‘And you have done the same for Francis Carson. Can it really be ten years since he died? How fortunate that he left so much work behind. An Inconvenient Wife resurrected his reputation, and the second one … what’s it called?’
‘September Street.’
‘Yes, just out last spring, conquered the critics, save for Kingsley Amis and his ilk.’
‘There are always nay-sayers,’ he replied. He had the terrible feeling that he was about to be grilled here and served up like the Hungarian foie gras and caramelized onions on his plate.
‘Rather prominent ones in this case, but who’s to care when the sales, British and American, are going so well? You must be pleased with yourself. And I hear it’s picked up a very nice little film offer. Was that through your friend?’
‘My friend?’
‘Fifi or something.’
‘Gigi Fischer. She is a very reputable film agent.’ He stopped with that.
‘After what the Americans did to Some of These Days, I’m surprised Mrs Carson agreed to a film.’
‘I got a No Bollocks clause inserted into the contract,’ he offered by way of a joke.
‘I must say I thought September Street rather threadbare – I mean the story, not the writing. The writing was some of Carson’s best. But the story, you know? Orphaned girl sent to live with her bedridden, hideous old grandmother and her lecherous uncle. He has his wicked way with her against her will. She falls in love with a local lout, and it all goes wrong. They could have called it Tess of Broadstairs.’
What in God’s name was Enid up to? Quentin signalled for another martini, not caring that in drinking this much at lunch she would no doubt accuse him of Following in Father’s Footsteps as the old song had it. His wrist began to itch. Hives. He scratched discreetly under his watchband.
‘I’ll come to the point, Quentin. I’ve asked you here because I do not want there to be any misunderstanding between us. Whatever you, personally, may think of me, I shall never let it be said that Enid Sherrill acted out of spite. I wish to be quite clear from the beginning.’
Spite? The skin all along his arm prickled. ‘What are you talking about, Enid?’
‘Lady Sybil Dane. You remember Francis Carson’s memorial service, no doubt.’
‘I am not likely to forget that day.’
‘She has approached me to represent her book. No, more than that, I have taken her on as a client. There, it’s said, isn’t it?’
‘She’s written a book?’
‘Yes, a memoir of those war years that she spent with Carson.’
‘He lived at Woodlands with his wife and children too.’
‘True, but as you might expect … well, it is Sybil’s memoir, and Mrs Carson, I’m sorry to say, comes off as something of a cow, certainly bovine, good for carnal reasons and bearing children. An American of earthy appetites and no real understanding.’
‘And what is Lady Sybil’s role?’
Enid Sherrill stubbed out her cigarette, and gave him a look she had practised on Quentin since he first entered the agency, silently accusing him of crashing stupidity, of being so dim-witted that he should feel the top of his head for donkey’s ears. ‘Naturally Lady Sybil and Francis Carson were free spirits who had deep, distinguished, literary discussions when they were not rollicking in the lovely green meadows and by idyllic springs, making love in the folly. She was his saviour and muse, she fostered his talent, and he loved her deeply. Don’t be an ass,’ she harumphed in Albert’s old manner.
‘Why am I here?’ he asked, hoping to truss up a bit of dignity.
‘I wanted to tell you myself that I have taken Lady Sybil on as a client. Which I have just done. I shall see her book through its first printing, and then retire. Majorca, I think. Someplace warm.’
‘How nice for you.’
‘Don’t patronize me. I’m certain Lady Sybil brought the book to me to spite the Castles, knowing that you and I had quarrelled bitterly.’
‘It wasn’t bitter for me, Miss Sherrill.’
‘It was for me,’ she replied, taking a bite.
‘Miss Sherrill, Enid, I am finding all this rather hard to take in!’
‘I, on the other hand, have thought it through. That’s why I asked you to lunch.’
The waiter brought their main courses, whisked the other plates away, did his usual fanfare with the pepper, clicked his Hungarian heels and left them, but not before Quentin asked for a bottle of wine.
‘None for me,’ said Miss Sherrill. She cut her food into tiny bites which she ate quickly. ‘There will be a lot of gossip, Quentin, spicy tittering among the ink-slinging trades, the very people who crowded Woodlands ten years ago to drink Sir Sanford’s single malt, and bid a garish farewell to the late Francis Carson. How well I remember.’ She emitted a heavy stage-sigh. ‘When Lady Sybil’s book comes out, people will choose sides. There will be those who think Lady Sybil Dane is a self-serving hag, and those who will be glad to see the late Francis Carson get something of a come-down.’
‘A come-down?’
‘Well, she paints herself as his muse, his nurse, his confidante, his soulmate, his lover, naturally. As if without her, without her love and devotion, and dedication, he could not possibly have written a word of his masterpiece, Hay Days. I’d call that a come-down.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
‘Hay Days was mediocre at best, Lady Sybil’s memoir is better than Carson’s Hay Days, I don’t mean the writing, her writing is execrable, but the story is far livelier, not to say prurient.’ One little bite followed another between her thin, over-red lips. ‘The Land Girls are mostly gone from the story, Francis sleeps with no one but Sybil, and presumably his wife since one of their daughters was born there, I believe.’
‘Yes. Catherine in ’44.’
‘In any event, there’s quite a bit of ecstatic, not to say athletic, sexual goings-on.’
‘And does Lady Sybil include all the other men and women she slept with?’
‘No need to be catty with me, Quentin. I am representing the book. I do not pretend to like it. However, in answer to your question, the answer is no. Mostly the book is the great lady’s great love affair with the great novelist.’
‘I suppose,’ he said, thinking back to that day at Woodlands, ‘that her book could be called The Beloved Mistress.’
‘That’s not the title, but yes. I myself am dismayed by her lack of discretion, but it will be published. She’s still quite powerful, you know, though she has nothing to do with her late husband’s newspaper empire. When Sir Sanford died, his children got the empire. She got the money and the house, much to the frothing rage of the rest of the family.’
Quentin’s digestion roiled. ‘Why am I here, Enid?’
‘I did not want you to think I acted out of spite. If I did not take on Lady Sybil’s book, someone else would have.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am hoping it will make a great deal of money for my retirement.’
‘You did not act out of spite. Fine. Why am I here?’
Enid drank her water. ‘I assume you still see something of Francis Carson’s wife. She is your client.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, feeling like a prisoner in chains replying to a be-wigged, black-robed judge.
‘You should prepare her for this. It will not be pretty. It is an unfortunate book. Whatever one might say of Francis Carson – if I may offer a personal opinion – there was always about him a fundamental brightness, a need for applause that was part of his charm, until he got disgustingly drunk, of course. But short of that, he cast a sort of glow and people were happy to warm themselves in it. All of Carson’s charm, his zest, that sense of spectacle and high spirits is lost in Sybil’s book, and he comes off looking rather like her little lapdog, a Peke with a pen, you might say.’
‘God, is it really that bad?’
‘It is. Francis Carson emerges from these pages looking like a fool. Lady Sybil writes as though she’s defen
ding a genius, that Hay Days was his masterpiece, a misunderstood masterpiece, its reputation clouded because of his being a conscientious objector. Oh, and she has much to say about that too, about his witch of a Quaker mum, and dear old failed-intellectual father whose literary aspirations were the heartbreaking basis for The Moth and the Star. Francis’s schoolmaster father enjoyed caning his students till they bled and whimpered. He enjoyed beating Francis too, for that matter, took a real pleasure in all that pain. Albert told me Francis lived in fear of his father, of both his parents, for years. Francis could never quite squeeze out from under his father’s baleful glare until Claire came into his life. She gave him courage he did not have on his own. A powerful woman.’ Enid chewed thoughtfully. ‘Albert feared Claire Carson. He disliked all writers’ wives, of course, but he actually feared her. Did you know that?’
‘No. He didn’t like Americans. He called her the FMB. The Foul-Mouthed Beauty.’
‘Or bitch. One tends to denigrate what one fears.’
‘I should never have thought he feared or respected her.’
‘Well, he did. Albert knew that were it not for his wife, Carson would still be in Broadstairs teaching nasty boys and bedding local matrons. She is a remarkable woman, but I’m sure you know that.’
‘I’m surprised to hear you say something nice about her, Miss Sherrill.’
‘You’ve always misunderstood me. My feelings about Mrs Carson when I spoke to you the night of the memorial service were candid, but they were not personal. I cared not one whit for adultery, if that’s what it was – mind you, I am not asking. I thought only for the good of the firm. I am no longer a part of that firm, and I can allow myself the luxury of personal feelings.’
‘Had you always lived without them?’ he asked, suddenly curious. ‘Without personal feelings?’
‘My life has no bearing here. I’m trying to give you a notion of what this book will do to Francis Carson’s reputation, and to his wife, his family.’
‘Thank you. I mean it, I’m grateful for the warning.’
‘You should know –’ She took a deep breath, as though plunging underwater ‘—it’s dedicated to the boy, though he’s not really a boy any more, is he? Twenty or twenty-one.’
‘Michael.’
‘Yes.’
Grim premonition gnawed at him. Quentin bolted his wine. ‘Sybil Dane always brewed a lethal cocktail, equal parts flattery and seduction, with a fine bright cherry of her wealth gleaming at the centre. Frank succumbed to it, and so did Michael.’
‘How could he resist?’ Enid remarked. ‘He’s living it up at Oxford, I can’t remember which college, but trust me, he stays on there thanks to her money. And, of course, there were all those holidays abroad with her and Sir Sanford, the yacht. Even after Sir Sanford died, well, there were still holidays abroad, only not on the yacht. One of Dane’s sons got the yacht, but Sybil bought a flat in Paris, and she rents a villa at Lake Como in the summers. That’s where they are now in August. She and Michael.’
‘How do you know all that?’ He took a long drink.
‘How do you think? She adores talking about him. Sybil entertains Michael and all his young friends with extravagant weekends at Woodlands. She has invited me to come as well.’
‘And will you?’
‘God, no. I can’t bear the woman. He is estranged from his mother, isn’t he?’
Quentin nodded. ‘Michael broke his mother’s heart. Again and again. But the last, the worst, the day after he left school – with Lady Sybil’s chauffeur waiting for him at the door – he packed a bag, left Claire’s house for good, and moved to Woodlands. Claire and Michael have scarcely spoken since, in now two or three years. You can’t imagine how it pains her.’ He fought the urge to confess more, but he knew if he started, the whole would come tumbling out, and that this unsympathetic woman had no wish to hear his truths. He was already in her debt for this forewarning; his pride would not allow him to ask for her pity or understanding. ‘Dedicating the book to Michael is Sybil’s final blow to Claire.’
Miss Sherrill finished her lunch, or as much as she was prepared to eat, and laid her knife and fork decidedly on the plate. ‘It may not be the final blow, Quentin, that is what I am trying to tell you. It’s worse. The dedication reads To Michael Carson, ami de mon coeur. Yes, as well you might go rather pale.’
‘What does that mean, exactly?’
‘He figures in the book.’
‘Michael is the son Sybil never had.’
‘And he has taken the place of his father.’
‘Surely not in her bed!’ Quentin burst out, embarrassed to see he had collected a few oblique glances in the restaurant.
Again she harrumphed in a way that recalled Albert Castle. ‘At her age, she’s probably sixty, it’s flattering to Lady Sybil to be thought of as something of a siren. That is why I wanted to meet with you. You had best brace Mrs Carson for this book. She will be pained. Hurt. By the way, Lady Sybil says outright in her book that Michael was born before his parents were married. If that’s libel, it will have to be edited out, but perhaps it’s true.’
‘That bastard!’
‘Yes, well. Enough said.’ Enid lit a cigarette. ‘There’s a good deal of that sort of thing, more innuendo, probably, less fact.’
‘Is it too late to talk with her, Lady Sybil, I mean, maybe to convince her to—’
Again Enid gave him the look that suggested he should feel about for donkey’s ears. ‘Can you imagine Sybil Dane listening to such a plea? Agreeing to it?’
‘No. It would only give her pleasure.’
‘Exactly. I’m sure they’ve already taken pleasure in the pain they know they will inflict. They’re that sort of people.’
‘They?’
‘Michael too. He’s like Lady Sybil in that regard.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Oh yes. He might look like his father, but he has nothing of Francis Carson’s charm. I’ve seen enough of young Michael to get his measure. And I shall have to see more, no doubt. In becoming Lady Sybil’s agent, I’ve left myself at her beck and call. She loves to take up one’s time, and once she gets her talons in, it’s difficult to extract oneself. She’s insufferable.’ She signalled the waiter. ‘I must be going.’
‘Dessert?’ asked the waiter, touting the poppy-seed strudel.
They both said no thank you in unison, and she laid money in the dish. A good deal of money. One did not want to be seen counting sixpences at The Gay Hussar.
Quentin swallowed his pride in an audible gulp. ‘Might I ask to see a copy of the manuscript,’ he ventured, ‘please?’
‘I have one with me.’
His face fell, and he stumbled about in inadequate thanks. ‘You astonish me, Enid! Would you have given it to me even if I hadn’t asked?’
‘Yes. I have it with me. That’s why I asked to meet you. To give it to you.’
‘To give it to me,’ he repeated, dumbfounded.
‘It’s a second carbon, so blurry here and there, but you will understand.’
‘I – I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.’
‘I have a favour to ask of you as well. It’s nothing to do with the carbon copy, I bring you that of my own free will and because I dislike Sybil and what she is up to, though I shall certainly represent her book. I need the money. No, here’s my question, Quentin. When I retire next year may I tell my authors that Castle Literary will take them back? I know they’re a rather rag-tag bunch, certainly by Castle standards, but they were loyal to me when I left the firm, and I fear another agent might not …’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Absolutely, Enid. I will take them all back. Naturally,’ he added, knowing full well that had she requested this before this very moment, he would have turned her down.
She pulled from the bag beside her a fat parcel, wrapped in paper and bound with string. ‘Like chops from a butcher shop,’ she noted with some asperity. ‘It will have to b
e edited down for publication, for libel. Perhaps the most egregious parts will come out, but I doubt the overall tone will change.’
‘This is very kind of you. Thank you again.’ He sought something stronger, but words eluded him. ‘On behalf of the firm.’
She gave a paltry laugh. ‘Oh, the firm!’
‘And Mrs Carson.’
She put her glasses back on and watched the summer rain sluice down the windows. Then she turned back to him, smoke escaping from her thin red lips.
‘You are still in love with her, I take it.’
‘I am,’ he said, surprised at how the simple admission relaxed him, how the simple, spoken truth could create such a feeling of release, relief. He might have waxed on about their ten-year love affair and the happiness Claire had brought him if Miss Sherrill hadn’t cut him off.
‘Then speak for yourself, Quentin. Not for the firm.’
‘Thank you, personally. I’m grateful. Thank you on Claire’s behalf.’ He thrashed awkwardly as she no doubt meant him to. But then he gathered such gravitas he had earned at thirty-five. ‘You are a gallant woman, Enid, and kind, and I’m sorry if I misjudged you.’
‘Oh, you didn’t misjudge how I felt about you, Quentin. The minute you came into the firm, I knew what would happen. I knew he would always love you better than he loved me.’
‘My father?’
‘Of course your father! Who else? You are surprised that he loved you? Or are you surprised that he loved me?’ When Quentin did not reply, she went on. ‘Well, perhaps he didn’t love me, but I loved him. I couldn’t marry him, of course, but I wanted a partnership, a different sort of marriage, you might say. I told him if he didn’t make me a partner, I would leave him. That story you’ve heard, no doubt.’
‘Yes.’
‘I got the partnership, but it was … what’s the term, pyrrhic? A pyrrhic victory. Albert could not be intimate with an equal, and by the time he took up with Louisa Partridge, our affair was over, but our partnership continued.’
Three Strange Angels Page 27