London looked at once more cheerful than Milan and less appealing. The sun was shining, to be sure, and the sky was blue, but the shop windows, the garish Christmas lights, the endless Christmas trees, looked tawdry and clichéd.
Eliza did, however, feel much more cheerful, somehow, leaving behind her the clawing remnants of her depression over the baby, full of optimism and plans.
She arrived back at the house midafternoon, and spent the rest of the day playing with Emmie, cooking dinner, tidying up Matt’s appalling squalor, washing her hair, and changing: nothing fancy, she decided—that would look as if she was trying too hard—just jeans and a shirt. She bathed Emmie at six and put her into her pyjamas and dressing gown, but told her she could stay up until Daddy got home.
“Unless it’s really late.”
“What’s really late?”
“Oh, Emmie, I don’t know. About eight o’clock.”
“That’s not really late. Ten is really late. And in the villa we were playing till eleven—”
“Emmie, I don’t want to hear about the villa. That was quite different. We were on holiday. At home eight is late for you. You’re tired, and anyway—”
“I want to see Daddy,” said Emmie, her small face setting firmly against her mother. “I’ve missed him.”
Eliza gave in; the little girl could always go to sleep on the sofa, and Matt would be pleased to see her whatever the time was.
She’d rung him to say she was home and he said he couldn’t say when he would be. He sounded cool, but not hostile. Maybe it would all be all right.
The biggest danger was that he would hear that Jeremy had been there at the villa, but she couldn’t possibly enlist Emmie as an accomplice; she would just have to tough it out.
He got home just before eight; she went out into the hall to greet him, her stomach heaving.
“Hallo,” she said, reaching up to kiss him.
“Hallo,” he said. He didn’t kiss her back, but he didn’t brush her away. His expression was impossible to read: blank, neither hostile nor welcoming, his eyes oddly wary.
“It’s … so nice to see you.”
“Daddy!” A small thunderbolt hurled itself across the hall and into Matt’s arms, covering his face with kisses. “I missed you so, so much. I love you so, so much.”
“I missed you too, Emmie. It’s lovely to have you home. What did you do? I want you to tell me all about it.”
“I had a lovely time and I’ve got a present for you. I got it at the airport.”
“The airport!” said Matt, laughing. “That sounds a bit last-minute to me.”
“No,” said Emmie, “it’s a beautiful picture. Of the Duomo.” Her pronunciation was perfect. “I chose it specially for you. It’s got a gold frame and everything.”
“Gold! It sounds wonderful. Where is it?”
“In my bedroom. I’ll get it.”
She ran up the stairs. Eliza’s eyes met Matt’s. To her surprise he was smiling at her. Emmie’s greeting had broken the chill.
“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” he said.
They all ate supper in the kitchen; Matt admired the picture and to a lesser degree the wallet and the tie Eliza had bought him.
“So,” he said to Emmie, “tell me what you did, and was it fun?”
“Some of the time,” she said.
Eliza froze.
“Yes, some of it was boring. Anna-Maria’s very boring.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” A huge yawn engulfed her face.
“Emmie,” said Eliza, “what about bed?”
“No, not till I’ve shown Daddy my new shoes.”
“New shoes!”
“Yes, I’ll show you. And a new dress. Wait there, Daddy.”
Eliza waited for her return, feeling sick.
But, “Mariella bought them for me,” was all she said. She was clearly more remorseful than she had let on about her Milanese adventure.
“And I’ve got another picture for you,” she said, producing it from her small flight bag. “One I did. It’s of the villa. Look. This is the back of the house, here. That’s a fountain.”
“Fountains! For God’s sake.”
“Yes, and that’s a maze. A … a minty maze.”
“Miniature, darling. We loved that maze, didn’t we, Emmie?”
“It’s a very good picture, Emmie,” said Matt.
“Yes, the man said so too.”
“The man? You mean Mr. Crespi?”
He refused to move into Italian even in the most minimal way. Eliza sat, her fork poised, her mouth dry with terror.
“No, not him, the other man—”
“What other man?”
This was it then: the end of her marriage.
“The man who looked after me.”
“Oh,” said Eliza, relief surging through her, “oh, you mean Bruno. He didn’t really look after you, Emmie; Anna-Maria did, didn’t she?”
“Bruno was much nicer. Bruno was fun.”
“Bruno is Giovanni’s valet,” said Eliza. “He and Emmie hit it off, rather.”
“I see. So what else did you do with Bruno?”
“Played snap. I taught him; he didn’t know. And ate in the kitchen, with him and Lucia.”
“Lucia? Another servant?” asked Matt.
“Yes. The cook.”
“Dear God in heaven. So … what’s this blue stuff? The sky? I thought it was foggy?”
“No. It’s the lake. And it was only foggy when Mummy went to the theatre. Till then it was really nice.”
“And what else did you do?”
“Oh … I don’t know.” Emmie had every child’s dislike of being interrogated. “Will you come and read me a story?”
“Of course I will.”
They disappeared, Matt without a backward glance at Eliza. No prizes for guessing who his favourite person was.
“Welcome home to you too, Eliza,” she said, and started clearing the table.
He was gone a long time; when she went up to find him, he was stretched out half-asleep on the bed.
“Think I might sleep next door,” he said, standing up hastily, avoiding her eyes. “Got a very early start.” And he moved into the spare room. She didn’t argue—in fact, she was grateful; she felt exhausted and very tense. Well … so far she’d got off very lightly. But it was without doubt odd.
Several very chilly days followed. Eliza lurched from anxiety to relief, then hurt and all the way back again. He wasn’t even acting suspicious. Just … odd. Working late—which meant at least there was no more questioning of Emmie. But very, very distant, and very, very cold.
On Saturday, she had to take Emmie to a party after lunch; when she got back, he seemed to have disappeared. She looked in the sitting room and the study, and sighed, assuming he had gone out without telling her. Then she heard his voice calling her.
“Eliza! I’m up here.”
He was in the bedroom, in bed. Naked. Sitting up and grinning at her, half-embarrassed.
“Oh,” she said, “oh. I thought—”
“What did you think?”
“I thought … well, you didn’t … didn’t like me anymore.”
“Now, why on earth should you think that?”
“You haven’t exactly been acting pleased to see me.”
“Eliza … look, sorry if I’ve got it wrong, but it was you who went off to Milan, saying it would cheer you up, you who were late back. I’m a simple sort of chap; that didn’t exactly tell me you wanted to be with me.”
“I’m … I’m sorry, but—”
“Look,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “look, I think it’s starting-again time.”
“But—”
“Eliza, I’m sitting here stark bollock naked. Waiting for you. Can’t spell it out clearer than that. Why do you have to argue about everything? Emmie’s out; we haven’t really spent any time together since you got back. Don’t you want to come and join me?”
S
he looked at him, feeling almost with surprise a rush of tenderness, and then of desire, the wonderfully powerful clenching deep within her that she had almost forgotten, suddenly longing to be held, kissed, stroked, played on.
“Oh,” she said, “oh, yes, Matt, I do. More than more than, I do.”
Later, lying beside him, her body still throbbing, but sweetly released for the first time since the summer, she lay smiling at him, her eyes exploring his.
“That was so lovely,” she said.
He looked at her very seriously.
“Was it really?”
“It really, really was.”
“Well, hallelujah!” he said. She looked at him sharply, fearing irony, but he smiled suddenly.
“Welcome back,” he said. “And I don’t mean from Milan. Although it obviously did you good. I have to admit that.”
“Thank you. And yes, it did,” she said, thinking that in a million years he would never understand how or why, and how dangerous such an explanation might be.
“Love me?” said Matt, rather absentmindedly kissing her shoulder.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I do. You?”
“Oh, I love me too,” he said.
She remained terrified of Matt finding out about Jeremy, but as the days went past, Emmie said nothing more about Milan; as it receded from her memory behind the excitement of Christmas, Eliza began to relax. They were happier than they had been for months, and that was enough for both of them for the time being.
And certainly too much to risk by confronting another matter: a suggestion from Jeremy as she had chatted to him and Timothy over breakfast following the hair-raising drive to the villa, as the unfortunate Bruno was borne away to play snap with Emmie once more.
“So,” Jeremy had said, “what are you doing, work-wise?”
“Nothing,” she said, and then, too quickly: “I didn’t want to. Not while Emmie was small. I think she needs me at home.”
“Most admirable. Not what you used to say.”
“No. I know. But … I’m not who I used to be.”
“I think you are. In some ways.” He smiled at her; she smiled easily back. “Anyway, now she’s at school?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll be wanting to go back.”
“I want to,” she said, “but Matt … That is, I … We’re not sure—”
“And perhaps you’ll be having other babies.”
“Yes,” she said, “perhaps.” And as always happened at such a point in the conversation, the tears came, try as she might to stop them, and one fell rather dramatically on the tablecloth, followed by another.
“Sorry,” she said, “so sorry, Jeremy.”
Timothy cleared his throat and excused himself, hurried off; living abroad had left his English reserve untouched, she thought. “Tell me about it,” Jeremy said gently, and she did, and he was sweet and kind and seemed to understand, but when she said she had been quite depressed, he said, “Maybe working would do you good.”
“It … might do. Yes. But … hard to organise. Matt’s very against nannies. And the school day isn’t very long.”
“Mmm. There’s one thing you might consider. It’s something I inaugurated in New York and suggested they do in London.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, we employ a fashion consultant who works with a creative group on a project. Once they’ve decided whether an ad is going to be TV or press, she advises them on what they’d be wearing. And then sources the clothes. And goes along to the shoots. Books the makeup artists and sometimes the models. How does that sound?”
“Utterly wonderful,” said Eliza.
“And it’s maybe two days a week. They’d love you, having been in the forefront of it all. You’d be perfect. Think about it.”
“But … why should a complete stranger of a creative director want to hire someone suggested by you? I mean, London and New York, pretty far apart. Surely.”
“Well, yes. But I am coming back to London. Early next year. So straightaway after Christmas, call me. OK? Don’t forget.”
She would not forget. No danger of that. Whether she actually would do it was extremely doubtful. Her truce with Matt was far too important to her.
It arrived by a rather circuitous route: a letter addressed to Miss Scarlett, c/o Demetrios on Trisos, enclosed in an envelope sent by Demetrios to her office address.
She opened it, puzzled, pulled out the contents, read it several times over and then set it on her desk and sat smiling at it.
Miss Scarlett
Bristow and Baring, Publishers,
request the pleasure of your company
at a party to launch the publication of
Favourite French Journeys by Mark Frost.
Six p.m., the Gondoliers Room, Savoy Hotel,
January 20, 1970.
Goodness. He must quite have wanted her to be there. To have gone to that much trouble.
How exciting. How interesting. How …
Then she remembered Mrs. Frost. No doubt she would be there. Well, it would be interesting to meet her, she supposed.
It would also be interesting to go to a publishing party. She’d have to ask Eliza what to expect. And what to wear.
She pulled a sheet of her letterhead paper towards her (“Scarlett Shaw, Exclusive Travellers’ Club”) and wrote to tell them that Miss Scarlett would be delighted to accept their kind invitation. Now at least he would know her address. And she might even get a bit of free publicity in one of his articles in the Daily News. So … who cared about Mrs. Frost?
The day before they left for Summercourt for Christmas, Eliza and Emmie went to visit Heather and Coral. They hadn’t been there for a while, and Eliza had been worrying about them. She hadn’t been much of a friend to Heather, had failed her entirely over her landlord; she felt guilty. They had bought them presents—an Amanda Jane doll for Coral, with lots of clothes, and a huge, thick knitted cardigan for Heather. She’d also brought a bottle of port for Alan. All men liked port, and it wasn’t a flashy present, not like champagne.
“Now, look,” she said to Emmie warningly as they pulled up outside, “you are not to talk about how we’ve been to stay in a palace.”
Emmie gave her a withering look.
“Of course I won’t,” she said.
Sometimes, Eliza thought, she didn’t give Emmie enough credit. She was actually a rather amazing little girl.
Heather opened the front door, looking exhausted.
“Hallo,” she said, “it’s so lovely to see you. Come in. If you can face it.”
The house smelt bad. Coral was clinging to her mother’s legs, suddenly shy. Emmie was having none of it.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing Coral’s hand. “We’ve got a present for you.”
“Emmie,” said Eliza, “it’s a Christmas present. Not for today.”
“I want to give it to her today. Then we can play with it.”
“I think that sounds like quite a good idea,” said Heather apologetically. “She’s so sick of all her toys.”
They went upstairs. The room looked smaller and dingier than Eliza remembered. Heather had obviously made a great effort, and there was a small tree in the window and some homemade paper chains strung on the picture rails, but it was cold, and there was a damp patch on the ceiling.
“Yes, it’s new,” said Heather, “from the sink in the flat one floor up. They’ve gone, and I keep asking the landlord to turn the tap off completely, but he says it can’t be done.”
“Oh, Heather. Any progress?”
“Only with this,” said Heather, patting her bump. “Growing very nicely, he is. We can’t find anywhere else, Eliza, and I think we may have to bite the bullet and go and live with Alan’s mum. And I don’t want to go there; I really don’t.”
“What about your mum?”
“No, she’s only got a two-bedroom flat, in one of those new high-rise things.”
“Oh, dear,” said Eliza helple
ssly. “Have you got your name down for a council house?”
“Yeah,” said Heather with a noise that was half sigh, half laugh, “and I should think we’ve just risen from the very bottom to nearly the very bottom. They said two years minimum, and I know what that means.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Eliza. “And how do you feel?”
“Tired. Alan’s so bad tempered, and saying he doesn’t know how we’re going to manage. Nor do I. Oh, I’m sorry, Eliza, sorry to be such a misery. How are you; are you feeling any better?”
“So much better,” said Eliza, “yes. Of course, I still feel very sad, but I can cope with it now. And it was you who set me on the road to recovery; it really was … People keep asking me if I’m going to have another, but I just can’t face it. Not yet. I’m even thinking of going back to work. Not full-time, but … well, something’s cropped up that would be wonderful.”
“What does Matt have to say about that?”
“I haven’t told him,” said Eliza simply.
“Scarlett?”
“Oh … David. Hallo.”
She tried to sound cool and unwelcoming, but it was difficult.
“I just called to say happy Christmas.”
“Right. Well, thank you. Happy Christmas, David.”
“What are you doing?”
“Oh … spending it with my family, of course. Should be fun.”
“Would that include your clever brother?”
“On Boxing Day, yes. I’m going down to their ancestral pile. What are you doing?”
“Oh, it’s very much all pulling together for Christmas. Mother insists on everyone being there, and I think that will be good for the kids. But after that I’m heading for London. You wouldn’t … wouldn’t consider seeing me, I suppose? Just for a drink? I’ve missed you so much, Scarlett. Can’t we be friends, at least?”
Scarlett could feel herself quite literally weakening; she fought it down.
More Than You Know Page 38
