‘Oh – Jeremy, hello.’
‘I wondered if you were free this Saturday?’
‘Jeremy, I’m so sorry, I’m not. I’m going to go down to my parents for the weekend. With Charles and his – with Juliet.’ She couldn’t bear to say the word ‘fiancée’ in association with Juliet; she found the idea of their being married so awful.
‘Never mind. Only a party. Plenty more ahead. Enjoy your weekend.’
‘Thank you. And you.’
She put the phone down, looked at it thoughtfully. He did seem to be quite – keen.
They had been out together a few times now: he had taken her to Sybilla’s, the newest of the new clubs, and to the opening of the wonderful new National Theatre, with Peter O’Toole playing Hamlet – everything he did seemed to be so glamorous. He’d even taken her to the Royal Variety Performance, and she’d seen the Beatles, for heaven’s sake, God that had been amazing, they were so funny: ‘Those in the cheaper seats clap,’ John Lennon had instructed, ‘the rest of you rattle your jewellery.’
He was a member of Annabel’s in Berkeley Square, so new and smart and impossible to get into – Mark Birley, the owner, was a friend of his, he explained (who wasn’t? Eliza wondered) and had given him complimentary membership. They danced for a long time, after everyone else had gone, and when he dropped her outside her flat – he had an incredible silver E-type Jaguar – after kissing her for a long, long time, she felt everything had shifted up a gear.
He was an absolutely perfect boyfriend. She really didn’t know if she was actually falling in love with him or even if she was anywhere near being in love with him. She had no idea what that felt like. She’d always supposed she’d know when she did.
But she did like him a lot. And he was so absurdly, ridiculously nice: she hadn’t discovered a flaw yet. So good-natured, so charming, so brilliant at saying the right thing and making her feel good. And clever; she could never have fancied anyone who wasn’t really clever. And then he was so good-looking as well.
There hadn’t been any suggestion of sex – yet. Just kissing, which he did really well. But then he was just such a gentleman, he’d never dream of pushing it, he probably just thought they didn’t know each other well enough yet. Which maybe they didn’t.
He had a very big job at KDP, he was a Group Account Director, a breed known at the agency as the Lords. ‘And a few of them actually are,’ Jeremy said, grinning at her. ‘Lords, I mean.’
‘Yes, I’d heard you’d got a few there. And that you recruit from – what was it, two universities, three schools and four regiments. Is that true?’
‘More or less. Yes. It’s a kind of neat copyline, isn’t it?’
He took his work very seriously, it was one of the things she most liked about him, it wasn’t just something he did, to pass the time, like a lot of rich blokes. ‘I get a really huge buzz out of it, you know, getting the strategy for the ads right, working with the creative people, selling it to the clients. It’s incredibly satisfying. It’s like a battle. A lot of advertising terms are military, you know, it’s rather intriguing: things like strategy, campaign, operations room, yup, it is a battle. One I want – no, need – to win.’
She liked that too.
He talked a lot about the advertising industry; Eliza became very intrigued by it, and thought she would have liked it herself if she hadn’t been in fashion. He loved the intellectual challenge of it, explaining to her the concept of the USP. ‘That stands for Unique Selling Proposition. It means it says something very desirable that only that product does, so consumers think they’re only going to get whatever it is by buying it.’
‘What, like “Persil Washes Whiter”?’
‘Absolutely. They’ve now done research that shows the word associated with Persil is whiteness. It’s a con of course, most washing powders make white clothes whiter. Then there’s “Senior Service Satisfies”, as if no other cigarette did, and—’
‘And – I suppose “If you want to get ahead, get a hat”?’ said Eliza.
‘Exactly. Clever girl. What a lot that did for the hat industry. Well, you’d know about that. Likewise “Top People Take The Times”. Who wouldn’t want to be a top person? You can start, obviously, by buying The Times. I tell you, it’s powerful stuff. I love it.’
He earned a great deal of money and he had a seemingly limitless expense account; his office was very grand and indeed like no office Eliza had ever seen. The agency was housed in a row of what had been three rather splendid buildings in Carlos Place, just off Grosvenor Square; the chairman was a legendary American advertising guru called Carl Webster – ‘Well, Americans invented advertising,’ Jeremy said when she expressed surprise.
Lunches, when clients would be entertained in the dining room on the top floor of the agency, with its huge oval table and view across to the square, would often run from midday until six, when a switch would be made to cocktails and plans for the evening.
They were unashamedly snobbish; even the secretaries at KPD were very well-bred. ‘They all disappear and we have to get temps in for Ascot week, you know,’ said Jeremy. ‘And one of the typing tests includes spelling champagne correctly and Bollinger, of course. Then we know they’re suitable.’
Only the creative people, recruited from the art schools, were from the other ranks, as Jeremy called them; boys from secondary moderns, quick, sharp, and irreverent, with totally original ideas on design and openly, if jokily, contemptuous of their social superiors.
The other thing that was absorbing Eliza, even more than her romance with Jeremy, was her new job. She absolutely adored it. As well as running around, as general dogsbody at sessions and in the office, Fiona consulted her endlessly and in the most flattering way about ideas, plans, sessions – and what on earth they could do when they went to the Paris collections. She was extremely neurotic, and indeed difficult, and simply keeping her on an even keel was a job in itself.
‘Jack’s agreed we’ve got to cover the collections, but he says he simply will not have any crap about fabrics, he wants a proper idea. I can’t think of anything. Can you?’
Eliza said she’d try.
‘Matt? Matt, this is Charles. Charles Clark. How are you?’
‘I’m fine thanks, Charles. Yeah. Good to hear from you.’
‘Yes, it’s been too long.’
He was a funny bloke, was Charles, Matt thought, persisting in the idea that the two of them were actual friends; it was quite – quite nice, but he couldn’t possibly really think it.
‘Yeah, it has,’ he said dutifully.
‘What’ve you been up to then? Things going well?’
‘Pretty well. Yeah, I’d say so.’
‘When did you go on your own?’
‘Oh – a few months ago. How’d you find that out?’
‘Called your old firm. They told me. Congratulations, Matt. Jolly well done.’
‘Yeah, well, we haven’t made it yet. May end up in the gutter still.’
‘I doubt it. I envy you. I’d love to be my own boss. Anyway, I wondered if you could help me, in a more direct way. I’m getting married. Next summer.’
‘Yeah? Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Oh – don’t know that she’s that lucky but I certainly am. Juliet, she’s called. Juliet Judd. Anyway, obviously we need somewhere to live. A flat we thought, just to start with. Wondered if you could help.’
‘Sorry, Charles. Wish we could. But we’re a commercial set-up. We don’t do residential. But – tell you what, I’ll speak to a couple of mates on that side of things, and drop you a line. How’s that?’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Matt.’
‘What areas, then?’ As if he didn’t know.
‘Oh, you know – Chelsea, probably a bit too expensive, but worth a look, Kensington, Fulham even. That neck of the woods, anyway.’
‘Sure. Leave it with me.’
‘Fantastic. Well, I hope you’ll come to my wedding.’
&nb
sp; As if, thought Matt. He didn’t mean it, obviously. He was just saying it.
‘I’d love to have Happy and Nobby too, if I could find them. You’re not in touch with either of them, I s’pose?’
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘No, ’fraid not.’
‘Shame. We were such a team, weren’t we? God, I loved those days. Happiest of my life, in some ways. Well, cheerio, Matt. I’ll look forward to getting those names. And let’s have a drink one night.’
‘Yeah,’ said Matt, ‘yeah, that’d be great.’
He put the phone down, stared at it, shaking his head. And then realised Louise was watching him and had been listening to the entire conversation.
‘We should have a residential side, maybe,’ she said. ‘I’ve often thought about it.’
‘Yeah, well, you can stop thinking about it,’ said Matt, ‘there’s not the same money in it, and anyway, you need a clear profile in this business.’
‘It could be a separate company. I could run it. And there’s quite a lot of money in it, actually.’
‘Louise,’ said Matt, ‘I said no. And you have your work cut out as it is, with what you do already.’
‘I could have an assistant.’
‘Give me strength. If anyone gets an assistant round here, it’ll be me. Now, can you find me those files on the Elephant and Castle development I asked for half an hour ago … if you’re not too busy, that is.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Louise. ‘It just seems a pity to miss an opportunity, that’s all. Still it’s your decision, I suppose.’
She had a disconcerting way of getting the last word.
Sarah enjoyed the weekend; most of it anyway. It was wonderful to see Charles, she saw less and less of him these days: which was perfectly understandable of course, it was natural that he would want to spend time with Juliet.
But he had been so sweet over the two days; and he did seem very happy. And it had been lovely to see Eliza, of course; they had had the most marvellous walk together on the Saturday afternoon, Eliza chattering all the way. She was so excited about her new job, which did sound wonderful. And she had been out with Jeremy Northcott several times, it seemed.
‘But don’t look at me like that, Mummy, I do like him and he likes me, we get on together very well but that’s all.’
Sarah tried not to think beyond that, but it was difficult.
They all had a very jolly supper on Saturday night, and played Scrabble afterwards; Charles explained to Juliet it was a family tradition.
‘It’s scrabble or the cinema and there’s nothing on.’
Juliet protested that she was hopeless at Scrabble and Charles said he’d help her, which made her cross.
‘I don’t want you to help me; I’ll feel like a child. I just don’t seem to be able to see words somehow. I suppose I should read more, I’m so dim really—’
‘Darling, you’re not dim,’ said Charles quickly, and indeed she wasn’t, Sarah thought, she was quite sharp, but she certainly had a very limited vocabulary. After about half an hour when she was doing really badly, she started to sulk and said she’d like to go to bed, she was terribly tired.
‘I don’t want to appear rude,’ she said, ‘but I’ve had a terribly busy week, and I’ve got a bit of a headache.’
Sarah said of course she didn’t appear rude. ‘Just have an early night, my dear Charles, what about some cocoa for Juliet—’
‘Cocoa would be lovely. Charles, darling, would you mind?’
They started discussing the wedding plans next day, immediately after breakfast.
About the number of guests, how big the marquee should be, where Juliet might get her dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses, what colour they should be, whether the caterers should be local, or from London, did Sarah think it would be all right for them to be married in the village church, even though she didn’t live there, what her mother had thought of wearing, what would Sarah wear.
She made notes in a pink spiral-bound exercise book into which she had already stuck photographs torn out of magazines of wedding dresses, bouquets, even honeymoon locations.
It was all perfectly natural of course, Sarah thought, that she should be so excited, but she couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for Charles, who was clearly dying to get outside and to spend some time alone with his father. Juliet wouldn’t allow that, she said she wanted him very fully involved.
No doubt about who would be boss in that marriage …
After they had all gone, Adrian went upstairs for a rest – a misnomer for sleeping off an excess of wine at lunchtime, although he did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time resting these days. He was altogether a little subdued, and had even discussed giving up shooting next season. Well, that would be a financial relief at least …
Sarah went for a walk and then came back and sat in the kitchen, next to the Aga – it being the only really warm place in the house – and tried to concentrate on the Sunday Times. It was difficult; she really couldn’t get worked up about the successors to the ailing Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. It seemed very unimportant.
She was delighted – of course – that Juliet and Charles wanted to have their wedding at Summercourt, but it did seem to fly in the face of the natural order of things. She quite liked Juliet – no, no, she liked her very much, she was sweet, and in many ways would be a very good daughterin-law, but she just wasn’t quite what she would have expected Charles to have chosen.
Sarah’s dream had once been that Charles would marry an heiress, one who could bring some money into the family, but she had long given up on that idea. Why should a girl with a fortune marry a man who so patently had none. But she had hoped for – well, someone a bit better than Juliet. She was simply – oh, stop beating about the bush, Sarah thought, she was simply not quite their class. She was rather dreading meeting her parents; she could see they would have very little in common.
The phone rang.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, hello darling. Back already?’
‘Yes, I had a terribly good run. Anyway, I just wondered if you were all right. I thought you looked a bit tired.’
‘Well, I am a bit, of course. But happily so. I thought it all went very well, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, I don’t know, my babies seem to be getting settled. You next, I wonder?’
She knew as the words came out, it was the wrong thing to say.
Eliza was annoyed; she could tell. Worse than annoyed.
‘No, Mummy, I am not going to be next, as you put it. I know you think I ought to have a ring on my finger by now, and be all wrapped up in a tulle parcel like Juliet, but I’m not.’
‘Well, I’m sorry darling, and I know of course your job is very important to you and all that. But – don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s more important than marriage and babies. You’re twenty-three next year, most of your friends are married and—’
‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ said Eliza. ‘I’m not my friends and I’m certainly not getting married just because they are. OK? Now I must go. I’ll ring you in a few days. Thanks for a lovely weekend.’
‘Bye, darling.’
Sarah put the phone down, trying not to feel too rebuffed. Eliza would come round, she told herself. And she was still very young.
Chapter 12
Like millions of other people, Eliza knew exactly what she had been doing when she heard that President Kennedy had been shot. She was in bed for the first time with Jeremy Northcott. For the rest of her life she was unable to think of one event – with its attendant shock and sense of unreality – without the other.
They were in her flat; he had left behind what he described as his favourite scarf – he must have hundreds, she thought – after a dinner party she had given the weekend before, and they were trying to decide what film to see that evening. They were both keen cinema buffs, they had discovered, and it was a toss-up between a rerun of La Dolce Vita a
t the Curzon, which she wanted to see, and Lord of the Flies, which he did.
They were spending more and more time together; they enjoyed the same things, they liked each other’s friends, they amused, pleased and interested one another; it was all very suitable. And Eliza was very happy. Very happy indeed. She didn’t think about what might happen in the future, she was just enjoying the present.
The weekend looked good. She and Jeremy were going to a party on Saturday, and meeting a load of friends at the Pheasantry in the King’s Road for Sunday lunch; Charles and Juliet were going down to Summercourt, with the Judds; Sarah had wanted her to go, but she couldn’t face it.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee while we argue about the film?’ she said now, and, ‘Do you know, I wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘Had one too many G and Ts at lunchtime. Mind if I put the radio on?’
He was a news junkie, always ‘catching the news’ as he put it. He bought three or four newspapers a day. Eliza smiled at him, then turned her attention to finding the coffee pot; as she did so, she heard a newsreader’s voice, ‘… has been shot as he rode in his motorcade through the streets of Texas. It is not yet known how serious his condition is.’
‘Who?’ she said stupidly. ‘Who are they talking about, who’s been shot?’ and, ‘Shush,’ said Jeremy, ‘I’m trying to hear.’
She stood there, utterly motionless, holding the coffee pot; when she heard the words ‘Mrs Kennedy is at the hospital’ she sat down abruptly and listened, stunned with a shock that felt personal, as the ghastly story was told. And when finally Jeremy said, ‘Dear God in heaven,’ she went into his arms, surprised at her need for comfort.
They sat on the sofa in the drawing room, drinking the coffee and listening to the endless reports, repeating over and over again, ‘John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the President of the United States, is dead,’ first the English voices, shocked and stunned, then the American ones, even more so, reactions from the crowds, first in Texas and then in New York, disbelieving, grief-stricken. They turned on the television, saw the photographs that would become iconic, of the Kennedys arriving in Texas, both untouchably glamorous, both smiling, waving, she in her Chanel suit and pillbox hat, he with his thick hair lifted by the wind. ‘It’s almost unbearable,’ Eliza said, ‘look at them, they were safe then, just an hour or so before, oh I’m talking nonsense, sorry Jeremy.’
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