‘Oh, for pity’s sake. I can’t take any more of this. Let’s change the subject.’
‘It’s not me going on about it,’ said Matt, with some truth.
The next morning, he told Jenny he didn’t want to be disturbed, smoked two of the cigarettes that Scarlett had suddenly decided were bad for him, and for the second time in his life, made an apologetic phone call to Eliza.
‘Darling, don’t cry, whatever is it, come on, tell me—’
‘Sorry, Jeremy. So sorry. I’ll – I’ll be all right in a minute.’
‘It’s not Charles, is it? Charles and Juliet?’
‘God, no, I wouldn’t cry about that. This is much, much worse. It’s—it’s Daddy. He’s – he’s got Parkinson’s Disease.’
‘Oh, my God. Oh, Eliza, my darling, I am so, so sorry.’
‘Yes. It’s terrible, isn’t it? He’s not too bad yet, he hadn’t even told Mummy, but he’s got a bit – well, feeble and – and shaky obviously, and he dropped one of her precious bits of Spode the other day and it smashed and she lost her temper and started yelling at him, she says she feels so ashamed now—’
‘These things happen. I’m sure he understood.’
‘Yes, of course. But – well, he told her. That he’d got it. She rang me, she was crying, it was awful. And then there’s all the worry about the house … I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go down this weekend to be with them, I can’t go to Norfolk with you, I’m so sorry.’
‘Darling of course you must. Don’t even give Norfolk a thought. It won’t go away, we can go another time.’
She came back on Sunday evening, very subdued.
‘It was horrible.’ She took the gin and tonic Jeremy had poured for her. ‘Worse even than I expected. Daddy wasn’t so bad, he was sort of determined but cheerful, Mummy was terribly shaken, trying to be brave. He’s not too bad physically, they’ve put him on some drugs that will help for a while, apparently, but he has got a bit of a tremor in one hand, I can’t think why I didn’t notice it before, I feel dreadful about it.’
‘Darling, that’s exactly what your pa didn’t want, that’s why he was keeping it to himself. Bloody brave, I must say.’
‘Isn’t it? Bless him. And of course what they’re most afraid of is having to move. Apparently the doctor said they should consider moving into a bungalow. Because Daddy will find the stairs very difficult, later on. And Charles started going on about the house falling down round their ears, and how we couldn’t afford to get it fixed, said perhaps it would be better to try and sell it and—’
‘Could they sell it? Didn’t you tell me there was some kind of trust?’
‘Well, yes. It’s owned by the trustees, but Mummy has Power of Appointment, which means she can appoint it out to anyone within her discretion and that of the trustees of course. But unless one of us was really rich that wouldn’t do any good because the trustees aren’t allowed even to mortgage it to raise money for repairs.’
‘It sounds like a very badly thought out trust to me. Who set it up?’
‘My grandfather. But they could let it, I think. And move. But can you imagine, leaving Summercourt and living in a bungalow. It would break Mummy’s heart. “It’ll be fine,” she kept saying, “as long as we can stay here.” And then I said well what about if we both chipped in, me and Charles, we’ve both got a bit from Granny and Grandpa, that’d pay for quite a bit of work, and Mummy said she couldn’t possibly accept it and Charles said of course she could and it would be for our benefit in the long run, when we take Summercourt over. Anyway that calmed them down, and we managed to get onto talking about help and daily care when it was necessary, and they both looked a bit happier. But they seemed so small and vulnerable and lonely somehow, when we left. It’s such a nightmare, and I don’t know how much we helped at all.’
‘I’m sure you did. Look, darling, you know I’ll do what I can, don’t you? Help you organise nursing for your father, that sort of thing. And as I’ve said, my GP is excellent, we could talk to him, see if he knows any specialists. And we can go down any weekend you want to. I don’t mind. I adore your parents, you know I do.’
‘Oh, Jeremy, you’re such an angel,’ said Eliza, putting her arms round him, kissing him, ‘so kind and – well, so good. Thank you.’
Later, staring into the darkness, fretting over the situation, and thinking how extraordinarily nice he was – how did anyone get to be like that? Especially someone as over-privileged as Jeremy? – the words ‘too good to be true’ kept slipping into her head. That’s what he was. Bit hard to live up to, that was the only thing. So, was this love? Certainly seemed to be.
‘That wedding,’ said Matt. His voice was very casual.
‘What, the posh one? Yes, what about it?’
Gina’s large grey eyes were suddenly sharp.
‘I – well, I’ve decided to go after all. And I – well, would you like to come with me?’
‘Well – I don’t know. I might be busy. When was it?’
‘It’s 26 June.’
‘I’ll have a look in my diary.’
He knew she would agree and she knew he knew; but she played a lot of games like this.
‘Well – I’ll have to see what my parents say. They’re having a drinks party that evening. But should be all right.’
‘Well, don’t put yourself out.’
‘I won’t.’
It was the conversation with Eliza that had persuaded him. She was clearly embarrassed herself by the whole article thing, and said she was sorry if she’d upset him, she really hadn’t meant to, it had all been a stupid misunderstanding, and that she’d see him at the wedding.
‘You will come, won’t you? I know Charles is really hoping you will.’
After that, it seemed rude to refuse.
He was dreading it just the same. He’d been to Moss Bros and hired a monkey suit, the full works, had even been talked into a top hat. He’d never seen such a prat in his life as the one who looked back at him from the mirror.
Gina was very excited about it, and had bought a long crêpe dress from Biba.
She had also borrowed a hat from James Wedge, whom she knew, and told Matt, to his relief, he shouldn’t wear the one from Moss Bros.
‘It’ll be mostly the ushers and so on who’ll wear them, well, they won’t wear them, just carry them. I wouldn’t even worry about gloves, it’ll be awfully hot hopefully. Now, have you thought about a present?’
Matt said he hadn’t and that he didn’t have the faintest idea what to give them.
‘OK, well, they’ll have a list, probably at Peter Jones. We can just choose something off that, it’s really easy. Don’t look so worried, Matt, it’s going to be fun. I can’t wait.’
‘Hope so,’ said Matt gloomily.
Sarah felt very frightened. A friend’s husband had died after four years of Parkinson’s and she knew very clearly what lay ahead. Increasing immobility, increasing dependence, a shutting down of life as she knew it; she would be confined to the house, less able to do what she wanted, to make trips to London, and to visit friends. What at the moment were the mildest of symptoms would become, she knew, something quite ugly. Adrian would become depressed, physically feeble, odd-looking, unable to perform the most simple tasks for himself. Eating would be difficult, a social life impossible. With the best will in the world, they would become more dependent on their children, turn into the sort of responsibility she would hate.
But all of that paled into complete insignificance, set against the threat of having to leave Summercourt. That was unthinkable.
Summercourt was a part of her, she belonged to it and it to her. It gave her happiness, interest, and an absolute sense of security; and it would give her courage. She knew that. Somehow, somehow, they had to stay there.
‘Matt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s Eliza. Eliza Clark.’
‘Oh – yeah. Morning.’
‘Good morning. Look – I know I told y
ou it was too late to do that article.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘Well, it might not be. The editor’s decided to put it in a later issue.’
What he’d actually said was, ‘Is it too much to ask you to find me someone just a little more interesting than this load of wankers. I don’t want to read about a lot of bloody poofs. Hairdressers! Give me strength.’
‘So – would you still be interested? I mean, now you understand what it’s about a bit more?’
‘I – might be.’
‘Oh – well, good. Could we – could we do it this week, do you think? If you decide you will, of course.’
‘I don’t know about this week. Very, very busy this week.’
‘Well, that’s a shame. Next week really is too late.’
‘Well, let me just ask my secretary, might have a corner on Thursday –’ he bellowed Jenny’s name – ‘yes, I could possibly do Thursday evening. Any good?’
‘I’ll see if the journalist’s available.’
‘I thought it’d be you.’
‘Oh – no. No, it’d be a freelance. Or possibly our features editor, Annunciata Woburn.’
Annunciata! What kind of person called their child Annunciata? Their kind, he supposed.
‘That’s a shame,’ he said, ‘I’d much rather talk to you. Can’t you do it?’
‘Um – well – I don’t think so. I’m not a features person. I’m fashion, it’s quite different.’
‘You still work on the magazine. I really don’t want to talk to – well, to anyone else.’
‘Right. Well – OK. I’ll have to ask, get back to you.’
Annunciata said it would be fine, if that was really the only way they could get Matt, and that she would supply Eliza with a list of questions and then write it up herself, ‘so it reads like the others’, thus displaying the usual attitude of what Jack called ‘proper journalists’ to the air-headed fashion girls. Eliza swallowed it without protest; she was too intrigued by the prospect to risk losing it.
‘And ask him about photographs. I’d like to do one on a building site or something like that.’
‘Yes, course.’
‘Is he photogenic?’
Eliza thought of Matt: the thick, dark hair – quite short by the standards of the day, the probing brown eyes, the – well, yes, it was fair to say – the sexy mouth.
‘Very,’ she said.
‘I wonder how I knew you were going to say that.’
Eliza was very impressed by Matt’s set-up. He was clearly even more successful than she had thought. Four offices, all very streamlined, in a very good building just off Wardour Street; she was greeted by the most amazing blonde who looked as if she ought really to be on the cover of Seventeen magazine, and who made her an excellent cup of coffee and offered her an extraordinary array of biscuits. She was introduced to Matt’s partner, Jimbo Simmonds, who was very nice but clearly not the real brains in the outfit; and then another very pretty girl appeared, clearly hugely bright and quite acerbic, who Matt rather pointedly dismissed, but not before she’d introduced herself as their partner, and said if there were any gaps in the information Matt supplied just call her, and gave her a card.
‘Quite a harem you’ve got here, Matt,’ said Eliza, settling back into the leather visitor’s chair opposite Matt’s desk.
‘Yeah, well. I’m a great believer in employing women.’
‘And not just as secretaries?’
‘Course not. Cigarette?’
‘Yes, thanks. Well, that’s a very modern attitude. Not many male feminists about.’
‘Oh, I’m not a feminist,’ said Matt firmly, ‘don’t hold with all that. Once a woman’s married and has children, I think she should be at home, looking after things.’
‘Including her man?’ Eliza’s eyes danced.
‘Yeah,’ he said, very seriously, ‘yes, I do. That’s the natural order of things, isn’t it?’
‘No working mothers, then?’
‘Absolutely not. That’s a straight route to society falling apart, as I see it. But – while women don’t have any other responsibilities, yeah, I think they should be given a chance.’
‘Very generous of you. Right. Well, let’s get started.’
‘Just before we do,’ he said, ‘can I read what you write before it goes into the magazine?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t allow that.’
‘Right. Well, in that case,’ he stood up, ‘the interview’s not happening. I’m sorry, Eliza, I’m not giving you carte blanche to write whatever you like about me. I’m not completely wet behind the ears. Either I see the interview or you don’t get one.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll arrange for you to see it. Of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘Now, what was actually your first job, and how old were you …?’
‘My dear, I’m coming over to do a little shopping and some theatres, and how nice it would be to see you again. Tea at the Connaught one day – would that be possible? I shall be there from 6 June through 10 – on my own, alas, this time, no David – and I hope very much that you could join me on one of those days. Lily Berenson.’
Scarlett’s first instinct was to refuse, to tell her she was away on those dates; it seemed very dangerous to meet with her a mere couple of weeks – as it would be – after seeing David. And then with a streak of pure perversity, she decided to say yes. Dangerous it might be, but it would also be rather exciting. And she might – just might – be able to garner from Mrs Berenson some information about David and Gaby’s marriage, whether the end was truly in sight, as David kept intimating to her – without actually saying so.
She wouldn’t mention the meeting to David; she wondered if Mrs Berenson might. That would make him very nervous. Well, too bad; it was time, perhaps, for a bit of reality to enter the situation.
She checked her schedule; she was free two of the days. She wrote back and said she would be delighted to see Mrs Berenson on whichever suited her better.
‘You look lovely my dear,’ said Mrs Berenson, rising to kiss her. ‘I like the shorter hair very much.’
‘Thank you,’ said Scarlett.
‘I’m giving myself a treat tomorrow, going to René, you know? To have just a bit of a restyle.’
‘Goodness,’ said Scarlett, for she did know – who couldn’t? – of René, hairdresser to the Queen, to the noblest ladies in the land, and his dazzling reputation.
‘I hope he won’t do anything too drastic. I’m always a little nervous of new hairdressers, but I’m told he is truly wonderful.’
Scarlett assured her that Rene was indeed truly wonderful, and about as likely to do something drastic to a client’s hair as Hardy Amies was to dress one of his in a miniskirt.
‘Good. Well, that’s very nice to hear. Now, how are you, darling? I want to hear all your news. I was very pleased when you wrote and told me you were working for BOAC. If you ever flew down to the Southern States, I want you to promise me to come and stay.’
‘That sounds wonderful,’ said Scarlett carefully.
‘And I could show you Atlanta, where your namesake lived for much of her life; and of course Rhett Butler came from Charleston. I know the rest of the family would love to meet you; especially the girls. Now did I tell you that Gaby is having another baby?’
Scarlett was pouring out the tea and thinking rather vaguely about Rhett Butler, and how she’d had a crush on him – or rather Clark Gable – when she first saw the film, and Mrs Berenson’s announcement did no more than skim across the surface of her mind for a moment or two. And then she thought that she must have misheard, got the name wrong, that it was one of the other wives Mrs Berenson was talking about.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said politely. ‘Who’s having a baby?’
‘Gaby, dear. David’s wife. In December. It’s very early days of course, but so exciting, Alicia, their youngest, is eleven, so it’s a wonderful surprise for everyone.’
It stopped skimming then, the announceme
nt, and settled: heavily, painfully, digging its barbs deep into her, so painfully indeed that she felt it physically, was afraid she might cry out.
She heard a voice, which surely couldn’t have been hers, a calm interested voice, saying, ‘Really? How lovely,’ and then asking most politely if Mrs Berenson would like sugar in her tea, and then how David felt about the baby. ‘After such a big gap.’
‘Oh, my dear, he is thrilled. Over the moon. He’s a wonderful father and he always said he was happiest when the children were tiny. He is definitely the only one of my sons who’s been known to change a diaper.’
‘Really! How sweet. And is Gaby well?’
‘She’s very well, yes. She thrives on pregnancy, always has. And in spite of her very busy life, she’s happy to put it on hold to enjoy this. “The Post Script”, they call him or her. So sweet, don’t you think?’
‘Very sweet,’ said Scarlett. ‘Um – could you excuse me just a moment, Mrs Berenson? I have to go to the ladies’ room.’
She looked at herself in the mirror in the ladies and was amazed to see exactly the same person who had left her flat an hour ago. She looked slightly flushed, and her eyes were very bright, but there was no sign whatsoever that she was enduring such nightmarish pain. She combed her hair, admiring the shape of her new Vidal Sassoon five-point bob, sprayed herself with the Diorling that David had given her only two weeks ago, and renewed her lipstick. She didn’t dare start crying because she knew she would never stop.
Then she went back to the lounge of the Connaught and drank two cups of tea, ate three finger sandwiches and told Mrs Berenson that she had been thinking about her invitation and she thought she might well like to take her up on her invitation to stay with her in Charleston, ‘just for a couple of days, I’ve got a little leave in hand. I’ll have a look at my schedule. I would so love to see your beautiful house.’
‘My dear, how lovely! David will be thrilled.’
Chapter 18
‘Charles is late,’ said Eliza, ‘I wonder where he is. He said he’d be here by four at the latest and it’s – what – nearly six.’
The Decision Page 21