More Than You Know (113 page)

“That’s his fault. Not mine.”

“No, darling, it isn’t. Daddy has to go to work. Listen, I’m sure this
other house is very nice; he’s told me about it, and Mouse can go there and—”

“No! No, no,
no
. You’re both doing it now, changing things. I hate you both again, more than ever. I love it here; I want to keep it forever; I want it to be mine when I grow up …”

She was crying now, very hard, her small body shaking, tears streaming down her face. She rubbed her eyes; her hands were filthy and left great streaks of dirt on her cheeks. “Please!” she said. “Daddy, please, please don’t sell this house. I’ll run away and not come back until you keep it. Please, Daddy, I’ll be good, so good.”

Matt held out his arms. “Emmie—”

“No! I hate you. I’ll hate you forever.”

There was a long silence; Matt looked at Emmie; Eliza looked at Matt; Emmie looked from one to the other of them; then with a huge sigh, Matt said, “All right, Emmie. I won’t sell it. You can stay here, you and Mouse.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Eliza expected her to smile then, to jump into his arms, to kiss him, but she just sighed, a heavy, long sigh, an adult’s sigh, and looked at him very directly.

“Thank you,” was all she said. And turned and walked slowly towards the kitchen.

“Thank you, Matt,” said Eliza, more shaken by this than by the entire scene. “Thank you so much. I’m … We’re very grateful.”

“Oh, it’s all right. Of course I can afford it. I just—”

“I know. I understand. It must be so hard for you. I swear I didn’t put her up to that.”

“No, I could tell. And thank you for taking my … my side. Fat lot of good it did me,” he added with a lopsided grin.

“And, Matt … I’m so sorry about the orangery again. It was dreadful of me. And, for what it’s worth, I often think about it, about how it brought us together and … well, that night, you know.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know. So do I.”

There was a long silence; then she stepped forward, reached up, and kissed his cheek.

“That a thank-you?” he said.

“No, no. It’s for old times’ sake.”

“Well … that’s nice.”

They were in the car now, driving back to London. Matt turned to Louise.

“Eliza said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Really? I can’t think what.”

“Yes, she did. And she said it was important.”

“She had no business to,” said Louise. She felt angry suddenly. How dare Eliza do that to her? Putting her in an impossible position.

“There’s nothing important, Matt; I don’t know what she’s on about.”

“She said it was to do with me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Oh … shit.” She found she had tears in her eyes.

“Louise. What on earth is it? Come on; you can tell me, surely.”

“No, I can’t.” Her voice was rising. “It doesn’t matter. Leave things alone.”

“OK. Calm down, then; it’s not exactly restful, driving along with you having a nervous breakdown beside me.”

“I am not having a nervous breakdown. And if I did you wouldn’t care. All you want is for me to be good old Louise, hearing about all your problems and difficulties, the endless list of all the people you don’t like; I’m just a bloody punchball to you, Matt, nothing more.”

“OK, OK. Give it a rest. I didn’t bring you down here to insult me.”

“No, you didn’t. So why did you bring me? Just tell me that, Matt? I’d really like to know.”

“Well … I suppose … because I like you. I like being with you. I told you that, Louise; blimey, you’re not asking for some kind of romantic declaration, I hope.”

“Absolutely not. As if you’d know how to make one anyway. There’s only one person you feel undying love for, Matt Shaw, and that’s yourself. Has that ever occurred to you?”

“Don’t be so bloody rude,” he said. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Louise; you’ve been really … difficult—”

“I have not been difficult”—and she was shouting now—“it’s you
who’ve been difficult, as you always are, bolshie and rude and … I don’t know why I bother. Just let’s get back to London and then can we please put a stop to this once and for all. I don’t see any future in our relationship, and I’d rather not pursue it any longer.”

“Fine,” he said, and pushed his foot down onto the accelerator. Outside her flat, he didn’t turn the engine off; she got out and disappeared inside.

Matt arrived home to find the answering machine flashing.

It was Eliza.

“I just wanted to thank you again,” she said when he called her back, “for keeping Summercourt. It’s wonderful of you, and I really, really appreciate it, Matt; we all do.”

“It’s not yours,” he said abruptly. “It’s mine. And I intend to set it up as a trust for Emmie. We working-class folk can play these games too.”

“I … can see that,” she said, “and I think it’s a lovely idea. So nice, Matt. Lovely for Emmie, lovely for me. And you, I hope. I know you do like it too.”

“Yes, I do,” he said, surprising her. “I like it very much. And it was great, Scarlett having the baby there. Quite something. How is she?”

“She’s fine. They’re all asleep.”

“Good.”

“Now … did you speak to Louise?”

“I tried to,” he said. “She lost her temper, started shouting at me. She’s always doing that these days; I don’t know why.”

Eliza took a deep breath. This really couldn’t do any harm.

“I’ll tell you,” she said. “It’s because she … she’s loved you for years and years, and she thinks you don’t care about her, and I think you do, and I think you ought to think about it very hard. She doesn’t need to know you know, if you want to leave it at that, no humiliation involved. But at least think about it. OK? Night, Matt. Take care. And thank you again.”

Matt put the phone down. He felt weak at the knees suddenly. He could never remember feeling quite so … so shocked. Louise! Louise, loyal, sharp, cool, clever, brave Louise, putting up with him all those years, working with him, fielding his rages, listening to him moaning
on and on and on, going into the witness box, speaking up for him … Could she? Could she possibly?

He felt as if he was seeing her properly for the first time, as if she had been concealed behind some strange, distorting glass, unclear, not her true self.

He tried to analyse his feelings for her now and in the past, and wondered whether he should have realised how he felt. Which was not how he had thought he had felt. Realised how much she had mattered to him. But … how could he? It had always seemed to him she didn’t like him.

Or certainly found it hard to like him. She had so clearly found him wanting, in a great many ways. She tried to put him down. She was desperate to win battles in the office. She usually did win battles in the office. Which annoyed him. Terribly. In fact, just thinking about it now made him cross. But … intriguing. She was intriguing. And … viewed without the distorting glass, she was gorgeous. Of course. He’d always thought that. He and Jimbo had often remarked on it. Reluctantly, given how often she got the better of them. So …

He picked up the car keys and half ran out of the house. Drove to Paulton Square. Parked outside. Looked up at her windows. Got out of the car, rang the bell.

Said, “Can I come in?” into the intercom. She said no, sounding as if she’d been crying. He rang the bell again. “Louise, I’ve been very, very stupid. Please let me come up. I want to see you.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Yes, you do. Look … Louise, I’m sorry. I’ve probably blown it, but … I … I’ve been talking to Eliza. And she said … well, she said …”

“Matt, please go away. Eliza had no right to interfere. She’s a bossy cow.”

“Yes, she is. Bit like you. Probably explains a lot.”

“Matt, go away.”

He waited. Then: “All right, I’ll go away now. But will you have dinner with me tomorrow? Please. Please, Louise. I’d like it so much. We have some sorting out to do.”

“
You
have some sorting out to do.”

“Yes. Yes, all right. But will you? Please?”

A very long silence; then: “Yes. All right. And you’d better not be late.”

“Toby?”

“Yes. God, Eliza, what time is it?”

“Don’t know. Late. I wanted to tell you something.”

“It had better be good.”

“It is. I love you. So much. I just wanted to tell you again.”

It had come to her as she watched them in the kitchen, all of them, thinking this was what happiness must look like, if you could see it—Emmie and Coral dozing finally on the sofa; Heather and Alan, her head drooping with sleep on his shoulder, his tie rather dangerously loosened; Charles and Pattie smiling at each other; Jeremy and Mariella holding hands, freshly and foolishly delighted with each other; Archie flirting alternately with her mother and Anna—and upstairs the new little family, all contained in Summercourt’s lovely walls. It had worked its magic today for them all. And … hopefully in London for Louise and Matt …

And it had worked it on her; she had thought, surveying this scene, that she did love Toby so very much. Not wildly, recklessly, desperately, as she had loved Matt; that had been a once-in-a-lifetime thing and would not come again. But thoughtfully, carefully, with wiser, less selfish pleasures and gentler, more generous delights. And she needed to tell him, for he might have found today difficult, felt pushed aside, and the fact that she knew he would be pleased to hear from her, even in the middle of the night, proved that she trusted him: to love her and not to fail her.

“I love you too,” he said, “very much. And thank you for calling. But now I’m bloody tired and I need to get some sleep.”

“Sorry, Toby.”

“Don’t say sorry. Just get off the line.”

“Yes, all right. Good night.”

“Good night, my love. Sleep tight. And don’t pick your nose.”

She put the phone down, turned off the light, and lay smiling into the darkness. It was all going to be all right.

And Summercourt was not for sale.

Acknowledgements

As always, the list of couldn’t-have-done-without-the-help-ofs is long, possibly longer even than usual, and huge thanks are due to so many people.

Michael Drake, legal superbrain, took me painstakingly, patiently, and, above all, inventively through all the complexities of divorce and child custody in the 1960s and ’70s; escorted me round and round and, indeed, into the courts of justice and Lincoln Inn Fields; responded to my interminable and often crass e-mails always within hours and usually minutes; suggested subplots; improved upon scenarios; and never for an instant even implied that his hugely valuable time might be better spent. A complete star you are, Michael, and thank you.

James Marshall not only arranged access to some of the great names in advertising in the golden era of the sixties in London, he was just the best fun and the most informative guide on a whistle-stop tour of Milan, which took in an evening at La Scala, a trawl of the very best restaurants and shops, and an introduction to some truly wonderful characters.

Including the lovely Phyllis Achilli, who created for me a whole world in which to set that part of my story; Tai and Rosita Missoni, who hosted us in their box at La Scala; and Peter and Mariella Van Shalwick, who cast a further bright light on the lifestyle of the city then.