More Than You Know (110 page)

“No, no,” he said, “it’s fine. Come on, Louise. Let’s go and find Emmie. I presume someone’s looking after her?” he added, the old edge to his voice.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “yes, she’s with Gail. In the paddock, which is now the ring, of course.”

“Yes. Fine. I’ll see you later.”

She turned to go in for the longed-for bath.

“Mrs. Shaw.” It was Mrs. Horrocks. “The local paper’s here; they want a picture of the three of you, you and Mr. Shaw and Emmie—any hope of that?”

“Not while I’m looking like this,” said Eliza. “Give me five minutes; I’ll just go and—”

But—“Mrs. Shaw, Geoff Walters,
Marlborough News
. I see you’re both here; where’s the little girl?”

“Here!” said Emmie breathlessly. “Mrs. Horrocks told me to come. Are you from the paper? You can’t take a picture and not have Mouse. Come on, everyone; this way, this way, and can Coral be in it too? She’s my friend; we were nearly born the same day …”

The megaphone was crackling into life:

“… fourteen hands and under, number one, Hollyhock, ridden by …”

Now, at last, the bath. She could not greet her lover looking and smelling like this—

“Mummy! Uncle Toby’s here.”

It had been a slow burn, her relationship with Toby. If they’d been in a film, she thought, they would have run into each other’s arms in slow motion in the atrium of the Law Courts and he would have told her he loved her; as it was she felt awkward, diffident with him, even as she thanked him, and when he called a few days later to say he thought they should leave a meeting for at least a couple of weeks—“give you a
chance to recover”—she was both touched and grateful. For she did feel very odd, and rather as if she had had a long and almost fatal illness. She was exhausted, demoralised by the character assassination that Matt’s team and indeed the whole process had inflicted upon her, and deeply distressed and humiliated by the publicity, which made going into work seem an almost impossible hurdle—until Jeremy called a brainstorming meeting to discuss the restructure of new client presentations and insisted she be there.

That set a seal on her status at the agency; she got home that night feeling she had at least begun to heal.

The house problem had sorted itself out surprisingly easily; she was more than happy to move out, and had found a place of her own only four streets away, just off Hurlingham Road, a smaller but very similar house, with a bedroom overlooking the park admirably suited to Emmie’s requirements. She fell in love with it at the very first viewing, and nearly lost it while Matt insisted on beating the price down and then down again. This resulted in their first postdivorce row, which turned out to be extraordinarily healing and saw them resolving matters quite cheerfully over a drink in the Hurlingham pub.

Toby had entered her life again tentatively; it seemed rather odd, having shared that astonishing night with him, to be recast as lunch companion, and a rather bashful one at that. Even dinner, the next step, ended in an almost dutiful snog in his car, and she had begun to think they would never get any further, when fate took over in its usual, rather determined way.

She was coming out of the Ritz quite late one night towards the end of September with Rob Brigstocke; Jeremy had thrown a big client cocktail party and then invited a chosen few to stay for dinner. Rob had his arm round her, and as she got into a taxi, she turned to give him a kiss. Next day Toby called her to say, in his most brusque tones, that he was sorry; he would have to cancel their dinner that evening, as he was probably having to work late.

“And quite possibly tomorrow as well. In fact, best not to schedule anything for a bit. I’ll … I’ll call you in a week or so.”

Hurt beyond anything, Eliza acquiesced; she had agreed to meet Jack Beckham for a drink that evening, to discuss some possible freelance articles, and was walking along the Strand, jerked into some
painful reminiscences, and trying to tell herself that Toby was indeed very often very busy, and very, very often worked late, when she saw him leaving the Courts of Justice and walking in his swift, impatient way away from her—in the company of a very pretty girl. She stared after them, trying neither to care nor to cry, continued to walk after them, and then found herself almost walking straight into him when he stopped dead in his tracks and turned round suddenly as the girl walked on.

“Oh,” he said, “oh, hallo.”

“Hallo, Toby.”

And what she should have done, she knew, was walk away coolly, maintaining her dignity, instead of saying, as she seemed compelled to do, “I thought you were working late.”

“As I am,” he said, his voice very cold. “I’m taking Verity to a client meeting; she’s gone on ahead; I’ve forgotten something crucial.”

“Oh,” she said, less cool and dignified still, “is that what you call it, a client meeting?”

“Verity,” he said, “is my new assistant.”

“Yes, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.” (
Oh, really cool, Eliza, really dignified
.)

“For Christ’s sake,” he said (slightly less cool and dignified himself now), “you’re a fine one to talk. Perhaps you’d like to tell me who you were leaving the Ritz with last night? Some work colleague of your own, I suppose.”

“Toby,” she said, “that was Rob Brigstocke. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him.”

“Ah, yes, of course. The one you smoke dope with. That’s a very formal relationship you obviously have.”

And then she said, staring at him with a sort of incredulity, “You really mind, don’t you?”

“Well, I do, as a matter of fact.”

“And as a matter of fact I really mind that you’re walking along with your new assistant.”

“That’s absurd. Quite different.”

Eliza began to smile, very tentatively. “OK, it is quite different. This being the Strand and that being Piccadilly. And Verity being your
assistant and Rob being my boss. And if we’re both speaking the truth, then we’re both being extremely stupid.”

“I’m certainly speaking the truth.”

“And so am I, and nothing but it, so help me God. I’m surprised at you, Toby Gilmour, relying on circumstantial evidence.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said after a long silence. “Oh … this is … awful.”

“Why? It seems rather good to me.”

“Well … actually not, because I really am going to a client meeting. And all I want to do is take you home with me.”

“Well,” she said, her heart and indeed her body lurching most pleasurably, “that’s all I want too, funnily enough, what a coincidence, but I’m going to see Jack Beckham. It’ll take about an hour.”

“My meeting likewise.”

“So we could meet after that?”

“Yes, we could. Your place or mine?”

“Yours would be … sort of more appropriate, I think. And I know where it is.”

“Here,” he said, fumbling in his pocket, “here’s a key. In case I’m late.”

“You’d better not be.”

In the event, he was home before her: two glasses by the bed, champagne on ice in the kitchen.

“I sort of think I can’t wait to drink that,” said Eliza.

“OK. We’ll have it afterwards. Oh, and I’ve got some very good news.”

“What’s that?”

“The bed doesn’t creak.”

It was midafternoon, the jumping was finished, Jack Beckham had presented the cup, and what many considered the highlight of the day was about to take place, the mounted fancy dress. Essentially held before the gymkhana proper, while the ponies were still not covered in mud, it attracted a huge entry; ponies and their riders large and small, dressed as fairies, rabbits, foxes, flowers, medieval knights (and ladies), filled the paddock. Emmie had chosen to be a fairy and to wear the tutu she
wore for ballet, but at the last minute, in a sudden fit of generosity, she had asked Coral if she would like to enter in her place, and was leading her round the ring. Various jolly tunes were being played over the loudspeaker, and judging was about to commence when a very large and glossy horse box appeared and pulled up beside the others. “That’s too bad,” said Eliza. “It’s far too late; what do they think they’re playing at? I’ll have to go and …”

But at that point a rather smart-looking grey horse was led out of the box, and out of the passenger seat sprang a figure with very long blond hair, and wearing, apparently, no clothes; she jumped up on the horse with great aplomb, gathered up the reins, and rode at a brisk trot, no mean feat, given the horse had no saddle, towards the ring.

“What on earth …” said Eliza.

And: “Now I’ve seen everything,” said Jack Beckham.

And: “Oh, my God,” said Jeremy, “it’s Mariella.”

And indeed it was: in the guise of Lady Godiva, clad in flesh-colored Lycra and a blond wig, smiling radiantly and blowing kisses at the crowd, who were cheering and clapping and laughing.

She was not awarded the prize, of course, for that would not have been fair to the rabbits and medieval ladies and the rest, and it went instead to a very sweet ladybird on a Shetland pony; but there was no doubt that for the male spectators it was the highlight of the day, and Jeremy was afraid his father was going to pass out with excitement. He could have done without it himself, but when Mariella joined them, laughing, pulling off her wig and shaking out her own dark hair, and saying she hoped she had done her little bit for the day, and that it had been a good surprise, he did feel a certain slightly grudging pride, and went to fetch her some lemonade in a way that he would not, these days, normally have done.

“Oh, Mariella,” said Eliza, kissing her, “how Mam’selle Chanel would have liked to dress you for that.”

The gymkhana was now at full throttle. Countless hooves had thundered round the ring. There had been enough accidents to keep the St. John Ambulance team on their toes: three major nosebleeds, two sprained ankles, one suspected concussion, one dislocated shoulder
(both sufferers shipped off to hospital), and one granny passing out from heatstroke. A number of little girls (and a few boys) were flushed with triumph, walking round with their ponies, their bridles heavily laden with rosettes. Rather more little girls (and a few boys) were tearstained or sulky or both. Emmeline Shaw, who had excelled herself, and won her heats in both the pole bending and the obstacle race, and actually come second in the walk, trot, and gallop, was now sitting on the terrace with her father, eating her fourth ice cream of the afternoon, and waiting for the sack race, the last gymkhana event of the day.

“How can it be a sack race when it’s ponies?” asked Coral. “Do they put their feet into sacks?”

“No, silly,” said Emmie, “you—”

“Emmie,” said Matt sharply, “don’t speak like that to Coral; Louise just asked me the same question. Now say you’re sorry and tell her sensibly.”

“Sorry,” said Emmie, who was forced to utter the word so often it tripped with thoughtless ease off her tongue, “and I’m telling you sensibly, what you do is ride round the ring, dismount, get into the sack, and jump back to the start, leading your pony.”

“Oh,” said Louise and Coral in unison.

“What are your duties, Matt?” asked Louise.

“Presenting the best turnout cup,” said Matt slightly wearily, “which is after the jumping, and then the best-in-show cup, and then, please God, we can all leave. Look at that wanker,” he said suddenly. “Just look at him. How can she like him, Louise? I just don’t get it.”

Louise looked across at Toby. As far as she could see, he was merely drinking some lemonade, and chatting to Sarah and Anna Marchant, who had arrived halfway through the afternoon, lookng rather wonderful in what were clearly vintage jodhpurs, a white silk shirt, and a pair of tall leather boots.

“I just had to come,” she said. “I’m so proud of you, Eliza. What a thing to organise.”

“Well … I had lots of help.”

“Of course you did. Is that Archie Northcott over there? Such a charming man. We had a wonderful flirtation once, during the war; God knows what might have happened if he hadn’t had to go back to Egypt, I think it was, but anyway, I think I was quite relieved; Christine
would have been a frightful foe. She always found out, apparently, about all the mistresses and gave them hell.”