“Yeah, right. I bet I’m exactly like one of her boyfriends.”
“Don’t be so touchy, Matt. I’ve told you before. All that stuff is over. Eliza was telling me the other day lots of the people in the fashion world are really … really …”
His voice trailed off. Matt looked at him.
“Really working-class? Is that what you mean?” He grinned at Charles. “It’s OK; I know my place.”
“Matt, for God’s sake, you don’t have a place.”
“OK,” said Matt easily, “if that’s what you think.”
“I do. Anyway, I’m only telling you what Eliza says. Come on, Matt, knock that chip off your shoulder and come and see Eliza with me.”
Eliza opened the door to them wearing a pair of calf-length jeans and a very large white shirt. Her feet were bare; her dark hair tumbled onto her shoulders. And as she leaned forward to kiss Charles and then, slightly tentatively, Matt, laughing as she did so, there was a wave of some infinitely delicious warm scent. She looked perfectly beautiful, and Matt, finding himself suddenly invaded by a violence of feeling that came somewhere between pleasure and distinct physical weakness, wondered rather feebly if this was like falling in love.
They were still talking at midnight as the other girls and their braying boyfriends came and went. Matt listened, hardly speaking, but committing everything that he could to memory: Eliza’s voice, her smile, her lovely hands, which she waved about as she talked, the way she sat with one long leg curled under her, the way she laughed, teased Charles, managed to appear interested in what few things Matt managed to say. He stayed and stayed and would have been still there in the morning, had not Charles told him they really should leave, and with infinite reluctance Matt said good-bye to her and was kissed again and told how lovely it had been for Eliza to see him after all this time, and then walked all the way home from Kensington to Clapham, the tube being closed; almost two hours it took, and he was happy to do so, for he could live and relive the evening without interruption, replaying every moment.
And thinking that he could set up in competition with her job, no problem, he was sure of that. If he ever got the chance, which was pretty bloody unlikely.
In fact, much more likely, he would never see her again.
“Charles? It’s me. Look—a friend of mine makes the most fabulous jumpers and things; she’s looking for a studio/workshop. Would that be the sort of thing your nice friend Matt might be able to help with, do you think?”
“Possibly. I’ll give you his number. Oh, and Juliet wondered if we could go out for a meal together next week. She says she wants to get to know you better.”
“Oh—course. Sounds wonderful. Only thing is, I’m quite busy next week.”
“Well, the one after then. Why don’t I get her to ring you?”
“Lovely idea. Yes. I’ll look forward to it. Now—Matt’s number?”
As she waited, she contemplated Juliet and an evening with her and Charles.
Juliet Judd—her name alone made Eliza want to giggle; it was like a girl in a cartoon—was his new girlfriend, and he appeared oddly besotted by her.
She worked as a secretary for the lawyers who worked for Charles’s stockbroking firm, and she was a hugely irritating, simpering creature, so much the sort of girl Eliza disapproved of that she found it hard even to be polite to her. She was acutely and self-consciously feminine, a blue-eyed blonde, but her hair was overstyled and, at a time when most girls were wearing simple, ever-shorter shift dresses, or Mary Quant’s pinafores over black sweaters, she favoured girly blouses and flared skirts, or neat little suits, and always had matching bags and shoes and gloves. She had left Roedean with two O-levels and gone to finishing school in Paris, where she had learnt to cook and sew and do flowers and was always saying things like “I don’t think men like girls to be too clever.”
Eliza was sure it wouldn’t last; it was the novelty, she kept telling herself.
“Matt! This one’s for you. Nice little building out Paddington way, near the station. Three thousand square feet, three floors, see what you can do with it. Landlord’s in a hurry, burnt his fingers a bit with his financing, OK?”
“Fine,” said Matt. He still hadn’t got over the excitement of having his own clients, of sorting out a deal. He phoned the landlord: a sharp young man, no older than Matt himself, called Colin White. They met at the building, which had been a warehouse and had had only the most minimal work done—new windows, whitewash on the walls—and White professed great nonchalance over the deal.
“I want the right tenant, and I don’t want no hassle, people moving out again in a year. I want it settled, so I don’t have to think about it anymore, OK?”
Matt said OK but he thought the rent was too high.
“It’s a good space but it’s the location; I just don’t see it as offices, more manufacturing, storage, that sort of thing.”
“Well, I don’t,” said White coolly. “I spent a lot of money on this place, Shaw; I want a proper return.”
Matt went back to the office and trawled through his files. It wasn’t going to be easy. The building might make a light factory, but it certainly didn’t seem suitable for the offices Colin White was so determined on.
Two days later he was three-quarters of the way through his list of prospects; nobody wanted it. Then Pat, the telephonist, put a call through.
“Potential client, Matt. Sounds really sweet.”
Pat would have described the Kray twins as sweet had they telephoned Barlow and Stein; Matt picked up the phone warily. A female voice said she had heard he might be able to help her.
“My name’s Maddy Brown. I’m looking for some premises for my business.”
“What type of business would that be?”
“Well, fashion. I design clothes.”
“Oh, yes. And where are you working at the moment?”
“In my parents’ house.”
“I see.”
That wasn’t going to pay Colin White’s rent. He’d heard about these girls, straight out of art school, looking to cash in on what the papers called the youth boom. Probably hadn’t got a single customer. As politely as he could, he suggested she take a flat with a spare room. “Or carry on working at your parents’ place. Just till you get going a bit.”
“Well,” she said, “that’s a very interesting idea. Thank you for absolutely nothing.” She put the phone down.
Matt returned to his Rolodex. The phone rang again.
“Matt? It’s another young lady. What you been up to?”
“Nothing. Unfortunately. Put her through.”
“Is that Matt Shaw?” said a voice. A voice he recognized at once, a voice that tipped his world on end, a voice he could have listened to forever.
“It’s Eliza Fullerton-Clark here. I’m ringing about Maddy Brown. Whom I work with, incidentally.”
Shit, Matt thought. SHIT!
“Maddy said you were worse than useless, absolutely no help at all, and offensive into the bargain.”
“I was not offensive,” said Matt, stung. He’d made a suggestion that would save the wretched woman money.
“Well, I’m afraid you were. By making the assumption that she was some silly girl with not an idea or a business contact in her head. Just because she was a woman.”
This was so true Matt couldn’t even begin to deny it.
“Suppose Miss Brown had been Mr. Brown? You’d have assumed backing, clients, customers, wouldn’t you? You’d have taken all kinds of details from him, what kind of premises he wanted, where, how many thousand feet was he looking for, what kind of rent was he prepared to pay—”
“Well—”
“I don’t somehow think you’d have told Mr. Brown to use a room in his flat for a while, until he got going. 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. 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 has backing to the tune of over fifty thousand pounds. 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 that the knuckles hurt for days.
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 that next morning he would have to apologize. Really crawl. And then he had another idea.
He went into the office early, dialled Woolfe’s number, and asked for the PR department.
“Hallo. Eliza Clark speaking.”
So she 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.”
“Yes?” she said coldly. Very coldly.
“I wanted to apologize. 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.”
Silence.
“It’s in Paddington. It used to be a warehouse. 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.”
“Well, I can certainly ask her,” said Eliza finally, “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. And, Matt, thank you for phoning and for apologising.” Her voice was 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: 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. She said it needed a lot of money to convert it and that Maddy didn’t actually need three floors.
“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, Matt, suppose we found you a tenant for the third floor? A photographer we know, Jerome Blake, is looking for a studio.”
“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.”
Jerome Blake (real name Jim Biggs), the photographer, had been very keen to take the top floor as a studio; Colin White agreed to a slight reduction in Maddy’s rent, and a deal was struck.
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 he who had to do it.
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 hotel 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 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. 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.”
“And have you always been a stewardess?”
“Well, yes. Since I was eighteen. Before that I was a—” Suddenly hairdresser didn’t sound quite glamourous enough. “A beautician.”
“Oh, really? How fascinating. 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.
“You know, I just had the nicest idea,” said Mrs. Beren
son. “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 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 beg Andre Bernard at Dover Street, the hair 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 Fenwick, and some new black stockings, 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, who 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.”
“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 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 see 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 sweet, light-headed warmth.
And then, “I might leave you young people,” said Mrs. Berenson, as coffee was ordered. “I’m a little tired.”
More Than You Know Page 6