of success, to look upon it as a piece of personal loyalty. But then his letter had arrived, typed on his special typewriter, telling her that he wanted to avoid any further connection with her.
‘People are still saying, of course, that you are Lyttons, and because that is so undeniably true, I have no wish to be any part of it whatsoever. Please don’t telephone me, or try to see me. I really have no wish for that.’
And then, the awful, final rejection, not the messy, scrawled signature, but a formally typed ‘Christopher Lytton’.
Her only comfort, looking at that name, was telling herself that he was, in some ways, still something of a child.
At first Celia had thought Kit would come round: that he would agree to see her. That she would be able to make him understand at least a little. But he had instructed his secretary to return all her letters – three of them now, each more importunate than the last – had refused to speak to her on the telephone, had rejected all her invitations. The third one she herself recognised would be the last.
‘Please, Kit, I beg of you,’ she wrote, ‘please come. I want so much to try and explain. I cannot allow you to walk away like this.’
The tersely typed answer telling her that it was she who had walked away finally forced her to accept defeat that day.
She had lost Kit. And she didn’t know how to bear it.
CHAPTER 6
‘Just go away. Get out of my room.’
‘But darling—’
‘Mother—’
‘All right. I’m going.’
She went; later she tiptoed up, heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. Male weeping. An awful, literally heartbreaking sound. But – she had agreed. That he should go away. Geordie had persuaded her.
God, Lucas hated Geordie. Hated him for his smarmy charm, the way he could wrap his mother round his little finger, the way he tried to order Lucas about, to play the heavy father, tell him what to do: when he had no right to, no right at all.
But most of all he hated him for something quite different. Something that was nothing to do with Lucas.
He longed to tell his mother but he couldn’t. It would hurt her too much and, besides, he had absolutely no proof. He had tried telling Noni, but she refused to listen, left the room, told him he was disgusting, just making it up to excuse his own behaviour. She thought Geordie was wonderful too, she adored him. It was pathetic.
The first time, he hadn’t wanted to believe it himself. It had been at Christmas, the Christmas after his grandmother had married again; they’d spent it with the Warwicks. It had been pretty grim; Lucas hated most of his cousins, they were so noisy and uncivilised. They didn’t show any interest in the arts or literature or anything like that, Henry only cared about making money, and Elspeth and Amy were very pretty, but their only interests seemed to be boys and hunting; he had nothing to say to any of them. He’d spent most of the day reading, had even tried to get on with his book over lunch until Boy had removed it forcibly from him.
Anyway, that evening they were all playing charades because his grandmother insisted on it and he’d gone to the lavatory; he’d stayed as long as he could, just in the hope that someone would take his turn. And as he came out of the lavatory, with his book stuffed up his jersey, he’d seen Geordie slipping into Boy’s dressing room. Which was odd: odd enough to make Lucas want to know why. He’d walked very quietly along the landing, and stood outside the door which wasn’t quite shut, and he’d heard Geordie saying, ‘Oh, darling, I’m missing you too.’ Then a silence and then, ‘Well, only two more days. And then we’ll have one of our wonderful long lunch hours.’ Followed by his awful, creepy laugh.
Lucas had felt sick; so sick he had had to go back into the lavatory and sit there a bit longer. He tried to tell himself that Geordie had been talking to his sister, or someone he worked with, but he knew
‘People are still saying, of course, that you are Lyttons, and because that is so undeniably true, I have no wish to be any part of it whatsoever. Please don’t telephone me, or try to see me. I really have no wish for that.’
And then, the awful, final rejection, not the messy, scrawled signature, but a formally typed ‘Christopher Lytton’.
Her only comfort, looking at that name, was telling herself that he was, in some ways, still something of a child.
At first Celia had thought Kit would come round: that he would agree to see her. That she would be able to make him understand at least a little. But he had instructed his secretary to return all her letters – three of them now, each more importunate than the last – had refused to speak to her on the telephone, had rejected all her invitations. The third one she herself recognised would be the last.
‘Please, Kit, I beg of you,’ she wrote, ‘please come. I want so much to try and explain. I cannot allow you to walk away like this.’
The tersely typed answer telling her that it was she who had walked away finally forced her to accept defeat that day.
She had lost Kit. And she didn’t know how to bear it.
CHAPTER 6
‘Just go away. Get out of my room.’
‘But darling—’
‘Mother—’
‘All right. I’m going.’
She went; later she tiptoed up, heard the unmistakable sound of weeping. Male weeping. An awful, literally heartbreaking sound. But – she had agreed. That he should go away. Geordie had persuaded her.
God, Lucas hated Geordie. Hated him for his smarmy charm, the way he could wrap his mother round his little finger, the way he tried to order Lucas about, to play the heavy father, tell him what to do: when he had no right to, no right at all.
But most of all he hated him for something quite different. Something that was nothing to do with Lucas.
He longed to tell his mother but he couldn’t. It would hurt her too much and, besides, he had absolutely no proof. He had tried telling Noni, but she refused to listen, left the room, told him he was disgusting, just making it up to excuse his own behaviour. She thought Geordie was wonderful too, she adored him. It was pathetic.
The first time, he hadn’t wanted to believe it himself. It had been at Christmas, the Christmas after his grandmother had married again; they’d spent it with the Warwicks. It had been pretty grim; Lucas hated most of his cousins, they were so noisy and uncivilised. They didn’t show any interest in the arts or literature or anything like that, Henry only cared about making money, and Elspeth and Amy were very pretty, but their only interests seemed to be boys and hunting; he had nothing to say to any of them. He’d spent most of the day reading, had even tried to get on with his book over lunch until Boy had removed it forcibly from him.
Anyway, that evening they were all playing charades because his grandmother insisted on it and he’d gone to the lavatory; he’d stayed as long as he could, just in the hope that someone would take his turn. And as he came out of the lavatory, with his book stuffed up his jersey, he’d seen Geordie slipping into Boy’s dressing room. Which was odd: odd enough to make Lucas want to know why. He’d walked very quietly along the landing, and stood outside the door which wasn’t quite shut, and he’d heard Geordie saying, ‘Oh, darling, I’m missing you too.’ Then a silence and then, ‘Well, only two more days. And then we’ll have one of our wonderful long lunch hours.’ Followed by his awful, creepy laugh.
Lucas had felt sick; so sick he had had to go back into the lavatory and sit there a bit longer. He tried to tell himself that Geordie had been talking to his sister, or someone he worked with, but he knew
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