Which might well have been true, but none of them was the one pebble that he desired.
‘She’ll regret it,’ he said. ‘She’s bound to. It’ll never work.’ This was what he hoped. He could not bring himself to wish her well in her marriage; that would have been asking too much. ‘I’m the one who really got her started, you know.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. I wrote a feature about her for a magazine. It gave her the publicity she needed.’
He knew this was pretty far from the truth even as he was saying it. All that the feature had done was to lose her her job at the Windmill and put into print that fantasy about the vicar in Yorkshire and the travelling concert party called The Streamers. But he was not going to tell Wilkinson that.
*
He heard from her some days later. There was a wedding photograph in the envelope and nothing else. No letter. On the back of the photograph was just one word: ‘Sorry!’
He remembered a time in the past when she was sorry and left him. It had been a quite inadequate word to express his feelings then, and it was now.
Sorry! She was sorry! Christ! What did she think he was? Sorry! Was that all she could say? Had she no time even for a brief note?
Yet what could she have said? Nothing that would have softened the blow; there were no words that could have done that. Ah, but to send this photograph! She should not have done that; it was a knife turning in the wound. She looked radiant in her bridal dress; and beside her stood that ogre, that troll, that abortion. By the world Lester was regarded as a handsome man; to Sterne he was a Quasimodo.
In a fit of rage he tore the photograph into little pieces and flushed them down the lavatory pan. If he could have done the same to the man he would gladly have done so.
*
Acting on a whim, he went down to the East End and paid a call on the Maggses. He supposed they would have heard about their daughter’s marriage, but he doubted very much whether they had attended the ceremony. They would hardly have fitted in.
There had been a lot of bomb damage in that part of London; entire streets of houses had been demolished. But though much of the surrounding area had been heavily bombed, the greengrocery shop had miraculously escaped serious damage.
Alfie and Queenie were delighted to see him, though obviously surprised by the visit. They insisted on his staying to eat with them, and it was not until they were halfway through the meal that anyone mentioned the subject that was undoubtedly uppermost in all their minds. Then, as though he could no longer keep it battened down, Alfie burst out:
‘Well, she’s gorn an’ done it now.’
‘You’re talking about Angela, of course,’ Sterne said.
‘I’m talking about Maggie. Why is it, I ask you, that she ’as this knack of picking wrong’uns? First there was that bastard, Judas, and now this bleeder.’
‘Now, now, Alf,’ Mrs Maggs said soothingly. ‘We don’t know as there’s anything wrong with him.’
‘Well, it stands to reason, don’t it? Married three times afore; old enough to be ’er dad. Does that sound like a bloke you’d want for a son-in-law?’
‘Not really, no. It don’t seem very nice. I wish it’d been somebody else.’
Mr Maggs looked hard at Sterne. ‘Fact is, we ’oped it’d be you. That time arter you was ’ere Ma an’ me, we thought she’d come to ’er senses and got the right one at last. But it looks like it wasn’t to be, more’s the pity.’
Sterne felt embarrassed. It was difficult to know what to say. ‘I should have liked –’ he said, and stopped, tongue-tied.
‘She told us in a letter she’d seen you in New York,’ Mrs Maggs said. ‘She seemed so pleased. We thought then –’
‘So she writes to you?’
‘Not often. She’s never been the one for that. But she seemed real worried about you – in the convoys and that. Pity you couldn’t have stayed there with her.’
Sterne was beginning to wonder whether it had been wise to pay this visit. Their undisguised sympathy for him; their wish that he could have been their son-in-law rather than the aging film actor; all this served rather to open the wound than to heal it. In their presence he could only feel more painfully the loss of the girl he was still so deeply in love with.
He managed to get away soon after the meal. They urged him to come again.
‘Any time, any time,’ Alfie said. ‘You’re always welcome ’ere. Though I reckon you’re a busy man these days.’
‘Pretty busy.’
‘Well, don’t forget. Always pleased to see you. Ain’t we, Ma?’
‘Oh yes,’ Queenie said. ‘Nobody we like better. And you know where to find us.’
*
He thought of ringing the Norfolk Literary Agency to ask Freddie Lathwell whether there was any news of the book; it was more than a month since she had taken it. But then he remembered her admonition to him that he was not to bother her in that way and he curbed the urge. If she had anything to report she would get in touch with him; and she had warned him that he would need to be patient.
Octopus was still alive but not kicking very vigorously. A feeling of depression appeared to have settled on the little group which sat round the table in the office and planned the forthcoming numbers of the magazine. The earlier enthusiasm had gone, and indeed it was difficult to look forward with any optimism to the future when it was all too plain to see that for Octopus there really was no future.
Only Wilkinson refused to face the fact; still arguing that all would come right in the end.
‘Perhaps if we were to lower the price, sell it at ninepence.’
Celia Dart said bluntly: ‘If you brought it down to sixpence it still wouldn’t work the trick. The public obviously don’t want it at any price.’
‘If we were to make some changes in the layout –’
‘What changes?’
‘I don’t know. We could maybe think of something. Anyone got any suggestions?’
Nobody volunteered anything.
Joe Wade said: ‘It’s pretty good as it is. No amount of tinkering with it is going to make much difference. Maybe we started too late. Maybe the days of this type of magazine are numbered.’
‘We couldn’t have started any sooner,’ Wilkinson said. ‘We were all doing another job, remember?’
It was still to be another few months before he was forced to admit defeat. That was when the uncle in Birmingham cut off the life-giving cash supply. Sterne was with him when the letter came. It was brief but to the point.
‘The mean old bastard,’ Wilkinson said. ‘No faith. No gratitude. That’s the older generation for you. Well, it looks like the end of the road for Octopus.’
‘What’ll you do now?’
‘I suppose I shall have to go back to the gardening and homecare journals. The good earth and the bricks and mortar. Ah well!’
‘Will they have you?’
‘The buggers had better,’ Wilkinson said. ‘They’d bloody well better.’
Chapter Twenty-Six – CELEBRATION
By a strange coincidence on the day when Octopus finally hit the buffers Sterne had a call from Miss Lathwell. Wilkinson had answered the telephone and had handed it over to him.
‘It’s Freddie.’
Sterne’s heart gave a jump. Because this had to be news of the book, good or bad. Annoyingly, she refused to go into any details on the phone; all she would say was that she had to have a talk with him and would he come round straightaway? It was the middle of the afternoon, and even if he had had all sorts of other things lined up he would have thrust them aside. But there was nothing, and he said he would be on his way at once.
He travelled by Tube and got off at the Temple and walked the rest of the way, and his pulse was working overtime when he mounted the stairs leading up to Miss Lathwell’s office. He had a dreadful feeling that she was just going to hand the manuscript back to him and tell him it was no go. For if there had been any good news to impart she would sur
ely have given some hint of it on the phone.
She greeted him remarkably calmly, and he took this as a bad sign and prepared himself for the worst.
‘I’m so glad you could come,’ she said. ‘What’s the weather like out there?’
‘It’s cold but dry,’ he said. But what in hell had the weather got to do with anything? Why didn’t she get to the point? Why was she keeping him on tenterhooks like this?
And then suddenly she gave that smile which seemed to transform her face and make her quite beautiful.
‘No,’ she said, ‘this is very naughty of me. I should have told you on the phone, but I wanted to see your reaction and I couldn’t resist teasing you a little.’
But she was still teasing him, still not getting to the point. And then she gave another smile and said:
‘We’ve won. Reed and West like it. They want to publish. I’ve got a contract for you to sign.’
It was fortunate that there was a chair near at hand because he had to sit down. He knew that he should have said something, but the words would not come.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I thought you’d be rather pleased. It is what you wanted to hear, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just that it hasn’t quite sunk in.’
‘It will,’ she said. ‘They’re offering an advance of seventy-five pounds, which is not over-generous but is about right for a first book.’
He would have accepted no advance at all. Just to have the book published, that was the thing. Seventy-five pounds seemed a lot to him; it was ten times as much as he was getting for most of the stories which he managed to sell.
‘That’s against a royalty of ten per cent on the selling price of ten-and-six. It rises to twelve-and-a-half on sales from three thousand to six thousand, and fifteen percent thereafter. Frankly, you’re not likely to reach the top figure with this book, so it’s academic.’
She handed him the typed contract to read. He glanced through the four pages without taking it all in. There were clauses regarding the paper, the printing, the jacket, foreign rights, paperback rights, film rights, book clubs, cheap editions, remainders, libel . . .
He said: ‘I suppose you’ve checked all this?’
‘Naturally.’
‘And it’s all right?’
‘It’s very much the standard agreement. They vary a bit from publisher to publisher, but not a lot. You wouldn’t be likely to get anything better than this anywhere else. I’d advise you to accept it.’
He had never had the slightest intention of doing anything else. He would have been crazy not to accept. He noticed that the publishers were taking an option on his next two books.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you’re bound to give them the first offer of whatever you write next.’
‘But they don’t have to accept it?’
‘No. They’ve got you, but you haven’t got them if they don’t like what you send them next time.’
‘Isn’t that rather one-sided?’
‘Well, look at it this way: it’s their money that’s at risk. It costs a lot to launch a book. All you supply is the genius.’
She was smiling again, indicating that this was her little joke. And then she said: ‘Are you doing anything this evening?’
‘Nothing in particular. Why?’
‘I was thinking, if it appeals to you, we might have a small celebration. My treat.’
‘Well, I –’
‘You don’t have to. Though it is quite an occasion, isn’t it? But of course if you’d rather not –’
He felt that he could hardly refuse. It would have been a snub, boorish. And when he came to think about it, the prospect of an evening on the town with Freddie Lathwell certainly had its attractions. It would be no penance.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’d be very pleased. It sounds a great idea.’
She was pleased too; he could see that. ‘So it’s settled. Incidentally, R and W would like you to call in tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock to discuss the book. You can manage that?’
‘Certainly.’
*
They had dinner in a little Italian restaurant which she seemed to know well, and where she was known by the proprietor. She ordered champagne. Obviously she believed in celebrating in style.
‘Tell me,’ Sterne said, ‘do you celebrate like this with all your clients when you place a book for them?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’
‘So why me?’
‘You’re different. You’re rather special, aren’t you?’
‘Am I?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
He thought the wine must be going to her head, but she seemed quite sober. Happy but not inebriated. Free from the cares of business, she seemed to have loosened up and was enjoying herself. Enjoying the company too, apparently. Well, for that matter he was also enjoying the evening.
He said: ‘You were right about Octopus, you know. The rich uncle who was backing it pulled out, so we’re closing down.’
‘I didn’t know. That means you’ll be out of a job, I suppose?’
‘Well, yes. But I shan’t be on my uppers just yet. I’ve got a bit to tide me over.’
‘What about the flat? Will you be able to keep it?’
‘I don’t know. It rather went with the magazine. I may have to look for somewhere else.’
‘I’m sorry about the magazine. But it really was a mad idea.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Typical of Osbert, of course. He always was potty.’
*
They ended up at her place. Looking back afterwards he could see that it had been her intention from the outset. Her place was also a flat, but of a far different sort from the one he had been living in. It was not particularly large, just the one bedroom, but it was very elegant. It looked the kind of home that would be occupied by a woman of taste and means. Freddie apparently scored on both counts.
They sat on a comfortably upholstered sofa in front of an electric fire and listened to soft music on the radio and drank pink gin and talked. And gradually they moved closer together and started doing things with their hands and talking less and less.
Some time later he found himself sharing a bath with her, and he could see that she had quite a pleasant body even if it was a trifle plump. She had let her hair down now in more senses than one, and there could not have been a sharper contrast between this seductive creature and the tough-bargaining businesswoman of the Norfolk Street office.
From the bath they moved into the bed, and this again had almost certainly been the way she had planned it. Not that he felt like complaining. All in all, it had been quite a day for him: Octopus had died, his book had been accepted, and he and Freddie Lathwell had become lovers.
For it was to be no fleeting encounter. He was to leave the other flat and move in with her. He would be there for the next two years.
‘I love you, David,’ she said. ‘I knew it from the first day when Osbert brought you to the office. I knew you had to be mine.’
He did not love her, though he told her he did. He still loved someone else, but she was beyond his reach. So what the hell if he lied! It pleased Freddie and hurt no one.
*
He worked at the flat when she had gone to the office. Then, when there was no one to disturb him, he could really get a lot of writing done. The second Simpson of the Yard novel was finished before the first one came out. It was accepted very quickly.
The first one, A Web of Deceit, created no great stir when it appeared, but it was well reviewed and had useful sales figures. Freddie said it was about what she had expected, and the next one, Dead on Time, ought to do better. It did. The third, A Load of old Bones, was taken in the United States and in all the Scandinavian countries. It was also made into a radio serial. Simpson was becoming quite a well-known character, and Freddie said there was no reason why he should not go on writing about him indefinitel
y.
‘The advantage these literary sleuths have over us ordinary mortals is that they never grow any older; they can remain in the prime of life until the author either dies or becomes too senile to keep them going any longer.’
Sterne was not sure it was a prospect he greatly relished. Would it not become something of a treadmill? Freddie said there was nothing wrong with treadmills if they brought in the cash. He thought this was a pretty mercenary way of looking at things, but he could see that from her point of view it probably was the only way. As an agent her job was to make the maximum amount of money from a client’s work, and incidentally, of course, to increase her commission.
*
He had been living with her for about a year when he heard that Angela Street and Leopold Lester had split up. He was not surprised; it was a wonder that the marriage had lasted as long as it had. The film in which the two of them had appeared together had been shown in London and had been panned by the critics, but he had not gone to see it. He knew it would only have enraged him.
He wondered whether the divorce would affect him in any way, and was forced to the conclusion that it would not. She was still in Hollywood, far away from him, and the odds were that she would soon pick up another lover from the crowds of eligible men out there.
Meanwhile his relationship with Freddie moved on into its second year, and he was beginning to feel a certain distaste for the position he was in. He was paying a share of their living expenses, but the fact remained that the flat was hers and he was there more or less as a dependent. He had to admit that she never abused her authority in that respect, but it irked him nevertheless and he felt that it could not be allowed to go on indefinitely. He had to break away.
Still, however, he did nothing about it; he just let things slide. And perhaps the break would have been postponed still further if it had not been for the incident that was to bring matters to a head and relieve him of the necessity of telling her that he wished to end the liaison and depart.
Chapter Twenty-Seven – SPLIT
He went down to the farm for a visit. His mother had been urging him to. ‘We hardly ever see you these days,’ she wrote in one of her letters. ‘Do come and stay for a while.’
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