More Than You Know (27 page)

Well … she had. And now she was getting her revenge. A bit of it, anyway.

“What on earth is going on in there?”

“I really don’t know, I’m afraid. He just seems really angry.”

“Who with?”

“I don’t know. Someone on the telephone.”

“Well, who is it? A client?”

“I don’t know, Miss Mullen. I don’t think so. Well, first some woman phoned; she was ever so posh. She was called … Oh, dear. It was a name I’ve never heard before. Really unusual. I thought at first she said she was making an announcement about her name, but that seemed to be it. Her name. Anyway, he didn’t talk to her for long. Then he rang someone else. That’s who he’s shouting at.”

Louise listened at the door for a moment; she heard the words
bloody outrageous
and then slightly later, “You made me a promise, and in my business we don’t renege on such things. Yours is obviously less principled. I’m quite prepared to sue if necessary”; and then: “Well, you’ll have to sort it out, because I’m not bloody having it.”

There was then a loud noise as the phone was slammed down, and a long silence.

Rather reluctantly, Louise went out to meet a client. When she came back, Jenny was looking rather excited, typing very fast.

“Oh, Miss Mullen,” she said. “What a morning we’ve had. That girl came back—that girl who came to interview Mr. Shaw for the papers.”

“Oh,” said Louise.

“Yes. She was quite rude.”

“She has no business being rude to you. What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Is Matt Shaw in there?’ So I said what you always told me to say; I said, ‘Mr. Shaw is very busy at the moment, but I’ll see if he has a moment to speak with you,’ and she said, ‘Don’t give me all that rubbish; is he in? Yes or no.’ ”

“So what did you say?”

“I said, ‘Well, yes, he is.’ And she just barged in.”

“Goodness. And then what?”

“Well, I heard a lot of shouting.”

“What about?”

“Well, she was saying he was pathetic and he should …” She glanced at her notepad.

“Jenny, you didn’t write it down!” said Louise, grinning at her.

“Well, Miss Mullen, you always say to take notes if it might be important.”

“That’s … that’s true. So what else did you hear?”

“Well, she said he should stop being so … well, it was the f-word, Miss Mullen. So effing defensive, and did he really think they were going to write dis … disappearing things?”

“Disparaging?”

“Yes, that’s it. Disparaging things about him, and he said he didn’t trust anyone in her business, and she said she’d begun to admire him and think he was clever, but now she could see he was a total moron, and it was the last time she’d ever try to do anything for him, and then he said
he didn’t want her to do … well … effing anything for him; he’d never asked her to in the first place, and she’d obviously lied to him, and what did she have to say about that.”

“Right. So … then did she leave?”

“No, but I went to the toilet. And when I came back it was all quiet. So I thought she’d gone, and then I thought maybe he’d like a nice cup of tea or something, to calm him down a bit, and a biscuit, you know how he likes his biscuits, so I knocked on the door and there was no reply, and I thought he’d gone out, so I opened the door really quietly, and …”

“And what, Jenny?”

“And … well, he was kissing her. I mean really kissing her, you know. And she was … Miss Mullen, she was most definitely kissing him back.”

Emma Northcott looked at her brother across the table. “Now, Jeremy, I want to talk to you about something. Nothing to do with me, I know, but—”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“True. Anyway, it’s about Eliza. Jeremy, what are your plans? For Eliza? Or rather, with Eliza?”

“Well … not quite sure.”

“You do seem very fond of her.”

“I am. Very fond. She’s a darling.”

“Is that it?”

“Probably not.” He grinned at Emma. “She’s the perfect girl, in lots of ways. Fun, bright—very bright—attractive. We get on incredibly well. I adore her, actually.”

“And have you thought about how Eliza might be feeling right now, with you going off to New York for six months?”

“Well … she didn’t seem too upset.”

“Jeremy, you are incredible. Have you not heard of female pride? You’ve been going out with her, and I presume rather more than that, for about a year. Everyone thinks of you as a couple. Now suddenly you announce you’re off to the States, ‘Bye, Eliza, been fun; see you when I get back—’ ”

“I didn’t say anything remotely like that,” said Jeremy half indignantly.

“You might not have expressed it like that. That’s how it looks to everyone, most of all to Eliza. You really have got a hide like a rhinoceros, Jeremy. I feel quite ashamed of you.”

“But, Emma, she’s just been made fashion editor. She’s not going to be bothered about how things look. And anyway, is she going to want an absentee fiancé? I thought I’d leave it till I got back, see if we both feel the same way, and then—”

“Jeremy! Eliza could easily be snapped up in the space of six months!”

“Well … I’ll think about it really hard, promise. Now … shall we share a chateaubriand? I’m awfully hungry.”

“Matt, hallo, it’s Eliza. I’ve got the copy for you to check.”

“Oh—great, thanks.”

“Shall I bike it over to you?”

“You could. Or you could bring it yourself. In case I have any comments.”

“I do have a few other things to do, I’m afraid,” said Eliza tartly. “I’ll bike the copy over. And you can ring me with any comments.”

And please, please, God, don’t let there be any
. Jack Beckham would go completely insane if he knew this was happening. “Copy approval is for advertising agencies,” he said whenever anyone—usually an interviewed actor—requested it. “They want fucking approval, they can pay for the fucking space.”

She was definitely feeling somewhat odd about Matt. It had been quite a kiss. She’d literally felt weak at the knees afterwards. She was going to feel a bit silly seeing him now as well. He must think she was a bit of a tart, as well as all the other things, like snobby and bossy, and full of herself.

Although it had been … well … it had been his idea. Their relationship was very complicated. Not that it was a relationship, of course.

Her phone rang at five. “Got a few queries. Would you like to have a drink with me, so we can discuss them?”

“No, Matt, I’m sorry; there really isn’t time.”

“OK, then, I’ll just bring this over later and come up to your office. And I’d like to see your office. You’ve seen mine, after all.”

“Matt—”

“I’ll be there at seven.”

At six forty-five Jack Beckham put his head round the door of her office.

“Everything sorted for your November pages?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” It wasn’t, but she couldn’t afford to have him hanging around her office now.

“Just remind me what you’re doing for the second feature.”

“Oh—it’s these designs from the Royal College. I’m calling it ‘Why Not?’ They’re quite revolutionary things, an all-in-one sort of dungaree boiler suit, for instance.”

“Sounds hideous.”

“It’s not, Jack; it’s wonderful.”

“Got any sketches?”

“Yes, they’re here—yes, look.”

“Oh, yes. I do remember now.”

“Good, and then some bunny rabbit coats in all sorts of wonderful primary colors, like yellow and blue.”

“That sounds better. Well, keep up the good work. Night, Eliza.”

“Night, Jack.”

Phew
. That had been close. Five to seven. He …

“Eliza!”

He was back.
God
.

“I’d quite like to do some men’s fashion in the not too distant future.”

“Yes, of course. Me too. Wonderful idea.”

“Good. Not worn by some fairy boys, mind, but red-blooded males—footballers, that sort of thing. Like—well, OK, this chap’d do. Boyfriend of yours? Looking for Eliza, are you? This way.”

Matt walked in. Eliza felt faint.

“Oh … Matt. Hallo. Yes. This is Jack Beckham, our editor. Jack, Matt Shaw.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Matt.

“You look familiar.” He peered at Matt. “Yeah, I thought I recognized you. You’re in our feature, aren’t you? ‘The Intropreneurs.’ ”

“Well … I hope so. Yeah. Providing—”

“Great photographs, weren’t they, Eliza. Terry Donovan, wasn’t it? Like him, got a sense of humour. I particularly remember your pictures, Matt, up on that scaffolding. Brave of you, I thought.”

“Yes, well, I’m used to it. But—”

“We’re leading on you, as a matter of fact. Double-page spread, picture of you over two-thirds of it, then a column introducing the feature and leading into your interview. And we’ve got you on the cover as well, small picture, that is—hang on; I’ll get the dummy. You’ll be pleased, I think. Too late if you’re not; it’s gone to press.”

He disappeared into the features department. Matt and Eliza looked at each other in silence. Then: “I am not,” Matt said, “repeat, not—”

Beckham was back. “Right. Here it is, look.” A small shot of Matt, dropped onto the corner of the cover, captioned, “The Intropreneurs, the new style tycoons, talk about life at the top.”

“What do you think about that then?”

“It’s … it’s not bad,” said Matt. “Not bad at all.”

“It’s bloody good publicity! You should be grateful.”

“I … I am, yes. Thank you.”

“Good. Well, I’m off; see you tomorrow, Eliza.”

He slammed the door behind him. Matt looked at Eliza. She smiled at him, very sweetly.

“What was it you were saying?” she asked.

“Darling—”

“Yes, darling?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“About?”

“About Summercourt.”

“Charles, if it’s about finding money to fix the roof, we really can’t help. We’re hardly coping financially ourselves. If we can’t afford to go skiing and you’re fussing about my clothes budget, then we certainly can’t afford to give your parents any money. They’ve got plenty of their own, surely, and they can always raise some on the house; Daddy suggested that when I mentioned it last time; it’s just not fair to ask us—”

“Juliet, I’ve told you before they haven’t got any money, any at all—”