Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (64 page)

Charlie had suggested the meeting: ‘To discuss Jenna’s future. Just informally, of course, I don’t want to involve anyone else at this stage. But you are her uncle, after all, and I thought therefore we should be in close contact.’

‘Of course. But I don’t see there’s much of a problem at the moment,’ said Jamie, ‘she’s a minor, we will continue to administer her trust fund until she comes of age. You, as her stepfather, will continue to have daily care of her. And I’m sure you will do that conscientiously. She’s very fond of you, she was telling me that only the other day, when she came to have supper with me.’

‘That’s good to know,’ said Charlie, ‘and of course I’ll do – I am doing – everything in my power to take care of her, and to help her through this.’

‘I know you are. Now, in the immediate future, your own financial situation is, as I understand it, pretty straight forward.’

‘Well – I have the income from my new company. Which is fairly puny.’

‘Ye-es. But I mean the day-to-day stuff. You will clearly continue to take responsibility for her.’

He had been faintly surprised that Barty had not changed that arrangement, had not asked him – or Kyle – to take it on. But then, whatever else, Charlie was wonderfully good with Jenna, who loved him dearly. And, of course, she would hardly have expected a guardianship to come into play so soon. Poor Barty. He cleared his throat, fixed his eyes on Charlie.

‘Of course I will. And I want her to have as little change as possible in her life. For instance, I would like her to stay at Dana Hall. The fees would presumably come out of the original trust fund? The one not subject to the will.’

‘Oh, yes, they certainly would.’

‘And – her day-to-day expenses, her clothes, her spending money, the upkeep of her pony, all that sort of thing?’

‘Yes. All of it. Naturally, we would have to set up some kind of immediate system to enable us to pay all those bills direct, out of the estate, certainly until probate has been granted, but – yes. And the housekeeping, food and staff, that will come out of the trust fund too. Cathy’s school fees and other maintenance, I imagine you will meet from your own funds, the salary you draw from your own company.’

‘Yes, of course. Not that it is very lucrative at the moment. I’ve been forced to neglect it, obviously, what with other claims on my attention. But within the next few months, I hope I can nurse it back to life.’

‘I hope you can, too,’ said Jamie.

‘What happens to the company? To Lyttons?’

‘Lyttons?’ Jamie managed to look as puzzled as Charlie himself. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘Where will the shares go now? I’m very shaky on such matters.’

‘Well, it is, of course, subject to probate. Half the shares are already in Jenna’s trust fund, of course.’

‘And the rest? Is there any chance they might go on the market? Once probate is granted, and the way ahead is clear?’

‘I very much doubt it. Lyttons is not a publicly quoted company. Of course, the other trustees might feel now was the time to float part of the company, I believe that’s an increasing trend in England at least. But that wouldn’t happen in the foreseeable future.’

‘Well – ’ there was a pause. Charlie was clearly thinking, or pretending to think. ‘ – I am part of the family now. More than ever, it could be argued. Perhaps it might be possible for me to obtain a few shares?’

‘It – might be,’ said Jamie carefully, ‘but I’m not sure how. Lyttons is a family company. The Lytton family have an option to buy the UK shares, which I understand they intend to exercise. That is not subject to the will. Anyone who takes those shares under the will takes them subject to that option. You could put in a request, when probate has been granted, to buy some of the US ones. I have no idea how we would value them. But I could put it to the board—’

‘Yes, I see. Oh dear, we’re rushing ahead, rather, aren’t we?’

‘I’m not,’ said Jamie mildly.

‘Well, as you say, it’s all going to take time. There’s no rush. But the thing is – I would like to think I had a few shares, was part of the Lytton family firm. As I am raising a member of the family. A very important member.’

For which you clearly feel you should get a few free shares, thought Jamie. Oh dear. Jenna might love Charlie, she undoubtedly did love him; she was certainly very dependent on him emotionally. And Charlie was her legal guardian. But he was not to be trusted. That much was very clear. And there was still the ongoing matter of the forged cheques. Barty would still be alive but for that.

This was a chilling thought, which Jamie, like the handful of other people who knew the facts behind Barty’s return, tried to dismiss. It had been a ghastly accident; nobody’s fault. That was the only way to think about it. Otherwise they would all go mad.

Marcus Forrest smiled at Jay; Jay smiled back. They appeared to be two civilised, successful men, sharing a pot of excellent New York coffee. In fact they were gladiators, about to go into battle. A battle over editorial control of Lyttons London, and how far that control should extend. It was a difficult one.

‘Perhaps we should start by looking at how you functioned when Barty was alive,’ said Forrest. ‘As I understand it, you discussed virtually everything with her: major purchases, of books, that is, and the subsequent contracts, promotional budgets, publication schedules—’

‘Yes,’ said Jay, ‘that’s correct. But—’

‘Jay, let’s not get involved in further detail at this stage. And then she, and the board of course, had approval of your twice-yearly budgets, any major expenditure, staff changes at a senior level—’

‘Yes—’

‘Right. Well, I see no reason for that to change, do you? You and I can work in exactly the same way.’

‘I’m – not sure that’s going to be possible,’ said Jay. ‘Not in quite the same way.’

Marcus Forrest raised his eyebrows. He had rather fine eyebrows, very thick and blond; he was rather fine looking altogether, very patrician, very East Coast, fair, with a narrow face, a long nose, and very light blue eyes. He was tall, thin, elegant and very witty, good company; Jay had always liked him. And admired him, had admired Barty’s judgement in hiring him. He was clever, a brilliant editor, possessed of a good editorial instinct. Exactly like Jay. There was one big difference though; Forrest was an intensely hard worker.

‘Why?’ he said now. ‘Why can’t we go on like that? It seemed rather gloriously simple to me.’

‘Because,’ said Jay, ‘if you will forgive me for speaking frankly—’

‘Of course.’

‘Barty had a very clear grasp of the British market. We didn’t have to explain anything to her. She knew many of the authors personally, the old stalwarts, that is, she had met all the new ones; she knew the retail outlets, the major figures in English publishing, she had always been – in effect anyway – a Lytton.’

‘I see. And does being a Lytton – in effect – bestow upon one some special powers of editorial judgement?’

‘We like to think so,’ said Jay, with a grin, ‘although not always, of course. But – what I mean is, Barty was English. She absolutely understood the English market. Decisions could be quickly made. Explanations were inevitably brief. We had developed a shorthand. I think that to carry on in exactly that way would be difficult . . .’

Forrest nodded, as if in agreement; then he said, ‘Would you say members of the family had ever been able to get around Barty?’

‘No,’ said Jay. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s a pretty formidable force you have over there. Headed by the redoubtable Lady Celia.’

‘Hardly headed,’ said Jay. ‘I’m the editorial director, Celia is more of a figurehead these days—’

‘Oh really? She seems very active in the company to me. Marvellous woman, I do admire her.’

‘We all admire her,’ said Jay carefully.

‘But – she must be what – late sixties? Early seventies?’

‘Something like that. Past retirement age.’

‘Well – yes. Past it. But not actually retired. Barty had been trained by her. And brought up by her. Had grown up with all of you.’

‘Yes. I don’t quite see where this is leading.’

‘It’s leading me, Jay, to certain conclusions. That an old woman is a powerful force in that company. Too powerful, some would say. That the one person who should have been able to countermand her was – let us say – in awe of her.’

‘Absolutely untrue,’ said Jay.

‘Indeed? I had observed a degree of deference in Barty when Lady Celia came over here.’

‘She might have appeared deferential. But Barty would never have agreed to anything she didn’t approve of.’

‘I’m not so sure. Those military memoirs of General Dugdale’s, for instance, you paid an absurd price for them. He was a friend of Lady Celia’s, I believe.’

‘Marcus, I don’t quite like—’

‘And I believe Lady Celia had expressed the view that you should republish the Buchanan saga?’

‘Yes.’

‘Barty didn’t like that idea. She told me.’

‘None of us was sure about it.’

‘She also told me she was afraid she’d have to let it through; that she would trust Lady Celia’s legendary judgement. Jay, I suggest to you that Barty was not completely in control of Lyttons London.’

‘She didn’t need to be,’ said Jay. He was growing indignant now. ‘She trusted us. We ran it.’

‘I know that. With what amounted to insufficient accountability. In my view. Given your shareholding in the company I would like to see that accountability increased. As for any lack of knowledge of the London market, I can easily rectify that. I intend to spend a fair bit of time there, getting to know it intimately. Precisely so that any judgements I make are well-informed. I thought I would make my first visit in about a month’s time. I have no intention of playing the heavy father, I assure you. Now, this new series about the queens of England by Lady Annabel Muirhead, is it really such a good idea? There are several rather similar works coming out next year and—’

Jay arrived back in London exhausted, and called a board meeting; he said it was absolutely essential they pressed on with exercising their share option.

‘It’s already, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, mid-April. And if we don’t get control of the company we’re just not going to survive.’

‘Dear, dear Madame André. Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you, I never thought I would, you know. Now this is my sister, my twin sister Venetia, and this is my son, Lucas. Can you believe it, Madame André, that little tiny boy you sent off with the toy cow in his hand is this young man?’

The fluent French stopped; Venetia had only understood half of it, but she was touched by Madame André’s response, a tearful rush of affection, cries of ‘
Ma chère, chère Mam’selle Adele
’, as she embraced first Venetia, then Lucas, commented on his height, his good looks – ‘
comme il est beau
,
Mam’selle
’ – on how he had grown up in the intervening years.

And Adele stood there, tears streaming down her face, smiling at the same time, and Lucas put his arm round his mother’s shoulders and stood there too, smiling, half embarrassed but quite clearly very moved, looking around him, at the dark poky room which was the last, the very last he had seen of Paris, almost twenty years earlier.

The name touched Adele more than anything: the name, the silly name which had first annoyed, then amused her, and that had finally been so powerful in its ability to evoke memories. She heard it again and again, spoken in Luc’s voice, hundreds, possibly thousands of times, over their short, difficult history, as she met him, fell in love with him, bore his children – and left him. Without saying goodbye. And then received the last, final, sweet, sad letter from him, telling her that he was going into hiding, sent ‘With all my love
ma chère, chère Mam’selle Adele
.’

Lucas was reluctant to leave; she was surprised. Like herself, he spoke perfect French; he questioned Madame André endlessly. Had she grown up in Paris? In what other districts had she lived? What had Paris been like during the occupation? What did she remember of him and his sister, and of course his papa, what could she tell him of him as a young man?

‘Your papa found this place for your
maman
,’ she said. ‘He came here one evening and looked at it, and told me he was bringing his young wife here, that she was English, and expecting a baby. I told him it was not ideal to live on the top floor with a baby, but he said he knew she would love it. He was very handsome, Lucas; you look very like him. And very charming, and so excited, it was to be a surprise for your mother, you see, she knew nothing of it.’

‘He gave me the key,’ said Adele, smiling at the memory, ‘over lunch at La Closerie des Lilas and then said he would take me to the door which it fitted. Or something like that.’

And then she stopped smiling as the memory began to hurt, and said it was time they left.

She sat in her room that first night at the small hotel where they were staying, just off the Boulevard St Germain, so dangerously near her memories, and felt at first that her heart would break. There she had lived with Luc, and their two small children, in what had, for the most part, been considerable happiness and there she had left him, driven away from him out of Paris, out of France, out of his life. Without – and again she thought it, forced herself to think it – without saying goodbye.

Lucas was going out with Venetia; Adele couldn’t face it. Venetia was treating him to what she called a posh dinner at Maxims; he had his father’s love of glamour, and was struggling not to appear too excited. Adele opened her window and looked out. It was still only seven and a perfect evening; Paris was bathed in the golden light which is its speciality, dancing on the tender young leaves of the chestnut trees, settling on the silver-grey rooftops. She could hear the car horns in the street below, the gendarme’s whistles, the pigeons calling, the unmistakable sounds of Paris; suddenly, she knew what she wanted to do.

She called Venetia in her room, and told her where she was going; and then left the hotel. She walked along the Boulevard St Germain, up towards the Place St Sulpice, until she could hear the fountains; she turned the corner and there they were, the long, leaping, noisy row of them. She stood there staring at them and suddenly she was no longer Adele, middle-aged, lonely and unhappy, she was the Adele who was twenty-four again, young, hopeful, tender, and in love. She could feel the handles of the pram in her hands, the wheels bumping on the cobbles, could hear little Noni laughing, see Lucas’s small face peaceful as he slept; she stopped at the corner, the corner of the street where she had lived all those years ago, and heard Luc calling her, laughing, breathless, trying to attract her attention, felt his arms on her shoulders, swinging her round to kiss her. It was safe, that life, that other happy life, safe in the past; she had not spoilt it by then, had not thrown it ruthlessly away, it was still hers to live and to savour.