“No. I’ve got an early morning meeting.”
“What a hardworking girl you are. Now, you see, I think if Gaby had had a career, it might have been better; she would have been less inclined to think about herself all the time. She is a very self-centred woman …”
As she was leaving the Connaught, a taxi pulled up; it had David in it. She turned and made her way to the ladies’ and sat there at one of the dressing tables for ten minutes, shaking slightly. David still had the power to disturb her sexually and indeed emotionally; he was so bloody beautiful, damn him.
Later, she was settling at her desk when the phone rang.
“Scarlett?” It was him.
“Yes.”
“I was hoping to catch you this afternoon. I came back earlier than I had said. I was hoping to take you by surprise. I knew you’d never see me of your own volition.”
“No. I wouldn’t.”
“Scarlett … you know my marriage really is over now.”
“I heard that Gaby had come to her senses. Yes.”
“Well, you can interpret it how you will. Perhaps at last you will accept that what I told you was true: that she really didn’t care for me in the least.”
“And … little Lily? Was she conceived in an uncaring moment?”
“Scarlett, please. Of course I slept with Gaby occasionally. We were married, for God’s sake. These things happen.”
“You said they didn’t.”
“I know. But I was so afraid of losing you.”
“Oh, David, please.”
“Well,” he said, “I still love you. I always will. Remember that, Scarlett. Don’t throw it away without at least a little glance backwards.”
“I’m tired of looking backwards, David,” she said. “I need to look forward now instead.”
Just the same, after she had put the phone down she sat staring at it, thinking about him and their time together, and it was the first time she had smiled as she remembered it.
Heather was very low. She was sick and very tired now with her pregnancy, her inconvenient, unwanted pregnancy. Alan was increasingly bad tempered and depressed.
“And Coral doesn’t like her school, says she’s still being teased. How about Emmie?”
“She’s OK. Would you like to bring Coral to tea tomorrow?”
“I don’t think I can. I’ve got to do something about this toilet, and the landlord says he’s sending someone round tomorrow. Of course, he wouldn’t say when, so I’ve got to stay in all day, and I know what’ll happen: I’ll go out to collect Coral and he’ll come then, and then they’ll have an excuse.”
“I’ll collect Coral for you,” said Eliza.
“Oh, Eliza, would you? That’s ever so kind.”
She was very early to pick up Coral, so she parked and then dashed into a newsagent for a paper to read; the only one they had was the Daily News. Jack Beckham’s paper. He’d hired some fashion writer called Katya Rowlands and turned her into a star. Her waiflike face was indeed on the side of the bloody buses. Every time Eliza saw her, she felt sick.
She looked at her column and had to admit it was pretty good. Not brilliant, but pretty good. Style was a bit arch, but the content was good.
She turned the page quickly and tried to concentrate on the gossip column instead. She hardly knew anybody mentioned; that depressed her as well. Oh, Eliza, what have you come to? An embittered old has-been, that’s what.
She was almost late in the end to pick up Coral at the gates. She drove her home and found poor Heather coming out of the lavatory looking green.
“Sorry,” she said. “Still can’t stop being sick.”
“Don’t apologize, you silly girl. Has the man been?”
“No, not yet. He—”
A man appeared on the stairs just below them.
“Mrs. Connell? I’ve got a note there’s some problem with the toilet. What would that be, then? Perfectly all right when I left last time.”
“It’s the same problem,” said Heather. “It’s leaking.”
“That’s very odd. I’ll have another look, but—God, it stinks in here.”
“Yes, it does,” said Eliza, shooing Heather back into the flat, shutting the door on her. “That’s because it’s not flushing properly. The whole system needs replacing.”
He dumped his bag of tools on the floor.
“Qualified plumber, are you?”
“No. I just know faulty workmanship when I see it.”
“You’ve no right to say that. This toilet was perfectly all right when I left it. These people”—he gestured at Heather’s door—“misuse things. Don’t clean up properly.”
“I very much doubt that. This lavatory is used by four families; it needs to be in proper working order.”
“Oh, yeah? You one of them?”
“No,” said Eliza, “I’m not. But I do know that binding a cracked pipe with a dirty cloth is hardly a long-term solution.”
“OK,” he said, picking up his tool bag again, “you fix it then, since you’re so clever.”
Eliza felt slightly panicky; she seemed to be depriving the tenants of even minimum attention to their problem.
“Look,” she said, “who do you work for; who’s your boss? Couldn’t you get him to authorise a proper repair?”
“My instructions are to do what’s needed,” he said, “and that’s what I do. Now, am I going to be allowed to get on with it, or are you going to stand there telling me my bloody job?”
“Yes,” said Eliza hastily. “Yes, of course you must do what you can.”
For the first time in her life, she had seen for herself the total indifference shown by the powerful towards the powerless; it shocked her.
“That is just so … so dreadful. I can’t believe it. Please, please tell me it’s not true.”
“Why so dreadful? It will be fun; we will all have a lovely time together.”
“But—”
“I thought you would be pleased—”
“Mariella, how can I be pleased? Jeremy … here, in Milan! And not just here, but having dinner with us. I feel like not coming …”
“Eliza.” Mariella’s voice took on a tone of steely determination. “Eliza, of course you must come. It will seem very, very rude if you do not. Timothy Fordyce and his wife, Janey, it is they who are taking us to dinner. And do you really want to miss Callas? All Milan will be there—it is such a wonderful occasion—”
“All Milan and a bloody Englishman.” Eliza hesitated. All that was going to happen was that she would see Jeremy again and it would be fun.
“Sorry, Mariella,” she said. “I’m being stupid. It sounds lovely. But can we go shopping? I need some better shoes. And do you really think what I’ve got is grand enough?”
“For Jeremy?”
“No, of course not. For La Scala.”
“Eliza, Le Smoking by Yves Saint Laurent is smart enough for anywhere. I wanted one for myself, but it does not suit my shape. You will look extremely chic. But yes, perhaps some new very, very high heels. We will go this afternoon. We will leave Emmie behind, I think, with Anna-Maria.”
Alone in her palace of a room, unpacking Emmie’s things, she wondered why she was so horrified at the prospect of seeing Jeremy. It wasn’t as if she’d dumped him last week. And he hadn’t given everything up in his grief and gone to live in a monastery. He was a hugely successful corporate figure: CEO of KPD New York. And still extremely rich.
Of course, it would never have worked if she had married him. There had never been any real fire in their relationship (she tried not to think of the problems the fire in her relationship with Matt had caused).
What was worrying her was how she might feel about Jeremy after all this time, whether there might, in fact, be more of a fire than she thought.
And however much she loved Matt—and she did; she did—the magic had inevitably faded. There had to be an easing of emotion, a blunting of desire, however strong the relationship might be, and
you would hardly be human if you didn’t welcome, however briefly, the dance of a flirtation, the disturbance of an attraction, the flickering of intrigue.
Jeremy could clearly offer that, and that was unsettling. Not to mention scary. Very scary indeed.
“No! No, I won’t. I want to come with you. I don’t want to play with Anna-Maria. I want to go shopping. Why can’t I come? I’ll be really, really good.”
“Emmie—” Eliza stopped. There was no reasoning with Emmie when she was in this mood. “Well, look. If we take you today, will you promise to be very, very good? And then maybe we can take you for hot chocolate and a pastry afterwards. But I don’t want any complaining, Emmie. Is that a deal?”
Emmie understood deals. She smiled at her mother, a sweet, gentle smile, the huge dark blue eyes innocently wide. “It’s a deal.”
Milan, getting ready for Christmas, was at its fairy-tale best: strung with lights across the street and down the lampposts, the shop windows rich and luscious, gold and silver settings for sparkling evening dresses, glittering rich-colored jewels. Especially wonderful to Eliza’s eyes were the food stores: butchers’ displays of boar, deer, hare, hanging pheasants still in their fine feathers, fruit and vegetable stalls stacked high, and the patisseries, their windows works of art, and on every corner flower stalls offering huge, ready-dressed bouquets and great bowls and vases of roses, lilies, and lush, thick greenery. For Milan, Christmas was the winter solstice, the ancient Roman feast day—less sentimental than London, with its endless Santa Clauses and galloping reindeer, more adult, more concerned with sensual pleasure.
Even the Nativity scenes in windows or in front of churches were works of art, beautifully carved, life-size shepherds, wise men, Mary and Joseph and the baby.
Everyone was in furs, leopard, sables, and mink, with huge fox-fur collars, and even mink collars on the cashmere and camel coats of the men.
And woven into this dazzling throng were the Gypsies, hundreds of them, raggedy and dirty with their sleeping babies—“They are drugged,” Mariella said disdainfully—thrusting sprigs of heather, muttering curses. Some sat on pavements and in doorways; the Milanese stepped round or over them, never breaking off from their conversations for a moment, or handing over any money.
Emmie skipped along wide-eyed between Mariella and her mother, the faithful Anna-Maria trailing along behind.
“Can I have some new shoes?” asked Emmie. “I want black patent ones, with square ends. Like Katy’s.”
“Who is Katy?” asked Mariella.
“She’s my best friend. At the moment.”
“Do you often change your best friends?”
“Yes. Lots of times.”
“Good girl. I also.”
“Is Mummy your best friend at the moment?”
“But of course. And whenever I see her. She is a very good best friend, your mother.”
“Mine too. At the moment,” said Emmie.
They passed the dazzling windows of La Rinascente; Emmie’s eyes glowed.
“Can we go in there?”
“No, we’re going to buy my shoes,” said Eliza.
“Please!”
“Emmie,” said Eliza warningly.
“But it’s fun in there.”
Mariella spoke to Anna-Maria, who nodded and grasped Emmie’s hand.
“Emmie, carina, you go with Anna-Maria; she will take you round the store. We will meet you in one hour in Cova and you shall have a millefoglie. You will like that very much.”
“But I want you to come—”
Mariella’s eyes became nail-hard, and Anna-Maria pulled at Emmie’s hand. Eliza had seen the look.
“Emmie! Remember the deal.”
“OK.”
An hour and several dizzyingly high-heeled shoes later, they walked, swinging the bags and giggling, to Cova.
“Now. Where are they? Not here yet, I think.”
“No.” Eliza felt a slight heave of anxiety.
“We will order the cioccolata and the millefoglie,” said Mariella, sinking down at a table, “and they will be here very soon—Ah, here is Anna-Maria now.”
Anna-Maria, yes: a white-faced, wild-eyed Anna-Maria. Alone. No Emmie.
She rushed up to Mariella, spoke through almost hysterical sobs. The slight heave in Eliza’s stomach became a major turbulence. Mariella turned to her. She spoke carefully and slowly.
“It seems Anna-Maria cannot … cannot find Emmie. She said she was there one minute and gone the next. In a very short time.”
Gone. A five-year-old, in the middle of a foreign city. Where she didn’t speak the language. A city teeming with people, where a child could be … could be …
“God,” she said, and again, “God.” She thought she might be sick. Don’t panic, Eliza; Italians love children; little girls don’t get lost in the middle of the afternoon in broad … Only it wasn’t broad daylight; it was dusk, almost dark.
“Ask her where she last saw her,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm.
More incomprehensible Italian. Eliza swallowed.
“It was in La Rinascente. Anna-Maria just turned away for a moment and Emmie was gone.”
They went back to La Rinascente, all of them. To the children’s clothes department, Eliza sobbing, and terrified. The willful, manipulative Emmie had been entirely replaced in her head by a small, frightened child in danger. She kept thinking of the Gypsies, with their angry curses; suppose they had taken Emmie? She had been fascinated by them; she would have gone …
“Was here,” Anna-Maria said, indicating a line of smocked, embroidered dresses. “I look away for one minute—and gone.”
“You should have held her hand,” said Eliza. “You should have kept holding her hand.”
“She would not. She pull away. All the time.”
She mustn’t get angry with Anna-Maria. She mustn’t. It wouldn’t help.
Mariella, who had vanished, returned looking smug.
“That is done. The announcement—any moment. They say they will find her in no time. They say go to the toy department.”
They went to the toy department; it was thronged with overdressed children and fur-coated mamas and nonnas, laughing, shouting in Italian. She began to feel hysterical. Why couldn’t they speak English, for God’s sake? If Emmie asked for help, no one would understand her. She’d be frightened, lost, crying … anyone could take her …
Mariella took her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Eliza! Be calm. We will not find Emmie this way. She is a clever child. We must think. What did she want this afternoon?”
“Just … just to come with us. And get … get—”
“Oh, yes. The shoes. There she might be, I think. Come, cara, courage.”
She held out her hand. The fur-coated women looked at Eliza with a mixture of disdain and sympathy. As long as she lived, Eliza thought, she would never again let Emmie out of her sight. And never, ever buy a fur coat. How she hated fur coats. If she never found Emmie, she would have to kill herself; she would climb up to the top of the Duomo and throw herself off it; it would be the only thing she could possibly do … “Here. Here we are. Bambini. And … there, now. What did I say? There she is, your clever little daughter. A fashion-editor-to-be.”
And there indeed she was, a security guard at her side, sitting and smiling, not in the least upset, on a tall chair, rather like a throne, surrounded with patent-leather shoes of every shape and color. An amused shop assistant, clearly expecting that any moment a fur-coated someone would come and claim her, was helping her to try them on.
“Emmie,” shouted Eliza across the room, “oh, Emmie, Emmie, I’ve been looking for you everywhere; where have you been, oh, my darling, darling …”
Emmie heard her name, turned round, proffering two small feet, one in black patent, one in red.
“Which do you think?” she said.
Later, much later, when they were safely home with both pairs of shoes, the red and the black, boug
ht by Mariella against Eliza’s express instructions—“She deserves them, cara; she is so clever, finding them; you should be proud”—Emmie was put to bed early as a punishment, told there would be no story that night, no more outings to Milan, and no Christmas presents for her on Christmas day.
“What do you think Daddy will say when he hears what you did, that you ran away from Anna-Maria like that?” asked Eliza.
“I don’t know,” said Emmie. “Perhaps Daddy will be cross with you instead. For not staying with me.”
And she smiled very sweetly at her mother, put her thumb in her mouth, and turned away from her.
The next day was beautiful. Eliza spent it with Emmie, roaming the grounds of the villa, playing hide-and-seek, eating a rather chilly picnic by the lake, as Emmie wanted (and then warming up in the house afterwards with hot chocolate, brought them by a remorseful and forgiving Anna-Maria), helping Emmie do a picture in crayons of the back of the house with the miniature maze to show Matt, and finally watching the sun go down on the mountains.
Mariella was in Milan, putting the final touches to arrangements for a dinner party for forty she and Giovanni were giving the following week.
That night, Eliza rang Matt; he sounded as he always did on such occasions: irritably surprised.
“I’m fine; no need to worry about me. I’m working my arse off as usual, hardly left the office—”
“I hope you’re eating something,” said Eliza carefully.
“Yes, yes, course I am; having dinner with Scarlett tomorrow. You having a nice time, then?” he asked, clearly with an effort. “How’s Emmie?”
“Emmie’s fine. Do you want to speak to her?”
“Yeah, put her on.”
She did so rather nervously, fearing Emmie might go into an elaborate description of her adventure of the day before; she’d decided the only thing was to let her tell Matt about it and then correct her version if necessary, rather than the other way round. But Emmie didn’t mention it at all, merely talked about the day they had spent at the villa—“It’s like a palace, Daddy”—and the new shoes Mariella had bought her.
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