Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  Despite their distress, her parents tried to be supportive when she explained how she felt; her father’s reaction was sorrow rather than anger, and the sorrow reserved entirely for her. ‘I’m sure he’s very charming, darling, but what kind of future can he offer you?’

  Her mother was more practical: ‘Luc Lieberman is simply using you, Adele, and he has clearly no intention of ever doing anything for you whatsoever. You are making a complete fool of yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘You will care. London, the whole of England indeed, is filled with eligible young men, and while you’re spending so much time in Paris with someone who is not only married but unable to be divorced, you’re not even going to meet them, let alone find yourself in the frame of mind to marry them.’

  To which Adele replied that she had met a great many of them and had no desire to marry a single one; that she loved Luc and she wanted to be with him and if he was unable to marry her, then that was unfortunate but not an insuperable obstacle to her happiness.

  ‘I despair of you, Adele, I really do,’ said Celia with a heavy sigh, ‘and how you can have so little self-respect is absolutely beyond me. I hope when this – this business reaches its unhappy conclusion as it inevitably will, you’ll remember what I’ve said.’

  Adele, who couldn’t see what good such a memory would do her in the event of such personal catastrophe, smiled sweetly at her and said she would try. She was oddly serene these days; serene and self-confident.

  ‘Don’t ask me why,’ she said to Venetia. ‘I suppose at last I’ve found someone who values me for what I am, rather than who I am and what I look like.’

  ‘I do see that,’ said Venetia, gently, ‘but isn’t there just the slightest chance that he might ask you to – well to live with him? If he loves you so much and he can’t marry you. I mean that would be a commitment of a sort.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Adele, ‘it’s not the sort of thing he could do. The French just don’t see things our way. Anyway, if you really want to know, I’m not entirely sure he does love me. Not as I love him.’

  ‘I thought you said he did.’

  ‘Oh, he says he does. But I don’t think it’s quite the same.’

  ‘Well,’ said Venetia with a sigh, ‘he is a man of course. And they do see life quite, quite differently. But—’

  ‘I know, I know what you’re thinking. And of course it would be nice. But it just isn’t going to happen. And so I have to accept what I’ve got. The thing is, Venetia, I would die for Luc. I’m sure he wouldn’t die for me.’

  Years later those words were to come back to haunt her.

  ‘So Barty has been given promotion and you haven’t. That is truly absurd. The Lytton foundling. I don’t trust her anyway. If we’re not careful she’ll end up chairman of Lyttons.’

  ‘Helena don’t be absurd. And don’t say unpleasant things about Barty. It’s not fair. She is not a foundling as you put it, she’s part of the family—’

  ‘Oh, how foolish of me. I’d forgotten what socialists all you Lyttons were. All right, she’s part of the family. She just happens to have been born in a slum. And then to have been dragged out of it by her grubby bootlaces.’

  ‘Helena, please!’

  ‘Meanwhile you, the eldest son, the heir, continues to work in that poky little hole they call an office at a pittance of a salary doing a job not as good as the one she’s just been handed. As far as I can make out. It’s just not right, Giles. And if you’re too much of a coward to talk to your parents about it, then I will.’

  ‘Helena, please. I beg of you. Don’t do that.’

  ‘Someone has to look after our interests, Giles. Particularly as there is to be another child. And you are clearly not going to. So that leaves me.’

  ‘Just wait a few more—’

  ‘A few more what? Hours? Days? Years? No, sorry, Giles, I can’t.’

  ‘Helena, please – look – I will speak to my father. I swear. Tomorrow. Please don’t go and see him, it will diminish my standing there so dreadfully, to appear to be – well, to be hiding behind your skirts.’

  Helena sighed. Then she said, ‘Very well, then. But you must do it tomorrow. I really insist.’ She got up and left the room.

  Giles looked after her wretchedly. There was absolutely no doubt she meant what she said. And short of locking her in her bedroom, there was no way he could stop her. He would have to speak to his father next day. And – and maybe it would work. Maybe they had simply not thought of it. And he could use the news about Barty’s appointment – to senior editor, rather than junior editor – as a sort of launching board. But he was very afraid: not so much of asking, but of hearing the refusal. And then of Helena’s reaction. She really was so very strong in her views.

  ‘I’m appalled,’ said Celia, ‘quite simply appalled.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ said Helena.

  ‘That you should come on your own, to see Oliver – not even, apparently, thinking to involve me, not that that is so important of course’ – she paused here, staring at Helena, making it plain that it was very important indeed – ‘about this absurd business.’ ‘It’s not an absurd business,’ said Helena staunchly. ‘It’s a matter of Giles’s future in this company.’ ‘Which he discussed with us yesterday. A conclusion was reached, which I presume he told you about, that he would receive a salary increase with immediate effect, and we would review his role here in six months’ time. I fail to see that there is anything more to be said. For the time being. Certainly not by you.’ ‘Celia, I have to tell you that I think there is more to be said. And actually, yes, by me, since Giles is too – gentle,’ – that was the most acceptable word she could find: the others, ‘cowardly’, ‘weak’, ‘spineless’ were more accurate, she felt, but scarcely diplomatic – ‘too gentle to say it for himself.’ ‘Really?’ The dark eyes were very hard. ‘Surely you must see that it puts Giles in a very poor light. Implying that he is unable to speak properly for himself.’ ‘Not really, no. I don’t. There are things that I can say that he could not, that he would be too modest or embarrassed to express.’ ‘Such as—?’ ‘Well, I think that his talents are considerable, for a start. And they deserve recognition.’ ‘Really? I had not realised that you had such a – clear understanding of the publishing business. Better than our own, in fact. Perhaps you would like to share it with us. We are clearly not entirely au fait with what we are doing—’ ‘Celia,’ Oliver put up a hand. He had hardly spoken since Celia had walked into his office and found Helena there. ‘Celia, I don’t think that is quite necessary. Helena is naturally anxious to plead Giles’s case. And impressed by his professional qualities, as a wife should be.’

  He didn’t look at Helena as he said that, but there was the faintest edge to his voice, an edge of wry rebuke for his wife, that Helena recognised and which gave her courage.

  ‘And where is Giles?’ said Celia, momentarily diverted from her argument. ‘Why is he not here at your side, Helena, does he know that you are here?’

  ‘No,’ said Helena, ‘of course not. He is out of the office for the day.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver. ‘At the printing works. Overseeing the printing of the new catalogue.’

  ‘You see,’ said Helena, feeling her face flush, not caring, ‘you see, I feel that is exactly the sort of thing he should not be doing. That is surely what clerks are for. It’s hardly work on a par with – well, with an editor.’

  That had been a mistake; she shouldn’t have said that. She could see Celia’s face change, watched her mind pounce.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘now we have it. This is pique, is it not? That Barty Miller has been promoted and Giles has not.’

  ‘No,’ said Helena. ‘Not at all. Of course not. I’m – I was delighted to hear about Barty. But Giles is a Lytton. He is your oldest son. And he’s thirty, he’s been working here for several years now, he should surely be working alongside you, helping you shape the company. Commis
sioning books, directing authors, that sort of thing. Not overseeing the printing of some – catalogue.’ She brought the word out vehemently.

  ‘Catalogues are very important, Helena,’ said Oliver quietly. ‘They are our lifeblood. And—’

  ‘Helena,’ said Celia, interrupting him, ‘I think perhaps I should explain a few things to you. Publishing is a complex and very difficult business. It relies perhaps more heavily than most on instinct. All the best publishers have a kind of sixth sense, about what will do well, what people will want, not now but next year, in three, five years’ time. My husband has this to an extraordinary degree. It is what has put Lyttons where it is today. Now I am very sorry to have to tell you that at this moment in time, Giles does not seem to have that instinct. Indeed I would say Kit shows more promise in that direction than he does.’

  Helena fielded this remark without comment. Celia’s adoration of Kit was a by-word in the family; she would have proposed him for Prime Minister had it been within her gift.

  ‘Now Giles is sound, of course,’ Celia said, ‘he has a good business sense and I have to admit that on the design side of things he has a certain flair. But he is no more able to take over any part of the actual running of Lyttons at the moment than – well, than you are.’

  She brought this out in a tone of absolute contempt; Helena felt herself flinch.

  ‘I see. And did you explain this to Giles?’

  ‘Of course. That his time has not yet come, that he must continue with his apprenticeship until his judgment matures and with it his confidence. You need great confidence to run a business of any kind, Helena.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that. I also know there is more to a business – any business – than its creative side. I know that from my father.’

  ‘Aluminium!’ said Celia, in a voice that implied that aluminium could be best compared with pornography. It gave Helena courage.

  ‘Yes. Aluminium. And my father runs one of the most successful companies in England, selling it.’

  ‘So I was given to understand. By your grandfather, at your wedding. A rather biased view, perhaps. I hardly think you can compare selling – ’ she paused ‘ – saucepans with books.’

  Helena managed to ignore this. ‘The business side of the company, its financial stability, is just as important as next year’s products. Which are quite innovative, I do assure you. I don’t imagine you would denigrate Miss Lytton’s role in the company. To her face at any rate.’

  ‘I see you haven’t understood what I have been saying at all. LM’s role is not simply about financial stability. It is about the overall running of the company, areas to invest and proceed in, and requires every bit as acute a grasp of publishing as ours does.’

  ‘It appears I don’t understand anything,’ said Helena. She suddenly felt rather near to tears; it kept happening, something to do with her pregnancy she supposed. She swallowed hard, met Celia’s eyes bravely nonetheless. ‘But the thing I find hardest to understand is how you can employ your own son as a glorified office boy. Giving him absolutely no status, no responsibility; Giles is intelligent, extremely intelligent, well read, he has a very good head for business. I have heard what you said, but I’m afraid I quite fail to see how you can under-use those talents as you do. And undermine what he does do. As his wife, I find it hurtful. Extremely hurtful.’

  ‘As his wife, Helena,’ said Celia, ‘your role is to support and encourage him, rather than to usurp his position here.’

  ‘Usurp it?’

  ‘Indeed yes. To imply it is of little importance, that he is indeed a glorified office boy as you put it. That more than anything implies a lack of grasp of the situation. And I find it, as I said at the beginning, quite extraordinary and rather shocking that you should come to us, behind his back, making it plain you consider he is incapable of speaking for himself. I can only hope that for his sake he never comes to hear of this interview. Now you must excuse us; we are very busy here, and I imagine you have duties at home.’

  This last was delivered with a look so withering, so full of contempt that Helena felt the tears start again. She stood up quickly, afraid Celia would notice, would despise her further.

  ‘I do indeed,’ she said, ‘yes. Good afternoon, Oliver, Celia. Thank you at least for listening to me.’

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Oliver. He looked uncomfortable, upset. ‘Can I arrange a taxi for you?’

  ‘No, no thank you, I have my car.’

  She half ran from the room, hurried down the corridor, out into the street. Safely in her car, she put her head down on the steering wheel and allowed herself to cry: she cried for a long time, but the tears were as much of rage on her own behalf as outrage for Giles, mingled with a degree of panic. She had achieved nothing, nothing at all, except to bring down a great deal of opprobrium on her own head. She had, if anything, diminished Giles in his parents’ view. And worst of all, she had had her own view of him diminished as well. That Celia should have managed to accomplish that was truly unforgivable.

  But as she drove home, her mood changed, became steely calm, as steely as Celia’s own. One day, one day, she promised herself, she would have her revenge on Celia. She would show her; show her that she was not a silly, vapid woman with – what was it she had said – duties at home. So far she had felt only a certain dislike for her, mingled with admiration and a respect for everything that she had achieved. Now the admiration if not the respect was gone, and what she was experiencing was something much closer to hatred.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘New York! Would I like it! Oh, Wol, that is so exciting. Thank you, thank you. But – I thought you said—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said, patting her hand, ‘but that was months ago. Now it seems they do have room for you. And if you’re still of a mind to go, then you may. We shall miss you of course, but—’

  Barty said she was absolutely of a mind to go. It was, without doubt, the best thing that could possibly have happened; it solved all her problems at a stroke. She wasn’t sure indeed, how much longer she would have been able to endure the situation. She had felt better for a while, after talking to Sebastian, had taken his advice and stopped even considering telling anyone; but guilt, anxiety, and acute sympathy for Venetia dominated her feelings and affected her behaviour, especially at family gatherings. And there were, as always, several of those, including most hideously, Venetia and Boy’s wedding anniversary: she had fretted for hours over how she might get out of that, but short of hospitalisation, she knew Celia for one would never accept any excuse. Finally, Sebastian had telephoned her, said with his usual discretion that he knew how she must be feeling and that he would be there (‘I know how you dislike these things,’ his actual words had been, ‘me too, but I think we must for Venetia’s sake, don’t you?’). Touched beyond anything, she had known she must now go, known, moreover, that she would now be able to bear it.

  She missed Abbie too; she had felt quite unable to continue with the friendship, but it was a huge gap in her life, she missed her dreadfully, and she remained horribly aware of her, haunting her, a dangerous difficult entity.

  They had had a stormy exchange, when she had told Abbie so; Abbie had accused her of misplaced loyalty, of placing what she called her pathetic pseudo-family ties against friendship, but Barty stood firm.

  ‘I can’t go on being your friend, Abbie, and if you can’t see that, then there is no point my trying to explain.’

  Abbie said she didn’t want her to explain, that she and Boy were having a harmless relationship of benefit to everyone involved, including Venetia, and that she could only feel sorry for Barty if she found that difficult to cope with.

  ‘I thought you were above such bourgeois nonsense,’ were her last words; Barty left her and went home and cried for a long time, unsure what she minded most, Abbie’s betrayal of her, or being called bourgeois.

  And then Giles had been – very difficult again: not quite hostile, but not friendly either, arguing
with her in meetings, avoiding her whenever he could. She knew why that was, of course: it had been her promotion to senior editor, while his position had remained the same. She had worried about it at the time, when Oliver and Celia had first told her, knew it might cause trouble.

  She was not to know quite the form of that trouble, nor its extent; nor could she possibly have guessed that in being able to send her to New York Oliver had solved one of his greatest problems also.

  That of Giles and his increasing resentment towards Barty.

  Stuart Bailey had written to Oliver, as he had promised he would, to let him know when he had a vacancy. He had met and liked Barty, and welcomed now the idea that she might fill it. Of course he would not necessarily have done so, had she not been who she was: for perhaps the first time in her life, Barty recognised the benefits of inherited privilege and tried to ignore the guilt. The job was only that of junior editor, but she didn’t care; she would have gone to clean the offices had it been proposed.

  It was all terribly thrilling; she could hardly contain her excitement as well as her relief. London was obsessed with everything American at that time; from the music to the cars, from the dances to the skyscrapers – and of course the films, the wonderful wonderful films, the musicals, Busby Berkeley’s extravaganzas and Fred and Ginger, dancing their way into everyone’s hearts, not to mention the wonderful sparkling comedies with William Powell, Mae West, Jean Harlow, Ruth Chatterton.

  Jack and Lily had actually written to say that if Barty had time, she must go and stay with them in Hollywood: at that point she really did begin to think she must be dreaming. Hollywood: home of the movies, as they called them: Hollywood which Cecil Beaton, who spent a great deal of time there photographing the stars, had described as being ‘very much what one was told Heaven was like when one was a child’.

  If she had time indeed . . . it was all much too good to be true.