More Than You Know (65 page)

“I want to give it to her today. Then we can play with it.”

“I think that sounds like quite a good idea,” said Heather apologetically. “She’s so sick of all her toys.”

They went upstairs. The room looked smaller and dingier than Eliza remembered. Heather had obviously made a great effort, and there was a small tree in the window and some homemade paper chains strung on the picture rails, but it was cold, and there was a damp patch on the ceiling.

“Yes, it’s new,” said Heather, “from the sink in the flat one floor up. They’ve gone, and I keep asking the landlord to turn the tap off completely, but he says it can’t be done.”

“Oh, Heather. Any progress?”

“Only with this,” said Heather, patting her bump. “Growing very nicely, he is. We can’t find anywhere else, Eliza, and I think we may have to bite the bullet and go and live with Alan’s mum. And I don’t want to go there; I really don’t.”

“What about
your
mum?”

“No, she’s only got a two-bedroom flat, in one of those new high-rise things.”

“Oh, dear,” said Eliza helplessly. “Have you got your name down for a council house?”

“Yeah,” said Heather with a noise that was half sigh, half laugh, “and I should think we’ve just risen from the very bottom to nearly the very bottom. They said two years minimum, and I know what that means.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Eliza. “And how do you feel?”

“Tired. Alan’s so bad tempered, and saying he doesn’t know how we’re going to manage. Nor do I. Oh, I’m sorry, Eliza, sorry to be such a misery. How are you; are you feeling any better?”

“So much better,” said Eliza, “yes. Of course, I still feel very sad, but I can cope with it now. And it was you who set me on the road to recovery; it really was … People keep asking me if I’m going to have another, but I just can’t face it. Not yet. I’m even thinking of going back to work. Not full-time, but … well, something’s cropped up that would be wonderful.”

“What does Matt have to say about that?”

“I haven’t told him,” said Eliza simply.

“Scarlett?”

“Oh … David. Hallo.”

She tried to sound cool and unwelcoming, but it was difficult.

“I just called to say happy Christmas.”

“Right. Well, thank you. Happy Christmas, David.”

“What are you doing?”

“Oh … spending it with my family, of course. Should be fun.”

“Would that include your clever brother?”

“On Boxing Day, yes. I’m going down to their ancestral pile. What are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s very much all pulling together for Christmas. Mother insists on everyone being there, and I think that will be good for the kids. But after that I’m heading for London. You wouldn’t … wouldn’t consider seeing me, I suppose? Just for a drink? I’ve missed you so much, Scarlett. Can’t we be friends, at least?”

Scarlett could feel herself quite literally weakening; she fought it down.

“I don’t … I don’t see how we can.”

“Why not? That was the best thing about our relationship—well, one of the best things; I can think of a few others. We had a wonderful friendship; we had fun; we talked about everything under the sun.”

She remembered those conversations, those long, funny, fascinating conversations. She hadn’t had many like that since.

“Well,” she said finally. “I’ll … I’ll see. I might be away. I’m considering getting into the skiing market—”

“Oh, marvellous idea. Maybe I could help. I know Gstaad really well. And Cortina d’Ampezzo.”

“Oh,” she said, tempted beyond endurance, “oh … well, perhaps. Call me when you get to London.”

“I will. I really have missed you. I wish you’d believe me.”

“I’ll try,” she said lightly. “Bye, David. Enjoy your family Christmas.”

She put the stress on the word
family
and hoped he wouldn’t miss the irony.

“Bye, Scarlett. Enjoy yours.”

She put the phone down and sighed. Bastard he might be. Bastard he was. But the fact remained that she had spent some of the happiest times of her life with him. It was very tempting …

A lunch is the most dangerous of assignations. It presents a charmingly innocent face, a guileless smile; it takes place in daylight, in the presence of many others; it ends with a seemly return to the workplace, to the home, to workmates, to spouses.

It teases, to be sure; it makes light, flirtatious promises; it amuses; an invitation to it charms, flatters, even intrigues. But it does not threaten; the mention of it does not alarm.

Thus: “It’s only a lunch,” Eliza Shaw told herself as she drove to meet Rob Brigstocke, the new creative director of KPD, at the Guinea in Burton Lane. “It’s only a lunch,” argued Scarlett Shaw as she walked through the frosty sunshine to the Grosvenor House hotel on Park Lane for an unexpected assignation with David Berenson. And: “It’s only a
lunch,” purred Mariella Crespi as she stepped into her limo outside the Pierre hotel and directed it to the Plaza just across the road—for she did not want her hair to be blown about, nor her nose turned red when she was to sit across a table from Jeremy Northcott …

Why was she doing this, why? Eliza wondered. Was she quite mad? What kind of self-deluding recklessness had seen her agreeing to meet Rob Brigstocke that day; to arrange for Emmie to be out for tea lest it overran; to get her hair cut, to buy some new boots, and stand in Smith’s for an hour, flicking through
Vogue
and
Queen
and
Nova
and
Charisma
, lest she should have missed out on some vital new fashion trend or look? When they had had the happiest Christmas at Summercourt, when she had never felt more hopeful about her marriage, when the fear of Emmie’s mentioning Jeremy’s name and describing their stay in Milan, the game of hide-and-seek, had all but disappeared, and she and Matt had even begun to talk tentatively about starting another baby “maybe later in the year”?

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 that 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, madam, 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. “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. 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 she 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 whether 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 uncontrite. “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.

“Yes, I do.” She was certainly not going to apologize, 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 under consideration only 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, “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 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 apologize for that either. Will you tell Jeremy what’s happened or shall I?”