More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “No, of course not. We’ve decided to go to Alan’s mum; we’ve got no choice.”

  “Oh, Heather. I’m so sorry. Oh, don’t, don’t cry. Emmie, take Coral into the bedroom; start a game of snap; we’ll join you in a minute.”

  “Come on,” said Emmie, holding out her hand to Coral. “Let’s go next door. How’s Amanda Jane?”

  She seemed far ahead of Coral now in every way, and they had been born the same week. That didn’t seem right either …

  “Matt, have you got any cheap flats? I mean really cheap?”

  “To buy or to let?”

  “Oh, to let.”

  “Shouldn’t think so for a moment. Why?”

  “Well … I’ve got this friend. She’s living in this awful place in Clapham, her and her husband and their little girl, and she’s having a baby in a month or so. And they’ve got to get out, and they can’t find anywhere. There’s a few months left on their lease, but after that … it’s pretty hopeless. And it seems to me what the landlord is trying to do is make their lives so impossibly awful they’ll have to leave anyway. Like he’s not mending a blocked loo, stuff like that. I just thought you might know of somewhere. Even for a bit. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “Oh … a girl I met at the clinic. When Emmie was a baby, actually. You haven’t been listening to me. I’ve told you about Heather before. She … she’s been a really good friend to me. And I’d so like to help her.”

  “You’re asking the wrong person. Sorry. Now I’ve got to go; I’m late already.”

  “Bastard,” said Eliza aloud as he closed the door.

  That afternoon, she had to go to the dentist. Sitting in the waiting room, she reached for a newspaper someone had left behind. It was the Daily News.

  She sighed and flicked through the pages. Jack was doing a brilliant job. The news coverage was superb, and there was now a full page of analysis called “NewsWatch” added onto both home and international events.

  Very good gossip column—Jack had always had a penchant for gossip, and knew its importance to even the most cerebral paper—and, God, this was a fascinating article: “A Tale of One City,” it was called, written by a journalist called Johnny Barrett, who was billed as the paper’s “man of property.” It was feature-based, about two families living on what Barrett called either side of the cultural divide, the intellectual Georgian squares of Islington and the more traditional, old-money scene of the mews and mansion blocks of Chelsea. She could see Jack’s hand in this too, but she loved the way Barrett wrote: sharply and perceptively, catching the nuances of the two different styles of talking, dressing, entertaining. This was what property was about: people, and what they made of it, and it of them.

  It was that very hour, while the dentist was drilling agonisingly into a tooth that he had declared nerveless, that the idea began to form …

  “Susan,” said Matt. “Get Andrew Watson on the phone, will you?”

  “Yes, Mr. Shaw.” She had replaced Jenny and was more efficient, less irritating, and considerably less gorgeous.

  “And let me have any lists of letting agents on file, as well. The bottom end of the market.”

  “Yes, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Hallo, Louise. How are you?”

  Eliza was meeting her mother for lunch in the Trattoria Terrazza, the just-still-fashionable Italian restaurant in Romilly Street.

  Louise was sitting at a table with a man: a young, rather attractive man. Good. Maybe she’d found someone to replace the perfidious Barry Floyd.

  “Oh … hi, Eliza. Yes, great, thanks.”

  “How go the hotels?”

  “Oh, pretty good,” said Louise. “Planning permission’s the big bogey, but I’m sure you never stop hearing about that from Matt.”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Eliza. She looked slightly questioningly at the young man and smiled; he smiled back at her.

  “Johnny Barrett,” he said, holding out his hand. “Daily News.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Louise. “Johnny, this is Eliza Shaw. Married to my ex-colleague, Matt, you know?”

  “I do indeed,” said Barrett. He had a north-country burr to his voice, and very direct grey eyes. Eliza liked him. “How is the great man? I’m always trying to persuade him to do a proper interview, but he hates the press. As you probably know.”

  “I do, I’m afraid. He’s fine, thanks. And you won’t believe this, and I know it sounds really corny, but I was reading a piece of yours the other day. About the great divide, North and South London. I thought it was awfully good.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind. I like to inject some personality into my stuff, brings it to life a bit.”

  “Yes, it certainly works. I know Jack Beckham very well,” she added, lest he should think she was some kind of fawning groupie. “I used to work for him, long ago.”

  “Really? That was in his magazine days, I presume?”

  “Yes. He—Oh, there’s my mother; I’d better go and meet her. Lovely to see you, Louise,” she said. “Give my regards to Roderick.”

  “I will, Eliza, thank you.”

  “And … lovely to meet you,” she said to Barrett.

  “Likewise. Here.” He rummaged in a scruffy, overloaded wallet. “Here’s my card. If you can ever persuade your husband to do an interview with me, just let me know.”

  “I will,” she said, smiling, “but I know he won’t. Bye.”

  It had been a sweet revenge to hear him stuttering out an apology and practically begging her to come in to see him after all—clearly Jeremy had asked how the lunch had gone—and part of her still wanted to say that she really wasn’t interested and put the phone down. But instead she heard herself agreeing to go in to see Rob Brigstocke at KPD in a week’s time, bearing her cuttings book.

  Advertising agencies were very different from magazines, she thought, following Rob Brigstocke down a light, bright corridor, thickly carpeted, with stylish prints on the wall and firmly closed doors labelled things like “Creative Resources,” “Library,” and even “Executive Meeting Room 1” and “Executive Meeting Room 2.” She thought wistfully of her first glimpse of Charisma, and the long corridors there, but with paint peeling and scuffed lino floors and doors opening onto untidy offices. She wasn’t ever going to feel at home here.

  Not that it mattered, because she certainly wasn’t going to be here.

  “Right. Here we are. This is my office.”

  He opened the door. This was better, more familiar even: a huge window overlooking Grosvenor Square, a blessedly cluttered black desk, one of the new tractor-style chrome chairs, and in one corner a huge plan chest, in another a Grant Projector—the near-magical machine by which pictures and type could be projected, made bigger or smaller, and moved around a dummy page at will—and every available bit of wall covered with posters, notes, campaign spreads, framed award certificates, Polaroid photographs.

  “Oh,” she said, smiling with sheer pleasure, “this is lovely.”

  She moved towards a set of photographs. “I made a collage of all my covers from the Polaroids,” she said. “One of my most precious possessions.”

  “Yeah?” he said. His voice was amused, even friendly. “I did the same with all my campaigns that didn’t make it.”

  She laughed.

  “That’s a nice one. Like it?”

  He liked her cuttings; she could tell. He didn’t appreciate, of course, the logistical triumph of the Paris all-in-one picture spread, but he liked the haunted house, liked the Mariella feature. “This is brilliant,” he said, smiling at her. “I love it. God. The magazine should have hung on to you. It’s nothing like this now.”

  “Thank you,” said Eliza. She reflected on how swiftly dislike could reverse; she was even finding Rob Brigstocke at that moment quite seriously sexy.

  He took her out round the office to meet some of the creative people, told her what accounts they all worked on, and which she might find
herself involved in. There was a cosmetic account, a very stylish flooring account—“This needs serious fashion input”—a perfume account, and a hotel.

  She felt herself getting excited, having ideas; she liked the people, funny and fun and infinitely serious about what they did, all the things she missed so much.

  “Well,” Rob said, shaking her hand in reception, “cheers. Thanks for coming in. I’ll call you. But—first off—you’d be interested, would you?”

  Eliza said she could be, struggling not to show how desperately interested she already was.

  Three days later Brigstocke called and made her an offer: the job of fashion consultant, two days a week, rising to three as and when necessary, a salary for those two days more than she had been paid full-time at Charisma, and, as far as she could make out, absolutely unlimited expenses. She had stood in the hall, listening to what sounded like an invitation to enter some enchanted kingdom, and heard herself saying, well, she would think about it. And let him know in a day or two. And heard him sounding first surprised and then impatient and telling her he would need to know very soon, as there were several other people he wanted to approach, and longing more than anything to say, Oh, no, no, don’t, please don’t even think about approaching them; and then he rang again, and said if she hadn’t made her mind up in the next twenty-four hours, the job would be gone, and she realised she really would have to talk to Matt about it.

  Mariella had been only mildly disappointed at the failure of her mission. She wanted Jeremy Northcott, and very badly, more badly indeed than she had ever wanted any man, and this was not just sexual greed, not just a demand for romantic attention; it was altogether more tender, gentler, more intense than anything she had experienced before. With the exception, of course, of what she felt for Giovanni.

  Mariella was not actually promiscuous at all; she loved Giovanni, very much, and she had married him for that reason. He was the centre of her world; he gave her things she could not have dreamed of, to be sure, but he also showed her tenderness, gentleness, and deep admiration. Always intelligent, she became under his tutelage cultured, socially adept, well-read. Their life together was indeed charmed, but it was not simply because of their wealth. It was also because they were, quite simply, good to each other.

  And in the early days of their marriage Giovanni was a sensuous, imaginative, tireless lover; he taught her more than she could teach him. He combined sexual skill with emotional; he could catch her unawares, at inappropriate times, and they had made love in a great many more places than their vast, deep bed as night fell over Como.

  But as his eightieth birthday dawned, Giovanni’s sexual powers had begun to dwindle. In three years, his impotence was total. And Mariella had kissed him and said she never wanted to betray him, never wished to sleep with anyone else, and he had said how much he loved her and fallen asleep. And she had meant what she had said with all her heart.

  But with the best will in the world she became restless, fractious, snapping at Giovanni as she had never done, until she had wondered whether it might be better for both of them if she sought—just occasionally—distraction elsewhere. And then, wonderfully, there was Jeremy, who instilled in her an emotional longing as well as a physical one. And even while she was shocked at herself that she could feel such a thing, she yearned to have what she had never had: a love affair in the truest sense, with a young and beautiful man.

  Well, she always got what she wanted. In the end.

  “Eliza? It’s Jeremy.”

  “Oh … Jeremy! How lovely to hear from you; where are you?”

  “In London. For a few days. Just casing the joint. I’ll be back permanently next month. Look, I’ve talked to Rob Brigstocke, and I hear he’s pretty impressed by you. Wants you to join us, in fact.”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, I … I know. It’s wonderful. I’m completely, completely over the moon.”

  “I hoped you would be. But he also tells me you haven’t accepted the job yet. Look, I know you’ve got problems with Matt, and the whole child-care thing. But two days a week—surely you can make that work. We really do want you. We think you have a lot to offer the agency—”

  “I—Oh, it’s not Matt,” she said, taking a deep breath, “honestly. I’m not that much of a little woman, Jeremy. It’s just that I heard of this wonderful nanny and I was just waiting to see her before I committed myself. But … well, it looks like she’s agreed, so … yes. I’d adore to take the job. It sounds wonderful.”

  “Marvellous! I’ll tell Rob. He’ll be thrilled. Now, what about lunch? To seal the deal?”

  “I’d love to have lunch. Please, please, please.”

  They settled on a date the following week. He was off to Norfolk for a few days. “See Pa, all that sort of thing. So I’ll have lots of exciting news about country life as well.”

  “I would actually like to hear it,” said Eliza soberly. “It’d be lovely. So … so normal.”

  “My father, normal! Hardly. You can come with me if you like.”

  “Oh, I wish I could. Matt would be really thrilled. But give my love to your father; tell him how sorry I am. I did write to him about your mother.”

  “Sweet of you. I will. OK, then, next Thursday. Shall we make it the Caprice? For old times’ sake?”

  She put the phone down and sat staring at it, feeling alternately wildly happy and violently sick. She couldn’t renege on that now. Whatever Matt said …

  “No,” said Matt. “I thought we agreed that for at least her first year at school, Emmie would need you to be around.”

  “But, Matt, it’s only two days a week. Your mum could look after her; she’d love it. And I get so bored now with Emmie at school all day; I’ve got a brain and it’s just rotting away, doing nothing. I want to—”

  “I get very bored with these cries of anguish about your brain, Eliza. Your brain could be put to perfectly good use doing things with Emmie and even with me, come to that.”

  “You?” she said. “I really don’t see what you could ask of me, Matt, that requires my brain. I don’t actually recall your ever wanting to go to the theatre, or discussing books with me. Asking what’s for dinner and telling me what developments you’ve instigated in the past twenty-four hours seems to be what might pass for intellectual conversation on your part. As for Emmie, I spend a lot of time reading to her and playing with her, and I resent the implication that I don’t.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Matt, “but what about the discussion we had the other night, on the possibility of our having another child one day? I presume that wouldn’t be even under consideration anymore if you took this job, far less important.”

  “You are so vile,” said Eliza, holding back the tears with a huge effort, “and that is completely unfair. I just can’t believe you can be so arrogant and so … so old-fashioned. You live in a time warp; do you know that? Forever Fifties Man, with a wife in a pinny, waiting for you to come home so she can wait on you.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” said Matt, and stalked out, slamming the door after him.

  Driving Emmie to school, still fighting down the tears, she felt fiercely, and—yes, all right—childishly intent on revenge. She had tried so hard, given up so much, waited so long for what seemed the perfect opportunity—and he still wouldn’t move to meet her even a quarter of the way. It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.

  She stopped to buy some milk on the way back, and Johnny Barrett’s card fell out of her wallet.

  She sat staring at it, thinking about him, thinking about Matt and the way he always won, and about people like Heather who always lost, and suddenly the wonderfully simple idea was born.

  “Hallo, Johnny Barrett. Oh … hallo. Yes, of course I remember you. Never forget an appreciative face. Nice to hear from you. What? Well, I’m always interested in ideas for a piece. Want to outline it now? And then I can put it to the editor, if I think he’d like it. Yes, sure, go ahead.”

  Jeremy arrived back
from Norfolk for an intense three days before returning to New York for the last time; his former secretary, Lucilla Fellowes, who was still at the agency, returned to her role of company wife with huge enthusiasm, making sure he had his favourite coffee, filling his (temporary) office with flowers and Bollinger champagne, running his diary and dovetailing meetings, and booking him into his favourite restaurants. It was as she checked the final arrangements for those few days that she realised he had slipped in a lunch without telling her: “Eliza,” his diary said in his huge scrawl, “Caprice, one p.m.” On the same day Lucy had with great difficulty managed to arrange for the CEO of Cumberland Tobacco to lunch in the boardroom with Rob Brigstocke, as creative director, Michael Rushton, head of research, and Jeremy; she asked Jeremy if she could change the lunch with Eliza to drinks that evening.

  “Well, if it’s OK with her. She might not be free. Tell her it will be Bolly. That should swing it. Otherwise … maybe dinner? It’s up to her. But I’m sure she’ll understand about lunch.”

  Lucilla Fellowes had rung Eliza twice now about the change to the lunch date and got no answer; the third time, she decided she would have to leave a message on the answering machine.

  Lucilla left her message, covered up her typewriter, put on her coat, and went home to cook dinner for her barrister husband.

  “Matt, hallo, it’s me. Look, I’m in a bit of a fix; I’ve had my car towed away … What? Well, I left it on a double yellow. Only for a minute—well, ten, actually—and I’m waiting at the pound now to get it back. Yes, I know, I know I’m an idiot, and I’m very sorry, but it’s taking ages, and I’m going to be late to pick up Emmie. She’s out to tea. I don’t suppose you could do it, could you? Since you’re coming home early anyway. Well, you said you were. Yes, you did; you said you were shattered and you really needed an early night, and you’d better, because I’ve made you a fish pie. Anyway … do you think you could possibly pick Emmie up? Oh, Matt, please, I never ask you and it’s only in the next street and you like the mummy; it’s that blonde called Susannah with the big tits. Yes, Parkham Street, number seven. Six o’clock. I’ll be home by six thirty latest, and supper’s all under control; you might turn the oven up to five … What? No, I know you’re not my housekeeper, but it would be helpful … Yes? Oh, thank you. Thank you, Matt, very much. Must go; there’s a queue to use this phone.”