Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (10 page)

‘Giles?’ It was Barty; she was standing in the doorway of his small office. ‘Want to come and have a quick bite to eat?’

‘Oh. Oh, well—’ He smiled at her. What would he do without Barty; she was so nice, still the nicest girl he’d ever met. And jolly pretty now, although a bit different looking, with her shoulder-length hair and her unmade-up face. She wore very nice clothes these days too, quite fashionable, although nothing fancy like the twins, almost casual a lot of them, very plain shapes, in clear strong colours – she was the only girl he knew who looked really good in red.

She was wearing red today, a sort of long red jumper over a pleated navy blue skirt. It was like a very smart school uniform. A short skirt, of course, she wasn’t old-fashioned, not one of those blue-stocking women, and she had the most terrific legs. So long and so – well, just terrific. She was his best friend, always had been, they told each other everything – well, nearly everything, he couldn’t have confided in her about his lack of sexual expertise – and they were allies in a close but unspoken way against the excesses of his mother.

If only – and he hated himself for even thinking this – if only she wasn’t so good at her job. He’d been so thrilled when she told him she was coming to work at Lyttons; at having her company during the day as well as the evening – but somehow, every time she came up with one of her wonderful ideas, every time his mother said, ‘Barty, that’s a very good thought’ he felt himself possessed by
schadenfreude
, wishing they were lousy ideas, terrible thoughts, and that she might appear at least occasionally as rawly incompetent as he.

But ‘Yes,’ he said now, pushing his work away, smiling at her, ‘yes I’d love to.’

‘I’ve got a secret to tell you,’ she said, taking a sip of the disgusting brown liquid that Lyons Corner House sold as tea. ‘Something really exciting. Can you keep it?’

‘Of course.’ Perhaps his mother had given her a book of her own to edit, perhaps she had even commissioned her to write a book herself. Or—

‘Giles, don’t sound so gloomy. It’s really nice. I’ve found a flat.’

‘A flat!’

‘Yes. All of my own, Giles, on the top floor of a house in Russell Square. Imagine, Bloomsbury. Isn’t that romantic?’

‘I – I suppose so.’

‘It’s much, much nearer here. I’ll be able to cycle to work. Think what fun that will be. It’s marvellous, it’s got a sitting room and a bedroom and its own tiny kitchen. I have to share a bathroom, but—’

‘Share a bathroom?’

‘Yes. Well, that’s all right. I don’t mind. With another girl. She has the flat at the back, she doesn’t look over the square like I do. It’s so exciting, isn’t it? I can just about afford it and—’

‘So when will you move into it?’ said Giles. He felt a leaden depression settle into his stomach.

‘Oh – in about a month. I have to get the lease signed and everything first. Imagine, Giles, independence. Giles, what’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased for me. You don’t look very happy . . .’

Adele had known, from the very beginning. On the day of the party at the Savoy for Marcel Lemoine and his book of French letters, as Venetia had christened it with shrieks of mirth; both the girls were going to the party. Adele was trying on, and abandoning, dress after dress, when Venetia came in looking bleary-eyed.

‘Good morning. What do you think about this one? Oh, God isn’t it just too sickening?’ said Adele.

‘What?’

‘Venetia! You know! Such a bore, today of all days when I so wanted to feel my absolute best—’

‘Oh – yes,’ Venetia had said vaguely, not meeting her eye. And Adele had known. At once. They always got it together, always, ever since the very first time.

There was a very long silence; then Adele said slowly, ‘Venetia, haven’t you . . .?’

Venetia met her eyes across another silence. And then looked down, made a great thing of examining her face in the mirror, tutting over an imaginary spot.

‘Venetia?’ said Adele.

‘No. Not yet. So what? It’s happened before.’

‘Only once. When you’d been ill.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. What time is our hair appointment? I’d better get dressed. Stop looking at me like that, Adele.
Please
.’

‘But—’

‘Adele, can I go and have my bath please? We’ll be late at this rate.’

‘Venetia—’

‘Adele, stop it. There’s nothing to worry about.’

But there was.

All day she worried about it. As the hairdresser crimped their hair into geometric waves; as they ate a lunch she didn’t want in between looking for the new dress Adele said she had to have; as she put on her make-up ready for the party, wondering if the new dark eyeshadow looked as good now as it had in the store; as she was sitting in the taxi, telling Adele not to be nervous, that she looked divine and of course Luc Lieberman would notice her, probably want to have dinner with her; as they walked into the party at the Savoy, and her father introduced them proudly to Marcel Lemoine; as she tried not to giggle when Adele tried out some of her newly revised French; as she moved through the party herself, smiling, struggling to look interested as people talked to her about the book, about her father’s publishing house, about her mother and how brilliant and beautiful she was; as she sat at the table in the restaurant that evening, next to Guy Constantine, watching Adele suffering because her mother was sitting next to Luc, watching Luc dancing first with her mother, then with Barty, then with her and finally with Adele; trying to sparkle, trying not to think about it, worrying, worrying: that she hadn’t got the curse, and that although it was two days late now, that didn’t mean anything at all, but because Adele had got it, it meant a great deal. In fact everything.

‘Mam’selle Adele?’

‘Yes. Who is it? Oh, Luc, how nice to hear from you. What a lovely party. I do hope Monsieur Lemoine enjoyed it.’

‘He did. But for me it could have been even a little better.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well,’ his voice was less carefully charming, almost irritable, ‘I would have liked to have talked a little more with you. And I had hoped to invite you to luncheon today, with Marcel, but it had been arranged that we visit some of the bookshops. And then there was a meeting with Monsieur Brooke. We are planning to publish his
Meridian
books in France next year. So – with great regret, I have phoned to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Adele rather dully. What a stupid conversation.

‘I wonder if you will be working for Lyttons more fully, like Mam’selle Miller? She is a most interesting person. I enjoyed talking with her very much.’

Wretched Barty. Why did she always win?

‘Well – well, it might be an idea, yes.’

‘Good . . . Well,
au revoir
, Mam’selle. It has been extremely pleasant to see you again.’

‘
Au revoir
,’ said Adele rather weakly.

And was left wondering if he had found it pleasant to see her in the very least.

Luc put the phone down. He had been fascinated by Adele. Fascinated by both the twins of course, it was an extraordinary thing, their alikeness, but he felt he could always have known which one of them was which, which one was Adele from the first moment she spoke to him. Something about her was different: not her lovely face of course, or her small, slender body, not her voice, not her laugh, not her movements nor her mannerisms. All those she shared absolutely with her sister. But there was something else about her: she seemed to him infinitesimally stronger, more dynamic than Venetia, braver even, and at the same time more tender, more vulnerable. He felt that she would give more than her sister: and that she would take more as well.

Spoilt, difficult, silly as she undoubtedly was, he thought it would be interesting to observe the maturing of Adele, to assist in it indeed, if only to prove himself right. Probably not yet; she was extremely young. And besides, he was running an extremely interesting affair with a young painter, called Colette deLisle, which would clearly not have a happy – or at least a neat – ending, but which for the time being was absorbing most of his sexual and emotional energies. But – later. In a year or two, maybe. Providing of course she didn’t make some foolish early marriage. He wondered if she would come to Paris with her father; he was fairly sure she would. It was purely mischief-making on his part to invite her, he knew that. But then he liked mischief; it was one of the spices of life.

‘You don’t feel – sick or anything?’

‘No. Not at all. I feel absolutely splendid.’

‘Good. Not faint?’

‘No, not faint. Adele, do stop it. I’m sure it’s just one of those things.’

‘And you have been – careful?’

‘Terribly careful, of course I have. You know I have.’

‘I wasn’t there exactly,’ said Adele and giggled.

‘Well, I was. So – no more fussing.’

‘All right. Now listen, Luc Lieberman just telephoned me.’

‘Asked you to—’

‘Not to anything. Except to go back to Paris with Daddy. I think – I think he was making a pass at me. I think.’

‘Goodness. Well, that would be fun. You still—’

‘Awfully.’

‘He’s a terrible dancer.’

‘So?’

‘So – nothing. Except Boy says people who are bad at dancing are bad in bed.’

‘Oh does he?’ Adele looked at her and smiled. ‘And—?’

‘And Boy’s a wonderful dancer,’ said Venetia, and although she didn’t exactly blush, her colour heightened and her eyes were very brilliant as she smiled back at her sister.

‘A flat?’ said Celia. ‘You want to move into a flat?’

She made it sound as if it was a brothel.

‘Yes. Yes, I do. Please.’

‘My dear Barty, there’s certainly no need to ask my permission. You are over twenty-one, you are earning your own living, you must do what you want. If moving into some lonely flat seems nicer to you than living here in comfort, with everything done for you, then—’ Her voice tailed away.

‘Well – yes. I mean it does seem nice. Of course it’s lovely here and I don’t want to move in lots of ways, but I – well, I want to be independent. To feel free.’

That was a mistake.

‘I am sorry you feel stifled here. Repressed.’

‘Aunt Celia, I don’t. It’s wonderful here, I’m very happy. It’s just that – I’m twenty-one. As you say. I think it’s time I made my own way in the world.’

‘Well,’ said Celia, managing a smile, ‘well, you can try it, can’t you? There will always be a room for you here if it doesn’t work out quite how you imagine. Now, where is this – this place you have found? Would I be familiar with the area? Probably not.’

There was no doubt about it. She was being more difficult than usual. Even Kit said she was being a bit crabby and he absolutely adored her. Perhaps it was her age or something . . . it couldn’t be nice, getting old.

‘Barty wants to move into a flat,’ said Celia to her mother. She had gone to see her in the house in Curzon Street where Lady Beckenham spent an increasing amount of time, especially in the winter. ‘Extraordinary idea, don’t you think?’

‘Not at all. An excellent one. She wants to be independent. Most admirable. You should encourage it. That family is made of fine stuff. Look at young Billy, head groom he is now, entirely on his own merits. Shame that poor pathetic mother of theirs can’t see them. Mind you, the rest of the family don’t seem to be up to much.’

‘Well, we don’t know that,’ said Celia, feeling a perverse desire to defend the Millers.

‘Of course we do. They’d come down to Ashingham, from time to time, see Billy, go to your place and visit Barty, if they had any proper feelings for them. Never mind, they’ve got each other, the two of them. Anyway, sounds a jolly good idea of Barty’s to me.’

‘I shall – miss her,’ said Celia, her voice suddenly lower. Lady Beckenham looked at her.

‘Of course you will. Not easy for you altogether at the moment, is it? Don’t look so surprised, I’ve thought about it. Of course I have. But you have the satisfaction at least of knowing you did the right thing. Pretty girl. Beckenham’s not too good,’ she added, as if that was a logical sequence to their conversation.

‘Really? What’s the matter with him?’

‘High blood pressure. Does all the wrong things. Eats and drinks too much and he doesn’t take enough exercise either. Not since the doctor forbade him to hunt, after he broke his arm last year, and he can’t really shoot any more either, makes it dangerous for everyone else. Got one of the beaters the other day. So he just does a bit of fishing and sits around in the library all day, writing letters to
The Times
.’

Writing letters to
The Times
was, rather surprisingly, a passion of Lord Beckenham’s. They were only ever on one of three subjects; the abolition of compulsory income tax to be replaced by some other more voluntary, and as he saw it more equitable scheme, the continuing threat from the Hun and, rather unexpectedly, the abolition of capital punishment.