“Well, I heard a lot of shouting.”
“What about?”
“Well, she was saying he was pathetic and he should …” She glanced at her notepad.
“Jenny, you didn’t write it down!” said Louise, grinning at her.
“Well, Miss Mullen, you always say to take notes if it might be important.”
“That’s … that’s true. So what else did you hear?”
“Well, she said he should stop being so … well, it was the f-word, Miss Mullen. So effing defensive, and did he really think they were going to write dis … disappearing things?”
“Disparaging?”
“Yes, that’s it. Disparaging things about him, and he said he didn’t trust anyone in her business, and she said she’d begun to admire him and think he was clever, but now she could see he was a total moron, and it was the last time she’d ever try to do anything for him, and then he said he didn’t want her to do … well … effing anything for him; he’d never asked her to in the first place, and she’d obviously lied to him, and what did she have to say about that.”
“Right. So … then did she leave?”
“No, but I went to the toilet. And when I came back it was all quiet. So I thought she’d gone, and then I thought maybe he’d like a nice cup of tea or something, to calm him down a bit, and a biscuit, you know how he likes his biscuits, so I knocked on the door and there was no reply, and I thought he’d gone out, so I opened the door really quietly, and …”
“And what, Jenny?”
“And … well, he was kissing her. I mean really kissing her, you know. And she was … Miss Mullen, she was most definitely kissing him back.”
Emma Northcott looked at her brother across the table. “Now, Jeremy, I want to talk to you about something. Nothing to do with me, I know, but—”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“True. Anyway, it’s about Eliza. Jeremy, what are your plans? For Eliza? Or rather, with Eliza?”
“Well … not quite sure.”
“You do seem very fond of her.”
“I am. Very fond. She’s a darling.”
“Is that it?”
“Probably not.” He grinned at Emma. “She’s the perfect girl, in lots of ways. Fun, bright—very bright—attractive. We get on incredibly well. I adore her, actually.”
“And have you thought about how Eliza might be feeling right now, with you going off to New York for six months?”
“Well … she didn’t seem too upset.”
“Jeremy, you are incredible. Have you not heard of female pride? You’ve been going out with her, and I presume rather more than that, for about a year. Everyone thinks of you as a couple. Now suddenly you announce you’re off to the States, ‘Bye, Eliza, been fun; see you when I get back—’ ”
“I didn’t say anything remotely like that,” said Jeremy half indignantly.
“You might not have expressed it like that. That’s how it looks to everyone, most of all to Eliza. You really have got a hide like a rhinoceros, Jeremy. I feel quite ashamed of you.”
“But, Emma, she’s just been made fashion editor. She’s not going to be bothered about how things look. And anyway, is she going to want an absentee fiancé? I thought I’d leave it till I got back, see if we both feel the same way, and then—”
“Jeremy! Eliza could easily be snapped up in the space of six months!”
“Well … I’ll think about it really hard, promise. Now … shall we share a chateaubriand? I’m awfully hungry.”
“Matt, hallo, it’s Eliza. I’ve got the copy for you to check.”
“Oh—great, thanks.”
“Shall I bike it over to you?”
“You could. Or you could bring it yourself. In case I have any comments.”
“I do have a few other things to do, I’m afraid,” said Eliza tartly. “I’ll bike the copy over. And you can ring me with any comments.”
And please, please, God, don’t let there be any. Jack Beckham would go completely insane if he knew this was happening. “Copy approval is for advertising agencies,” he said whenever anyone—usually an interviewed actor—requested it. “They want fucking approval, they can pay for the fucking space.”
She was definitely feeling somewhat odd about Matt. It had been quite a kiss. She’d literally felt weak at the knees afterwards. She was going to feel a bit silly seeing him now as well. He must think she was a bit of a tart, as well as all the other things, like snobby and bossy, and full of herself.
Although it had been … well … it had been his idea. Their relationship was very complicated. Not that it was a relationship, of course.
Her phone rang at five. “Got a few queries. Would you like to have a drink with me, so we can discuss them?”
“No, Matt, I’m sorry; there really isn’t time.”
“OK, then, I’ll just bring this over later and come up to your office. And I’d like to see your office. You’ve seen mine, after all.”
“Matt—”
“I’ll be there at seven.”
At six forty-five Jack Beckham put his head round the door of her office.
“Everything sorted for your November pages?”
“Yes. Absolutely.” It wasn’t, but she couldn’t afford to have him hanging around her office now.
“Just remind me what you’re doing for the second feature.”
“Oh—it’s these designs from the Royal College. I’m calling it ‘Why Not?’ They’re quite revolutionary things, an all-in-one sort of dungaree boiler suit, for instance.”
“Sounds hideous.”
“It’s not, Jack; it’s wonderful.”
“Got any sketches?”
“Yes, they’re here—yes, look.”
“Oh, yes. I do remember now.”
“Good, and then some bunny rabbit coats in all sorts of wonderful primary colors, like yellow and blue.”
“That sounds better. Well, keep up the good work. Night, Eliza.”
“Night, Jack.”
Phew. That had been close. Five to seven. He …
“Eliza!”
He was back. God.
“I’d quite like to do some men’s fashion in the not too distant future.”
“Yes, of course. Me too. Wonderful idea.”
“Good. Not worn by some fairy boys, mind, but red-blooded males—footballers, that sort of thing. Like—well, OK, this chap’d do. Boyfriend of yours? Looking for Eliza, are you? This way.”
Matt walked in. Eliza felt faint.
“Oh … Matt. Hallo. Yes. This is Jack Beckham, our editor. Jack, Matt Shaw.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Matt.
“You look familiar.” He peered at Matt. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You’re in our feature, aren’t you? ‘The Intropreneurs.’ ”
“Well … I hope so. Yeah. Providing—”
“Great photographs, weren’t they, Eliza. Terry Donovan, wasn’t it? Like him, got a sense of humour. I particularly remember your pictures, Matt, up on that scaffolding. Brave of you, I thought.”
“Yes, well, I’m used to it. But—”
“We’re leading on you, as a matter of fact. Double-page spread, picture of you over two-thirds of it, then a column introducing the feature and leading into your interview. And we’ve got you on the cover as well, small picture, that is—hang on; I’ll get the dummy. You’ll be pleased, I think. Too late if you’re not; it’s gone to press.”
He disappeared into the features department. Matt and Eliza looked at each other in silence. Then: “I am not,” Matt said, “repeat, not—”
Beckham was back. “Right. Here it is, look.” A small shot of Matt, dropped onto the corner of the cover, captioned, “The Intropreneurs, the new style tycoons, talk about life at the top.”
“What do you think about that then?”
“It’s … it’s not bad,” said Matt. “Not bad at all.”
“It’s bloody good publicity! You should be grateful.”
“
I … I am, yes. Thank you.”
“Good. Well, I’m off; see you tomorrow, Eliza.”
He slammed the door behind him. Matt looked at Eliza. She smiled at him, very sweetly.
“What was it you were saying?” she asked.
“Darling—”
“Yes, darling?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“About Summercourt.”
“Charles, if it’s about finding money to fix the roof, we really can’t help. We’re hardly coping financially ourselves. If we can’t afford to go skiing and you’re fussing about my clothes budget, then we certainly can’t afford to give your parents any money. They’ve got plenty of their own, surely, and they can always raise some on the house; Daddy suggested that when I mentioned it last time; it’s just not fair to ask us—”
“Juliet, I’ve told you before they haven’t got any money, any at all—”
“Well, that’s ridiculous; of course they’ve got money! Now, please, Charles, just don’t mention it again; I’m finding it very upsetting. I love your parents, of course I do, but it’s a kind of emotional blackmail what they’re doing—Charles, where are you going?”
“I’m going for a walk,” said Charles. “I need to think. And please don’t talk about my parents in those terms; I don’t like it.”
Juliet stared at the slammed front door. She felt rather shocked. Neither Charles nor their life together was turning out quite how she had imagined.
He still didn’t know quite why he’d kissed her in the first place. Except that he really hadn’t been able to stop himself. He just wanted to … what? Explore the situation a bit further. That was all.
And so he asked her to lunch—“To thank you, you’ve done me quite a big favor, actually, with that article, lot of inquiries”—she said she didn’t get much in the way of a lunch hour, and then he asked her for a drink after work, and she accepted.
And thus it was that Matt Shaw and Eliza Fullerton-Clark informed their respective regular dates that they would be working late the following Wednesday, each adding, without any further consultation with each other, merely obeying some rather basic instinct, that they had no idea when they might be back, and not to make plans for dinner.
Every time she thought about leaving Summercourt, Sarah felt like screaming. Not from misery or outrage or even trepidation, but from a sheer blind panic. Summercourt was not just her home; it was where she belonged, where her entire world was centred.
And now people kept telling her she must leave it, that it needed the most appalling-sounding sums of money spent on it, that she couldn’t possibly nurse Adrian there.
The prospect seemed very nearly as dreadful as losing Adrian.
If only … if only Eliza were to marry Jeremy.
“Emma, it’s Jeremy. Look … I just thought I should let you know. I’ve decided to ask Eliza.”
“Jeremy, I’m so pleased.”
“Yes. I thought this weekend. We’re going down to Norfolk together, so pretty perfect, really.”
“Absolutely!”
“Anyway, I’ll have to ask her father first, of course. Have to dash down tonight, only chance I’ve got. Eliza’s out working or something.”
“Oh, Adrian, isn’t it wonderful?” Sarah’s voice was shaky. She felt slightly dizzy. “So sweet of him to come; it’s such a long way; he really does know how to behave.”
“Indeed he does.”
“Oh, Adrian! It’s like a dream come true. Darling Eliza. Oh, how wonderful.”
“He hasn’t asked her yet. She might not accept.”
“Adrian! Don’t say that. Of course she’ll accept!”
“Well, she’s a very independently minded girl. And you know how much that job of hers matters.”
“Charles, hallo, darling. Are you all right?”
“Yes, Mummy, I’m fine. I just rang to see how Pa was doing.”
“Pretty well,” said Sarah cautiously. “The drugs really are helping.”
“Good. Well, I was hoping to come down this weekend, bring Juliet, but she’s not feeling too good—”
“Oh, I’m sorry—Charles, she’s not … not—”
“Mummy, she’s got flu.” Charles’s voice was heavy.
“Yes, I see. Well, give her my love. Yes.”
“And how are you?”
“Me? Oh, darling, I’m just fine. Feeling very good, as a matter of fact.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Oh … well … just had some very nice news. But I can’t tell you, darling. It’s not my secret. I’m sure you’ll hear soon enough.”
“Mummy, what are you talking about?”
“Charles, I really can’t say. Except it’s … it’s family.”
“Family? Well, it must be Eliza. What’s she done? New job?”
“No. She’s … well, Jeremy’s just come down and spoken to Daddy and—”
“No! Good lord. Fantastic.”
“But don’t tell anyone, will you? Because, you see, she—”
“Mummy, of course I won’t tell. Promise.”
“Guess what?” he said to Juliet over the supper tray he had taken her in bed. “Good news. My sister and Jeremy Northcott are getting engaged.”
“Gosh. That should stop you all worrying about Summercourt.”
“Indeed,” said Charles, stifling his irritation at this rather inappropriate response. “Now, you mustn’t tell anyone because it’s not official yet. I hope you’re pleased.”
“Of course I’m pleased. If she is.”
“Juliet, I should think she’s over the moon.”
“Well, she’s very lucky,” said Juliet. Her voice had a distinct shake in it.
“Annunciata, hallo. How nice to hear from you.”
“Hallo, Emma. You free for dinner on Friday?”
“Yes, think so, let’s just look … Yes. Thank you.”
“Good. I’ve got some quite interesting people coming. Want to bring your beautiful brother? I’ve got another advertising bod coming—creative director of BBDO.”
“I’m afraid J’s off to Norfolk.”
“Oh, fine. With the fair Eliza?”
“Well … yes.”
“Really? How serious do you think that is? She tries to pretend they’re just friends.”
“Well, they most certainly are not ‘just friends.’ In fact—”
“No! Don’t tell me.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Annunciata.”
“Goodness, wait till Jack hears about this.”
“Don’t you dare tell him. It’s totally under wraps; he hasn’t—”
“Of course I won’t. Must go; Jack wants me.”
“Jack, you’ve lost our wager.”
“Which one was that?”
“The Eliza one. She’s getting engaged. And to someone pretty blue-blooded.”
“Oh, Christ. Not that tall blond twit?”
“ ’Fraid so. But can you blame her? He is one of the richest young men in England.”
“She’s not leaving, is she? I couldn’t stand it.”
“Well … I hope not. For all our sakes. But—”
“I’ll have to have words with her. So how much do I owe you, Annunciata?”
“Twenty quid. But lunch at the Terrazza will do. I do so love it there.”
“Eliza, I … don’t suppose you’d like to have dinner now?” Matt asked after they had had drinks at the Savoy’s American bar. “I’m starving. Or are you busy?”
“I’m not … not really, no. It sounds lovely.”
“OK. Well, have you been to Inigo Jones? It’s in Covent Garden.”
“I have and I adore it. So beautiful.”
“Great. I’ll go and find a phone and see if I can get a table.”
He came back looking rather pleased with himself.
“OK. Done. Ready at eight thirty. So we could have another.”
“What, another bottle of champagne?”
“Thank you. In what way?”
“Well … it’s got class.”
“Matt, we’d probably better not get onto that.”
“I didn’t mean that sort of class. I meant totally first-rate.”
“Right. Well … thank you. You’re pretty classy yourself. In a totally first-rate sort of way.”
“You reckon?”
“I reckon. You’re clever. And funny. And that’s a great shirt.”
“Thanks. I had it made. To my own specification.”
“Really? Where?”
“Chap in Jermyn Street. You know, by the time we’ve walked to Inigo Jones, it will be well past eight. We could just have some more champagne there.”
“OK. Pull me up. Oh, dear. I feel a bit dizzy. Might just go to the loo. I’m sure I look a complete fright.”
“You look lovely,” he said, and his voice was very serious.
“Juliet? Mummy. How are you, darling?”
“Bit better. Horrid bug, this, though.”
“Charles hasn’t got it?”
“No, no.”
“Any news?”
“Well, yes. Apparently Eliza’s going to marry Jeremy Northcott.”
“Goodness. From everything I’ve heard about him, that should solve all their problems. Stop them worrying you about it. So unfair.”
She felt very … odd. Sort of … well, very sexy. Almost uncomfortably so. She kept fidgeting about in her seat. He noticed.
“You OK?”
“Oh … yes, I’m fine. You?”
“Very OK.”
It was odd being with him when he was relaxed. And when she was relaxed. So often they were fighting. She said so.
“Yeah, I suppose we are. Why do you think that is?”
“Oh … can’t imagine. Because you’re such a stroppy bugger, maybe?”
“I am not stroppy.”
“Matt, you are very stroppy.”
There was a silence; he picked up his glass and scowled into it.
“And I suppose you’re not?”
“I don’t think I’m stroppy.”
“Yes, you are.”
“OK,” she said agreeably, and smiled at him. He stared at her and then quite suddenly smiled back.
More Than You Know Page 17