Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (42 page)

Barty liked it too; it was, as she said to him the first time he took her there, ‘like going to the pictures. I mean movies. Just look at those chandeliers’.

The ebb and flow of celebrities was dazzling, the film people – Marlene Dietrich was frequently there, Gertie Lawrence when she was in town, Noël Coward, Greta Garbo, the Astaires – and always, as well, representatives of New York’s highest society – people like the Vanderbilts, the Astors, the Whitneys. She would sit there studying them as Laurence pointed them out. She preferred the American aristocracy to the English, she told him: ‘mostly because they’ve done something, made their own money, created their own fame’.

The other thing Barty liked about the Colony was the fact that the proprietor, Gene Cavalleros, extended endless credit to people he liked, victims of the Depression; the story of how he said to film director Preston Sturges, ‘eat here free until you get back on your feet’, was famous but only one of many.

The other thing Laurence had found it necessary to explain to her was that the position of his table – in the first enclave of the restaurant – denoted his own position in New York; ‘that position is not easily come by, Barty, it has to be earned.’

She teased him about that at first and it was a mistake, it made him angry; he attached huge importance to such things and it was, she supposed, symptomatic of his insecurity. Laurence was not used to being teased about anything; but most of all he wasn’t teased about his own status.

When Barty had left him that day, he sat staring after her for a while, and drank another coffee; then he signed the bill, asked for his coat and walked out into the street. It was a perfect day, a Friday; he had planned that after lunch they should go straight back to Elliott House and then leave for South Lodge, his house at Southampton, Long Island. He had taken Barty there only once and only for the day; her agreeing to spend the whole weekend there had delighted him. He had never known anyone like her before; her fierce independence, and her refusal to do anything if it did not meet her own rather severe criteria baffled as much as it enraged him.

‘You said you loved me,’ he said irritably, the first time she refused to stay at home and in bed with him one morning. ‘How can you rush off to that ridiculous office of yours when you could be making love with me?’

‘I do love you,’ she said, ‘but I have to go to work. The two things are not mutually exclusive.’

‘Of course they are. You don’t have to work, you certainly don’t need to work.’

‘Laurence, I both have and need to work. I have to because I love it, and it matters to me and I need to because I have a salary to earn.’

‘I could give you all the money you want.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said laughing, ‘I want to earn my money, Laurence, not take it from someone for nothing. You of all people should understand that. Besides, you are passionate about your own work, you love that bank, I’m surprised you don’t understand about mine.’

‘I suppose this is all some nonsense about equality for women.’

‘Partly yes, it is. Successful women – and there aren’t many in publishing – are very important at the moment, simply in proving what can be done. When Celia Lytton speaks at a literary dinner, it gives a signal to other women, young, hopeful women, that they too can succeed. So don’t try and divert me from my career, Laurence, please.’

He did: over and over again, and with mounting irritation. But with no success whatsoever.

He decided to take his car down to her apartment in Gramercy Park, and wait outside it for her return; she had said she would be there at six, and that way they would at least be able to leave for Long Island at the earliest possible moment.

It was already four-thirty; on a whim, he told his driver to stop outside the literally dazzling Harry Winston, the spectacular jewellery store on Fifth. He hadn’t bought Barty much jewellery yet; the first piece – a necklace from Cartier – she had gently refused, saying it was lovely, but she couldn’t possibly accept such a thing, it put their relationship on the wrong basis as she saw it.

She did accept a pair of diamond clips for her birthday and had worn them a lot; but today he wanted something more personal, to mark their first weekend. He regarded the two days as deeply significant, a commitment from her to their relationship and, for that matter, to himself. The house at Southampton was very special to him, he had built it himself, it was his own creation, not inherited and as different as anything could be from Elliott House; he was longing to spend time with her there. He did not share it lightly; he had hosted house parties there, entertained groups of people, but he had never taken a woman there alone before Barty. Barty did not know that yet; but he planned to tell her that night, over dinner, to try to explain to her how much the house meant to him and how much he wanted her to share it. Giving her a piece of jewellery at that moment would etch the occasion still deeper into their lives; and he wanted that very much.

Choosing jewellery for her was not easy, it could not be overtly extravagant, she wouldn’t like it and it wouldn’t suit her. Her particular brand of beauty demanded quality of an understated kind; after considerable deliberation, he bought a long double strand of pearls, one black, one white, with a diamond clasp. It would suit her absolutely in every way; he asked for it to be wrapped, put it in his pocket and went back to his car, dismissing his driver. He wanted to wait for her alone.

The meeting at Scribners over-ran; Barty realised as she left that it was too late to go back to Lyttons, they would all be gone. She hailed a taxi and directed it to Gramercy Park.

Robert was very distressed by the news of Oliver’s condition. He had been shocked by his appearance the last time he had visited England, not only by the way he had aged, but by his look of permanent emaciated exhaustion. He looked at least fifteen years older than Celia, Robert had thought, Celia with her rich beauty, her almost visible energy, her restless pursuit of pleasure and success.

And Oliver still worked so hard: five days a week at Lyttons and then frequently on into the night in his study at home; Robert had suggested gently that he should retire or at least do less, but Oliver had laughed and said it was unthinkable.

‘Too much to do here, far too much and no one remotely capable yet of taking on my role. Besides, Celia would never allow it, she disapproves of anyone who doesn’t work one hundred and ten per cent.’

He smiled as he said this, but Robert knew there was some truth in it: it seemed harsh at a stage in life when most men could expect a few years’ freedom from the tyranny of work, and a wife who would welcome some time for them to spend together. He had said as much to Felicity; she agreed with him.

‘But Celia is not a wife, she is more of a husband. Poor, dear Oliver! I wish—’

‘Yes, my dear? What do you wish?’

But she gave him her gentle, dismissive smile and changed the subject.

It was Felicity Robert telephoned that morning with the news; she was very upset. Very upset indeed, in fact; more than he would have expected.

‘Oh, Robert, how dreadful. How serious is it? When will you know, could you telephone Celia perhaps—’

‘I will, this evening. I need to know whether or not I should go over to see him. Whether it merits that: or whether indeed it’s too late. Maud will be so upset, she’s very fond of her uncle—’

‘Well – do please let me know the moment you have any news. Of whatever nature, please. Oh dear, Barty will be so upset. Have you spoken to her about it?’

‘No,’ said Robert shortly, ‘as you know Barty and my family are not communicating very closely at the moment. Well, not communicating at all.’

‘I forgot, just for a moment. That is the most extraordinary relationship. And the most extraordinarily malevolent stroke of fate. That – vile Laurence and dear, sweet, innocent Barty—’

‘Perhaps not so innocent,’ said Robert. ‘Laurence is extremely rich.’

‘Robert! That’s a terrible thing to say.’

‘Nevertheless it’s true. She’s clearly dazzled by him. I constantly hear of them being seen together at places like the Rainbow Room, and so on.’

‘Well he’s very attractive. Whatever else. But – does she know all the dreadful things he did? Plotting against you and John—’

‘Of course. Maud told her. Barty just said she couldn’t believe it and if it was true, then his terrible childhood had to be largely to blame.’

‘Classic Laurence. I’m sure he trades on that terrible childhood of his all the time. So attractive to women, that sort of thing.’

‘Is it?’ said Robert.

‘Of course. It’s a cause. We all like those. We think we can take it all away, the alcoholism or the cruelty or whatever, make it better by our love. Not always true, I’m afraid.’ She sighed. ‘Well anyway, Barty will want to know about Oliver. I would imagine she’d be in touch immediately.’

‘Let’s say I hope so. Anyway, I’ll cable Celia later in the day and ask for more news. And of course I’ll let you know.’

But Barty did not phone Robert about Oliver; not by lunchtime, not even by the evening. Distressed, Robert telephoned Stuart Bailey to try and speak to her, fearing that she might not have heard the news, and was told she had been out of the office at meetings all day so she wouldn’t have got it.

‘But we did open the cable and it made clear that one had been sent to her apartment. So – she surely will have got that one. I’m sorry, Mr Lytton, I’ll tell her the minute I hear from her.’

The house where Barty lived in Gramercy Park, just south of the park itself, was divided into three apartments; Barty’s was on the first floor (which gave her a balcony), a young man lived on the ground floor and the top floor was the home of Elise Curtis, milliner (as she liked to put it) to the gentry. An insufficient number of gentry having become clients of Madame Curtis, she was obliged to make herself extra money by working for one of the downtown clothing factories; working the evening shift meant she earned more and had a little time during the day for her (almost) non-existent clients.

It was Elise who had signed for the cable for Barty that had arrived at about half past nine that morning; she had knocked on Barty’s door several times but there’d been no reply. She’d obviously left already for work. Elise wasn’t quite sure what to do: mail was always left on a table in the hall, but that seemed rather dangerous – for a cable. Barty might be missing some crucial piece of news. On the other hand, Elise could hardly go running all over New York looking for her. She had enough to do, and besides, she was going away in the morning, to visit her sister for a week’s well-earned holiday. It would be quite safe on the table, surely. And Barty would see it as soon as she got in. She had left it there, set apart from the rest of the mail, so that it was noticeable, and went back to her own apartment.

But when she walked past it several hours later, on her way out to her evening shift, it was still there. Elise sighed; she felt very responsible, having signed for it. She picked it up and looked at it, half tempted to open it: only that would hardly do any good. Maybe she should just push it under Barty’s door and try to forget about it. And then she saw a car she recognised, a large black Packard parked in the small street below the house. It belonged to Barty’s gentleman-friend, the one she was so unforthcoming about: Elise had often seen the car (and its stable-mate a white Studebaker), driven sometimes by a uniformed chauffeur, sometimes by an incredibly handsome man with reddish blond hair, had often watched Barty jumping into it, giving the young man a kiss, had occasionally arrived home from the factory at the same time as it dropped Barty off. There was no mistaking it, or indeed that day the handsome man: far better to give the cable to him than leave it to lie unseen in the house.

Laurence responded rather reluctantly to the tapping on his window. He had seen her before, a rather wispy, tired little woman in old-fashioned clothes; Barty had said she was sweet and occasionally chatted to her. Yet another irritating claim on her time and attention.

‘Yes?’ he said, winding down the window.

‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I recognised the car, I’ve seen it before. You’re a friend of Barty Miller’s, aren’t you?’

Laurence nodded.

‘I’m Elise Curtis. I live in the house too. This came for her.’ The woman produced a cable from her bag. ‘I signed for it this morning. I just wanted to make sure she got it, I’m away now for a couple of days and there’s no one else in the house and I don’t like to leave it lying around. Could you be sure to give it to her, it just has to be important.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Laurence impatiently, ‘just give it to me and run along.’

He often spoke to people he considered his inferiors as if they were children.

When Elise had gone, he sat looking at the cable. It must be important; people didn’t send cables in order to comment on the weather. He wondered if it was seriously bad news, if perhaps her adoptive mother or whatever Celia Lytton was, had died or was even extremely ill. If she was, it would mean he would lose Barty for several weeks. She would go rushing off to England on the first boat; at best she would be anxious all weekend, distracted, wondering whether she should have gone, asking him constantly what he thought she should do. It would spoil the whole weekend; the precious, important weekend.

After a few minutes, Laurence, with infinite care and using a paper knife that he kept in the car, eased the envelope open. It was easy; these envelopes were not designed for close sealing.

He was half relieved at the message it contained: ‘Wol in hospital after stroke. Not fatal, but please cable back. Cable also sent to Lyttons NY. Love Giles.’

Not so serious; not a death, not even a fatal illness. Oliver would almost certainly recover from the stroke. And even if he didn’t make a full recovery, then he was clearly not going to die. So there was plenty of time for Barty to decide what she wanted to do. But – just the same. It would spoil the weekend. Laurence sat looking at the cable and thinking; until Barty appeared, smiling and flushed, tapping on the window.