Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (47 page)

Oh it was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. Just as well her plan hadn’t worked. She was like all jealous wives, imagining she’d seen things that simply weren’t there. Abigail was hardly Boy’s type, anyway; with her rather bohemian looks and clothes. He liked glamorous women. She’d do much better getting on with her life, putting it out of her head, being a good wife to Boy. They were going on holiday in a week, to a villa near Antibes; she and the children were going on the train and Boy was following in his latest toy, his own plane, landing on the tiny airstrip at Nice. She would instruct her maid to start packing for that today, tell Nanny to get the children’s clothes and toys ready, cable the cook and butler there with instructions.

She really had far better things to do and worry about than premonitions about Abigail Clarence.

‘Mrs Warwick!’

‘Can I come in?’

‘Well – I’m very busy. As I said.’

‘You don’t look very busy,’ said Venetia briskly, and indeed Abbie realised she didn’t, wearing a pair of wide-legged silk pyjamas (a present from Boy), a cigarette in one hand, a book in the other.

‘No. But I am expecting someone.’ God this was frightful: suppose Boy turned up. But he wouldn’t, he’d said he wouldn’t be coming that day.

‘This won’t take long,’ said Venetia, ‘I would like to come in though, if I may.’

She had no idea what she was going to say: she half wished she had never set out on this absurd mission. She was looking for reassurance as much as anything. Thinking that if she got to know Abigail a bit better, talked to her, observed her, she’d be able to convince herself.

And somehow, she felt she just had to explore it all further. She was never going to be able to settle down to enjoy her holiday with it unresolved. The worst that could happen was that she would look a bit stupid. And if Abbie didn’t know Boy, that really didn’t matter.

‘What a pretty house,’ she said, following Abbie into the small drawing room.

‘Yes. I like it.’

‘I thought you lived near Barty.’

‘I did. But I was left some money and I thought I’d like to have a house of my own.’

‘You and Barty, such independent spirits,’ said Venetia lightly. ‘I do admire you. I would never have thought of getting my own place.’

‘Well – we don’t all have husbands to look after us,’ said Abbie. She smiled quickly and carefully.

She was very edgy, there was no doubt. She kept looking round the room: she’s checking on things, Venetia thought, checking I don’t see – what? Boy’s photograph, a jacket he’d left behind? Hardly likely.

‘Would you like some tea?’ said Abbie. ‘Or a drink or something?’

‘Some tea would be nice. Thank you.’

Tea would take longer, give her a while to look around a bit.

But there was nothing to see: no incriminating evidence of any kind. No snapshots, no letters, although—

‘That’s very pretty,’ she said, when Abbie came back into the room, indicating a bronze on the desk.

‘Yes. I like it.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Oh – at a friend’s gallery. In the country. In – Sussex.’

‘Lovely. I wonder if you could give me the address, it’s exactly the sort of thing I’m looking for.’

‘Yes. I’ll try and find it for you.’

She was more composed now; she handed Venetia her tea then sat down opposite her, smiled politely.

‘Goodness,’ said Venetia, looking up at the shelves, ‘what a lot of books.’

‘Yes, well, I love reading. Don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Do you meet many of the authors Lyttons publishes?’

‘Oh – no, not many. I’m a bit too busy to go to publishing parties.’

‘I’d make the time,’ said Abbie. She smiled again, but her voice was slightly barbed, the message very clear. That she considered Venetia foolish, to forego the opportunity to meet some of the great authors of the day.

‘Yes, well, you don’t have four children.’ She could hear her own voice, sounding defensive.

‘Of course not. Quite enough at school.’

‘And what a marvellous gramophone. And such a huge collection of records.’

‘Yes.’

‘May I look?’

‘Of course.’

It was indeed a very large collection. Boxed sets, of symphonies and concertos, whole operas. Some of them clearly still unopened. How did she have the sort of money to pay for those? On a teacher’s salary?

‘Er – Mrs Warwick, I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps you could tell me why you’re here. I’m expecting friends as I said, and—’

‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It was just that I was passing’ – as if she’d be passing a small Clapham street – ‘and I thought I’d try again to persuade you to give me piano lessons. Is that the piano?’

‘Oh – yes.’

Also very expensive: a Bechstein.

‘It’s lovely. I like the candlesticks.’

‘Yes, it’s pretty, isn’t it? But Mrs Warwick, I’m sorry, I really don’t have any spare time.’

‘You had the time to teach Henry,’ said Venetia sharply.

An infinitesimal pause: then, ‘Yes, but I’ve got some more pupils now.’

‘Yes, I see. Well—’ This was hopeless; the best thing she could do was leave, before she completely lost her dignity. ‘I must go. Leave you in peace.’

She stood up, followed Abbie into the hall. Abbie was clearly more relaxed; Venetia looked round again, up the stairs. It was a pretty staircase with a half-landing. She saw Abbie’s eyes following hers, nervous suddenly again.

Why, what could be upstairs? Boy perhaps? Even in her discomfort, Venetia felt the urge to giggle.

‘I wonder – so sorry. Could I possibly use your lavatory?’

‘Oh,’ said Abbie, and for the first time she looked properly anxious, ‘it’s a bit of a mess.’

‘Well that’s all right. I really would rather like to. So sorry—’

And she was ahead of Abbie, running up the stairs, calling from the landing, ‘This door? On the right?’

‘Yes, but—’

She went in. It seemed perfectly normal. No incriminating photographs, nothing like that. And certainly not a mess. Venetia came out again, walked into the bathroom next door to wash her hands. A very pretty bathroom: overlooking the garden, with a small table by the window with a plant on it. There was a mug on the wash basin, with a shaving brush in it. Well, that didn’t mean anything; even though it was a very nice shaving brush, with an ivory handle. So Abbie had a boyfriend. A rich boyfriend who bought her gramophone records and books and possibly even bronze ornaments. That wasn’t a crime.

She put the towel back, walked out on to the landing. That must be Abbie’s bedroom; the door was open. She glanced in: a very big bed, a brass bed, piled high with cushions: more book shelves, and—

‘Please don’t go in there.’ Abbie had come upstairs, was standing behind her. She looked more nervous now. Venetia smiled at her; by contrast she felt more confident.

‘I just wanted to powder my nose,’ she said, ‘all right?’

‘No. Not really—’

And there it was: opposite the bed. A large charcoal drawing, framed: not of Boy, as Venetia might most have feared, but of Abbie, a nude, very simple, indeed, and very sexy, Abbie sprawled across the bed, her own brass bed, in a drawing style so horribly familiar to Venetia that she closed her eyes briefly, trying to shut it out. The same style in which her own children had been sketched, each of them, when they had been born; making up the set of charcoals that stood on the piano in the drawing room. The sketches Abbie had admired, when she had come to the house.

Boy’s style.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He kept saying it; it didn’t make her feel any better.

‘I don’t really care if you’re sorry, Boy. It doesn’t help very much. What might help is if you explained a bit.’

He looked at her, his eyes heavily exhausted. ‘What do you want me to explain?’

‘Oh, you know, nothing much. Just how long it’s been going on, what she means to you, how often you see her, a few unimportant things like that—’

‘Venetia—’

‘Boy, I want to know. Please. I think you owe me that at least.’

He got up, poured himself a second – or was it a third – glass of whisky.

‘All right,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll tell you. I don’t think it will help but—’

‘It will help me.’

She wasn’t sure afterwards if it had; it hurt so much, so terribly much that she had difficulty allowing him to go on. But she did.

It had been going on for quite a long time: a very long time for an extra-marital love affair. For almost four years. Four years in which Venetia had borne Boy two children; four years in which she had become convinced he had settled down; four years in which they had lived together, entertained their friends, dined together, visited Ashingham together, spent family Christmases – and she had had no idea.

He had known her for longer, he said, had taken her to some concerts, the opera even one night; but the affair had begun in earnest four years ago.

And gone on. And on.

‘She must – mean a lot to you,’ she said, forcing the words out with great difficulty.

He was silent.

‘The gramophone, the records, the piano, the books, the paintings – I suppose you bought them for her?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘yes, I did.’

That hurt more than anything: that they obviously shared so much. It wasn’t just sex, she could have coped with that. Anyway, that would never have lasted four years. If there was one thing she knew she was good at, it was sex. It was that Abbie was the sort of woman Boy clearly wished she was: clever, well read, cultured. The sort of woman he liked to spend his time with, the sort of woman who could talk to him about the things he cared about. The sort of woman Venetia was not.

How had it happened, Venetia wondered, as she wept and raged alone in her bedroom that night, how had she allowed such a thing to happen? And what if people knew? How appalling would that be, if they knew that Boy had been having a long-standing affair, had turned from his beautiful, socially accomplished wife, not to some dazzling star of the social firmament, or even some famous actress or singer, but to a school teacher, a middle-class, intellectual school teacher, who taught children from the slums and whose best friend had come from the slums herself, brought into the Lytton household so many years ago.

Barty, it seemed to Venetia, must bear at least some of the blame for this.

CHAPTER 20

Kit was having a pretty awful summer. Of course he didn’t expect to be taken on holiday while his father was so ill, and it was natural that his mother should be entirely occupied with caring for him, and for the business in what time she could find for it; but the fact remained it was hot and miserable in London, all his friends were going away, and he was unutterably bored. He had been going to stay in the south of France with Venetia and Boy, but that had been cancelled now, some problem with the villa, his mother had said, and they weren’t going.

So here he was stuck in London, a hot, stuffy London with nothing to do and all his friends away. As he told Izzie one afternoon in the garden at Primrose Hill, he was unutterably fed up.

‘I’d love to go on a holiday,’ she said, ‘what’s it like, what do you do?’

Kit looked at her. She was sitting on her swing, her long, golden brown hair hanging down her back, her solemn little face just lightly flushed with the sun, her huge hazel eyes fixed on his in immense interest. She was such a jolly little thing; it was so sad she had such a rotten life. She was terribly grown-up too, for six, much more grown-up than Roo, or even Henry: he supposed that was because she had to be, and spent nearly all her time with adults, except when she was at school.

And what was more surprising was that in spite of everything, Sebastian’s neglect, her own loneliness, not having a mother, in spite of a certain wariness and being inevitably shy and reserved, she remained basically sweet-natured. She must get it from Pandora, Kit thought; no one, however much they loved him – and Kit did love him, a lot – could call Sebastian sweet-natured.

‘Well,’ he said carefully, ‘you go somewhere different, and do different things. Like the Warwicks, they were going to France, by the sea—’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’d love that. I’m sure the sea must be very beautiful.’

‘Doesn’t your nanny ever take you away? Nanny used to take us to the seaside every year. It was – really—’ he stopped, checked himself ‘ – really quite nice.’

‘No,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘She never does. She goes away sometimes and then Mrs Conley looks after me. But she wouldn’t want to take me with her. She needs a break, I heard her telling Father.’

Kit supposed parents had to organise these things. Nannies couldn’t just decide what to do with their charges.

‘What would be lovely,’ said Izzie, ‘would be if you and me went on holiday. Together. Wouldn’t it? But I don’t suppose Father would allow it, do you?’

‘Probably not,’ said Kit.

He was sitting reading that night when his grandmother phoned.

‘Your mother there?’

‘Yes, she’s with Father.’

‘I’d like to speak to her. In a minute. How are you, young Kit?’

‘Bored,’ he said before he could stop himself.

‘You shouldn’t be bored. Not at your age. Only stupid people are bored.’

‘I know,’ said Kit, who had heard this several times before. ‘But London in August isn’t much fun.’

‘Perfectly true,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘Well, get out of it. Come down to Ashingham for a few weeks. Plenty to do here, we need help with the harvest, and Billy would be pleased to see you. You can amuse Beckenham as well, he’s fearfully bored, wants to go up for the grouse shooting, but of course he can’t, he’s lethal with a gun these days. Ask your mother, I’m sure she won’t mind.’

‘She’d be glad to get me out of the house,’ said Kit. ‘I – I think I’d like that. Thank you. Er – Grandmama, could I bring someone with me?’

‘What, a friend? Of course you can. But he’ll have to work too, some of the time, no room for layabouts.’

‘It’s not a he, it’s a she. Oh, it’s all right, she’s only six. I just thought how lovely it would be for Izzie to come. She doesn’t have much fun.’

‘Splendid idea. Yes, of course she must come, poor little thing. If you have any trouble with Sebastian let me know.’

He did have trouble with Sebastian, who categorically refused his permission, saying Izzie would be a nuisance and it would disrupt her routine; Kit told Lady Beckenham, who snorted down the phone.

‘The man’s become impossible, begrudges that poor child any kind of pleasure. I’ll speak to him, Kit, don’t worry.’

Kit couldn’t imagine what she could possibly say to Sebastian that would change his mind; but she telephoned him later to say that Sebastian had agreed to let Izzie come to Ashingham.

‘How on earth did you manage that?’ he said wonderingly.

‘Let’s just say I know Sebastian rather better than most people do,’ said Lady Beckenham.

‘Are you really determined about this?’ said Venetia.

‘Absolutely. I don’t want to have a baby growing up without a father. It’s not fair. I’ve booked into a clinic in Switzerland next week.’

‘But Dell—’

‘No, don’t. I’ve made up my mind. It’ll be a relief, really. Then I can get on with my life. Cedric is absolutely thrilled, says he can’t wait to have me back.’

‘Does Luc know—’

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? If he’d been a bit different, the least bit pleased even, or concerned about me, I’d have – well, I’d feel differently. But I told you, he was just vile. So that’s that.’

‘And you haven’t heard from him?’

‘No, nothing. He’s an absolute shit, Venetia, I should never have got involved with him. It’s just a relief that it’s over, actually. I’d forgotten how it felt to be one’s own mistress—’ She stopped suddenly, burst into noisy sobs. Venetia took her in her arms.

‘Adele, darling. Oh, poor, poor you—’

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Adele, ‘it was just saying that word. That beastly word. That’s all I am to him, you know, his mistress. I thought he loved me, but no. Just a bit of – amusement.’

‘Well, I know all about that,’ said Venetia soberly. Only of course Abigail Clarence hadn’t been a bit of amusement; she had been important to Boy, terribly important.

‘Of course you do,’ said Adele. ‘Oh, Venetia, we’re both in a bit of a mess, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. Yes, we certainly are.’

‘Are you still absolutely sure about a divorce—’

‘Absolutely. I couldn’t go on like that. Knowing she—’

‘No. No, of course not.’

‘But let’s not talk about that now,’ said Venetia, suddenly brisk. ‘Are you sure this clinic is a good one?’

‘Marvellous. Lots of chums have gone there. Much better than some seedy place in England.’

‘Shall I come with you?’

‘Oh – no. You’re sweet, but – no, I’ll be all right.’

Venetia had never been more sure of anything than that she wanted a divorce. It seemed to her the only release from at least some of her pain. She could not even consider staying with Boy; or rather allowing him to stay with her. Every time she thought about him with Abbie, in that pretty house, with the pictures and books he had bought her, playing the music they both enjoyed, discussing things like – well, she couldn’t even begin to imagine everything they might discuss. That was what was so awful. Abbie could give Boy something, a great deal, that she, Venetia, was incapable of, and the humiliation of that was appalling.

She had been terrified that people might have known, but it seemed they did not; he was clearly a most skilful deceiver.

Her mother, deeply shocked and distressed, surprisingly supportive, had counselled patience over the divorce, but Venetia was adamant.

‘I can’t even look at him, Mummy, without feeling sick. Sick and so – so stupid. How could I have let it go on and on, under my nose—’

‘Sometimes, Venetia, what’s under your nose is hardest to see.’

‘Obviously,’ said Venetia fretfully, ‘and then to think I was so exactly what Boy didn’t want, he must have found me so boring, so – so pointless. I can’t help it, not being clever—’

‘Venetia,’ said Celia firmly, ‘I can’t allow that. You are clever. You just—’ She stopped; Venetia glared at her.

‘Don’t start that. Just don’t. All right, so I didn’t go to Oxford like darling Barty. I wouldn’t have kept quiet about my best friend having an affair with someone else’s husband, either. Someone in my family.’

Celia was silent. Barty’s possible involvement was one of the things that most troubled her.

Boy had come to her, begged her to listen to him; he had been surprised when she had agreed.

‘But don’t ask me to intercede for you, Boy. It would do no good, and in any case it would be very dangerous.’

‘I don’t want that. But I want to try and explain to you. Try to make you understand. At least a little.’

She understood to a surprising extent.

He was almost as wretched as Venetia: confused, remorseful, and feeling desperately alone.

Abbie had come to mean a great deal to him; indeed he would go so far as to say that in a way he did love her. She had filled a large part of his life – and a considerable need in it – for several years. She interested, intrigued and inspired him; sex was the least important thing they shared. He also loved Venetia; it was impossible not to. She was so engaging, so good-natured, so amusing, and – and this was important to Boy – so beautiful.

She ran his home perfectly, she was a marvellous mother – if there was one thing in which they were in total accord, it was the children – and she was also extremely sexy. Every time Boy thought about her and her virtues, he groaned silently; how could a man married to such a paragon, need a mistress?

But he knew the answer, of course: he was, within his marriage to this paragon, very lonely. He could not talk properly to Venetia, he could only share a very few pleasures with her, she did not understand what he wanted to do, she had never shown any interest in helping him to find what that might be. Everyone thought Boy was a playboy, self-indulgent, self-seeking, but that was not quite true. He had been born to great wealth and yet to great emotional deprivation; his parents had never shown the slightest interest in him, or in helping him to develop intellectually or, indeed, in any way at all.

He was extremely clever, and very artistic, he could have turned his talents to many things; but without guidance in his early years, his self-indulgent tendencies had overcome any more worthy ones, and his charm and his gift for friendship, his talent for attracting women, combined with his large personal fortune, had dispatched him straight into the role of playboy. And then at the age of twenty-three he had found himself trapped in a marriage he would probably not have chosen and was certainly not ready for.

Boy’s enemies, or rather his detractors, he had very few enemies, would have mocked the notion of a desire to find himself and to do something useful or at least interesting with his life; Lady Celia Lytton, despite her early disapproval of him, was one of the few people to recognise that. She had been opposed to the marriage for many reasons, but one of the more potent was that she knew Venetia was in no way a satisfactory intellectual companion for him.

She was saddened by Venetia’s distress and at the affair, but she was hardly surprised by it; indeed she was forced to admit that Abbie Clarence was a very compatible partner for Boy. It had been she who had encouraged him to open his auction house, she who had introduced him to several young artists for the gallery, she who had told him quite forcibly that a man of his intelligence and talents should not be spending his days on the golf course or at the races. She had been, in fact, and in many ways, more of a wife and certainly more of a companion, to him than Venetia had; and Celia found it hard not to feel at least some sympathy for him. She was not prepared to admit it to him; but she did, in the end, agree to ask Venetia to reconsider her demands for a divorce.

‘I’ve given Abbie up, of course, completely, I shall never see her again. I know it’s probably too late, but if you could only try to persuade Venetia that I do love her. In my own way. And I don’t want to lose her or the children.’

Celia said she would do what she could, while thinking there was very little prospect of the marriage continuing, and then asked him if Barty had had any idea of the liaison. Boy said he was absolutely certain that she had not.

‘I’m so glad,’ she said later to Oliver. ‘I would really have hated to think she was party to it in any way. It would be so absolutely out of character.’

Celia was right: Venetia was adamant. She wanted a divorce and as quickly as possible and she refused to consider any alternative.

‘If it wasn’t for the children, I would like never to see Boy again as long as I live. I certainly never want him in my house again. I can’t bear even to think about what’s been going on over the last four years. He’s an absolute brute and I hate him. I just want the marriage to be over. Fast.’

Celia had thought this might drive Boy back to Abbie Clarence; but it did not. He remained true to his word. That relationship was over for him as well.

‘I feel desperately sorry for Venetia,’ Celia said to her mother as they lunched one day, ‘but I have to admit to a certain sympathy for Boy as well.’

Lady Beckenham smiled at her: an odd, rather cool smile.