“That would be wonderful. Thank you. Now, let me see, you must go to Woollands, the 21 shop, and to Woolfe’s to Young Generation; that’s the boutique I helped launch.” She saw Jeremy weaving his way across the foyer. “Jeremy! Over here! I want you to meet my friend Mariella Crespi, from Milan.”
He bent and kissed Eliza, then made a small bow over Mariella’s hand—God, he was so bloody charming—and smiled into her great dark eyes.
“How lovely to meet you, Mariella,” he said. “Jeremy Northcott.”
He was looking particularly gorgeous in a light grey flannel suit, exquisitely cut, and a light blue shirt. She saw Mariella taking him in, approving of him, clearly doing more than approving of him.
“It is very lovely to meet you too,” she said.
Over dinner the next evening, she cooed about him for some time.
“So elegant, Eliza, so charming, so good-looking. So very much the English gentleman. You have found, I think, the perfect man. Is he rich?”
“Terribly rich.”
“Well, then.” Mariella sat back. “Truly perfect. You must marry him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite up to me,” said Eliza. And then in an attempt to change the subject: “Now, Mariella, how was today? And what did you think of Young Generation?”
“It was very nice. I bought two dresses from Jean Varon.”
“Absolutely my favourite evening dresses in the world.”
“But, Eliza, I want to know about Jeremy. Would you like to be married to this perfect man?”
“I … I’m not sure,” said Eliza. “Maybe because my job is so important to me—but maybe I just don’t love him enough; maybe he doesn’t love me enough.”
“Oh, cara,” said Mariella, “love grows with the marriage. Believe me, I should know. It is clear to me that he is quite perfect for you, and he is simply waiting for the right minute. And when he does ask you, I want to be one of the very first to know.”
“You will be,” said Eliza, “if he does. Now, can I see your Jean Varon dresses and all the other things you’ve bought after dinner?”
She was discovering that, however heavily gilded it might be, Mariella did live in a cage. Giovanni might genuinely love her, he might be the soul of generosity, but he wanted her near him almost all the time; and when she was not, he had to know where she was and what she was doing every minute of the day.
“I could never, ever have an affair,” Mariella said. “Giovanni would find out in days. But I do not wish to have an affair,” she said, with her dazzling smile. “I love him very, very much, and more all the time. As I told you, love grows. It is probably just as well; in Italy you can be sent to prison for adultery.”
“Good heavens.”
“But anyway, I love Giovanni very dearly. No one else is good enough, handsome enough, charming enough. Except perhaps your Jeremy, cara!”
She thought a lot about Mariella’s philosophy of marriage in the weeks that followed: that if everything else was right, love would grow. She wondered whether it would work for her. And perhaps more important, for Jeremy.
Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Judd
request the pleasure of your company
at the wedding of their daughter Juliet Carol
to Mr. Charles Edward Fullerton-Clark
at three p.m. on Friday, June 26, 1964,
at Summercourt, Wellesley, Wiltshire.
RSVP Mrs. Adrian Fullerton-Clark,
Summercourt, Wellesley
All in perfect, curvy script on ivory card and “Matthew Shaw” written in bold black ink at the top. There was another sheet of paper inside with a map of how to find Wellesley, and a list of local hotels if people wanted to stay. It arrived at the office, together with a scrawled card inside from Charles apologising, “Sorry, don’t know your home address. Please come. It’d be so nice for me. Let me know if you want to bring anyone. Charles.” And then, “P.S. Morning dress.”
He couldn’t go. He just couldn’t.
He kept it in his drawer for a bit, then took it home and left it on the kitchen table, where of course Gina found it.
“Crikey, Matt, I didn’t know you had friends like this.”
“I don’t. I never set eyes on the Judds and I won’t know anyone there.”
“You could take me. Sounds a bit funny, replying to the bridegroom’s parents. Is Summercourt where he lives?”
“Yes.”
“Posher and posher. So how do you know this Charles person, then?”
“We were in the army together. Before he went off and became an officer, that is.”
He could hear the bitterness in his own voice.
“He must be a pretty nice chap.”
“What, to ask me to his wedding?”
“Oh, Matt, don’t be so touchy.”
“Well, that’s what you meant.”
“No, it wasn’t. I mean because you obviously don’t see him very often and he hasn’t forgotten you.”
He didn’t reply to the invitation immediately; he wasn’t actually sure how to, what words you used.
Two evenings later, he was having supper with Scarlett and showed her the invitation.
“Nice he asked you.”
“Not you as well,” said Matt.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone seems to think it’s really good of Charles to invite me to his wedding. As if I was a charity case. Anyway, I’m not going.”
“Matt, that’s just completely ridiculous. Why on earth not?”
“Because I’d feel like a charity case. And anyway, I’ve fallen out with his sister.”
He told her.
“Matt, that’s awful. I’m ashamed of you, I really am. So childish. How old are you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He glared at her, got out his cigarettes.
“You’re smoking too many of those things, you know,” she said. “There’s some new research says smoking’s very bad for you.”
“Oh, Scarlett, give me a break. I like smoking. I couldn’t cope without it.”
“I think you should apologize to Eliza; I really do. I expect she thought she was just doing you a good turn.”
“A good turn! Blimey. Spelling out in print what a deprived background I’d had—”
“Deprived! For heaven’s sake! All she was going to say, obviously, was that you’d done incredibly well, and you’d done it all on your own, without the sort of advantages lots of people take for granted. What’s wrong with that? Absolutely nothing. Rather the reverse, I’d say. Just think of the publicity you’d have got. Couldn’t you benefit from that?”
“I don’t need that sort of publicity, thanks,” said Matt.
“Well, I think you’re just ridiculous. And I also think you’ve been very rude. What would Mum say if she knew?”
The next morning, he told Jenny he didn’t want to be disturbed, smoked two of the cigarettes that Scarlett had suddenly decided were bad for him, and for the second time in his life, made an apologetic phone call to Eliza.
“Darling, don’t cry, whatever is it, come on, tell me—”
“Sorry, Jeremy. So sorry. I’ll … I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“It’s not Charles, is it? Charles and Juliet?”
“God, no. I wouldn’t cry about that. This is much worse. It’s … it’s Daddy. He’s … he’s got Parkinson’s disease.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, Eliza, my darling, I am so, so sorry.”
“Yes. It’s terrible, isn’t it? He’s not too bad yet—he hadn’t even told Mummy—but he’s got a bit … well, feeble and … and shaky, obviously, and he dropped one of her precious bits of Spode the other day and it smashed and she lost her temper and started yelling at him; she says she feels so ashamed now. She rang me, she was crying, it was awful, and I’m sorry, but I’ll have to go down this weekend to be with them. I can’t go to Norfolk with you; I’m so sorry.”
“Darling, of course you must. Don’t even give Norfolk a t
hought. It won’t go away; we can go another time.”
“That wedding,” said Matt. His voice was very casual.
“What, the posh one? Yes, what about it?”
Gina’s large grey eyes were suddenly sharp.
“I … well, I’ve decided to go after all. And I … well, would you like to come with me?”
It was the conversation with Eliza that had persuaded him. She was clearly embarrassed herself by the whole article thing, and said she was sorry if she’d upset him—she really hadn’t meant to; it had all been a stupid misunderstanding—and that she’d see him at the wedding.
“You will come, won’t you? I know Charles is really hoping you will.”
After that, it seemed rude to refuse.
Sarah felt very frightened. A friend’s husband had died after four years of Parkinson’s, and she knew very clearly what lay ahead. Increasing immobility, increasing dependence, a shutting down of life as she knew it; she would be confined to the house, less able to do what she wanted, to make trips to London and to visit friends. What at the moment were the mildest of symptoms would become, she knew, something quite ugly. Adrian would become depressed, physically feeble, odd-looking, unable to perform the simplest tasks for himself.
But all of that paled into complete insignificance set against the threat of having to leave Summercourt. That was unthinkable.
Summercourt was a part of her; she belonged to it and it to her. It gave her happiness, interest, and an absolute sense of security—and it would give her courage. She knew that. Somehow, somehow, they had to stay there, even though the doctor said they should consider moving into a bungalow because Adrian would find the stairs very difficult later on.
“Matt?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Eliza. Look … I know I told you it was too late to do that article. Well, it might not be. The editor’s decided to put it in a later issue.”
What he’d actually said was, “Is it too much to ask you to find me someone just a little more interesting than this load of wankers? I don’t want to read about a lot of bloody poofs. Hairdressers! Give me strength.”
“So … would you still be interested? I mean, now that you understand what it’s about a bit more?”
“I … might be.”
“Oh … well, good. Could we … could we do it this week, do you think? If you decide you will, of course.”
“I could possibly do Thursday evening. Any good?”
“I’ll see if the journalist’s available.”
“I thought it’d be you.”
“Oh … no. No, it’d be a freelancer. Or possibly our features editor, Annunciata Woburn.”
Annunciata! What kind of person called their child Annunciata? Their kind, he supposed.
“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’d much rather talk to you. Can’t you do it?”
“Um … well … I don’t think so. I’m not a features person. I’m fashion; it’s quite different.”
“But I really don’t want to talk to … well, to anyone else.”
“Right. Well … OK. I’ll have to ask, get back to you.”
Annunciata said it would be fine, if that was really the only way they could get Matt, and that she would supply Eliza with a list of questions and then write it up herself, “so it reads like the others,” thus displaying the usual attitude of what Jack called “proper journalists” to the air-headed fashion girls. Eliza swallowed it without protest.
“And ask him about photographs. I’d like to do one on a building site or something like that.”
“Yes, course.”
“Is he photogenic?”
Eliza thought of Matt: the thick, dark hair—quite short by the standards of the day—the probing brown eyes, the—well, yes, it was fair to say—the sexy mouth.
“Very,” she said.
“I wonder how I knew you were going to say that.”
Eliza was very impressed by Matt’s setup. Four offices, all very streamlined, in a very good building just off Wardour Street; she was greeted by the most amazing blonde who looked as if she ought really to be on the cover of Seventeen magazine, and who made her an excellent cup of coffee and offered her an extraordinary array of biscuits. She was introduced to Matt’s partner, Jimbo Simmonds, who was very nice but clearly not the real brains in the outfit; and then another very pretty girl appeared, clearly hugely bright and quite acerbic, whom Matt rather pointedly dismissed, but not before she’d introduced herself as their partner, and said if there were any gaps in the information Matt supplied just call her, and gave her a card.
“Quite a harem you’ve got here, Matt,” said Eliza, settling back into the leather visitor’s chair opposite Matt’s desk.
“Yeah, well. I’m a great believer in employing women.”
“And not just as secretaries?”
“Course not. Cigarette?”
“Yes, thanks. Well, that’s a very modern attitude. Not many male feminists about.”
“Oh, I’m not a feminist,” said Matt firmly. “Once a woman’s married and has children, I think she should be at home, looking after things.”
“No working mothers, then?”
“Absolutely not. That’s a straight route to society falling apart, as I see it. But … while women don’t have any other responsibilities, yeah, I think they should be given a chance.”
“Very generous of you. Right. Well, let’s get started.”
“Just before we do,” he said, “can I read what you write before it goes into the magazine?”
“I’m afraid we don’t allow that.”
“Right. Well, in that case”—he stood up—“the interview’s not happening. I’m sorry, Eliza; I’m not giving you carte blanche to write whatever you like about me. I’m not completely wet behind the ears. Either I see the interview or you don’t get one.”
“Well, in that case, I’ll arrange for you to see it. Of course.” She smiled at him. “Now, what was actually your first job, and how old were you …?”
My dear,
I’m coming over to do a little shopping and some theatres, and how nice it would be to see you again. Tea at the Connaught one day—would that be possible? I shall be there from June 6 through 10—on my own, alas, this time, no David—and I hope very much that you could join me on one of those days.
Lily Berenson.
Scarlett’s first instinct was to refuse, to tell her she was away on those dates; it seemed very dangerous to meet with her a mere couple of weeks—as it would be—after seeing David herself. And then with a streak of pure perversity, she decided to say yes. Dangerous it might be, but it would also be rather exciting. And she might—just might—be able to garner from Mrs. Berenson some information about David and Gaby’s marriage, whether the end was truly in sight, as David kept intimating to her—without actually saying so.
She checked her schedule; she was free two of the days. She wrote back and said she would be delighted to see Mrs. Berenson on whichever suited her better.
“You look lovely, my dear,” said Mrs. Berenson, rising to kiss her. “I like the shorter hair very much.”
“Thank you,” said Scarlett.
“Now, how are you, darling? I want to hear all your news. I was very pleased when you wrote and told me you were working for BOAC. If you ever fly down to the Southern states, I want you to promise me to come and stay.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Scarlett carefully.
“And I could show you Atlanta, where your namesake lived for much of her life; and, of course, Rhett Butler came from Charleston. I know the rest of the family would love to meet you, especially the girls. Now, did I tell you that Gaby is having another baby?”
Scarlett was pouring out the tea and she thought that she must have misheard, that it was one of the other wives Mrs. Berenson was talking about.
“I’m sorry?” she said politely. “Who’s having a baby?”
“Gaby, dear. David’s wife. In December. It’s very e
arly days, of course, but so exciting.”
She heard a voice, which surely couldn’t have been hers, a calm, interested voice, saying, “Really? How lovely,” and then asking most politely if Mrs. Berenson would like sugar in her tea, and then how David felt about the baby. “After such a big gap.”
“Oh, my dear, he is thrilled. Over the moon. He’s a wonderful father, and he always said he was happiest when the children were tiny.”
“And is Gaby well?”
“She’s very well, yes. She thrives on pregnancy, always has. And in spite of her very busy life, she’s happy to put it on hold to enjoy this. ‘The Postscript,’ they call him or her. So sweet, don’t you think?”
“Very sweet,” said Scarlett. “Um … could you excuse me just a moment, Mrs. Berenson? I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
She looked at herself in the mirror in the ladies’ and was amazed to see exactly the same person who had left her flat an hour ago. She looked slightly flushed, and her eyes were very bright, but there was no sign whatsoever that she was enduring nightmarish pain. She combed her hair, admiring the shape of her new Vidal Sassoon five-point bob, sprayed herself with the Diorling that David had given her only two weeks ago, and renewed her lipstick. She didn’t dare start crying, because she knew she would never stop.
Then she went back to the lounge of the Connaught and drank two cups of tea, ate three finger sandwiches, and told Mrs. Berenson that she had been thinking about her invitation and she thought she might well like to take her up on her invitation to stay with her in Charleston. “Just for a couple of days; I’ve got a little leave in hand. I’ll have a look at my schedule. I would so love to see your beautiful house.”
“My dear, how lovely! David will be thrilled.”
“Charles is late,” said Eliza. “He said he’d be here by four at the latest and it’s—what—nearly six.”
“Oh, I expect he’s working late. He said he’d had a lot of extra work to do before he went away. Now, darling, you do think the flowers are all right, don’t you? I’m not sure about the ones in the marquee—”
More Than You Know Page 14
