“Fine, thank you,” said Emmie without looking at him.
“You’re home early,” said Eliza tentatively.
“Yes, I’ve come to pack.”
“Pack! Where are you going?”
“To Manchester for a couple of days.”
“What for?”
“A conference.”
“You didn’t tell me,” she said, struggling to sound friendly and interested. “What sort of conference?”
“A property development conference. I didn’t think it would interest you, given your contempt for what I do. Anyway, I must get on; if you’ll excuse me, I’m going up on the sleeper.”
“What, tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. And therefore I have to pack. Unless of course you’d like to do it for me. But I imagine you’re too busy.”
Eliza turned away without saying any more; she felt the usual surge of anger. Matt could go away at literally a moment’s notice, without warning, without the need to make any arrangements, leaving her on her own. Not that that made any real difference, she reflected; she might as well be living in the house without him, for all the contact there was between them. But she was not able to even contemplate two days away to do her work. It was so unfair. So totally unfair.
“Mummy! Mummy, look, I can jump like Zebedee; watch …”
It was bound to happen sooner or later, of course: the world in which they moved, Louise and Matt, was not a large one. Nevertheless, confronted by his name placed next to hers at the table at an awards ceremony, Louise felt momentarily panicked, unsure of what either of them might say or do.
She was as usual the only woman; she was just shaking out her napkin when she saw him approaching the table, but too engrossed in conversation with someone to have seen her. By the time he had sat down himself, he realised his escape was impossible.
“Hallo,” she said, trying to achieve eye contact and failing, as he reached for his glass of water without looking at her, “fancy seeing you here. Small world.”
“Yes,” he said shortly. “Very.”
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“How is that building in the city going?”
“Very well, thanks.”
Louise turned to her neighbour on her other side; he couldn’t be worse, she thought.
Ten minutes of appallingly patronising conversation later, she discovered she was wrong. Donald Miller was the managing director of a cement company, and asked her how it was working for Roderick Brownlow—“With, not for, we’re joint managing directors”—how it was going—“Pretty well, third hotel going up now, on the Bayswater Road, on the edge of Hyde Park”—and told how nice it was to have a lady at such luncheons. He finally managed to flick a small splodge of prawn cocktail off his fork and onto Louise’s blouse; he turned a violent puce.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Louise—may I call you Louise?—what my wife would say I dare not think. Here, let me help.”
He started dabbing at her shirt with his napkin; the stain was perilously near her bosom. She tried to smile. “Please don’t worry.”
“No, no, I insist; here, let me call a waiter, see if we can get some water and—”
“Here.” It was Matt’s voice; he was proffering his napkin, dipped in his water glass. “This should help.” She took it gratefully and dabbed at the stain.
“It’s great to see you again, Louise,” he said, deliberately loud, “and I’m very interested in how the new hotel is coming on. Will it be ready for the summer tourist trade?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, surprised he should ask such a thing when the hotel had hardly begun its construction, and then realised he was smiling at her.
“Thank you,” she hissed, giving him back his napkin and turning, relieved, away from Donald Miller, “thank you so much.”
“It’s OK. I thought you deserved a break. I must be getting soft in my old age. Seriously, how is the hotel coming on? Ready for next spring, I suppose. That’s a very good site.”
“Yes, hopefully. I had a rival for it; you must have heard.”
“I did. I was pleased you won.”
“Thanks.” It was—actually—nice to see him; she smiled at him.
“How are things with you, Matt? Apart from your new city skyscraper?”
“Oh … pretty good, yes. Increasingly hard to find sites for redevelopment now, as you must know. Only thing that’s safe is office development. All these grants for improving old places. Absurdly generous, they are, the government, with taxpayers’ money, all those bloody do-good councils. It’s certainly changing London all over again. You find posh people in the most unlikely places. Like Islington.”
“Yes. Or even Fulham … How … how is Eliza?”
“She’s all right,” he said shortly.
Not a good time to discuss the return to work that she’d heard about, then.
“And Emmie?”
“Emmie’s fine. Doing very well at school. And I’ve got her a pony, down at Summercourt; she loves him, loves riding. Very good at it.”
“Really? I was so sorry about that piece in the News,” she said suddenly. It seemed best to come out with it, rather than let it lie between them. And while he was being friendly. “I hope you didn’t think it was anything to do with me.”
“I have to say it crossed my mind,” he said. “But then I decided it wasn’t your style.”
“No, no, it wasn’t.”
“Well … blood on the tracks, I suppose. How’s Roderick?”
“He’s OK. Very good to work with. How’s Barry?”
She hardly thought about him these days; that was revenge of a kind in itself. To be able to dismiss him so easily.
“He’s all right. Louise … I’m … sorry you were so upset about … about the partnership.”
Not that he hadn’t offered it to her; just that she had been upset. But … that was quite something. For Matt, a huge olive branch. A whole tree, in fact.
“Well … also blood on the tracks.”
“Yes, indeed.” He sighed. “There’s a lot of it about.”
“What, blood? On the tracks?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t enlarge upon it, and in any case, the interminable speeches prior to the presentation of the interminable awards had begun. Matt was presenting one of them; he did it rather well, she thought. As soon as he had sat down again, he leaned towards her and kissed her briefly on the cheek.
“Got to cut and run. Mind you behave now and don’t run off with Mr. Miller.”
“I won’t. Nice to see you, Matt; I’m pleased we’re friends again.”
“Yes, me too. Bye, Louise.”
She looked after him as he wove his way across the room. There had been something different about him. Still touchy, still argumentative, a bit down, clearly. But … as well as that? He seemed less arrogant. Less sure of himself. Yes, that was it. Interesting.
“Rex, hi. Lovely to see you. Rob said you were coming in. He won’t be long; he’s stuck in the dining room with a prospective new client. He’ll be in a terrible mood when he does get out, I warn you; presentation started at nine this morning, and then lunch—”
“Isn’t he quite often in a terrible mood?” said Rex.
“Yes, I suppose so.” She grinned at him. “I’m just good at dodging them.”
“Yes, I heard you and he were great buddies.”
“Did you now?” said Eliza, not sure whether to be pleased. The last thing she wanted was rumours going round London about her and Rob Brigstocke. If Matt heard anything like that …
“Yeah. Don’t look so alarmed, nothing unseemly. Just that you’re two minds with a single thought. Anyway, you enjoying it here?”
“Oh, Rex, I love it so much. It’s heaven. After all those years mopping up mess and dealing with temper tantrums.”
“Sounds a bit like a creative department,” said Rex, laughing. “It’s really nice to see you, Eliza.”
He grinned at
her; he was very sweet, she thought. “Eliza,” said Rob’s secretary, putting her head round the door, “message from Rob. He’s going to be at least another thirty effing minutes—his words, not mine—so why don’t you and Rex go out and have a coffee or something and come back in forty-five?”
“OK,” said Eliza, “we will. Thanks. Come on, Rex, licence to play.”
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I rather fancy a drink. Bit more fun than coffee.”
They walked down to Brown’s Hotel, ordered a bottle of champagne.
“You should come with us, you know; it’s going to be fun. You know we’re shooting near Balmoral; we’ve found the perfect spot, on the moors, with the castle in the background.”
“Yes, of course I know,” she said gloomily.
“It’s going to be a gas. And only two nights. Why not?”
“Oh … Matt wouldn’t let me.”
“What? Am I hearing this right? Christ, Eliza, hasn’t he heard of women’s rights?”
“He calls them women’s wrongs.”
“Things not good between you and Matt?”
“Yes, of course they are.”
He shrugged. “OK. It’s nothing to do with me. But I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?”
“Eliza, I can remember how you were when we were all starting out. When you were at Charisma, just an assistant, but still so sure of yourself, what you wanted, even when you were taking sessions for Fiona and should have been completely out of your depth. You were brilliant, Eliza; we all thought so. We still do.”
Eliza suddenly wanted to cry. She knew why; he had brought her back to those heady days when she had been happy, sure of herself, successful, when they had all been so young and she had first been with Matt and he had seemed so utterly sexy and totally what she wanted, and it had all been so perfect and exciting and wonderful. Where had that gone, where, where, where?
“Hi, you two. Is that a private party or can anyone join in?” It was Rob; he sat down beside them and took Eliza’s glass of champagne and drained it. “Mmm, nice, let’s get another of those. We can have our meeting here. Now then, Rex, have you managed to talk Eliza into coming to Scotland with us next week?”
“Actually,” said Eliza, and it was as if someone else was speaking for her suddenly, “actually, yes, he has. I’ve decided to come.”
The sun was very warm up on the moor. Surprisingly so. Eliza pulled off her sweater and lolled back, leaning on her elbows. The sky was intensely blue, the view all around breathtaking, a vast wooded valley, the mountains beyond still topped with snow. There was a constant sound of running water from endless small streams, and far, far above, curlews wheeled and cried. Balmoral lay half-hidden in the trees.
“Wine?” said Rob Brigstocke.
They were all there on the Scottish moor, having a picnic: Rob, Rex, the twin models, Hugh Wallace, and her. The shoot was going well; the Polaroids looked wonderful. There had been a slight problem when they’d realised that the twins couldn’t be roller-skating with the castle behind them, sunk in the valley as it was, but they’d got some great shots of them whizzing down the track laughing, past a bemused-looking trio of Highland cattle who had most conveniently placed themselves on the verge; Eliza had thought Rob would have a coronary with excitement when they ambled into view.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he yelled, “Rex, Rex, get over here quick, and you two, Pinky and Perky, it’s you I’m talking to; OK, concentrate; that’s what you’re paid for; get in the truck, Hugh, you drive them twenty yards up and then, girls, jump out and just skate down towards us, past them. And don’t fuck it up; those animals won’t wait around for a reshoot.”
The twins, aristocratic creatures whose real names were Hattie and Tilly, didn’t seem to mind the rather insulting nicknames Rob had bestowed upon them or the insults he threw at them constantly.
After the cattle had removed themselves, they had found a field full of sheep, and a local farmworker, as bemused as the cattle, but anxious to oblige. He had corralled a couple of rams and showed the girls how to hold them by their horns and stand astride them—“That looks fucking brilliant,” yelled Rex. “Hold it; hold it”—and then drove his Land Rover truck along the track, with the girls standing up, laughing in the back, amidst a crowd of sheep.
“We’ve done well,” said Rob, reaching for a sandwich. “Three fantastic shots already, and it’s only lunchtime. Well done, girls.”
“We still haven’t got the shot the client’s expecting,” said Hugh Wallace gloomily. “The one with Bamoral behind the girls.”
“Oh, shut up, you miserable old bugger,” said Rob. “These shots are far better than that, far more original. Just stop fussing, Wallace; the client is going to be over the moon when he sees these. But we’ll do the boring old Balmoral thing as well; don’t worry. OK, come on, let’s get moving again, before the light goes. Eliza, can we have the red kilts now, and I think those funny spat things you found …”
Eliza climbed into the back of the van, starting to sort through the rails, pulling clothes out, directing the girls what to wear. God, this was fun. Such fun. Forty-eight hours—no, more than that, three days—of working, being with adults, and her favourite breed of adults too, with no need to clock-watch, to get ready her excuses to leave, just to be able to immerse herself in the job in hand, and then at the end of the day, to laugh and drink and eat and gossip and no one glowering at her, or criticising her, or making her feel guilty—she really couldn’t believe it was happening.
It had been comparatively easy to organise, actually; astounded at her calm, she simply told Matt she was going away for a few days the following week; it was work; she had to go; it was very important. She arranged for Jennifer to stay the two nights, together with her invalid mother, and for Sarah to come up and live in the house; she even told a couple of the mothers from school she was going away, and Emmie’s teacher too, so that any problems that Emmie might have, she would be surrounded by people she knew and loved.
Matt said she wasn’t to go, wasn’t to leave Emmie; she said she was going to, no matter what he said.
“I don’t remember you consulting me about your business trip this week. And what are you going to do? This is about my work, and it’s very important to me, and it will be the first time I’ll have left Emmie in nearly six years—”
“Might I remind you of Milan?”
“Oh, yes, Milan,” she said, and her voice was thick with contempt, thicker even than his. “Yes, I forgot that, how I left her in Milan in a friend’s house for an evening while I went to the opera with only three people in charge of her. Dreadful. Matt, I’m going. I’ll be back on Friday afternoon, almost as soon as Emmie gets home from school. She’ll hardly know I’ve gone. Now please excuse me; I have to pack.”
She had rung home each evening, every morning; spoken to Jennifer or Sarah, been assured Emmie was fine, was going out to tea, that Jennifer had taught her to knit; had spoken to Emmie herself, who had told her she missed her, wanted her to come home, even put a sob into her voice in true Emmie style and then said she had to go, Jennifer was waiting to take her to the park.
The second evening, they all had dinner at the hotel, a rather grand establishment in Ballater, and got extremely drunk. Even Hugh Wallace joined in, demonstrated a fine line in dirty jokes, and then recited a whole string of absolutely filthy limericks. Eliza threw in one of her own for good measure—and then was surprised when Hugh suddenly said, “I’d like to propose a toast. To Eliza.”
“Oh,” she said, astonished at being singled out in this way, “goodness, how nice, but why me?”
“Because you’ve brought such wonderful style to the session. I know the client was immensely reassured when he heard you were coming, as indeed was I. And also because I know it wasn’t easy for you to leave your domestic commitments. We all really appreciate it.”
“Hear, hear,” said Rob, raising his glass and grinning at her, “we do.
To Eliza.”
“Eliza!” said Rex, and, “Eliza,” said the twins in unison, adding “super clothes” and “marvellous ideas” several times.
And Eliza sat there, savouring the entirely unfamiliar sensation of being admired and appreciated, smiling slightly foolishly and thinking that whatever unpleasantness lay at the other end of the London-to-Scotland railway line, it had been indisputably worth it.
Jennifer was sitting in her room reading after an early supper when she heard Emmie call out and then, almost at once, start vomiting; calmly cheerful, she had put her in a bath, changed her bed, and put her back in it in a clean nightie; fifteen minutes later it happened again. This time Sarah heard what was going on and appeared; the third time, Matt put his head round the nursery bathroom door.
“She looks terrible,” he said, “very hot; anyone thought to take her temperature?”
Jennifer looked at him and said that vomiting didn’t usually go hand in hand with a fever, but that she would take it anyway; the thermometer read one hundred and two.
“Right, well, I’m turning in,” said Hugh Wallace. “We’ve still got one shot to do in the morning, haven’t we, outside Crathie church, and I imagine we’ll be starting pretty early.”
“Yeah,” said Rob, “we need to catch the dawn light. Down here, what time do you reckon, Rex?”
“Oh … six should do it. Yeah, I’m definitely off to get my beauty sleep. I’m fucking exhausted. What about the rest of you?”
The twins said they would be going up right away as well; Rob ordered another bottle of champagne.
“I think she’s probably just got a bug,” said the doctor, “but she does seem a little disoriented. I’d give it another hour, and then if she’s no better, I’d get her along to casualty. She could become seriously dehydrated …”
Sarah looked at Emmie, lying on her pillows, her eyes closed, her face flushed, and then at Matt, and spoke the unspeakable.
“I wish Eliza was here,” she said.
Rob and Eliza were sitting on the deep sofa in front of the fire; she felt happily exhausted and said so.
More Than You Know Page 47