And certainly too much to risk by confronting another matter, a suggestion from Jeremy, as she had chatted to him and Timothy over breakfast following the hair-raising drive to the villa, as the unfortunate Bruno was borne away to play snap with Emmie once more.
‘So, you having a good time?’ Jeremy had asked. ‘What are you doing, work-wise?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, and then quickly, too quickly, ‘I didn’t want to. Not while Emmie was small. I think she needs me at home.’
‘Most admirable. Not what you used to say.’
‘No. I know. But – I’m not who I used to be.’
‘I think you are. In some ways.’ He smiled at her; she smiled easily back. ‘Anyway, now she’s at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’ll be wanting to go back.’
‘I want to,’ she said, ‘but Matt – that is I – we’re not sure—’
‘And perhaps you’ll be having other babies.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘perhaps,’ and as always happened at such a point in the conversation, the tears came, try as she might to stop them, and one fell rather dramatically on the tablecloth, followed by another.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry, Jeremy.’
Timothy cleared his throat and excused himself, hurried off; living abroad had left his English reserve untouched, she thought, and would have imagined that of Jeremy too, but, ‘Tell me about it,’ he said gently, and she did and he was sweet and kind, and seemed to understand; but when she said she had been quite depressed, he said, ‘Maybe working would do you good.’
‘It – might do. Yes. But – hard to organise. Matt’s very against nannies. And the school day isn’t very long.’
‘Mmm. There’s one thing you might consider. If you fancied it. It’s something I inaugurated in New York and suggest they do in London.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, we employ a fashion consultant, who works with a creative group on a project. Once they’ve decided whether an ad is going to be TV or press, she advises them on what they’d be wearing. And then sources the clothes. And goes along to the shoots. Books the make-up artists and sometimes the models. How does that sound?’
‘Utterly wonderful,’ said Eliza.
‘And it is absolutely not a full-time job. Maybe two days a week. You’re pretty well qualified for it.’
‘I was,’ said Eliza with a sigh. ‘I’ve been out of it for five years, Jeremy, don’t forget.’
‘Oh, you’d catch up in no time. And they’d love you, having been in the forefront of it all. You’d be perfect. Think about it.’
‘But – why should a complete stranger of a creative director want to hire someone suggested by you. I mean, London and New York, pretty far apart. Surely.’
‘Well, yes. But I am coming back to London. Early next year. Had enough of New York, it’s been fun, great fun, but I want to come home. And Ma’s died, you may not have heard? Pa’s a bit lost.’
‘Jeremy, I’m so sorry.’
Some other information was volunteered by Jeremy that morning: he had been conducting a long, if slightly on–off, affair with a New York divorcee.
‘I seem to specialise in such arrangements,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘We were very happy together, but her life is in New York, she won’t come to London. And no, I’m not remotely upset about that. Now, straight away after Christmas, call me. OK? Don’t forget.’
She would not forget. No danger of that. Whether she actually would do it was extremely doubtful. Her truce with Matt was far too important to her.
It arrived by a rather circuitous route: a letter addressed to Miss Scarlett, c/o Demetrios on Trisos, enclosed in an envelope sent by Demetrios to her office address.
She opened it, puzzled, pulled out the contents, read it several times over and then set it on her desk, and sat smiling at it.
‘Miss Scarlett (it said on the top in the thick black bold handwriting)
Bristow and Baring, Publishers, request the pleasure of your company at a party to launch the publication of Favourite French Journeys by Mark Frost.
6 p.m., The Gondoliers Room, Savoy Hotel. 20 January.’
Goodness. He must quite have wanted her to be there. To have gone to that much trouble.
How exciting. How interesting. How …
Then she remembered Mrs Frost. No doubt she would be there. Well, it would be interesting to meet her, she supposed.
It would also be interesting to go to a publishing party. She’d have to ask Eliza what to expect. And what to wear.
She pulled a sheet of her headed paper towards her (Scarlett Shaw, Exclusive Travellers’ Club) and wrote to tell them that Miss Scarlett would be delighted to accept their kind invitation. Now at least he would know her address. And she might even get a bit of free publicity in one of his articles in the Daily News. So – who cared about Mrs Frost?
The day before they left for Summercourt for Christmas, Eliza and Emmie went to visit Heather and Coral. They hadn’t been there for a while, and Eliza had been worrying about them. She hadn’t been much of a friend to Heather, had failed her entirely over her landlord; she felt guilty. They had brought them presents – an Amanda Jane doll for Coral with lots of clothes, and a huge, thick knitted cardigan for Heather. Eliza had a pretty shrewd idea that the flat wouldn’t be any warmer this year than last. She’d also brought a bottle of port for Alan. All men liked port and it wasn’t a flashy present, not like champagne.
‘Now look,’ she said to Emmie warningly, as they pulled up outside, ‘you are not to talk about how we’ve been to stay in a palace.’
Emmie gave her a withering look.
‘Of course I won’t,’ she said.
Sometimes, Eliza thought, she didn’t give Emmie enough credit. She was actually a rather amazing little girl.
Heather opened the front door, looking exhausted.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘it’s so lovely to see you. Come in. If you can face it.’
The house smelt bad. Coral was clinging to her mother’s legs, suddenly shy. Emmie was having none of it.
‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing Coral’s hand, ‘we’ve got a present for you.’
‘Emmie,’ said Eliza, ‘it’s a Christmas present. Not for today.’
‘I want to give it to her today. Then we can play with it.’
‘I think that sounds like quite a good idea,’ said Heather apologetically. ‘She’s so sick of all her toys.’
They went upstairs. The room looked smaller and more dingy than Eliza remembered. Heather had obviously made a great effort, and there was a small tree in the window and some home-made paper chains strung on the picture rails, but it was cold, and there was a damp patch on the ceiling that Eliza hadn’t noticed before.
‘Yes, it’s new,’ said Heather, ‘from the sink in the flat one floor up. They’ve gone actually, taken the bribe, and I keep asking the landlord to turn the tap off completely, but he says it can’t be done.’
‘Oh, Heather. Any progress?’
‘Only with this,’ said Heather, patting her bump, ‘growing very nicely, he is. We can’t find anywhere else, Eliza, and I think we may have to bite the bullet and go and live with Alan’s mum. Old witch, I really—I mean,’ she said hastily, seeing that Emmie was listening, ‘I mean she’s really kind, but there’s not much room. I don’t want to go there, I really don’t.’
‘What about your mum, any better?’
‘No, she’s only got a two-bedroom flat, in one of those new high-rise things, you know, and I couldn’t live there, not with two children.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Eliza, helplessly. She thought of the house in Fulham, with its five bedrooms for three people. It was ridiculous. ‘Have you got your name down for a council house?’
‘Yeah,’ said Heather with a noise that was half-sigh, half-laugh, ‘and I should think we’ve just risen from the very bottom to nearly the very bottom. They said two years minimum and I know what that means.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Eliza, ‘and how do you feel?’
‘Tired. Not being sick any more, thank goodness. But Alan’s so bad-tempered, and saying he doesn’t know how we’re going to manage. Nor do I. Oh, I’m sorry, Eliza, sorry to be such a misery. How are you, are you feeling any better?’
‘So much better,’ said Eliza, ‘yes. I’ve even stopped dreaming about him, about Baby Charles. Of course I still feel very sad but I can cope with it now. And it was you set me on the road to recovery, it really was … people keep asking me if I’m going to have another, but I just can’t face it. Not yet. I’m even thinking of going back to work. Not full time but – well, something’s cropped up that would be wonderful.’
‘What does Matt have to say about that?’
‘I haven’t told him,’ said Eliza simply.
They stayed for quite a long time; Eliza had brought some mince pies, which Emmie loved, and some chocolate digestive biscuits which she knew Coral did, and they all sat and munched them and it was all really quite festive. Then the gas fire went out.
‘Oh, God, that meter, I know it’s rigged,’ said Heather. ‘I put in loads of shillings just before you came. I’m sorry, Eliza. I’ll put some more in—’
‘Give it to me,’ said Eliza, taking her purse, ‘I’ll do it. I know where it is, out in the hall. God, is that a police car I can hear? I’m parked really badly, Heather, could you have a look—’
They all rushed to the window; Eliza seized her own purse, went out onto the landing, and stuffed the meter with as many half-crowns as it would take, including two of Heather’s to throw her off the scent.
‘Right,’ she said, going back into the room, ‘done. Should last for a bit, hopefully. Now where were we?’
‘You said we could play snap again before you went,’ said Coral.
‘Oh yes, of course we can. Actually – have you got Happy Families?’
‘Scarlett?’
‘Oh – David. Hello.’
She tried to sound cool and unwelcoming, but it was difficult.
‘I just called to say Happy Christmas.’
‘Right. Well, thank you. Happy Christmas, David. What are you doing?’
‘Oh – spending it with my family of course. Should be fun.’
‘Would that include your clever brother?’
‘On Boxing Day, yes. I’m going down to their ancestral pile.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, it’s very much all pulling together for Christmas. Mother insists on everyone being there and I think that will be good for the kids. But after that I’m heading for London. You wouldn’t – wouldn’t consider seeing me, I suppose? Just for a drink?’
Scarlett took a deep breath and said she really didn’t think so.
‘Look – I only want to see you. I’ve missed you so much, Scarlett. Can’t we be friends at least?’
Scarlett could feel herself quite literally weakening; she fought it down.
‘I don’t – I don’t see how we can.’
‘Why not? That was the best thing about our relationship – well, one of the best things, I can think of a few others. We had a wonderful friendship, we had fun, we talked about everything under the sun.’
It was true; they had. She remembered those conversations, those long, funny, fascinating conversations. She hadn’t had many like that since.
‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘I’ll – I’ll see. I might be away. I’m considering getting into the skiing market—’
‘Oh, marvellous idea. Maybe I could help. I know Gstaad really well. And Cortina d’Ampezzo.’
‘Oh,’ she said, tempted beyond endurance, ‘oh – well, perhaps. Call me, when you get to London.’
‘I will. I really have missed you. I wish you’d believe me.’
‘I’ll try,’ she said lightly. ‘Bye, David. Enjoy your family Christmas.’
She put the stress on the word family and hoped he wouldn’t miss the irony.
‘Bye, Scarlett. Enjoy yours.’
She put the phone down and sighed. Bastard he might be. Bastard he was. But the fact remained she had spent some of the happiest times of her life with him. It was very tempting …
Chapter 43
A lunch is the most dangerous of assignations. It presents a charmingly innocent face, a guileless smile; it takes place in daylight, in the presence of many others; it ends with a seemly return to the workplace, to the home, to workmates, to spouses.
It teases, to be sure, it makes light, flirtatious promises, it amuses; an invitation to it charms, flatters, even intrigues. But it does not threaten; the mention of it does not alarm.
Thus, ‘it’s only a lunch,’ Eliza Shaw told herself, as she drove to meet Rob Brigstocke, the new creative director of KPD at the Guinea in Burton Lane; ‘it’s only a lunch,’ argued Scarlett Shaw as she walked through the frosty sunshine to the Grosvenor House Hotel on Park Lane for an unexpected assignation with David Berenson; and, ‘it’s only a lunch,’ purred Mariella Crespi as she stepped into her limo outside the Pierre Hotel and directed it to the Plaza just across the road – for she did not want her hair to be blown about, nor her nose turned red when she was to sit across a table from Jeremy Northcott …
Why was she doing this, why? Eliza wondered. Was she quite mad? What kind of self-deluding recklessness had seen her agreeing to meet Rob Brigstocke that day; to arrange for Emmie to be out for tea lest it overran; to get her hair cut, to buy some new boots, and stand in Smiths for an hour, flicking through Vogue and Queen and Nova and Charisma, lest she should have missed out on some vital new fashion trend or look? When they had had the happiest Christmas at Summercourt, when she had never felt more hopeful about her marriage, when the fear of Emmie mentioning Jeremy’s name and describing their stay in Milan, the game of hide and seek, had all but disappeared and she and Matt had even begun to talk tentatively about starting another baby ‘maybe later in the year’?
But Jeremy had sent her a note in the New Year, saying he hoped she was feeling better and that she might like to consider his proposition, as he called it.
‘You’ll be getting a call about it,’ he said, ‘but of course, no pressure of any kind. Just say no, although we would all be the losers for it. It was lovely to see you. Hide and Seek was a particular joy. I’ve missed you a lot. Much love, Jeremy.’ All written in his black-inked scrawling hand, and signed off with a couple of large kisses. She couldn’t bear to throw it away; so clearly did it speak of all that she had left behind, professional success, fun, and the sheer joy of being professionally valued. She hid it in the base of her Carmen roller set. Matt would never find it there.
And then waited for the call. If it never came it would be a relief. Of course.
Rob Brigstocke rang her in the middle of January. He sounded slightly wary.
‘I’m told by the big white chief you could help us. He says I should talk to you. Over lunch perhaps.’
‘I’m not sure if I can help you,’ said Eliza, ‘but talking is always fun.’
It was only lunch.
The Guinea and the Piggy was rather dark, quite small and much beloved by the advertising trade in general.
‘Eliza Shaw,’ she said to the maître d’. ‘I’ve come to meet Rob Brigstocke.’
‘Ah, Madame, I remember you as Eliza Clark, don’t I? The fashion editor?’ he asked, smiling at her. She was enchanted. Somebody hadn’t forgotten her.
‘You do,’ she said, ‘very clever of you. Lovely to see you again. Anyway – is Mr Brigstocke here?’
‘He is not. I am so sorry. Would you like to wait at the table—’
‘Oh – yes, all right. No message?’
He shook his head.
‘Can I offer you a drink?’
‘Oh – yes, please.’ She might as well enjoy herself, cost the agency as much money as possible. ‘Do you do champagne by the glass?’
He shook his head regretfully. ‘I am so sorry. I could get you a bottl
e—’
‘Oh, why not? Veuve Clicquot if you have it.’
She was beginning to feel cross, and more herself than she could remember for years.
She had bought the Evening Standard and was reading it engrossed, thinking what a brilliant fashion editor Barbara Griggs was, and on her second glass of champagne when Rob Brigstocke finally arrived. She heard him before she saw him, a public school accent, roughed up to suit the current trend, ‘Eliza? Eliza Shaw?’, and looked up rather slowly, anxious to show him she didn’t expect to be kept waiting. What she saw was – well, it was pretty good: thick, dark blond hair, a slightly boyish face, covered in freckles with rather heavily lashed hazel eyes – he’d have made quite a pretty girl really, she thought, and wondered if he was gay.
She looked at her watch; it said five to one. She waited for his apology; it didn’t come.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m Eliza Shaw. Are you Rob Brigstocke?
‘Might I be someone else?’
‘Well yes, actually,’ she said. ‘Considering you were meant to be here twenty-five minutes ago. You could be a messenger. A substitute lunch companion. A—’
‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding completely un-contrite, ‘I was held up by some queen of a photographer.’ Not gay then.
‘You could have phoned the restaurant.’
‘I could, but I didn’t. I thought that would waste more time. Anyway, I see you have made yourself at home.’ He indicated the ice bucket and the champagne.
‘Yes. Well, are you going to stay? Or have you got to go back to your photographer?’
‘No, no, he’s gone.’
He sat down and looked at the bottle, lifted it out himself. She liked that too; she could never get that waving the waiter over, as if pouring the wine was some kind of mystic art.
The Decision Page 52
