Eliza was meeting her mother for lunch in the Trattoria Terrazza, the just still-fashionable Italian restaurant in Romilly Street. Sarah had been low after Christmas, missing Adrian more than usual, and Eliza was treating her to a couple of days of shopping and general self-indulgence. Exactly the sort of day she herself hated, but it wasn’t a hardship and she wasn’t exactly busy.
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, over-loaded 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.’
Chapter 45
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 face was still a little cool, but 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 started looking at them rather disdainfully and then he turned the pages more slowly – he had very nice hands, she noticed, as if it mattered – and actually read some of the copy. 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 onto 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. And then spent half the journey driving back to Fulham telling herself first that it would still be very difficult to persuade Matt; and then that it was outrageous that she should be having to persuade him at all.
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. His money, the glorious house, the clothes and jewels she had acquired were genuinely of secondary interest: had she not felt physically and emotionally attracted to him, she would not have married him. 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 one another.
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 and as night fell over Como. Few men of seventy could claim to have seduced their wives on a small sailing boat tossing quite dangerously in a summer storm, or behind the door of a walled garden, as their guests strolled just outside, waiting to be called to dinner.
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 she was highly sexed; and with the best will in the world she became restless, fractious, snapping at Giovanni as she had never done, until she had wondered if 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 childcare 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—’
They thought she had something to offer. She was a proper, desirable person again, not just an inefficient, ineffectual mother, but a professional woman, in possession of a talent. She could still do it.
‘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 you 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, ‘and don’t you think that’s rather more important than what length of skirt might go with what sort of shoes or whatever other lofty matters you seem to find so enthralling. And besides, 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 any more 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.
God, he knew how to hurt her. He had a genius for it. Why couldn’t she ever think of ways to hurt him back? She was always left gasping, like a fish on a hook. And he was so bloody complacent, acting as if he was doing something of real importance with his life, when a lot of the time, what he and his kind did was actually pretty destructive. Knocking down perfectly good and beautiful old buildings and putting up square concrete blocks in their place. Like that row of houses in Islington there had been all that fuss about recently – he’d won the battle of course.
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 quarter 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.
Chapter 46
Scarlett couldn’t remember when she last met a single man, either unmarried or divorced; there just weren’t any, unless you counted one boozy travel agent, who had asked her to go away with him and sample some of the hotels on his books, and one very sweet boy who worked for one of the Hilton chain, who was, he told her over dinner, a virgin and, as the double brandies went down, so frightened of his first encounter that he always became impotent. Sometimes she thought of life with David, and the wonderful sex and the fun, and wondered if she had been crazy to finish it at all.
She tried to comfort herself, telling herself her life wasn’t all bad; her business was doing extremely well, and she had made a lot of money – although hardly comparable with Matt’s millions – but on reflection it was the only source of happiness or self-satisfaction left to her.
And so she did what she always did when things were bad; she planned a trip to Trisos, having first ascertained from Demetrios that there was absolutely no question of Mark Frost being there. She needed to be alone.
‘Hello, Johnny Barrett. Oh – hello. 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 Northcott was very pleased to be back in London. The New York years had been incredible, and he had certainly learnt a lot about advertising – God, the Americans were good at it. He had met most of the gods of the game, David Ogilvy, English himself of course, Bill Bernbach, who founded Doyle Dane Bernbach, and broke t
he mould of the WASP tradition in Madison Avenue; the dazzlingly beautiful Mary Wells, the first woman to head up an agency; he had dined with them, heard them speak at conferences, and had learnt to value above all in advertising the rising sales graph. It had been a tremendously privileged experience and he was aware of being hugely changed and enriched by it.
But he had missed the old country, was homesick for its gentler ways, and his friends there, the customs and attitudes that he had grown up with, and he was impatient now to bring the sharp, edgy competitiveness of New York to London.
He found, of course, that there had been great changes; press ads had become more ambitious, broader in scope – there were a lot of corporate ads for the textile industry – and the TV commercial had become another art form, with creative directors on ego trips, vying for awards, making what amounted to mini films. Humour was crucial (in this Jeremy felt London led the world) and there was a craze for series ads and a build-up of personalities: for Hamlet cigars, ‘cars built by robots’, and of course the ongoing saga of Katie, the Oxo mum.
The creative director was a comparatively new animal. Rob Brigstocke, Jeremy felt, was destined to be one of the greats, but right now needed to be taken down a peg or three.
Jeremy was that rare creature in advertising, someone acceptable to both the account and creative teams. He was a lateral thinker; under him, creativity flourished and billings increased; and people enjoyed their work. That, he felt, was his greatest challenge: keeping everybody properly involved.
He arrived back from Norfolk for an intense three days before returning to New York for the last time; his 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, 1 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, creative director, Michael Rushton, head of research, and Jeremy; she asked Jeremy if she could change the lunch with Eliza to drinks that evening.
The Decision Page 55
