No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (85 page)

‘Thank you, Sir. Very kind.’

As he went past, Guy turned idly to look into the compartment; it was empty. Presumably they were in the restaurant car, having lunch or a champagne breakfast or something, before coming back to their comfortable seats. He felt quite resentful. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Still, they could probably afford it because they were clever and successful; they wouldn’t do something stupid like going to see someone a hundred miles away without first checking that they were going to be there.

Nice luggage too: very nice. That was a lovely pair of matching leather holdalls up there. With wonderful matching leather labels. Superb. When he was a successful author, that’s what he’d have. When he’d finally got the better of Jasper – what a ridiculous name, like the villain in a pantomime – Jasper—

‘Oh my God,’ said Guy, aloud, ‘oh my God.’

And blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming; then read again, the magical, incredible, truly unbelievable words: Lothian. Basil Street Hotel, London.

‘Right,’ said Matthew Brunning, ‘I’ve looked over the figures, Oliver. They appear to be just as you said. Not – good. But nothing that we can’t sort out for you.’

Oliver managed to smile. LM didn’t try. This was hideous. Sort out for them. As if they were junior employees. She felt sick.

‘Now, let’s just run over this again. The modus operandi, as it were. Brunnings would take over Lyttons, in its entirety. Take on all its debts—’

‘And its assets,’ said Peter Briscoe.

‘Ah, yes, its assets.’ He spoke as if they were negligible, of no import.

‘We would acquire the backlist, and those with the Lyttons imprint would take on the new combined logo – I’ve had our art department draw something up, I’ll show you later – as each edition expired. The dictionaries and the other reference works would remain as your own imprint. I would insist on that.’ He smiled as if this were an act of extraordinary generosity.

‘We would retain certain key members of staff: you, Miss Lytton, and Lady Celia, of course. The rest would be open to negotiation. There will have to be some what shall I say – economies made on the staff front, as I’m sure you would agree. Your costs are – quite high.’

‘We employ very high-calibre people,’ said Oliver, ‘they don’t come cheaply.’

‘Of course not. But you know, we have found here that the high-calibre people, as you call them, are not necessarily the best. Heads of department can direct quite junior people very satisfactorily.’

‘They can indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘but you know, they can also direct them into conformity, away from ideas, from lateral thought, from questioning.’

‘Really?’ said Matthew Brunning. He sounded impatient.

He was a dreadful man, LM thought; what were they doing here? Oliver was right, one of the things which had given Lyttons its excellence, given all the great houses excellence, was allowing people to question. To say why not? To push boundaries back. And to make mistakes. And waste money.

‘What about the art department staff?’ she said. ‘Our editors?’

‘Well, we have our own art department. I would see that as a major area for rationalisation. Frankly, I do consider your studio costs are very high. As to the editors, as I say, I would consider each man on his merits. Again, we have many extremely competent people here.’

‘Yes,’ said Oliver, ‘yes, I see.’

Competent was exactly what they were, thought LM: competent and no more.

‘And, of course, all your administrative staff would probably have to go. With the exception of one or two, not necessarily senior people. Our finance director, for example, would not be looking for any assistance from yours.’ He smiled slightly grimly. ‘Especially in the light of—forgive me—a certain lack of attention to detail.’

‘I am Lyttons’ finance director,’ said LM mildly.

Matthew Brunning looked at her. He flushed very slightly. ‘Ah. I had thought—well—’

‘But you’re right. There has been a lack of attention to detail. For which I blame myself entirely.’ She did not attempt to explain further. There seemed little point.

‘Anyway,’ said Matthew Brunning, ‘clearly these are matters which can be resolved in the fullness of time. The main point of this meeting is to reach heads of agreement. To provide a formal launching point for the new publishing house.’

‘Indeed, yes,’ said Peter Briscoe.

‘Now, I wonder if you’d like to look through this draft contract, Mr Briscoe. There are copies for you, Mr Lytton and you, Miss Lytton. Er—is Lady Celia joining us? I had thought—’

‘I hope so yes,’ said Oliver, ‘she has been delayed. She—she said she would be coming on to join us shortly.’

‘How long might she be? I have a luncheon appointment and . . .’

‘Oh, I’m sure she won’t be much longer.’

‘I’m going straight to the hotel,’ said Vanessa Lothian. ‘Are you going to your club?’

‘Yes, I think so. You wouldn’t like to have a quick luncheon with me first?’

She looked at him, appalled. Dick Marlone had already outlined in great detail what he had planned for the two of them at lunchtime.

‘No, I don’t think so. I’m not hungry.’

‘Very well. Can you take my wallet a moment? I want to sort out some papers.’

‘Of course. Nearly there, look, Romford already. We should arrive easily by twelve thirty.’

And at the hotel by one, and in her room with Dick Marlone by one fifteen. Excellent.

Celia was pacing up and down reception, waiting with diminishing hope for a phone call from Guy Worsley, telling herself at the end of each five minutes that she would wait five more, when a very tall man with white hair came in at the door. He raised his hat to her.

‘Good afternoon to you. I—I wonder if I might leave this letter for Miss Lytton. Miss LM Lytton.’

‘Of course,’ said Celia, ‘I’ll give it to her myself. I’m about to see her. Thank you.’

‘No, thank
you
. How very kind.’

Celia smiled at him graciously. ‘Would you like me to give her a message? As I am going to see her personally?’

‘Oh no, no,’ he said, ‘no, the entire message is contained within that note. Er—do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Celia Lytton?’

‘You do,’ said Celia, ‘yes.’

‘Good Lord,’ said the man. ‘Good heavens. This is indeed an honour.’

He appeared rather overcome. He held out his hand, half-bowed over Celia’s. ‘I had not thought to meet you today.’

‘Well, I’m not usually hanging about in reception,’ said Celia, briskly, ‘but it’s extremely nice to meet you too. And you are—’

‘Robinson is my name. Gordon Robinson.’

‘Ah,’ said Celia carefully. This was difficult territory indeed. ‘Mr Robinson, how do you do. How very nice to meet you. I’ve heard—’ No, don’t say you’ve heard a lot about him, Celia, possibly not a good idea, ‘I’ve heard you rather like books.’

‘I do,’ he said, and his rather pale face flushed. ‘I do indeed. And I have been most grateful for all the first editions you have sent my way.’

‘It was our pleasure. Really. And you must come in one day and browse through our archives. If you’d like that.’

‘I say!’ he said, ‘I most certainly would. How absolutely marvellous. Yes.’

‘Well, you will be very welcome. Although,’ she added, and she could hear the sadness in her own voice, ‘they may not be here for very much longer.’

‘Oh really?’ he said. He sounded alarmed. ‘I had not realised that.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, nor had I. Not properly. But while there’s life there’s hope. And all that sort of thing.’

‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had that brought home to me very forcibly.’

‘You have? That’s encouraging. Now, I shall give your note to LM. Thank you. And no doubt she’ll be in touch with you.’

‘I very much hope so,’ said Gordon Robinson. He smiled at her; an amused, almost conspiratorial smile.

He has a sense of humour thought Celia; he’s absolutely delightful. Very attractive too, in spite of his shyness. Exactly right for LM. Tall enough, even. Who would ever have imagined that Jay being run over and nearly killed would have led to this? Funny thing, fate. She watched him walking back along the street, swinging his umbrella. He looked as if he might be about to break into a dance.

Guy had watched, fascinated, from the end of the carriage as the Lothians returned to their compartment. Lothian was exactly as he had imagined him, tall, eccentric, distinguished-looking. His wife was extremely glamorous; with her dark red hair, her beautifully cut tweed suit. They were actually a very glamorous couple: far more so than he had made them in the book. God this was interesting. He moved up as soon as they had closed the door, stood in front of the next compartment, so that he could still just see them. She lit a cigarette, smoked it through a long cigarette holder. Lothian regarded her with what Guy could only describe as dislike. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it appeared to be discordant; she finally stubbed out her cigarette, took a copy of
Vogue
from her case and sat reading it, ignoring Lothan totally. It was excellent theatre.

He hung back at Liverpool Street; he knew where they were going after all, and he didn’t want them to notice him, to suspect he was following them. They were gone very quickly; they hired a porter and presumably got into a taxi. Well that was fine. He could follow them. He looked at his watch; only twelve forty. The problem was that he had no money and he was miles from his bank. He would have to go to Jeremy’s flat, get the taxi to wait and ask him to lend him some. This was all getting very expensive. Well, it was worth it. He felt quite sure of that.

Jeremy greeted him with patent relief.

‘Thank God you’re back. The Lyttons are running out of time.’

‘Out of time? How?’

‘Too complicated to explain. You must get on to them straight away. Tell them what’s happened. How did you get on?’

‘I didn’t. I haven’t seen him yet. Well I’ve seen him, but—’

‘What? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I can’t explain now, but I have a date with him at the Basil Street Hotel. Only he doesn’t know yet. Lend me five bob, old chap. I’ve got a taxi outside, with the clock running. I’ll pay you back later today, I swear.’

‘Only if you also swear to go straight to a telephone when you’ve seen him and tell Celia Lytton what’s happened. She’s in a fearful state. Lyttons are about to sign themselves over to another publisher, literally.’

‘Oh God,’ said Guy.

‘Goodbye Jasper. Telephone me, maybe on Monday. We might do a theatre or something. I’m not sure of my plans.’

‘I will. Have a good time.’

‘I intend to,’ said Vanessa.

‘Look I’m sorry, Oliver, but I don’t think I can wait very much longer. I have an appointment, as I said to you. I’m already late. I do think it’s rather—inconsiderate of Lady Celia to fail to appear like this.’

‘She’s very busy,’ said Oliver feebly.

‘Well, we’re all busy, aren’t we? I think perhaps we should go ahead and sign without her—since it’s only heads of agreement.’

‘Let’s give her a little longer,’ said LM. ‘I really think she should be part of this.’

Guy’s taxi pulled up at the Basil Street Hotel. He paid it off, almost ran inside.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘I’d like to see Professor Lothian, please.’

‘Professor Lothian, sir?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Professor Lothian is not here, sir. We are not expecting him. Mrs Lothian has arrived and has instructed us that she is not to be disturbed. So I’m afraid we are unable to help. I’m extremely sorry.’

‘Oh God,’ said Guy Worsley. For the second time in two days, he felt like bursting into tears.

Jasper Lothian had actually arrived at the Reform Club when he discovered he hadn’t got his wallet. He felt violently irritated. He knew where it was: he’d left it with Vanessa. Damn. Well, he’d have to go and get it. He wasn’t spending three days without it, however occupied she might be. He went into the office of the Reform, and borrowed a five pound note, then went out into Pall Mall and hailed a taxi.

‘The Basil Street Hotel, please,’ he said.

Guy stood outside the hotel, looking up at it, thinking how rum it was to build a hotel literally on top of an underground station, and wondering what on earth he should do next. He was out of money again. He seemed to be no nearer Jasper Lothian, or to saving his book than he had been a week ago. And now Lyttons were apparently going to go under entirely. All because of him. What a nightmare. What a filthy bloody mess.

‘Well, I think yes, perhaps we should go ahead,’ said Oliver with a sigh.

‘I’m so sorry about Celia.’

‘But presumably you are able to sign on her behalf?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Oliver, ‘in this case. Two out of three board directors—perfectly all right.’

He looked very unhappy, LM thought: as unhappy as she felt. It was dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. She could hardly bear to look at the heads of agreement document.

‘I trust this is all quite clear. Mr Briscoe, are you happy with it?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Peter Briscoe. ‘Oliver? LM?’

‘Hardly happy,’ said LM. She saw Matthew Brunning frown at her; she didn’t care. She might be going to sign the damn thing, but she owed it to all of them, she felt, certainly to her father’s memory, to make it clear she didn’t want to. She wondered if there might be one last delaying tactic she could use, one last query she could raise. Just in case Celia arrived. Just in case. Something complex, something timeconsuming.

‘I wonder if we might look again at the paragraph on contracts,’ she said.

Guy had just started to walk away from the hotel, down Basil Street, towards Harrods, when a taxi drew up behind him. He turned round, mildly interested; another fortunate person, arriving at the hotel. And then stared and stared harder. It was Jasper Lothian. No. It couldn’t be. He must be hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or something like that. Having thought about no one else for so many hours. Only—it was him. Absolutely no doubt about it. Looking determined, and slightly cross. He told the cab to wait, walked into the hotel. Guy didn’t even hesitate; he turned round and followed him.