Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (55 page)

Well, none of it would trouble her very much longer. She could leave them all behind her. Of course, it was dreadful to think of Clio growing up without her; but she was perfectly happy with all her cousins, and Adele was no use to her as a mother any more. She would get over it. The only thing which really troubled her was Geordie reclaiming Clio. That was a dreadful thought. So she had added a codicil to her will, saying that in the event of her death, Clio was to live with Venetia, and not with Geordie. She hadn’t asked Venetia, but she knew she wouldn’t mind. It would be the last thing Venetia could do for her. That was the other truly dreadful thought, leaving Venetia behind. They had always said they would die together as very old ladies, drive their car off a cliff, the beloved Austin Seven which still sat in Boy’s vast garage, stowed behind his Bentley and Venetia’s new Aston Martin. Very occasionally they got it out – it always started at once – and drove sedately round the West End, enjoying everyone staring at them, two identical and rather grand middle-aged ladies, packed into a very small pillar-box-red car.

Only of course they hadn’t done that for a very long time.

Adele had decided exactly when she was going to do it: while the wedding was actually taking place. That way there was no possible risk of discovery. She would just phone Venetia in the morning and tell her she was ill, and couldn’t face it. Everyone remotely involved with the family would be at the church, and then at the reception, even Nanny and Clio, who was to be a bridesmaid, and her own housekeeper, who was helping in Cheyne Walk; she would be quite quite safe. Undiscovered for many hours. And by the time they finally came to look for her, it would be too late. Her friends the pills would have taken her away.

CHAPTER 29

It was extraordinary, she thought: that she should have known him so well, known when he was happy and when he was excited, when he was sad, out of sorts, when he had the stomach ache that plagued him (she kept telling him he should see a doctor, thought it might be an ulcer), when he was tired, when he was hungry, when he was hopeful, when he was in despair, know all those things without having to be told; that she should know all his odd habits, the way he tugged at his ear when he was thinking, wrinkled up his nose when he was about to laugh, took a deep breath when he was going to tell one of his terrible jokes. And that she should have spent so much time working with him, getting cross with him, worrying about him, wanting to please him, laughing at the terrible jokes, being teased by him; had watched him in horror sometimes when he came in for an important meeting wearing one of his most lurid shirts, or had had his hair cut much too short by his barber so that he need not go again for a long time (and spend another two dollars); know what he thought about everything from politics (Democrat) and religion (Reform Synagogue) to the best way to make a pastrami on rye (hot pastrami, cold bread, French mustard) and the best cure for a hangover (prairie oyster); that she had known all these things, and yet had never realised that he was so exactly what she had been looking for, someone funny and honest and absolutely reliable and kind (and, all right, sometimes bad-tempered, and, OK, often argumentative, just for the sake of it, and yes, occasionally arrogant and quite probably fairly selfish); someone she could love and trust and be happy with; and terribly, terribly sexy too.

How had she not seen that at least? How had she just thought of him as funny, mournful-looking, too skinny, badly dressed – no, appallingly dressed – not as someone who could just touch her hand and make her want him, want him so badly, his mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts, his skin against her own, the very centre of her focussed on him, aching, tugging, pulling, softening with desire, so that she was quite incapable of concentrating on anything else at all.

‘It’s just as well you’re going away for a bit,’ he said one night, as they lay, happily sated, desire temporarily spent, in her bed, ‘otherwise Neill & Parker would be dead in the water. How did I ever get through my life, I wonder, without this – ’ he kissed one breast ‘ – and this – ’ he kissed the other ‘ – or this – ’ as his hand moved over her stomach ‘ – or these lovely things – ’ smoothing her thighs.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, quite briskly, propping herself up on one elbow, studying him intently. ‘I’ve wondered the same myself, about me, I mean. Well, never mind. We managed somehow. It just wasn’t so much fun.’

‘It was not. I never had so much fun.’

‘Never?’

‘Never. Well – maybe once. One time I can remember.’

She looked at him, suspiciously.

‘Nick, what are you saying?’

‘That I once had nearly this much fun.’

‘With? This isn’t very tactful.’

‘Sorry, baby. Well, it was with this girl. This young woman. Now what was she called? Oh, yes. Mother. That’s the one. She was great great fun. She took me to Coney Island for the very first time and bought me balony on a roll, and took me on the big dipper and—’

‘And that was better than – than being in bed with me?’

‘Oh, not better, I didn’t say that. I said nearly as good. In fact – ’ kissing her again ‘ – it was pretty much the same, swooping and zooming, thinking, oh my God, here we go and I can’t stand this, it’s so exciting and – hey, shall I try and work through the whole thing with you?’

‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t think I like being compared with a heap of metal.’

‘It’s not the metal I’m comparing you with, it’s the sensations it evokes. But – no, I just changed my mind. You are definitely better. Well, I think so.’

She lay back laughing. It was wonderful to be so happy.

They had worried at first about Mike – ‘It’ll be a bit like a divorce for him, really,’ said Izzie soberly – but he had been delighted, happy for them both (although telling Izzie repeatedly that Nick wasn’t nearly good enough for her).

He was a little sad; of course he was. But they were as careful, as tactful as they could be, ate dinner with him every night, asked him to go for walks, to the cinema, to bars with them, until he said he was beginning to think there might be something wrong with their relationship, if they needed him around so much.

They didn’t have very long together, before she went to London: only just over a week. But, as Nick remarked, you could do a lot in a week . . .

She was still worried, of course, about facing Adele, and the others; she asked Nick what he thought.

‘Do you think I’m very wicked?’ she said; it was the night before she left, and she was very nervous.

‘Honeybunch, it wasn’t wicked. The guy was separated from his wife, you were quite sure of that when you slept with him. I don’t see that as a qualification for going to hell. Purgatory, maybe—’

‘How do you know about purgatory?’ she said curiously.

‘I had a Catholic girlfriend once. Catholics and Jews have a lot in common, you know.’

‘Oh.’ She hadn’t really asked him about his previous romantic life; perhaps it was time. He knew after all, about hers; her brief and heady history. ‘How – how many girlfriends did you have? Proper ones, I mean?’

‘I only ever was interested in the improper ones,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘And there were – let me see – only half a dozen of them.’

‘Half a dozen! That’s a lot.’

‘Darling, I’m nearly thirty. You’re not in love with a monk, you know.’

‘Of – of course not. But – well, what I meant was – well—’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I never did love any of them. Even the most improper. Not how I love you, anyhow. I see them as training grounds.’

‘How very coarse.’

‘I am very coarse. That’s one of the things you have to get used to. Oh, I suppose, yes, I was very fond of a couple. This Catholic girl, she was fun, she was Irish—’

‘An Irish Catholic, and she let you sleep with her!’

‘Did I say that?’

‘Well – no. But—’

‘You can have a pretty good time with your clothes on, I’d say,’ he said, ‘look at us, all these months.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And a lot of fun trying to get them off. I never did succeed with her. But there was one important girl. You should know about her, I guess. I nearly thought about marrying her—’

‘You
nearly
thought about it? What stopped you?’

‘I met Mike,’ he said laughing, ‘and I found his proposition much more attractive. Now stop worrying, Princess. I love you. More than I would have believed possible. OK?’

‘OK,’ she said.

He came to see her off at Idlewild. It felt awful to be parting from him so soon; she said so.

‘It feels terrible. But we’ll survive. And you’ll have all those smart people to console you, at least. What do I have? Mike. And Joanie.’

‘Mike’s promised to look after you,’ she said, kissing him. ‘I asked him yesterday. And while I’m away, go to the doctor. About your stomach ache, OK?’

‘I might,’ he said. She knew what that meant of course. He wouldn’t.

She had bought, at the last minute, something to wear to the wedding, a dress and jacket in dark red wool, far too old for her, but she simply didn’t care. It was the first half-suitable thing she could find. No one was going to look at her, after all. And she couldn’t spare the time to go looking for anything better.

Noni was late; maybe they’d miss the plane, thought Izzie, with a stab of hope, maybe they’d miss the wedding, it’d be the perfect solution, and it wouldn’t be her fault . . .

‘Izzie, darling, sorry, so sorry. Oh, hi, Nick, how lovely to see you. Now come along, Izzie, we’re late, my fault, overslept, ignored the wake up call . . .’

Halfway across the Atlantic, Izzie could see there was not the slightest danger of Noni even beginning to quiz her about Geordie, or indeed about anything at all. She was absolutely absorbed in herself. The chatter went on and on, an endless stream; then she suddenly announced she was exhausted, put on her eye mask, curled up against Izzie, and slept for most of the remaining journey.

Izzie’s father was waiting for her at the airport; he opened his arms and she went into them.

‘My darling, you look wonderful, what have you been doing?’

‘Oh – you know. Working very hard.’

‘Working very hard with one of those divine boys, if you ask me,’ said Noni, giving Sebastian a kiss. ‘He came to see her off at the airport, terribly lovey dovey they were, you just ask her about it. Now, are you going to take me back with you?’

‘Yes, that’s the arrangement,’ said Sebastian. ‘I promised Venetia.’

‘How’s Maman?’

‘Oh – you know.’

‘Yes,’ she said with a sigh, suddenly solemn again, ‘I do know. Well – never mind. Perhaps the wedding will cheer her up.’

They both looked at her doubtfully.

‘So is it true, are you really all – what did she say – lovey dovey with one of those boys?’

‘Yes,’ said Izzie, kissing her father, smiling happily. ‘Yes, I am. The tall skinny one.’

‘Mike.’

‘No, Nick.’

‘Oh yes, of course. Well, that sounds very nice. I’m delighted. And are you going to marry him?’

‘Not for a very long time. And if I am, you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, I’m terribly, terribly happy, it’s too good to be true. Now, do I really have to go to this dinner tomorrow?’

‘My darling, of course you do. Celia would never forgive you if you didn’t. And nor would Kit. It really is a three-line whip. I can see you’re very tired, but if you get a good sleep tonight, and have a quiet day tomorrow, you’ll be fine.’

‘But—’

‘Isabella, no buts. It’s the official pre-wedding dinner, the whole bloody lot of them will be there—’

‘And it’s at Lord Arden’s house?’

‘It is indeed, in Belgrave Square. Very grand. Cheyne Walk is already in the grips of all the caterers and florists, dreadful business, the whole thing. Anyway, you go off to bed now and try to sleep. Take a pill, I would. These long flights play havoc with your system. Welcome home, darling, it’s so lovely to have you here.’

She felt a stab of guilt; he must be very lonely. Of course he had Celia, but she was, after all, married to Lord Arden, she couldn’t spend all her spare time with him. And Sebastian was beginning to look older now, at last, the golden hair quite white, the face heavily lined. Well, he was seventy-five. It always gave her a shock when she thought about that; most of the time she was able to ignore it, he was so full of energy and emotional vigour. But he seemed perfectly well and was very happy. He was delighted about Kit’s marriage, he adored Clementine, and although he was sad about their move to Oxford, she had made him promise to go and stay every weekend with them.

‘I won’t, of course, but I’ll go pretty often.’

He was just starting a new book, he said – ‘well, what else would I be doing with my time’ – and had a couple of lecture tours booked – ‘one in America, so that’ll be nice, be able to see a bit of you there. And Jack and Lily too, such a pity they can’t come over for the wedding, but she’s much too frail, poor old soul—’

Izzie refrained from pointing out that Lily was exactly ten years younger than her father.

‘Is – is Adele going to the dinner?’

‘Oh, I expect so. She’s very down, of course, but it’s such a special occasion. And Venetia will take care of her.’

‘Is she – is she all right?’

‘Well, she’s under this psychiatrist chap, so I imagine there’s some progress being made. She doesn’t look too good to me, I must say. Now, off you go to bed. I’ll tell Mrs Conley to bring you some hot milk. That still your favourite tipple?’

Izzie said it was, kissed him and went upstairs to her room, wondering how harshly he would judge her when he knew the truth. Which of course he would.

Venetia had written to her; it was waiting for her in her room, a cool, warning note.

I can see you felt you had to come, but I must ask for your complete discretion. No one in the family has any idea what has happened, and that is what Adele still clings to. She is in a very fragile state; I think any kind of confrontation with her would be a grave mistake. Of course you will both be at the wedding, and possibly the pre-wedding dinner, but it should not be too difficult for you to avoid contact with one another. Apart from then, I see no reason for you to meet. Please respect my wishes in this. Venetia.

Not even the sleeping pill helped Izzie through that night.

Barty had been rather afraid she would start to miss Charlie. She didn’t: not exactly. But her decision to leave him was already becoming blurred, confused by undeniably happy memories, a sense of regret – and dreadful guilt. The guilt was the worst.

She knew she should not have married him, purely to ease her loneliness, to rescue her from the prospect of a dried-up, widowed old age. She had used him in her own way, as much as he had used her. She would, of course, make him a very good financial settlement so that he could buy an apartment, possibly even set up his wretched classic car business. Charlie would be fine. He was a supreme pragmatist.

No, the real guilt was about the girls; so happily settled in their new lives, with their new parents, in their new school. Would they be able to remain in it happily together now? Probably not. She was going to break into their friendship, trample on it brutally; say right, sorry, but everything is changing again and you’re going to have to deal with it as best you can. It was a very tough prospect for them. It would have been tough for two adults; for two rather difficult little girls, one of them extremely vulnerable, it would be very harsh.

But – what could she do? Stay with Charlie, pretend, as parents had done since the beginning of time, that all was well, playing out a polite farce, waiting until the girls were old enough to cope with it? And when would that be? When they were sixteen? Eighteen? Twenty-one? How could you put a timetable on it? On bringing an end to security, happy memories, shared lives. It was hideous; for lack of anyone else to talk to, she invited Sebastian to join her for dinner, told him, falteringly, of the appalling mistake she had made, of Charlie’s deception, of her sense of remorse and shame. And asked him what he thought she should do.