The Decision (71 page)

But Jeremy had sent her a note in the New Year, saying he hoped she was feeling better and that she might like to consider his proposition, as he called it.

‘You’ll be getting a call about it,’ he said, ‘but of course, no pressure of any kind. Just say no, although we would all be the losers for it. It was lovely to see you. Hide and Seek was a particular joy. I’ve missed you a lot. Much love, Jeremy.’ All written in his black-inked scrawling hand, and signed off with a couple of large kisses. She couldn’t bear to throw it away; so clearly did it speak of all that she had left behind, professional success, fun, and the sheer joy of being professionally valued. She hid it in the base of her Carmen roller set. Matt would never find it there.

And then waited for the call. If it never came it would be a relief. Of course.

Rob Brigstocke rang her in the middle of January. He sounded slightly wary.

‘I’m told by the big white chief you could help us. He says I should talk to you. Over lunch perhaps.’

‘I’m not sure if I can help you,’ said Eliza, ‘but talking is always fun.’

It was only lunch.

The Guinea and the Piggy was rather dark, quite small and much beloved by the advertising trade in general.

‘Eliza Shaw,’ she said to the maître d’. ‘I’ve come to meet Rob Brigstocke.’

‘Ah, Madame, I remember you as Eliza Clark, don’t I? The fashion editor?’ he asked, smiling at her. She was enchanted. Somebody hadn’t forgotten her.

‘You do,’ she said, ‘very clever of you. Lovely to see you again. Anyway – is Mr Brigstocke here?’

‘He is not. I am so sorry. Would you like to wait at the table—’

‘Oh – yes, all right. No message?’

He shook his head.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

‘Oh – yes, please.’ She might as well enjoy herself, cost the agency as much money as possible. ‘Do you do champagne by the glass?’

He shook his head regretfully. ‘I am so sorry. I could get you a bottle—’

‘Oh, why not? Veuve Clicquot if you have it.’

She was beginning to feel cross, and more herself than she could remember for years.

She had bought the
Evening Standard
and was reading it engrossed, thinking what a brilliant fashion editor Barbara Griggs was, and on her second glass of champagne when Rob Brigstocke finally arrived. She heard him before she saw him, a public school accent, roughed up to suit the current trend, ‘Eliza? Eliza Shaw?’, and looked up rather slowly, anxious to show him she didn’t expect to be kept waiting. What she saw was – well, it was pretty good: thick, dark blond hair, a slightly boyish face, covered in freckles with rather heavily lashed hazel eyes – he’d have made quite a pretty girl really, she thought, and wondered if he was gay.

She looked at her watch; it said five to one. She waited for his apology; it didn’t come.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m Eliza Shaw. Are you Rob Brigstocke?

‘Might I be someone else?’

‘Well yes, actually,’ she said. ‘Considering you were meant to be here twenty-five minutes ago. You could be a messenger. A substitute lunch companion. A—’

‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding completely un-contrite, ‘I was held up by some queen of a photographer.’ Not gay then.

‘You could have phoned the restaurant.’

‘I could, but I didn’t. I thought that would waste more time. Anyway, I see you have made yourself at home.’ He indicated the ice bucket and the champagne.

‘Yes. Well, are you going to stay? Or have you got to go back to your photographer?’

‘No, no, he’s gone.’

He sat down and looked at the bottle, lifted it out himself. She liked that too; she could never get that waving the waiter over, as if pouring the wine was some kind of mystic art.

‘I can see you like the best,’ he said, filling one of the white wine glasses to the rim and sipping it thoughtfully.

‘Yes, I do.’ She was certainly not going to apologise, if that was what he expected.

‘That’s something. We need the best. I believe you know Jeremy Northcott quite well.’

‘Yes, I do. Quite well.’

‘He says you’re what we need. I can only take his word for that, of course. Especially as he hasn’t worked here for five years, and, as I understand it, neither have you.’

‘Look,’ said Eliza, feeling her temper rising. ‘I didn’t ask to have lunch with you. You rang me. Jeremy suggested that, as far as I can understand it, none of it’s my fault.’

‘Yes all right,’ he said, sounding half-irritated, half-amused. ‘I was just making the point that I need to reassure myself that you’re what we need. That I run the department, not Jeremy. It’s down to me who I hire. If you’re right then that’s great. If you’re not …’ He shrugged. ‘No hard feelings, I hope. Got any examples of your work on you?’

Eliza felt a flicker of rage, which grew into a hot white flame, soaring through her. How dare he insult her like this? She, who had been acknowledged one of the finest fashion editors in London, if not the world? How could he not have at least done his homework, looked up some old issues? How could he imply she was only under consideration because she was some kind of past girlfriend of the boss? And how dare he not even show her the most basic courtesy of turning up to lunch on time?

‘If you don’t want to talk to me, Mr Brigstocke, that’s absolutely fine, it makes no difference to me. I didn’t ask you to get in touch with me and I certainly didn’t ask Jeremy Northcott to put me forward.’

‘Now look,’ he said, ‘be reasonable. I’m perfectly prepared to consider you for this job. But given that you didn’t even think to bring any of your work with you—’

‘Ye-es?’ she said slowly.

‘And that Jeremy didn’t give more than the slightest clue as to the sort of skills you could bring to the table—’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, you must see I’m being asked to take an awful lot on trust.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘no, not really. Because I would have thought you would have been professional – and actually courteous – enough to do some research on my work yourself, before putting me through this farce. Probably best if I go now, actually, not waste any more of your time. Or mine, come to that. Very nice champagne, thank you—’

‘I don’t think I had much choice in that either,’ said Rob Brigstocke.

‘If you’d been here on time, as I was, you’d have had plenty of choice,’ said Eliza, standing up, ‘but you weren’t and you don’t seem to feel you have to apologise for that either. Will you tell Jeremy what’s happened or shall I?’

‘No doubt you will,’ he said, ‘you seem to have his ear.’

‘That is a repulsive thing to say,’ said Eliza, ‘and I do assure you, I wouldn’t consider working for you now if you offered me a thousand pounds a day and unlimited supplies of Veuve Clicquot. Good afternoon, Mr Brigstocke.’

She walked out, rather pleasingly aware that the other occupants of the restaurant had greatly enjoyed their exchange.

David had said he would book a table for one o’clock; Scarlett was there at quarter past, determined to make him wait, only to find a message waiting for her to say he was desperately sorry, he’d been delayed but there was champagne at the table and he’d be there by one thirty.

She was tempted to walk out, and indeed as the clock said one twenty-eight, she looked up from the file she had been pretending to study, and stood up – to see Mark Frost standing in front of her.

‘Miss Scarlett,’ he said, smiling in apparently genuine pleasure, ‘how lovely to see you. How are you and have you been to Trisos lately?’

‘No,’ she said, flustered, ‘no, I haven’t, sadly. Just too busy. But I’m hoping to make a trip pretty soon.’

‘I too. Perhaps our paths will cross.’

‘That would be – be nice. How is the building project?’

‘Oh – almost there. I’m rather thrilled with it all as a matter of fact. I’ve got some photographs here.’ He rummaged in the battered briefcase he was carrying. ‘I’d like you to see them. I feel we are united in our ambition to see Trisos preserved as much as possible, and as we like it.’

‘Oh – yes. Yes, I do feel that so much. That would be nice.’

‘Are you lunching alone?’

‘No, no, just waiting for someone. You?’

‘Meeting my agent. But apparently she’s going to be late. May I sit down for a moment?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. Would you like some champagne, it’s here to stop me feeling cross.’

‘Is it working?’

‘Not entirely.’

‘Right. Well – I think not for me. Drinking at lunchtime never agrees with me. Now, here we are. Look. What do you think?’

She looked, at a lovely wide, white construction with the requisite domed roof over one half of it, the other half flat – ‘I intend that to be a terrace, so I can sit and look at the sea. And down here, look, this will be the garden, small of course, but big enough to sit in and grow bougainvillea and here, you see, I am going to plant a vine, to make a sort of arbour – do you like it?’

‘I think it’s absolutely lovely. Really. So simple and – and so – so – Greek. Oh, dear, sorry, what a stupid thing to say.’

‘Not at all, the very nicest thing, actually. I want it to look Greek. I’m pleased you think so. Anyway, next time you’re there, do – oh, I’m sorry.’ He stood up, knocking the photographs onto the floor. ‘So sorry.’

Scarlett looked up; David had arrived. She had forgotten the sheer pulse-speeding, knee-weakening force of David’s presence, the size of him, the power, his blond almost-perfect looks, his sexual magnetism. He was wearing a pale grey flannel suit and a fine cotton shirt that almost exactly matched his eyes, those extraordinary green eyes, the legacy from his mother. He was smiling, easy, his eyes moving over Scarlett, appreciating her. He was carrying a rather overdressed parcel.

‘Let me help,’ he said, bending to pick up Mark’s photographs. ‘Lovely place. This wouldn’t be your Trisos, would it, Scarlett?’

Scarlett saw Mark look at her swiftly, clearly surprised by the adjective. ‘It’s hardly mine,’ she said as coolly as she could.

‘Well, it’s lovely. What a great house. Is it yours?’ he said to Mark.

‘It will be, yes, when it’s finished.’

‘I have heard so much about that place. Scarlett does love it so. Scarlett, I am so, so sorry to be late. Unforgivable. But you look as if you are putting the time to good use.’ He held out his hand to Mark. ‘David Berenson.’

‘Mark Frost.’

‘And – has Scarlett invited you to lunch in my place? I could hardly blame her. I cannot stand people who are late, so rude, so offensive even, I always think. It implies the other person’s time is of no value. When I know how hugely valuable Scarlett’s is.’

‘David, it’s fine. And no, of course I haven’t asked Mark to join us, but I did offer him a drink.’

‘Of course. Mr Frost, do please sit down and have a drink with us – we’d love that, wouldn’t we Scarlett?’

‘No,’ said Mark, ‘no, no, I – that is …’

‘Scarlett, these are for you,’ said David, handing her the parcel, clearly impatient with his awkwardness. ‘Truffles, your favourite.’

‘Thank you,’ said Scarlett briefly.

‘Mr Frost – please do join us.’

‘David, Mark is having lunch with his agent.’

‘His agent? Sounds intriguing. What do you do, Mark?’

‘I – I travel a bit—’

‘Oh, oh, I see. You’re in the same business as Scarlett, are you?’

‘David, Mark is not in the travel business. Well he is, but not like me. He writes books, travel books—’

‘Oh, but how marvellous! I adore travel writing. Rebecca West, one could read her for ever, and Jan Morris and I never leave home without Paddy of course—’

‘Paddy?’

‘Paddy Leigh Fermor. You know his work? Yes, of course you do. And you write under your own name – can’t say I’ve read any, but I’ll certainly look out for them in future. Scarlett my dear, if you move up a little, I can sit next to you, and Mark here can have my chair – tell me, Mark, have you written about the States? I come from Charleston, the Southern states are all so lovely, but we think the Carolinas win the prize – I’ve been trying to persuade Scarlett to take her business there for years.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mark, by now sounding desperate, ‘I must go, I see my lunching companion coming now, do excuse me.’ He made a half-bow to Scarlett, then turned to David. ‘Very nice to have met you.’

And then he did what could be best described, Scarlett thought, as scuttling off to the other side of the restaurant.

‘Odd chap,’ said David, sitting down, kissing Scarlett briefly on the cheek.

‘He’s not odd, actually, he’s very nice,’ said Scarlett, pulling her head away, ‘and he’s a wonderful writer, very highly thought of—’

‘I’m sure. No need to sound so defensive. But he’s obviously very shy. Now, let me refill that glass and maybe we should order and then we can relax. It’s so good to see you. Love the dress. That colour is wonderful on you. Oh, Scarlett.’ He reached for her hand, kissed it. ‘Thank you for agreeing to this. It’s so very – generous of you.’

He raised his glass to her, smiled into her eyes. She felt irritated, upset, couldn’t think of anything to say. She had only just managed to regain her cool by the time her main course had arrived; to cut into his fulsome chatter about his mother, about Charleston in the fall, about …