by Ella Carey
Tess picked up her coffee. “I don’t think Edward will want to publicize his personal life. I think that even if I let him know that I’ve learned the book is autobiographical, he will not want any publicity. In fact, after the last couple of discussions I’ve had with him, I’m concerned that he could even back off writing the book because he’s so opposed to commercialism in any sense. But I do think in some ways, like any story, Edward’s story is not entirely his own.”
She stopped.
James adjusted his position on the sofa.
“If he were to release the autobiographical nature of the book, even without Rebecca’s work, then the sales for him would be—”
Sean raised a hand. “Tess, confront Edward. Ask him about Rebecca Swift. You and I both know that if he goes public about the relationship with Swift, the book will sell exponentially better. But more to the point, tell him his story will resonate with people because it’s human, a love story, a story about a man who has closed up for forty years, because, quite frankly, I think that’s what he’s done. Without Rebecca he hasn’t been able to write. It’s the idea of a muse that intrigues me, of losing that one person who inspires everything. That’s the angle you need to take.”
Tess looked at him sharply.
But Sean went on. “So, yes. I support the idea of encouraging him to go public about the truth. After all, he believes in authenticity, so not telling the truth to the world smacks of hypocrisy. The truth is multilayered. There are so many intertwined factors, not to mention different points of view, but at its heart, it usually boils down to one thing—honesty toward oneself and others. And I hate to say it, Tess, but Edward’s book is going to be much better than those thrillers that you’ve built your career on so far. I could never have reviewed those.” He looked at her over his glasses and a smile played on his lips.
Suddenly, James stretched his arm along the sofa behind Tess’s back. “If Tess pushes Edward too hard, I’m worried she could lose his trust. She could risk losing him.”
“What I’d suggest,” Sean went on, “is that you get Edward to confess that it’s a true story, first up. Then take it step-by-step from there.”
“I don’t think he’ll do it,” James said.
Tess looked at him, steel setting into her thoughts.
“You don’t know that, James,” Sean said. He went on, smooth as ever. “I’ll review the book once it comes out, but you have a lot of work to do, Tess. And focusing on Rebecca’s death, her story, and the political and artistic postwar background is exactly what needs to be done.”
Tess nodded. She knew that.
James stood up and looked at his watch. “I have to go. Out for dinner.”
Tess swung around, suddenly alert. Who was he going out to dinner with? She shook that train of thought out of her head.
Sean stood up.
“Good luck working with Edward. He’s a fine writer. And you know,” he said, as they hovered by the elevator door, “I’ve always had this sense that he needed to, well, for want of a better word, explode into the world. And you are going to have to be the one to get him to do so.”
Tess pressed her bag to her chest.
“Thank you, Dad.” James leaned forward, patted Sean on the back.
“Thank you,” Tess said, taking Sean’s hand when he held it out to her.
After the elevator doors opened, James waited for Tess to step inside while Ernie held the door open for them. Inside the elevator, Tess stared straight ahead, acutely aware of James next to her.
“You know what I think,” he said. “I just don’t think he’ll react well, but you can try.”
“Yes,” Tess said, looking him squarely in the eye as the elevator slipped to a gentle stop. “I will definitely try, James.”
She saw that almost hurt look pass across his face again and suddenly felt overheated as she stepped out of the elevator into the charming lobby.
Tess reached for the dress that hung on the front of her white-painted wardrobe the following evening. Its black velvet bodice sat luxuriantly above the golden flounced skirt with its dipped-at-the-back hem. She stepped into the glamorous frock, reaching back and zipping it up before moving across her studio and checking her reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Her hair swung; her makeup was perfect. And yet, she felt nothing but worn out; all day, doubts had plagued her about the best way to approach Edward.
Somehow, she needed to marry Edward’s modernist outlook with the commercialism that would cause his work to shine. While Tess understood that the modernists had been trying to redefine themselves after the war, commercialism, business, and opulence were the buzzwords now, in publishing as well as every other business. It was the eighties. Surely Edward would not insist on living in the postwar austerity bubble that existed in 1946?
Fair enough, he didn’t agree with the way his family operated, but he must have felt attachment to his childhood home, to the land that his forebears had worked, to the garden, to the beauty of the place. And now, was he honestly willing to give up the possibility of turning his book into a real success? People loved true stories. Rebecca herself should not be ignored, and what was more, the love between Edward and Rebecca was timeless. It would appeal to romantics all over the world.
Tess slipped out of her apartment and indulged in a taxi. She stared out of the window and took in Manhattan’s glittering lights as they cruised toward the Plaza for the gala evening in celebration of the publishing industry and authors.
Once inside the Terrace Room, Tess mingled with her overwhelmingly male counterparts before sitting down at the editing team’s assigned table. James was next to her, facing away. He chatted with another colleague while Tess talked idly with Martin Haymes, one of Campbell and Black’s most senior editors, who regaled her with stories of his weekend fishing trips, while repeatedly mentioning that he didn’t enjoy these functions in the least. Tess found her mind drifting.
She placed her cut-crystal glass back down on the white tablecloth and gazed at the elaborate gilt decorations, the glistening chandeliers, the white- and gold-painted arches that framed the trompe l’oeil decorations on the walls. It was a monument to wealth, to what, in fact, the eighties represented. Luxe. Grandeur. Was there anything wrong with such things?
Tess’s own grandparents had lived simply after the war. Neither side of her family had been wealthy during the fifties and sixties, and Tess’s parents lived a far more opulent lifestyle now than they had when they were young. Surely for Edward it was time to move on, to take advantage of the new world that had emerged after the war. It had been proven that communism didn’t work, that Fascism was a failure. But Tess knew she was dealing with deeply held beliefs when it came to Edward. She adjusted her shining skirt.
When Martin told her he was off to mingle, Tess took a sip of her champagne. Relief at the end of his repetitive conversation blended with the realization that James’s neighbor had stood up too.
James turned to her.
“So,” James said, shooting a glance toward the dance floor, where several couples drifted about. “Don’t you hate these things?” His voice was soft and smooth.
Tess smiled, surprised at that opening to the conversation. “Oh, come on, James. This is the sort of event you were born to attend. You’re not fooling me by denying it.”
James looked at her momentarily, his expression hard to fathom, then picked up his glass of champagne, taking a sip. He placed the fluted glass back down and leaned in closer to her. “I hate these events more than I hate every damned charity event that I have to go to with my family, every dinner party for whoever is the latest celeb in New York that my mother hosts, and every tea party that she has for all her friends who do nothing but flit between fundraisers. You have no idea.”
Tess caught her breath. “But you’re in the social pages constantly.”
“Yup. You think I enjoy that?” He sat back in his seat, throwing his arms behind his head.
Alpha pose, Tess thought, narrowing her eyes. But she couldn’t help but admire those well-chiseled features . . .
She leaned forward. “Hang on. You’re the life of the party at work. You’re charming all the staff, and don’t interrupt me,” she went on as he brought his chair forward and sat closer to her. “When you’re in the society pages, you look happy enough—it’s as if you’re related to the Kennedys, for goodness’ sakes. And you always have some charming woman on your arm.”
She did not want to sound as if that bothered her, but for the moment, she felt like challenging him, and that intrigued her.
“You know,” he said, “in spite of the fact that you’re an editor, you seem unable to read subtext, Ms. Miller. Do you wonder, then, that you’re struggling with an author who wants authenticity in his work?”
Tess picked up her champagne and knocked back a swig.
“What I do wonder, Mr. Cooper,” she said, leaning forward herself, surprised at the sense that she and James were in their own little bubble now; it brought to mind Edward and Rebecca’s sense of feeling in their own circle, but she pushed the thought away. “What I wonder is why you put on such a facade. If you really hate all this so much”—she glanced around the room—“then why do you put on an act? Why don’t you live your life the way you want to live it? What’s holding you back?”
A rueful smile passed across James’s face. He sat back in his seat again, and watched her. “You have no idea, Tess. I think if anyone’s putting on a facade, it’s you.”
Tess pushed her seat back and stood up. And nearly bumped straight into Leon, who had appeared behind Tess’s chair. His wife, Tania, stood beside him, glowing as she held her husband’s hand. Her blond hair was pushed back from her face in two wings, and she wore pale pink taffeta with a flounced skirt that was fit for a palace.
“Hello!” Tess said, as if they were a life raft for her sinking ship.
“Tess, James.” Leon patted James on the shoulder. “Great to see you two bonding. Aren’t these things terrific? Such a wonderful evening put on for us all!”
Tess smiled at Tania.
“Tania and I are going to dance. James, why don’t you ask Tess? Join us. Both of you. I’m looking forward to you both moving forward with great success in the coming months!”
James reached up and whispered in Leon’s ear. “That would be incredibly generous on my part. Can I say no?”
Tess focused hard on Tania’s shining face. The other woman’s expression remained fixed: pink lipstick, pink cheeks, a permanent smile that never died. Tess knew that Leon’s wife would never enter into anything remotely controversial. Tess had long ago realized that Tania only dealt in politeness and euphemisms. Was that how she survived in her role as an executive wife?
Tess stood up.
“Excuse me. I must catch up with some . . . friends.” She looked James straight in the eye and moved away.
But annoyance pinched her insides as she moved through the room. She forced herself to focus on the crowd, catching hints of conversations that drifted out from the endless round white tables, festooned with voluminous blooms. Deals were being struck as Tess made her way past every group. No one was hiding the fact that tonight was all about work.
Usually, Tess loved losing herself in business. It didn’t matter whether it was Sunday morning for brunch or a dawn breakfast at some swanky Manhattan café, Tess was always available when there was an opportunity to progress. The harder she worked, the longer hours she put in, the more successful her career. It was simply how things worked.
But when she lost Alec Burgess, she tasted the tang of failure for the first time in her working life. She’d been forced to confront the fact that her career might not always be the one iron-safe thing she could rely on, and at the same time, while she hated to admit it, Edward’s book had affected her. She was starting to see her own surroundings in a different light. And yet, if Edward wasn’t going to fit into the way things were done at Campbell and Black, then Tess was risking losing everything she’d worked so hard to build up. It would be as if she’d lost herself.
Tess stopped at the edge of the room, glancing about the chattering groups. She was looking for one specific person. It took her a few moments to see the safe haven she sought.
Flora was at a table across the room. Her red hair swung around her face. She wore, as usual, vintage: a bright green 1950s dress, flared at the skirt, tight at the bodice. Tess loved that Flora didn’t care about what anyone thought. Confidence, that was what Flora had. But how she did it, Tess had no idea. Flora’s rise to acquiring editor with the top romance publishing house in the world, bringing a stable of successful authors with her, remained legendary in the industry.
Tess slid into the empty seat next to her friend.
“You look like you’ve just had an encounter with a moaning specter,” Flora laughed. “What’s up? Tell me!” Flora poured her a glass of champagne.
More champagne . . . Tess took a sip and gave Flora a rundown of recent events.
“It’s completely obvious what’s going on here,” Flora murmured. “In standing up to James, which you had to do, you’ve obviously gotten to him,” she said. “Or he wouldn’t have felt the need to get right back at you in return tonight when Leon suggested you dance together.”
Tess groaned. “Do not put me in one of your novels! Just think outside the world of romantic fiction here. Because this is real life. And the two do not merge. Zero chance. We both know that.”
She would never say anything to disparage Flora’s disastrous love life. Her friend had a trail of nasty ex-boyfriends, and yet she seemed to forge on with this idea that if you fought for what you wanted, everything would turn out for the best. Flora never gave up hope. Perhaps her views were more similar to Nico’s than Tess had first thought. It was just that they both approached things in such different ways. Flora, in turn, accused Tess of being a cynic.
“You should let go of that carefully guarded exterior,” Flora went on. “You know I think that. Just go for it. See what happens. James is intriguing. From what you’ve just told me, there’s something cooking up between you. Something’s brewing here.” She tilted her head. “Actually, I think what’s happening is that he’s your equal. He’s challenging you and you don’t like it. So you’re sparking off each other. And of course you’re challenging him up front. Nobody’s probably done that before. He’s so set in his life, always gets what he wants . . .”
Tess put her glass down and fumbled about for her evening bag, clutching it like a life raft on her lap. “Hang on. Stop. James stole my client, end of story. Now he’s feeling guilty and trying to make amends by introducing me to his powerful father. While telling me a whole lot of stuff about how he ‘doesn’t really enjoy mingling in the top social circles in New York, because it’s not who he is.’ I’m not stupid, Flora. He’s trying to charm me, like he does everyone else. Because it doesn’t suit him to have a colleague upset with him. That’s it. End of story. Tonight he showed his true colors. He’s a fake, a fraud. Says one thing, does the other. I’m not going to bore you with clichés . . .”
But Flora leaned a little closer. She traced a pattern on Tess’s glass with her lustrous pink fingernail. “He’s upset you. Doesn’t that tell you something in turn?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Tess looked at the swirling couples on the dance floor. Leon and Tania were in the middle of the crowd. The song was slow. George Michael. Tess watched while Tania wound her arms around her husband’s neck.
“For goodness’ sakes, look at that,” Tess muttered.
“So beautiful,” Flora said.
Tess rolled her eyes.
“He’s coming over,” Flora announced. “Ten o’clock, making a beeline for you.”
Tess started to stand up.
But James arrived before she could get up and flee.
“Tess,” he said. “Flora.”
“Hello, James!” Flora trilled. “I heard about your
new job.”
James held Flora’s eye. “Yes.” His tone was short.
Tess sometimes wondered if Flora lived more in her own imagination than in the real world that was unfolding at her feet. Tess saw through James, well and good. Flora was intelligent. Why was she constantly duped by charming men?
James narrowed his eyes. And looked, Tess thought suddenly, a little like James Dean. But that was very stupid thinking. She tapped her fingers on the table. If he wanted an argument, then she was right here and ready.
“Tess,” he said, “would you like to dance?”
There was a silence.
Flora almost leaped out of her seat but Tess shook her head.
“Thank you,” she said, pushing her chair the rest of the way back, “but I have things to . . . do.” And she walked away. She was furious that her breathing was shaky, and also furious at how violently she wanted to get away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Haslemere, 1946
Rebecca’s heart hammered as she and Edward approached Haslemere. Her glance swooped over the honey-colored house, taking in every detail: pale roses that traced delicate patterns across the Victorian facade, a fountain in the middle of a manicured lawn, a clipped green hedge. A peacock’s call broke the otherwise quiet afternoon. On the veranda, two blond women, clearly Edward’s mother and sister, lounged on wicker chairs.
Rebecca transferred her sweaty hands to her lap, smoothing out the printed dress that she had worn on the day that she and Edward went to the beach. Now she worried that it was all the wrong color. Both the women on the veranda wore pale blue. Red would seem callous, sharp. Dare she say it, cheap?
Edward pulled up on the sweep of gravel outside the veranda, moving around the car to open Rebecca’s door. Rebecca did not know where to look. And it was as if all the old insecurities that had been drummed into her by her mother were back again. How could she possibly expect to fit in here? These were the women whom her mother served in the boutique, not people with whom the likes of Rebecca could expect to associate.