Amanda had been able to help. Scarlett found herself lying in bed, in a very expensive convalescent home in the outermost reaches of North London, enduring no more than postanaesthetic nausea, mild stomachache—and no longer pregnant. She returned home after twenty-four hours and to work after another forty-eight; she felt rather tired, she told Diana as they waited for takeoff, but otherwise fine, “and just hugely relieved.”
“Not … not upset or anything?” Diana asked carefully, and Scarlett said no; why ever should she be?
“Well,” Diana said, “you might feel a bit … a bit—”
“A bit what?”
“Sad,” said Diana.
“What on earth for? I’d be feeling sad if I was still pregnant. I feel a bit poor, mind you, but—”
“Scarlett,” said Diana, “however logical you’re being about this, you have just been through a hell of a mill. You haven’t just had a bad curse; your hormones must be in total turmoil—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I haven’t had to go through anything. Now do stop fussing; will you do the seat belt checks or shall I?”
“I will,” said Diana.
Matt and Jimbo had agreed, as they finally caught up on their paperwork at midnight one night, that they needed help.
“We can’t go on like this,” said Matt. “I mean, it’s great that we’re so busy, but I’m knackered. What do you think we should do?”
“Take on some more staff. I reckon we need a couple of trainee negotiators. They’d be dirt cheap. And then a junior, maybe, to help Louise.”
“Sounds OK. But we can’t fit them in here. We’ll have to move. Let’s talk to Louise, tell her to look out for somewhere. Once we’ve done the sums, that is.”
They did the sums, and told Louise their plans.
“Right,” she said, “you’re talking about taking on three people.”
“That’s right, yeah.”
“Two trainee negotiators and a junior.”
“Correct.”
“So I’ll have help too.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“With what exactly?”
“Well … what you’re doing now. The paperwork. The letters and filing and that.”
“So they’ll be blokes, will they? These negotiators?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Two young chaps—already got feelers out—”
“Fine. Well, better be looking for a replacement for me then.”
“What?”
“You heard. I’m off.”
“Now, Louise …”
“Don’t you ‘now, Louise’ me, Jimbo Simmonds. How dare you bring in some spotty boy lording it about, having to be spoon-fed for weeks, and you’ll be expecting me to help him, I daresay?”
“Well … we did think you might, yes. As you’re so fab at it all, know so many clients and that—”
Louise picked up her bag, made for the door.
“Where you going?”
“I’m going home.”
“Louise, it’s only half past five—”
“Yeah, and you’ve clearly forgotten that’s when I’m supposed to leave. Not staying here, sending out mailings, hanging around waiting for you; not buttering up clients, keeping them sweet, showing them particulars, having my legs looked at—”
“But—”
“You listen to me, you pair of jumped-up barrow boys. I’d say at least twenty-five per cent of the business we’ve got in the past two months has been down to me. Who suggested Mr. Banks look at the place in Camden Town; who sent Valerie bloody Hill over to that new office block in Chiswick; who found Joe Evans that space in Streatham? And who missed four out of five lunch hours last week, and neither of you even thought of getting me a sandwich? Eh? Well, I’ve had enough. Quite enough. Valerie Hill’d employ me tomorrow, and not just as a secretary either, if I so much as hinted I’d like to work for her. So … I’m off. You’re pathetic, the pair of you.”
They found themselves offering her the job of negotiator, bringing her salary up to a thousand—well, they’d started at seven fifty, and she’d picked up her bag again—and told her she could start the minute she found her own replacement. It had been an interesting half hour.
“That was just amazing.”
“Good. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Well, thanks a lot.” She punched him gently in the chest. “You’re such a romantic, you know.”
“Sorry. You’re great too. Fantastic. Very, very sexy. How’s that?”
“Better.”
He could tell she was disappointed; that she was hoping for the words. The three words. The ones girls wanted, especially after sex. But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t because he’d never felt them. Or rather it. But what he did feel for this one—Gina, she was called, short for Georgina—was pretty strong.
She was gorgeous, for a start. Light brown hair—long, of course—with sort of blond streaks drifting in it. Huge grey eyes. Small heart-shaped face. Full, slightly pouty mouth. Very small, with firm, round little breasts. Great legs. Really great legs. And she was very, very good in bed.
He had met her at a party given by a friend of Jimbo’s. She had wandered in alone, looking rather shy—that was a laugh, given what he had discovered about her pretty soon after—and he’d put her at about seventeen.
In fact she was twenty-two, and she worked in a fashion boutique in the King’s Road, on commission. Nevertheless, she made quite a lot of money. She had a pale blue MINI, and she’d stuck transfers of big white daisies on the doors. She lived with six other girls in a flat in Barons Court; she smoked a lot of dope, but she said she’d had a really bad experience with LSD and it had scared her off for good.
She wasn’t exactly posh, not like Eliza, but she was certainly a lot farther up the class ladder than he was. She’d been to a private school, and her mother had a car as well as her father and played a lot of bridge; they lived in Gerrards Cross, in a detached house, and employed not just a cleaner, but a gardener as well. Her father was a solicitor, and her brother, John, was at university, reading law so that he could go into the firm. It was all very respectable, which made Gina’s sexual amorality seem all the stranger to Matt.
Louise was trying very hard not to lose her temper with Jenny Cox, the new junior. She had personally picked her, thinking correctly that her sweetly pretty baby face, long blond curls, and rather unfashionably large bosom would provide an excellent distraction for clients kept waiting to see either her or one of the boys. It was her first job, and as well as her physical assets Jenny did have extremely good shorthand and typing skills. However, she found the telephone a problem and frequently either failed to write down messages or lost the scraps of paper she had entrusted them to; and that morning Louise had discovered Jenny had spent the whole of the week’s petty cash on a large, rather ornate white vase and some flowers to fill it with.
“I’m sorry, Miss Mullen,” Jenny said, her eyes filling with tears (and looking even larger and bluer), “I thought the office looked a bit bleak and it would be nice for people to have something pretty to look at. I read in an article in Woman’s Own that an attractive office helps morals—”
“Morale,” said Louise.
“Yes, that’s what I said. And—”
“Jenny,” said Louise, “that might be true, but we can’t afford lots of flowers. We have to improve morale in other ways. And anyway, you shouldn’t have spent the firm’s money without asking us. The petty cash is for coffee and tea and biscuits for visitors. I told you that on your first day. Better to concentrate on them.”
“Yes, Miss Mullen.” The tears brimmed over. “I’m very sorry. I was only acting for the best.”
“I’m sure. Anyway, just remember that in future. Now, I want you to type a letter and then deliver it yourself, this afternoon; it’s to go to Leicester Square and it’s very important.”
“Yes, Miss Mullen.”
The phone rang. “Shall I answer that?”
She picked up the receiver rather gingerly: “Simmonds and Shaw. Yes. Oh, yes, I do remember, yes. Well—Oh, dear, I’m not sure. Could you just wait while I ask—”
“Check, Jenny, not ask,” hissed Louise.
“Sorry, while I check. Thank you.”
She put her hand over the receiver and looked at Louise, her face rather flushed.
“I’m ever so sorry, Miss Mullen. They rang on Monday. I forgot. It’s about the lunch.”
“What lunch?”
“Um … the A lunch. Something like that?”
“Let me speak to him,” said Louise, taking a deep breath. The A1 lunch club had been formed by some of the younger members of the property fraternity; it met monthly, in the private room of a pub in Dean Street, with the primary purpose of exercising that new skill, networking. By invitation only, the members pooled information about deals that were going through, city planning, useful contacts. Both Matt and Jimbo had been very excited at being invited to be members; they would not be pleased to hear that Jenny had failed to acquaint them of some important development.
“This is Louise Mullen speaking, negotiator for Simmonds and Shaw. I wonder if you could just— Ah. I see. Yes. Well, I’m afraid both Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Shaw are out all day, seeing clients. So no, they won’t be able to attend. I’m so sorry. I do appreciate that. They were both called out at the last minute, and my secretary was about to ring you. But …” She perched on the edge of Jenny’s desk and smiled brilliantly at some distant point in the room. “I would very much like to attend in their place. I am fully acquainted with all our business, and I’m confident it would be of mutual benefit. I am a senior negotiator here. I beg your pardon? Oh, no, of course I don’t mind.” She smiled into the phone. “I like all-male gatherings. So … yes, I’ll hold.” She waited, scarcely daring to breathe. “Wonderful. Thank you so much. Twelve forty-five, upstairs at the Queen’s Head. Fine.”
She put the phone down, smiled at Jenny. “Now then, Jenny. If Mr. Simmonds or Mr. Shaw asks you where I am at lunchtime, say you’re not sure. You don’t know anything about the lunch, all right? And I think that article you mentioned was quite right, and I’m prepared to pay for the vase myself. And I think you should get a notebook out of the stationery cupboard and keep it for telephone messages. Now, can you take the letter I mentioned to you earlier, please?”
“Yes, Miss Mullen. Thank you, Miss Mullen.”
As Louise left, at twelve thirty, Jenny looked up at her and smiled. “Have a good lunch, Miss Mullen. And if you don’t mind my saying so, I like your hair like that.”
“Thank you, Jenny,” said Louise. She had put her hair up in a French pleat, thinking she would look more businesslike than with it tumbled onto her shoulders. “Now, don’t forget—you don’t know where I am. If they ask.”
Jenny looked at her and her eyes widened even further.
“But I don’t, Miss Mullen. I can’t remember any of what was said on the phone. I never can.”
“Fine,” said Louise, and then added, “but do start that notebook today, won’t you?”
“Oh, I certainly will, Miss Mullen. Thank you.”
Louise got back from the lunch at three o’clock. She was flushed—not with alcohol, which she had been careful not to touch, but with excitement.
Matt looked at her suspiciously.
“Where’ve you been?”
“At a lunch,” said Louise carelessly.
“What lunch?”
“Oh, you know, one of the A1 property lunch clubs.”
“But you’re … you’re …”
“Yes?” She smiled at him sweetly. “What am I?”
He clearly saw a big mistake coming and warded it off.
“You’re quite … late. I thought we had a meeting this afternoon.”
“Of course we do. A presentation, isn’t it? At three thirty.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. And … did they actually invite you? The A1 people, I mean.”
“Of course. It was a last-minute thing. They had a vacancy and they said they’d like me to go.”
“Were there other … girls there?”
“No, there weren’t, actually. There was a lot of talk about planning gain, and also a new property page starting in the Daily Sketch. They’re having a launch party apparently; I’ve just rung them to make sure we’ll be invited. And the chap I spoke to, he said it was interesting, a woman being a negotiator, and he wants to interview me.”
“You? I presume he’ll want to talk to us as well?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Louise. “He wants to interview a girl negotiator, Matt. You seem to have missed that particular point. But it’ll be good publicity for the firm, won’t it? Got to go now, get ready for the presentation. See you in ten minutes or so, and you’d better tidy this office up a bit. It looks like a bomb hit it.”
“Yes, all right,” said Matt irritably.
“Eliza! Have you got a minute? And Fiona, if she’s around?”
It was Annunciata Woburn, the features editor of Charisma. She was dazzlingly beautiful, with a great cloud of red hair and huge green eyes, and was breathtakingly clever. Jack Beckham adored her, and even while telling her not to give him any fucking intellectual rubbish, he hung on her words. One of her best friends was Emma Northcott, Jeremy’s sister, with whom she had been at Oxford. Beckham had hired her against everyone’s advice, and everyone had been proved wrong, very wrong. It was Annunciata who had suggested a feature about strippers’ boyfriends—“so much more original and revealing than talking to the girls themselves”—another about the relationship between cooking and sex, and a third about homosexuality, and had indeed conducted it herself and then published a savage interview with Henry Brooke, the home secretary, over what she called the archaic illogicality—and, moreover, danger—of homosexuality remaining a crime.
Eliza was so much in awe of Annunciata that she found uttering more than two words in her presence almost impossible. She was forced into it today.
“Oh, golly, Fiona’s not here. She’s out on appointments. Sorry.”
“OK, you’ll do for now. I’m just trawling the office for people for a feature that I’m calling ‘The Intropreneurs.’ ”
Eliza tried to look politely interested.
“It’s about people, young people, who are making waves from a base of absolutely nothing. And who haven’t quite arrived, but are almost certainly going to. Know what I mean?”
“Um—think so, yes.”
“Not been to public school, not been at university necessarily, just bright young people who’ve got an idea and gone for it. I’m sure there must be lots in the fashion business—but if you know anyone outside it as well, just give me their names.”
“Should I sound them out first?”
Annunciata considered this for a moment, then: “No, don’t think so, because then if I don’t use them, they could be disappointed. I’m just getting a directory together for a start. No great rush: anytime in the next week.”
She was clearly extremely rich as well as extremely clever.
Eliza went back to her office and pulled a sheet of paper towards her. There must be lots of people. Maddy. Esmond. Jerome Blake. She managed ten, then realised they were all in fashion, and she wanted to impress Annunciata by being more than a fashion birdbrain. She thought for a bit, then rang Charles, asked if he knew anyone; he said there wasn’t much working-class talent on the stock exchange. Then he said, “Tell you what, though: Matt Shaw might be an idea. He’s a real working-class hero.”
She remembered dancing with Matt at the party that night and smiled. She liked Matt; he was very sweet. Well, maybe sweet was the wrong word. Bit too stroppy and pleased with himself to be sweet. But … quite sexy. Well, actually, very sexy. He was certainly an amazing dancer. Anyway, he’d probably be really chuffed. Free publicity. Yes, it was a great idea. She’d call him.
“I love you so much.”
“Do you really?”
He looked hurt. “Yes, of course I do. Don’t you believe me?”
“I … Yes, I suppose so.”
“Is there … is there something the matter? Because you’ve been … not quite yourself, not quite my lovely laughing girl for some little time now. Just tell me what it is; I’ll put it right, I swear. I can’t bear to think you’re not happy.”
As if he could. As if she could tell him. It was too complicated, too difficult. And too dangerous.
To say, “I was pregnant with your child. And I got rid of it. Just had it … flushed it away.”
That was one of the worst things: wondering what they had done with it, her baby. That minute, more than half-formed human being.
“No, honestly, David, I’m fine. Just a bit … a bit tired.”
“Well, I think we can do something about that.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I think we can go on a little vacation. Just the two of us. For a few days, a week, maybe. To Venice or Florence, somewhere really romantic. How would you like that?”
“I … well, I … Well, it would be wonderful, of course. But—”
“But what?”
How could she explain the but? That she was finding it so difficult to cope with everything at the moment, that she woke up most days feeling completely shattered, that she often cried herself to sleep at night—she could hide that for a day or two, while he visited London, but not for a longer time, not day after day. No, it would have to be postponed—while she pulled herself together, got her emotions under control, learnt to cope with what she had done: which had been the sensible, indeed, the responsible thing.
“But what?” he asked again.
“Oh … it’s just that my schedule is all done for the next month or so.”
“Can’t you change any of it?”
“Not really, David. And then I’m going on a course. I’m hoping to move to BOAC, I told you, and—”
More Than You Know Page 12