“Scarlett, no, I’m sorry.”
“David, yes, I’m sorry. Otherwise … well, I’d hate to think of Gaby being upset at this point in her pregnancy.”
“Scarlett, this is blackmail.”
She smiled at him, happily.
“Yes, that’s right.”
Her idea was a very simple one. The big new thing was package holidays: to the sun. The English were sick of wet, windy beaches and inhospitable landladies; they wanted to go and lie on golden sands and swim in warm seas and swimming pools. And they were being offered something wonderfully simple from the big companies like Thomas Cook: one simple payment in sterling paid for a flight and two weeks in a hotel, including meals. The only extra costs were alcohol and shopping money.
Scarlett wouldn’t be taking on Thomas Cook, obviously. She would be running a travel club, which would book holidays that were several steps up from fourteen nights in the vast blocks being built all along the Costa Brava.
Members would be assured of smaller hotels, not very grand, all personally vetted—and she would certainly include her small taverna on Trisos. There were already horror stories about people arriving with their luggage at what were, literally, building sites; for their annual fee of, say, thirty pounds on top of the cost of their holidays, her clients would get absolute peace of mind. And the hotels would be asked for a small fee as well, to be included in her portfolio.
It would probably take a little time—and a fair bit of publicity—but she was absolutely sure it would be successful.
All she needed was the initial investment. And she knew she could get that. No trouble at all.
“I’ve got to go out, Jenny, I’m afraid. Leave you alone with him.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Miss Mullen. He can’t kill me, can he?”
“Well, he could,” said Louise, “but Mr. Simmonds will be in soon and he’ll protect you. And I won’t be long. Wish me luck.”
“Where are you going, if Mr. Shaw asks?”
“Tell him I’ve run off with the petty cash.”
“Yes, Miss Mullen.” There was a pause while the blue eyes grew even larger. “You’re not really, are you?”
“Wait and see,” said Louise.
She knew what was upsetting Matt this morning; he’d been to see yet another bank about financing his office factory scheme. And yet another bank had clearly turned him down.
He had become completely obsessed with his new project. Which was, Louise did think, very clever. To offer offices, ready-built, to any large company that might be looking to move out of London. He had established his areas quite swiftly, both to the west of London, the first north, in the direction of Ruislip—splendidly served by the central line—and the second due west, taking in Slough and Reading—both of which benefitted not only from a very good mainline service, but also from the large roads, and therefore bus and coach routes, leading to London Airport.
He had spent the best part of two weeks exploring both areas, and finally settled on a place called Barkers Park, due west of Slough. He had found an actual site, big enough for a development of a thousand staff, and established that planning permission was obtainable. It was ideal in every way; the only thing was the money required—around five to seven million, he said. “And then the construction costs would be much less than that, about two, two and a half million. Any investor worth his salt’ll come across with the money. Trust me, Jimbo; it’ll be like taking candy from a baby.”
But it was proving rather more difficult than that.
Louise was not running off with the petty cash; she was going to see a builder, Barry Floyd, who had just completed a ten-storey office block in Vauxhall; Louise had been retained as the letting agent. Floyd had become hugely successful over the previous ten years by the simple process of coming in ahead of time, if slightly overbudget, on every project he had worked on. Time being an even more expensive commodity than money, Floyd was greatly in demand and had work scheduled for up to two years ahead. He was still young—only thirty-five.
He was in fine form that morning, and when Louise had made her inspection, he invited her to join him for a coffee.
“I have a little something to celebrate,” he said, as they settled into a rather insalubrious café on the Kennington Road, “and if I thought you had time I would have invited you to join me for lunch at the Ritz.”
“And I’d have come,” said Louise.
“And would you now? Well, another time, perhaps.”
“Great. And what are you celebrating?”
“Two things. You see before you the chairman and managing director of Barry Floyd Ltd. As from today.”
“Well, that’s very good. And what’s the other thing?”
“My accountant tells me I am now officially a millionaire. And what a pity it is that so much of it will be going to that miserable creature in Number Eleven Downing Street.”
“Well … yes. Matt Shaw is always saying the same thing, but there’s not a lot you can do about that.”
“You might think that, but now the clever thing, I’m told, might be to find something to invest in. Somewhere to put the money where it would work.”
“What, the stock market, you mean?”
“Well, I’d rather go for a bit of excitement. With the odds a bit higher.”
Louise ordered a bacon butty, purely to gain herself some time, went to the filthy shack at the back of the café that called itself a toilet, and did a few sums on the notebook she always carried with her. Then she went back to Barry, took a deep breath, and started to talk.
“You what!”
Louise had often seen Matt angry; she had never been properly frightened by him. She was now.
“You told him! My idea! You just … just gave it away. Jesus Christ, Louise, you might as well have taken the front page of the Daily Mirror. You stupid bloody cow. What right did you think you had to do that? Why couldn’t you have asked Floyd to come in and see me?”
“Because I wanted to seize the moment,” said Louse, only slightly untruthfully. “Everything could have been lost if he’d gone off and found somewhere else to put his money, some other scheme.”
“That’s bollocks. You just wanted to muscle in on it like you do on everything. I’ve a bloody good mind to sack you right now—”
“OK.” Louise stood up. “Fine. A month, I think I’m on. I told you David Elstein’s looking for a junior partner.”
“Well, he’s very welcome to you. No doubt you’ll be hawking his confidential business round London in no time at all.”
“Matt,” said Louise, very calm suddenly, “you’ve tried every source in London for that money and just met a complete blank wall. And it’s because you haven’t got any money to put in yourself, or not nearly enough. Floyd’s prepared to build at cost. And put some cash in. You’d be able to borrow plenty more on that basis. Look, just talk to him, for heaven’s sake. He thinks your idea is exciting. Very. ‘Bloody brilliant’ was what he said. It’s the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. You’re just not recognising it because you’re so pigheaded and because I’ve provided it.”
“That’s bollocks.”
“It is not boll—Oh, Jenny, could we have some coffee, please. And Mr. Shaw would like some biscuits—those lemon puff ones. Now, Matt, just listen and think properly about what I’m saying. It really is the way forward; it would be a joint venture, with the profit shared on completion—”
“Yeah, and bloody Floyd would get the lion’s share. I’m not daft, Louise—”
“Oh, no, not daft at all. And besides, it would obviously be in a direct ratio to what each party contributed. If this project yields anything like what you’ve been saying, there’d be masses for everyone to share, including Jenny.”
He smiled suddenly. “Christ. Think of all the bloody biscuits she’d buy. Well, go on. Tell me some more.”
Louise emerged from his office half an hour later. She looked rather drained, but her eyes were very bright.<
br />
“Jenny, we’re going to have a very big meeting here this afternoon. At four o’clock. All three of us, and a gentleman called Mr. Floyd. So some really special biscuits, and I also want you to buy a bottle of champagne. Get the man in the off-licence to advise you, but something French. Here’s some cash. But don’t tell Mr. Shaw yet, OK? Just bring it in when I tell you.”
“Yes, all right, Miss Mullen. I’d best get some proper glasses as well, then. And what about some of those really posh cigarettes? The ones in a box?”
“Jenny,” said Louise, “you know something? We’re a team here. And you’re a very important part of it.”
“You’re not eating much, Eliza.”
“No. I’m not very hungry. Got any ciggies? I’ve run out.”
“Sure.”
She did seem very edgy, Maddy thought. “So … what’s the problem?”
“Oh, it’s … well, it’s … My period’s late.”
“Oh.” Maddy put her fork down. “How late?”
“Um … three weeks.”
“Oh, cripes. But … aren’t you on the Pill?”
“Well … yes. I am. Of course. But I forgot to take them to Paris. In all the excitement and panic and everything. And I thought it wouldn’t matter, because I certainly wouldn’t be having any sex over there. When I got back, I was nearly due—well, in another week—so I thought I’d wait and get it over and then start again.”
“OK. So you were having lots of reunion sex without any contraception?”
“Well … yes. I couldn’t suggest using something else, or he’d have gone nuts.”
“Hmmm. And so—don’t tell me—your period never arrived.”
“Well … no.”
“Cripes. You’re a prize idiot, aren’t you? Have you been to the doctor?”
“No. My gynaecologist’s been away. I’ve got an appointment on Tuesday. Then she’ll do a test. I mean … it’s probably just worry, holding everything up. It does, you know. I—Oh, God.” She lit another cigarette.
“Poor old thing, you are in a state, aren’t you? What do you think Matt would say?”
“I think he’d be pretty horrified. I mean, we’re not even living together. Yet.”
“But you will be—won’t you?”
“I … I suppose so. Anyway, the last thing I want to do is sort of blackmail him into it. Into fatherhood. I just know he’s not ready for it. He’s so busy, making his way and everything, and he’s got some incredible new scheme, but it’s a big risk; he could lose most of what he’s got—God, he’s such a hero, Maddy. When I think of Jeremy, everything just handed him on a plate, and Matt’s done it all himself … it’s extraordinary, really; I admire him so much.”
“But … if you are, you will tell him?”
“Oh, yes, of course I’ll tell him. I just hope I don’t have to. Probably I’m just … late.”
“Probably,” said Maddy.
“I hear you’ve become a client.” Louise grinned at Scarlett. “I’ve got a super place in mind for you. Small, but very nice, good area—just in Kensington, in the Old Brompton Road. It’s in a mews, really pretty. We can go now if you like. I’m free.”
“Fantastic. Thank you, Louise.”
Scarlett liked Louise: very much. She reminded her of Eliza, except that Louise was tougher, could have taught Eliza a thing or two about keeping Matt in order. Which increasingly he needed; he was becoming actually arrogant.
It was the twin successes, of course: first with his new business venture, the out-of-town offices, and then his conquest of Eliza. And how had he done that, Scarlett wondered, when she could have had anyone?
It was lovely, of course, and Scarlett was really, really pleased for him, but still a bit surprised. She couldn’t see him enjoying Eliza’s meteoric career, for instance. And Eliza was very vulnerable. She was emotionally young for her age, and while she did quite obviously adore Matt, it was rather too much for his own good, in Scarlett’s view. She just hoped he adored her back.
Louise was feeling very happy this morning; contracts were being drawn up for the new development partnership with Barry Floyd, and she was named as a director. They’d tried to elbow her aside, of course—well, Matt had, and she’d used her usual tactics, talking tough, threatening to leave. Valerie had most fortuitously just offered her the job of deputy managing director in her company, which actually Louise would have hated, dealing with personnel directors and a lot of women all day, instead of builders and developers and a lot of men. Louise didn’t exactly dislike women, but she was easier with men, the tougher the better; she found them more straightforward to deal with, and she perversely enjoyed parrying their attempts to belittle her and put her down. Particularly Matt …
She too worried about Eliza—whom she had now met a few times and liked and admired a lot—and Matt’s apparent high-handed treatment of her. There she was, this girl, born with a silver spoon in her mouth, as successful in her own field as Louise was in hers, trailing round after him, doing what he said. Not good for him; Louise knew that better than anybody. She understood him through and through, every awkward, arrogant, and—just occasionally she would admit, if only to herself—endearing bit of him.
The office she had for Scarlett was pronounced perfect: two rooms, one large, one small, both very light, plus a small kitchenette and loo.
“You can rent the garage beneath if you want it, or you could take it and let it, or just let us do that for you. I’d take it if I were you. Use it for your own car. If your business goes well, you’ll want to expand in no time, and if it doesn’t it’ll be an additional source of income.”
Scarlett said she’d take it.
“Thank you, Louise. Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’ve got a meeting in half an hour, back in West One. Can I give you a lift?”
“No, I’m cutting down to the terminal. I’m still employed by BOAC, will be for a couple of months. How about a deposit, contracts, all that sort of thing?”
“Oh, we’ll deal with that. I’ll let you know when we want some money.”
“Well, thanks. Oh, and when I get my travel club up and running, I’m offering a few complimentary memberships. Would you like one?”
“Yes, please! I think it’s a great idea, by the way. Really clever. You should do very well.”
“Well, I was lucky persuading someone to back me,” said Scarlett. “Couldn’t have done it otherwise.”
And she smiled, thinking of her backer, her reluctant, terrified backer. There was an expression about rough justice she seemed to remember; this, she felt, could be better described as smooth.
“Miss Clark?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Miss Clark, I have Mrs. Munroe on the phone for you. She wants to speak to you.”
“Oh … yes. Yes, thank you. Do put her through.”
Mrs. Munroe. Mrs. Munroe, Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. Fellow of the Royal College of Gynaecologists. Mrs. Munroe who held life-altering information in her hands …
“Good morning, Eliza. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, yes. Not sick or anything, if that’s what you mean.” (She was clinging to how well she felt; everybody was sick when they were pregnant, surely, and she didn’t even feel remotely nauseous.)
“Good. Well, that’s excellent. Sickness is such a curse in pregnancy. Although, of course, it’s very early days for you. It could change.”
Very early days. Oh. Oh, God.
“So … does that mean …?”
“Yes, Eliza, it’s positive. If you want to talk anything over with me, please do. I’m delighted to help.”
Was that code for something? Did she want to even let her mind glance in that direction? Oh, God, oh, God. Oh, God …
“Matt, can we have a talk, please?”
“Of course. But not right now.”
“No, of course not now. But … maybe tonight.”
“Yes, sure. What about?”
“Well … about … about …” God, what could she say? Get at least an idea of how he might react? Then, inspiration. “About my flat. The lease is about to expire and I—”
“Eliza, talk to Louise. She’s got a few residential properties on the side. She knows about leases. Sorry, got to go; Barry Floyd’s here.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
Well, what had she expected? That he would say, “Oh, don’t renew your lease; move in with me”? Or, “Let’s get somewhere together”? Not expected that, no. But—maybe—hoped for.
It was a clue, at least.
“Maddy, hi, it’s me. It’s positive.”
“Oh, God. Well … I suppose … anyway, what does Matt say?”
“I haven’t told Matt.”
“What!”
“He was rushing into a meeting.”
“Tell him tonight, then.”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“Promise!”
“Yes, I promise. Of course.”
“Matt—”
“Yes. God, I’m exhausted. And starving. Is there anything we can eat? Otherwise, let’s go out.”
“Um … well … no, there isn’t. But I do want to talk to you.”
“We can talk in the restaurant. Surely.”
“Yes, OK.”
“Meet me in the Soup Kitchen, the one near Harrods, in half an hour, OK?”
“Yes, OK.”
Over a bowl of vegetable soup, she tried again.
“Matt, now can we talk?”
“Oh—yes. All right. What, about this lease of yours?”
“Yes. And—”
“I’ve been thinking and”—Please, please say, “and I want you to move in with me” … “and I think we should get a place together.” But—“and I think you should just renew the lease on that flat. It’s very good value, and you’ll waste a lot of time and effort looking for somewhere else. Ask Louise to check the lease; she’ll know if it’s a good one, OK? Now. let me tell you about the meeting we had today, Barry Floyd and I with his builders, really promising …”
More Than You Know Page 20
