She stayed in her own tiny flat in Earls Court, spending most nights with Matt in Rotherhithe, and driving home at crack of dawn to get ready for the day. She had wondered if he would suggest she moved in with him, but he did rather the reverse, pointing out on that first Sunday that it really wouldn’t be very practical. “It’s so small here, we’d drive each other nuts.” He then added that it was very early days anyway, and they should probably take things a bit steady. Ignoring a stab of raw terror, she agreed.
Christmas was … well, it was odd. All right, of course, but odd. There was a slightly chilly note from her mother: they obviously couldn’t host Christmas this year and were invited to spend it with local friends instead.
“And I really don’t feel able to ask if you can join us, under the circumstances. I think they would find it rather uncomfortable.”
“Fucking hell,” said Matt, laughing. “I tell you what, my family wouldn’t be uncomfortable inviting you. Want to experience a Clapham Christmas? Scarlett’ll be there; you like Scarlett, don’t you?”
Eliza did like Scarlett, very much; she seemed to have all Matt’s virtues and none of his vices. She was good company—although Eliza sensed a sadness underlying the sharp remarks that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. She told Eliza she thought she was very good for Matt. “He’s not nearly so pleased with himself as he was. As far as I can see all his other girlfriends have let him walk all over them. I like to see him stood up to.”
Eliza, who actually found it quite difficult to stand up to Matt and more often than not gave in simply for a quiet life, resolved to be firmer with him in future.
Scarlett had a very nice flat in Kensington, which Eliza would have priced beyond her air-hostess salary, but then she told herself she didn’t actually know what that was; she also had a lot of very expensive clothes, including a fur coat, which she kept telling Matt was rabbit. Eliza, who knew sable when she saw it, was intrigued.
They spent much of Christmas day in bed, but in the evening they went over to Clapham and Eliza was introduced to Matt’s family. She liked Sandra very much; she was pretty and jokey and had the same sense of style as her daughter, and the two boys were great, but she wasn’t so sure about Pete. He was clearly suspicious of her and more than once made a joke about her “slumming,” as he put it.
She was interested to observe Matt in the heart of his family. She had half expected him to behave differently, but he was exactly the same: bit cocky, quite touchy, very affectionate to his mother.
They drank a lot, watched TV, and after a bit Matt and his brothers and Pete went out to the pub “just for a couple.”
“Sorry about this,” Sandra said apologetically. “When they get back we’ll play Monopoly, if that’s all right—Matt’s favourite since he was quite a little chap.”
Eliza said she didn’t mind at all, and asked Sandra where she bought her clothes—“I just love that dress; it’s completely fab”—and then settled down to an evening of martinis and Monopoly, watching Matt sweep the board—she had a strong suspicion he cheated—and buying not only Park Lane and Oxford Street and a whole lot of hotels, but all the London stations as well. She wondered whether he would ever do it for real, and decided that, with him, nothing was impossible.
“So!” Mariella’s huge dark eyes danced at Eliza. “Tell me, cara, tell me all about this new love of your life. It sounds most romantic. You gave up Jeremy; you gave up a fortune; you gave up your family’s love—”
“Mariella,” said Eliza, laughing, “you’re making it all sound much more dramatic than it really was.”
“I don’t think so. What did I say that was not true?”
“Well … nothing, I suppose. But—”
“Are you living with him?”
“Yes and no.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Well … I spend a lot of time at his place. But I still use my flat as home. I keep my clothes there, and so on. If he’s busy, I stay there.”
“So he allows you to use his place for sex. And nothing else.”
“Mariella! No. We eat there sometimes. I cook supper.”
“You cook supper! Cara, cara, at the very least he should be cooking for you.”
“He doesn’t do that sort of thing. He … he doesn’t come from a background where men cook.”
“Giovanni neither. But he often cooks.”
“I don’t think we could compare Giovanni and Matt.”
“I would disagree. To me they sound very much the same. Both … what do you say, made by themselves—”
“Self-made.”
“Exactly what I said. Both very married to their work, both with women they are most fortunate to have. I must tell you, Eliza, so far I so much prefer Jeremy.”
“Mariella, you haven’t even met Matt.”
“Well, we must put that right. I shall make a special visit. I might even bring Giovanni; he needs some more shoes.”
“That would be lovely. But the whole point about all this is, I didn’t love Jeremy.”
“But that does not mean Matt should treat you badly.”
“He doesn’t treat me badly.”
“Mi scusi, cara, but he does not treat you well. Therefore, I think he treats you badly.”
“No, but you see, he didn’t ask me to leave Jeremy. I decided to. It was all down to me.”
“Even so … if he loves you—”
“Mariella, I’m really sorry; I’ve got to go. I’ll be late for Cardin at this rate. See you very soon, maybe tomorrow?”
She was in Paris for the collections, with a horrendously difficult idea to realise. She had pitched it to Jack almost against her better judgment. Jack inevitably had loved it, and had told her that if she managed to pull it off, he would display it as a foldout extension on heavier paper than the rest of the magazine. Eliza felt quite faint at the thought of both the responsibility of that and the incredible kudos she would gain from it.
Her idea was that instead of the normal run of eight or ten photographs of clothes from all the different designers, Charisma would offer its readers just one big picture, featuring the clothes from ten or twelve houses all together. This was, everyone told her, completely impossible. The dragonesses who policed the releasing of garments held rigid timetables; the competition from other fashion editors not only for the clothes but their permitted release was intense; the models were fully booked up to eighteen hours a day.
But her plan was to shoot at two o’clock in the morning. The hours between midnight and six were quiet; all she had to do, she told herself, was a bit of persuasion.
She had booked Rex Ingham to do the shoot; he had sorted out a studio, and she had managed to bribe at least half a dozen models, largely by paying them double their normal fees, but more successfully by promising them future work with Charisma. It was the magazine they all wanted to be in at the time, Vogue apart.
She had arranged sandwiches, wine, cigarettes, and even allowed it to be known unofficially that should the odd spliff appear she would turn a blind eye.
So far, with four days to go, she had managed to secure only three outfits. Most of the vendeuses just sneered at her.
By the end of the next day she had hit on another plan: to beg the outfits from all the editors who were doing late-night shoots, promising to return them to the houses first thing in the morning. This meant that they would avoid the responsibility of getting the clothes back and enduring the purse-lipped, inch-by-inch examination of each garment by the directrices. Which brought her total up to seven.
Word was getting round that something extraordinary was happening. The day before the shoot she had fifteen models and called Jack. If the picture was big enough, would he extend the pullout to three pages? It would be a crime to bunch the models together and not show the clothes properly. Jack said he would.
Mariella asked if she could come along. “I will act as dresser,” she said. “It will be fun. And also, cara, I am a very skilful makeup arti
ste. I can help with that as well. And … do you have jewellery?”
“Not enough,” said Eliza with a groan.
“I will bring all of mine. It is naturally only the cooked pieces—”
“The what, Mariella?”
“Giovanni says I must not wear my real diamonds; it is too dangerous. They are all in the vault of the bank. But I think you will not be able to tell in a photograph.”
“Oh,” said Eliza, “you mean fakes.”
“Exactly. I said cooked up. That’s the English phrase, I was told? But it all looks very, very nice.”
“Mariella,” said Eliza, “I love you.”
She never forgot January 24, 1965. For most of the English nation, it was a day of shock and mourning—the ninety-year-old Winston Churchill died early in the morning—but for Eliza, the bigger drama was taking place in a large photographic studio off the rue Cambon, in a hubbub of noise, activity, beautiful girls, and incredibly valuable clothes. By two thirty all but one of the girls were dressed and made up. Rex was taking Polaroids to check his lighting and work out the composition. “One long line’s just fucking boring, Eliza. I don’t care what you say; we’re going to have to have some variation in level.”
The assistants stood in for models in the Polaroids—many years later Eliza found one, a fading panorama of fifteen pretty, barefooted, long-haired boys, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, some of them sitting on stools and stepladders, some fooling around, pulling on hats and long gloves, others gazing as haughtily into the lens as the models themselves; looking at it, she could almost hear the thud of the Rolling Stones in the background, feel her own excitement and terror. She and Milly Sellotaped the soles of shoes, pinned hems, bulldog-clipped bodices to fit; Mariella and two other girls worked tirelessly on makeup, heated and reheated Carmen rollers, painted nails, and consumed great jugfuls of coffee. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke that Eliza said there must be no more; there also hung about the place the unmistakably sweet smell of hash.
Only one dress still hung on the rail: the statutory wedding dress. One girl had still not arrived.
“It would be her,” groaned Eliza. “It just would be. She’s the centrepiece. Where is she, for God’s sake? I knew it was a mistake, agreeing to her.”
“Which one is it?” said Rex.
“Bloody Alethea Peregrine something or other. Total amateur. But she’s just such an aristocrat. She’s going to look amazing in that dress. Oh, God, where is she? Milly, call the hotel. She’s staying at the Castiglione.”
Milly disappeared and then came back looking slightly smug. “She’s on her way. But can someone somewhere please find a radio that we can get the BBC World service on?”
“Yeah, I got one,” said Rex.
“Thank God. I told her we had one here. She said she wouldn’t come otherwise. The thing is,” said Milly, “you know Winston Churchill died this morning? Well, Alethea was listening to all the stuff about him in the hotel. She sounded as if she’d been crying.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Rex, “that’s all we need, blotchy skin, runny nose.”
“Yes, but I think,” said Milly carefully, “and sorry to sound bossy, but I think it would be an idea if we all seemed terribly sympathetic. Alethea was telling me this morning she was some kind of distant relation of Sir Winston’s.”
“Pretty bloody distant,” said Rex. “Few light-years, I’d say.”
“Shut up, Rex,” said Eliza. “We need Alethea, and if pretending she was practically Churchill’s favourite daughter and saying how sorry we are will help, then we’re all going to do that, OK? Ah …” An extremely tall redhead had come into the room, swathed in black fur, dabbing theatrically at her enormous green eyes. “Alethea, darling, come in. I’m so sorry; you must be feeling terribly sad. Just sit down here and relax. Rex has got his radio all ready, so you don’t miss anything, and then Mariella is going to do your makeup. It’s wonderfully brave of you to come. And you,” she hissed to Milly, “you are going to get just the biggest raise I can possibly manage when we get back. You’re a star.”
The shoot finished at half past six, when Paris was still in darkness; Eliza sat in the emptying studio, high on excitement, gazing at Rex’s Polaroid and rather irreverently paraphrasing Winston Churchill, that “this is our finest hour.”
“I want some money,” said Scarlett. “Quite a lot.”
She hadn’t gone to Charleston. What, after all, would it have achieved? Except frighten him, to no real end.
But she could see quite clearly now that common sense should have told her from the beginning that David was never going to leave his wife and children.
It was her own stupidity that made her angriest, her wide-eyed willingness to believe him, her misplaced selflessness in sparing him the anxiety of the pregnancy, the anguish of the abortion. She should have told him, frightened him, demanded he pay for it, instead of tiptoeing round pretending everything was all right. She thought of all the men she had met during the course of her affair with David, men with whom she might have had fun, found affection, possibly even love itself, had she not held them up to invidious comparison, and refused their invitations, crushed their interest, denied their potential.
She wished she could say she hated David, but of course she did not; love, she had discovered, could not be extinguished with the flick of a switch, the drop of a phone. Love invaded you, and even when it had become the enemy it was not to be easily overpowered.
Had David called her that afternoon, as she sat in her flat, weeping with anger and humiliation and pain, had he begged her forgiveness, said he must see her, told her that he did indeed still love her, she would, she knew, have had difficulty in rejecting him.
But she was thankful he had not. And in the interim her heart had hardened, had even recovered a little.
And now she had a plan.
The first thing was to make him sweat. After a silence of about a week, he started calling her. How was she; was she feeling a little better; he’d like to try to explain; what were her plans …
She rang off every time.
He rang on a weekly basis: he was worried about her; he needed to know how she was; he would like to see whether he could help.
She continued to ring off.
He sent her a Christmas card, signed, “Bertie,” their code name for him. He missed her; was she well? She threw it on the fire.
He called her early in January to wish her happy New Year and to ask her how she was. She said she was fine. “Your mother has just invited me again. Apparently it’s lovely there in the spring. And Gaby will have had her baby, she tells me. I could meet him or her. I told her I’m looking at my schedule again.”
Finally, she called him in the office. “I’d like to see you,” she said.
“Of course, of course. I shall be in London in about ten days. Would that suit you?”
He was obviously, she thought happily, shitting himself. “Yes, very well. You can come to my flat if you like.”
“Oh, darling,” he said, “would I like?”
He arrived looking apprehensive, his arms full of flowers, and a small Tiffany carrier bag in one hand.
“Hallo, Scarlett.”
“Hallo, David.”
“You’re looking marvellous.”
“You’re looking tired. Is Gaby not sleeping well?”
A pause, then: “I’ve been working very hard,” he said.
“Oh, dear. Are those things for me? Shall I take them?”
She put the roses in water, opened the Tiffany box, drew out a gold locket and chain.
“That’s lovely, thank you. Drink?”
“Yes. Yes, please. Bourbon, if you have it.”
She had always kept some for him; now she shook her head regretfully. “I’m so sorry, David; I don’t have any. None of my friends drink it. Wine?”
“Yes, very nice. Thank you.”
She poured him a glass of white wine and one for herself, sat down at the
small dining table, signalled to him to sit opposite her.
“I want to start a business,” she said.
“How exciting. What sort of business?”
“Travel.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, that would make sense.”
“I hope so. I’ve got quite a good idea. But I need some capital. About ten thousand pounds.”
“That doesn’t sound very much.”
“Oh, it’ll get me going. Pay for an office—I’ve spoken to my brother about that, an assistant’s salary, bit of promotion. My idea doesn’t require huge investment. It’s hopefully word of mouth, and I think I’ll get quite a lot of PR. But of course I’d like to ensure I could get some more if necessary. It would be a pity to see a good idea go down the pan for lack of capital.”
“So … where do you see it coming from in the first instance? Your bank?”
“Well, no. I don’t have any security, you see.”
“What about this place?”
“David! I rent it; you know I do.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Well—”
“No, I think I know where the money will come from.”
“Good. That’s splendid. Excellent. Where?”
“You.”
“Me!”
“Yes. Who’s got lots of money, I thought, who would like to invest in me? Who could afford to invest in me? And then I thought—who couldn’t afford not to invest in me?”
“Scarlett! Scarlett, I … I don’t have that sort of money.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
“And besides … it would be very dangerous.”
“Really?”
“Well … yes. I mean, I couldn’t slip that through on my cheque account. It would have to be formally done.”
“That would be all right. You could be a director if you like.”
More Than You Know Page 19
