‘You do,’ said Celia, ‘yes.’
‘Good Lord,’ said the man. ‘Good heavens. This is indeed an honour.’
He appeared rather overcome. He held out his hand, half-bowed over Celia’s. ‘I had not thought to meet you today.’
‘Well, I’m not usually hanging about in reception,’ said Celia, briskly, ‘but it’s extremely nice to meet you too. And you are—’
‘Robinson is my name. Gordon Robinson.’
‘Ah,’ said Celia carefully. This was difficult territory indeed. ‘Mr Robinson, how do you do. How very nice to meet you. I’ve heard—’ No, don’t say you’ve heard a lot about him, Celia, possibly not a good idea, ‘I’ve heard you rather like books.’
‘I do,’ he said, and his rather pale face flushed. ‘I do indeed. And I have been most grateful for all the first editions you have sent my way.’
‘It was our pleasure. Really. And you must come in one day and browse through our archives. If you’d like that.’
‘I say!’ he said, ‘I most certainly would. How absolutely marvellous. Yes.’
‘Well, you will be very welcome. Although,’ she added, and she could hear the sadness in her own voice, ‘they may not be here for very much longer.’
‘Oh really?’ he said. He sounded alarmed. ‘I had not realised that.’
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, nor had I. Not properly. But while there’s life there’s hope. And all that sort of thing.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had that brought home to me very forcibly.’
‘You have? That’s encouraging. Now, I shall give your note to LM. Thank you. And no doubt she’ll be in touch with you.’
‘I very much hope so,’ said Gordon Robinson. He smiled at her; an amused, almost conspiratorial smile.
He has a sense of humour thought Celia; he’s absolutely delightful. Very attractive too, in spite of his shyness. Exactly right for LM. Tall enough, even. Who would ever have imagined that Jay being run over and nearly killed would have led to this? Funny thing, fate. She watched him walking back along the street, swinging his umbrella. He looked as if he might be about to break into a dance.
Guy had watched, fascinated, from the end of the carriage as the Lothians returned to their compartment. Lothian was exactly as he had imagined him, tall, eccentric, distinguished-looking. His wife was extremely glamorous; with her dark red hair, her beautifully cut tweed suit. They were actually a very glamorous couple: far more so than he had made them in the book. God this was interesting. He moved up as soon as they had closed the door, stood in front of the next compartment, so that he could still just see them. She lit a cigarette, smoked it through a long cigarette holder. Lothian regarded her with what Guy could only describe as dislike. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it appeared to be discordant; she finally stubbed out her cigarette, took a copy of Vogue from her case and sat reading it, ignoring Lothan totally. It was excellent theatre.
He hung back at Liverpool Street; he knew where they were going after all, and he didn’t want them to notice him, to suspect he was following them. They were gone very quickly; they hired a porter and presumably got into a taxi. Well that was fine. He could follow them. He looked at his watch; only twelve forty. The problem was that he had no money and he was miles from his bank. He would have to go to Jeremy’s flat, get the taxi to wait and ask him to lend him some. This was all getting very expensive. Well, it was worth it. He felt quite sure of that.
Jeremy greeted him with patent relief.
‘Thank God you’re back. The Lyttons are running out of time.’
‘Out of time? How?’
‘Too complicated to explain. You must get on to them straight away. Tell them what’s happened. How did you get on?’
‘I didn’t. I haven’t seen him yet. Well I’ve seen him, but—’
‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘I can’t explain now, but I have a date with him at the Basil Street Hotel. Only he doesn’t know yet. Lend me five bob, old chap. I’ve got a taxi outside, with the clock running. I’ll pay you back later today, I swear.’
‘Only if you also swear to go straight to a telephone when you’ve seen him and tell Celia Lytton what’s happened. She’s in a fearful state. Lyttons are about to sign themselves over to another publisher, literally.’
‘Oh God,’ said Guy.
‘Goodbye Jasper. Telephone me, maybe on Monday. We might do a theatre or something. I’m not sure of my plans.’
‘I will. Have a good time.’
‘I intend to,’ said Vanessa.
‘Look I’m sorry, Oliver, but I don’t think I can wait very much longer. I have an appointment, as I said to you. I’m already late. I do think it’s rather—inconsiderate of Lady Celia to fail to appear like this.’
‘She’s very busy,’ said Oliver feebly.
‘Well, we’re all busy, aren’t we? I think perhaps we should go ahead and sign without her—since it’s only heads of agreement.’
‘Let’s give her a little longer,’ said LM. ‘I really think she should be part of this.’
Guy’s taxi pulled up at the Basil Street Hotel. He paid it off, almost ran inside.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘I’d like to see Professor Lothian, please.’
‘Professor Lothian, sir?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Professor Lothian is not here, sir. We are not expecting him. Mrs Lothian has arrived and has instructed us that she is not to be disturbed. So I’m afraid we are unable to help. I’m extremely sorry.’
‘Oh God,’ said Guy Worsley. For the second time in two days, he felt like bursting into tears.
Jasper Lothian had actually arrived at the Reform Club when he discovered he hadn’t got his wallet. He felt violently irritated. He knew where it was: he’d left it with Vanessa. Damn. Well, he’d have to go and get it. He wasn’t spending three days without it, however occupied she might be. He went into the office of the Reform, and borrowed a five pound note, then went out into Pall Mall and hailed a taxi.
‘The Basil Street Hotel, please,’ he said.
Guy stood outside the hotel, looking up at it, thinking how rum it was to build a hotel literally on top of an underground station, and wondering what on earth he should do next. He was out of money again. He seemed to be no nearer Jasper Lothian, or to saving his book than he had been a week ago. And now Lyttons were apparently going to go under entirely. All because of him. What a nightmare. What a filthy bloody mess.
‘Well, I think yes, perhaps we should go ahead,’ said Oliver with a sigh.
‘I’m so sorry about Celia.’
‘But presumably you are able to sign on her behalf?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Oliver, ‘in this case. Two out of three board directors—perfectly all right.’
He looked very unhappy, LM thought: as unhappy as she felt. It was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. She could hardly bear to look at the heads of agreement document.
‘I trust this is all quite clear. Mr Briscoe, are you happy with it?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Peter Briscoe. ‘Oliver? LM?’
‘Hardly happy,’ said LM. She saw Matthew Brunning frown at her; she didn’t care. She might be going to sign the damn thing, but she owed it to all of them, she felt, certainly to her father’s memory, to make it clear she didn’t want to. She wondered if there might be one last delaying tactic she could use, one last query she could raise. Just in case Celia arrived. Just in case. Something complex, something timeconsuming.
‘I wonder if we might look again at the paragraph on contracts,’ she said.
Guy had just started to walk away from the hotel, down Basil Street, towards Harrods, when a taxi drew up behind him. He turned round, mildly interested; another fortunate person, arriving at the hotel. And then stared and stared harder. It was Jasper Lothian. No. It couldn’t be. He must be hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or something like that. Having thought about no one else for so ma
ny hours. Only—it was him. Absolutely no doubt about it. Looking determined, and slightly cross. He told the cab to wait, walked into the hotel. Guy didn’t even hesitate; he turned round and followed him.
‘You see, I just don’t think that is legally correct,’ said LM. She had no idea whether she was talking sense or not. But it seemed a very good arguing point.
‘What do you think, Mr Briscoe?’
‘I’m not at all sure,’ said Peter Briscoe. He looked annoyed. He clearly thought it was irrelevant to the discussion: which it probably was. They were not signing a final contract, after all: merely heads of agreement. But LM did know that, although this was not actually legally binding, it did form a very clear statement of intent, a commitment on both sides. It could only be reneged upon with difficulty. It would be a great deal better to avoid it.
‘Well, you see, I do think we should try and hammer this out now. Otherwise we may have a lot of very upset authors when the news breaks. They might even seek other publishers. Their contracts are with us; therefore do we renew them, with the new, merged company? Or with Brunnings, negotiating through us? It’s really very complex.’
‘Dear oh dear.’ Matthew Brunning pushed his hair back wearily. He looked at his watch. ‘Do we really have to settle it now? It doesn’t seem very central to me. Central to our agreement.’
‘Perhaps not to our agreement,’ said LM, ‘but to our authors—extremely so. And you know, Matthew, my father always said authors are the only true assets we have. Without them—’
‘Yes, yes, LM,’ said Oliver. Even he sounded exasperated. ‘I’m sure Matthew doesn’t really want to hear what Father thought about authors.’
‘Then he should,’ said LM sharply. She suddenly felt angry; very angry. This was their father’s company they were in the process of signing away; a fine, important publishing house. What he had thought about authors was hugely important. Matthews Brunning would have nothing to buy without it. If he didn’t want to hear it, then he was a fool.
‘I really think this is crucial. Let’s just look at it from the authors’ point of view, shall we? How they are going to feel, suddenly being published by a completely different firm. You see, I think—’
She was actually enjoying herself suddenly. It was rather like that party game. Talk on this subject for two minutes without repeating yourself. Only she was going to try to talk for a lot longer than that. And get Oliver talking, too.
Jasper Lothian looked at Guy.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he said.
‘I’m Guy Worsley and I want a conversation with you,’ said Guy, ‘that’s all. Not a lot to ask, I’d have thought.’
Lothian’s eyes were very hard, very hostile. But there was something else behind them: it was fear. Guy recognised and welcomed it; it meant that Lothian knew he might be dangerous. It meant he was going to win. He had no doubt about it. They were sitting in the lounge of the Basil Street Hotel. It was an odd setting, Guy thought, with its air of discretion and elegance, its fine furniture and paintings, its smattering of patently well-bred guests, for a scene which might well become violent.
‘Well,’ Lothian said, ‘I’ll give you—’ he looked at his watch—‘two minutes.’
‘Fine. I can do it one. Easily. I don’t want to take up your valuable time. Now then. I know about your relationship with the Bartletts. If you persist in trying to get an injunction on my book, I shall have to tell my lawyer. That’s all. Good afternoon.’
He stood up, smiled the particularly sweet smile at Lothian that he normally reserved for pretty young ladies and just occasionally rich older ones, and picked up his paper. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for the tea, I only have half a crown left.’
‘No. Wait. Just a moment.’
‘No, honestly, there’s no need. There’s no need for anything more to be said. Any more time to be wasted. It’s perfectly simple. We shall look forward to getting your letter on Monday morning, giving the go-ahead to publication. Naturally, when we do, I shall consider the matter closed, and I will never speak of it to anyone. You have my word.’
‘Your word! For God’s sake. I’m supposed to believe that?’
‘Well, I think you should. Who would be interested, if the book does go ahead? You should be pleased if anyone does associate you with it, the master’s affair is highly heterosexual. Well you’ve read it. It’s awfully good, don’t you think?’
Silence: then, ‘Did you see Susannah?’
‘Susannah?’ Guy put on what his mother called his puzzled look. He wore it whenever he was protesting his innocence. She said that was how she—and she alone—knew he was guilty. ‘No, of course not. I did try to see her, but her mother sent me away; she’d gone out for the day. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.’
‘And why should anyone believe this preposterous story of yours?’
‘I don’t know. Why should they read anything into the one in the book? Equally unlikely, it seems to me. But someone might. A good journalist. Someone might look into it. You’re a very well-known figure in the academic world, after all. There must be people who were around at the time, who’d have suspected, and then—well, it wouldn’t look very good for you, would it? I think you should do what I suggest. Let the book go ahead. I honestly think you’re making a mountain of a molehill about it. I don’t think there’s the slightest danger that anyone will connect it with you. Not really. I think you’re being over-anxious. Guilty conscience, perhaps. Anyway—I’ll leave you to think about it over the weekend. No great rush. But we will want a letter. By Monday morning. After that—well I have a great friend on the Daily Mirror—’
‘Jasper! There you are. I thought you were going to wait in reception. Oh—’ Vanessa smiled at Guy. ‘Who are you?’ She was flushed, her green eyes brilliant. She really was a very beautiful woman.
Guy smiled back, held out his hand. ‘Mrs Lothian? I’m Guy Worsley. I wrote the Buchanan book.’
‘Oh, did you?’ She looked at him and her expression hardened. Less beautiful suddenly.
‘Yes. I’m sorry it’s caused you such a lot of worry. Absolutely not intended.’
‘Really?’ she said coldly.
‘No, of course not. My cousin, Jeremy, he was at St Nicholas you know, in 1915, he was a huge admirer of your husband. Huge. He said he became a sort of role model for him. He got to know all his students, tried to find out as much about him as he could. He told me he was a sort of blueprint for the perfect academic.’
He smiled at her: the innocent smile. She didn’t smile back.
‘I see. I’m afraid I don’t remember him. Jeremy who?’
‘I do,’ said Lothian. ‘Jeremy Bateson. Not very bright, as I recall.’
‘No?’ said Guy. ‘He’s doing awfully well now,’ God, he was enjoying this. ‘He’s a teacher, very successful. But he does a bit of writing here and there. Under a pseudonym, of course. As a result he knows an awful lot of journalists and so on. Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. Thank you for tea, Professor. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. On Monday. By—shall we say—ten?’
‘Wait!’ Lothian was standing up himself now. ‘Just a minute.’
‘I can’t, actually,’ said Guy, ‘sorry. I’m in a fearful hurry. I thought you were, too. Now—’ he walked over to the reception desk, ‘I wonder if I could possibly use your phone.’
‘Excuse me, Mr Brunning. Lady Celia Lytton is on the telephone. She would like to speak to her husband. Just for a moment. She says she is really terribly sorry to interrupt your meeting, but it’s very important. Very important indeed.’
‘But suppose,’ said Oliver, sinking down into his chair, pushing his hands wearily through his hair, ‘suppose Lothian doesn’t deliver. Doesn’t write this letter.’
‘Guy is absolutely certain he will.’
‘Guy was absolutely certain it wouldn’t matter if he took a slice out of Lothian’s life and turned it into fiction.’
‘I know. But this is diff
erent.’
‘But how, why?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. He says he can’t. But he says he is absolutely convinced, indeed that he knows, that Lothian will write the letter. By Monday morning. I really think we can trust him.’
‘Well,’ said Oliver with a sigh, ‘I certainly hope so. We’ve lost Brunnings anyway now. They’ll never come back to us.’
‘Good,’ said LM, ‘they’re insufferable.’
‘Insufferable and rich. Well, I shall believe it all when I have Lothian’s letter in my hand.’
‘You will. On Monday morning. By ten at the latest, Guy says.’
‘How on earth does he know that?’
‘I have no idea. But he sounded totally confident. Please, Oliver, please don’t fret. I know it’s going to be all right. Oh, talking of letters, LM, there’s one for you. I took delivery of it personally. From a very nice, very tall, very attractive man. Here it is.’
‘Thank you,’ said LM. She flushed slightly, took the letter and walked out of the room. Oliver raised his eyebrows at Celia; she smiled at him.
‘Totally suitable. Too good to be true.’
‘Excellent,’ he said and smiled. Rather complacently, Celia thought. ‘She must have taken my advice.’
She went back into her own office and sat down at the desk. She felt terribly tired. She looked at her watch. Almost three. The ship would have sailed. Sebastian was gone.
Reaction hit her; her courage suddenly failed. She felt the tears rising again, a great lump of pain in her breast. She got up, strode round the room, sat down again. It didn’t help. Nothing helped. Nothing could ever help. She buried her face in her hands, began to cry; and having begun, could not stop. The pain overwhelmed her, possessed her. How was this to be borne, how was she ever to recover, to be herself again?
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