‘I hope not,’ said Matt cheerfully, ‘she’s worth her weight in gold. Now let me see – ah, yes – what sort of rent were you looking at, Miss Hill?’
Half an hour later, they were in a taxi travelling to the City; by the end of the day he was preparing draft contracts for two of her four offices.
It wasn’t always that easy; but it was seldom difficult either.
Matt had also acquired a flat. It was quite small, but exactly what he had been dreaming of, a studio in an old converted warehouse on the river in Rotherhithe. He heard about it through Mark Draper, who’d made a fortune himself in studio flats; Matt had met him in the Blue Post off St James’s Street, a favourite hangout for young men in the property business.
Draper was moaning one day about a flat he couldn’t get rid of. ‘Building next to it’s derelict, that’s all that’s wrong and I know for a fact your old boss, Matt, Andy Stein, has found someone who’s prepared to take it on, just haggling over timing but meanwhile no one’ll take a chance on this place.’
Matt looked at it, at the huge if filthy windows, giving onto the river, the reassuringly sound concrete floor, the makeshift kitchen and bathroom and the one huge, brilliantly light, cobwebby room and bought the freehold for £1,500, beating Mark Draper down from £2,000; his mum and Scarlett spent a weekend helping him clean it, his dad made good the windows and Matt himself painted it all brilliant white. It was now furnished, with a double bed – Matt had spent his life in cramped single beds, and besides who knew who might be sharing this one with him – two garden chairs, a card table and a camping stove. A client in the rag trade gave him a clothes rail, and he stored underwear, sweaters and casual shirts in an old leather cabin trunk, complete with exotic travel labels – Cairo, Bombay, New York – that he bought in the Portobello Road for ten bob. He didn’t want or need curtains at the windows, he wanted to see the river, all day, and all night, from the first streaks of dawn reflected on the water to the dredgers working through the black waters of night. The rats that scuttled around on the beach below him at low tide troubled him not in the least, nor did the noise of the river traffic, the wailing of police craft, the endless hooting of the tugs and cargo boats. The raw cries of the seagulls pleased him particularly. To him, it was a palace; his pride in it was huge.
He had money in the bank: not much personally, he and Jim had agreed they would stick to their original tiny salaries, but a steadily growing pile in the company account. They had formed a limited company; ‘better for tax,’ their accountant had said. Simmonds and Shaw Ltd. It sounded great. Sometimes he still had to pinch himself.
He wasn’t doing badly, for someone who’d done it all himself.
‘Mr Fullerton-Clark! Come in a moment would you?’
Charles smoothed his hair and walked into Mr Sayer’s office. His boss was looking stern: very stern.
‘Sit down, please.’
Charles sat; Mr Sayer was opening a drawer, reaching into it, pulling out a file, leafing through it. Then he looked at Charles, and his face was very serious. This was it. Definitely.
‘Not a bad year, Charles. You got off to a bit of a rocky start, but I have to say, the second half has shown a considerable improvement. Must be married life, or the prospect of it, eh?’
Mr Sayer smiled suddenly. ‘Yes, you seem to have pulled your socks up lately. Getting some good feedback from clients. Old Bosey knew what he was doing when he recommended you. Nice chap, isn’t he? See much of him these days?’
Charles felt so weak with relief, he thought he might pass out.
‘Oh – occasionally, yes. He shoots with my father.’
‘Good, good. Anyway, Charles, your bonus – well-earned. Here’s the cheque. Keep up the good work.’
‘I will, sir, yes.’
‘Help with the nuptials, I daresay. Got a house yet?’
‘No, not yet. We’re looking of course. But my fiancée is extremely particular.’
‘Women are, my dear chap. Better get used to it. Anyway – jolly well done and have a good Christmas.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sayer. Very much appreciated.’
Back in his office, he opened the envelope, whistled under his breath. This would help with the deposit all right. Although they hadn’t even found a house yet. But – it was true, he knew he’d been working better, more profitably since Juliet had been in his life. She’d definitely made him feel more sure of himself. Knowing she depended on him, and admired him, was terribly important. She might be a bit difficult at times, but she often said marriage was the most important career in the world and she intended to be very good at it. ‘Looking after you, Charles, that’s my job and always will be. And our children of course.’
The sense of responsibility her attitude gave him was quite literally inspiring. No wonder his performance at work had improved.
The invitation arrived three weeks before Christmas. In a very thick white envelope, addressed to him personally. He read it, said ‘Jesus Christ’ and then ‘Jesus H. Christ’, put it down, picked it up again, and then leaned it against his telephone and was sitting staring at it when Louise came in.
‘Let’s see that,’ she said, and leaned over and picked it up. She was so – so bloody cheeky, Matt thought, so bossy and nosy; and then decided he was actually rather happy for her to be looking at it.
‘My goodness, Matt, what are you going to wear? Can I come?’
‘No you can’t,’ said Matt.
‘Why not? She’s a client, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, but she’s invited me. Not you, and not Jim. It doesn’t say anything about bringing anyone else, does it?’
‘Well – no. But I bet you could, they’re very casual, these arty types. Go on, Matt, I’d love to go.’
‘Louise, I said no.’
‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Now please can you sign these cheques, otherwise we’ll all be in queer street.’
‘Yeah, OK. And ring Mr Thomas, tell him I think we’ve let his office. But I need the name of his solicitor sharpish. Like within the hour.’
‘Course.’
Once she was gone, Matt picked up the invitation again, and sat reading it, smiling foolishly. This really was exciting. It meant she liked him; she didn’t have to invite him after all. Not that he fancied her, too much of a little doll. But there’d be dozens of models there, which would be very cool. And photographers and fashion artists – it would all be fantastic.
And – just possibly Eliza. She and Maddy were great friends.
‘Come and celebrate Christmas with us,’ it said, in big red letters on a bright white card, with a border of alternate knitting needles and studio lights, ‘Friday, 13 December, 8 till late. Connaught Design Studios, Paddington Way, W2. RSVP Maddy Brown or Jerome Blake.’ And at the top in that arty writing people like her always did, it said, ‘Matt. Do come!’
He put it in the top drawer of his desk and kept looking at it all day.
He didn’t reply for three days; he didn’t want to look too keen. And only when he had, did he start thinking about what to wear. Not a suit: too formal. Not jeans: too casual. Flannels? He couldn’t imagine Jerome Blake in flannels. He was getting desperate when he saw a red velvet suit in a window of that mecca for style, Male West One in Carnaby Street; he couldn’t really afford it, but he bought it anyway, and a ruffled white shirt to go with it. What his dad would say, he didn’t dare think, tell him he looked like a woofter or something.
‘I love you and I’m missing you. So much. I’m dreading Christmas. I’ll try to call, but it might be difficult. Meanwhile, keep safe and we’ll have our own festive season in January. All my love, David.’
All adulterers dreaded Christmas, Scarlett knew. Being forced apart, knowing the other person was not only not with you, but in the heart of their own family, warm, safe, busy, even while pretending happiness, faking jollity. She could hardly bear to think about the Berenson Christmas. It sounded perfect. Everyone, all three families, gathered in Li
ly’s house. The lavish decorations, the huge tree in the hall, fairy lights everywhere; Santa there on Christmas Eve to hand out presents; midnight service; Christmas morning brunch; Christmas night dinner; charades. She really hated hearing about it, but she’d been torturing herself, asking David, dragging it out of him. A lavish, fairy-lighted Christmas, with a house filled with over-excited children and smiling happy adults. Somehow, Christmas in the little house off the Northcote Road, with her parents and Matt and even with the two boys – teenagers now and bored with the whole thing – didn’t match up. And how unpleasant of her even to think like that, when Sandra would be working her socks off, baking and decorating and shopping and wrapping presents, loving that she still had all her brood with her. She cared so much about family, about togetherness; what would she say, Scarlett wondered, if she knew that her daughter, her beloved daughter was doing her damnedest to destroy another family, to disrupt togetherness. Well, maybe not her damnedest, she wasn’t actually urging David to leave Gaby, and he had never actually said that he would, or not for a long time. He had always told her that until the children were grown – ‘which is not so very long, my darling’ – he would need to be there, a proper part of their lives.
But he loved her, he told her constantly so. And – she loved him. And finally, she had told him so, on their last meeting, as they ate dinner together in the Ritz, in that corny, over-ornate dining room, the epitome of excess and foolishness, so well-suited to amoral, self-indulgent behaviour. ‘Tell me, my darling, darling Scarlett,’ he had said, ‘how you really and truly, hand on your heart, feel about me. I’ve told you how much I love you, for God’s sake, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, and often enough, so—’
And in a surge of emotion that contained sadness as much as joy, regret as well as delight, she took his hand across the table and looked into his eyes and half smiled and then heard her own voice shake, as she said, ‘David, really and truly, hand on heart and all the other clichés, I love you too. Not more than I’ve loved anyone, for I’ve never really loved anyone before; but I certainly can’t imagine anything greater than what I feel about you. So – so yes. How’s that? I’ve done it.’
She did love him, and so much that to deny it seemed wrong, a betrayal in itself. Although quite where it would lead her, that admission, she did not dare think.
Matt arrived at the party at half past eight. He knew better than to be early; nothing worse than being the first.
He was the first.
‘Matt, hello!’ It was Maddy, looking devastating in a gold knitted shift dress; Matt tried not to look at the hemline, which just covered her pants.
‘Hello. Yes. Sorry I’m early.’
‘You’re not, of course. Everyone else is late. Oh – actually, look, you have company, hello Simon – Simon Butler – Matt Shaw. Matt, Simon’s an art director at one of the agencies, I can never remember which one, terribly important anyway, CPV isn’t it, Simon?’
‘No, darling, CDP. Do you mind?’
‘Whoops, sorry. Well anyway, lovely to see you. Matt found this wonderful building for us, didn’t you, Matt?’
‘Oh yeah?’ Simon managed a rather superior smile. ‘Good work.’
Matt didn’t like him at all.
‘Anyway, drinks over there,’ said Maddy, ‘help yourselves, and later, some lovely little cakes will be coming round. OK? Now I’ve just got to go and do a few last-minute things, so will you excuse me?’
And she was gone.
‘Might as well get a drink then,’ said Simon, leading Matt across to the drinks. The studio was a mass of flashing strobe lights, and the music was already pounding; the only decorations to the studio otherwise were the great rolls of background paper, daubed with colour.
Matt helped himself to a beer and said, ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ said Simon. He took out a cigarette paper and began rather ostentatiously rolling his own from a small silver case. Dope, thought Matt; am I supposed to be impressed or something? He knew what the little cakes would be too, of course; and he wouldn’t be eating one. He’d heard too many horror stories about those cakes and the unevenly distributed stuff in them; a friend of Jimbo’s had ended up with an overdose, hallucinating and trying to jump out of a second-floor window. Matt had smoked a fair bit of dope and quite liked it, although he preferred alcohol; but he avoided harder drugs totally. He knew the smart crowd took LSD and cocaine all the time, but he couldn’t afford risking any trouble: not yet anyway. One day, maybe …
‘So,’ said Simon Butler, draining his glass, refilling it instantly, licking his cigarette paper, ‘you’re in the property business, are you?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Matt. ‘Got a small agency, in the West End, mostly commercial properties.’ He looked at Simon, whose expression suddenly changed from tolerant boredom to a broad smile – maybe he was interested – but, ‘Suki! Darling! Over here,’ and towards them came the tallest, thinnest girl Matt had ever seen, with a pale, pale face and huge black-rimmed eyes, wearing a narrow silk dress that reached her ankles and no shoes. Her feet, he couldn’t help noticing, were filthy.
‘Simon, darling, hello, how awful to be so early, it was now or hours later—’ She looked uncertainly at Matt who smiled and held out his hand.
‘Matt Shaw. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Oh. Yes. And I’m Suki.’
‘And – are you a model?’ asked Matt. It seemed a reasonable assumption, given her shape.
‘Oh – goodness no, no, I sew at Granny’s.’
‘Ah,’ said Matt, ‘yes, I see. Well—’
‘Simon, how are things? Give me a little puff of that, would you? And I’ll just have some water. Oh – thank you, Matt. Yes.’
‘I’m great,’ said Simon, ‘yeah. Agency’s going like a train, got some massive new accounts, we seem to be the only agency who thinks television, you know—’
‘Yeah, I do. Exactly. Guy came into Granny’s the other day and—’
‘Um – what is Granny’s? Exactly?’ asked Matt. Largely because he was buggered if he was going to be frozen out of this conversation.
They both looked at him as if he had asked what date Christmas was.
Finally, ‘Granny Takes A Trip,’ said Suki patiently. ‘You know. The clothes shop. Down at World’s End.’
‘Oh – yes. Of course.’
‘So anyway, Simon, this guy said he wanted a dress made for a commercial and – oh, Christian darling, hello. How are you? You know Simon Butler, don’t you? From CDP? And this is – sorry, Matt, where are you from?’
‘Oh – I’m in property,’ said Matt and then, turning his back on them, went over towards Maddy. He wasn’t going to be patronised by these people. He was not.
Three quarters of an hour later, he wasn’t being patronised; he was being ignored. Everyone seemed to know everyone; and they all worked in the fashion or the advertising business, so there was nothing at all he had to say to them – or they to him. They were bloody rude, most of them, smiling rather half-heartedly while he introduced himself and then turning away from him to continue their conversations; a couple of girls made a pretence of asking him what he did, and then realising there was very little they could say beyond that, excused themselves, saying they were going to get a drink and would be back in a minute, and then weren’t.
He had drunk quite a lot of beer, but it wasn’t helping. He felt totally sober. Sober and extremely stupid. Most of them were posh, but a few were talking an exaggerated cockney; he actually asked one of them where they lived, and got a cold stare and a mumble that sounded like East London – as if anyone would say that who really came from the East End.
He was terribly hot too. He’d have liked to take off his jacket, but he was scared of it being nicked, and anyway, he could see that the ruffled shirt was all wrong. Most of the blokes were in plain white shirts, or even T-shirts, and jeans, some of those admittedly velvet, but black and not, most definitely not, red. Shit. Why had he though
t red would be all right? He looked bloody stupid. Twice Maddy had waved at him and asked him if he was OK; and she’d introduced him to her boyfriend, Esmond, who was dressed all in black, black T-shirt, black jeans, and very black hair, and looked as if he was going to die, his skin greyish-pale, and incredibly thin – how did these people all get so thin, Matt wondered, didn’t they ever eat anything at all …
He was quite nice, asked Matt what he did, tried to find something responsive to say in return and actually remembered he had found the building for Maddy. He made hats, it turned out, and had even sold one or two to Granny’s; Matt, seeing his chance to appear as if he knew what was what, asked him if he knew Suki, but Esmond said yeah, he did, they’d been at the College together. Which college? Matt asked, but this was clearly even more than Esmond could stand.
‘The Royal College of Art,’ he said, ‘back in a minute,’ and walked off after Maddy.
Matt, alone once more, looked at his watch surreptitiously; Christ, it was only quarter to ten. Maybe he should try and slip away, without saying anything to Maddy; but then what would he say to Louise and Jimbo, they’d been so plainly impressed by his being invited to this party, and he’d talked it up himself, could he really make up enough of a story to satisfy them on Monday? Maybe if he had one more drink, followed Esmond over to where he was chatting to another guy, he’d find something to say. But – they were starting to dance now, Maddy had pulled Esmond onto the floor and was beckoning to everyone to join them. Suki was dancing with herself, in some kind of trance, and so were a couple of other girls, glassy-eyed – stoned he supposed, and Jesus, Simon Butler was in a corner, half-hidden by a roll of background paper, snogging with another bloke for God’s sake, what on earth was going on, he must be queer, were there a lot of them here then? He supposed the fashion business was full of them, something to tell Louise and Jimbo at least, but, Christ, he really didn’t like it – he might leave, in fact, yes, he would when—
‘Matt! Matt hello, what a lovely surprise, Maddy said she was going to invite you, you wouldn’t get me a drink would you, I’m desperate.’
The Decision Page 15
