Love, real love, in all its unquestioning, troubling determination, had eluded Jeremy thus far in his life. He had felt great affection, sexual attraction; he had enjoyed several relationships, and been seriously engaged by a few. But there it had ended; and he had come to think that that was all he was to know or even be capable of. But he wanted it; and he wanted it more as time went on.
He did not lack for contact with beautiful and intelligent women – it was just that they were never absolutely suited to him, and to the complexity of his life and its demands. And this included Eliza, as he very well knew, more clearly than ever now.
And here was one of the most beautiful women in the world, seeking him out. He knew what she wanted, and he wanted it too; but he knew he could not supply it, could not even dream of supplying it. Jeremy was that rather unfashionable and even rather dull creature, a good man. He had made a rule all his life to reject any course of action that he felt to be morally unjustifiable. And a relationship with Mariella, however enticing, clearly came into that category; and so he refused to consider it.
Even so, while shaking his own head at himself, telling himself he was a fool and a reprehensible one at that, he had said, yes, lunch would be delightful … trying and failing not to see beyond it and its purpose. It was, after all, only lunch…
He smiled at her now. ‘It is. Very nice. But you’re not eating anything.’
‘Yes, I am. I have eaten my salad and one of my eggs Benedict. That is quite a lot for me.’
‘Half an egg Benedict actually. What do you usually eat for lunch?’
‘Oh – I don’t know. A little fresh pasta. With pesto, or perhaps some sauce pomodoro. Maybe in the summer some asparagus. Eating is not important to me.’
‘I don’t believe you. I’ve seen you tucking into tiramisu.’
‘Tiramisu is different. Tiramisu is more like a beautiful melody or – or making love.’
‘Mariella! What a ridiculous thing to say,’ said Jeremy laughing.
‘Well, perhaps. But I could not pass a tiramisu by. My mother made the most perfect tiramisu. Better even than they serve in Bagutta. Have you eaten their tiramisu?’
‘I – don’t think so.’
‘Then you must. We will enjoy it together, next time you are in Milan.’
‘Mariella, I don’t think I shall be in Milan again for a very long time.’
‘Oh, but you must. You can always stay with us.’
‘Well, perhaps. Now, I want to know more about your mother.’
‘Oh, I loved her so much. She was a very, very wonderful woman. We had no money, no money at all, but every day was happy. She cooked us delicious food, she made us lovely clothes, the house was full of music, she sang, all the time, she had the most wonderful voice.’
‘Can you sing?’
‘Oh, no. Not at all. I am note deaf.’
‘Tone deaf,’ he said, smiling.
‘Eliza does that.’
‘What?’
‘Corrects my English. How did it feel, to see her again, after all this time? I think you loved her very much.’
‘I’m not sure that I did,’ he said. ‘I adored her, we were terribly happy together but love – in that sense – I don’t think so. If I had been sure, then I would have married her, long before she met Matt and all our lives would have been very different.’
‘I do not like Matt very much,’ said Mariella. ‘I think he is unkind to her. He will not let her do what she needs to do, he would not let her come and stay with me when she was so sad after the baby died, he will not let her work, they quarrel a lot. I think, he thinks only about Matt.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Jeremy, smiling. ‘Eliza is quite good at looking after herself, doing what she wants. Or she used to be. But I’m sorry if she isn’t happy. Very sorry. She seemed fine in Milan. Except of course over the baby.’
‘Yes, but, you know, there was more problem over that—’
‘Oh, dear. Poor Eliza. Married life is difficult, I understand.’ He smiled at her. ‘You and Giovanni, now, do you quarrel? I’m sure not.’
‘No, we do not. Never, never.’
‘And – you are happy with him?’
‘Oh – yes. I’m happy. How could I not be?’
‘Well – no, I can’t imagine.’
‘You are so diplomatic, Jeremy, but I know why you asked. You think Giovanni is an old man, not a companion for me, maybe not even a sexual companion – and you would be right. Of course.’
‘Yes, I see.’ He felt disturbed by this. It had been what he had suspected, but not that she would address it so soon and so directly.
‘Now you are shocked,’ she said. ‘I do not mean to do that. I was trying to explain. You do not have to have everything to be happy, just the right things. Giovanni loves me, very, very much. And I feel quite, quite safe, all the time. And he has the right things too; he has me for the rest of his life, in his house, taking care of him, loving him, wherever he goes, and that is all he asks too. But now, all of a sudden, there is you. So …’ she paused, smiled very directly into his eyes.
‘Mariella.’
‘Yes?’
It had to be done, said, now. Before things went any further.
‘Mariella, I don’t think I can do this.’
‘Do what, Jeremy?’ Her expression was puzzled.
‘Please, Mariella. Don’t insult me by playing silly games. I can’t – do what you want. I can’t have an affair with you.’
‘Don’t you want to?’
The dark eyes filled with pain, the lovely mouth trembled. God, she was a master of this. Or rather a mistress.
‘Of course I do,’ he said, ‘I want it very much. It is agony for me to sit here and – and say this. But – I can’t do it, Mariella. I like Giovanni too much. He has given me his hospitality, his friendship. I can’t deceive him, I can’t take from him what he values more than anything on earth.’
‘But Jeremy, he would not know. It would not hurt him.’
‘I would know, Mariella. I’m sorry. I can’t.’
She stood up; she was going to walk out, he thought, possibly throw something at him and in a way he hoped she would. It would make things easier.
But, ‘I go to the bathroom,’ she said, ‘I will be back.’
She was gone a long time: ten, fifteen minutes. Jeremy sat, reflecting on the treasure he had rejected, hardly able to believe it of himself.
And then she returned; stood behind his chair, bent over him, put her arms round his neck, kissed him on the cheek. She smelt amazing, a thick, rich perfume, and when she sat down again, she was smiling, her eyes very bright, her make-up perfect, her hair absolutely in place.
‘Oh, dear,’ she said, shaking her head at him, ‘oh, Jeremy. Would it not be just my bad luck to fall for a perfect English gentleman. Why could I not have found a – a – what should I have found, Jeremy?’
‘A cad,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I think that’s who you should have found. A bounder. A rotter. Who would have rushed you off to bed, as I so long to do, without another thought. That’s what you should have found.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘I do not think so. It is you I want, dear gentleman Jeremy. So much, so very much. Well – perhaps. One day. I shall not give up, you know. I am not proud. And I always get what I want in the end.’
‘Is that so?’ he said, struggling to keep his voice light, and, ‘oh yes,’ she said, blowing him a kiss across the table, ‘that is really, really so.’
Chapter 44
‘Miss Scarlett! How nice of you to come.’
Scarlett smiled at Mark Frost. He really was so charming, she thought; and he was attractive too, with his shock of brown hair and those grey eyes peering through his steel-framed spectacles.
And it was nice of him to greet her. She’d actually been feeling horribly out of it, her confidence was at a low ebb anyway, the exhilaration of tipping the champagne over David Berenson’s head having worn off after abo
ut half an hour, leaving her weary and wretched. In fact she had very nearly not come at all; except that Mark Frost’s PR had been doing a ring-round on the last morning and Scarlett had been out and the party being in her diary, the secretary had confirmed and she didn’t want to let him down after that.
Although – it would hardly have mattered, the room was packed and every single person there seemed to know every other person and they were all talking loudly and confidently about books and publishers and even agents … ‘Actually the only one I really liked was her first … aren’t those new Penguin covers just the most amazing works of art … I really think you should move on, they’re turning out absolute rubbish …’ and although smiling rather distantly at her, as she walked slowly past with her glass of champagne, or tried to infiltrate a group, they were the opposite of friendly.
‘Anyone here you know?’ Mark Frost said now.
She shook her head. ‘Not really.’
‘Right. I thought you might know a few of the travel journalists. Come and meet Chrissie Morgan, she’s on the Daily Sketch and quite tame, really. How’s your venture going?’
‘Oh, pretty well.’
‘Good. I asked Demetrios last time I was there, but he’s very discreet, always pretends he doesn’t know anything about it.’
‘I don’t think he’s being discreet,’ said Scarlett laughing, ‘I think he really doesn’t. I do hope his extension isn’t going to spoil the taverna though.’
‘Oh, I don’t think it will. Not now I’ve got my architect on it. He and Larissa did have some dreadful ideas, but we’ve sorted him out. It cost me a bit, between you and me, but it’s worth it, from my point of view, keeping the island as it should be.’
‘Oh,’ said Scarlett, ‘oh, that explains it. Demetrios said your achitect had done it and he was very cheap. I thought that was a bit unlikely.’
‘Yes, well, not a word!’
‘Of course not.’
‘Now – Chrissie, meet Scarlett Shaw. She’s the brains behind a wonderful travel club, you’ve probably heard of it—’
‘Mark.’ It was one of the extremely posh publishing girls. Eliza would have been at home here, Scarlett thought. ‘Mark, time for your speech.’
‘Oh Christ.’ He went quite white; it was the first time Scarlett had seen any hint of the original Mark Frost, the silent, withdrawn person she had first met in Demetrios’s hotel.
‘Poor Frosty,’ said Chrissie, looking after him as he was borne away, ‘he really does hate it. Speaking, I mean.’
But he spoke charmingly and amusingly, with some rather fulsome praise for his editor, his publisher, and his agent, and a funny story about how he had heard two ladies in Hatchards discussing the ‘Islands’ book and saying what a pity he hadn’t included the Isle of Wight.
‘He’s such a star, isn’t he?’ said Chrissie Morgan. ‘So funny and so charming.’
‘Yes, he is. I didn’t think so when I first met him, he hardly said a single word.’
‘No, that’s his way. He hides behind this sort of Trappist veil until he’s decided he really likes you and then he drops it, just like that. It’s quite disconcerting really.’
Scarlett felt rather flattered.
‘Have you met Mrs Frost?’
‘No. No, I haven’t.’ She felt promptly recalled to reality.
‘She’s amazing.’
‘I thought she’d be here.’
‘No, apparently wheelchair access is difficult here.’
Wheelchair! So he was married to an invalid. How extraordinary, then, to build a house on a remote Greek island. Perhaps he liked getting away from her…
‘So – your travel club – tell me about it,’ said Chrissie. ‘I’m doing a piece on the smaller agencies, and I might be able to include it.’
Scarlett left with a signed copy of the book, a kiss from Mark Frost and a sense of considerable achievement.
She just wished David Berenson could have seen her, being chatted up by one of the foremost travel writers of his day.
‘Things have got worse here, Eliza. Much worse.’
‘Oh, Heather, I’m so sorry.’ Eliza felt a pang of remorse. It was mid-January and she had been round to see Heather – now seven-and-a-half months pregnant – for the first time since Christmas, and found her in despair.
‘It’s not me this time, it’s poor old Mr Carter upstairs. You know, he’s the widower, can hardly get up and down those stairs at all. Anyway, yesterday morning, a bird got in through the hole in the roof and flew into his face. He panicked and tried to fight it off and then slipped and fell down three or four steps. If I hadn’t heard and found him, I don’t know what would have happened. Poor old thing, I got the ambulance and he’d broken his hip. Coral and I went to see him in the afternoon in hospital and he was much more worried about what would happen to his room and where he could go when he came out.’
‘Poor old chap. How sad. Anyway, I’ll come over again tomorrow with Emmie,’ said Eliza.
‘Oh, would you? Coral is so bored, poor little thing. Getting her to school is all I can manage at the moment, and it gets dark so early—’
‘Course I will,’ said Eliza and then, struck by a thought, ‘have you got a TV?’
‘You’re joking! No, of course we haven’t.’
‘Right. Well, we’ll be there straight after school.’
Emmie said she didn’t want to go to Coral’s house, it smelt.
‘That is not Coral’s fault and she and Heather need our help. Oh, and how would you like to give Coral our old TV, the one in your playroom? She hasn’t got one. We can get you a new one.’
‘I would. It’s a nice idea.’ She could be so sweet sometimes.
Heather was so overcome at the sight of the TV she burst into tears.
‘I can’t take that, Eliza.’
‘Of course you can. We want you to have it, don’t we, Emmie?’
Emmie nodded. ‘Yes, we really do—’
‘It will make such a difference,’ said Heather, wiping her eyes. ‘One of the reasons Coral gets teased at school is because she doesn’t know about all the programmes. She’ll love it so much. But – oh, dear, Alan will go mad. And he’ll go on about the licence, I know he will. He’s always said we couldn’t afford that, even if we got a telly.’
‘Well, he’ll just have to go mad. And I’ll pay for the licence, tell him it’s all for Coral’s benefit. You haven’t found anywhere, I suppose?’
‘No, of course not. We’ve decided to go to Alan’s mum, we’ve got no choice.’
‘Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry. Oh, don’t, don’t cry. Emmie, take Coral into the bedroom, start a game of snap, we’ll join you in a minute.’
‘Come on,’ said Emmie, holding out her hand to Coral, ‘let’s go next door. How’s Amanda Jane?’
She seemed far ahead of Coral now in every way; and they had been born the same week. That didn’t seem right either …
‘Matt, have you got any cheap flats? I mean really cheap?’
‘Not a lot of money in cheap. To buy or to let?’
‘Oh, to let.’
‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment. Why?’
‘Well – you know about my friend. The one living in this awful place in Clapham, her and her husband and their little girl, and she’s having a baby in a month or so. And they’ve got to get out, and they can’t find anywhere. There’s a few months left on their lease, but after that – it’s pretty hopeless. And it seems to me what the landlord is trying to do is make their lives so impossibly awful they’ll have to leave anyway. Like he’s not mending a blocked loo, stuff like that. I just thought you might know of somewhere. Even for a bit. It doesn’t seem fair.’
‘I’ve told you before, Eliza, people create their own circumstances. Look, I didn’t have any silver spoon in my mouth. I worked like stink, round the clock, nobody helped me, I just got on with it. Who are these people anyway?’
‘Matt, for heaven’s sake. You haven’t been
listening to me. I’ve told you about Heather before. She – she’s been a really good friend to me. And I’d so like to help her.’
‘You’re asking the wrong person. Sorry. Now I’ve got to go, I’m late already.’
‘Bastard,’ said Eliza aloud as he closed the door. Well, she wasn’t going to let it go. Somehow, she was going to see justice done. She owed Heather too much not to.
That afternoon, she had to go to the dentist. Sitting in the waiting room, she reached for a newspaper someone had left behind. It was the Daily News.
She sighed and flicked through the pages. Jack was doing a brilliant job. The news coverage was superb and there was now a full page of analysis called ‘NewsWatch’ added onto both home and international events.
Very good gossip column – Jack had always had a penchant for gossip, and knew its importance to even the most cerebral paper – and, God, this was a fascinating article: ‘A Tale of One City’, it was called, written by a journalist called Johnny Barrett, who was billed as the paper’s Man of Property. It wasn’t just about the property trade, though, it was feature-based, about two families living what Barrett called either side of the Cultural Divide, the intellectual Georgian squares of Islington, and the more traditional, old-money scene of the mews and mansion blocks of Chelsea. She could see Jack’s hand in this too; but she loved the way Barrett wrote, sharply and perceptively, catching the nuances of the two different styles of talking, dressing, entertaining. This wasn’t about property, it was what property was about: people, and what they made of it, and it of them.
It was that very hour, while the dentist was drilling agonisingly into a tooth which he had declared nerveless, that the idea began to form …
‘Susan,’ said Matt. ‘Get Andrew Watson on the phone, will you?’
‘Yes, Mr Shaw.’
‘And let me have any lists of letting agents on file, as well. The bottom end of the market.’
‘Yes, Mr Shaw.’
‘Hello, Louise. How are you?’
The Decision Page 54