No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (41 page)

She felt disappointed, and furiously angry too: the tangle of desire in her pulling, disturbing, almost hurting her. She turned on her back, lay staring at the ceiling, hot, fierce tears in her eyes.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I really don’t. Is it me, what have I done, what can I do?’

He reached out, tried to take her hand; she pulled it roughly away. ‘Don’t,’ she said.

He turned his head to look at her and she saw there were tears in his eyes too. Remorse filled her; she took his hand again, said more gently, ‘If you try to explain, Oliver, I will try to understand, to help.’

He sighed again, the same heavy, despairing sigh. ‘I’m not the same person,’ he said. ‘The person who went out to France in 1914 was not at all the same as the one who has come home again. And cannot therefore be the same for you. It was the fear, you see: fighting the fear. That changed me more than anything. Anything I saw or had to do.’

‘I – yes, I think I see.’ She did not: not exactly. No one could who had not been there. But she had to try.

‘It was disorientating. Sometimes I had no idea who I was, even. And then, when finally I was wounded, taken to hospital, I – I prayed that I would die, rather than have to go back. I prayed for it every night. Even in the torture of post-operative pain, I was just thankful. Thankful not to be out there any more. When they told me I wasn’t healing, that there were complications, I smiled at them, thanked them. They thought I was crazy. Delirious. It was that bad, Celia. That bad.’

‘Oh Oliver. I’m sorry. So sorry.’

‘I was so absolutely terrified every day for the whole of the four years. Of failing again, as I did that one time I told you about. With that soldier.’

‘But you didn’t, Oliver. You didn’t fail again. You went on and on. God knows how you did it. How any of you did it. Your men adored you, I’m always being told that—’

‘And when are you told it?’ His voice was amused again.

‘Oh – at dinners. Things like that. At the regimental reunion we went to a few weeks ago. When we visited your batman, poor man—’

‘Poor man, indeed.’

Oliver’s batman had been blinded; he lived at home now with his elderly mother. Celia shrank from the thought of what might happen to him when she was no longer able to care for him.

‘Well – anyway that was the fear. Of failure,’ he said more quietly still, ‘I failed that poor wretch of a soldier. If I can fail in one way, I can fail in another. With you. And I’m so afraid.’

‘But,’ she said, lifting his hand now, kissing it, ‘you – we – have to face the fear, Oliver. Together. Drive it away.’

‘I know. I know we do. But not yet. It’s still too soon.’

She was silent.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and there was a break in his voice, ‘so terribly sorry.’

‘Oliver, don’t! Please. Of course you’re right. We have all the time in the world.’

‘I hope so,’ he said, kissing her gently, I hope you can be patient with me. I love you so much, Celia. I want you to know that.’

‘I do know it,’ she said, ‘I do.’

He fell asleep after that, still holding her; but she lay wide awake, staring into the darkness, her body slowly quieting, happy that at least they had spoken of it, but aware just the same that she had not said she loved him, and wondering why. And aware too that there had been a reason he had chosen this night to ask if he might come to her bed; it was because of Sebastian, and of the place he might be taking in her life. She wasn’t quite sure whether Oliver or herself was the more haunted by Sebastian’s presence, lying in the bed between them.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Lytton. Very sorry. But as I said in my letter—’

‘Yes, I know what you said in your letter,’ said Robert, ‘that’s why I’m telephoning you. To find out why you said it.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any more reasons. The board considers the sum you are looking for exceeds the surety you can offer—’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Robert, ‘the surety is on a guaranteed sale of those buildings. I’ve shown you the letters.’

‘I realise that, of course.’ The voice was carefully regretful. And if it were down to me, the money would be advanced to you. But I cannot act on my own. I have to take the advice of my board. I’m sorry.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Robert slammed the phone down; then regretted it. At this rate he would have alienated half the bankers on Wall Street by the end of the week. Rea Goldberg was the third to refuse backing for the new construction Brewer Lytton were waiting impatiently to commence. He couldn’t understand it. They had never had the slightest trouble before. And money wasn’t exactly short: rather the reverse. The economy was extremely sound: wages were low, employment rising. There was a green light on enterprise. The city was growing: literally. Real estate was one of its biggest industries, and the people servicing it important to the economy. People like Brewer Lytton. Providing new housing, new offices, new stores: all crucial. But, suddenly, for Brewer Lytton, at least, the light had gone from green to red.

He walked into John’s office. John was stabbing moodily at a sheet of figures with his pencil. He looked up at Robert.

‘Any good?’

‘Nope. The board turned us down.’

‘Thought so. Bastards.’

‘Yes. How about the hotel?’

Against Robert’s instinct, they had put in a bid to build a new, small, but very prestigious hotel on the Upper East side.

‘No news yet. But I have an insider there, who’s going to get us a definite update this afternoon. I think this one will be all right, Robert. I know you said no more contract work, but I have a good feeling about this project. And they were impressed by your Elliott connections. Well, they want the hotel to look as much like Elliott House as possible.’

‘More fools them,’ said Robert wearily, ‘let’s hope my being impressive is enough to get us the contract. We certainly can’t get a sliver off that price.’

It wasn’t. Later that afternoon, John’s insider told them regretfully that the contract to build the hotel was going to Hagman Betts.

‘You’re crying,’ said Sebastian, ‘what’s the matter?’

‘Oh – it’s nothing.’ She blew her nose, managed to smile at him.

‘Just a personal advertisement in one of the papers. Listen. Lady, fiancé killed, will gladly marry officer injured in the war. Blindness, or other incapacity, not an obstacle. Poor, poor woman. She obviously feels that since her own life is ruined, she may as well devote it to helping someone else. Marry someone she doesn’t love, doesn’t even know. Isn’t that so sad? And there must be hundreds, thousands like her. Their lives quite wrecked forever. Trying to be positive about it, to turn it to good effect. Oh, Sebastian I can’t bear it. Sorry. So sorry.’

She started to cry again. He walked over to her desk, gave her a handkerchief. ‘Use this. That one of yours is a bit of an apology for a handkerchief. Is that the only reason you’re crying?’

‘What? Yes, of course it is. Why else should I be crying? I’m perfectly happy.’

‘Are you? Are you really?’

‘Yes, of course I am. What do I have to be unhappy about?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Let’s go at it another way. What do you have to be happy about?’

‘Oh, Sebastian, that’s a ridiculous question.’

‘Answer it.’

He sat down on one of the sofas, crossed his legs, smiled at her. He had come into the office to look at the new designs for the cover of
Meridian
.

‘Well – I have just about everything anyone could want. Happy marriage. Marvellous career. Healthy children. Beautiful house—’

‘That’ll do. You’ve never seen my house, have you?’ he said, interrupting, as he so often did.

‘No. No, I haven’t.’

‘Would you like to? It’s a very new toy.’

‘I don’t know. I suppose so, yes. I love Primrose Hill, it’s so pretty.’

‘You must come. Shall we go now?’

‘Sebastian, don’t be so ridiculous. Of course we can’t go now. We’re working—’

‘No we’re not. You’re upset, I’m trying to cheer you up. We have to look at what I’m sure are some dreadful jacket ideas, then we could go and look at my house. It’s very pretty. For a bachelor establishment. I’m rather proud of it as a matter of fact. Come on.’

‘Sebastian, no.’

‘Well, look, I tell you what,’ he said, ‘let’s have lunch there. It’s a lovely day, we can have some champagne in the garden and—’

‘Sebastian, I can’t have lunch with you. Certainly not in your house.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’m very busy. And – well and – it’s not very – suitable.’

‘Suitable for what?’

‘For a married woman to lunch with an unmarried man alone in his house.’

‘Lady Celia! I had no idea you were so conventional. Why should you care whether it’s suitable or not?’

‘Because others will care. Oliver will care, LM will care, the staff here will care.’

‘And why should any of them need to know?’

‘Sebastian I am not coming to your house.’

‘Very well,’ he said with a dramatically heavy sigh, ‘another day. We could have lunch though, couldn’t we? We still have a lot to talk about.’

‘We do?’

‘Of course. Well I do. It occurred to me that I know a great deal about you, and you know almost nothing about me. Aren’t you curious?’

‘Not – particularly.’

‘Well you should be.’

‘I really don’t see why.’

‘You know perfectly well why.’

‘Sebastian—’ she said, feeling herself flush, resenting it, ‘I really don’t think you should—’

‘I’m your major author. You have the press release to think about. What other reason would there be? Ah now,’ he said, laughing, ‘you thought I was on quite a different tack didn’t you? Shame on you, Lady Celia. Now come along, let’s get these jackets over, quickly. Are they very bad?’

‘It’s not for me to—’

‘They’re very bad,’ he said, ‘I can tell.’

The jacket illustrations were very bad: so bad that they started laughing.

‘Well at least we can say we tried,’ said Sebastian finally. ‘I can’t believe Gill did, though.’

‘Gill didn’t do them. She was too upset. She asked one of her assistants.’

‘Good girl. Tell Oliver – no I will tell him – that I think they’re appalling.’

‘He can still try to insist,’ said Celia gloomily.

‘Why?’

‘Because he likes to have the last word on such matters.’

‘Even if you don’t agree with him?’

‘Well – yes.’

‘But he doesn’t always prevail?’

‘Not always. We have some terrible battles, though.’

‘I see one coming up. I will not put my name to any of those jackets.’

‘Contractually, I don’t think you can refuse.’

‘Bugger the contract. I don’t imagine Oliver will want a dissatisfied author, publicly critical of his own book jacket, do you? Especially an about-to-be-famous author.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Of course he won’t. Now come along. Let’s make our way to Rules. I feel a sudden need for some nice cold champagne.’

It was so hot: so hot and there was nothing to do. Jay had already walked round the garden about twenty times, and now he was back inside, because Dorothy told him he’d get sunstroke. When he asked her what sunstroke was, she said he’d know soon enough if he got it; she was always saying things like that. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the day; it wasn’t nearly lunch-time, they’d had lots of stories already, he was tired of drawing – maybe Dorothy would take him to the swings. That would be fun. He liked it at the swings, there were other children there. But, ‘No Jay,’ she said, ‘not today. It’s too hot and I’ve got too much to do. Maybe tomorrow. Now, you must let me get on and make your lunch.’

‘Where’s Mrs Bill?’

‘She’s gone to see her sister. She won’t be back till supper time. Now your mother said she’d be back early tonight and maybe you and she could go for a walk before you go to bed. That would be nice wouldn’t it?’

‘Not very,’ said Jay. He was very fond of his mother, but she wasn’t exactly fun.

She didn’t laugh much, or play games; Aunt Celia, or Grandma Beck (the nearest he could get to Grandmama Beckenham) were really fun, they played tag and hopscotch and hide and seek and all sorts of other games. His mother just wanted to read to him and talk. He sighed, and started to think about Grandma Beck. She had said, as she kissed him goodbye, that awful day, that he could come back to Ashingham whenever he liked. It would be lovely there today. He could have taken off his shoes and stockings and paddled in the little stream, or done some fishing, or maybe even had a ride on the pony.

Quite suddenly Jay decided to go. It was horrible here, and nobody took any notice of him, nobody cared how miserable he was. Grandma Beck and Billy, who only had one proper leg and was always kind to him, they’d care. They’d let him stay if he could only get there, he knew they would. But – could he get there? Dorothy certainly wouldn’t take him. Nobody would. If he was going to go he’d have to do it on his own. He was sure he could remember how to get to the station. Down the main road for quite a long way – he’d often looked down it when they went for walks, remembering the journey up to Hampstead that horrid day – and then there was a station at the bottom. He was sure he could find it. But then he’d have to find the right train. How would he do that? Trains went all over the place, it would be awful to get on the wrong one. Then he remembered Dorothy asking the men who worked at the station where the trains went and where she got them. He could do that. He knew the station name: it was Beck something, like Grandma Beck. Fancy having a station named after you; one day he’d have a Jay station, all his own. With his own trains. He would live there, if he could. As long as it was near some fields and some streams.

He looked cautiously into the kitchen; Dorothy was singing to herself, and cutting up carrots for his lunch. That settled it really. Jay hated carrots. He went to fetch his money box, emptied the contents into his pocket, because you needed money for the train, he could remember that, and then walked very quietly through the hall and out of the front door, pulling it quietly shut behind him. Once clear of that, he ran as fast as his sturdy little legs could manage down the street towards the main road.