Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (50 page)

‘You are cold?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I fear in the winter you will be. Central heating was beyond my means.’

‘I’m told that pregnancy raises the body temperature,’ said Adele cheerfully.

‘But I am not pregnant, I may be cold.’

‘Luc,’ said Adele sternly, ‘you told me you weren’t going to think of yourself any longer.’

‘Well I should have made an exception of how I would feel in the cold, perhaps. I detest it, it makes me miserable.’

‘No exceptions. Sorry.’

‘Very well.’

‘And Luc, is this really, really our home now?’

‘It is really, really our home. It is not very large I am afraid – but we will manage.’

‘But of course. I adore it so.’

It wasn’t very large; it was true. One large studio room, which would have to serve as dining room and living room, one large bedroom, and one tiny one ‘
pour le bébé
’, a minuscule kitchen and an even smaller bathroom, with a vast clawed-foot bath and an evil-looking water heater which emitted rasping, roaring noises and sent some yellowing water spluttering into the bath. But there was a balcony leading from the living room, with a wonderful view of the grey roof tops, the endless tiny balconies of Paris – ‘and if you listen carefully, when it is quiet, you can hear the fountains of St-Sulpice’ – and below them, the cobbled courtyard and three cats, sunning themselves in the heat.

‘It’s so beautiful. So absolutely beautiful. I love it.’

‘I love it too. And I love it more because you love it.’

‘And I love you, Luc.’

‘I am
entiché
, my beloved Mam’selle Adele,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing it, adding by way of explanation that
entiché
meant ‘smitten’. ‘I looked it up for you yesterday. Is it not a wonderful word?’

They ate their breakfast croissants, dipped into the bowls of coffee, sitting on the balcony; the sun was already warm. Adele stretched happily, then relaxed, smiled at him.

‘I’m so happy, Luc. And I feel wonderful today, not sick at all.’

‘Good. Now in a little while I have to go to work. I am a family man now, I have responsibilities.’

‘Luc—’

‘Yes,
chérie
?’

‘Your wife? You’ve actually left her?’

‘I have actually left her. Two days ago, as soon as I received your phone call.’

‘She must be quite – upset,’ said Adele carefully.

‘Oh, not so much. She fell out of love with me long ago, as I have told you. She finds me a little – unsatisfactory. Dull, not successful enough. But still has our rather large and extremely warm apartment, she has most of my money, she has her mother, and she has a very handsome and satisfactory lover of her own.’

‘Oh,’ said Adele, ‘oh yes, I see.’

‘It is the French way. I have told you before.’

‘Luc,’ said Adele, ‘if we are to live together happily, there is one thing I never want to hear about again.’

‘And what is that?’

‘The French way. Please.’

‘But it is such a good way,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘Look at us, the most happy result of it.’

There was such a profound lack of logic to this that Adele couldn’t even begin to unravel it.

CHAPTER 22

For three weeks now she had refused to see him; had felt sickened by him, by his secrecy, his dishonesty, by the thought of how wrong about him she had been. He tried, at first, to humour her out of it, had used all his usual tactics, an avalanche of gifts, of flowers, all of which she had returned, of interminable phone calls which she refused to take, had sat outside her office and her house; finally she had told him that if he wouldn’t leave her alone she would inform the police that she was being pestered. Then the letters began to arrive: cold, harsh letters, saying that clearly she had never felt anything for him, had failed absolutely to understand the depths of his feelings for her, had used him, taken what she wanted from him and now dared to think she could simply move on. And then finally, the emotional blackmail started, a low, shaken voice on the telephone, long, long letters berating himself, imploring her to think how desperate, how wretched he must feel, begging her forgiveness and for a chance to explain.

And finally, of course, she had given in; could stand out no longer against this assault, wretched and furious as she was with herself.

‘Very well, Laurence,’ she said, late one Friday afternoon when the prospect of yet another long, lonely, remorse-filled weekend proved finally too much for her, ‘I’ll meet you this evening. But not for dinner, not even for a drink. Just – meet you.’

‘Where?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Central Park—’

‘No, it’s too hot and crowded there. What about the Russian Tea Room?’

She liked the Tea Room, liked its dark, exotic air, the all-year-round Christmas decorations on the lights, the many clocks all telling a different time; Laurence had taken her there several times, usually after they had been to the Carnegie Hall, and they would sit, their heads filled still with music, savouring every sort of pleasure, fine food, wine, intriguing conversation – dangerous memories, Barty, be careful. But – they had to go somewhere.

‘Oh – all right. But only for – for as long as it takes to explain.’

‘Fine.’

She was dreadfully afraid that she was doing the wrong thing; but she lacked the strength any longer to do the right one.

Laurence was there already when she arrived, sitting at a table at the back of the restaurant; he looked dreadful, in spite of everything she felt a stab of remorse. He had lost weight, his face looked gaunt, his brilliant eyes dark now with exhaustion and everything about him, even his red-gold hair, was somehow colourless.

He stood up, reached out his hand. ‘Thank you for coming. Please—’ He gestured at the seat beside him.

‘Thank you.’ She sat down.

‘I’ve ordered tea. Nothing – dangerous.’

‘Good,’ she said briskly.

‘I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there would have been no need for it. Had you been honest with me.’

‘I wasn’t – dishonest,’ he said.

‘Of course you were. Untruthful, anyway.’

‘Not fully truthful. That’s different.’

‘Laurence, please don’t try and tie me up in knots. I don’t have the stomach for it.’

‘I’m not trying to tie you up in knots,’ he said, ‘merely stating the facts as I see them.’

‘Which is not how I see them. Or indeed anyone else.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he said, and the touch of arrogance was somehow welcome, a return to normality, ‘am I to be allowed to put my case? Or are you simply to be judge and jury and commit me without hearing any evidence at all?’

She looked at him; looked at him solemnly and for quite a long time in silence. Then she said: ‘Very well, Laurence. Put your case. Succinctly, please.’

He looked at her and half smiled. ‘Did you ever think of being an attorney,’ he said, ‘rather than a publisher?’

Of course, she should have known. That confronted by his apparently flawless, unarguable logic, interspersed with a little self-justification, and an emotion plea for clemency, she would have begun at least to see it from his viewpoint.

Which was that he had wanted to tell her: from the beginning. How he had been afraid only of making her anxious, in those early days, at the realisation that he held enormous power, not just over her own professional life but the company for which she worked. How it would have seemed embarrassing, a form of showing off, to say look what I’ve got, half the company you work for – ‘Yes, and I know how modest you are,’ said Barty briskly – how he had resolved each time he saw her, in those early days, to tell her, and how each time it had seemed more impossible; how after a while, he had ceased even to think of it; how falling in love with her as he had, caring for her so desperately, it had seemed less and less relevant.

He reminded her of his record with Lyttons New York: that there was in fact none. That he had never been to the offices – apart from the annual board meeting – had never taken any interest in the company, hardly knew what books they published, or what (more importantly, he told her with a half-smile) profits it made.

That none of the editorial staff except the most senior knew of his connection with it – ‘Why should they?’ – that it was hardly his fault if Stuart Bailey had not told her. ‘But again, why should he, how could he have known there was to be anything between us?’

He had, after all, only been left the company by his mother, he could hardly be blamed for that; he had never felt any interest in it whatsoever, had often thought of selling it but somehow never had.

And then that actually, in the early days of their relationship, had he been of a Machiavellian persuasion, he could have caused all kinds of difficulties and problems—

‘How?’ asked Barty feeling, reluctantly, a half-smile forming.

‘I could have insisted you were dismissed. So that I could see as much of you as I liked. I could have demanded you were instated as editorial director. I could have had your superiors fired, your inferiors promoted. I could have had the offices moved into Elliott House; I could have interfered in the advertising, the publishing schedules, I could have bought up Doubledays and Brentanos, I could—’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Barty. ‘I do get the idea.’

‘And I did nothing. Just sat tight and hoped – absurdly – that you’d never find out. And then you did. And you thought badly of me for it. It seems a little harsh.’

‘Well—’

‘In fact very harsh. What harm has it done you?’

‘A lot,’ said Barty simply. ‘It’s made me realise you aren’t who I thought you were.’

‘Oh, Barty, really! In what way?’

‘It’s hard to explain. But – it is a very big thing. Finding out you owned half the company I work for. When I imagined – of course – you had nothing to do with it. When I thought my work was something completely independent of you. You know how important that is to me.’

‘Yes. Although I don’t know quite why.’

‘Laurence,’ she leaned forward earnestly, ‘if you’d grown up like I have, needing to be grateful, feeling beholden, feeling less good than everyone else, you would know why. What I do, I do by myself.’

‘Really?’ he said, his eyebrows raised, his eyes on hers very sharp. ‘Is that so, Barty? You have done it all by yourself? You’d have got that job at Lyttons anyway, would you? Without your family connections?’

She scowled. It was a sore point.

‘Probably not. But having got it, I’ve made the most of it. And even more so here. That’s why I’m so insistent on working hard, not missing days, never being late, not going out to lunch. Because I’m earning my place. This book I’m publishing—’

‘Ah yes. The detective story.’

‘Yes. I’ve discovered it myself, I’m persuading the bookshops to take it, I’ve had a big say in the jacket, Lyttons London are looking at it now – that’s mine, Laurence, all mine. It matters so much to me, I can’t tell you.’

He was silent. Then he said, ‘Barty, you matter so much to me. I can’t tell you either how much. I can’t bear being without you. I’m desperately sorry I’ve deceived you as I have. It has all been a dreadful misunderstanding, I did it for the best possible reasons and I swear it will never happen again. Ever. Please believe me.’

She looked at him; wishing she could believe him, wanting to believe him. She had missed him – missed him a great deal. Life in New York had not been the same without him. He had been such a huge part of her life, ever since she had met him; hardly a day had passed without seeing him. And what he had done was only, perhaps, a further example of his damaged self: if he truly couldn’t see how wrong it had been, then was she right to blame him? Probably not. Just the same, it had not been honourable of him; knowing how much she cared about her work, knowing that she was actually, if not by nature, then certainly by nurture, a Lytton, surely, surely he must have seen that he should have told her. And – suppose he did decide to start taking an interest in the company: what then? She could leave, she supposed, leave Lyttons, go and work for another company, for Scribners or Doubledays. She wasn’t bound to Lyttons by chains after all.

She sighed.

‘What was that about?’

‘Oh – just a wish. That it hadn’t happened. That I hadn’t found out. That there hadn’t been anything to find out. It’s so sad.’

‘Why sad?’

‘Well, because it’s spoilt things. For ever.’

‘But Barty, why? What has it spoilt?’

‘Oh Laurence,’ she cried in an agony of exasperation, ‘it’s spoilt so much. How I see you. How I feel about you.’

‘I – still love you,’ he said, very quietly. ‘It hasn’t changed anything for me.’

‘That’s not the point. It’s changed a lot for me.’

‘So – the love for me – which you swore you did feel – has changed, has it? At the first major hurdle? That’s sad, Barty, that’s very, very sad. It makes me think it can’t have been very strong in the first place.’

‘Don’t,’ she said fretfully, ‘just don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Start confusing me, tying me up in knots. I can’t bear it.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘what can I do to convince you, Barty? How can I make you believe that I meant no harm, that Lyttons is nothing to me?’

‘You could – sell it,’ she said. ‘Just get rid of it.’

He sat there, staring at her, very seriously; then he began very slowly to smile. It was his triumphant smile, the one that heralded an idea: a big idea. Barty had seen it a few times, and it had amused her, the transparency of his delight in himself, the arrogance of his own absolute certainty that he was right.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I’m not going to sell it. That would be rather a shame, I think. Not to keep it in the family. But I’ve got another suggestion, Barty, which might appeal to you.’

‘What?’ she said wearily. ‘What’s your suggestion, Laurence?’

‘I want you to marry me,’ he said.

Barty stared at him; she felt first very hot, then ice-cold. She felt her heart begin to race and her head to swim; she swallowed hard, gripping the table, desperately trying to keep reality within her grasp.

‘Marry you?’ she said finally, and her voice was so weak, she could hardly hear it herself.

‘Yes. That’s what I want. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want you to marry me and—’

She took a deep breath. She had to say it, before she was swept away on this great rush of emotion and longing and fear and desire, had to get that at least set out, cleared out of the way.

‘And give up work, I suppose?’ she said, her voice stronger now. ‘Give up work and be Mrs Laurence Elliott, taking care of you and your houses, commissioning interior designers, spending my days shopping and at the Elizabeth Arden salon, that’s what you’d want, isn’t it, Laurence?’

‘Give up work?’ he said, and his expression was astonished, ‘of course not. I know you better than that, Barty, I would hope. Nothing could be more guaranteed to see you off than that. No, of course I would expect you to go on working. I’d want you to. I’m proud of you, of how clever you are. And then, you see, and this is my idea, I could give you Lyttons New York, that is, my share of it of course, as a wedding present. Now, isn’t that a wonderful idea?’