More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  The day seemed to go on forever; he longed for it to end so he could drive home and show it to his parents and the boys. Take them for a spin.

  He was halfway along Oxford Street at half past six, changing gear unnecessarily frequently, revving furiously every time he was held up in the traffic, when an announcement cut into the music he was listening to on The Light Programme.

  “We have just received news that President Kennedy has been shot as his motorcade drove through Dallas, Texas. He was taken to hospital, where doctors fought to save his life, but he was pronounced dead at one p.m. Texas time. Mrs. Kennedy is still at the hospital. It is not yet known who was the assassin, but we will bring you further news as it unfolds.”

  Matt stopped revving his engine; he felt seriously upset. Shocked, even. President Kennedy had seemed a symbol of a new age, where power didn’t have to be in the hands of old men. It seemed totally wrong that he should have been wiped out just like that. How and why would anyone do that?

  It was very sad: those two little kids with no dad. And Jackie, that lovely Jackie, so classy, always so well dressed; she reminded him in a way of Eliza, with her dark hair and eyes and her long legs.

  He wondered if Eliza knew, and what she was doing now … And then wondered why he was thinking of her at all.

  Scarlett was sitting in her flat, staring at the television. She felt very upset. Absurdly so. She remembered David talking about Kennedy, his exact words: “We need him. He gives our nation a kind of grace.”

  Well, if Johnson took over—and he would, of course; it was in the Constitution—there wouldn’t be much grace there.

  She had sat on the BEA bus coming into London, tired from a flight to Munich and back, staring out into the crowded streets, looking at the people, all visibly moved, at the queues to buy newspapers, at the placards, all reading the same thing, “JFK Assassinated,” feeling rather as if she were watching a film.

  When Matt rang her and asked if he could come round, she said she’d love it.

  “It’s not a night to be alone,” she said. “Silly, isn’t it, to be so upset?”

  “I don’t think so, no,” he said. She wasn’t surprised; he could be quite soppy, Matt could; he was a real romantic under his tough-guy exterior. When he fell in love it would be pretty major; that was for sure.

  Charles sat in Juliet’s small sitting room, in the Earls Court flat she shared with another ex-Roedean girl, listening to the radio in the same state of shock as much of the entire world, and occasionally asking Juliet whether she was OK. To which she gave him a wan smile, shifted the hot-water bottle she was holding on her stomach slightly, and sighing. She didn’t seem to share his sense of grief and loss. She said it was dreadful, of course, and terrible for Jackie, but beyond that she was untouched by it.

  “I should be feeling better tomorrow, Charles, but if I’m not, can we leave in the afternoon? And you will tell your mother I won’t be able to go on one of her long walks, won’t you? I’ll feel a bit mean; I know how much she enjoys them …”

  “Yes, darling, of course I will.”

  “It’s so unfair; I’d wanted the weekend to be a success. Mummy and Daddy are looking forward to lunch so much, but of course they’re a bit nervous—”

  “Why?” said Charles in genuine surprise. Carol and Geoffrey Judd seemed inordinately self-confident to him.

  “Darling, don’t be silly. They’re meeting my future parents-in-law; it’s so important, and Mummy’s not sure what to wear. She’s not really a country person, as you know—”

  “She should wear whatever she feels comfortable in,” said Charles. “It’s just a family lunch party, for God’s sake.”

  “Charles, don’t get cross with me; you know I’m feeling rotten—Charles!”

  But Charles had turned up the radio; news had come in of a man arrested in downtown Dallas.

  “How amazing,” he said, “that they should find him so quickly. I—”

  “Charles, I think I’ll go to bed. If you don’t mind. I’ll ring you first thing, let you know how I am.”

  “Of course. Sorry. It’s just that this is so—”

  “Yes, I can see, much more interesting than my curse pains. That’s fine. See you tomorrow.”

  He stood up; she raised a pinched, half smile of a face to be kissed.

  Charles left.

  And walked rather heavily down the road, his mind wiped temporarily clean of the assassination of President Kennedy, in a new and rather more personal panic of his own: that he could just possibly have made a rather terrible mistake.

  December 1963

  THINGS REALLY WERE LOOKING PRETTY GOOD, Matt thought. Too good, he sometimes thought. Were they just enjoying beginner’s luck? If they were, then best make the most of it. The demand for office space was insatiable. There was still very little in the way of planning restrictions, money was easy to get hold of, and there was no conservation lobby to contend with; the bomb sites were mainly all developed now, so old buildings were simply being bulldozed, and a rash of functional glass-and-concrete boxes rose in their place. There was even a serious suggestion that the Houses of Parliament be demolished and the site redeveloped.

  Matt and Jimbo already had almost more clients than they could deal with; they worked increasingly long days, often arriving as early as seven and leaving twelve or even fourteen hours later.

  One morning in early December, a tall, rather severe-looking woman walked in. She was about forty, Matt reckoned, wearing a suit with a pencil skirt; she had blond hair drawn back from her face in what Louise afterwards described as a French pleat, very good legs, and an extremely posh accent.

  She sat down, accepted a cup of coffee, and said she was setting up a secretarial agency in London. “You’ll have heard of the Brook Street Bureau, no doubt? Our agency, which is called Status Secretaries, is very similar, although with one important difference: all our girls will have GCEs and a shorthand qualification not merely in English, but in one other language. As I’m sure you know, there is an increasingly international emphasis in London business life.”

  Matt said indeed he was aware of that.

  “So I need not just one but several offices, say about a thousand square feet each. I’d initially require one in the city, one in the West End, one in Chelsea, and one in Bayswater. We are extremely busy, and struggling to operate out of somewhere totally inappropriate, just down the road from here. Can you help?”

  “I’m sure we can,” said Matt, buzzing for Louise. “Miss Mullen, could you bring in the small offices file? This lady—I’m sorry; I didn’t get your name—”

  “I didn’t give it. Hill, Valerie Hill.”

  “Yes, Miss Hill is looking for space for her secretarial agency. Several offices, in fact. In … let’s see, EC4 or maybe 2, W1, SW3, and W2. I’m sure we can help.”

  “Absolutely, especially in the city area. Several very appropriate properties there. I won’t be a moment,” said Louise—she really was impressive, Matt thought, and was back well inside a minute holding several bulging files.

  Valerie Hill was clearly impressed by her. “What an extremely efficient girl,” she said, “exactly the type we would be looking to employ. Not that, of course, I would dream of poaching her,” she added hastily.

  “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, a studio in an old converted warehouse on the river in Pimlico. 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 lit, cobwebby room, and bought the freehold for £1,500; 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, 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 wasn’t doing badly, for someone who’d done it all himself.

  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 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 he 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. “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.”

  “Course.”

  Once she was gone, Matt picked up the invitation again and sat reading it, smiling foolishly. This really was exciting. 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, December 13, eight 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.

  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, hallo!” It was Maddy, looking devastating in a gold knitted shift dress.

  “Hallo. Yes. Sorry I’m early.”

  “You’re not, of course. Everyone else is late. Oh—actually, look, you have company, hallo, Simon—Simon Butler—Matt Shaw. Matt, Simon’s an art director at one of the agencies, 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?”

  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.

  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.

  “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, hallo, 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. What is Granny’s? Exactly?”

  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, Simon, this guy said he wanted a dress made for a commercial and—Oh, Christian, darling, hallo. 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.

  He had drunk quite a lot of beer, but he felt totally sober. Sober and extremely stupid. Most of them were posh, but a few were talking an exaggerated cockney.

  He was terribly hot too. He’d have liked to take off his jacket, but he was scared of its 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. 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. 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 more than even Esmond could stand.

  “The Royal College of Art,” he said. “Back in a minute.” And he walked off after Maddy.

  Matt, alone once more, looked at his watch surreptitiously; Christ, it was only quarter to ten. Christ, he really didn’t like it—he might leave, in fact; yes, he would when—

  “Matt! Matt, hallo, what a lovely surprise. Maddy said she was going to invite you. You couldn’t get me a drink, would you? I’m desperate.”

  It was Eliza. She was wearing a black shift with a large hole cut out of it where her midriff was—in fact, he could actually see her navel—Christ, why were girls allowed to do that sort of thing?—and thigh-high black boots. Her bangs were so long he could hardly see her eyes.

  “Course,” he said, and disappeared into the throng, then realised he had no idea what she wanted. He picked up a glass of red and a glass of white wine and made his way back to her, half expecting her to have moved on to another group. But no. “Oh, thank you, Matt; I’ll take the white if that’s OK. Are you having a good time?”

  “Oh … yeah … well, you know.” He took a large gulp of the red. “Don’t know many people, but … yeah, I met someone you probably know, Suki someone—”

  “Suki! Suki Warrener?”

  “Not sure. Probably.”

  “Was she stoned? She always is. Cigarette, Matt? No, no, have one of mine. Mad as a hatter, Suki is—talking of hatters, did you meet Esmond?”