Celia was silent.
‘Anyway, James will be back in a month. Will you talk to Miss Thomas, or shall I? I’m perfectly happy to do so if you feel you can’t face it, I fancy you have made her something of a friend, always a mistake, I think.’
‘And James Sharpe isn’t your friend, I suppose?’ said Celia. ‘Oliver, this is appalling. I just don’t know what to say to you. Except that what you propose is unfair, and unjust, not to mention a dreadful piece of professional misjudgement.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Oliver, ‘I think perhaps I had better talk to Miss Thomas.’
‘You dare!’ said Celia. ‘You just dare.’
She walked out of the office and slammed the door; when she got back to her office, she realised she was crying. She walked over to her desk, sat down and dropped her head into her hands.
‘Celia,’ said Sebastian’s voice, ‘Celia, whatever is the matter?’
He was sitting on one of the sofas; she hadn’t seen him. She looked up at him, brushed her tears away impatiently, tried to smile.
‘You look terribly upset.’
‘I am terribly upset,’ she said.
‘What about?’
‘Oh – it doesn’t matter.’
‘It obviously does. How about telling me about it? Over lunch?’ There was a silence. Then Celia said, very simply, meeting his eyes with hers in an implicit acceptance of everything, ‘Yes, Sebastian. Yes, I’d like that very much. Thank you.’
CHAPTER 19
‘Darling, I’m going to need lots of new dresses. Lots.’
‘Really? Well you shall have them, you deserve them. But are you going to tell me why?’
‘I’m going to London. Well, I have been asked to go to London.’
‘London!’
‘Yes. But not till the spring; it’s all right, don’t look so alarmed. I have a letter from Celia Lytton saying she wants to publish my poems. Isn’t that wonderful? In a single volume, “obviously a slim one,” she says, “but we would illustrate it, possibly with line drawings. I have briefed Gill Thomas, who used to work for Lyttons and has set up her own design studio, and she is very excited about it. Something rather in the style of Beardsley, she says, only softer.” Doesn’t that sound just too marvellous?’
‘It sounds terrible.’
‘Why?’
‘I hate Beardsley,’ said John, his face deadpan.
‘Oh John! Not the illustrations, the whole thing.’
‘I know, my darling. I’m only teasing. I’m wonderfully proud of you. It’s marvellous news. May I come to London and meet your publishers, or would you prefer to go alone?’
‘Of course I’d adore you to come. But actually—’ she went back to the letter, ‘they’re coming here. Well Oliver Lytton is. He’s coming out quite soon, he says: to see Robert and to visit the office here. Goodness, he must have changed since we last met him: that was before the war.’
‘Yes, and I remember your being rather irritatingly taken with him,’ said John.
‘Was I?’ Felicity’s face was carefully blank. ‘I don’t remember.’
‘Well I do. I got very tired of hearing about how romantic he was, how – Byronic I think was your description—’
‘John Brewer, I would never have used such a word. About anyone.’
‘Actually you did. Anyway, he seemed nice enough. Rather quiet.’
‘Quietness is a rather nice quality I think,’ said Felicity, ‘especially when you live in a house full of extremely aggressive males.’
‘Are we extremely aggressive?’
‘Extremely. With the possible exception of Kyle.’
‘Oh. Well anyway, I’d rather the aggressive male than the aggressive female. Celia seemed to me excessively so.’
‘Well – she’s a strong character, certainly,’ said Felicity, ‘but—’
‘Strong! She’s a nine force gale. Beautiful though. Anyway, my darling, this is all very thrilling news. We must go out and dine tonight to celebrate. Where would you like to go?’
‘Oh, I really don’t mind. Anywhere at all.’
‘I shall take you to the King Cole Room at the St Regis. You’ll like it there. Very fashionable.’
‘I’d love that. And I can see the famous mural. The Maxwell Parrish one that everyone’s talking about. I hear it’s stupendous.’
‘It’s certainly very large. Not quite to my taste, but still. Now darling, I must go. We have a huge meeting with the architects at nine thirty.’
‘For the new hotel?’
‘For the new hotel. Work starts in a week and they’re still messing about with the roof. That atrium, I told you about, remember?’
‘Oh – yes. I still can’t get over how marvellous it is that you got it after Hagman Betts had the contract.’
‘Yes, it was indeed marvellous,’ said John, smiling at her conspiratorially. ‘But that’s show business. As they say.’
‘Some show. You don’t think there’ll be a problem, even now?’
‘Absolutely not. Everything’s in place, finance, construction workers, the lot. The only problem we’ve got, thank God, is finding the time and the men to cope with everything. That block on West 62nd is starting next week, and now Rea Goldberg are pressing us as well.’
‘Rea Goldberg!’
‘Yes indeed. They want a new prestigious building somewhere off Wall Street, and their architects have told us we can have the contract provided we can guarantee it will be ready by the Spring. I think,’ he added, standing up and folding the New York Times in his usual overmethodical way, ‘they’re busy proving they never felt anything but warmth towards us. In case we might feel tempted to sling any mud at them. It’s a small world down there.’
‘I’m surprised you want to work for them.’
‘Oh but we do,’ said John cheerfully, ‘very much. We’ve put in a pretty high estimate. Amazingly, they’ve accepted it. Goodbye, my darling. Work hard. I’ll see you this evening at the St Regis. Seven thirty, and be sure to wear something really splendid. As befits a famous writer.’
‘You’ve got a very clever mother,’ he said to Kyle, as they waited for the architects to arrive, ‘she is now officially a poetess. Lyttons are to publish an entire volume of her work. Illustrated even. In the spring. Isn’t that marvellous?’
‘Marvellous,’ said Kyle. He felt a sudden, leaden depression. If only he were involved in that world. Books. Illustrations. Poetry. Prose. Instead of this one, of office blocks and reinforced concrete and roofing materials and planning permission.
He had finally decided he should join the family firm, in the absence of anything else; all his applications to newspapers and indeed publishing firms had been rejected, and his father was so extremely keen to have him on board. And of course, as even his mother had pointed out, it was a wonderful opportunity for a young man, going into a successful family firm, into a secure and lucrative future. ‘Which journalism certainly wouldn’t be, much as you might enjoy it.’
That had clinched it, really; that in spite of her own literary ambitions and talents, she seemed to favour real estate for him. She was probably right; he certainly seemed to lack demonstrable literary talent. And the one firm which might, of course, have employed him, had he asked them, Lyttons New York, was out of the question. He simply wasn’t prepared to have them take on an embarrassment, simply because he knew the family. If he went into publishing, it would be on his own merits.
‘I want you to tell me you love me.’
‘I can’t. I really, really can’t.’
‘Why not? You know you do.’
She did know it; she knew it very well.
Sebastian had invaded her, not only her body, moving in on it with a power and near-violence which had left her shaken, almost shocked by her response, and still physically stirred by it days later, but her mind, her emotions, all her senses. He absorbed her totally; she moved through the days feeling no longer herself, but some strange, disenfranch
ised creature, no longer the brilliant, cool, controlled Celia Lytton she had always known, but someone foolish, tremulous, half-coherent. She could not believe it did not show physically, this possession, could not imagine that, as she sat at her desk, in restaurants, in her own drawing-room, talking to editors, illustrators, having discussions with agents, conversing with Oliver about projects both professional and domestic, that people could not hear and see that she was quite different, no longer, completely herself, but half Sebastian, filled by his ideas, his words, his passions.
She had not expected that; she had thought that the affair which she had finally, and with such fear and joy embarked upon, would absorb her physically, possess her emotionally, even disturb her intellectually, but that she would be able to remain in control, to say yes, I am having an affair with Sebastian, say even that it was wonderful, face up to its consequences, to the lies, the emotional discomfort, the constant anxiety. But what she found herself in the midst of was an obsession; nothing she did or said or thought or felt had any interest unless it related to him. When she was not with him she could think only of the next time she would be; when she was with him, time stopped, she had no interest in anything beyond it.
Physically, the affair was astonishing; even allowing for long years of frustration, and for the intense pleasure she had always found in sex. But that first time with Sebastian, lying in his bed through the long afternoon, she had been taken to a new place entirely, a place of pleasure so violent that it was almost shocking, and yet also piercingly, intensely sweet. Afterwards, she would remember, remember her body and the things which it had done, how it had climbed, hung, hovered in suspension over the pleasure, now swooping, now flying, now feeling yes, yes, this time, it must be, it must come, yes now, now, yet able to wait, somehow quiet, somehow still, afraid to move lest the sensation became again too fierce, too much to bear. And when finally she did come, pushing, breaking, falling on the violence of it, over and over again, she did not shout or cry out as she had always done before, but remained absolutely silent, concentrating on the experience, an experience she could never have imagined, and certainly had never known.
‘All right?’ he said gently, a long time later, through the peace.
‘Yes,’ she said, smiling, opening her eyes to look at him finally, seeing him changed, absolutely different, no longer a man she desired, was intrigued by, wondered about, was afraid of, but someone totally familiar and important to her, converted by the unique power of sex.
‘So, now what is to happen to us?’ he said, and she replied that she didn’t know, nor did she care, that the future was of no interest to her, nor was the past. She cared only about what they had accomplished in that hour or so, and in the hours preceding it when they had talked and been silent, discussed and agreed, uttered assurances and reassurances, laughed and even come close to tears, pursuing all the rituals of a yet-to-be consummated affair, before being unable to wait any longer and leading one another upstairs to bed.
In the end, of course, reality intruded; reluctantly, she dressed, went downstairs, and out to his car. He drove her to Swiss Cottage and there she got a taxi and went back, not to Lyttons, but to the house, constructing on the way an elaborate tale of an absentee author, an enraged agent, some missing proofs, and some tortuous traffic. In the event none of it was necessary, Oliver had been first at a conference and then dining with another publisher, and came home full of excitement at a scheme to introduce an award for literary excellence.
Celia, pretending to have been asleep – when she had been lying in the darkness, her mind and her senses still raking rapturously over her afternoon – sat up, smiling enthusiastically, interested. Oliver, surprised and grateful for it, went to bed contented himself; and Celia told herself, for the first time, the age-old lie beloved of adulterers, that being so happy could do her marriage no harm, indeed, on the contrary, it might do it some good.
But still she refused to tell Sebastian she loved him; it seemed the ultimate betrayal, the ultimate infidelity. Until she said that she was – emotionally at least – safe.
It had been Sebastian’s idea that Gill should set herself up in a studio. ‘You can give her lots of work, and she will get work elsewhere, too. Macmillan clearly thinks highly of her. It’s a far better solution than having her stay on at Lyttons, irritating the hell out of this fellow, and him irritating the hell out of her.’
Celia had taken Gill out to lunch and put the proposition to her. ‘And I will guarantee you enough work for the first year to more than cover your overheads. For a start there will be work to do on Meridian, Christmas showcards and things like that. And then I’m doing a biography of poor Queen Anne; I would terribly like you to get to work on her . . .’
Sebastian also made her feel better about Jack and his military list; ‘It may fail, but if it keeps Oliver happy, gets him off your back, what does it matter?’
‘Sebastian, of course it matters; it could lose Lyttons a lot of money.’
‘Well – it might. And it might not. Publishing is altogether such a gamble, it seems to me. Anyway, I’m surprised you’re so opposed to it, I thought you rather liked Jack.’
‘Of course I like him,’ she said irritably, ‘I adore him. He actually keeps me sane a lot of the time at home. But he’s hardly the right person to be in charge of a publishing venture.’
‘My darling, I think you can only give in gracefully. Otherwise, it seems to me you intrude on two sacred areas: Oliver’s view of his publishing company, and his affection for his younger brother. Probably in a few months, when and if he sees it’s not working, he can sort it out for himself. Meanwhile let them all lose Lyttons a lot of money. It can afford it, I’m sure.’
She wasn’t sure that Lyttons could; but she decided he was right and she should give in.
James Sharpe had moved back, and was driving her insane; she had forgotten how unoriginal his work was, or seemed to be, how steeped in the old traditions of book design and illustration, how reluctant he was even to try a new typeface, how often he said, ‘We have never done that before’. It was odd, given his personality, which was fun; she supposed he had hidden behind that, and now had been overtaken by the war. But patient in her radiant happiness, feeling that she must pay for it, she stood beside his drawing board for hours, admiring his work, exclaiming over his ideas – before going off, half-guilty as if meeting a lover – to see Gill and brief her for other, more important books.
And visiting Gill did become, from time to time, a cover for her visits to her other, more important lover. As always in her life, love and work were inextricably interwoven.
There were considerable plans for the publication of Meridian. Even Oliver, irritated as he was by the fuss over it, and by another feeling he did not choose to examine, knew he had a star quality book; and felt, somewhat unwillingly, that this purchase of Celia’s would go a long way towards restoring Lyttons as a prestigious house. It was a children’s book to be sure; but in the mould of Alice in Wonderland, a book which adults would admire as much as children enjoyed it, a book which would be talked about and coveted, sit on grown-up bookshelves as well as in nurseries. The print order was considerable: seven thousand, with three thousand more to go out to the colonies, to India, South Africa, Australia. It was also priced quite highly, at seven shillings and sixpence.
LM had argued for this, before she left them; ‘I know it’s a lot of money, but it’s going to be beautifully produced, the illustrations are lovely, and in colour after all, and it’s on very superior paper, I think we can get away with it.’
Oliver, always more ready to defer to her than to Celia, agreed: Celia was not sure whether her prime emotion was gratitude or irritation.
Oliver was away for almost three weeks in New York that autumn: three wonderful weeks. Freed of criticism, of the daily discord, even of the daily deceit – although not of guilt, dear God, not of guilt – exploring Sebastian, exploring her increasing passion for him and his for her
; discovering the intense, difficult happiness of adultery, Celia’s prime emotion as the three weeks drew to an end, was dread. Oliver wrote twice, cabled several times; he was having a good time he said, Robert was a marvellous host, Maud enchanting, and the Brewers had been particularly kind. Felicity had taken it upon herself to show him a New York he had never seen, the bohemian areas of Chelsea and the Village, the Seaport and of course the financial district.
‘Quite extraordinary, those buildings are incredible, the creations of giants, making small ants of us as we scurry about. And of course Robert is responsible for several of them: I feel greatly in awe of him suddenly. I can see where Felicity gets much of her inspiration from; she is so interesting about it all.’
At the weekend they had all gone out to stay in Robert’s house on Long Island. ‘Marvellous, endless sheets of white sand and rolling ocean. A little over-social for my taste. I kept thinking how you would have enjoyed it, and felt sad that you were not there. Indeed I wish now I had agreed that you should come; everyone has missed you, myself most of all. I shall bring you another time.’
‘I would much prefer that he didn’t,’ said Sebastian, kissing her, when she told him this.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘me too.’
‘Well, we have had our honeymoon,’ he said, and there was sadness in his eyes as he looked at her, ‘and now we must return to real life. I fear it will be more difficult. For both of us.’
‘I know it will,’ she said.
The night Oliver came home, she waited for him at the house; Daniels had gone to Southampton to meet him. She sat in the drawing-room, wearing a dress she knew he liked, his favourite dinner had been prepared for him by Cook, a bottle of his preferred Sancerre rested in an ice bucket in Brunson’s pantry. And Celia struggled to find some pleasure, some sweet anticipation somewhere, please please God somewhere, within her: and failed totally. As she heard the car, she flinched; as she walked down the stairs to greet him, she felt stiff with dread; as he waved from the bottom of the steps, ran up to greet her, she cringed. And watched the new, strange woman she had become smile, kiss him, put her arms round him, take his hand, lead him upstairs. That was the trick, she discovered; to watch herself. It made it all much easier. Not to feel, but to study how she felt, not to care, but to observe herself caring. That was how she could get through it. And he had changed. There was no doubt that it had done him good. He looked well, had put on weight, smiled more, told her she looked nice, that the wine was exactly right, the dinner delicious. He brought her a present from Tiffany’s.
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