‘What sort of things?’ Eliza spoke slowly; something was stirring in the very back of her mind, something unsuspected, something quite unthinkable.
‘Well – there is talk of – er, modern windows being installed. And possibly even a – let me see.’ He consulted his notes. A very discerning observer would have noticed his lips coming close to twitching. ‘Sky-blue pink paint on the front door—’
‘I suppose we don’t have any right to—’ began Charles.
‘Oh. My. God,’ said Eliza, and she was smiling now. ‘The bastard! The bastard! Charles, you know who it is, don’t you? It’s Matt!’
Matt it was indeed; and he came in with Sarah, grinning, looking even slightly sheepish; and Sarah was flushed, half-laughing, while at the same time clearly embarrassed to be confronting her children with something so totally unexpected.
‘The thing is, darlings, I knew nothing of this until yesterday afternoon. Matt called me and asked me if I could meet him here early today—’
‘You bastard!’ said Eliza. ‘Straight after telling me to look at horrible mansions in Surrey.’
‘If this hadn’t worked,’ said Matt, ‘that would have been an alternative.’
‘Not to me it wouldn’t! It was mean and hateful and – and cruel and—’
‘Eliza!’ said Sarah. ‘Matt has been the opposite of mean, I do assure you.’
And he had.
Sarah had agreed to appoint the house out to Eliza, thus terminating the trust. What had made this financially viable as a solution was that Matt had paid Sarah ‘something called an inducement, it sounds a bit dodgy doesn’t it, but it’s a legal loophole, anyway, it’s very, very generous’ of twenty thousand pounds – Summercourt’s market value given its appalling condition.
‘This would enable your mother to buy herself a smaller, more suitable property,’ said Digby Ward, ‘and then Mr Shaw has also agreed to provide the wherewithal to do the house up, make the necessary repairs—’
‘And install modern windows,’ said Matt with a grin.
‘That will of course be impossible, Summercourt being Grade 1 listed,’ said Digby Ward. ‘I do hope you will forgive that little joke, Mrs Shaw.’
‘I forgive you,’ said Eliza, ‘not my husband.’
‘My lawyers are drawing up a deed of gift of a half share right this minute,’ said Matt. ‘Now, something else I’d like to say: bit hard on you, Charles, all this, and I’m sorry. But – you’ve said often enough, you didn’t want it, couldn’t cope with the expense, and at least it’ll be in the family.’
‘No, no, that’s true,’ said Charles, ‘and oddly, I don’t see it as hard. I see it as a marvellous solution. If it was going to someone outside the family, I would mind very much, but as it is – well, I think it’s fine. I really mean that,’ he said, smiling gently at his mother. ‘I’m not just being noble. I really do feel that.’
‘Yes, but Charles dear, if – when you get married again, you might have a son,’ said Sarah anxiously. ‘You might feel rather differently.’
‘Well, if I do, that will be my problem,’ said Charles, ‘and I shall try to deal with it graciously.’
‘Charles, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Eliza, ‘Summercourt will still be home to you as well as me. And I’m sure Matt would say the same.’
‘I would. Of course. And – Sarah – you don’t have to move out. You can stay there, long as you like. We’re hardly going to be living there full time. I’m sure I speak for Eliza as well, don’t I, Eliza?’
Eliza nodded; she felt very emotional suddenly. She got up, went round the table and, careless of any embarrassment she might cause, put her arms round Matt and kissed him.
‘I love you,’ she said, ‘and thank you. And you’re not that mean and hateful. Not really.’
And so it was that on one particularly lovely August evening that year, the new owner of Summercourt – for that was how he regarded himself – drove down to view it, with his wife and daughter, there to meet his mother-in-law who had arranged a picnic supper in the orangery, always his favourite part of the house.
A bottle of champagne sat in an ice-bucket on the picnic table; Sarah asked Matt to open it and then went very pink.
‘I have something to say Matt,’ she said, raising her glass to him, ‘and that is that I feel extremely fortunate at the turn of events, of course, but I also feel extremely ashamed of myself over my behaviour when Eliza first brought you to meet Adrian and me. You’re the best son-in-law I could have wished for and I’m only sorry I couldn’t see it then.’
She had obviously been rehearsing this little speech and when it was over she started to cry; Matt told her not to be so silly and that he wouldn’t have thought much of himself as a prospect for his daughter. ‘If I’d come asking to marry Emmie, I wouldn’t have given myself the time of day.’
‘Well,’ Sarah said, ‘if there’s anything I can do, to show my gratitude …’
Matt told her not to worry about it, but after supper when Emmie sat sleepily sucking her thumb demanding stories, he said yes, now here was a thing, if Sarah really wanted to show her gratitude, she could put Emmie to bed so that he and Eliza could be alone together for a while.
Sarah led Emmie off towards the house, and Matt turned to Eliza in the dusk of the conservatory evening and said, ‘I love you Eliza,’ adding that he couldn’t recall them having had a row, whereupon Eliza said she couldn’t either, and she loved him too, and maybe they could reverse the usual order of things …
‘You mean – you want to – do it now?’
‘I do. I want it more than more than.’
‘What – here?’
‘Here.’
‘And then, since we’re doing everything the wrong way round, do we have to have a row?’
‘We can if you like,’ said Eliza, ‘but it’s not compulsory.’
‘Oh, God,’ he said, and he reached out and took her hand, and kissed it and then pulled her towards him, the intense expression on his face that he only wore on such occasions, ‘Oh, God,’ and then, ‘the floor’s a bit hard. Won’t you mind?’
‘I might,’ she said, ‘but it’ll be worth it. Don’t you think?’
‘I can’t think,’ he said, ‘I can’t think about anything. Get your knickers off, Eliza. Quick.’
It was not the most romantic of phrases, but then romantic phrases had always irritated her.
In the house, sitting by the open window of her bedroom, Sarah heard some wild, strange cries coming from the direction of the conservatory and hoped they hadn’t shut some poor creature inside it, and resolved to send them back to check when they came in. But they were a long time, wandering the grounds, she supposed; and by the time she did hear them on the stairs she was too sleepy to care.
Chapter 34
There is no such thing as overnight success. Success takes years, sometimes decades, of planning, foresight and investment. It demands huge courage, a steady nerve, a hard head and massive reserves of determination. It allows no room whatsoever for self-doubt and it is also based to a degree on luck.
There is, however, once or perhaps twice in a lifetime a congruence of opportunity, good fortune, experience and skill that provides a sudden and increased impetus, thrusting players into a new and higher gear, and a kind of Midas touch moves into play.
This happened to Matt Shaw with the take-up of the first two office parks and the development of a third; he was making a great deal of money – although no one knew quite how much, not even Eliza. But he was dealing in large developments rather than single buildings, he was revered and admired, written about and photographed, his methods studied and analysed, his personal history trawled for clues. And he was the perfect subject, still a year shy of his thirtieth birthday, working-class and good-looking; even quite famously now, the owner of a beautiful country house. Journalists couldn’t get enough of him.
It was an extraordinary time for those who worked with and for Matt, and even more ext
raordinary for his family. He was generous in giving credit where it was due, frequently praised Louise – and even the nowdeparted Jimbo, on occasions – and paid several quite fulsome tributes to Eliza, but the fact remained that the credit was for the most part his, and he knew it. Louise had pulled off more than one coup on her own, but she did it from the security of Matt’s framework just as Jimbo had capitalised on and exploited opportunities that Matt had created.
Against all the odds, however, the effect of all this success was, initially at least, beneficial. The truculence created by his modest background combined with his searing conviction that it was an injustice that should be righted, eased considerably; he became less tense, and better-tempered; less dismissive and more tolerant; he listened more and shouted less.
‘It’s really funny, isn’t it?’ Jenny said one morning to Louise. ‘Not being worried what sort of mood he’s going to be in.’ And then added that she quite missed it really and she wondered if it was going to change again.
Louise told her that she should make the most of it while it lasted.
Eliza felt the same. The break in hostilities between him and the rest of the world was, she felt sure, temporary. It was nice, but was not to be trusted; rather in the manner of one of those over-bright summer mornings that offer the first wispy clouds by breakfast, and lowering dark skies by lunchtime.
But so began – she realised, looking back – one of the happiest periods in her life. She was still restless, still lonely – for the kind of company she craved at least – still bored; but Matt’s saving Summercourt had made her see how much he loved her. He had done it primarily for her, and she knew it. And consequently, knew that all his demands, all the personal sacrifices she had made, were actually worth it.
Nevertheless, he did love the idea of owning Summercourt, as well as the place itself. His owning it, he felt, was so pleasingly inappropriate. It was the sort of house that spoke of breeding, of sophistication, of taste; Matt would have been the first person to cheerfully disclaim any pretension to any of them. Just the same, he had the money to buy it and restore it, as its former owners, so well endowed with those qualities, could not, and that fact, that slap in the eye for the Establishment, made him very happy indeed.
It was costing him a small fortune, as he liked to say – with its implication that he could find several even larger ones should he so desire – and the expenditure of every pound of that fortune made him feel sleekly self-satisfied.
Matt was also very happy – when he thought about it. The least analytical of people, he was only aware of uncomfortable emotions: rage (frequent), stress (more frequent still), envy (now rare). When he was feeling none of those things, it could be presumed he was happy. He had the things he had always wanted: money, status – and Eliza. His love for Eliza surprised him at times: born that day on Waterloo station, it had never faded, never failed. From unapproachable creature, a world removed from him, she had moved towards him through the years, and was now almost unbelievably at the centre of his life.
It was not a comfortable relationship still: he found her frequently enraging. There had been women over the years who, he could see, would have made him more comfortable, more at ease with life, less challenged. Eliza was disruptive, demanding, restless, and very critical. He had no opportunity of growing complacent so long as he was with her.
Sometimes when they quarrelled, and more seriously than usual, he would glance at least in the direction of life without her, and found himself faced by an abyss so vast, so terrifying, so ugly he would literally close his eyes and turn away.
She was what she was, with all her imperfections; and he could consider no other.
His honeymoon with the rest of his immediate world was, however, coming to an end and very fast. In a way that Eliza could very well have predicted.
For he called Louise into his office one morning and told her he had offered Barry Floyd Jimbo’s partnership in the firm: without consulting her, looking in her direction, or considering that he might offer it to her. She found it hard to believe in the cruelty of it. In the sheer, blind, callous, careless cruelty.
She listened in silence as he told her. Then, as she had never ever done in all the years of provocation and injustice, knew she was going to break down.
And said that she wanted to be alone and shut the door; and put her head on her arms on the desk and cried and cried.
It was Jenny who first went in, who had listened to the sobs, in an agony of sympathy, her tender heart wrung, Jenny who had asked Matt what was wrong and if there was anything she could do, and was told to do what she liked; Jenny who put her arms round Louise, and told her to hush and fetched her some water and then sat down beside her and drew her head onto her soft, comforting bosom, which might have been created for exactly such a purpose, and waited there until the sobs subsided, and was told that she had been kind, very kind but Louise thought she would go home for the rest of the day.
What hurt Louise most was what she clearly was to him. In spite of everything, all the loyalty, the thought, the care, the hard, hard work, the near-inspirational ideas, she was still simply the sassy girl with good legs who had walked in the door and been hired as the company PA. There she was, preserved, a sexy dolly bird, for the rest of their time together; everything else that she had achieved had clearly been seen as some kind of happy accident made possible by Matt and Jimbo’s generosity, and the opportunities they could offer her, and nothing to do with any talent that she might have brought to them. A considerably greater talent – and commitment – than Jimbo had shown, particularly latterly.
And – just as bad, worse possibly, was Barry, who had accepted the offer, shaken hands on the deal and not even thrown her a word of warning, or sympathy, or insisted that she should at least have been aware of it, before going off to meet some developers in Manchester for the day. That was a truly, truly dreadful example of Men, in all their arrogant, God given superiority, At Work.
At some point in the afternoon, Jenny called and said that Matt would like to speak to her.
‘I said I’d try, Miss Mullan, ask you if you wanted to speak to him, but I told him I didn’t think it was very likely.’
‘You tell him you were right, Jenny. I don’t want to speak to him.’
‘Of course, Miss Mullan. Are you feeling a little bit better?’
‘No, not really,’ said Louise.
Later, much much later, the phone rang again and it was Barry. Louise told him to fuck off.
‘And just before you do, may I say I always thought Matt Shaw was a bastard: I had a slightly higher opinion of you. How wrong I was.’
First thing next morning, a huge bunch of red roses arrived, with a card that read ‘I love you, and I’m sorry. Barry’. Louise instructed the florist to send them to the offices in Wardour Street, scrawling over the words with a heavy ‘Really?’
She stayed at home for another two days, gathering her strength; and then called them to say she was coming in to see them.
They said all the predictable things, that they really valued her input to the company but that it was a man’s world, and there was no way she could do the job that Jimbo had and Barry would; that they would create a new role for her within the company, with a new title, like New Business Director, give her more money, give her a swanky new office.
‘Well, that’s extremely generous of you.’
She saw the two of them glance at one another, clearly thinking that she meant it, that they had done it, pacified her, won her over. Driven by a wave of anger, she stood up, walked over to the door.
‘Let me tell you, you pair of bigoted, self-centred chauvinist idiots, I wouldn’t go on working with either of you if you paid me a million pounds a year. This is the last time I shall set foot in this office. And don’t think I won’t play very dirty if you try and hold me to my contract or tell me to keep my hands off the clients. I can think of several who’d rather work with me than you. WireHire for a start.’
‘I think you should be very careful about all this,’ said Matt. ‘Whatever you might say, there are legal restraints in place.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Louise, ‘I suppose you think I’m not capable of realising that either. Anyway I’m having lunch with a guy from the Mail tomorrow. I think I can persuade him to write a really nice piece about me and what I’ve achieved, and your pathetic, antediluvian attitude and how I’m looking for a job. I’m going now. Barry, please don’t bother trying to contact me. I’ll decide when or rather if that happens, OK?’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Matt, as she swept out. ‘We’ll have to think of something pretty damn smart. And – what does antediluvian mean?’
‘Before the flood,’ said Barry.
‘Right. But I’ll tell you something,’ Matt added, ‘I’m not going to be held to ransom over this, Barry, and I imagine you aren’t either.’
Barry, who had spent most of his life avoiding conflict by the simple deployment of his charm, found himself in the interesting position of having to make a choice between Matt and his career and Louise and his personal life. Matt, slightly to Barry’s own surprise, won.
Louise, having checked out her contract and removed her personal possessions from the office, had left without further discussion of any kind. They tried to tell themselves they didn’t care.
‘I think you’re quite mad, both of you, and I think you’ll be very sorry,’ said Eliza, when Matt finally told her what had happened. She had a feeling he might not have done even then, had she not called the office one day, and found his phone answered by someone who sounded rather like Louise, but who informed her that no, Louise had left three weeks earlier.
‘Rubbish,’ said Matt. ‘She wasn’t up to a partnership, and that’s all there is to it.’
‘Really?’ said Eliza. ‘We shall see. I’d put money on us hearing quite a lot about Louise Mullan in the future. I shall miss her. I always enjoyed chatting to her. I presume it’s all over between Barry and her?’
The Decision Page 42