wearily.
‘How can she be getting married again so soon. I wonder too, you know. Daddy only died a year ago. I mean, why marry Lord Arden? They can be friends. Who’d care anyway?’
‘I am marrying him,’ Celia said firmly to Barty over dinner soon after she had arrived, ‘because I want everything cut and dried. I don’t want a lot of gossipy speculation. About him or indeed anyone else. I don’t like disorder, Barty. As you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ said Barty. ‘But—’
‘I loved Oliver very much,’ said Celia, ‘very, very much. He was a marvellous person, and his courage was extraordinary. He was a superb father, and particularly so, I would say, to you. Even more than to his own children. Of course I shouldn’t say that. I never have before and I never will again. But I think it’s important we should both acknowledge it. I know how much he meant to you. And I think I know how this marriage must offend you.’
Barty met her eyes steadily. ‘It does,’ she said, ‘a little.’
‘Barty, I am getting older. Not old, of course, but older. Another fact I don’t often acknowledge. And I find I don’t like, these days, being alone. It astonished me, as a matter of fact. I have always enjoyed my own company. As much as I have enjoyed my work. Perhaps the loss of those two enjoyments go hand in hand.’
‘Celia,’ said Barty, ‘I absolutely cannot believe this loss of enjoyment in your work is permanent. Work, Lyttons, is your life. It always has been.’
‘It took me by surprise as well,’ said Celia, and she looked suddenly vulnerable. ‘I thought it was temporary; grief, weariness after Oliver’s death, so much change in the industry. I scarcely recognise it, you know, there are hardly any firms left in family ownership, they’re all run as public companies by wretched conglomerates, none of them with any personality. I would never have dreamed that Collins would sell shares to the public. Or Longmans. It’s absolutely appalling.’ She spoke as if they had sold state secrets to the KGB rather than sought essential capitalisation for their companies. ‘The fact is, as of course you know, Barty, once you are answerable to shareholders, you lose the ability to do what your instinct tells you is right.’
Barty managed not to point out that without her own intervention Lyttons too would have had to seek recapitalisation and moved out of family control. Which, she supposed, it had in a way. She smiled rather coolly at Celia, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement; it did not come.
‘And all this other nonsense, Penguin forming exclusive agreements with certain other publishers, it can’t be right. They should be completely independent, to decide what they want. And this talk of marketing! Research into why people buy books. People buy books for one reason and one reason only: because they want to read them. Michael Joseph said something very similar only the other day. You know what they say about the camel, I suppose?’
Barty said she did not.
‘The camel is a horse designed by a committee. I tell you Barty, a lot of camels will be published in the next few years. Instinct is the only thing that should guide a house, editorial instinct. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me in the very least. As I said, I have lost interest in the whole business. I can take no real pleasure in it. It is rather dreadful, actually,’ she added, ‘it’s like losing my identity, like becoming a different person. Or losing one of my senses. I hope it never happens to you.’
Barty was silent.
‘Anyway, I have made my decisions. And I feel happier and easier. Bunny Arden – have you met him, I can’t remember?’
‘No,’ said Barty, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s very sweet. I hope you like him. And he is what I need at this stage in my life. I have absolutely no doubts at all. I expected them, to be frank with you, but they have not arrived. I feel at peace with myself. I intend
‘How can she be getting married again so soon. I wonder too, you know. Daddy only died a year ago. I mean, why marry Lord Arden? They can be friends. Who’d care anyway?’
‘I am marrying him,’ Celia said firmly to Barty over dinner soon after she had arrived, ‘because I want everything cut and dried. I don’t want a lot of gossipy speculation. About him or indeed anyone else. I don’t like disorder, Barty. As you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ said Barty. ‘But—’
‘I loved Oliver very much,’ said Celia, ‘very, very much. He was a marvellous person, and his courage was extraordinary. He was a superb father, and particularly so, I would say, to you. Even more than to his own children. Of course I shouldn’t say that. I never have before and I never will again. But I think it’s important we should both acknowledge it. I know how much he meant to you. And I think I know how this marriage must offend you.’
Barty met her eyes steadily. ‘It does,’ she said, ‘a little.’
‘Barty, I am getting older. Not old, of course, but older. Another fact I don’t often acknowledge. And I find I don’t like, these days, being alone. It astonished me, as a matter of fact. I have always enjoyed my own company. As much as I have enjoyed my work. Perhaps the loss of those two enjoyments go hand in hand.’
‘Celia,’ said Barty, ‘I absolutely cannot believe this loss of enjoyment in your work is permanent. Work, Lyttons, is your life. It always has been.’
‘It took me by surprise as well,’ said Celia, and she looked suddenly vulnerable. ‘I thought it was temporary; grief, weariness after Oliver’s death, so much change in the industry. I scarcely recognise it, you know, there are hardly any firms left in family ownership, they’re all run as public companies by wretched conglomerates, none of them with any personality. I would never have dreamed that Collins would sell shares to the public. Or Longmans. It’s absolutely appalling.’ She spoke as if they had sold state secrets to the KGB rather than sought essential capitalisation for their companies. ‘The fact is, as of course you know, Barty, once you are answerable to shareholders, you lose the ability to do what your instinct tells you is right.’
Barty managed not to point out that without her own intervention Lyttons too would have had to seek recapitalisation and moved out of family control. Which, she supposed, it had in a way. She smiled rather coolly at Celia, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement; it did not come.
‘And all this other nonsense, Penguin forming exclusive agreements with certain other publishers, it can’t be right. They should be completely independent, to decide what they want. And this talk of marketing! Research into why people buy books. People buy books for one reason and one reason only: because they want to read them. Michael Joseph said something very similar only the other day. You know what they say about the camel, I suppose?’
Barty said she did not.
‘The camel is a horse designed by a committee. I tell you Barty, a lot of camels will be published in the next few years. Instinct is the only thing that should guide a house, editorial instinct. Anyway, it doesn’t matter to me in the very least. As I said, I have lost interest in the whole business. I can take no real pleasure in it. It is rather dreadful, actually,’ she added, ‘it’s like losing my identity, like becoming a different person. Or losing one of my senses. I hope it never happens to you.’
Barty was silent.
‘Anyway, I have made my decisions. And I feel happier and easier. Bunny Arden – have you met him, I can’t remember?’
‘No,’ said Barty, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s very sweet. I hope you like him. And he is what I need at this stage in my life. I have absolutely no doubts at all. I expected them, to be frank with you, but they have not arrived. I feel at peace with myself. I intend
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