“Of course,” said Scarlett. “I’ve taken up far too much of your time already. And thank you so much.”
“Please don’t mention it. And … perhaps on Trisos, then? Are you returning this year?”
“Oh … I don’t know.”
“I’ll be there in October. My house is supposed to be finished then. God, it’s taken a long time. Well, good-bye.”
The surprising smile again, and then he was gone. She felt a little odd. Shaken up. As if someone had given all her feelings a physical jolt.
“He’s so charming, isn’t he?” said the manager. “And such a wonderful writer, don’t you think?”
“Oh—yes. Wonderful.”
“He’s gone to meet Mrs. Frost now,” said the manager. “Have you met her? She’s the most brilliant poetess.”
“Um … no.”
“Such an amazing woman. And he is so devoted to her.”
Scarlett resisted slamming down the second book with great difficulty.
She walked down Piccadilly, feeling absurdly depressed. Another bloody married man, devoted to his wife. It wasn’t fair. It really, really wasn’t.
“Eliza, hi! It’s Annunciata. Have you heard the news?”
“Of course not,” said Eliza, “when did I ever hear any news? Did the pope elope?”
This was a well-worn joke of theirs.
“Much more exciting than that. Jack’s leaving.”
“No! Oh, my God. Where’s he going?”
“Back to Fleet Street. He says he can’t stand all the hormones any longer. Typical Jack, apparently he hasn’t even got anywhere to go yet.”
“Wow. So how do you feel about that?”
“Depressed,” said Annunciata. “It’s the end of this magazine as we know it.”
Eliza felt it was the end of her life as she knew it as well. Charisma would live on, no doubt; other editors would arrive and mould it to their own visions, and it would be quite possibly perfectly successful, but it would be different. The extraordinary fusion of Beckham’s Fleet Street brilliance and belligerence, the slightly effete intellectualism of people like Annunciata, and the stunning visual precocity of the art department, and indeed Eliza’s own, had made of Charisma much more than a magazine. It was a phenomenon, watched, wondered at, admired, and imitated, a meteor blazing through the sixties skies; it was of its time absolutely, both created by and contributing to it, and its like would not be seen again.
Eliza knew she had been privileged and blessed to have been part of it; it had made her as she had to a small degree made it; but its time, along with the decade that had spawned it, was drawing to a close.
The perfect symmetry would become a memory, and it made her very sad.
Jimbo had given his notice. Or rather, as Louise remarked with some asperity, he had jumped before he was pushed, Matt tiring of his ongoing absences due to his ever-increasing familial responsibilities. These had come to a head one afternoon when he had been summoned home to look after his small son while his wife took her mother to hospital to have a broken arm set.
Matt, who had arranged a big meeting with an important new prospect, was roaring at full throttle.
“So where’s that waste of space with nothing between his ears that he calls his assistant?”
“At a site meeting,” said Louise, caught as so often in the cross fire.
“Jesus wept.”
“He might be able to help. Jesus, I mean, not Terry.”
“Not the time for jokes, Louise.”
He walked out of her office shouting for his secretary, a determinedly cheerful girl with stout legs and a steady nerve. “Sally, get Jimbo for me, would you. He’s at home, it seems. And put it through to my office.”
Louise, walking past Jenny’s desk, heard the familiar roaring coming from behind Matt’s closed doors and winked at her.
Matt would have been less angry with Jimbo had this been the first time he had fled home at a snap of Roberta’s long, elegant fingers. But it was the latest in a long series of demands for his presence at bar mitzvahs, birthdays, and, of course, the Friday suppers.
“You’re supposed to be my partner, Jimbo, and you’re not playing fair,” Matt said. “And you might remind Roberta that it’s your salary that pays for that house she lives in, two kitchens and all, and she might find things less cosy without it.”
Three weeks later, Roberta called Jimbo to say that Mikey, their oldest child, was running a temperature and was asking for him; Jimbo looked at his life and prospects in his father-in-law’s firm, and made his decision.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” he said, “very sorry.”
“You will be,” said Matt briefly. “What notice are you on?”
“Six months, I think. But I won’t be working it out. Soon as you can let me go, I start with the old man.”
“What old man?”
“Roberta’s dad. He’s offered me a partnership and a big stake in the firm.”
“Well, that’s bloody convenient, isn’t it? Overnight, was it, this offer?”
“No,” said Jimbo, “no, over a year ago. But I didn’t want it. Still don’t. What I do want is a quiet life, and Roberta isn’t going to give me one until I join the family firm. Sorry, Matt. But … that’s married life, I suppose.”
Victor Johnson looked at David Berenson across his desk. His expression was the mixture of self-confidence and cunning that had made him one of the most successful divorce lawyers in the Southern states of America.
“I’m glad you told me all that, David,” he said, “and under the circumstances, your wife hiring a private eye, it’s a pity you didn’t before. I think you need to get this girl on your side. How does she feel about you now?”
“Not too warmly.”
“Right. I mean, it’s a pretty dodgy scenario, if it got out. Especially your giving her that money.”
“I didn’t have any choice,” said David defensively.
“No, and you can warn her that blackmail is a crime. But … actually, it is checkmate on that one. So see if you can talk her into at least keeping shtum. Maybe she needs a little more money for her business? Could that be the way forward?”
“It could be,” said David. “That’s very clever.”
“Right. See what you can do.” Johnson smiled his catlike smile. His nickname was not Victory Johnson for nothing.
Eliza asked Matt whether he was going to make Louise his partner; he told her he didn’t want to talk about it.
“Why?”
“Well, I assume you’re concerned with her feminist rights. Making sure she gets them.” His eyes across the table were wary.
“And if I was?”
“You know my views on all that.”
“What, that women don’t really belong in the real world? That they’re there to breed from and cook and look after you lot.”
“That’s a fair summary,” he said.
Eliza had had a difficult day with Emmie and she suddenly felt angry.
“I know you’re trying to wind me up,” she said, “but I still find that offensive. I just don’t understand you, Matt. Louise is as important to that company of yours as Jimbo ever was.”
“Yes and no,” he said. “Viewed from outside, which is important, she certainly isn’t. You’d never get a huge deal signed on her say-so. People wouldn’t have the trust in her.”
“But you could help change that. If you made her partner now.”
“And why should I want to change it? It’s the way the world works, Eliza. You’ll never get women running it, never, and I for one don’t think they should.”
“Because they should be at home having babies?”
“That’s what you’re ultimately there for, for God’s sake.”
“No, Matt, it isn’t. The things are not mutually exclusive. I hate it that you talk like that, and I hate how it’s affected my life and what you’ve made me give up.”
“I wondered when we’d get round to that.”
The row was long and bitter, ending only when Matt appeared in the doorway of the spare room, where Eliza had retired as she increasingly did, saying he was sorry and he loved her. And that he would try at least to see things more sympathetically. “Although I still think it’d be wrong, you leaving Emmie when she’s so young.”
“So I’ve just about gathered,” she said, but she managed at least the shadow of a smile.
“And meantime, I have a little idea for right now.”
“I’d sort of gathered that too. And what if I don’t go along with it …”
“I shall try very hard to make you,” he said, “and if I fail, I’ll try some more.”
He sat down on the bed, leaned forward to kiss her. Reluctantly she felt herself respond, and then pushed him away.
His head dropped to her breasts; he began to tease her nipples with his tongue, angry still that she pushed him off, but not before the familiar stabbings of pleasure began, the softening within her; he sensed it and moved his head down to her stomach, began to kiss her there.
“I want you,” he said. “I want you so much. So much more than more than. I’m so sorry, Eliza. Sorry I’m such a brute.”
She giggled suddenly. “You don’t really think that. That you’re a brute.”
“No, of course I don’t. But I am sorry to have upset you so much.”
“You always win, don’t you?” she said, slithering down in the bed, holding out her arms, “always, always.”
“So far,” he said.
Afterwards, he told her he hoped she knew how much he loved her. Eliza said she didn’t actually and asked him if he realised the only time he told her that was in precisely those circumstances. “You know, after the row, after the sex, when you’re feeling sleepy and soppy.” And he was so shocked that he put the light on, struggled to sit up, and stared at her with an expression of such acute remorse that she laughed.
“That’s not true, is it?” he said, and, “Matt, it’s totally true,” she said. “Try saying it at some ordinary time. Like breakfast.”
“I never see you at breakfast.”
“That’s true. OK. When we’re watching telly.”
“You’re always asleep.”
“That’s true too. OK, then when we’re in the park. With Emmie.”
“I’ll try to remember.”
She actually forgot all about it, but the next time they were feeding the ducks in Richmond Park, he suddenly took her hand and said, “Eliza, I love you.”
“Oh, my God,” she said, touched beyond anything, “oh, my God, you remembered. Matt Shaw, I love you too.”
“Good. Right, don’t expect it every time, will you?”
Jack Beckham had invited Eliza to his leaving party.
Her first reaction to the invitation was surprise that he should have remembered her; her second delight that he wanted her there; and her third a serious doubt as to whether she actually wanted to go.
She had been feeling increasingly demoralised. In theory her life was great, and most days would see her determinedly setting herself to various tasks: finding the new house that Matt wanted—she’d made an offer on a four-storey beauty in Fulham, quite near the river—checking out schools, taking Emmie to ballet classes and music clubs and riding lessons, buying her clothes, and, of course, seeing her friends. Ah, yes. Her friends. The girls with whom she had grown up, middle-aged beyond their years, all braying versions of their own mothers, married to carbon copies of their own fathers; quite often she would feel a sort of claustrophobia, a despair at the life she had found herself locked into, and make her excuses and leave.
Her only real friend was Heather. She genuinely looked forward to their weekly meetings at a mother-and-baby group and to the picnics and outings to the swings that they shared when the weather was nice enough. She admired Heather more than anyone she had ever met. She was so brave, so cheerful, and a wonderful mother.
And every time Eliza dropped the pair of them off at Heather’s flat, she looked back at her standing in the doorway with its peeling paint and half-broken handle, smiling cheerfully and waving, Coral at her side, the smell of dustbins and lavatories mingling in the air, especially in the summer, and wondered how on earth she could ever complain about anything.
What really made up her mind was Matt’s offering to babysit; it was so big a concession that she felt she simply couldn’t refuse.
So she bought a new dress and had her hair done and took a taxi from home, feeling like a proper person again, and then had to stand outside in the street for several minutes, gathering her courage to go in.
Once inside, she stood there absorbing it all, feeling quite drunk just on the atmosphere: the shrieks of recognition, the kisses, the hugs, the bitchy remarks—“Does that girl really think her legs deserve that dress?”
“Time he got a different boyfriend; that one makes him look quite old.”
The air was thick with the smell of smoke, marijuana, and expensive perfume. She scarcely moved for two hours: just stood there being kissed and embraced and given drinks and told how wonderful she looked and how much they missed her.
Jack came over and gave her a bear hug. “Stupid girl,” he said, “stupid, stupid cow. I might not be leaving if I still had you here; do you know that?”
“Oh, yes, course I do,” said Eliza.
“Want to work for me on the News?”
“I didn’t realise you were going to the News.”
“I am. Deputy editor, with a special brief on features. Which means fashion. I could pay you four times what you got here. And make you properly famous.”
“Oh, Jack, no.”
“Why not? The dwarf must be nearly at school now.” He called children dwarves.
“No, ’fraid not. Anyway, I’m planning on another one soon.”
“Oh, Jesus! You can’t tell me you enjoy looking after them. More than you enjoyed all this?”
Eliza looked round the room, the teeming, colorful, brilliant room, at the people who made her laugh and excited her and inspired her, the people who thought like she did, wanted what she did, cared about what she did, the people she felt she belonged with, and looked up at him very steadily.
“Not exactly enjoy,” she said, “no.”
“So … why?”
“Oh, Jack, I don’t know. I’m trying to be good. That’s all.”
“Waste of a fucking life,” he said, “if you ask me.”
When she got home, Matt was rather surprisingly still up.
“Hallo,” he said. He looked at her warily. “Good time?”
“Yes, very.”
“You’re much earlier than I thought.”
“Am I? Why are you still up? You said you were going to bed early.”
“I know. I … just thought you might want to chat,” he said, “when you got in. Tell me about it.”
“Oh.” She felt rather disoriented suddenly. This wasn’t like him.
“You must … you must miss it,” he said, slightly aggressively. “I do realise that. I’m not completely stupid.”
“Oh,” she said again.
“I mean … well, I can see it’s a struggle for you. Sometimes. Well, I just wanted to let you know I know. And that I … I appreciate it.”
“Oh, Matt,” said Eliza, sitting down beside him, her eyes filling with tears, “that is just the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Blimey! I don’t do very well, in that case. I do love you, you know,” he said suddenly. “I really, really love you. More than you might think.”
“And I love you,” she said, “more than more than you might think.”
“That’s OK then. Shall we … you know, shall we go to bed?”
“I think that’d be a very good idea,” she said.
It was at times like this that she knew why she had married him.
A meeting with the trustees and Sarah, Charles, and Eliza was arranged for a fortnight’s time. “Will you come, Matt?” said Eliza. “I’d so lik
e you to be there.”
“I’ll see. What’s the date? No, sorry, got a big meeting at Slough.”
“Can’t you change it?”
“No, I can’t. You’ll be fine with Charles. Besides, I might say something inappropriate.”
“Like what?”
“Like I thought putting in modern windows would be a jolly good idea. Help to sell it, even.”
“Oh, do shut up,” said Eliza. “It can’t be sold; that’s the whole point—you know it is. Somehow they’ve got to find someone who satisfies the terms of the trust. And there just isn’t anyone.”
“Sounds like a very badly thought-out trust to me. As I’ve said before.”
“I know, I know. But there must be some way. The lawyers will just have to find it.”
“Not a lot of use, lawyers, in my experience. One of the reasons my business does what you might call moderately well is having as little to do with them as possible.”
“How well does it do?” asked Eliza suddenly. “I mean, how much money have you got?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well … I just thought … I mean, we never actually discussed …”
“Oh, no,” he said, “oh, no, I’m not putting my hard-earned cash into that mausoleum. The words good after bad come to mind. And besides, if I did, I’d almost certainly want to do all sorts of things you wouldn’t like. No, sorry, Eliza; I’ll help do up some little place for your mum, course I will, but that’s the limit.”
“Yes, all right,” said Eliza sadly.
Charles said he would buy them all lunch on the day of the meeting. “I’ve booked a table at the Savoy, give Mummy a bit of a treat.”
“That’s very kind. Can you afford it?”
“Eliza, I want to do it. OK?”
Eliza woke up feeling almost frightened.
“I feel as if a great piece of myself is somehow going to be taken away from me,” she said to Matt at breakfast. He told her not to be so melodramatic.
“It’s only a house,” he said, getting up and giving her a brief kiss. “You’ve got to remember that. I know that’s not how you see it, but that’s the fact. Got to go now. See you tonight. Does your mum want to come and stay here? You could show her the Fulham house tomorrow, cheer her up a bit.”
More Than You Know Page 29
