“I don’t … I don’t see how we can.”
“Why not? That was the best thing about our relationship—well, one of the best things; I can think of a few others. We had a wonderful friendship; we had fun; we talked about everything under the sun.”
She remembered those conversations, those long, funny, fascinating conversations. She hadn’t had many like that since.
“Well,” she said finally. “I’ll … I’ll see. I might be away. I’m considering getting into the skiing market—”
“Oh, marvellous idea. Maybe I could help. I know Gstaad really well. And Cortina d’Ampezzo.”
“Oh,” she said, tempted beyond endurance, “oh … well, perhaps. Call me when you get to London.”
“I will. I really have missed you. I wish you’d believe me.”
“I’ll try,” she said lightly. “Bye, David. Enjoy your family Christmas.”
She put the stress on the word family and hoped he wouldn’t miss the irony.
“Bye, Scarlett. Enjoy yours.”
She put the phone down and sighed. Bastard he might be. Bastard he was. But the fact remained that she had spent some of the happiest times of her life with him. It was very tempting …
A lunch is the most dangerous of assignations. It presents a charmingly innocent face, a guileless smile; it takes place in daylight, in the presence of many others; it ends with a seemly return to the workplace, to the home, to workmates, to spouses.
It teases, to be sure; it makes light, flirtatious promises; it amuses; an invitation to it charms, flatters, even intrigues. But it does not threaten; the mention of it does not alarm.
Thus: “It’s only a lunch,” Eliza Shaw told herself as she drove to meet Rob Brigstocke, the new creative director of KPD, at the Guinea in Burton Lane. “It’s only a lunch,” argued Scarlett Shaw as she walked through the frosty sunshine to the Grosvenor House hotel on Park Lane for an unexpected assignation with David Berenson. And: “It’s only a lunch,” purred Mariella Crespi as she stepped into her limo outside the Pierre hotel and directed it to the Plaza just across the road—for she did not want her hair to be blown about, nor her nose turned red when she was to sit across a table from Jeremy Northcott …
Why was she doing this, why? Eliza wondered. Was she quite mad? What kind of self-deluding recklessness had seen her agreeing to meet Rob Brigstocke that day; to arrange for Emmie to be out for tea lest it overran; to get her hair cut, to buy some new boots, and stand in Smith’s for an hour, flicking through Vogue and Queen and Nova and Charisma, lest she should have missed out on some vital new fashion trend or look? When they had had the happiest Christmas at Summercourt, when she had never felt more hopeful about her marriage, when the fear of Emmie’s mentioning Jeremy’s name and describing their stay in Milan, the game of hide-and-seek, had all but disappeared, and she and Matt had even begun to talk tentatively about starting another baby “maybe later in the year”?
But Jeremy had sent her a note in the New Year saying he hoped she was feeling better, and that she might like to consider his proposition, as he called it.
“You’ll be getting a call about it,” he said, “but, of course, no pressure of any kind. Just say no, although we would all be the losers for it. It was lovely to see you. Hide-and-seek was a particular joy. I’ve missed you a lot. Much love, Jeremy.” All written in his black-inked scrawling hand, and signed off with a couple of large kisses. She couldn’t bear to throw it away, so clearly did it speak of all that she had left behind: professional success, fun, and the sheer joy of being professionally valued. She hid it in the base of her Carmen roller set. Matt would never find it there.
And then waited for the call. If it never came it would be a relief. Of course.
Rob Brigstocke rang her in the middle of January. He sounded slightly wary.
“I’m told by the big white chief that you could help us. He says I should talk to you. Over lunch, perhaps.”
“I’m not sure if I can help you,” said Eliza, “but talking is always fun.”
It was only lunch.
The Guinea and the Piggy was rather dark, quite small, and much beloved by the advertising trade in general.
“Eliza Shaw,” she said to the maître d’. “I’ve come to meet Rob Brigstocke.”
“Ah, madam, I remember you as Eliza Clark, don’t I? The fashion editor?” he asked, smiling at her. She was enchanted. Somebody hadn’t forgotten her.
“You do,” she said. “Lovely to see you again. Anyway … is Mr. Brigstocke here?”
“He is not. I am so sorry. Would you like to wait at the table …?”
“Oh … yes, all right. No message?”
He shook his head. “Can I offer you a drink?”
“Oh … yes, please. Do you do champagne by the glass?”
He shook his head regretfully. “I am so sorry. I could get you a bottle—”
“Oh, why not? Veuve Clicquot, if you have it.”
She was beginning to feel cross, and more herself than she could remember for years.
She had bought the Evening Standard and was reading it, engrossed, thinking what a brilliant fashion editor Barbara Griggs was, and on her second glass of champagne when Rob Brigstocke finally arrived. She heard him before she saw him, a public school accent, roughed up to suit the current trend. “Eliza? Eliza Shaw?” And she looked up rather slowly, anxious to show him she didn’t expect to be kept waiting. What she saw was … well, it was pretty good: thick, dark blond hair, a slightly boyish face covered in freckles, with rather heavily lashed hazel eyes—he’d have made quite a pretty girl, really, she thought, and wondered whether he was gay.
She looked at her watch; it said five to one. She waited for his apology; it didn’t come.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m Eliza Shaw. Are you Rob Brigstocke?”
“Might I be someone else?”
“Well, yes, actually,” she said. “Considering you were meant to be here twenty-five minutes ago. You could be a messenger. A substitute lunch companion. A—”
“Sorry,” he said, sounding completely uncontrite. “I was held up by some queen of a photographer.” Not gay then.
“You could have phoned the restaurant.”
“I could, but I didn’t. I thought that would waste more time. Anyway, I see you have made yourself at home.” He indicated the ice bucket and the champagne.
“Yes. Well, are you going to stay? Or have you got to go back to your photographer?”
“No, no, he’s gone.”
He sat down and looked at the bottle, lifted it out himself. She liked that too; she could never get that waving the waiter over, as if pouring the wine was some kind of mystic art.
“I can see you like the best,” he said, filling one of the white wine glasses to the rim.
“Yes, I do.” She was certainly not going to apologize, if that was what he expected.
“That’s something. We need the best. I believe you know Jeremy Northcott quite well.”
“Yes, I do. Quite well.”
“He says you’re what we need. I can only take his word for that, of course. Especially as he hasn’t worked here for five years, and, as I understand it, neither have you.”
“Look,” said Eliza, feeling her temper rising. “I didn’t ask to have lunch with you. You rang me. Jeremy suggested that; as far as I can understand it, none of it’s my fault.”
“Yes, all right,” he said, sounding half-irritated, half-amused. “I was just making the point that I need to reassure myself that you’re what we need. That I run the department, not Jeremy. It’s down to me who I hire. If you’re right, then that’s great. If you’re not …” He shrugged. “No hard feelings. I hope. Got any examples of your work on you?”
Eliza felt a flicker of rage, which grew into a hot white flame, soaring through her. How dare he insult her like this? She, who had been acknowledged one of the finest fashion editors in London, if not the world? How could he not have at least done his homework, looked
up some old issues? How could he imply she was under consideration only because she was some kind of past girlfriend of the boss? And how dare he not even show her the most basic courtesy of turning up to lunch on time?
“If you don’t want to talk to me, Mr. Brigstocke, that’s absolutely fine; it makes no difference to me. I didn’t ask you to get in touch with me, and I certainly didn’t ask Jeremy Northcott to put me forward.”
“Now look,” he said, “I’m perfectly prepared to consider you for this job. But given that you didn’t even think to bring any of your work with you—”
“Ye-es?” she said slowly.
“And that Jeremy didn’t give more than the slightest clue as to the sort of skills you could bring to the table—”
“Yes?”
“Well, you must see I’m being asked to take an awful lot on trust.”
“No,” she said, “no, not really. Because I would have thought you would have been professional enough to do some research on my work yourself, before putting me through this farce. Probably best if I go now, actually, not waste any more of your time. Or mine, come to that. Very nice champagne, thank you—”
“I don’t think I had much choice in that either,” said Rob Brigstocke.
“If you’d been here on time, as I was, you’d have had plenty of choice,” said Eliza, standing up, “but you weren’t, and you don’t seem to feel you have to apologize for that either. Will you tell Jeremy what’s happened or shall I?”
“No doubt you will,” he said. “You seem to have his ear.”
“That is a repulsive thing to say,” said Eliza, “and I do assure you, I wouldn’t consider working for you now if you offered me a thousand pounds a day and unlimited supplies of Veuve Clicquot. Good afternoon, Mr. Brigstocke.”
She walked out, rather pleasingly aware that the other occupants of the restaurant had greatly enjoyed their exchange.
David had said he would book a table for one o’clock; Scarlett was there at quarter past, determined to make him wait, only to find a message waiting for her to say he was desperately sorry; he’d been delayed, but there was champagne at the table and he’d be there by one thirty.
She was tempted to walk out, and indeed as the clock said one twenty-eight, she looked up from the file she had been pretending to study and stood up—to see Mark Frost standing in front of her.
“Miss Scarlett,” he said, smiling in apparently genuine pleasure, “how lovely to see you. How are you, and have you been to Trisos lately?”
“No,” she said, flustered, “no, I haven’t, sadly. Just too busy. But I’m hoping to make a trip this autumn.”
“I too. Perhaps our paths will cross.”
“That would be … be nice. How is the building project?”
“Oh … almost there. I’ve got some photographs here.” He rummaged in the battered briefcase he was carrying. “I’d like you to see them. I feel we are united in our ambition to see Trisos preserved as much as possible, and as we like it.”
“Oh … yes. Yes, I do feel that so much. That would be nice.”
“Are you lunching alone?”
“No, no, just waiting for someone. You?”
“Meeting my agent. But apparently she’s going to be late. May I sit down for a moment?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Would you like some champagne? It’s here to stop me from feeling cross.”
“Is it working?”
“Not entirely.”
“Right. Well … I think not for me. Drinking at lunchtime never agrees with me. Now, here we are. Look. What do you think?”
She looked at a lovely wide, white construction with the requisite domed roof over one half of it, the other half flat. “I intend that to be a terrace, so I can sit and look at the sea. And down here, look, this will be the garden, small, of course, but big enough to sit in and grow bougainvillea, and here, you see, I am going to plant a vine, to make a sort of arbor—do you like it? It’s taken for ever.”
“I think it’s absolutely lovely. Really. So simple and … and so … so … Greek. Oh, dear, sorry; what a stupid thing to say.”
“Not at all, the very nicest thing, actually. I want it to look Greek. I’m pleased you think so. Anyway, next time you’re there, do—Oh, I’m sorry.” He’d stood up, knocking the photographs onto the floor. “So sorry.”
Scarlett looked up; David had arrived. She had forgotten the sheer pulse-speeding, knee-weakening force of David’s presence, the size of him, the power, his almost-perfect looks, his sexual magnetism. He was wearing a pale grey flannel suit and a fine cotton shirt that almost exactly matched his eyes, those extraordinary green eyes, the legacy from his mother. He was smiling, easy, his eyes moving over Scarlett, appreciating her. He was carrying a rather overdressed parcel.
“Let me help,” he said, bending to pick up Mark’s photographs. “Lovely place. This wouldn’t be your Trisos, would it, Scarlett?”
Scarlett saw Mark look at her swiftly, clearly surprised by the adjective. “It’s hardly mine,” she said as coolly as she could.
“Well, it’s lovely. What a great house. Is it yours?” he said to Mark.
“It will be, yes, when it’s finished.”
“I have heard so much about that place. Scarlett does love it so. Scarlett, I am so, so sorry to be late. Unforgivable. But you look as if you are putting the time to good use.” He held out his hand to Mark. “David Berenson.”
“Mark Frost.”
“And … has Scarlett invited you to lunch in my place? I could hardly blame her. I cannot stand people who are late; so rude, so offensive even, I always think. It implies the other person’s time is of no value. When I know how hugely valuable Scarlett’s is.”
“David, it’s fine. And no, of course I haven’t asked Mark to join us, but I did offer him a drink.”
“Of course. Mr. Frost, do please sit down and have a drink with us; we’d love that, wouldn’t we, Scarlett?”
“No,” said Mark, “no, no, I … That is …”
“Scarlett, these are for you,” said David, handing her the parcel, clearly impatient with his awkwardness. “Truffles, your favourite.”
“Thank you,” said Scarlett briefly. “Mr. Frost … please do join us.”
“David, Mark is having lunch with his agent.”
“His agent? Sounds intriguing. What do you do, Mark?”
“I … I travel a bit …”
“Oh, oh, I see. You’re in the same business as Scarlett, are you?”
“David, Mark is not in the travel business. Well, he is, but not like me. He writes books, travel books—”
“Oh, but how marvellous! I adore travel writing. Rebecca West, one could read her forever, and Jan Morris, and I never leave home without Paddy, of course—”
“Paddy?”
“Paddy Leigh Fermor. You know his work? Yes, of course you do. And you write under your own name … Can’t say I’ve read any, but I’ll certainly look out for them in future. Scarlett, my dear, if you move up a little I can sit next to you, and Mark here can have my chair—”
“I’m sorry,” said Mark, sounding desperate, “I must go; I see my lunching companion coming now; do excuse me.” He made a half bow to Scarlett, then turned to David. “Very nice to have met you.”
And then he did what could be best described, Scarlett thought, as scuttling off to the other side of the restaurant.
“Odd chap,” said David, sitting down, kissing Scarlett briefly on the cheek.
“He’s not odd, actually; he’s very nice,” said Scarlett, pulling her head away, “and he’s a wonderful writer, very highly thought of—”
“I’m sure. But he’s obviously very shy. Now, let me refill that glass, and maybe we should order, and then we can relax. It’s so good to see you. Love the dress. That color is wonderful on you. Oh, Scarlett.” He reached for her hand, kissed it. “Thank you for agreeing to this. It’s so very … generous of you.”
He raised his glass to her, smiled in
to her eyes. She felt irritated, upset.
“So … what was it you particularly wanted to talk to me about?” asked Scarlett.
“You’re wearing my bracelet,” he said, ignoring the question.
“Yes. I like it.”
“That makes me very happy. And maybe hope that you’ve forgiven me.”
“No, David, it just means I like the bracelet.”
She did; she’d sold a lot of the other stuff he had given her, to raise money, but the charm bracelet … Something had stopped her from parting from that. Too many memories.
“So,” she said again, “what did you want to talk to me about?”
“Ah. Yes. Well, it’s a little delicate. I … I hope you’re going to understand. Well … well, Scarlett, it’s the divorce. My divorce. And, God, I don’t know how to put this.”
“Try telling it how it is. As they say in your country.”
“Yes. OK. It’s just that, as you know, I’m divorcing Gaby on grounds of infidelity. That was how we agreed to do it.”
“Yes. I do know that. Bit ironic, isn’t it?”
“Well … yes. Of course, she doesn’t know about you.”
“Would it matter if she did?” said Scarlett, stifling a sense of pain at being reduced to something Gaby didn’t know about.
“As a matter of fact, it would. Yes. There are two things here. One is the … the settlement. Gaby is a terribly greedy woman. She wants to carry on living exactly as she has done, with all the considerable goodies she’s grown accustomed to, but without the tedium of having to accommodate me in her life. And although naturally I want to see the children well provided for …”
“Yes, of course. Your mother tells me family is everything to you.”
“Indeed.” He smiled at her, gloriously unaware of the irony of this. “It is. But you see … well … if she knew that I had also … also—”
“Been screwing around?” said Scarlett, smiling at him sweetly.
“Scarlett! I like to think we had something a lot better than that. You know how much you mean to me—”
“Not really, no. I know how much you said I meant to you. Bit different, from where I’m sitting—”
More Than You Know Page 39
