“Oh, well,” he said, “it was just an idea. A little later in the year, maybe.” He looked hurt; he could see she wasn’t really very keen on the idea. Poor David. And she did truly love him; she hated to hurt him. But … it would be worse to hurt him more.
She couldn’t go on like this, crying all the time, not sleeping. Diana, who had been watching her worriedly for weeks, suggested she ask the doctor for some sleeping pills. “Please talk to the doctor. I’m sure he could help.”
Scarlett was sure he couldn’t, but she was wrong; he prescribed her a month’s worth of sleeping pills. Within a week she felt a little better—less exhausted, at least, and less tearful. And even less angry.
But she still felt physically frail and in need of a holiday.
She checked out some destinations and settled on a tiny Greek island called Trisos, small and peaceful with its one hotel and a tiny harbour.
And it was absolutely … Well, words failed Scarlett. Perfect was underrating it. After a long journey—a flight to Athens and then a long boat trip from Piraeus—she had arrived in a deep grey dusk, was led up to her hotel by the ferryman, fell onto a comfortable if rather hard bed in a small, almost cell-like room—and woke in the morning to a world of dazzling light. She had never seen or imagined anything like that light; it was positively celestial—shining, white, that shamed full-noon English sunshine into shadow. Her hotel, little more than a taverna, was one of a cluster of white-domed houses carved out of the brilliant blue sky; she leaned out of the window and felt the sun not just on her but in her, beating down to her bones, and smiled to greet it. It might only be spring in England, and a rainy one at that, but summer had certainly come to Greece.
She sat on the small terrace framed with trailing begonias and ate figs and yogurt and honey and drank orange juice and then strong, sweet coffee, while lizards sunbathed beside her and seagulls whirled and called above her head, and felt she might actually have landed in paradise. Her hosts, Demetrios and Larissa, were charming, with the Greek gift of warmth and ease; she had one of only six rooms, and her fellow guests—all clearly less exhausted than she—were already gone for the day.
Five honeyed days later, she felt mended again, restored to herself, the feeble, fretful Scarlett gone, she truly felt, for good. One day she hired a boat, a small fishing vessel with a noisy, rather smelly outboard and a tiny sail. Its owner looked about sixty and was, Larissa told her, only forty, bark brown and half-toothless. He took her on an enchanted journey to adjoining coves, to tiny islands little more than large rocks, even taught her the rudiments of sailing when a breeze sprang most obligingly up.
Another day she hired a motor scooter and took herself on a journey a little way into the hills—surprisingly green for Greece: “Trisos is green,” Demetrios told her. “We, like Mykonos, have much rain in the winter”—and to other small white villages slumbering in the heat.
On her last day, a man arrived: tall, dark, English, quite young, around thirty, she would have said, single—or at least alone. He was rather good-looking, with floppy dark hair and grey eyes fringed with almost girlishly long lashes, and he wore steel-rimmed spectacles. She had tried to be friendly, had smiled at him and asked whether he was having a good time as they passed on the terrace before dinner, and he smiled almost anxiously, shook her hand, and said he was finding the island delightful, “as I am sure you are too,” but he was clearly phobically private, buried himself rather ostentatiously in his book while eating his dinner and then disappeared upstairs. It was only when she was leaving, paying her bill, that she learnt from Larissa that he was looking for somewhere to build a house for himself. His name, she discovered, through peering surreptitiously through the hotel visitors’ book, was Mark Frost. Very appropriate. She hoped—rather meanly, for what could it matter to her?—that he would not settle on Trisos. He wasn’t worthy of it.
Eliza was sitting in the Markham pub in the King’s Road, waiting for Matt. She ordered herself a gin and tonic and was flipping through the pages of the new Vogue when she saw him coming in, looking slightly nervous.
She called to him. “Matt! Over here.”
“Hallo, Eliza. Sorry I’m late.”
He was dressed in a rather sharp suit and a blue-and-white shirt with a white collar and cuffs. He looked very … well, very cool. And sexy. He was very sexy, she decided.
She smiled and stood up and on an impulse leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. And felt him flinch just slightly and wondered whether that was shyness or shock—or simply that he didn’t find her sexy back. Probably the latter.
She smiled at him, suddenly nervous, and sat down abruptly. “Hallo, Matt. You look very smart. Like the suit.”
“Oh—thanks.” He smiled back at her just slightly uncertainly.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Oh … no …” This clearly threw him. “I can’t have you buying me a drink.”
“Yes, you can. It’s on expenses.”
“Oh—OK then.” He grinned at her. “I’ll have a lager.”
“Course.”
She fetched it and a gin and tonic for herself, together with two packets of crisps, then settled back in her chair.
“So—how’s things?”
“Oh … pretty good. Yes. We’ve taken on three staff. So there’s six of us altogether now. And we’re hoping to move into the development side. That’s our next plan. So, what’s this about then?”
“You see—”
“Eliza! Hallo. What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were working late.”
She looked up; it was Jeremy. Jeremy with a couple of friends. Or were they colleagues? For some reason she wasn’t particularly pleased to see him.
“I am working,” she said, just slightly cool. “I’m about to tell Matt here about a feature. In the magazine. I’m not sure if you’ve met. Matt Shaw, Jeremy Northcott. Matt was in the army with Charles.”
“Really? How do you do.”
“Great, thanks. Pleased to meet you,” said Matt.
“Right. Well, we’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your drink.” He bent down, kissed Eliza’s cheek, then hissed in her ear, “Clients.” And then more audibly, “Let me know when you’ve finished; maybe we could have a bite.”
“Oh … well, maybe, yes.” She smiled at him, then turned back to Matt. “Sorry.”
“That’s OK. Who’s he, then?”
“Just a friend.” He didn’t need to know more. “Anyway,” she said, “you’ll want to know why I’ve asked you here.”
“I do rather, yes.”
“Well, you know I work on a magazine now.”
“Oh, right. What’s your job there, then?”
“I’m called assistant fashion editor. But I’m just a dogsbody, really.”
“Like it?”
“Oh, Matt, I love it. I’m so happy there; I actually look forward to—”
“I know. Monday mornings. Me too. Most important thing of all, I reckon, enjoying your job. It’s what you spend most of the time at, after all. My sister, she’s one of us. Likes Mondays, I mean.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s an air hostess. Works for BEA.”
“Goodness. That’s very impressive.”
“Yeah. Well, my mum certainly thinks so.” He grinned at her.
“And is your mother impressed by what you do?”
“Yes, she is. My dad, he just worries about it. Reckons I should get a steady job, you know? Your parents pleased about what you do? I suppose they are.”
“Not really,” said Eliza, laughing. “They think I should be married. Not working at all. Did you know Charles was getting married?”
“Yeah, I did. He asked if I could help him find a flat. Said he’d ask me to the wedding, matter of fact.”
“Really?” She knew, try as she might, that there was a touch of surprise in her voice, hated herself for it.
“Yes, really,” he said.
“Well, that’d be
lovely. Although I’m afraid I’ll be looking like something out of a Christmas cracker. I’m a bridesmaid, and his fiancée’s very keen on frills. Pink ones. Well, you won’t have to look at me.”
“I think I’d find that rather difficult,” he said, and his eyes on her were quite serious suddenly. “Whatever you were wearing.”
“Thank you,” she said. There was a silence, then: “And … you’re not married? Or engaged or anything?”
“Not likely. I’m married to the job. Wouldn’t have time to spend on a wife. I hardly ever go home. I’ve got my own place now,” he added. “Old warehouse, on the river.”
“Sounds lovely. Right, let me come to the point. This magazine I work for, Charisma, the features editor has asked us all if we can suggest people who are doing well, really well, and—”
“You’re not thinking of putting me in this article, are you?”
“I am, actually. If you’d like it.”
“Sounds all right so far. Tell me more. Who else is in it? You got Charles, I suppose; he’s doing all right for himself.”
“No, not Charles. No, it’s got to be people working for themselves. With their own companies.”
“Yeah? Right. Well, that’s me.” He smiled at her expectantly. “Anything else?”
“Well … well, yes. It’s also about people who haven’t been to university or … or, well, you know … public school. That sort of thing.” She was talking rather fast now. “Self-starters, I suppose you could say.”
“Oh, yeah?” His expression had changed. “You mean working-class heroes, don’t you? I keep reading about them—us. Lot of us about. All of a sudden.”
“Really? Well, yes, I think it’s because of the times we’re living in, don’t you? Really, really new world, isn’t it, completely … completely classless—and thank goodness for that—”
“Eliza!” It was Jeremy again. He was walking to the door with the rest of the party. “Don’t disappear; I want to see you.”
He waved them off, then came over and sank down beside her. He was, she realised, quite drunk.
“God, I’m knackered. Been at it since noon. Bloody hard work. We’re off to dinner at Quags now; you wouldn’t like to come, my darling, would you? It’d be fantastic if you did, really help—”
“Jeremy—”
“Yuh? Or, sorry, you haven’t finished. Don’t mind me; I’ll just sit quietly for a bit. Can I get you another drink, Matt?”
“No,” said Matt, “thank you. I’m just leaving.”
“Leaving!” said Eliza. “But, Matt, I haven’t finished explaining—”
“You’ve explained quite enough, thanks. And the answer’s no. I’m sorry, Eliza, but I don’t want to be cannon fodder for some patronising article about the working classes making good. I don’t want to be held up as some sort of cretin from a secondary mod who’s doing well in spite of it, and isn’t that wonderful, he can actually run a business, even if he doesn’t speak properly; he can add up and read and write, and aren’t we all just so astonished by that; who’d have thought it, and isn’t it great of us to write about him in our very posh magazine.”
“Matt—please—you’ve got it all wrong.”
“I don’t think so. If you want to know, I think the whole idea stinks. It’s condescending crap and I don’t want any part of it.”
“Look … Mr. Shaw.” Jeremy had been looking at Matt with increasing distaste. “Could you stop talking like that to Eliza, please? You’re being pretty rude, I’d say, and it’s completely unwarranted. It might be better if you left.”
“Yeah, I will; I’m going right now. And you two can sit and discuss how ungrateful I am over dinner at—what was it? Quags? Yeah. Have a great evening.”
And he stalked out of the pub.
“Ghastly chap,” said Jeremy. “How on earth did you get mixed up with him?”
“Oh, just shut up,” said Eliza. “You were a lot of help, weren’t you?”
“Well, he had a nerve talking to you like that. And the feature sounded like a great idea to me. He should have been bloody grateful.”
“Jeremy,” said Eliza, “I can’t believe how stupid you’re being. That’s the whole point, why he was so upset, him feeling he was supposed to be grateful.”
“Darling.” He put out his hand.
“Don’t. And don’t call me ‘darling.’ And you can find someone else to sweet-talk your clients at dinner. I’m going home.”
“Matt!” It was Jimbo, sounding excited.
“Yeah, what?” He still felt out of sorts about the evening before, embarrassed even. She hadn’t meant any harm, probably thought she was doing him a favor. But him: what a wanker. It had changed his view of Eliza, uncomfortably so. She clearly liked the prat, went out with him; how could she? He hauled his mind back to the present with an effort. “Yeah?” he said again.
“It’s Paul Crosse. He wants to meet us. Can you do tomorrow? Around eleven?”
Paul Crosse was an aggressive young developer who had already made a lot of money. More than Matt, much more than Matt. And Crosse had come to them, asking them to find him a building in the Elephant and Castle area; it was developing fast, cheek by jowl with Waterloo, but cheaper. He wanted it simply to develop and then sell on: “For offices. Many as I can get in.”
Matt had heard of a building that was going begging. It was in an appalling state, next to a bomb site, infested with rats, the roof falling in on one side, with consequent damage to floors and ceilings. Nevertheless, it was a building, it didn’t have to be designed or built; it just needed some skilful renovation. And Paul Crosse had said, over a pint after the viewing, that it was what he wanted in a way, but needed more work than he was prepared to take on, and he had his hands very full at the moment. And Matt had said, after taking a deep breath, that he might be able to help.
“What we could do,” he said, “is develop it for you. Get it ready for you to sell on.”
“And what’d be in it for you?”
“A cut in the profits,” said Matt, “say ten per cent. Just an idea.”
Paul Crosse said he’d think about it. And a week later agreed.
“But you’ll have to earn it, mind. A weekly report, and a regular site meeting, that’s all I want to do with it.”
“That’s fine,” said Matt, “that’s absolutely OK. That’s how we like to work too.”
“Good. Right then. Now—how about a drink?”
Simmonds and Shaw, property developers, were on their way.
Matt walked back to the office on his own; Jimbo had gone on to meet another client. He felt elated, powerful, totally self-assured once more.
Things felt slightly less good when he actually reached the office. It was empty, apart from Jenny, who was sitting on her desk, reading a newspaper with a feverish intensity. She looked up at him, her huge blue eyes brilliant.
“Oh, Mr. Shaw,” she said, “isn’t it exciting?”
Matt was slightly surprised she knew about the new deal, but maybe Jim had rung.
“It is, yes,” he said.
“In the paper, I mean—fancy! I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never known anyone to be in a paper before. It’s Miss Mullen, Mr. Shaw. Here, look. Only you will give it back to me, won’t you? I want to show my mum. She’ll never believe it.”
“Yes, of course I’ll give it back,” said Matt impatiently. “I’ll just … just take it in my office. And I’d like some tea, Jenny, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Matt stalked into his office and slammed the door. He sat down at his desk and started to read the article. It was in the new property pages of the Daily Sketch; they had all attended the launch a few weeks earlier, and while he and Jimbo had spent much of the evening talking to each other, Louise had been circling the room like a hula hoop. And this was clearly the result.
“A New Breed of Negotiator,” it was headed. “Not many women make it in the world of property development, but Louise Mullen looks set to shin up the scaffo
lding any minute now. She started work as a secretary at Shaw and Simmonds, a small commercial agency, less than a year ago, and now does up to fifty per cent of the negotiating work herself. An attractive brunette, Miss Mullen smiled happily as she sipped her orange juice. (She never drinks on duty.) ‘I love my work,’ she said, ‘and I think it’s an absolutely ideal job for girls. It involves all the things we’re best at: spotting a bargain, matching up people and places, and doing a dozen things at once. I think the sky’s the limit for us, in the property world.’
“So it’s hard hats off to Miss Mullen; we wish her all the best.”
As if this wasn’t hard enough to swallow, there was then a photograph of Louise, sitting on a pile of breeze blocks in a half-completed building, swinging her long legs, a hard hat perched on her head, and smiling happily.
Eliza was sitting in the Palm Court of the Ritz, waiting for Jeremy, when she heard a joyful cry of “Eliza!” and was smothered in a headily perfumed embrace.
“Mariella! Oh, how lovely to see you. What are you doing here?”
“What would I be doing here? I am shopping.”
Mariella was easing herself gracefully out of her red jacket, revealing an exquisitely simple matching shift (Cardin, Eliza thought), slinging it at the hovering waiter. “I have already been to the King’s Road, and Carnaby Street; where else should I go? This is so wonderful that you should be here. May I join you for a moment?”
“Yes, of course, I’d love that. Come and sit down.” She called the waiter over, asked for another glass of champagne. “Mariella—are you here alone?”
“Yes, quite alone. Giovanni had work to do, and he said he could spare me for a few days.”
“I wish I’d known you were coming.”
“I thought of telling you, but I know how busy you are. Anyway, this is extremely nice. I don’t suppose you are free for dinner?”
“No … well … no, I really can’t. I’m waiting for my … my boyfriend now; we’re going out with not even friends, clients, or I’d ask you to join us.”
“Cara, I know about clients and how important they are. Tomorrow, perhaps? We could eat here.”
More Than You Know Page 13