More Than You Know (88 page)

“I appreciate your faith in me,” she said. “And you—how’s it working out with Barry? Is he good enough?”

“Providing I’m there too,” said Matt, “you know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course. Same with Roderick.”

“I heard you might be breaking away from Roderick.”

“You did?” Her dark eyes became blank. “Well, that’s very interesting.”

“True? Or just a rumour?”

“Matt Shaw, if you think I’d tell you, of all people, something like that, you’ve lost the plot, seriously.”

“That means it’s true then.”

“No, Matt, it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean it’s true or not true; it means I’m not going to tell you.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Professionally? Of course not. Why should I?”

“Not even for old times’ sake?”

“Least of all for that, Matt.”

For the first time in months Matt realised he was enjoying himself.

“Same again?” he said, nodding at her glass.

They parted, slightly unsteadily, with another brief kiss, four martinis down, and agreed to do it again in a week’s time.

There is temptation and there is serious temptation and then there is temptation almost beyond endurance. This came to Jeremy Northcott as he loosened his black tie, having got home from the reception for Mariella Crespi that evening. He had watched her as she stood smiling, looking utterly ravishing in a black crepe Pierre Cardin sheath dress, her hair pulled back in a chignon, being kissed and embraced and congratulated for over an hour; he had kissed her himself, breathing in her rich, heady perfume; he had chatted to her briefly and then waited patiently while she circulated the room ushered by M. Cardin himself and the director of the charity; he had sat not quite near enough to her at a dinner for the chosen few at Elaine’s, and danced with her only once when they went on to Studio 54 at two in the morning.

And now it was four, and he had a breakfast meeting at eight, and he was debating whether or not to go to bed at all, when there was a call from the porter to say there was a lady to see him, and he said she should come up and listened to the whirring of the elevator as it approached him, rather as the condemned man might listen for the steps of the executioner approaching his cell, and as she stepped out of it, holding a hooded cloak round her—“I think no one saw me; I left the hotel by the service exit”—and then slipped the cloak off and held out her arms to him, he thought there could hardly be a man in the universe who could resist such an invitation.

“Darling, I hear from your mother that you need some help.”

“Well … well, yes, I do. But—”

“Then you must let me give it to you.”

Somehow Eliza had never thought of the one person who really did have plenty of money and whom it would be acceptable to take it from.

“It sounds ghastly, darling, and quite ridiculous; he’ll never win, but I feel so sorry for you. I thought he loved that child. Not enough, that’s all I can say. If he really loved her he wouldn’t be putting her through this. I don’t know what’s the matter with you young people today, one affair and it all has to be over. All this ridiculous confessing and soul baring, such a waste of time and money …”

“I didn’t actually have to confess,” said Eliza ruefully.

“Well, no, maybe not. And having Matt still living in the house. Why on earth is he doing that?”

“God knows. The atmosphere’s awful. But I can’t afford to move out. And anyway, he’s so protective of Emmie, and obviously I’d want to take her; I just can’t think he’d agree to it.”

“He doesn’t have custody of her. You can do what you like. What about going to Summercourt?”

“No, because she has to go to school.”

“Your mother seems to be inclined to see his point of view,” said Anna thoughtfully. “Very odd, I thought.”

“Well, she’s very fond of him. And of course I’ve behaved so badly, and she minds that.”

“Badly! One night in six years or whatever it is. Good God, I call that grounds for sainthood myself. One thing I’ll say for Piers: very good at turning a blind eye. I remember being caught in flagrante one afternoon in the House of Lords—your friend Rex Ingham’s father, as a matter of fact—old fool forgot to lock the door; some stupid bugger had to tell Piers, of course; he never said a word.”

“Oh, Gommie! You’re so naughty,” said Eliza, laughing. “Anyway, Mummy really disapproves of my working; she always did, and of course Matt’s been incredibly generous to her, over Summercourt and everything—”

“Yes, but he can afford it. You’re still working, I hope?”

“Oh, God, yes. Just the two days a week, but it saves my sanity.”

“I did rather like Matt myself,” said Anna thoughtfully, “tough, clever, and very sexy, of course—”

“Yes. All the reasons I fell in love with him. But I shouldn’t have married him. We’re too different. Or … maybe we’re too alike. I don’t know. Our views of the world are certainly very different.”

And then she suddenly burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I just feel so … so hopeless about everything. And so ashamed of myself. Oh, not so much sleeping with Rob—well, not really …”

“What are you ashamed of, then?”

“Oh … I’ve just been horrible to Matt, made him hate me, and we used to love each other so much, and it’s all my fault, or mostly; I’ve just—”

“Darling, some of it was your fault, of course, and some of it was his. It’s called marriage. You mustn’t berate yourself so much; it won’t do you any good. Now do let’s talk about jollier things. Like your work. It’s Jeremy’s agency, isn’t it? I hope that doesn’t have any unsuitable implications.”

“God, no. We really are just friends. Best friends probably …”

“Dangerous to be best friends with a man,” said Anna briskly, “in my experience anyway. Unless he’s a fairy, of course.”

It was true, Eliza, thought. Work did keep her sane. She walked in through the revolving doors in the mornings and into the agency foyer a different person, with the old familiar happiness at suddenly knowing what she was doing, completely committed.

Of course, everyone had heard about her and Rob; she’d been petrified the first time she’d gone into the agency afterwards, but no one had seemed especially interested; it was so much the sort of thing that went on all the time, and everyone knew what a stud Rob Brigstocke was, so that, among the girls at the agency, Eliza found she was an object of surprise and admiration, rather than opprobrium.

“I suppose it’s because they see me as an old married has-been,” she said to Maddy as she sat amid the multicolored mountain in Maddy’s stockroom that was her autumn collection.

“Yes, well, you are,” said Maddy with a grin. Eliza grinned back. It was so lovely to have Maddy back in her life; with the best will in the world they had drifted apart, nothing in common, nothing to say to each other. How odd it was, Eliza thought, that her best friend for years had been an impoverished mother living in a squalid flat whose knowledge of the fashion business began and ended with whether her coat would last another winter. Well, she missed Heather horribly still.

“I hear they’re briefing Toby Gilmour,” said Ivor Lewis.

“Is he a barrister?”

“Yes—a junior. I suppose the big boys are too expensive. Oh, he’s clever, all right, very old-school, bit arrogant, but … nothing like we’ve got. Bruce Hayward will hang him out to dry.”

“Good,” said Matt. Wondering why he felt just a stab of unease.

“Now, look. I’ve been thinking. We need to go quite hard on her lifestyle. These advertising agencies, from what I’ve heard, very sex and drugs and rock and roll. Do you think there was anything like that going on there?”

“Probably.”

“Right. Well, we need a witness, someone she works with. Can you suggest anyone?”

“Not really,” said Matt shortly. “I tried not to get involved.”

He had a sudden sharp memory of Eliza sitting at supper and trying to interest him in her new job, her face alive as it hadn’t been for a long time; it had made him so angry, hurt him so much.

“Right,” said Ivor Lewis, “I think we try to find a witness. All right with you?”

“Absolutely,” said Matt. “Yeah. Whatever it takes.”

The sense of unease was still with him.

“Matt, I need to talk to you.”

“Scarlett, I was just going home.”

“Well, stop off here on the way. It’s important.”

He knew better than to argue. “OK, but I can’t be long.”

“It won’t take long.”

She was waiting for him with a bottle of his favourite Irish whisky on the coffee table; whatever it was, she clearly thought he needed softening up. Or something.

“So … what is it, Scarlett? What do you want?”

“Matt …” She reached for a cigarette; he saw her hand shake slightly as she flicked her lighter on. She was clearly nervous—interesting.

“Matt, I … I want you to drop this divorce and this whole case.”

“What!”

“Yes. Please, Matt. It’s not too late.”

“It’s far too late. Scarlett, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I really do. Look, I’ve seen divorce, don’t forget. Very firsthand. With David. The ugliness, the way it wipes out every single good thing and distorts and destroys whatever is left. Oh, it’s probably too late to save the marriage. I can see that. Just … please, Matt … just think,
really hard. Everything you’ve had with Eliza, every good thing—and there has been so much good; you know there has—along with the bad, it will all be wiped out and … and made ugly and horrible. And Emmie will have to live with that, if you go down this road.”