More Than You Know (23 page)

“Matt?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Eliza. Look … I know I told you it was too late to do that article. Well, it might not be. The editor’s decided to put it in a later issue.”

What he’d actually said was, “Is it too much to ask you to find me someone just a little more interesting than this load of wankers? I don’t want to read about a lot of bloody poofs. Hairdressers! Give me strength.”

“So … would you still be interested? I mean, now that you understand what it’s about a bit more?”

“I … might be.”

“Oh … well, good. Could we … could we do it this week, do you think? If you decide you will, of course.”

“I could possibly do Thursday evening. Any good?”

“I’ll see if the journalist’s available.”

“I thought it’d be you.”

“Oh … no. No, it’d be a freelancer. Or possibly our features editor, Annunciata Woburn.”

Annunciata! What kind of person called their child Annunciata? Their kind, he supposed.

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I’d much rather talk to you. Can’t you do it?”

“Um … well … I don’t think so. I’m not a features person. I’m fashion; it’s quite different.”

“But I really don’t want to talk to … well, to anyone else.”

“Right. Well … OK. I’ll have to ask, get back to you.”

Annunciata said it would be fine, if that was really the only way they could get Matt, and that she would supply Eliza with a list of questions and then write it up herself, “so it reads like the others,” thus displaying the usual attitude of what Jack called “proper journalists” to the air-headed fashion girls. Eliza swallowed it without protest.

“And ask him about photographs. I’d like to do one on a building site or something like that.”

“Yes, course.”

“Is he photogenic?”

Eliza thought of Matt: the thick, dark hair—quite short by the standards of the day—the probing brown eyes, the—well, yes, it was fair to say—the sexy mouth.

“Very,” she said.

“I wonder how I knew you were going to say that.”

Eliza was very impressed by Matt’s setup. Four offices, all very streamlined, in a very good building just off Wardour Street; she was greeted by the most amazing blonde who looked as if she ought really to be on the cover of
Seventeen
magazine, and who made her an excellent cup of coffee and offered her an extraordinary array of biscuits. She was introduced to Matt’s partner, Jimbo Simmonds, who was very nice but clearly not the real brains in the outfit; and then another very pretty girl appeared, clearly hugely bright and quite acerbic, whom Matt rather pointedly dismissed, but not before she’d introduced herself as their partner, and said if there were any gaps in the information Matt supplied just call her, and gave her a card.

“Quite a harem you’ve got here, Matt,” said Eliza, settling back into the leather visitor’s chair opposite Matt’s desk.

“Yeah, well. I’m a great believer in employing women.”

“And not just as secretaries?”

“Course not. Cigarette?”

“Yes, thanks. Well, that’s a very modern attitude. Not many male feminists about.”

“Oh, I’m not a feminist,” said Matt firmly. “Once a woman’s married and has children, I think she should be at home, looking after things.”

“No working mothers, then?”

“Absolutely not. That’s a straight route to society falling apart, as I see it. But … while women don’t have any other responsibilities, yeah, I think they should be given a chance.”

“Very generous of you. Right. Well, let’s get started.”

“Just before we do,” he said, “can I read what you write before it goes into the magazine?”

“I’m afraid we don’t allow that.”

“Right. Well, in that case”—he stood up—“the interview’s not happening. I’m sorry, Eliza; I’m not giving you carte blanche to write
whatever you like about me. I’m not completely wet behind the ears. Either I see the interview or you don’t get one.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll arrange for you to see it. Of course.” She smiled at him. “Now, what was actually your first job, and how old were you …?”

My dear
,

I’m coming over to do a little shopping and some theatres, and how nice it would be to see you again. Tea at the Connaught one day—would that be possible? I shall be there from June 6 through 10—on my own, alas, this time, no David—and I hope very much that you could join me on one of those days
.

Lily Berenson
.

Scarlett’s first instinct was to refuse, to tell her she was away on those dates; it seemed very dangerous to meet with her a mere couple of weeks—as it would be—after seeing David herself. And then with a streak of pure perversity, she decided to say yes. Dangerous it might be, but it would also be rather exciting. And she might—just might—be able to garner from Mrs. Berenson some information about David and Gaby’s marriage, whether the end was truly in sight, as David kept intimating to her—without actually saying so.

She checked her schedule; she was free two of the days. She wrote back and said she would be delighted to see Mrs. Berenson on whichever suited her better.

“You look lovely, my dear,” said Mrs. Berenson, rising to kiss her. “I like the shorter hair very much.”

“Thank you,” said Scarlett.

“Now, how are you, darling? I want to hear all your news. I was very pleased when you wrote and told me you were working for BOAC. If you ever fly down to the Southern states, I want you to promise me to come and stay.”

“That sounds wonderful,” said Scarlett carefully.

“And I could show you Atlanta, where your namesake lived for much of her life; and, of course, Rhett Butler came from Charleston. I know the rest of the family would love to meet you, especially the girls. Now, did I tell you that Gaby is having another baby?”

Scarlett was pouring out the tea and she thought that she must have misheard, that it was one of the other wives Mrs. Berenson was talking about.

“I’m sorry?” she said politely. “Who’s having a baby?”

“Gaby, dear. David’s wife. In December. It’s very early days, of course, but so exciting.”

She heard a voice, which surely couldn’t have been hers, a calm, interested voice, saying, “Really? How lovely,” and then asking most politely if Mrs. Berenson would like sugar in her tea, and then how David felt about the baby. “After such a big gap.”

“Oh, my dear, he is thrilled. Over the moon. He’s a wonderful father, and he always said he was happiest when the children were tiny.”

“And is Gaby well?”

“She’s very well, yes. She thrives on pregnancy, always has. And in spite of her very busy life, she’s happy to put it on hold to enjoy this. ‘The Postscript,’ they call him or her. So sweet, don’t you think?”

“Very sweet,” said Scarlett. “Um … could you excuse me just a moment, Mrs. Berenson? I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

She looked at herself in the mirror in the ladies’ and was amazed to see exactly the same person who had left her flat an hour ago. She looked slightly flushed, and her eyes were very bright, but there was no sign whatsoever that she was enduring nightmarish pain. She combed her hair, admiring the shape of her new Vidal Sassoon five-point bob, sprayed herself with the Diorling that David had given her only two weeks ago, and renewed her lipstick. She didn’t dare start crying, because she knew she would never stop.

Then she went back to the lounge of the Connaught and drank two cups of tea, ate three finger sandwiches, and told Mrs. Berenson that she had been thinking about her invitation and she thought she might well like to take her up on her invitation to stay with her in Charleston. “Just for a couple of days; I’ve got a little leave in hand. I’ll have a look at my schedule. I would so love to see your beautiful house.”

“My dear, how lovely! David will be thrilled.”

“Charles is late,” said Eliza. “He said he’d be here by four at the latest and it’s—what—nearly six.”

“Oh, I expect he’s working late. He said he’d had a lot of extra work to do before he went away. Now, darling, you do think the flowers are all right, don’t you? I’m not sure about the ones in the marquee—”

“Mummy, they’re lovely. The whole marquee looks wonderful. Stop worrying.”

“Yes, but it was rather a responsibility, organising them myself. And—”

“It was Carol’s decision,” said Eliza firmly. “She obviously just didn’t want to be bothered with them. In which case she has only herself to blame. And given her taste—or rather complete lack of it—”

“Darling!”

“Well—”

Eliza’s dislike of Juliet had spread to her parents. Geoffrey Judd she could just about cope with, but Carol … she was so, so awful. So phony and silly and eyelash-fluttering, just like her daughter. And they were both clearly dazzled by Summercourt, especially now that it was at its loveliest.

The house was looking truly glorious, with huge vases and jugs of flowers in every room. Sarah had taken a deep breath and had the drawing room floor professionally polished; the golden wood reflected the light, filled the whole house with sunshine. It had rained a few days before and she had lit fires in the drawing room and the dining room, fearing they might be needed, and the sweet, haunting scent of wood smoke was everywhere, mingling with that of the roses. Eliza had stood in the hall when she arrived, thinking that she loved the house almost as if it were a person.

And one day, Eliza supposed, it would be the setting for her wedding.

She went up to the room where her father now slept alone; her mother said his restlessness kept them both awake.

He wasn’t there, but she could hear footsteps overhead on the top floor. She went up and called him; he came out of one of the bedrooms on the long corridor, looking sheepish.

“Hallo, poppet.”

“Daddy, what are you doing up here?”

“Oh, just looking down on the garden at the marquee. It looks awfully big.”

“Daddy! Don’t fib.”

“Well … as it’s you. Don’t tell Mummy. But look.”

He led her back into the room, where, in the corner, at floorboard level, something was growing. It looked like some obscene yellowish white fungus.