Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (29 page)

At that she did smile, almost laugh; and fled up to her room to change: into a dress she had bought on her last visit, long, narrow black crêpe, the hem flaring gently at her ankles, modestly high at the front, dipping into a cowl at the back, and trailing down in a long drift of chiffon almost to the hem. Rhinestone clips in her hair, dark brown on her lids, dark red on her lips: ‘You look as if you know what you’re doing,’ she said aloud into the cloud of Arpege she sprayed around herself.

But she did not, of course. She did not know what she was doing in the very least and in every sense. She sat in the art nouveau tiled splendour of the Brasserie Lipp, drinking champagne, unable to eat anything but the smallest piece of fish, the tiniest morsel of steak, a merest taste of crêpe suzette, oblivious to the dazzling people around her,
le tout Paris
, as Luc said, amused. ‘Look, there is the famous Murthe, you met her the other day, and there, Mopse, with her new lady-love, you must have heard of Mopse, she is German, she knows everyone in Paris and has two faithful husbands as well as her bisexual lovers, and there is Nancy Cunard, in the leopardskins, oh, and see, Adele, there is Michel de Brunhof, the editor of
French Vogue
, you must know him—’

‘I do,’ she said, smiling very directly into Luc’s eyes, ‘but I don’t want to talk to him now, I want to be just with you. Good heavens,’ she added, stirred from her daze just momentarily, ‘is that a dog?’

‘It is indeed. How very English you are. To remark upon only the dog and not the people. Yes, dogs are frequent guests here, provided of course their owners are acceptable to the owner. And they are very chic dogs of course.’

‘I am very English,’ she said. ‘I keep telling you.’

‘I am learning that.’ He smiled at her, a wide, mocking smile, not the intent one he usually bestowed upon her. ‘Your mother would like it here, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sure my mother would like it,’ said Adele, ‘but she is not here, thank goodness. Oh, my God, is that Henry Miller?’

‘Quite possibly. Let me see, yes, indeed. Ah, I see I have aroused your interest at last.’

‘You have indeed,’ said Adele, leaning towards him, kissing him gently on the cheek, and had again the odd sensation that she really had no idea what she was doing.

And so little did she know what she was doing, that, in spite of her protests, passionately feeble as they were, that she would never, never do it, never allow it, never go to bed with a man who was married, that she disapproved absolutely of such a thing: in spite of that, she found herself at only eleven o’clock – disgracefully early, as he said – allowing Luc Lieberman, married as he was, to lead her to her room; and there to seduce her gently, tenderly, and most beautifully – having been acquainted of the fact of her virginity, through tears that alternated between laughter and genuine distress.

‘I think it is very, very lovely,’ he said, kissing her shoulder, ‘that the honour of your
dépucelage
should fall to me. I will endeavour to make it beautiful for you.’

And as she lay there, as he entered her tender, hungry, fearful self, as he managed to hurt her only a very little, as he led her then into a series of first gentle, then more urgent and finally violent sensations, as she rose and fell into the sharp, sweet hunger of her first climax and then the piercing, fierce violence of her next, as she heard her voice cry out, as she clung to him, weeping in the pure, clean calm of afterwards: then she knew that she was absolutely in love with him and that whatever happened, she was in thrall to him now for the rest of her life.

‘And now what are we to do?’ she said, as the early light came pushing through their shutters, as she studied his face beside her on the pillow, as the memory of what she had done and achieved, memory fiercely physical and joyously emotional at the same time, mixed with remorse and anxiety and a sense of near disbelief at herself.

‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Do we repeat last night’s performance, do I just hold you here and tell you I love you, do we sleep some more, do we go out and find some
petit déjeuner
, we have many options, which of them appeals to you most,
ma chère, chère
Mam’selle Adele?’

‘I do hate that name,’ she said, half irritated, half laughing, ‘it’s so silly and it reminds me of when I was so young and—’

‘And so divinely, wonderfully silly?’

‘Was I? Silly?’

‘Oh, extremely. You brought silliness to a fine art, and I fell in love with you for it there and then. Giggling and flirting and teasing and saying nothing remotely interesting the whole evening—’

‘Luc, stop it.’ She felt a pang of genuine hurt. ‘I don’t like that. I was very young, you know, and trying to please you and—’

‘And you did please me, my very, very dear one,’ he said, ‘you pleased me so much I never forgot one moment of that evening.’

‘Oh, yes. So much that you married someone else—’

‘I know, I know. Well – we must not let that trouble us now.’

And although he leaned over and kissed her most tenderly and then lay back, his dark eyes on her, moving over her, and although she felt still frail and helpless with love, she felt a dreadful harsh pang of foreboding at what those words, uttered however lightly, might really mean.

Later, much later, as they sat in the Deux Magots, having breakfast – ‘Not the Flore today, I don’t want to become predictable for you’ – she said, ‘I have work to do now.’

‘Work?’

‘Yes. So, surely, do you. I didn’t come to Paris just to see you, you know.’

‘Of course you did.’

‘Luc, I did not. Cedric wants me to go to somewhere called Drouot. Do you know it?’

‘But of course. It is the most wonderful place. A salesroom like no other in the world. On the rue Drouot, just off the Boulevard Haussmann. You will love it. Five floors of wonders, books, paintings porcelain,
tapissseries
. What does the Little Lord want from it?’

‘The who? Oh, Little Lord Fauntleroy. Some lights and some mirrors. For a still-life.’

‘They will not part with them, I think. It is only a salesroom, nothing more.’

‘Of course not. I’m just looking for reference, for ideas. Cedric says it’s the best place. And he might buy a couple of lamps, he collects them.’

‘He is right. It is the best place. And they are very charming and helpful, you will find. I think I shall like your Little Lord. When can I meet him?’

‘Oh, Luc, I don’t know. Probably never. This can’t go on – can it?’

‘Of course it can go on. What else could possibly happen? Eat your egg. I am delighted to have converted you to such gastronomic delights.’

‘I was hungry.’

‘It was the exercise,’ he said, kissing her hand, pushing back her hair. His eyes were very intent on hers; her body clenched gently with memory.

‘Yes, well, maybe.’ She felt confused again. ‘And I didn’t eat much last night. At that lovely restaurant.’

‘I noticed. I shall have to take you again.’

‘Luc—’

‘And shall we meet for lunch? It is not so very far from Constantine. We are also on the Boulevard Haussmann. You could meet me there, if you like.’

‘Well I—’

‘Good. At one o’clock.’

She had a wonderful morning, roaming through the rooms at Drouot, her head still full of him, lending it drama and glamour. Room after room she roamed through, enchanted by it all, the red plush walls, the endless cabinets, their treasures so apparently carelessly displayed, priceless pictures piled up against one another in corners, rugs and carpets spread out on the dusty floor, people poring over catalogues, talking excitedly and talking intently to one another, leaving bids, in one room a sale beginning, in the next, another ending.

She found exactly the sort of dressing mirrors Cedric wanted and left two bids for lamps for him, one for a Tiffany glass and bronze, another for an exquisite piece by Raoul Larche, one of the famous Loie Fuller series. Then she hailed a taxi and directed it to the Constantine building; Luc was standing outside.

‘I wanted to come in,’ she said, ‘see your office and the lovely boardroom again.’

‘I thought it best that you did not,’ he said, ‘I thought we should not exactly encourage gossip.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She felt hurt. It was the first, the very first, signal of what was to lie ahead of her in a love affair that was not only adulterous, but in time would become dangerous for other reasons as well.

‘So you were at this – thing,’ said Oliver. His voice was quiet, but his eyes were icy, his tone savagely angry.

Celia looked at him calmly.

‘Yes. Yes, I was. It was – wonderful.’

‘Wonderful! Celia, really. I am appalled at you. Appalled and astonished. That you should fall for this – this thuggery.’

‘Oliver, it is not thuggery. I do wish you could understand, wish you had been there. It was thrilling, marvellous. Tom Mosley came on to the rostrum, all in black, he’s such a charismatic figure, compare him with the uninspiring fools we have in government here, Chamberlain and MacDonald and that dreadful little Morrison man. They were all young too, that’s Tom’s whole idea, you see, to throw off what he calls the tired old men of government. There were about ten thousand people there, all cheering him and—’

‘Cheering Tom Mosley! For God’s sake. Did you see nothing of the violence that went on last night? The way people who dissented were bundled out by your blackshirts? Or were you so blinded by the vision of Mosley in his uniform and his jackboots that you saw nothing else? Celia, this wasn’t a peaceable English political meeting. This was something quite different. Banners, spotlights, uniforms, people saying, “Hail Mosley,” and saluting him.
The Times
likens it to a Nuremberg rally.’

‘And what’s so wrong with that? Hitler is achieving great things for Germany, if you would only take the trouble to read—’

‘Great things! Celia, the man is dangerous. Very dangerous. A racist and, I am not alone in thinking, a psychopath. Don’t you understand, he’s banned all opposition parties. Those work camps, do you not realise what’s going on in them? The storm troops are bullies of the most appalling kind, arresting people, just rounding them up for no good reason—’

‘Oliver, those people are troublemakers, they need to be disciplined—’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Who have you been listening to? As if, unfortunately, I didn’t know. Thank God you hadn’t met him a couple of years ago, you’d have wanted to publish that book of his, what’s it called – yes,
The Greater Britain
. Pure self-aggrandisement.
The Greater Mosley
, more like it. And now I believe he’s publishing some magazine as well.’

She was silent.

‘Those thugs of Hitler’s with their anti-Jewish campaign, calling on the German people to defend themselves against Jewish atrocity propaganda. Jewish atrocity indeed! The atrocities come from Herr Hitler himself and his own bully boys.’

‘Ill-informed rumours,’ said Celia. ‘I’m surprised at you, Oliver, you with your passion for truth and exactness. Hitler is restoring a sense of pride to the German people, and his country’s return to its high position on the world stage. Of course there will be complaints, there always are of a strong leader—’

‘Complaints! Celia, for heaven’s sake. Haven’t you read about Dachau? Where people are imprisoned and half starved and beaten to death by the SS—’

‘I wish you would just meet Tom,’ she said, ‘and Grandi perhaps. Hear their side of the story. I think it would change your opinion to a degree—’

‘I wouldn’t be in the same room as those people, Celia. I certainly would not shake them by the hand or speak to them.’

‘Then you must hold on to your prejudices,’ she said coldly.

Oliver turned to her; his eyes were hard, but his face was very sad. ‘I know how this has happened. It’s through the wretched Arden. He has spellbound you, as Hitler and indeed Mosley have spellbound others. In rather more dangerous numbers. I know that whole set is enraptured with Hitler and his regime; I have even heard that Diana Guinness has been out there to meet him, I pray it isn’t true.’

‘It’s absolutely true. She found him mesmerising. She—’

‘Yes, Celia? She what?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I do hope very much that there is no suggestion that you might go out there. Oh, I see there is. To attend one of the rallies, perhaps. I’m sure they’re wonderful theatre, even better than the show put on last night. God Almighty, Celia, I thought you had more wisdom. Well, I can only tell you if you do go, it will be the end of our marriage.’

‘Oliver, don’t be absurd.’

‘Not absurd. I have been extremely tolerant throughout the last thirty years of your behaviour, accepted and endured things that most men would find – well, never mind. But I tell you this, if you continue with this dangerous liaison—’

‘I am not having a liaison with Bunny Arden.’

‘Not in the accepted sense, perhaps. But you are liaising with his hideous beliefs and his despicable group of friends. Be so good as to stop it, Celia. That is all I have to say. Now I must get to the office. Excuse me.’