“That’s not a bad idea,” said Jack Beckham. “Like it. It’ll have to be fleshed out, of course; we need names, the landlord identified, all that stuff, but … yes. Time we ran a Rachman-style story. Haven’t had one for ages.”
“My … my source was very anxious to protect the tenant. They’re very afraid of recriminations, the whole thing backfiring.”
“Yes, well, they can’t come whining to the press and then expect everything to be done their way.”
“They haven’t exactly come whining,” said Barrett, “and I don’t want to drop them in it.”
“Johnny,” said Beckham, his voice developing the edge that his staff dreaded, “I’m struggling to turn you into a big name. Thought that was what you wanted. You’re not on the local rag in Bradford anymore. You can’t afford to be queasy. Now, I see this as a spread, with plenty of quotes and another case study or two. If it’s half-good I’ll trail it the day before. OK?”
“OK,” said Barrett.
Matt and Emmie arrived home just after six. Emmie demanded a drink and a biscuit and sat swinging her legs on a stool, chattering about her day, how she had got a star for her sums and been top in spelling; Matt dutifully turned up the oven and then poured himself a large gin and tonic and went into the study.
The answering machine was blinking. He switched it on.
“Mrs. Shaw, hallo.” The tones were cut-glass finishing school; God, he hated voices like that. And their owners. “This is Lucilla Fellowes, Jeremy Northcott’s secretary. Mr. Northcott is very sorry, but he wonders if you could change lunch on Thursday to a drink after work. He says to tell you it will definitely be Bolly. Or possibly dinner, if you could make it. If you’ll just give me a call in the morning and let me know, that would be super. Thank you so much.”
He was so shocked he turned it back to listen to it again; as he did so Emmie wandered in.
“He was my friend,” she said as the message ended.
“What?” said Matt, turning to her. “Who was your friend?”
“That man the message was about. Jeremy. He was at Mariella’s palace when we stayed; he played hide-and-seek with me and Mummy.”
“Louise? Johnny Barrett here. Look … I’m writing a piece about wicked landlords. Yes. That’s right, thought you must know a few. Anyway, it’s to do with an idea that a friend of yours, Eliza Shaw, put me onto.”
“Really?” Louise felt an unpleasant crawl somewhere deep in her stomach.
“Yeah, some friend of hers living in some tip in Clapham, part of a row, she says; landlord’s letting the place go to rack and ruin to get rid of them all; doesn’t sound a very likely friend for the upmarket Mrs. Shaw, but still, she’s taking me there to meet her. Anyway, I need to know who the landlord is, obviously, get a quote and that. I thought you might be able to help.”
“Oh … no,” said Louise firmly. The crawl had burrowed deeper. Unless there were two rows of houses in Clapham with landlords desperate to get rid of the tenants … Oh, there were probably half a dozen … You’re being neurotic, Louise. Still, she absolutely didn’t want to be party to anything that could backfire. “And, Johnny, I really think it would be better if you didn’t use that particular connection.” She knew she was sticking her neck out, but she was surprised Eliza was so naive as to get involved with anything that might backfire on her. Unless she wanted it to, of course.
“What?”
“Yes. An awful lot of people would be hurt by it. Quite badly. That’s all I have to say. And I certainly can’t help. I’m sorry.”
“OK.”
“OK, you won’t ask me anymore, or OK, you won’t write the piece?”
“What do you think? Bye, Louise.”
Barrett put the phone down. This was clearly a much more intriguing story than he’d first imagined. Surely, surely it couldn’t be Matt, and Eliza didn’t know about it? Or did know about it? It was a case for some very serious sleuthing. And he could start in the morning when he and Eliza went to meet this poor unfortunate bird in Clapham.
“Matt! Emmie! Hallo. I’m home. Bloody cops. I had to practically kiss their backsides to get my keys back. Where are you?”
He came out of the office; his face was white and his eyes very dark. Eliza looked at him uncertainly.
“Hallo. You all right? You look—”
“No,” he said. “I’m not all right. What the hell is going on?”
“What? What are you talking about? I don’t understand—”
“Jeremy Northcott,” he said, “who you’re having lunch with, apparently. Or a drink at Bolly, how delightful. Or even dinner. And who I now learn, just coincidentally, was in Milan with you. Emmie told me all about it, how you played hide-and-seek together. How nice, how very nice for you all. What the fuck are you playing at, Eliza? What are you doing—”
“Emmie, go upstairs,” said Eliza quickly. “See if you can be a big girl and get yourself ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Emmie didn’t argue; she looked at her parents, her eyes large and thoughtful, and then walked out of the room. Eliza closed the door behind her and turned to face Matt.
“You shouldn’t use language like that in front of Emmie,” she said.
“I’ll use what fucking language I like in my own house. And don’t try to change the subject.”
“Matt, it’s not what you think,” she said. “It’s—”
“Well, whatever I think, the fact remains you’re clearly seeing him. Having dinner with him in London. Staying with him in Milan. How odd that you didn’t mention it. And how did you keep Emmie quiet about it all this time? What the fuck is going on?”
“I’m not having dinner with him,” said Eliza. “I was going to have lunch. To discuss the … the job.”
“What job?”
“The one you said I wasn’t to do. In your sweetly generous, liberated way.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. You didn’t say he was at the agency when you told me about it. I thought he was in New York.”
“He has been in New York. He’s only just back. The only thing he’s had to do with all this is to tell Rob Brigstocke to call me.”
“Oh, is that so. Just as he comes back? Well, that certainly settles it. You will not set foot near that agency while he’s there.”
“Matt, I sometimes wonder which century you think you’re living in. Have you never heard of equal rights?”
“Equal rights! Is that what you call it? Playing around with your ex-lover behind my back at the first opportunity? And passing it off as some wonderfully fortuitious career move? ‘Oh, Matt, it’s such a wonderful opportunity; oh, Matt, it’s only two days a week.’ How many days does it take for Northcott to get into your bed? And … and now I find out he was in Milan. How carefully was that planned? I suppose you and your friend Mariella cooked it up between you. And you took Emmie along, presumably as some kind of cover. Jesus, Eliza, I wouldn’t have believed it even of you.”
“Shut up,” shouted Eliza. “How dare you talk to me like that. How dare you insult me and Jeremy too, come to that. I had no idea he was going to be in Milan! He was there on agency business—there’s a branch there—and he only came to the villa because of the fog.”
“Oh, yes, the fog. The wonderfully convenient fog that prevented you from coming home. I don’t quite see how he could have got to the villa in the fog when it was supposed to be so bad you were stranded in Milan.”
“He … he organised a car for me to get back the next day, because I was so worried about Emmie. A colleague of his came too. Timothy Fordyce, you can check it if you want to, if you don’t believe me.”
“And who would I check it with, to get an honest answer? Northcott’s minion, your friend? If the lot of you told me my name was Matt Shaw I wouldn’t believe you. I don’t think I’ve ever been so disgusted by anything in my life.”
The door opened; Emmie looked round it. She seemed less sure of herself than usual.
“Mummy?”
> “Yes, darling.”
“Can I watch TV?”
“No, Emmie, you can’t. It’s bedtime. I’ll come up and read you a story.”
“I want Daddy to.”
“Right. Well … Matt? Would you like to do what Emmie asks?”
He took Emmie’s hand and walked out of the room without another word.
Later she heard him come downstairs and go into the study; when she tried the door it was locked.
“Is that Johnny Barrett?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh … Johnny. Eliza Shaw here. The thing is, I’m very sorry, but … I think I’d rather you didn’t go ahead with the article after all.”
She had been worrying about it in the night: that it might be traced back to her, that it would, after all, be casting a slur on Matt’s profession.
However much he—and it—deserved it. She simply couldn’t afford to risk upsetting him any further.
“R-i-ght. Any particular reason?”
“Well … um, the girl in question, she’s quite pregnant, as I think I told you, and she’s just rung to say she’s not feeling too good and she’s been worrying about the piece, even though I know you promised not to put her name in and … well, I just think it would be better all round if we … we forgot about it. I’m so sorry. To have wasted your time and everything.”
This was so unprofessional, she thought. If Jack Beckham heard about it, she would be done for. You just didn’t cancel an interview you had set up on the morning it was to take place, especially for a national newspaper. But …
“OK.” He sounded pleasant, not annoyed. “I can understand that. She must be very anxious; she’s in a difficult position, and I really don’t want to pressure her. Not in her condition.”
The old-fashioned northern expression made her smile.
“That’s so kind of you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m not one of your ruthless, door-stepping kind of journalists. I like to sleep nights. Don’t worry, Eliza; I’ve got something else to put on my page this week. But … if you change your mind, or your friend decides she does want to talk to me, just let me know, OK?”
“Yes, of course. And thank you so much for being so nice about it.”
She rang off, weak with relief. Thank God. Most journalists would have been totally furious and at the very least bawled her out. Heather would be relieved too; she really hadn’t been very keen. If only she could ring her; she didn’t have time to go round today; she’d have to drop her a note. What a nice man. It had been worth looking a bit silly, just to have one thing less to worry about.
Barrett put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully. He’d been right: there was much more in this than met the eye, or rather ear. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to find the unfortunate pregnant woman, but he’d faced greater challenges. A Victorian terrace in Clapham, just off the Common, falling into dereliction: it would clearly involve a bit of legwork, and it was unlikely to be the only one, but it shouldn’t be impossible. As for the landlord, Louise was right: he did have plenty of contacts. And a short list might contain a clue, a recognizable name. It was almost better this way; he could follow the story at his own pace and in his own way.
He went to see Jack Beckham to tell him the story wouldn’t be ready for the paper this week, but that he had a cracking one about the new Covent Garden proposals to put in its place.
Jeremy was very understanding too; he said he was sorry and that Rob Brigstocke would be very sorry as well, but of course she must do what she felt right, and that they could have lunch anytime that suited her. And if she changed her mind about the job, or had any other ideas that might suit him or the agency, he would always be pleased to hear from her.
Matt was rather less accommodating.
“Can you give me one good reason why I should believe you?” he said, his eyes hostile in his white, exhausted face, as they talked far into the following evening.
“No,” she said, “I can’t. Except that I’m giving up what seems to me to be the perfect job, simply to please you. Which might even mean I still love you. Isn’t that worth anything?”
He was silent; then he looked at her.
“It’s worth a lot to you; I can see that. But you see, I find it so hard to understand why your work means so much more to you than Emmie and I do. It hurts me so much.”
“Matt, it doesn’t mean more to me than you do. It means there’s more to me than just … just looking after Emmie and you. I’m sorry. But it does. The person you fell in love with was about more than that. Working, doing something I’m good at, is so much a part of me.”
He was silent.
“Matt, you love what you do. Would you give it up to care for Emmie and me? If I asked you, if I was earning enough money?”
“No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So … what’s the difference?”
“It’s my job,” he said, “to look after you.”
“Matt, that is such crap. You were doing it—and loving it—long before you even set eyes on me.”
“Yes, but now there is you,” he said. “I can’t help how I feel.”
“And how is that?”
“That it’s right for me to look after you. And for you to be at home looking after me and the children.”
“We don’t have children, though, do we?” she said soberly. “We have one child, and she’s at school, all day, every day. If … if baby Charles had lived, it would be different. But he didn’t. And the thing that hurts me so much is that you should think I would have an affair with Jeremy Northcott. I don’t love Jeremy and I never did. I realised that when I fell in love with you. More important, I would never, ever betray you. I just wouldn’t, Matt.”
“You deceived me, though,” he said. “You hid the fact he was in Milan.”
“Yes, and why do you think? Because I knew you’d never believe that it was all completely innocent. That’s pretty ugly, from where I’m sitting. Love is about trust. Do you love me still, Matt? Do you?”
There was a silence; then he said, “Why do you think I care so much what you do? Of course I bloody love you. You’re everything to me, you and Emmie. Everything. More than everything.”
The funny thing was, she still believed him.
That weekend they went to Summercourt; Eliza had not been there for a while, and she had only to see the iron gates, the gentle incline up to the house, its charmed outline against the sky, the woods and meadows beyond, and she felt healed and comforted. It was extraordinary how much she loved that house; more than anyone else in the family, she felt. And at least Matt had done that for her, made it possible to keep it.
Sarah had made soup for lunch and her own bread. They all sat in the kitchen, looking out at the frosty February landscape and chatting quite easily, and afterwards Emmie dragged them off to see her adored pony, Mouse, and Eliza and Sarah helped to groom her, and then Eliza gave Emmie a lesson, refusing to allow her to canter because she still couldn’t kick the willful Mouse into a trot, but had to be led. “You’ve got to let him know you’re in charge, Emmie; it’s the whole secret of good riding—that and trusting him to look after you. Now come on; try again; kick him hard; that’s better, really hard. Good girl, good girl, well done …”
And Matt, who found all things equine intensely boring, even when Emmie was involved, went off for a walk on his own, and came back looking almost cheerful, and Eliza thought happily how he too was becoming properly involved with Summercourt and its care, and they ate an early supper with Emmie, and played an endless game of ludo, and then after Emmie had gone to bed, and Sarah had gone to her room, Matt and Eliza sat in a peaceful silence by the fire that he had lit in the drawing room, watching a terrible play on the TV, and then found themselves in bed by ten o’clock, just lying in each other’s arms, not making love but finding themselves early in the morning turning to each other in a sharp, intense awakening, and Eliza thought that truly Summe
rcourt did exercise a sort of magic, and if nothing else could save their marriage, being there perhaps would.
“Good afternoon, Miss Scarlett. What are you doing here, in this particularly unlovely airport?”
“Oh … hallo. Yes. Well … I’m on my way back from Trisos, to London.”
“And I am on my way to Trisos, from London. There is a certain symmetry in that, I suppose. How was it there?”
“Lovely. Quite chilly, but lovely.”
“Did you look at the house?”
“Yes, it’s amazing, Mark. Truly amazing. That stone spiral staircase up to the terrace roof—inspirational.”
“I thought so. I’m glad you like it. I’m actually moving in in May and I’m going to have a lavish housewarming party. I shall hope very much to see you there.”
“Oh. Well … that’d be very nice … but …” She thought of his launch party, all those snooty, clever people.
“No buts, Miss Scarlett. I insist. It wouldn’t be at all the same without you. It would hardly be a party at all.”
“Mark, that’s just silly.”
“I’m not being silly. It wouldn’t. I mean, think about it. Larissa. Demetrios. Possibly Stelios. Ari the Ferry, Ari the Poison as well, of course, hopefully without that truly disgusting wine he produces, Stavros”—who hired out the scooters—“and me. Surely you can see we’d need you.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling now, for she had not liked the vision of the London literati descending on Trisos at Mark’s behest. “I thought you meant a … you know, a proper party—people from publishing—”
More Than You Know Page 42
