No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (52 page)

Lily Fortescue was in high spirits that night.

‘Done an audition for CB,’ she said to Jack, ‘got a part in his next revue.’

‘Oh my darling, that’s wonderful. I’m so thrilled for you, so proud. What part will you play?’

‘Oh, lots of parts,’ said Lily, who found Jack’s conviction that she was the greatest star since Mistinguett touching, but rather hard to live up to, ‘but a couple of really good numbers. Song and dance. You know.’

‘Darling, you are clever. When does it open?’

‘Oh, not till the spring. Rehearsals don’t even start till after Christmas. So I can carry on with the Follies for now.’

‘Splendid! Now come along, darling, you’ve got to keep your strength up. What do you want to eat?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m very hungry. Tell you what, I’d love some lobster.’

‘You shall have it.’

She had sophisticated tastes, Lily did, for a girl who was born and grew up in a small house in Peckham, in a family of seven. She had met Jack Lytton at a party in the Silver Slipper one night, and she had been very taken by him, with his golden good looks, and his rather dashing, boyish charm. She enjoyed his company very much, and was intrigued to hear that he was related to Lady Celia Lytton.

‘She’s lovely, isn’t she, in all the society papers. I saw a picture of her at the Black Ascot, looking really beautiful. And she’s got twins hasn’t she, twin girls; yes, I thought so, there was a picture of the three of them in the
Tatler
last week.’

Lily was an avid reader of the society magazines; she read them rather as if she were studying for an examination. As a result she could tell you exactly when Ascot, or Goodwood, or Queen Charlotte’s Ball was each year, and what the more prominent society ladies had worn to each one.

She was twenty-four years old and extremely pretty, with dark red hair, brown eyes, and a glorious figure; her voice, with its carefully refined accent was pretty too, oddly musical, and she had very nice manners. She was also very kind-hearted, and after two months, was genuinely fond of Jack; he was fun and he was kind and considerate as well. She wasn’t exactly hopeful that their relationship might blossom into something permanent, but she was not unhopeful either; he did frequently express undying love for her, and was waiting at the stage door for her almost every night, whatever the weather. Moreoever, he had not yet proposed any hanky panky, although his kisses were increasingly passionate (and rather good); Lily liked that. In any case, it relieved you of worry; although she had been to one of the new contraception clinics like all modern girls, there was still that gnawing anxiety for two or three days each month.

That night he took her to the Savoy – special occasion he had said. She was looking at him fondly, thinking for the hundredth time how handsome he was, when he said, ‘I’ve got some good news tonight too, Lily.’

‘What?’ she said.

‘I’ve got a job. In my brother’s firm.’

‘What, the publishing one?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that exciting?’

‘It is,’ she said, ‘very exciting. I didn’t know you were as clever as that, Jack,’ she added, and then realised she hadn’t been exactly tactful. He didn’t seem to mind.

‘Well I am,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘and I’m going to have my own department as well. A military list it’s called.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I will be publishing books about—’

‘War?’ she said, ‘how boring.’

‘Not really,’ he said. He did sound hurt now; Lily quickly adjusted her expression to one of breathy enthusiasm. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t understand them,’ she said quickly.

‘Oh, I’m sure you would. And not just about war. About regiments and battles, and – well things like that.’

‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘yes that does sound very interesting. That’s exciting, Jack. Congratulations. Will you earn lots of money?’

‘Not lots. Not at first, anyway. But a fellow has to start somewhere. And it’s better than nothing. All I’ve been doing up to now is spending my army pension and my inheritance. Both of which are pretty puny.’

‘Yes. And it is the family firm,’ said Lily, ‘so I suppose you’ll be a part of that from now on. I seem to have got a young man with prospects.’

‘You have indeed. So – raise your glass to me, Miss Fortescue. A successful London publisher sits here before you. Aren’t you proud?’

‘Very,’ she said.

‘And the best thing is, I think I’ll be able to afford my own place pretty soon now. So—’ he smiled at her, his intense blue eyes, with their long, feminine lashes, gazing into hers, ‘so we’ll have somewhere to go to be together. If – if you think you’d like that.’

Here we go, hanky panky, thought Lily, but she smiled back at him. She did quite think she’d like it, and it was about time, she was beginning to miss it. Still, no point in being easy to get; she certainly wasn’t having him thinking she was going to be a pushover.

‘Don’t be cheeky,’ she said, ‘and don’t you believe all you’ve heard about actresses, either.’

‘Darling, of course I don’t. Not all of it at any rate. Anyway, here’s to us. Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ said Lily.

It was Lily who introduced Jack to Guy Worsley; and Jack who introduced him to Oliver. Guy Worsley was among the friends with whom she went to the Silver Slipper, one night after the show; he was going out with one of the other girls, a pretty blonde called Crystal. Lily had met him once before; he was clearly very well connected, although without a title of his own, and seemed to know everybody. He was quite young, only twenty-five; he had left Oxford in 1916 with a First in classics, then tried to enlist, but failed because of what he called a slightly dicky heart. He spent the next two years at the War Office and was now working, with very little enthusiasm, in his father’s stockbroking firm. When Lily first met him she thought he might be a fairy, he had rather girly looks, soft brown, wavy hair, and large dark eyes. He was also, which confirmed this view, full of all the latest gossip, and took an inordinate interest in what everyone was wearing, including himself. The girl he was with however, said he was certainly nothing of the sort, quite the reverse indeed.

‘Very enthusiastic darling; can’t get enough.’

He had told Lily when she met him that he was writing a book; she remembered it now – it was one of her more endearing characteristics, and indeed one of her social graces, that she did remember such things – and asked him how it was going.

‘Oh, pretty well,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘in fact I’ve finished the first volume.’

‘And is it published yet?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no I’m afraid not. I haven’t even tried for that. It’s a saga you see, it’s going to go on in several volumes and I thought any publisher would want to see more than one volume. So I’m struggling away on the second.’

‘You must meet my friend, Jack Lytton,’ said Lily. ‘He’s a publisher. Come on, he’s over there, talking to that girl. Much too pretty for my liking. Jack, Jack, come and meet Guy. He’s written a book you can publish.’

‘Only if it’s about the army, Lily, remember,’ said Jack, grinning, shaking Guy Worsley’s hand. Guy Worsely said it wasn’t exactly about the army, although it did cover the war. ‘Crucial point, actually, girl’s fiancé gets killed, so—’

‘So it’s fiction?’ said Jack, and yes, Guy said, it was, and did Jack really only publish military books?

‘Well I do,’ said Jack airily, as if a large shelf-full was already being eagerly bought by the reading public, ‘but my firm publishes all sorts.’

‘And what’s your firm?’

‘Well, it’s not actually mine,’ said Jack, ‘but my brother’s. In fact, it’s the family firm. Lyttons, you know.’

Guy stared at him for a moment then said yes, actually, he did know. ‘Well, I’m sure they’d like to have a look at your book. I’ll tell them about it. It sounds jolly good.’

Guy said he wasn’t sure how good it was, and he would very much appreciate an opinion on it.

‘You must bring it in, show it to my brother,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll telephone you on Monday when I’ve had a word with him. Now come on Lily, on to the floor, I’ve asked them to play “Whispering” for us, told them it is our song.’

‘This is really rather good,’ said Celia looking up at Jack and smiling, ‘this book your friend sent in. I’d like to take it home and really get my teeth into it tonight. Did you say he’s writing several?’

‘Yes. Said they werea – a saga. I think that was the word he used. Lots of books about the same people.’

‘Interesting idea. There’s this book called
The Forsyte Saga
, you know, that everyone’s talking about. I was thinking we should try and find one of our own.’

‘Oh, I must tell him, he’ll be awfully bucked,’ said Jack, ‘he’s a frightfully modest chap, wasn’t expecting to get it published at all.’

‘Jack, there is no question at the moment of our publishing it,’ said Celia severely, ‘I simply said I’d like to read it properly. You mustn’t raise his hopes, it would be most unfair.’

‘Oh – all right. Now can I just show you this outline Teddy Grosvenor’s done about the Mutiny, awfully exciting, Celia, we’d sell a lot of copies I’m sure.’

‘Just leave it on my desk,’ said Celia, ‘I’ll look at it later today if I have time. Better still, show it to Oliver. It’s much more his bag than mine.’

‘Righto. I won’t say anything to Guy Worsley for a day or two, then?’

‘Not for a week or two. If I want to talk to him, I promise you’ll be the first to know.’

The Worsley book was actually extremely good. She found it hard to believe that it was a first novel, and that the author was so young. She felt the slight crawling of her skin that always greeted the discovery of a new talent: it had never failed her that sensation, it was an excitement, a thud of the heart and in the head, a rush of power that was almost sexual. All editors dream of making such discoveries; it is what empowers them, gives them authority and status. Celia had made several major discoveries in her time, spotting talent with a sureness and swiftness which sometimes surprised even her; since Oliver’s return and the onslaught of his interminable criticism, however, her shining confidence had been dulled, her judgement become diffident. But that day, reading the first chapter of Guy Worsley’s saga, she knew absolutely that it had to be acquired by Lyttons, and as quickly as possible.

‘It’s really quite wonderful,’ she said to Oliver. ‘It’s about a family living in Oxford and London, during and after the war. Buchanan they’re called; he’s the master of an Oxford college, rather eccentric, wears silk dressing-gowns, you can imagine the sort of thing, and the wife is rich in her own right, not an attractive figure exactly, but a very interesting one, leading her own life really. There’s a daughter whose fiancé has been killed in the war, and who decides to forge a career for herself in music, and a son who went through the war as a conscientious objector, working for the ambulance service, and is now studying medicine. All very topical: lots of strands, lots of cross-currents. And it’s beautifully written and extraordinarily well-plotted. Please read it, Oliver, it could be our answer to the Forsytes.’

Oliver said he was very busy but he would try to find time to read it; a couple of days later he told Celia he would like to make Guy Worsley an offer.

‘You get him in, Celia, you spotted him. I agree, it’s marvellous stuff. I think we should make him an offer. But I’d like to meet him first, make sure this isn’t just a flash in the pan, that there really are more in the pipeline. Does he have an agent?’

‘No. No, Jack said he didn’t. We have Jack to thank for him, really. He met him and told him to send his manuscript in.’

‘Good,’ said Oliver briskly, ‘I’m glad he’s making a contribution. Has he talked to you about his book on the Indian Mutiny by the way?’

‘Yes, just a bit,’ said Celia.

The meeting between Guy Worsley and the Lyttons took place the next day; it was an extremely happy occasion. Guy was put under contract with immediate effect: two hundred and fifty pounds was offered for the first book, with an option on the next two. After the meeting, Jack joined them all for a champagne lunch at Simpsons in the Strand.

‘Awfully jolly it was,’ he said to Lily that evening. ‘Honestly, my darling, there really isn’t much to this publishing lark. I’m having huge fun with it already.’

It was very odd: being forced through this essentially happy time without the one thing which made her properly happy. Celia sat in the chapel at Ashingham on Christmas Eve, thinking about Sebastian, and about how much she missed him, thinking that there were five more days to go before she could even speak to him, and trying not to think about what might have happened by next Christmas. She had moved into the next stage of adultery now; past the first rapture, past the initial guilt and fear, past settling into some kind of acceptance of it, had found herself in the new, hugely dangerous one, of wanting more, more time, more commitment, wanting some kind of progress.

She saw her mother’s eyes on her and smiled brilliantly; forced herself to concentrate on the service. Such a lovely service, with the crib and candlelight. All the children were there, Giles looking terrifyingly grown-up, Barty sitting beside him, sweetly serious, and the twins, giggling, whispering and nudging each other, silenced now and again by their grandmother. Jay was sitting next to Barty, who had her arm round him. He looked very well, and very much a little boy. He would start at the village school after Christmas; he could hardly wait, he told Barty.