More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Rex, that’s great. I’m so pleased.”

  “Me too. I hear Lindy’s leavin’. Shame. You gettin’ the job, then?”

  She laughed. “God, no, not me. Not nearly important enough.”

  “You should. You got talent, girl.”

  “Well … thank you, Rex.”

  “Been here before, have you?”

  “No, never.”

  “It’s pretty good. Yeah. Very funny cabaret. You’ll like it. Bit near the knuckle, mind, but—”

  “Eliza! Hallo. So sorry I’m late. Charles, old chap, great to see you, and you must be Juliet; I’ve heard such a lot about you.”

  Juliet revived suddenly from her silent disapproval of Rex and started blushing and fluttering her eyelashes.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” she said, “and I’ve heard a lot about you too!”

  “Not all bad, I hope?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. All about what fun you had at school and in the army, and what friends you and Charles are—”

  “All quite true,” said Jeremy, smiling at her. God, he really was charm on legs, Eliza thought. “Now, let’s get some more champagne, shall we, and—God, Reggie,” he said to Rex, “I didn’t see you for a minute; how are you? And your brother—how’s he? Charles, you must remember the Hon. Don, as we used to call him; he was Reggie’s big brother.”

  “I do remember Don, yes,” said Charles, “but not Reggie here.”

  “Well, he was just a little squirt, and he looked pretty different, of course; his hair was much lighter, and quite curly, but … well, it’s really great to see you, Reggie. How are you doing? He was at Eton, couple of years younger,” he added to Eliza.

  “I’m fine,” said Rex, looking at Eliza slightly awkwardly, “yeah. Good, really good. I’m doing photography.”

  “Fantastic! You must come and see us at the agency.”

  “Love to. Which one’s that, then?”

  “KPD.”

  “That’d be great.”

  His accent was changing already, admitting its true origins. Eliza looked at him.

  “Secondary modern!” she said. “Honestly, Rex.”

  “Well, Eton is a secondary school,” said Rex.

  “And we did sometimes call it Slough Secondary,” said Jeremy. “It’s great to see you, Reggie. Shall we get some more champagne? Ah, and here’s Emma. Hi, Emma, darling.”

  Emma, thought Eliza, who, for heaven’s sake, was Emma?

  “Everybody, this is my sister, Emma.”

  Eliza felt dizzy with relief.

  Emma, it turned out, was an editor at a publishing house, very tall and rather beautiful, and great fun. Just like her brother, Eliza thought. She sat down at their table.

  “They used the spotlight yet?” she asked, taking a slurp out of Jeremy’s champagne.

  “The what?” said Juliet.

  “Oh, they have a wonderful thing here, idea of Peter Cook’s—he owns the place, you know—a spotlight they can turn on any table, usually during the cabaret, if they think anyone specially interesting’s here.”

  “How scary!” said Juliet. “Not on me, I hope.”

  “Pretty unlikely, I’d say,” said Rex.

  “Rex!” said Eliza warningly. He winked at her.

  “Sorry.”

  He didn’t seem too impressed by Juliet; it was another point in his favor.

  They did have fun; even Juliet, bowled over by Jeremy’s charm, giggled and fluttered her way through the next hour. Charles sat beaming at her, occasionally leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek; he did seem to be a man in love, Eliza thought, fighting off her resistance to the notion.

  The crowd was very what would once have been called bohemian, very nonestablishment, actually, Eliza thought, which was the whole point of the place, of course, lots of arty-looking men, and rather serious-looking girls with heavy black eye makeup.

  “There are the Ormsby-Gores,” said Emma. “Look, Jeremy, you know them, don’t you?”

  Two girls sat together at a table; they were both dressed in long lace dresses and wore a mass of necklaces and rings and large, elaborate hats over their wild dark, curly hair.

  “Amazing clothes, aren’t they?” said Emma. “They always dress like that, genuine vintage. They’re huge fun; ever met them, Eliza?”

  Eliza shook her head.

  “No, but I’ve heard about them, of course. They own Granny Takes a Trip, don’t they? You know, that shop at World’s End.”

  “It seems a bit of a funny idea to me,” said Juliet, “wearing someone else’s old clothes. Is it to save money or something?”

  Emma gave her a cool, rather gracious smile.

  “I wouldn’t imagine so. They are both hugely rich.”

  “Even odder,” said Juliet, “don’t you think so, Charles?”

  Eliza watched Charles struggling between loyalty and embarrassment; loyalty won.

  “Possibly,” he said finally.

  The music was wonderful, Eliza thought, provided by the Dudley Moore trio; he was her favourite from the Beyond the Fringe quartet. “He’s so so sexy, and so sweet,” she said to Emma; Emma smiled.

  “Totally,” she said, “complete nympho, though. Or so they say. Wish I could speak from more experience, but one lives in hope.”

  And then the cabaret began, dark and sharp and at times very crude; the Establishment being a club, there was no censorship of any of the material. Nothing was sacred, no word unspoken; even to Eliza, determined to be totally sophisticated, there was a shock element. Even Jeremy, she noticed, occasionally didn’t laugh.

  After a while, she became aware that Charles was looking anxiously at Juliet and that she was certainly not laughing. Silly girl. Well, it served her right. Eliza wasn’t sure why it served her right, but she was enjoying her discomfort.

  She didn’t enjoy it for long, for Juliet suddenly stood up and made her way rather ostentatiously away from the table, towards the cloakrooms. Charles kept craning his neck looking for her, but she didn’t return.

  “Eliza! Would you mind just checking on Juliet, see if she’s all right.”

  Reluctantly, she went and found Juliet, flushed, standing alone in front of the mirror.

  “Oh, Eliza, there you are. Isn’t it awful, so disgusting? I’m simply hating it. I can’t stay in there, but I don’t want to seem rude.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Maybe … maybe you could just tell Charles I really would quite like to leave. It just makes me feel so uncomfortable. I’m just a bit old-fashioned, I suppose. Silly, I’m sure. Would you mind, Eliza?”

  And so it was that by the time the cabaret had ended, Charles and Juliet had gone, Rex had joined his model, Emma’s friends had arrived and she was chatting to them, and Jeremy had suggested a foray to the Saddle Room.

  “If you don’t mind it being just the two of us.”

  Eliza said she didn’t mind at all.

  “Engaged! But that’s … well, it’s … it’s … wonderful. Of course. Congratulations. When … How … That is—”

  “Oh—only just happened. Last night. Just couldn’t wait to tell you. You are pleased, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I am. It’s … like I said, wonderful.”

  How could she be doing this? How could she be saying she was pleased when she just wanted to burst into tears and scream and kick the furniture and then go out and get terribly, terribly drunk, and then go round to see him, and beg him not to do it; or just quite simply ask him why, why her, why mealymouthed, cliché-talking, old-fashioned, just not-up-to-his-standard, totally unsuitable Juliet …

  “I’m so glad. I do know she’s not quite your sort of girl, but I know she’s right for me; she says she can’t wait to give up work and just look after me …”

  Nice dig at me there, thought Eliza. There’d be plenty more where that came from.

  “And that’s what I need. Getting on a bit now, after all, time I settled down.”

&nbs
p; “Of course. Of course. It’s—No, it’s lovely, Charles. It really is. Um … have you told Mummy and Daddy?”

  “Not yet. We thought we’d go down on Friday, tell them then. Could you come too?”

  “Of course.” She quailed at the thought, at having to smile and look pleased and watch her parents being pleased, seeing Juliet fluttering her eyelashes at her father … but: “Yes, of course I will.”

  “Maybe she’s in the club,” said Maddy Brown. She had come into Eliza’s office with the clothes from her spring collection; later they were to present what they felt were the most suitable pieces to Lindy for her consideration.

  “Juliet can’t possibly be in the club,” said Eliza. “She doesn’t believe in sex before marriage. She told me so.”

  “Even so. She could have got carried away.”

  “No. She says she wants at least a year to plan the wedding.”

  “Ah. Well—maybe she’s after his money.”

  “He hasn’t got any. I keep telling you.”

  “Yes, I know you do, but I’ve also seen your parents’ house, and to someone who grew up like I did, it does kind of spell M-O-N-E-Y.”

  “Maddy, we don’t have any money. The house is falling down. Anyway, that wouldn’t explain his wanting to marry her.”

  “I s’pose not. And Charles’s not very sure of himself, is he? He told me how he envied me, doing something I loved and was good at. He said he wasn’t in the least good at his job; he’d only got it because someone your parents had known had put in a good word for him …”

  “That’s true. But that applies to loads of people, doesn’t it?”

  “Not loads of people where I come from,” said Maddy, just slightly tartly.

  “Don’t start all that,” said Eliza. “You know it makes me cross. Well, whatever the reason, it’s awful. Oh, Maddy, I love him so much, and I’m going to lose him!”

  Anyone would think she was interviewing them, Matt thought. It was a bit much, really. She sat there, all big dark eyes and thick fake lashes, her brown hair cut in a Vidal Sassoon–style bob, crossing and uncrossing her long legs, totally cool and in command of the situation.

  He cleared his throat, looked down at the piece of paper in his hand to remind himself exactly who she was and what she had to offer. And to buy a little time, hoping against hope that Jimbo would appear.

  “Right,” he said.

  LOUISE MULLEN.

  MARITAL STATUS: SINGLE.

  BORN 1943. EDUCATION: EALING COUNTY GRAMMAR SCHOOL FOR GIRLS.

  O-LEVELS: ENGLISH, MATHS, FRENCH, HISTORY, GEOGRAPHY, BIOLOGY.

  SECRETARIAL COURSE, EALING TECHNICAL COLLEGE.

  TYPING 70 WPM, SHORTHAND 120 WPM, BOOKKEEPING.

  PREVIOUS POSTS: SINCE SEPTEMBER 1962, SECRETARY BAKER AND HILLIARD, SOLICITORS.

  INTERESTS: CINEMA, THEATRE, NETBALL—

  “Netball!” he said. “Isn’t that more of a school game than an interest?”

  “Not at all,” said Louise Mullen. “I play for the Ealing Ladies and also for a team that meets every Thursday in Lincoln’s Inn, legal secretaries. You can play netball to a very high level, Mr. Shaw. National championships at Wembley. Do you play any games?” she added.

  “No. Not really. Well, a bit of soccer.”

  “For?”

  “Oh—just a local team. Just messing about, really.”

  “Yes, I see.” She was obviously very unimpressed.

  He wasn’t sure that he could work with her. She made him feel a bit of an idiot. But … she was rather perfect. Pretty. Clever. Well-spoken. Sexy. Very sexy, while being not in the least tarty. And, most important of all, she seemed to know exactly what Simmonds and Shaw were about and what was required of her.

  “You’re just starting out on your own, aren’t you?” she said briskly. “So—first impressions, really, really important?”

  “Really, really important.”

  “In which case, you’ll never want the office left empty, or the phone unanswered?”

  “We won’t, no.”

  “So.” Pause. “So say it’s my lunch hour and neither of you are here—you won’t want me going out to get a sandwich or meet a friend?”

  “Well … probably not. No.”

  “And sometimes”—another pause—“you’ll want me to work late. It’s not a lot of money for all that, you know. Eight pounds a week.”

  “Plus luncheon vouchers,” said Matt desperately.

  “Which I won’t be able to spend half the time. And I’ll be taking on a lot of responsibility.”

  God, she had a cheek. He had half a mind to tell her the position was actually filled. In fact—

  The door burst open and Jimbo half ran in, parked his bowler hat on the hat stand, the only piece of furniture in what would be their reception area, apart from the chair on which Louise Mullen sat and the tea chest on which Matt was perched, and started pulling off his raincoat.

  “Evening,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. Client meeting overran a bit. I—”

  And then, almost farcically slowly, he looked at Louise Mullen, absorbed Louise Mullen, and registered rather visibly his approval of Louise Mullen.

  “You must be the secretary,” he said, holding out a bony hand.

  “Well,” she said, smiling at him sweetly, “I’ve come about the secretarial post, yes.”

  “Ah. Yes. It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Jim Simmonds. Matt—Mr. Shaw’s partner.”

  “Yes, I guessed as much. I was just saying to Mr. Shaw that you’d be asking a lot of me for the money.”

  “Would we?”

  “Miss Mullen has correctly pointed out,” said Matt rather wearily, “that she would sometimes have to work late. And through the lunch hour.”

  “But you’d be prepared to do that?”

  “Well, if I took the job on, I would. Yes. I can’t see the point otherwise. It’s a very important position, it seems to me. Exciting, though,” she said, with a recross of her black-stockinged legs and a dazzling smile at each of them in turn. “To be in at the beginning of something. Who knows, you might turn out to be millionaires one day.”

  “We … plan to be, yes,” said Jimbo. He smiled back at her.

  “Anyway … about the money. If you were to offer me the job, of course. I’ve got to eat. And pay for my season ticket, and so on. I really don’t know—”

  Inspiration came to Matt.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t we pay for your season ticket; how about that? It’ll be a real benefit, like your luncheon vouchers; you won’t have to pay tax on it.”

  A silence. Then she stood up and said, holding out a very pretty hand to each of them in turn, “Done.”

  “Great. Well, I think we’ll all work very well together. I can see you’ve got the makings of a negotiator yourself, Miss Mullen.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, “but I’ll bear it in mind. Well, thank you. I can see it’ll be fun. And I really will work very hard. And stay late from time to time if necessary; I meant it. Oh—except on Thursdays.”

  “What happens on Thursdays?” asked Jimbo.

  “Miss Mullen plays netball,” said Matt.

  “Ah. OK. Fine,” said Jimbo, with a grin. “So when Harry Hyams comes round, we’ll have to make sure it’s not Thursday.”

  “I’ve heard of Harry Hyams. Famous property tycoon. Is he really a client?”

  “Not yet,” said Matt.

  Eliza was having lunch with Fiona Marks, a thin, nervy creature who talked at such a high speed that it was hard to understand her without one hundred per cent concentration. She was the fashion editor of Charisma, the new ultrachic glossy that was a talking point everywhere that autumn. Very feature-led, it was completely different from most women’s magazines. In its first three issues, it had run interviews with Betty Friedan and with Gloria Steinem, who talked, among other things, about her infamous stint as a bunny girl; there had been a very graphic account of the new “natural” ch
ildbirth, complete with show-it-all photographs; and an article on the death of marriage in twentieth-century life. And its “Twenty-four Hours in …” slot, photographic essays on life in such disparate places as a casualty department, an East End housing estate, and a luxury liner, both above and below stairs, was already being widely copied.

  “Yes?” said Eliza nervously. Fiona’s voice had had a rather businesslike tone.

  “Look … How settled do you feel at Woolfe’s? I mean, I know Lindy’s leaving and you must be a bit worried about it—”

  “Oh, no,” said Eliza, carefully airy. “The person who’s taking over from her is marvellous. I’m really looking forward to working with her.”

  “In that case, forget what I was just going to say to you.”

  “What?” Eliza stopped in mid–company line. “What were you going to say to me?”

  “Well, I was going to say I’m looking for an assistant—Lucy’s leaving to have a baby. Loads of people are going to be applying—half London, actually—but I’d like to know if you’d be interested.”

  “Me!” said Eliza.

  “Yes, you. Because I really think you’ve got a terrific eye, and that’s what I’m looking for above all else. But if you’re really happy where you are—”

  “I’m not,” said Eliza, and heard her own voice as an odd, high squeak. “I’d love to apply for the job. Absolutely love it. Please. I mean thank you. Oh, gosh—golly.”

  “OK. Great. It’s quite … tough there, you know. They really are determined to do something quite different, and the editor, Jack Beckham’s a proper, old-fashioned journalist, come up through the ranks; got the job because he worked on the Sunday Times Magazine launch with Mark Boxer. He actually sees fashion as a necessary evil, to bring in the advertising; he’d prefer to stick to features about class and politics and sex, so every single idea we do has to be sold really hard. And they have to be proper ideas, not just the new hemline or whatever. But I fancy you could cope with all that. Anyway, let me have your CV—I still have to go through the motions of presenting you to the editor, so you do need to apply. And then he’ll give you a really tough interview, I warn you. But—”