss of me. I’m so sorry, Mrs Warwick. Thank you for your patience.’

He reached the door, then turned round, smiled at her.

‘While I’m here,’ he said, ‘I’d like to know how many copies of
Grace and Favour
you may be able to let us have this autumn. It’s still selling extremely well . . .’

She was late. Very late. Twenty minutes now. No doubt making a point. Or perhaps she was with her lover: discussing with him what she might or might not say to Boy, whether he was still to be allowed the easy custody arrangements of before, what arrangements there might be for the new child.

He had phoned Lyttons that morning, spoken to Celia; she had been initially delighted to hear from him, welcomed him home, congratulated him on the victory at El Alamein, and then became rather—odd with him. It was hardly surprising under the circumstances, he supposed, she must be embarrassed, must know who the father of the baby was. In reply to his invitation to luncheon later in the week, she had said that yes, it would be very nice but she was extremely busy, the war was creating so many problems, and she would prefer to leave it for a while.

He had asked her if Venetia was there, and she had said yes, but she was busy all morning with meetings—she was clearly playing the same game as Venetia, and inflating her job into something much more important than it actually was; he said he was having lunch with her that day and wanted to check that she was still available. Celia said that she would ask Venetia’s secretary to telephone him if she was not.

Venetia’s secretary! Some filing clerk, no doubt. Well, she was certainly playing hard to get now: or something. He had already drunk one gin and tonic, had another one on the table; he had learned the menu almost by heart—God, people didn’t know they were alive, it was like a dream, gulls’ eggs, quails’ eggs, chicken; he had read the leader page of
The Times
as well as the letters, where there was a series running, to which Lord Beckenham had contributed, on the deterioration of manners during the war, and was aware that two couples at least, happily sharing a meal and some wine, were looking at him and commenting on the failure of his companion to appear.

He would give her ten more minutes and then he was going to leave: he was simply not prepared to be made a monkey of like this. He’d been away for over two years, he was due at least a little common courtesy . . .

‘Excellent. I’m delighted. Thank you so much, Mrs Warwick, for showing me the
Grace and Favour
poster. Delightful. Good gracious me, I have made you very late. Can I escort you to your luncheon appointment? It’s the very least I can do, I feel. And I could even, perhaps, explain to your companion the reason for your delay.’

‘Oh—no, thank you.’ Nothing could have been more agonising; and besides, she simply had to put on her hat, some perfume and her lipstick before she left. And Boy would wait, he’d have to. He’d guess she’d been held up. And he wasn’t going to walk out on her today: not even Boy would do that.

Well, that was it. Twenty-five to two. Outrageous. He’d go, leaving a message with the head waiter that he hadn’t been prepared to wait any longer.

Boy drained the glass of its rather warm gin and tonic and stood up, glaring at anyone who might be watching. It was—well, it was unforgivable. He would—

‘Boy! Hallo! How lovely to see you. You’re not going, are you? Come and have a drink.’

It was Jay.