Zelda’s Cut. Philippa Gregory
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laugh and want to flirt with her. He had thought then that a highly intelligent academic wife might be a great asset to a man in his position. He had thought then that he could afford such a wife. He could earn the money, doing work which she considered morally suspect, he could bring home the tainted profits of capitalism, and she could study philosophy. She could be his luxury, a wife infinitely more prestigious and interesting than the flashy blondes of his colleagues. His earning power could buy her a good lifestyle where she could read and think and write. And in return: he could enjoy her.
It all changed the moment he became ill. He knew now that he could have died without her steady strength of mind, her determination that he should survive. But as he watched her walk towards him and saw the droop of her shoulders and the weariness in her very footsteps, he did not feel gratitude, nor even tenderness. He felt irritated. She was always tired these days. She always looked so miserable. Anyone would think that it was her who was ill.
‘Come and have a drink,’ he called. ‘We don’t have to rush off, do we?’
She hesitated. ‘I was going to work this afternoon.’
Philip tutted. Isobel’s problem was that she worked too hard, he thought. Her agent Troy, her publishers, her publicity people – they all thought they had equal right to her time, and she was too polite to say no. People pushed her around, and she was foolish enough to try to please everyone.
‘Take a break,’ he ordered. ‘You need a break.’
‘All right,’ she said, thinking that the bastion, rampart, bulwark or dyke question could be resolved tomorrow morning before she took the train to London.
He limped into the pub and brought her back a glass of white wine, and they sat in the sun together. Isobel tipped her head back to the warmth.
‘This is idyllic,’ she said. ‘I love the month of May.’
‘Best time of year,’ he agreed. ‘The field that Rigby left fallow last year is just filled with cowslips.’
‘We are so lucky to live here,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t bear to live in London.’
‘It was a good choice,’ he said. ‘I just wish I knew how long we’ll be able to stay in that house.’
Covertly, she glanced over at him, nursing his drink. ‘Surely we’ve got a good few years yet.’
‘It’s the stairs that’ll be the first difficulty,’ he said.
‘We can get one of those stairlifts.’
Philip made a face. ‘I’d rather move our bedroom downstairs. We could use your office and you could write upstairs. It wouldn’t make any difference to you.’
She thought for a brief moment of regret that she would lose the view from her study window which she loved, and the bookshelves that she had designed. ‘Of course. That’d be fine.’
‘Provided Mrs M. is prepared to keep coming, and maybe do a little more. We’d need to get someone to do the garden.’
‘It’s so terribly expensive,’ Isobel remarked. ‘Other people’s wages cost so much. It’s paying their tax which is so awful.’
‘It’s our lifestyle,’ he reminded her. ‘It makes sense to spend money on our comforts.’
‘As long as we have the money coming in.’
He smiled. ‘Why shouldn’t it come in? You’ve never written a book yet which didn’t win one prize or another. All we need is for someone to buy the option for a film and we can rebuild the barn and put in a swimming pool and a gym.’
She hesitated, wondering if she should state the obvious: that a film was not likely, and that literary prizes and literary acclaim were not guarantees of good royalties from publishers. She stopped herself. She had promised herself that she would never worry him with money troubles. She had taken it on herself to earn the money and to free him from fear of debt when he was facing so many other, greater fears.
‘That barn would be perfect for a swimming pool,’ Philip repeated. ‘I read a paper the other day. Swimming is the best exercise someone with my condition can take. Much better than walking. And if we put it in the barn it would be useful all the year round. It’s hard to get the exercise in winter.’
‘I don’t know that we could afford it,’ Isobel said cautiously.
He shook his head at her reluctance. ‘What are we saving our money for?’ he demanded. ‘You talk like we’re going to live forever. Well I’m certainly not. We know that well enough. I don’t see why we have to be so cautious.’
Isobel made herself smile and raise her glass to him. ‘You’re right, I know. Here’s to the Hollywood option and us as millionaires with a swimming pool in the barn and a yacht in the Med!’
‘I might look into the price of pools,’ he said.
‘Yes, do,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
Troy’s office was in Islington, in a converted Victorian terrace house. He lived in a flat upstairs and the ground floor was occupied by two other literary agents, a beautiful girl behind the reception desk, and one overworked assistant who was required to do the administration for all of them.
Isobel perched on a chair surrounded by manuscripts while Troy slipped on his Armani jacket, set it straight across his shoulders, and smoothed his silk tie. It was a dark navy suit and a dark navy tie. Against the severe colour Troy’s light brown hair and clear skin looked boyishly handsome.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he remarked, patting his pockets to check that he was carrying his credit cards. He picked up his mobile phone to carry in his hand, he would never have destroyed the line of the jacket by putting it in his pocket.
Isobel glowed at his praise. She was wearing a summer shift dress in pale blue with blue court shoes, her soft brown hair was enfolded into a bun on the nape of her neck. She gave the overall impression of being a rather elegant headmistress at a select girls’ school. She was not a woman that any man had ever called gorgeous.
‘Absolutely edible,’ Troy asserted, and Isobel giggled.
‘Hardly. Where are we going for lunch?’
‘Number Fifty-two – it’s a new restaurant. Very hot. I had to almost beg for a table.’
‘There was no need – ’
‘There was every need. Aren’t we celebrating the birth of a new manuscript? And besides, I want to talk to you about things.’
Isobel followed Troy down the steps to the street and waited while he hailed a cab with a commanding wave of his hand. But it was not until they were seated in the restaurant – dark-tinted mirrors, real wood floors, marble-top tables, astoundingly uncomfortable chairs but beautiful flowers on every available surface – that he leaned forward and said: ‘I think we may have a bit of a problem.’
She waited.
‘It’s Penshurst Press,’ he said. ‘They’re not offering so much for this book as they did for the last.’
‘How much?’ she asked bluntly.
The waiter came to take their order and Troy shook his head. ‘In a minute.’ He turned back to Isobel. ‘A lot less. They’re offering £20,000.’
For a moment she thought she had misheard him. In the rattle of utensils and the hum of conversation she thought that he must have said something quite different.
‘I beg your pardon. What did you say?’
‘I said £20,000,’ he repeated. He saw that she had paled with shock. He poured a glass of water and held it out to her. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s less than half what we were expecting, but they won’t shift. I’m sorry.’
Isobel said nothing, she looked stunned. Troy glanced uneasily around the restaurant, hating the discomfort.