More Than You Know (7 page)

“They can’t do that! Anyway, the trustees won’t let them. What does Pa say?”

“Not a lot, as far as I can make out. Reading between the lines, his head’s firmly in the sand. Just denies there’s a real problem. I can’t think what we can do to help, but at least we must show her some support. When are you going down next?”

“Well, I could pop down tomorrow. Could you come too?”

“I could, actually. OK, let’s do that. It would cheer her up, if nothing else. She’s really worried, can’t sleep.”

“Poor Mummy. Yes, let’s go and see her. I’m sure we can come up with something. Now, how’s the job? I want to hear all about it.”

Eliza was even less inclined towards marriage than usual that summer; gearing up for the autumn opening of Woolfe’s Young Generation was consuming all her energy.

Jan Jacobson, the brilliant young buyer hired to work exclusively for Young Generation, had brought in some beautiful clothes; comparatively
established designers like John Bates (of Jean Varon) and Sally Tuffin and Marion Foale would hang on rails alongside entirely new talent. He had discovered Mark Derrick, who designed apparently shapeless little shift dresses that still flattered girls’ bodies: the bodies that had seemed almost overnight to have been transformed from the shapely curves of the late fifties to something almost boyish, with neat, small breasts and flat, hipless torsos; and Eliza herself had discovered Maddy Brown, who had reinvented the sweater so that it continued downwards from the waist to somewhere above the knee.

Eliza liked Maddy; she was fun, with a sweet and deceptively gentle manner. Beneath it was an ambition as steely as Eliza’s own. She was the child of working-class parents, had won a scholarship to a grammar school and then to art school; she was small with long fair hair and huge green eyes, and she still lived at home and used her tiny bedroom as a studio workshop.

Slightly unwillingly, Jan had agreed to see Maddy, fell in love with the clothes, and persuaded Bernard Woolfe she was worth the risk. Maddy and her one knitter, also working from home, found a couple more girls who met her exacting standards; all four of them now were installed in the unfortunate Mr. and Mrs. Brown’s front room.

One night that summer, she and Charles went with a party of friends to Brads, the newest of the new nightspots. Soon after midnight Eliza, lying back temporarily exhausted after an energetic bossa nova, heard someone shouting above the din.

“Charles, old chap! Lovely to see you.” And into view, smiling and waving just slightly drunkenly in their direction, came the most glorious-looking man.

“Jeremy!” said Charles. “Come and join us. Eliza, I don’t think you’ve met Jeremy. Jeremy Northcott. We were out in Hong Kong together. Jeremy, this is my sister, Eliza.”

“Hallo,” said Eliza, smiling just a little coolly while digesting this Adonis: tall, blond, absurdly good-looking, the patrician nose and chiselled jaw saved from cliché by a slightly lopsided grin, showing, of course, perfect teeth.

“Hallo to you,” said Jeremy, and sat down abruptly next to her. “I
think we met a couple of times at Eton, Fourth of June and so on. And I was at the Harlots’ Ball the year you came out, but I didn’t manage to dance with you—too much competition.”

Eliza giggled. “Well, maybe we could put it right some other time.”

“That’d be marvellous.”

He smiled at her again; he really was knee-shakingly attractive.

“Well, what have you been doing with yourself, you old bugger?” asked Charles. “Where are you living now?”

“In a flat I kind of inherited in Sloane Street,” said Jeremy.

“Lucky you,” said Charles. “That’s the sort of inheritance I’d like.”

“What are you doing then, Charles? Working in the city, I heard?”

“That’s right, with a firm of stockbrokers. Not a bad life. How about you?”

“I’m working in advertising,” said Jeremy. “Terrific fun. Firm called K Parker Dutton, KPD for short. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”

“I certainly have,” said Eliza, smiling at him. “It sounds like complete heaven to me. Is it true you all have your own offices complete with sofas and fridges?”

“Absolutely true.”

“You on your own, Jeremy?” said Charles. “You’re very welcome to join us.”

“No, sorry, whole crowd of us. I must get back in a tick.”

“We must arrange an evening,” said Charles. “Been to the Saddle Room yet?”

“Yes, I’m a member. Great idea. So what are you up to, Eliza? Working girl?”

“Is she ever,” said Charles. “You’re looking at a bona fide career woman, Jeremy. Eliza works in fashion.”

“Really? Are you a model?”

“No,” said Eliza, not sure whether to be flattered because he should think that possible, or irritated that he should think modelling a career. “No, I work for Woolfe’s department store in Knightsbridge. I do the publicity.”

“Oh, I know Woolfe’s. Great store. Publicity, eh? I know what that means: taking all the fashion editors out to lunch?”

“Well, that’s only a very small part of the job,” said Eliza, “but yes,
that is one of the perks. And telling them about everything in the store, hoping they’ll write about it. And then making sure—”

“Steady on, Eliza,” said Charles. “Jeremy’s supposed to be enjoying himself; he doesn’t want a lecture on the PR industry.”

“No, no,” said Jeremy, “it’s my line of country, you know. Look, I must get back. Let’s have lunch soon, Charles. Here’s my card; give me a ring. And I’ll fix that evening at the Saddle Room. Lovely to meet you, Eliza. Bye for now.”

And he unwound his considerable height from the sofa and made his way back across the room.

“He seems very nice,” said Eliza.

“I knew you’d like him,” said Charles rather complacently, “and he’s fearsomely rich. Now, if you married him that would solve all our problems. Summercourt included.”

“Charles!” exclaimed Eliza, hurling a packet of cigarettes at him. “I said he was very nice, not that I wanted to marry him. Please stop going on about it. I am just not interested in getting married at the moment; I’m only interested in my career, OK?”

“OK,” said Charles.

“Scarlett, could I possibly go up the front on the way back?”

“OK. As long as Brian agrees.”

Brian was one of the stewards on their flight; it was the stewards who decided which girls did economy (“down the back,” as it was known) and which first (“up the front”). The posher a girl, the more likely she was to be sent down the back; it was the totties who got given first class, a cushier number, because they were more likely to reward the stewards—those who weren’t homosexual, at least—by sleeping with them. No really classy girl would dream of sleeping with the stewards. Scarlett was seldom up the front because she wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with them either. She’d actually hoped to be there this trip, for a treat; it was from Vienna, almost four hours, but Diana was looking dreadful.

“Why, what’s wrong?” she said.

“Oh, I’ve got the curse, feel awful. Now at least I’ll be able to sit down occasionally.”

“Course. I’m sorry.” Scarlett looked at her sympathetically. Diana had terrible period pains and was quite often actually sick. “You go and lie down for half an hour. They’re boarding late; I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Got any codeine?”

“I think there’s some in first aid. Thanks, Scarlett.”

But when it was time to board, Diana was vomiting and dizzy; the captain sent her back to the sick bay.

“You can’t fly like that. No use to anyone. Don’t worry; we’ll manage.”

The flight was only half-full. “This’ll be a piece of cake,” said Scarlett cheerfully to Brian.

“Don’t be too sure. Lot of turbulence forecast.”

The turbulence was a while coming; Scarlett began to hope it had been a mistake. She had enough to cope with without it; there was a difficult meal to serve—beef on the bone, carved in the aisle, and almost every passenger on the plane wanted theirs rare—an extremely tiresome child insisted on walking up and down the aisle behind her, and an American woman called Mrs. Berenson was intensely nervous and clutched at Scarlett every time she went past, asking how they were doing, whether there was any turbulence ahead, when they might land, was there a doctor on board.

“I have dreadfully high blood pressure, you see; I could need sedation if there were any difficulties. Oh, dear God, what was that?”

The plane had dropped slightly; it shook a little and then steadied.

The captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we may be about to experience a little turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.”

“Oh, my God,” moaned Mrs. Berenson. “Oh, God, what shall I do?”

“Nothing,” said Scarlett gently, “just do up your seat belt and sit tight. You’re perfectly safe.”

She stayed with her for a moment, and then worked her way round the cabin, reassuring, smiling, plumping pillows, fastening belts. She could feel the plane beginning to shudder.

The child was still running behind her, giggling. “I’m sorry,” said Scarlett as politely as she could to her mother, “but I really must ask you to get your girl strapped into her seat.”

“But she’s enjoying herself so much,” said the woman.

“She won’t enjoy herself getting thrown round the cabin,” Scarlett said coolly. “Please do what I ask; it’s important.”

A wail went up from Mrs. Berenson; Scarlett hurried to her.

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mrs. Berenson. Really. You’ll be fine. Here, have a sip of water.”

The tail seemed to swing round slightly and Mrs. Berenson wailed again. Such panic was infectious; other passengers were turning to stare at her nervously.

“I’ll sit with her,” Scarlett said quietly to Brian, who was behind her. “Otherwise they’ll all start screaming.”

“All right, darling. Rather you than me. She’s the color of a billiard table.”

Scarlett settled herself in the window seat.

“Here,” she said, “hold my hand. You’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Berenson. Her voice was lower now, her teeth chattering. She had a very pretty, Southern belle–type accent; she was very pretty altogether, Scarlett noticed: honey blond, with fine, fair, slightly freckled skin and wonderful green eyes. She was far from young, probably about sixty, but slim and beautifully dressed, in a cream silk shirt and camel skirt. “We’re going to crash, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not. The captain says it’s fine, just a bit of bad weather. Honestly, in about ten minutes it’ll be over. Deep breaths, that’s right. Now why don’t you tell me where you’re from, why you’re coming to England. I do love to know more about passengers, and we never usually get the chance. Do you have family here?”

Clinging to Scarlett’s hand, Mrs. Berenson began to talk and became calmer, telling her where she lived (Charleston, South Carolina), where she was going (London, to visit an elderly aunt), why she’d been in Vienna (to stay with a friend and visit the opera house for “the most wonderful
Magic Flute
”), about her three sons, all of whom were extremely good-looking, she said (and what mother didn’t claim that for her sons, Scarlett wondered, smiling at her).