Hotel de Dream by Emma Tennant Read Free Book Online

hanging bulb in the little parchment shade that trembled every time Mrs Routledge got in or out of her divan on the floor above. He was sure he had seen Cecilia Houghton somewhere before—in his City, of course—at one of the evenings given by the cultural attaché perhaps, or in the salon of Lady Kitty Carson, a literary hostess slightly inaccurately imagined by Mr Poynter but able to function nevertheless in a small antique-crammed house near the moving quarter. Yes; it must have been there: he saw Lady Kitty in her Retour d’Egypte chair, the literary lions of the megalopolis gathered at her feet, the epigrams coming out sharp and smooth as the cheese biscuits were handed and good wine was poured. He saw Cecilia Houghton, dignified and aloof, amused at the spectacle Lady Kitty made of herself on these occasions, and even imagined himself exchanging glances with her. Really Creative People like Mrs Houghton (and himself, he had to add this) always found these hostess figures a bit of a joke. But they were necessary: even the staidest novelist or historian needed to relax and show off sometimes; once or twice a year a cruel parody of Lady Kitty appeared in one of their books and was then serialised in the City Sundays. Cecilia had probably gone there, as he did, to show she felt no spite towards her fellow workers.
    What a stroke of luck to find her suddenly at the Westringham, though! Mr Poynter smiled out through his fingers, and caught sight of his watch on his hairless wrist as he did so. He took off his clothes and pulled on a pair of musty red and white striped pyjamas. He padded to the window and wrestled with the inadequate curtain. He climbed into bed. There was ample time before lunch to meet Cecilia Houghton again. To show her who he really was. Not, of course, that she hadn’t known at once in the dining room, but in the presence of others one must be discreet … He closed his eyes and a blissful sigh escaped him before he slept. The niece of Field-marshal Sir Eddie Houghton … he remembered her coming-out ball in the Tatler. And such a brilliant novelist too! She had informed him over Cridge’s revolting tea that her work was taught all over the world. He wasn’t surprised. Today she would be entertained at HQ; a banquet with roses and champagne. He tried to decide whether she would like to meet his wife—or was there, possibly, a romance brooding between them? A meeting of equals? A faint snore issued from Mr Poynter as he approached the four-walled city of his dreams.
    Today, although at least an hour and a half had passed since Poynter had been woken and gone downstairs, the sun seemed to show no change of position in the sky. The City was still in the early morning stage, the sprinklers refreshing the bright green turf, the workers hurrying to their production lines within the thick walls of the town as if he had only just completed the morning parade and was not yet even on his way to visit his wife. Mr Poynter frowned. Sometimes this happened—like a record with the needle stuck in a groove the same dream would repeat itself—and he prayed, as he strode from the portals of HQ and saw the white Rolls waiting there, that he would not have to undergo the tiresome experience this morning. Of all mornings! Somewhere in the City Mrs Houghton awaited him—he was sure of that—in the Central Park probably, under the trimmedpink apple blossom, or in the National Portrait Gallery, where her uncle’s portrait (almost as many versions of the Field-marshal as of Mr Poynter himself) hung in the dark rooms. Or at Lady Kitty’s, at a literary luncheon: they would smile at each other at the pretensions of the woman and then go strolling hand in hand in the portion of the park reserved for upper ranks. Mr Poynter’s frown turned to an audible curse when he saw his chauffeur come out to admit him to his car.
    â€œWhere are we going, my man?”
    â€œTo