‘I – that is—’
‘Well, just so you know, let me tell you about the client you could have had. Miss – not Mr – Brown has just got a very big contract from a chain of boutiques. Do you know what a boutique is? A shop, selling fashion to young people. They are absolutely the latest thing at the moment, big, big business. And the people who own them are desperate for young designers to supply them with what they need. And Miss Brown, who I might say left the Royal College of Art with a graduation show that made a lot of the papers, has just got a contract from Girlz – that’s the name of the chain of boutiques, Girlz spelt with a Z, remember that, you’ll hear a lot about them – and backing to the tune of over fifty thousand pounds. More money than you’d ever make in your entire life, I’d say. Pity, you really blew it. Bye then. We’ve got other agents to call, fortunately.’
Matt put the phone down and felt so angry with himself that he punched his desk so hard the knuckles hurt for days.
He couldn’t bear to be in the office, staring at the wall and his own stupidity. He told Mr Stein he was going to meet a prospective client and went for a walk: across Oxford Street, down Regent Street, and along Piccadilly, towards St James’s Park. It was a glorious day, and the city looked young; girls in brilliantly coloured shift dresses strode along, their long, loose hair swinging, men in sharp suits and sharper haircuts bumped into one another, grinning as they turned to stare at the girls. Everyone seemed happy.
But even the long legs and the swinging hair failed to distract him. He dimly heard a newsboy shouting ‘Profumo case latest’ and bought an Evening Standard and sank down onto the grass staring at it; photographs of the Minister for War, John Profumo, and Christine Keeler, the call girl he had been sleeping with (and sharing, it appeared, with a Russian naval attaché), covered the front page, along with speculation on a government possibly brought down, a fine political career undoubtedly ruined. The scandal had intrigued Matt hugely; he completely failed to understand how people could risk losing all they had achieved in life for a bit of sexual pleasure. Sex was great; but it wasn’t power, it didn’t show you’d made it. He was unable to imagine any woman, however beautiful or sexually gifted, could be as important as worldly success.
He sat, smoking rather feverishly, wondering if there was anything, anything at all that he could do that would redeem him in the eyes of Eliza Fullerton-Clark; and he decided next morning he would have to apologise. Really crawl. She might not accept it, of course, but it was worth a try. And then he had another idea.
He went into the office early, dialled Woolfe’s number, and asked for the PR department.
‘Hello. Eliza Clark speaking.’
So didn’t use the Fullerton bit at work; Matt wondered why. He took a very deep breath.
‘Miss Clark, good morning. This is Matt Shaw.’
She’d probably put the phone down now.
‘Yes?’ she said coldly. Very coldly.
‘I wanted to apologise. To you and Miss Brown. For yesterday. It was stupid and insensitive of me, and I feel really embarrassed about it. And – and – the thing is I think I might have the perfect space for Miss Brown. As a matter of fact.’
Silence.
‘It’s in Paddington. It used to be a warehouse. The owner’s done a bit of work on it and it’s three floors, about three thousand feet, perfect for storing clothes and – and that sort of thing. And room for an office space and – and a studio if that was required. It’s not too expensive and I’d really like to show it to Miss Brown if you think she’d agree. And if she hasn’t got anywhere else yet.’
Another long silence; then, ‘Well I can certainly ask her,’ said Eliza finally, her voice just slightly less cool, ‘and I don’t think she has got anywhere else, no. I’ll see if I can get her to call you.’
‘Right. And – and if you’d like to come along yourself,’ he said, ‘see what you think about it, that would be fine.’
She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.
But, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I might. If I have time. I’m extremely busy.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And Matt, thank you for phoning and for apologising.’ Her voice was more itself now, warmer, smiley even. ‘It was nice of you. We’ll be in touch.’
Perfect happiness doesn’t come often in life. It came to Matt then.
He arrived at the building an hour before the appointed time, walking round and round it, checking every door and window, even every electrical fitting, anything in fact that might prompt a query. He was determined not to be caught out in any particular.
He watched from an upstairs window as they arrived in Eliza’s Fiat. Eliza was wearing a short red shift, long black boots and sunglasses; she looked amazing. Maddy was very pretty too, but looked terribly young: tiny, with long blond hair falling down her back; it was hard to believe she’d got this important contract Eliza had been shouting at him about.
Maddy loved the building, said it was absolutely fab; Eliza had been more practical and indeed critical, had stalked about, peering into corners, out of windows, up into the roof space. She said it needed a lot of money to convert it and that Maddy didn’t actually need three floors; what about subletting.
Matt said he didn’t think that was possible.
‘Could you maybe convert one floor into a flat?’ said Maddy.
Matt said it wasn’t designated for residential use. ‘It would make it far more expensive, you see, entail a completely different rate and rent structure.’
‘Well, I think it really is too big,’ said Eliza, ‘and too expensive. You’d be crazy, Maddy, far too much of an overhead for the business.’
‘But—’
‘Excuse us,’ said Eliza, indicating to Maddy to follow her to the other side of the room; Matt put his hands in his pockets and studied first the ceiling, and then the fit of the windows, even the floorboards, hoping he didn’t look as desperate as he felt. They came back.
‘Suppose we found you a tenant for the third floor?’ said Eliza. ‘A photographer we know, Jerome Blake, is looking for a studio. That would solve all our problems.’
‘That would be fine,’ said Matt, ‘as long as he negotiated through us, of course. I’m sure the landlord would be very grateful for an introduction.’
‘I should think he would,’ said Eliza, ‘I would expect a reduction of your fee, as a matter of fact.’
‘Well I – that is—’
She grinned at him suddenly.
‘I wasn’t serious. Maddy’ll ring you when she’s made a decision. And as you can tell, she does quite like the place.’
‘With good reason. It is a remarkable opportunity.’
‘For whom exactly?’ said Eliza. Then she grinned at him again.
‘Well, I’ll look forward to hearing from you,’ said Matt, hanging onto his professional dignity with an effort.
Jerome Blake (real name Jim Biggs), the photographer, had been very keen to take the top floor as a studio; Matt liked him and he seemed reassuringly red-blooded, not a woofter as Matt had feared. Colin White agreed to a slight reduction in Maddy’s rent, and a deal was struck. Mr Stein was particularly pleased with what he called Matt’s performance.
‘Well done, Matt,’ he said, ‘that’s what I call good business practice. Spotting an opportunity, using your contacts, that’s what it’s all about.’
Matt had no intention of telling him the contacts were actually both Eliza’s.
The whole incident had rather changed his opinion of Eliza. She was gorgeous and she was sexy, but she was very bossy. Not used to being crossed, obviously, or even argued with. It would probably do her good: just as long as it wasn’t him that had to do it.
Chapter 8
‘My dear, I was just wondering if you would be able to take tea with me one day either this week or next? I am staying at the Connaught hotel with my son, David. He is here on business, while I am taking in some fun!
Leave a message at the ho
tel and let me know. Any day will do, except next Thursday.
Yrs affectionately,
Lily Berenson.’
Scarlett had never believed in love at first sight; she had frequently declared it, indeed, to be a load of old toot.
‘You can fancy someone, obviously,’ she would say, ‘think they’re good-looking and sexy and so on. But that can’t be love, it really can’t. You’d have to know someone to love them. Otherwise it isn’t love.’
And she was thus totally unprepared for it, when it came to her, when love walked towards her in the lounge of the Connaught hotel and stood before her, holding out its hand and smiling: love in the form of a tall, brown-haired man with his mother’s green eyes. Beautifully dressed, love was, in a dark grey suit and a light blue shirt, with a deep, slightly drawling voice, and its handshake was firm and warm; and as it spoke her name and told her how delighted it was to be meeting her and that its mother had told it so much about her, she felt the ground shift a little beneath her, felt her knees, only a few moments ago perfectly strong, turn slightly weak, felt a strange, lurching sensation in her stomach and a slow, wondering disturbance in her heart.
She could not have told you what had been said or done over the next hour or so; clearly she had drunk her tea and picked at the smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and smiled politely at Mrs Berenson and listened to what she had to say and even responded, but all she was aware of was the presence facing her, sitting side by side with his mother, smiling at her, passing her sugar and plates and pastries, jumping up once when a bellboy came into the room with a sign reading ‘Phone Call for Mr David Berenson’ and disappearing to take the call.
During his absence, Mrs Berenson said that wasn’t it lovely she could meet David – ‘he is my firstborn, you know. Always so special to a mother’ – and Scarlett was able to ascertain that David was married, to Gabrielle, ‘a darling girl, a huge presence on the charity circuit’, and that their youngest child was now ten, that David was in charge of the business, and that in so many ways she didn’t know what she would do without him.
‘He seems – very – very charming,’ said Scarlett carefully.
‘Oh, my dear, isn’t he? Of course all the boys are, but I really think David would win the prize. Duncan is maybe a little better looking and I sometimes think Digby is the cleverest – but David – ah, there you are, darling. Who was that?’
‘Oh, the guy I’m having dinner with tonight. Was going to have dinner with tonight.’
‘Did he cancel, dear?’
‘Postponed. Until tomorrow. So – looks like you and I have a date tonight, Mother. I’m relieved actually, I am a little disoriented. Jet-lagged, I believe you call it, Miss Shaw. It must be quite a problem for you.’
‘Oh – no. I don’t do the long-haul flights. I work for BEA. It’s the BOAC girls who fly to your country and even Australia.’
‘Would you prefer the long haul?’
‘Well – yes and no. Of course it’s much more glamorous, and the BOAC girls do see themselves as rather special – but I love my European flights, certainly for the moment. I go to so many different places, and especially in the summer, it’s wonderful, all that sunshine.’
‘And have you always been a stewardess?’
‘Well, yes. Since I was eighteen. Before that I was a—’ Suddenly hairdresser didn’t sound quite glamorous enough. ‘– a beautician.’
‘Oh really? How fascinating.’ He made it sound as if she had said she was a professor or a sculptor. ‘What made you change?’
‘Oh, I thought it would – suit me better.’
‘And she is a wonderful stewardess,’ said Mrs Berenson.
‘Yes, Mother told me, Miss Shaw, how you comforted her and made her feel so much more confident. In fact she hasn’t stopped talking about you since. And now I can see why.’
He smiled at her, the green eyes probing hers. Scarlett felt dizzy again; and something else, a squirm of sexual excitement, reaching into her. Scarlett Shaw for God’s sake, pull yourself together.
‘You know I just had the nicest idea,’ said Mrs Berenson. ‘Would you be free to join us for dinner, my dear? It would be so nice to have your company, and you could tell us what shows we should see, and so on. Don’t you think so, David?’
‘I think it would be wonderful,’ said David Berenson, ‘but I’m sure Miss Shaw will have better things to do than have dinner with two old people like us.’
‘Oh – no! I’d love it. I—’ She stopped herself. Stay cool, Scarlett, don’t look too keen. ‘I’ll have to make a phone call, that’s all, I had a vague date with a girl friend.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t change anything on our account.’
‘No, no, it was very vague. Really. Perhaps you could excuse me for a moment.’
‘Yes, of course. There’s a phone booth in the lobby.’
She returned from a visit to the ladies, smiling.
‘That’s fine. She hadn’t even remembered. So I’d really like to have dinner with you both. Thank you. But I should go now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to do.’
Like – get her hair done, beg Andre Bernard in Dover Street, the salon she used for special occasions, to fit her in, press her black shift dress, maybe buy one of those long strings of pearls in Fenwicks, and some new black stockings while she was about it, ring Diana about what she thought was good at the theatre – so much to do.
‘You sound very excited,’ said Diana, her voice amused, ‘what’s going on, who are you having dinner with? And where?’
‘Oh – just that nice American lady I met last autumn, remember I told you about her? She was very nervous and I sat with her through some turbulence. She sent me a Christmas card, care of the airline, and now she’s in town and she invited me to tea—’
‘Sounds lovely. Well, tell her Luther is amazing. Bit heavy, maybe, but Albert Finney is incredible. Oh, and on the lighter side, Oliver. Think they’ve got that over there now, actually. ’
‘I will. Thanks, Diana.’
‘And where are you dining?’
‘The Connaught.’
‘Goodness. Well, enjoy it. The food’s wonderful.’
Scarlett supposed the food was wonderful; she wouldn’t have noticed if they had served up porridge with chips. She carefully didn’t drink very much, although David Berenson, who had ordered three different wines for the three different courses, urged her constantly to ‘drink up’. She devoted herself for the most part, they both did, to listening to Mrs Berenson talk and reminisce, answering any questions that were put directly to her, suggesting they saw Luther and also Oliver while carefully making it clear that she hadn’t actually seen either herself – no point pretending – and through it all, every time she dared to meet David Berenson’s eyes, feeling the same slightly whirling dizziness, the same sweet light-headed warmth.
And then, ‘I might leave you young people,’ said Mrs Berenson, as coffee was ordered, ‘I’m a little tired.’
‘Oh – and I must go,’ said Scarlett, ‘I have to be on the coach at seven in the morning.’
‘The coach?’
‘Yes, to go to the airport. I’m flying out to Milan first thing.’
‘Don’t go.’ David Berenson’s voice was suddenly rather intense. ‘Stay for a coffee. It’s only just after ten.’
‘Oh – well, yes, that might be nice But then—’
‘Of course. I won’t detain you. It’d just be nice to – well, to chat a bit more. I’m feeling rather wide awake now. It’s only – what – six or so in Charleston. Goodnight, Mother.’ He stood up as she did, went round to her chair, helped her into her fur stole. ‘I’ll see you to the elevator. Don’t turn into a pumpkin will you, Miss Shaw?’
‘I won’t. And please call me Scarlett.’
He was back in a few minutes, summoned the waiter. ‘A brandy and soda. What about you, Scarlett?’
‘Oh – no, thank you.’
‘Very well. Now – why don
’t we take our coffee in the lounge?’
‘Fine. Yes. Why not?’
Why did he make her feel so flustered? She just wasn’t a flustered sort of person. Usually.
The lounge was half empty; he led her to a large sofa by the fireplace, with its back to the room, sat down beside her. Rather close, she couldn’t help noticing.
‘So,’ he said, ‘let’s talk about you, now. Are you a very independent single girl? Or is there someone in your life? Do you have a boyfriend? I’m sure you do.’
‘Well – several, you know, but no one special.’
‘Ah. And your family – do you have brothers and sisters?’
She began to talk, decided to be completely honest, describing her childhood, told him about Matt, how proud of him she was, how well he was doing.
‘It seems to me you’re doing pretty well, too. Your parents must be very proud of you both.’
‘Well – I think they are, quite.’
‘It must be great,’ he said suddenly, ‘to have made your own way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well – you know. It’s all very well heading up some big concern, but it’s been rather horribly easy for me. I just did what my father told me when he was alive, and now I just go on doing what he told me, more or less, even though he’s dead.’
‘I’m sure it’s not that easy. And it’s obviously a very large and successful company, real estate, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. How clever of you to know.’
Brian had checked this out for her, intrigued by her friendship with Mrs Berenson. ‘Mr Berenson was a millionaire, darling, died of liver disease rather young, that means an alcoholic to you and me.’
‘Well, it may be a large company, but I inherited the success along with everything else. I doubt if I would have made it on my own.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Scarlett.
‘Now why do you say that? You don’t know anything about me?’
‘Well – no, but I can see you’re very clever—’
The Decision Page 9