More Than You Know (16 page)

It wasn’t always that easy, but it was seldom difficult either.

Matt had also acquired a flat, a studio in an old converted warehouse on the river in Pimlico. He heard about it through Mark Draper, who’d made a fortune himself in studio flats; Matt had met him in the Blue Post off St. James’s Street, a favourite hangout for young men in the property business.

Draper was moaning one day about a flat he couldn’t get rid of. “Building next to it’s derelict; that’s all that’s wrong, and I know for a fact your old boss, Matt, Andy Stein, has found someone who’s prepared
to take it on, just haggling over timing, but meanwhile no one’ll take a chance on this place.”

Matt looked at it, at the huge if filthy windows giving onto the river, the reassuringly sound concrete floor, the makeshift kitchen and bathroom and the one huge, brilliantly lit, cobwebby room, and bought the freehold for £1,500; his mum and Scarlett spent a weekend helping him clean it, his dad made good the windows, and Matt himself painted it all brilliant white. It was now furnished with a double bed, two garden chairs, a card table, and a camping stove. A client in the rag trade gave him a clothes rail, and he stored underwear, sweaters, and casual shirts in an old leather cabin trunk, complete with exotic travel labels—Cairo, Bombay, New York—that he bought in the Portobello Road for ten bob. He didn’t want or need curtains at the windows; he wanted to see the river, all day and all night, from the first streaks of dawn reflected on the water to the dredgers working through the black waters of night. The rats that scuttled around on the beach below him at low tide troubled him not in the least; nor did the noise of the river traffic, the wailing of police craft, the endless hooting of the tugs and cargo boats. The raw cries of the seagulls pleased him particularly. To him, it was a palace; his pride in it was huge.

He wasn’t doing badly, for someone who’d done it all himself.

The invitation arrived three weeks before Christmas. In a very thick white envelope, addressed to him personally. He read it, said, “Jesus Christ,” and then leaned it against his telephone and was sitting staring at it when Louise came in.

“Let’s see that,” she said, and leaned over and picked it up. She was so … so bloody cheeky, Matt thought, so bossy and nosy; and then he decided he was actually rather happy for her to be looking at it.

“My goodness, Matt, what are you going to wear? Can I come?”

“No, you can’t,” said Matt.

“Why not? She’s a client, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, but she’s invited me. Not you, and not Jim. It doesn’t say anything about bringing anyone else, does it?”

“Well … no. But I bet you could; they’re very casual, these arty types. Go on, Matt; I’d love to go.”

“Louise, I said no.”

“OK.” She shrugged. “Now please can you sign these cheques; otherwise we’ll all be in queer street.”

“Yeah, OK. And ring Mr. Thomas; tell him I think we’ve let his office.”

“Course.”

Once she was gone, Matt picked up the invitation again and sat reading it, smiling foolishly. This really was exciting. There’d be dozens of models there, which would be very cool. And photographers and fashion artists—it would all be fantastic.

And … just possibly Eliza. She and Maddy were great friends.

“Come and celebrate Christmas with us,” it said, in big red letters on a bright white card, with a border of alternate knitting needles and studio lights, “Friday, December 13, eight till late. Connaught Design Studios, Paddington Way, W2. RSVP Maddy Brown or Jerome Blake.” And at the top in that arty writing people like her always did, it said, “Matt. Do come!”

He put it in the top drawer of his desk and kept looking at it all day.

He didn’t reply for three days; he didn’t want to look too keen. And only when he had did he start thinking about what to wear. Not a suit: too formal. Not jeans: too casual. Flannels? He couldn’t imagine Jerome Blake in flannels. He was getting desperate when he saw a red velvet suit in a window of that mecca for style, Male West One in Carnaby Street; he couldn’t really afford it, but he bought it anyway, and a ruffled white shirt to go with it. What his dad would say, he didn’t dare think, tell him he looked like a woofter or something.

Matt arrived at the party at half past eight. He knew better than to be early—nothing worse than being the first.

He was the first.

“Matt, hallo!” It was Maddy, looking devastating in a gold knitted shift dress.

“Hallo. Yes. Sorry I’m early.”

“You’re not, of course. Everyone else is late. Oh—actually, look,
you have company, hallo, Simon—Simon Butler—Matt Shaw. Matt, Simon’s an art director at one of the agencies, CPV, isn’t it, Simon?”

“No, darling, CDP. Do you mind?”

“Whoops, sorry. Well, anyway, lovely to see you. Matt found this wonderful building for us, didn’t you, Matt?”

“Oh, yeah?” Simon managed a rather superior smile. “Good work.”

Matt didn’t like him at all.

“Anyway, drinks over there,” said Maddy. “Help yourselves, and later, some lovely little cakes will be coming round. OK?”

And she was gone.

“Might as well get a drink then,” said Simon, leading Matt across to the drinks. The studio was a mass of flashing strobe lights, and the music was already pounding.

Matt helped himself to a beer and said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Simon. He took out a cigarette paper and began rather ostentatiously rolling his own from a small silver case.
Dope
, thought Matt;
am I supposed to be impressed or something?
He knew what the little cakes would be too, of course, and he wouldn’t be eating one. He’d heard too many horror stories about those cakes and the unevenly distributed stuff in them; a friend of Jimbo’s had ended up with an overdose, hallucinating and trying to jump out of a second-floor window.

“So,” said Simon Butler, draining his glass, refilling it instantly, licking his cigarette paper, “you’re in the property business, are you?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Matt. “Got a small agency in the West End, mostly commercial properties.” He looked at Simon, whose expression suddenly changed from tolerant boredom to a broad smile—maybe he was interested—but, “Suki! Darling! Over here,” and towards them came the tallest, thinnest girl Matt had ever seen, with a pale, pale face and huge black-rimmed eyes, wearing a narrow silk dress that reached her ankles, and no shoes. Her feet, he couldn’t help noticing, were filthy.

“Simon, darling, hallo, how awful to be so early; it was now or hours later.” She looked uncertainly at Matt, who smiled and held out his hand.

“Matt Shaw. Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh. Yes. And I’m Suki.”

“And … are you a model?” asked Matt. It seemed a reasonable assumption, given her shape.

“Oh—goodness no, no, I sew at Granny’s.”

“Ah,” said Matt, “yes, I see. What is Granny’s? Exactly?”

They both looked at him as if he had asked what date Christmas was.

Finally, “Granny Takes a Trip,” said Suki patiently. “You know. The clothes shop. Down at World’s End.”

“Oh—yes. Of course.”

“So, Simon, this guy said he wanted a dress made for a commercial and—Oh, Christian, darling, hallo. How are you? You know Simon Butler, don’t you? From CDP? And this is … Sorry, Matt, where are you from?”

“Oh—I’m in property,” said Matt, and then, turning his back on them, went over towards Maddy. He wasn’t going to be patronised by these people. He was not.

Three-quarters of an hour later, he wasn’t being patronised; he was being ignored. Everyone seemed to know everyone, and they all worked in the fashion or the advertising business, so there was nothing at all he had to say to them—or they to him.

He had drunk quite a lot of beer, but he felt totally sober. Sober and extremely stupid. Most of them were posh, but a few were talking an exaggerated cockney.

He was terribly hot too. He’d have liked to take off his jacket, but he was scared of its being nicked, and anyway, he could see that the ruffled shirt was all wrong. Most of the blokes were in plain white shirts, or even T-shirts, and jeans, some of those admittedly velvet, but black and not, most definitely not, red.
Shit
. Twice Maddy had waved at him and asked him if he was OK, and she’d introduced him to her boyfriend, Esmond, who was dressed all in black—black T-shirt, black jeans, and very black hair—and looked as if he was going to die, his skin greyish pale, and incredibly thin—how did these people all get so thin? Matt wondered. Didn’t they ever eat anything at all …?

He was quite nice, asked Matt what he did, tried to find something responsive to say in return. He made hats, it turned out, and had even sold one or two to Granny’s; Matt, seeing his chance to appear as if he
knew what was what, asked him if he knew Suki, but Esmond said yeah, he did; they’d been at the college together. Which college? Matt asked, but this was clearly more than even Esmond could stand.

“The Royal College of Art,” he said. “Back in a minute.” And he walked off after Maddy.

Matt, alone once more, looked at his watch surreptitiously; Christ, it was only quarter to ten. Christ, he really didn’t like it—he might leave, in fact; yes, he would when—