‘So.’ His tone was suddenly brisk again. ‘What are your plans for the day?’
‘Oh – we have to go into Style this afternoon. And Cedric, that’s who I work for, the photographer, you know, wants us to spend a few hours just wandering round Paris, looking for locations, taking what he calls notebook pictures.’
‘Cedric. What a charming name. Like Little Lord Fauntleroy, isn’t that right?’
‘How clever of you to know that. Yes. I suppose he’s a bit like Little Lord Fauntleroy altogether. Awfully pretty.’
‘I see,’ he said laughing. ‘Well that answers one of my questions. I have no need to be jealous, is that right?’
‘You have no need to be jealous, no,’ she said, ‘not of Cedric anyway.’
‘Good. Of anyone else?’
‘Maybe,’ she said coolly.
‘Well that is not fair. You must tell me, yes or no.’
‘Monsieur—’
‘Luc.’
‘Luc, you are married. It’s nonsense to talk of your being jealous.’
‘Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – human emotion is not affected by the marital status. I desired you when I first saw you, when I was single, and I desire you still.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Well – you hardly know me.’
‘What a very English remark.’
‘Yes, well, I am English,’ she said, confused by his conversation as well as his presence. ‘And therefore rather given to making English remarks.’
‘You sound cross. Don’t be cross.’
‘I’m not cross.’
‘I think you are a little. But it suits you. I noticed it before. Your eyes become even larger and your colour more brilliant. Now stop glaring at me and have a piece of this egg.’
‘I don’t want any egg. I don’t like egg.’
‘You will like this egg,’ he said, and scooped a piece out of the shell very gently and carefully, and ate it and then did it again and held the spoon to her lips, his eyes absolutely fixed on hers. She resisted for just a moment, then opened her mouth and let him feed her the egg. It was perfect, very soft and tenderly flavoured; she swallowed it slowly and then smiled.
‘That was – lovely,’ she said. It was a moment of extraordinary intimacy; the waiter watched them with interest. A most practised observer of human behaviour, he could recognise this instantly for what it was: the birth of a love affair.
CHAPTER 13
‘You’re having an affair with someone, aren’t you?’
A long silence; then, ‘Yes. Anything wrong with that?’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Well why are you looking at me like a cross between my mother and an elderly nun? What gives you the right to be judgmental?’
‘Abbie,’ said Barty, ‘I’m not being judgmental. Honestly.’
They were sitting in a café in the Strand; a twice-postponed (by Abbie) supper arrangement had become an after-work cup of tea. Abbie was being odd, tense and unfriendly; Barty had not been able to carry on pretending everything was all right any longer.
‘Well it sounds like it,’ said Abbie, stirring her tea viciously.
‘I’m not. I’m just a bit – hurt – that you haven’t told me about it.’
‘Barty, why should I tell you about it, for heaven’s sake? It’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.’
Barty felt slightly taken aback; she had thought she and Abbie were so close that any such important happening would be shared between them. She had told her all about Giles and his declaration of love, even about Adele’s intervention. That had been more difficult.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, of course it hasn’t. Sorry Abbie. I – I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you’ve been so secretive. It’s not like you.’
‘It might be. You haven’t known me for very long. Certainly not when I’ve been having a love affair. Actually I find it quite – surprising you should expect me to tell you. A bit pathetic, if you really want to know. Maybe you need a bit of love interest in your own life.’
She looked at Barty coldly, her green eyes hostile. Barty stopped feeling apologetic and felt angry instead.
‘Maybe I should,’ she said, ‘but I’ll tell you one thing, Abbie, I don’t like being lied to. I felt an absolute fool when your parents telephoned me. After you’d told me you were with them. You could at least have told me the truth then. What difference would it have made?’
‘I’d probably have had a grilling like this, that’s why,’ said Abbie, ‘just leave me alone, Barty, will you, to lead my own life.’
‘All right,’ said Barty, ‘I will. I’m extremely sorry to have upset you, Abbie. It’s probably just as well you’ve moved to Clapham. You won’t have to bump into me in the street any more.’
Absurdly, she felt tears in her eyes; she blinked furiously, stood up, put down half a crown on the table and walked out of the café. Thirty seconds later she felt a hand on her arm.
‘Barty, I’m sorry. That was beastly of me. Come back inside. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
She was always like that; swift to apologise, eager to make up friends, as she put it. Barty smiled at her.
‘Oh – it’s all right. I was being a bit – snoopy.’
‘Just a bit. Come on, sit down, finish your bun.’ She looked at Barty very levelly. ‘I was being secretive. You’re quite right. It’s because he’s – well—’ She stopped.
‘Married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh,’ said Barty, determined this time not to react wrongly. ‘Oh, I see. Well – that’s fine. Isn’t it? You’re just giving him a – a free meal? Like you’ve always said. Improving his marriage, even?’
‘Exactly. Glad you’ve been listening to your Auntie Abbie.’
She grinned at Barty; her wide, engaging grin. She was so – tough, Barty thought. There might be something in Abbie’s views on sex, indeed she agreed with some of them wholeheartedly – like sleeping with someone you loved whether you were married or not was absolutely all right – but to blithely take someone’s husband into your bed and clearly not even feel guilty about it – that was rather different.
‘And I’ll tell you something,’ said Abbie, breaking up her tea-cake with her long, spidery fingers, ‘it certainly is improving his marriage. He says his wife’s much happier than she’s been for ages. He’s not – making so many demands on her, you see. In every way, not just sex.’
‘Oh,’ said Barty, ‘yes, I see.’
‘Anyway,’ said Abbie, ‘I don’t suppose it’ll last long. But while it does – well, we’re both having lots of fun. He buys me marvellous presents, look, like this bracelet, do you like it?’
It was gold, quite plain, clearly very expensive.
‘Yes, it’s lovely.’
‘And he’s awfully clever, we have really wonderful conversations. It’s not just sex.’
A bit more than a free meal, then, Barty thought.
And then, because she had to ask, without much expectation of Abbie answering, ‘So – who is this man, Abbie? Are you going to tell me?’
She was right; Abbie did not. Barty left her feeling at once comforted and more anxious. There was more going on than Abbie had told her; she was quite certain of it.
At least life was better at Lyttons now. Helena’s pregnancy had eased a lot of tension; Giles relaxed, mellowed, they were even able to begin to become friends again, he and she; it was as if finally he had something that was his very own, an achievement that he could take full credit for, that gave him status in every area of his world. It was a lot for a little baby to have accomplished, Barty thought, smiling at him as he told her one of his stupid jokes before a meeting; and it hadn’t even been born yet. Who knew what might happen as it began to grow up: Giles might even begin to get the better of his mother.
It took Izzie quite a long time to realise that all fathers were not like her own. Growing up alone in the house
with him, she had had few friends; the only families she knew well were the Lyttons, and Wol was nearly always in his study, as her own father was, and the Warwicks and her visits there were confined mostly to the large nursery.
She could see life in that house was very different, but she had always supposed it was because there were so many children. When Uncle Boy, as she had been instructed to call him, did visit the nursery, and the children all leapt on him and climbed into his lap and demanded that he read them stories and he got down on all fours and pretended to be a horse, she assumed that was because the children had got the better of him. Had there only been one of them, then clearly he would have been the distant, aloof figure that her own father was.
But then she went to school, and was invited to other children’s houses and met their fathers, and observed that they too read stories, played games, hugged and kissed their little daughters; and she would go home and look at Sebastian, reading in his study or working, and say hopefully, ‘Good afternoon, Father.’ And he would scarcely glance at her, would just say, ‘Isabella, surely you can see I’m busy. Go up to the nursery please.’
And she would go up and find Nanny, worrying at the difference, and wondering why it was: then slowly but sadly coming to the conclusion that it must be her own fault, that she must be doing something wrong, that her father so clearly didn’t want to have anything to do with her: and wondering what, if anything, she could possibly do to put it right.
‘Adele? This is Luc. Luc Lieberman. I want you to come to Paris again.’
‘Well I’m afraid I can’t,’ said Adele. She spoke lightly, but she felt so weak with emotion she had to lean against the wall where she was standing.
‘Why not?’
‘Much too busy.’
‘Then I shall come to London.’
‘But why?’
‘Now you cannot be that stupid. Because I want to see you again.’
‘But Luc, it’s ridiculous.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It is. You’re married.’
‘Not entirely happily.’
‘Oh, no’ – she half smiled – ‘I’m not falling for that one. I’m sorry.’
‘What one?’
‘It’s what all the married men say. That they aren’t happy. That their wives don’t understand them.’
‘All of them? What a large number, and what a miserable large number, of men you must know.’
‘You know what I mean. And I’m not—’
‘Not what?’
‘Not interested.’
‘Of course you are.’ His tone was almost complacent, full of suppressed amusement. ‘You are very interested. I felt it when I saw you, and I feel it now even over the telephone wires.’
‘Then you’re feeling wrong,’ she said after a moment. ‘And that’s not what I mean, anyway—’
‘I know what you meant, Adele. And it is of course natural. But – I can only repeat: I want to see you. I need to see you. And if you don’t come to Paris, I shall come to London. Now which shall it be?’
‘I am not coming to Paris,’ she said. ‘And that is absolutely final.’
‘I’m – well, I’m going to Paris again,’ she said to Venetia the next day.
‘To – oh, Dell, why, what’s happened, has he written or—’
‘He telephoned. He said he wanted to see me again. And I said I couldn’t. And here I am going. I can’t help it. It’s as if some force was propelling me over there. It’s very strange. And all I can think about is seeing him again and being with him again, and how happy I shall be, and then I suppose how miserable I shall be. Venetia, am I mad?’
‘No,’ said Venetia, patting her hand tenderly, ‘just in love.’
‘Father, it’s a girl,’ said Giles. His voice was strange, tearful and exultant at the same time. ‘Quite big, seven and a half pounds.’
‘Well done, old chap. Well done indeed. How’s Helena?’
‘She’s well. She was incredibly brave.’
‘They are brave, these women,’ said Oliver, remembering Celia’s own stoicism in childbirth. ‘I can only thank God we don’t have to go through it. Well, that’s wonderful news. What are you going to call her?’
‘Mary. Mary Alexandra.’
‘How very regal.’
‘Is it? Yes, I suppose so. I must go back to Helena, she’s a bit – weepy.’
‘I expect she is. Well, well how very nice. When can we come and meet our new granddaughter?’
‘Tomorrow, I should think. Please tell Mother and the girls.’
‘Of course. Send Helena our love.’
Giles sat by Helena’s bed holding her hand, smoothing her hair, smiling into her eyes; she was pale and exhausted but clearly very happy.
‘I’m just so glad she’s all right,’ she said. ‘I was so afraid she might not be.’
‘I was afraid you might not be,’ said Giles soberly, ‘was it very bad?’
‘Pretty bad. Worse than I expected. But now – who cares? I just kept thinking it had to end some time – if I didn’t die, that is – and then it would all be worth it.’
He nodded. He had sat outside the delivery room while she gave birth, refusing to take sanctuary in the waiting room or his club, like most husbands. He would have been with her, if it had been allowed; indeed he had tried to persuade them.
‘Be with her!’ said the midwife in astonishment. ‘What a dreadful idea. Don’t you think she has enough to worry about without having you there?’ And, ‘Certainly not,’ said the doctor, ‘you really don’t want to do that. Not a pretty sight, you know, and you’d probably faint. You go off and have a couple of stiff gins and when you come back it’ll all be over.’
Only it hadn’t been, it had gone on for hours and hours, and he had heard her, heard her groaning and crying out, and guilt had suffused him, guilt and fear, to think he had inflicted this upon her.
Only now, seeing her restored to him, and the baby lying in her cot at the side of the bed, did he begin to forgive himself and to dare to feel happy again. Very happy indeed that he, Giles, had finally managed to create something that was entirely his and that he could be truly proud of.
‘I love you,’ he said to Helena, and for the very first time he meant it. Meant it and believed it.
‘I am taking you to dine at the Lipp. Have you ever been there?’
Adele shook her head. She might well, in fact, have dined frequently at the Brasserie Lipp; she would simply have been incapable of knowing it. At that precise moment, sitting with Luc Lieberman’s hand on her knee, his eyes boring into her own, in the bar of her hotel, she hardly knew her own name; she felt absolutely confused, every emotion, every piece of knowledge she had ever possessed changed, made unfamiliar, lost to her. She knew only one thing: that she was with Luc. And that was enough.
‘Well,’ he said briskly, ‘I think you will like it.’
‘What?’
He smiled at her, recognising – dangerously – the depth and breadth of her disorientation.
‘Ma chère Mam’selle.’ He picked up her hand, ticked over the fingers with his own, then raised it to his lips. She felt it, that kiss, not just on her hand, not just beneath his lips, but dangerously, treacherously in other places, other places she had scarcely known about and never explored, soft, secret places in the depth of her, stirring, starting into life. She took a short, almost fearful breath; he heard it and felt it and smiled.
‘Oh Adele. How – beautiful you are.’
She struggled to regain herself, her quick, sharp self, to laugh at, to mock what would usually have seemed nonsense, exaggerated nonsense.
‘Hardly,’ she said, taking back her hand, reaching in her bag for her cigarette case. She pulled one out, hoping he would not notice how it was shaking, how she was shaking altogether, not just with nervousness but something close to shock.
But, ‘You are trembling,’ he said, his voice very gentle, ‘here, let me help you.’
&nbs
p; ‘I – don’t really want one,’ she said, ‘actually—’
‘You seem to be a little – confused,’ he said.
‘Oh – no, not really. Not at all.’
What was the matter with her? Where had she gone, the Adele she knew, so socially accomplished, so emotionally cool? Who was this stumbling, trembling, stammering creature, sitting here, taken so helplessly and hopelessly apart? She sighed, almost frightened; then smiled, quickly.
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, and his eyes moved now from her own, down to her lips and then to her hair, he reached up and stroked her cheek, very gently. ‘I like it. I like it that you are confused. You seem to me at your very best this way.’
‘Oh – dear,’ she said, stupidly, and then, smiling at him, trying to appear in control, nervously, ‘well, I shall go and get ready, shall I?’
‘You could scarcely look more ready,’ he said, ‘or more beautiful. But yes, if you must. If you can bear it, the parting, then so can I.’
At that she did smile, almost laugh; and fled up to her room to change: into a dress she had bought on her last visit, long, narrow black crêpe, the hem flaring gently at her ankles, modestly high at the front, dipping into a cowl at the back, and trailing down in a long drift of chiffon almost to the hem. Rhinestone clips in her hair, dark brown on her lids, dark red on her lips: ‘You look as if you know what you’re doing,’ she said aloud into the cloud of Arpege she sprayed around herself.
But she did not, of course. She did not know what she was doing in the very least and in every sense. She sat in the art nouveau tiled splendour of the Brasserie Lipp, drinking champagne, unable to eat anything but the smallest piece of fish, the tiniest morsel of steak, a merest taste of crêpe suzette, oblivious to the dazzling people around her, le tout Paris, as Luc said, amused. ‘Look, there is the famous Murthe, you met her the other day, and there, Mopse, with her new lady-love, you must have heard of Mopse, she is German, she knows everyone in Paris and has two faithful husbands as well as her bisexual lovers, and there is Nancy Cunard, in the leopardskins, oh, and see, Adele, there is Michel de Brunhof, the editor of French Vogue, you must know him—’
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