‘I thought you could get sent down for having a girl in your room,’ said Jack.
‘You could, in theory. It was usually the girls who got sent down. No, you don’t want to believe all that. Hotbeds of sex, universities are. Not just the undergrads, either.’
‘Really? I thought all those academics thought of nothing but ancient Greek or whatever.’
‘Don’t you believe it. Well, read my book.’
‘I thought it was pure fiction,’ said Jack, laughing.
‘Impure fiction more like it. No, it’s based on fact. Very loosely, of course.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. That’s why it’s so frightfully good.’ He laughed. ‘Crystal, lovely angel, come and sit on my knee. How very beautiful you are. Anyway, if I were you, young Lytton, I’d get myself a little place of my own. To take Miss Lily to.’
‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘I do know I’ve got to. It’s just that it’s so difficult to find anywhere decent. And it’s so – easy living in Cheyne Walk. And cheap. Well, free.’
‘Better not let your brother hear you saying that. He might feel he was being taken advantage of. Is the lovely Lady Celia here tonight?’
‘No,’ said Jack, ‘no, she was going to come with us, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Seemed a bit upset. Something had gone wrong with a book, apparently. Hope it wasn’t mine.’
‘Or mine,’ said Guy Worsley.
‘Oh my goodness,’ said Janet Gould. ‘Oh dear.’
She was reading through the morning’s post, sorting it into its usual neat piles: one for herself to deal with, one for Oliver’s personal attention, and one for discussion between them. The letter she was holding fell very much into the discussion group. Urgent discussion. She picked it up and walked into his office; miserable, already, at having to add to the burdens which seemed to be piling on to his frail back. He always looked so tired these days, tired and worried. Publishing had been so straightforward, so – well, so gentlemanly once. Before the war. Now it seemed to be getting more and more unpleasant every day. Everyone demanding more and more money, the print unions getting so powerful . . .
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Lytton. There’s a letter here which seems rather – worrying.’
‘Oh dear. Not another demand from the printers?’
‘No. Worse than that. Well it might be.’
She handed it to him, watched him read it, watched his face first pale, then flush.
‘This is absurd,’ he said, ‘absolutely absurd. Outrageous even. Mrs Gould, get me our solicitors on the phone, would you? As soon as you can.’
‘Celia, darling! Lovely to see you. Come and sit down. Tea? I’ve had the most hideous morning, had to go to the dentist, horrible drilling, have you ever had it? And then I went to my corsetiere and I’ve put on half an inch everywhere. Have to do something about myself. How do you manage it, Celia? You’re so blissfully thin. Sometimes I quite long for the old days when one could nip the middle bit in and let the bosom and the hips spoosh out. Oh well. Sugar? No, of course not. Cake?’
‘No thank you,’ said Celia,
‘What are you going to wear to Ladies’ Day? I know that’s not what you want to talk about, but it’s still bothering me.’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Celia. ‘Elspeth, can we – can I just discuss things with you. About – well you must know what about.’
‘Darling I don’t, no. I had the most marvellous time with Sebastian on Saturday night, by the way.’
‘So I hear.’
‘You’re not jealous are you? I do hope not, we didn’t—’
‘Of course I’m not jealous,’ said Celia impatiently, ‘but I have to ask you Elspeth. As a friend. As a trusted friend.’
‘Ask me what?’
‘How did you – that is, when did you – find out?’
‘Find out? Find out what?’
‘Oh Elspeth don’t be tiresome. You know perfectly well. About Sebastian and me.’
‘About – Sebastian – and – and you – ?’ Elspeth was speaking very slowly; her face was flushed and her eyes brilliant. ‘Celia, what are you talking about?’
The room was very quiet, very still; Celia stared at her, and felt icy cold and rather sick. Then she said, ‘You didn’t know, actually, did you? You didn’t know at all.’
And, ‘No,’ Elspeth said, and a small nervous smile started to dance round her mouth, ‘but – but I do now, darling, don’t I?’
‘Oliver, don’t look like that. Whatever is it, what’s happened?’
Guilt, fear, gripped her; she had not expected a confrontation so soon. And wondered why she was still lying, still pretending.
‘Look at this,’ he said, ‘just look at it.’
She took the letter, seeing the heading on the paper: Solicitors . . . Cambridge . . . felt weak with relief. Selfishly, wickedly relieved. At what was, after all, only a reprieve. How long could she stand this, for God’s sake. How long? She read the letter, hoping he wouldn’t notice her shaking hand. It seemed first unintelligible to her in her confusion, then baffling.
‘But Oliver, why should this Lothian man want to see it?’
‘I imagine – I imagine because he feels there is something in it that is libellous.’
‘But that’s absurd. It’s fiction.’
‘Fiction can still be found to be libellous. If it can be shown that the story too closely mirrors life, and a real person’s reputation could be damaged by it. We seem to start with quite a strong coincidence: the books are about the master of an Oxford college, this fellow Lothian is the master of a Cambridge one. God knows how many more there might be.’
‘But—’ she stopped, desperate to reassure him, ‘don’t they say there are only three plots anyway, Oliver? It’s one of the great truisms, Cinderella, Macbeth and—’
‘It’s the setting for the plots that can do for you,’ he said with a sigh, ‘and the circumstances of the leading characters.’
‘Have you talked to Guy Worsley?’
‘I’ve tried to. He’s not at home. I’ve left a message, naturally.’
‘What – what do you think it might be? This coincidence.’
‘God knows. The affair of the master’s, I can only suppose. There’s nothing else.’
‘But surely—’
‘Yes?’
‘I can’t believe Guy would have been that stupid. If it actually happened. To have put it in a book.’
‘No, I do keep telling myself that. He can confirm it of course. God I wish he’d telephone.’
‘What does Peter Briscoe say?’ she asked finally.
‘He says we don’t have to send them the manuscript at this stage, but that it would probably be wise to. So that they can see for themselves that there is nothing to worry about.’
‘Well – are you going to?’
‘I think so.’
‘And – what would happen if – if this man Jasper Lothian thought there was something to worry about?’
Oliver turned a face so raw with misery and fear to her that she felt quite sick.
‘They could take out an injunction, apparently. To stop publication. Celia, at this point it would mean disaster for us. For Lyttons. I’ve already ordered enough paper for over two thousand copies, I don’t have to tell you that, I know. Oh God. I had such hopes for this book. Such high, proud hopes.’
He looked down at his hands; she could feel, see his misery. She went round behind him, put her arms round him.
‘Oliver don’t. Don’t be so distressed. Please! It may not come to that. It almost certainly won’t come to that.’
‘I fear it might,’ he said, pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘And I know Briscoe thinks it might too.’
‘Is it not possible to – to change that strand in the novel?’
‘It’s quite impossible,’ he said and sighed. ‘It’s central to the whole story. Well you’ve read it, you must see that. The wife’s reaction, h
er leaving him, the daughter’s horror that her father could behave in such a way, the repercussions at the college – no, it would mean reworking the entire book.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was sober. ‘Yes, I do see it. So – what are you going to do?’
‘I think I’m going to send him the manuscript. I think the only way is to be open, and hope to gain his confidence. And to pray that there are no other similarities. Such as a son who is a conscientious objector.’
‘You bloody idiot,’ said Celia, ‘you absolute complete fool.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘Elspeth not knowing, that’s what I’m talking about.’
‘Celia, of course she knew. She told me so.’
‘Well obviously she didn’t. She was just hinting. Fishing, even. She had no idea. That it was me.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Sebastian, ‘oh my dear God.’
‘I don’t think He’s going to help much,’ said Celia.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Guy Worsley, ‘I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.’
‘So you – did base this character on a real person?’
‘Well – yes. Yes, I did. I thought it didn’t matter, if it was fiction. And it was so long ago, in the early days of the war, I never dreamed it could matter seven years later . . . oh God.’
‘You weren’t in this man’s college yourself?’
‘Heavens no. I went to Oxford.’
‘So – how did you hear about it?’
‘My cousin was at Cambridge. At the same time. He was rather in awe of this Lothian chap. Apparently he was a terrific character, used to stride about the college looking very dramatic, wore black cloaks and silk dressing-gowns.’
‘As he does in the book,’ said Oliver. ‘Go on.’
‘And yes, he did have a rich wife. She paid for the dressing-gowns. I suppose.’
‘And did she have a house in London?’
‘Oh I don’t think so,’ said Guy, and then looking more shamefaced still, ‘well I don’t know, actually. But apparently she was there a lot. She was rather grand, didn’t like academic life. Oh God, sir, I’m so, so sorry. After all you’ve done for me.’
He appeared very upset; his face was pale, his large eyes dark and shadowed. He looked as if he hadn’t slept.
‘I didn’t sleep last night,’ he said, ‘I lay awake, all night, just trying to remember exactly what I had heard.’
‘Did he actually have an affair?’
‘No,’ said Guy, ‘No I’m pretty sure he didn’t. There was just a lot of talk about some girl, apparently, one of the undergraduates. Which was hushed up of course.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Oliver wearily.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of my cousin, but he’s away. Abroad.’ ‘Ah.’
‘But there are huge differences as well,’ he said, slightly desperately, ‘I mean, in the book, as you know, the son is a conchie, while young Master Lothian went off to the war. My cousin said he remembered him going, remembered Lothian being dreadfully upset, how they all felt sorry for him.’
‘Was your cousin in Lothian’s college?’ said Peter Briscoe. He had come in for the meeting with Guy.
‘No, no, he was at Jesus.’
‘Well that’s something. Did he know the Lothians well?’
‘No, I think he just met him, occasionally. And he knew the daughter. She was very nice, rather plain. He said.’
‘She wasn’t musical, I supppose?’
‘I – don’t think so. I don’t know. Oh, God.’
Oliver sighed. ‘And the wife, did he meet her?’
‘I don’t know, sir. But I do know there was this constant absence. Not the sort of way the wife of a master should behave. I suppose that was the thing which really intrigued me. The scope for dramatic development through that. My cousin said it was always assumed she had a lover in London. Of course, in the book, she doesn’t.’
‘No indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘on the other hand, you have made her a woman of considerable means. As is Mrs Lothian.’
‘I know, I know. But—’
Peter Briscoe sighed. ‘This seems to be far from straightforward. What about the other masters, was there talk about them?’
‘Oh there’s always talk. Scandals about students and so on. Obviously. It’s part of academic life.’
‘Mmm,’ said Briscoe, ‘well, we can only send them the manuscript and hope for the best.’
‘But what can they do? Take out an injunction to stop us publishing?’
‘If they feel sufficiently sure of their ground. Feel the similiarities are sufficient for people to notice, to talk about them. The grounds for bringing a libel action, as you should know, young man, are for a character to be brought into hatred, ridicule or contempt by something which is published and thought to be harmful to his reputation. It seems to me there is certainly danger of at least one of those being applicable.’
Guy stared at him. ‘I just can’t believe this. The book’s fiction, it’s not biography. And other writers do it, surely. Draw from real life, I mean. James Joyce did it, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes he did,’ said Oliver drily, ‘and Dubliners was withdrawn three times.’
‘Believe me, there are precedents. Rare, but—’
‘But surely they couldn’t do it off their own bat?’ said Celia, ‘just get an injunction?’
‘Of course not. It would have to be brought before a judge. Only he would have the power to grant it.’
‘It just seems preposterous,’ said Guy, pushing his hands through his already wild hair, ‘that any judge would grant an injunction on this basis. On the book being about the master of an Oxford college. When this chap is at Cambridge and—’
‘And is an exhibitionist and has a rich wife and a son and a daughter.’
‘Well – yes. But – oh it’s absurd. He must be hugely paranoid. To think—’
Peter Briscoe looked at him. ‘To think what? That a character in a book has been based on him? I do assure you, large damages have been paid out for considerably less.’
Guy Worsley stared at him for a moment.
Then, ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘what a hideous mess.’
‘Fairly hideous,’ said Peter Briscoe.
‘Oh God,’ said Oliver. He looked very tired.
‘What is it?’
‘More bad news. Paul Davis is demanding a very large copyright fee for Sebastian’s new book.’
‘How large?’
‘Almost larger than we can afford.’
‘Oh Oliver, that’s absurd. Lyttons can’t be so short of money that they can’t find a few hundred pounds.’
‘Almost a thousand, anyway.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. He cites Meridian’s great success and the first fee. Which was of course always agreed to be exceptional. And then, you know, other agents hear of these large sums and want them too. It was a dangerous precedent, I told you so at the time.’
Celia was silent; this was a dialogue she had been forced to rehearse a great many times. She was extremely sick of it; had things been different she would have defended herself. Under the circumstances she felt it impossible.
‘Things are generally very difficult at the moment. As you know. Even without this Buchanan nonsense. Not only have printing charges and paper costs gone up again, the packers are now asking for more money. I don’t think we can give it to them.’
‘Could we get a loan?’ said Celia.
‘No, not advisable. Interest rates are very high.’
‘And Elizabeth hasn’t done very well, has she?’ said Celia soberly. She had published a lavish biography of Queen Elizabeth I that spring. It had cost a great deal of money to print and had hardly sold five hundred of its two thousand copies. It had been one of her few errors of judgement; and she knew why. Her mind had not been properly engaged; other things, were occupying it.
‘No, not very. The thing about biographies is that one starts from scratch e
very time. They sell only on the strength of their subject, whereas fiction sells on the strength of past work. Well, you don’t need me to tell you that. But I think Elizabeth just doesn’t have the magic of Victoria, or even Anne.’ He sighed, smiled at her wearily. ‘Still, perhaps she will save us. Anne I mean. But we all make mistakes. And it’s very rare for you to do that, I know. Very rare indeed.’
He was wrong there, she thought wearily; her life seemed to be composed entirely of mistakes at the moment.
‘The Mutiny book is expensive as well,’ he said suddenly.
‘Is it?’ she said carefully.
‘Yes, very. Of course I’m confident it will recoup its costs, but all those coloured illustrations . . .’
‘There’s something else,’ she said cautiously.
‘Yes?’
‘I think we’re going to have to do some fairly heavy re-setting.’
‘Why? Why for God’s sake?’
‘Well, I saw the galleys yesterday. Edgar brought them in to me.’
‘And—’
‘It just doesn’t read very well, Oliver. It’s leaden, dull. The only good bits are my great-grandfather’s diary. I hate to say that, but it’s true. It needs re-writing in parts.’
‘In the name of God, why didn’t someone show it to me or you before it reached this stage?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She was; she was fairly certain that Edgar Green, resentful about the book, about Jack’s role in it, had deliberately let it go through. He had been evasive when she asked to see the final copy, told her it was too late, that it had already gone to the typesetters. But if that was indeed the case it was unforgivable and a very serious charge to bring.
‘Oh, God,’ said Oliver, ‘dear God in heaven. That is all I need.’ She went to see Sebastian at his house, on her way home; careless of the risks and the danger, furious with him.
He looked at her on the doorstep, smiled.
‘My darling, what a lovely suprise.’
‘How could you?’ she said, walking past him into the drawing-room, ‘how could you do that to Lyttons? You and your vile agent.’
‘Do what?’
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