that had been such heaven, such extraordinary, unimaginable heaven – could she do that again? If she could, it would be absolutely glorious. Oh, it would be all right. Of course it would. And she could douche extra thoroughly when she got home. She—
There was a knock on the door.
‘Ready, my darling? Can I come into the sanctuary? I have a bottle of perfectly chilled Moet with me.’
Venetia opened the door and smiled at him radiantly.
‘I’m absolutely ready,’ she said.
God, he was a disaster. In every way. Not just lousy at his job – he’d made a complete idiot of himself in the editorial meeting that morning, suggesting they did a biography of Prince Albert – ‘another one, Giles?’ his mother had said with that hideous, half-amused politeness which could only mean one thing – and then there’d been his idiotic suggestion as well that they might consider reissuing the Heatherleigh Chronicles , Lytton’s first great success, the forerunner, it could have been argued, to the Buchanan saga.
‘I don’t think so, Giles,’ his father had said politely. ‘It’s really very dated now.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said Celia. ‘I think if you troubled to read it properly, even you would realise that.’
The words ‘even you’ hung heavily in the air.
But not only was he a failure at publishing, he was a failure socially as well; he’d asked three girls to go to a house party with him that weekend and they’d all refused. He couldn’t blame them; he knew he was boring, a lousy dancer, even a hopeless shot. And he hated riding, so there was no question of his going out hunting either. Girls did care about that sort of thing, even though they pretended they didn’t.
Here he was, almost twenty-four years old, still living at home with his parents, still not making a mark on Lyttons in any way, a social failure, and still – well, still a virgin. That was really pathetic. He’d never even come close to getting a girl into bed. Every time he even thought of it, he felt panicky. He’d never manage, never know what to do. How appalling to be one of those chaps who did it for the first time on their wedding night. Not that there was anything really wrong with that of course. It would be embarrassing, but it wasn’t exactly a crime. But these days, when everyone was doing it all over the place – look at Boy Warwick, dozens of girls. He’d better not be doing it with Venetia, thought Giles suddenly, feeling oddly alarmed. That was quite different. That was most definitely not on. No, of course he wasn’t. People didn’t do it with their friends’ sisters. They just didn’t.
‘Giles?’ It was Barty; she was standing in the doorway of his small office. ‘Want to come and have a quick bite to eat?’
‘Oh. Oh, well—’ He smiled at her. What would he do without Barty; she was so nice, still the nicest girl he’d ever met. And jolly pretty now, although a bit different looking, with her shoulder-length hair and her unmade-up face. She wore very nice clothes these days too, quite fashionable, although nothing fancy like the twins, almost casual a lot of them, very plain shapes, in clear strong colours – she was the only girl he knew who looked really good in red.
She was wearing red today, a sort of long red jumper over a pleated navy blue skirt. It was like a very smart school uniform. A short skirt, of course, she wasn’t old-fashioned, not one of those blue-stocking women, and she had the most terrific legs. So long and so – well, just terrific. She was his best friend, always had been, they told each other everything – well, nearly everything, he couldn’t have confided in her about his lack of sexual expertise – and they were allies in a close but unspoken way against the excesses of his mother.
If only – and he hated himself for even thinking this – if only she wasn’t so good at her job. He’d been so thrilled when she told him she was coming to work at Lyttons;
There was a knock on the door.
‘Ready, my darling? Can I come into the sanctuary? I have a bottle of perfectly chilled Moet with me.’
Venetia opened the door and smiled at him radiantly.
‘I’m absolutely ready,’ she said.
God, he was a disaster. In every way. Not just lousy at his job – he’d made a complete idiot of himself in the editorial meeting that morning, suggesting they did a biography of Prince Albert – ‘another one, Giles?’ his mother had said with that hideous, half-amused politeness which could only mean one thing – and then there’d been his idiotic suggestion as well that they might consider reissuing the Heatherleigh Chronicles , Lytton’s first great success, the forerunner, it could have been argued, to the Buchanan saga.
‘I don’t think so, Giles,’ his father had said politely. ‘It’s really very dated now.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said Celia. ‘I think if you troubled to read it properly, even you would realise that.’
The words ‘even you’ hung heavily in the air.
But not only was he a failure at publishing, he was a failure socially as well; he’d asked three girls to go to a house party with him that weekend and they’d all refused. He couldn’t blame them; he knew he was boring, a lousy dancer, even a hopeless shot. And he hated riding, so there was no question of his going out hunting either. Girls did care about that sort of thing, even though they pretended they didn’t.
Here he was, almost twenty-four years old, still living at home with his parents, still not making a mark on Lyttons in any way, a social failure, and still – well, still a virgin. That was really pathetic. He’d never even come close to getting a girl into bed. Every time he even thought of it, he felt panicky. He’d never manage, never know what to do. How appalling to be one of those chaps who did it for the first time on their wedding night. Not that there was anything really wrong with that of course. It would be embarrassing, but it wasn’t exactly a crime. But these days, when everyone was doing it all over the place – look at Boy Warwick, dozens of girls. He’d better not be doing it with Venetia, thought Giles suddenly, feeling oddly alarmed. That was quite different. That was most definitely not on. No, of course he wasn’t. People didn’t do it with their friends’ sisters. They just didn’t.
‘Giles?’ It was Barty; she was standing in the doorway of his small office. ‘Want to come and have a quick bite to eat?’
‘Oh. Oh, well—’ He smiled at her. What would he do without Barty; she was so nice, still the nicest girl he’d ever met. And jolly pretty now, although a bit different looking, with her shoulder-length hair and her unmade-up face. She wore very nice clothes these days too, quite fashionable, although nothing fancy like the twins, almost casual a lot of them, very plain shapes, in clear strong colours – she was the only girl he knew who looked really good in red.
She was wearing red today, a sort of long red jumper over a pleated navy blue skirt. It was like a very smart school uniform. A short skirt, of course, she wasn’t old-fashioned, not one of those blue-stocking women, and she had the most terrific legs. So long and so – well, just terrific. She was his best friend, always had been, they told each other everything – well, nearly everything, he couldn’t have confided in her about his lack of sexual expertise – and they were allies in a close but unspoken way against the excesses of his mother.
If only – and he hated himself for even thinking this – if only she wasn’t so good at her job. He’d been so thrilled when she told him she was coming to work at Lyttons;
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