More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Very … wonderful.”

  “Of course, he dressed it up, as he always does, said it was only to improve the overall value of the house, but I know it was still largely for my benefit. I mean, he’s not going to sell it, is he?”

  “He can’t,” said Eliza. “It’s in our joint names.” But anxiety suddenly flickered through her. There were only two ways Matt could really hurt her: through Emmie—and through Summercourt. That would be … But no. No, he couldn’t. However angry he was. He wouldn’t.

  And then it happened; after two more weeks of the absolute hostility and disdain, as she struggled to remain calm and outwardly cheerful in the face of it all, she received a formal offer of a job with KPD.

  “Sorry to have been so long getting back to you,” Rob Brigstocke said when he called, a wonderful bright warmth breaking into yet another bleak morning. “Had to get a few things rubber-stamped. Hope that’s OK.”

  “Oh … yes. Yes, of course. Marvellous.”

  “Good. So when do you think you might start? Is the nanny you found still available? I know that was an important part of the mix.”

  “I’m … Yes, yes, I think so.”

  She felt her mind racing; why not? Why bloody not? If Matt was never going to speak to her again, she had to do something to help herself. And this was just about the perfect something. But … what would he say? What might he do?

  “You do what you want,” he said that night. “You always do. What are you going to do about Emmie, have her adopted?”

  “Matt! Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t say such awful things. Please.”

  He shrugged.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Except for the school holidays, she’ll be at school most of the time. After school, I could do exactly what I do now, if I have to, and ask your mum to look after her. I’d pay her—I wouldn’t expect her to do it as a favor—and Emmie loves her so much. What would you feel about that?”

  “I don’t want anyone else looking after her,” he said. “You’re her mother; that’s your job.”

  She felt a flare of anger.

  “Matt—don’t be so bloody unreasonable. You don’t mind your mother looking after her if I’m at the dentist or have to sort out something to do with the house. What’s the difference?”

  He was silent.

  “And then on the holidays, maybe she could go down to Mummy at Summercourt. For two days a week. Surely that would be all right. She’s stayed there with Mummy lots.”

  “Your mother’s not up to it,” he said. “I was watching her when I went down there; she can’t even pick her up.”

  This was undeniable.

  “OK. Well, maybe your mum could have her on the holidays as well. Just for two days a week. Why don’t I ask her? See if she likes the idea.”

  “I’ve told you,” he said, “I don’t want Emmie left with anyone. She’s your responsibility, not my mum’s.”

  “Matt, you’re being so unreasonable. So absolutely unreasonable.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She was screaming at him. “No one, no one in their right minds would refuse to agree to this.”

  He stood there, staring at her across the room with the same, awful blank anger; she felt quite frightened, as if he was going to hit her again. Then quite suddenly he said, “You do what you like, Eliza. Like I said, you always do. Just don’t expect me to agree to it.”

  “And … what does that mean?”

  He shrugged.

  “Work it out for yourself. But I don’t want Mum involved.”

  “Oh,” she said, taken totally aback. “Why?”

  “I just don’t,” he said.

  Maybe he was afraid she would confide in Sandra, Eliza thought; maybe he had talked to her himself—unlikely, though; he was terrified of confronting his parents with any kind of emotion.

  Eliza switched her mind to her current problem: something had to be done about caring for Emmie. She started calling agencies. And that led her to Jennifer.

  Jennifer was actually working for one of the other mothers at school, who was looking to share her with someone. She was a sturdy girl from Birmingham who had taught in a nursery school for five years and seemed the absolute opposite of the sort of nanny whom Matt would have objected to. Emmie liked her, and she clearly liked Emmie, although Eliza could see she would be firm, would be able to deal with her tantrums and her manipulative ways. Eliza offered her the job.

  Matt said he didn’t want to interview Jennifer, but then at six o’clock on the evening before Eliza was due to start work, he demanded to see her, and said he wasn’t prepared to allow Emmie to be left in her care until he had.

  Eliza felt there was too much at stake to argue, and managed to get hold of Jennifer, who was just sitting down to supper; she was clearly surprised, but agreed to come over, if Eliza could collect her.

  She sat stolidly relaxed, good-naturedly answering Matt’s increasingly absurd questions: “What would you do if there was a fire; do you prefer looking after girls to boys; have you got a boyfriend?” Her rosy, pleasant face showed no irritation or surprise, even when he suddenly said did she know that he didn’t approve of working mothers and that Eliza was returning to work very much against his will.

  “I think children are best with happy mothers,” she said, “and happy mothers are best for children. And some mothers are happier working.”

  Matt nodded and said she must excuse him now; he had a lot of work to do, and disappeared into the study.

  Eliza drove Jennifer home; when she got back, she went into the study and said, very nervously, would it be all right for Jennifer to look after Emmie; he said he supposed so, but he would like to remind Eliza again that what she was doing was in direct opposition to his wishes and that he was going out.

  And in the morning, Eliza got up an hour earlier than usual to wash and blow-dry her hair, got dressed in one of her new maxidresses and her new pink suede Biba boots, made up her face with her new Mary Quant paint box, delivered Emmie to school and told her to be good for Jennifer and that she would see her at six o’clock, and then turned her new, souped-up MINI Cooper in the direction of Carlos Place and, more nervous than she would ever have believed, returned to the world of work.

  She had expected to spend the first few days, at least, in a state of trauma, at once unable to cope with the job and fretting over Emmie; in the event, she found herself so instantly happy and absorbed, so soothed by being appreciated and valued and even talked to, for God’s sake, and so delighted once the first day was over at finding Emmie contentedly playing ludo in the kitchen with the estimable Jennifer that she was even able to bury the nightmare events of the past few weeks and turn her face determinedly—for two days a week, at least—towards what seemed like a new beginning.

  Or at least what she hoped was a new beginning.

  “Matt, hallo. Look, I’d like to see you. It’s been so long.”

  “Scarlett, I’m terribly busy.”

  “I daresay you are, and so am I, but I’d still like to see you.”

  “Have you been talking to Eliza?”

  “No. No, of course not. Haven’t heard from her for ages. How is she?”

  “Fine.”

  His voice was dismissive; not one to pursue then.

  “Right. Well, can I buy you a drink?”

  “OK. But I’m not very good company at the moment.”

  Scarlett said she didn’t want good company; she just wanted to see him.

  “Mum says you’re avoiding them; you’re certainly avoiding me. I just want to make sure you’re OK.”

  “Scarlett, I’m OK. Believe me.”

  “I want to see for myself. Tomorrow OK?”

  “Yes, all right,” he said wearily.

  “My pub, seven thirty. Don’t be late. And … will you be bringing Eliza?”

  “I won’t be bringing Eliza, no.”

  There was tha
t same odd note in his voice.

  He walked into the pub in the Old Brompton Road looking terrible: white, drawn, and he had obviously lost weight.

  “Hi, Matt. You do look very … tired.”

  “Well, I am tired. Probably the reason.”

  “Everything OK business-wise?”

  “Yes, perfectly OK, thanks.”

  “And how’s Emmie?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Good. Well … can I get you a drink?”

  “Yes, thanks. Large whisky.”

  He downed it in one; she watched, half-shocked.

  “Matt, are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure. What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Oh … nothing much. I’m a bit low. Strikes me you are too. Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll talk about mine. I need to, really. And there’s no one else who’d listen; Mum and Dad would have a fit. Several fits.”

  Silence.

  “OK. Here goes. I’ve made a complete hash of my life,” she said quickly, as if it would make it all easier. “Complete.”

  Matt listened, horrified. She didn’t spare herself. There’d even been a child—or rather a termination. Which she’d never told this bloke, this absolute wanker, about. And she’d had to cope with it all on her own. Had never told anyone.

  “I’m so sorry, Scarlett,” he said, and then again, “so sorry. I wish you’d felt you could tell me.”

  “Well … wouldn’t have helped.”

  “Might. I could have given you some good advice. Like sending him round to me, so I could beat him up.”

  “Oh, Matt. That wouldn’t have helped. It’s all right. I went into it with my eyes open. I should have known better. And advice, who takes advice? Especially the sort you don’t want to hear.”

  “As long as you’re rid of him now. And yes, you’re right. Advice is pretty useless. It’s so bloody easy to live other people’s lives for them. I should know.” He sighed, felt the tears at the back of his eyes, the treacherous tears he shed every night, shocked at himself for his weakness, unable to stanch them, biting the pillow lest a sound might escape. “I … I’m just going to get another drink. You?”

  “Yes, please. G and T again. Lots of ice. I learnt to love ice in America. It’s such a lovely country. Matt … sorry, but are you really all right?”

  “Not really,” he said, “but best not to talk about it. Like you, I want to deal with it on my own, for now, at least. No one can help.”

  “OK. I won’t press you. But when you’re ready—”

  “Yes, thanks.” He managed to smile at her, went to get the drinks; when he came back he sat down in silence again, staring into his glass.

  “Sorry; I’m not very good company at the moment.”

  “Oh, Matt,” she said, putting her hand on his arm, “what a pair we are. We used to be able to help each other; it’s gone a bit past that now. But for what it’s worth, I’m so fond of you, you know. And glad you’re around.”

  He felt the tears rising again. Shit, what was the matter with him? He was acting like a bloody girl.

  He rummaged in his pocket for his handkerchief, blew his nose hard.

  “Sorry. Getting a cold.”

  “Matt, God, you’re crying. Matt, what is it; whatever is it; is it Eliza?”

  “I am not bloody crying,” he half shouted. “I’ve got a bloody cold. Now, look, I really must go. And please—please—any serious problems, in future, please come to me. I know I’m only your kid brother, but I can still look after you, OK?”

  “Yes,” she said, very soberly, “yes, Matt, I know. I should have done. But I thought you’d be shocked and I couldn’t face that. And you … well, you know, I’m always here. We must look out for each other, Matt, you and me. And at least you’ve still got Eliza—”

  Only he hadn’t, he thought, walking swiftly out of the pub after kissing her good-bye. He hadn’t got Eliza. It was over. The sweet, sweeping, heady love and love affair were over. And he had to make the most of what he had left.

  And make sure he kept it.

  Spring 1971

  THE JOB WAS … WELL, IT WAS WONDERFUL. ELIZA COULDN’T REMEMBER when she had last had such fun.

  The lines of command were very clear initially, but Rob increasingly referred to her on models, rather than to the fearsome Babs Brown, who ran the bookings department at the agency, and there had been quite sharp words exchanged between them. And although Rob chose the photographers, he began to discuss the choice with Eliza beforehand. If she felt he was making a serious mistake—such as when he wanted to use the dreamily romantic Sarah Moon to shoot some dazzlingly sexy poolside images and she would have chosen Helmut Newton—she would say so in no uncertain terms.

  It was very odd: to be so happy and so unhappy at the same time. While she was working, absorbed, confident, excited, surrounded by the kind of people she most admired, she was happier than she had been for years. And while she was at home, with a husband who appeared to dislike her, who certainly didn’t trust her, she felt an abject failure and was very, very unhappy indeed.

  It wasn’t easy doing the job in two days a week: especially as she could never be late home, or even start early, as sometimes was required. Jennifer wouldn’t have minded coming in early, she knew, although she couldn’t stay late—she had an invalid mother to care for—but Matt simply wouldn’t have tolerated it. And looking at the clock sometimes, if they were having a prolonged meeting—and oh, God, how many of them were in the afternoon—seeing the hands apparently fly round at twice their proper speed, she dreaded the moment when she would have to say, “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me,” knowing that the people she worked with found it at best irritating and at worst unprofessional.

  It was Jennifer who made the suggestion, as Eliza flew in breathless and panicking one night, saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, meeting overran; it’s so hard to get away, and it looks so unprofessional—”

  She stopped. As if Jennifer would understand that. But.

  “Mrs. Shaw, I’ve told you before, you mustn’t worry so much. I do have to get home to my mother, so I can’t stay very late, but I could always bring Emmie to you at the agency, if you were stuck in a really important meeting. That would buy you at least another half hour, and—”

  Eliza stared at her, wondering how someone so apparently stolid could possibly understand not only her job and how much she wanted to excel at it, but the need to deceive Matt, and in a most subtle way. “Jennifer, you are a genius,” she said, finding it hard not to hug her. “That would be so brilliant. Next time I’ll ring you. Actually, in the traffic it would take at least forty-five minutes. That’s wonderful. And then … well …”

  Then, she thought, she could sort of imply Emmie had been at a party or something—if Matt was home. He usually wasn’t, of course.

  The plan worked brilliantly; Arabella, the girl in reception who worked late anyway, was enchanted to have care of the famous Emmeline, and the very first evening asked her whether she’d like a cocktail while she waited for Mummy.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Right. Well, I can make a pink cocktail or a green one. Which would you like?”

  “Pink, please.”

  “It was raspberry cordial and soda water,” Arabella explained when Eliza came down. “She loved it. And then she helped me tidy up the magazines; didn’t you, Emmie? She’s so sweet, Eliza, and so bright. She can have a job here whenever she likes.”

  The only problem was, it worked so well that Eliza was tempted to do it every time …

  “Miss Scarlett, you must forgive me, but I have made a mistake. Mr. Frost will be here in just two days’ time. I thought he said two weeks, but—”

  “Oh, Larissa, no. Oh, that’s … that’s quite difficult.”

  “Miss Scarlett, why, do you not like him? Did you have a quarrel?”

  “No, no, Larissa. And I do like him. Bu
t … well, I … Oh, you wouldn’t understand. Is he … is he coming alone, do you think, or with … with Mrs. Frost?”

  “Oh, alone, I think. Yes.”

  “In that case, then, I must go. I know I’ve only just got here, but it … I … we can’t be here together. I’ll go and see Ari, ask him to take me back tomorrow first thing. I’m going to bed now; I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Larissa looked after her sadly. She was such a lovely person, and Mr. Frost was such a lovely person, and perhaps, in time, they might become friends. No, not friends, more than friends. Of course, Mrs. Frost was very frightening, but Miss Scarlett would be able to manage. A person who ran her own business should not be frightened of a mother.

  The first thing she must do was try to keep Miss Scarlett on Trisos for at least one more day. That meant a visit to Ari the Ferry; Larissa pulled on her shawl and set off down the hill towards the little harbour.

  Scarlett woke to the sound of rain. Damn. Well, it would make leaving Trisos less painful.

  She set off for the harbour, pulling her small suitcase—her still-packed suitcase—behind her. Demetrios and Larissa had been nowhere to be seen, presumably busy in the kitchen.

  She knocked on Ari’s door; he came out looking slightly sheepish.

  “Hallo, Ari. Are we all set?”

  “Oh, Miss Scarlett, we not go. Not today. I am so sorry. Weather too bad. Big wind, big rough. But tomorrow, we can go tomorrow?”

  It meant he would have to collect Mark from the big ferry and drop her off at the same time. Well, that would be all right. They didn’t need to meet.

  “Hallo, Larissa. How are you?”

  “Very well, Miss Scarlett. Your breakfast is there, for you, on the table.”

  “Is Demetrios around?”

  “No, he goes fishing, Miss Scarlett.”

  “Fishing! I hope he doesn’t get caught in the storm.”

  “I, too, Miss Scarlett. I did not want him to go at all; there is too much to do here—”

  The weather really couldn’t be too bad if Demetrios was going fishing.

  “I have to stay another day,” she said, sitting down at the table, spooning honey into the yogurt. “Ari won’t go today. I can’t understand it; look, the sun’s coming out; it’s as calm as can be.”