No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (64 page)

‘Oh. Yes. Yes, I see.’ A new home: in a house that was not hers. But that would become hers.

If she was brave enough.

‘And – the children?’

‘Celia, we’ve discussed the children. I would love to have the children. Some of the time at least. They are not a problem.’

‘But at first—’

‘At first you will have to leave them. Until matters have been arranged.’

She was silent; thinking again of her mother’s words. ‘They’ll be angry and confused and hostile . . .’

She repeated them. Sebastian looked at her. ‘No doubt they will. And then they’ll recover. Resilient creatures, children. And it’s not as if they don’t know me, don’t like me.’

‘Oh, Sebastian. That’s so unrealistic. They know you and like you as a friend. Not someone who has stolen their mother, hurt their father. I—’

‘Celia. Consider the alternatives. Realistically. Continuing like this. Can you contemplate that? For very much longer?’

She contemplated it; then shook her head.

‘Or – giving one another up. You returning to Oliver. In all its unhappiness. Unhappiness and frustration. For the rest of your life. Could you find that bearable? Is that what you want?’

‘No. No, Sebastian, no, it isn’t. Of course it isn’t. It would be dreadful. But—’

‘But?’

‘But perhaps that is right. Perhaps—’

‘Celia, something that makes you so lonely, so unhappy, so unfulfilled cannot be right. And Oliver is unhappy too, you told me so.’

‘I know. But he was not made unhappy by me, but by the war, his own ill-health, his uncertainty about everything—’

‘You mustn’t see him as helpless, you know. Or dependent. He is neither. He has a formidable will himself, and he knows what he wants. And fights for it. He will survive, believe me. He wouldn’t treat you as he does if he couldn’t manage without you.’

She was silent again. He took her hand, raised it to his lips, kissed it. ‘Come live with me, and be my love. Please, Celia. You know it’s right. You know.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ she said, and then, taking a deep breath, physically straightening, stiffening her back, ‘yes, Sebastian, I do.’

She had decided then – yet again – what she must do. But the biggest factor was not Sebastian’s words, or even her own wishes; it was remembering again the dreadful moment last night, when she had wished Oliver dead: a moment she could never share with anyone. And in which her marriage had surely, finally died.

CHAPTER 24

There is logic as well as truth behind the old saying the husband is the last to find out. He very frequently is; for the very simple reason that nobody will ever actually tell him. He stands behind a notional door at which the gossip stops. It makes its way most efficiently everywhere else; through windows, doors, down chimneys, across streets, it cuts a swathe through parties, runs round dinner tables, dances its way across nightclubs, drifts around swimming pools and tennis courts. But, somehow, the husband’s door is impenetrable; there the gossip becomes silenced, immobilised, impotent.

Gossip about Celia had spread very wide by the middle of that summer; Elspeth Granchester had only told two very close friends, in the strictest confidence, assuring them they were absolutely the first to know, and that it must go no further and they had also only told one or two friends, also instructing silence on the matter and at the end of a week or so, it had covered London, moved into the country, and even – this being the time of the summer holidays – crossed the Channel and made its way down to the South of France, into the hills of Tuscany and on to more than one yacht cruising in the Mediterranean and Aegean seas.

Lady Beckenham had been quizzed about it, albeit in rather veiled terms, both in London and the country (and given the quizzers very short shrift) likewise Jack Lytton professed total ignorance, when people pressed him for details; Caroline Masterson had been very closely questioned on the matter and hinted that there might be something in it, while proclaiming a complete lack of knowledge; Sebastian Brooke himself was not questioned, save by a few old friends, but watched closely for any kind of behaviour which might indicate that it was true. And yet Oliver Lytton, sitting anxious and depressed about a great deal more than his marriage, in his office in Paternoster Row, or staring morosely out of his drawing-room window in Cheyne Walk heard nothing of it at all.

Which was not to say he would have professed that all was well with his marriage had he been questioned and chosen to answer. In fact he felt a constant and growing unease on the matter, feeling Celia becoming lost to him a little more every day, knowing that every time she came home late, or appeared to be absent from him even in spirit at the dinner table, or as they sat in the drawing-room, on the rare occasions when she was at home and not out, drinking and dancing in some nightclub, knowing from her evasive smile when he asked her how she was, from her very slight withdrawing when he bent to kiss her, her emotional and even physical detachment from him, even when he was making increasingly rare love to her, knowing at every turn, at every hour that she was moving further away from him. And yet, he continued to ignore his instincts, to struggle to trust her, to turn his mind absolutely and resolutely away from the truth. For the simple reason that he was quite unable to bear it. Oliver loved Celia absolutely: and he needed her to love him in the same way. The fact that he was occasionally hostile to her, sometimes critical of her, frequently irritated by her, was irrelevant. Without her his life, or at least the point of his life was negated; therefore if he were to carry on as a properly functioning human being, he needed her. It was as simple as that.

‘Celia, I’m moving out,’ Jack’s face was rather pale, drawn; he didn’t look at her.

‘Oh, Jack. Don’t do that, it works so well, you being here, I shall miss you.’

‘I – have to. It’s high time I made my own arrangements. I’m thirty-five and—’

‘Same age as me. As you’re always telling me.’

‘Yes. Well, anyway, I’ve found a place.’

‘Really? Where, can I come and see it?’

‘Oh well – yes possibly. When I’ve moved in.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In Sloane Street. A flat.’

‘Is it nice?’

‘Yes. Very nice. Now you must excuse me, I have to go and meet Lily.’

So he knew, thought Celia, watching him as he left the drawing-room; he had heard. Elspeth had done her work well. She heard him running downstairs, heard the front door slam, watched his bright head moving away from her, down the Walk. She felt a great weight of depression suddenly; she would miss him so much. And miss his affection for her, his teasing, his chatting, his terrible jokes. Miss going out with him after dinner, miss his friends, even miss Lily. Although Lily had never been quite – friendly towards her; had remained cool, distant. She had probably known for longer; she was smart was Lily, quick, sharp-eyed. A great deal smarter than Jack. She wondered how it would be working with Jack now; difficult. Well, it was probably all a foretaste of the worse that was to come.

Jack had been horribly upset by the news. Lily had told him: one night at the Grafton Galleries. He had been dancing with Crystal and she had been sitting, talking rather intensely to another woman. He went over and asked her what they were discussing.

‘Your sister-in-law. Lady Celia.’

‘Celia! What about her?’

‘I was right.’

‘What?’

He was rather drunk; the combination of that and a dread of what she was going to say, closed his mind rather efficiently.

‘She is having an affair.’

‘Oh, Lily, I don’t believe it,’ he said wearily, and then, contradicting himself, ‘who with?’

‘Sebastian.’

‘Sebastian?’

‘Yes.’

‘How – awful. How do you know?’

‘Gwendolyn Oliphant just told me.’

‘And who told Gwendolyn?’

‘Elspeth Granchester’s sister.’

‘And how does Elspeth Granchester’s sister know?’

‘Celia told Elspeth herself.’

‘Oh,’ said Jack. He felt very bleak suddenly and horribly sober. He hated it; hated the thought of Oliver, whom he loved so much and had always looked up to, being deceived, made a monkey of, hated that everyone in London knew, hated that Celia herself should have revealed such a thing to Elspeth Granchester, of all people. Elspeth who would have made gossip out of the news that night followed day. And he hated that Celia, whom he had always adored, whose company he so enjoyed, whose beauty he admired and who had always been, for him, the embodiment of what a wife should be, had proved to be so faithless and treacherous, not merely betraying Oliver, but with someone who was presumed to be his friend. And even experienced a brief, rather ignoble emotion, born of an ignoble memory, a memory of a night during the war when he had tried to seduce Celia, and she had refused. Had refused him: and not Sebastian. The ignoble emotion was jealousy; and it was very uncomfortable indeed.

‘Sorry,’ Lily said gently, ‘maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I know how much you like her.’

‘Did like her,’ said Jack. ‘I’m glad I’m moving out.’

‘I have to talk to Oliver,’ said Celia finally to Sebastian, one hot, bright July evening, when she felt more than usually stifled by her situation and by the unreality of it.

‘When?’ said Sebastian, with a sigh, for he had heard this before, and more than once; to hear the next day that it had not worked, that Oliver had been too tired, too busy, one of the children had been upset, or ill, Jack had been in all evening.

‘Tonight,’ she said now, ‘it’s as good a time as any, he’s finally happy with Jack’s book, there’s no news from the Lothians, it seems they have given up on their foolish case.’

She sat at dinner, unable to eat, watching Oliver push his food round his own plate, refusing the wine she tried to press on him (thinking it might anaesthetise him to a degree at least) talking at great length about Jack’s book, about
The Buchanans
– typeset now, for they could not afford to wait – about Giles and how much he was looking forward to coming home from school for the summer.

Finally shaken with fear, but fuelled by the adrenalin of it, she said, ‘Oliver, I have to speak to you about something.’

‘Yes?’ he said, smiling at her rather vaguely, ‘yes, what is it?’

‘I have to tell you something. Something important.’

‘Shall we go upstairs to the drawing-room? And have coffee served there?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I think we should stay here.’

‘Very well,’ he said, settling back in his chair, ‘what is it?’

‘I want to talk about – about—’ Somehow the words, the right, strong words wouldn’t come.

‘About what, Celia? The children? The summer holidays? I thought we might all go down to the South of France this year, I don’t like the heat very much but the children would love it and so would you, I—’

‘Oliver, it’s nothing to do with the summer holidays.’

‘Oh. Right. Well does that sound a good idea to you?’

‘No, not really,’ she said.

‘Why not? I thought you’d like it.’

‘The thing is, I – well, I won’t be coming on holiday with you this year.’

‘Really?’ he said and an expression was moving into his face, a certain wariness, ‘that seems a shame. You need a holiday, you don’t look well.’

‘Yes, but you see, I shall be—’

‘Celia, I’m sorry. I think we really should go and sit upstairs. It’s such a beautiful evening and it would be so nice to watch the sunset on the river.’

‘Oliver—’

‘Come along, I’ll have the coffee sent up.’

She followed him slowly; for some reason she felt altogether slow, braked, sloth-like. When finally they were settled again, she said, ‘It really is rather – difficult, what I have to say.’

‘Must it be said?’ He looked at her oddly, almost impatient; he knows, she thought, he is making it deliberately difficult. And, indeed why should he not?

‘Yes. I’m afraid it must be said. And I don’t know how to start. But—’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s about – about our marriage.’

‘Our marriage! I would have thought there was very little to be said about that. Getting on in years now, quite well worn, in fact, but – surviving. Wouldn’t you say?’

‘Well – no Actually. I wouldn’t.’

‘Really?’ He sounded politely surprised; as if she had expressed doubt about the state of the economy, or the lack of progress being made by the labour party. ‘Well, that is not how it seems to me.’

‘It seems it to me. And I – I want to talk about it.’

‘My dear, you must forgive me. I’m terribly tired. Much too tired for a philosophical conversation. I’m going up to bed. Goodnight.’

‘Oliver, I—’

‘Celia, no. Not tonight.’

It was impenetrable: his determination not to confront it, not to let her make him confront it. It happened again and then again; the last time she said, very loudly, sounding almost desperate – as indeed by then she was, ‘Oliver, I am thinking of leaving you. Don’t you understand?’

And he had sat staring at her his face absolutely blank and then he said, ‘I understand perfectly. But this isn’t the time to talk about it. Goodnight, Celia. Sleep well.’

It was checkmate.

‘It’s checkmate,’ she said fretfully to Sebastian, ‘he won’t listen, he won’t answer, he won’t discuss it, he won’t confront it. I don’t know what to do.’

‘You’ll just have to leave,’ he said, ‘just walk out. Then he’ll have to confront it.’

‘I can’t,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that.’

‘You’ll have to.’

She felt increasingly ill with the strain and the distress. Her cough was worse; her appetite non-existent. She couldn’t sleep. She could hardly work. Everyone irritated her: the children, the servants, her colleagues at work. She refused to go out, saw none of her friends, took no personal telephone calls, unable to face the prospect of being quizzed, studied, given advice. Her mother had removed herself from her life; LM was equally conspicuous by her absence from it. She prayed that LM did not yet know; she feared that her prayers were not being answered.

LM in fact did not know; there was quite simply no one to tell her. Lady Beckenham would not have dreamed of it; Oliver was incapable of it; and Celia was totally resistant to it. Until she had to, until leaving Oliver was a fait accompli, it seemed unfair to tell LM; to embroil her in the conflict, to invite judgement, to ask her not to judge. LM adored Oliver and she was very fond of Celia; it would be horribly difficult for her. If – when – she was with Sebastian, then she would have to talk to her; their friendship would deserve it. Until then she wanted to keep LM at a distance. Until then.

She felt beleaguered, with no one to talk to, no one to advise her. No one except Sebastian. ‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she said, ‘I just don’t.’

‘So you keep saying. It seems very simple to me.’

‘It would to you. He’s not your husband. You don’t owe him anything. You don’t feel guilt or remorse about him.’

‘You shouldn’t assume that.’

‘Oh, Sebastian this is an absurd conversation.’

‘I agree. Why don’t you just leave?’

‘I told you. I can’t.’

‘It would force him to accept the fact. That you were serious.’

‘I know, but—’

‘A letter?’

‘A letter? Sebastian, you can’t mean it. How can I leave Oliver a letter, telling him our marriage is over? It would be cowardly beyond belief.’

‘You’ve tried the brave way. It doesn’t work.’

Celia stared at him. ‘I don’t see how—’

‘Leave him a letter. At the house. All right, don’t tell him you’re leaving for good. Say you’re moving out for a while.’

‘To be with you?’

‘Well – yes. Obviously.’

‘I don’t see why it’s so obvious.’

‘It’s hardly irrelevant.’

‘No. No, I suppose not.’

‘Say you’ve tried to tell him. That he won’t listen. That you need time to work things out.’

‘It seems so brutal.’

‘My darling, you can’t leave your husband gently.’

‘I know. But – what about the children?’

‘Well obviously, you will have to tell them.’

‘Yes, but I’d thought Oliver and I could talk to them together. Do I – would I – tell them before I leave this letter? Before I go. Or come back and tell them? Oh, God, Sebastian, it’s such a nightmare.’

He looked at her. ‘Is there any way they could be sent away for a few days? To your mother, perhaps?’