More Than You Know (8 page)

The turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun, and the plane became completely steady. Scarlett unbuckled her belt.

“I’d love to hear more, Mrs. Berenson. But I have lots to do now. Excuse me, won’t you?”

“Of course, my dear. How kind you’ve been. Thank you.”

“It was truly a pleasure.”

They reached London two hours later; the plane landed smoothly and everyone stood up, chattering, the trauma quite forgotten. Scarlett stood at the top of the steps, smiling sweetly at everyone, and accepted Mrs. Berenson’s thanks and a promise to look out for her in future, and a kiss from the tiresome child.

Young Generation had been open for nearly a year now, and was acknowledged by everyone who mattered as a huge success. The press said so, giving it rave reviews from day one (the
Evening Standard
had described the opening party as “an explosion of color and music and style”) and continuing to feature it and its merchandise on a most satisfyingly regular basis, and the customers said so by flocking to it, day after day.

The party had been attended by everyone who mattered in fashion: Anne Trehearne of
Queen
, Ernestine Carter of the
Sunday Times
, Felicity Green of the
Mirror
, and Shirley Conran, creator of the new “Femail” section in the
Daily Mail
; the fashion photographer and rising star David Bailey, with his friends Terence Donovan and Norman Eales, as well as the more establishment crowd: John French and Henry Clarke; and the models, Jean Shrimpton, Pagan Grigg, Grace Coddington, and every man’s dream of a girl, blue-eyed blonde Celia Hammond.

And then there had been the designers—who would have thought Mary Quant would attend, never mind John Bates, Jean Muir, and the new names such as Maddy Brown, who (to quote the
Standard
again) “has done the impossible and made knitting sexy.”

Eliza had thought it would be hard settling down after the excitement of the launch, but in fact she simply found herself caught up in an ever-increasing whirlwind timetable of shows, photographic shoots, press releases, and the more mundane but possibly most important task of all, seeing to the nitty-gritty: getting clothes over to the offices of the fashion editors, making sure that
Queen
and
Vogue
—for instance—weren’t featuring the same dress, checking prices, suggesting and then rounding up accessories to accompany the clothes that the journalists called in.

It was hectic, exhausting, and absolutely wonderful. What romantic liaison could possibly compete with that?

“You all right, young Matthew?” said Mr. Barlow.

“Yes, fine, thanks.”

It wasn’t true; he had a terrible toothache.

“Good. You don’t look it. Anyway, come in; I’ve got some news for you.”

Matt followed him into his office.

“You’ve done well, lad. Very well. So I’m promoting you, Matt. Making you up to negotiator. And there’ll be a raise too. How would twelve pounds a week sound to you?”

“Pretty good,” said Matt, “but not as good as thirteen.”

“Maybe not. I didn’t say thirteen, though.”

“I know that, Mr. Barlow. But I reckon it’s what I’m worth. From what I’ve heard.”

Mr. Barlow looked at him almost severely. “You’ve got a cheek. But you could be right. How about twelve pounds, ten shillings?”

“Done. Thank you very much, Mr. Barlow.”

Matt went into the golden September evening feeling very happy. He was getting there. Next move would be getting his own agency. In a year or two. He had the energy, and he’d have some clients. He’d have no compunction about taking them away from Barlow and Stein. They’d have had fantastic value out of him; it would be time to get some out of them. Matt felt very bullish suddenly. Taking on the world.

And it was a good evening for his promotion to have happened. Charles had arranged a reunion with Happy and Nobby Tucker as well. He could tell them all about it, really hold up his head as a successful man of the world.

Matt had suggested they meet at the Salisbury in St. Martin’s Lane at seven.

“Great,” said Charles, “and then we might go out for Chinese after that if we’re hungry.”

Chinese was a new phenomenon in London; everyone was tucking into spring rolls and sweet-and-sour pork.

Matt was the last to arrive; the others were sitting at a table in the corner. Charles waved him over.

“Got a beer for you.”

“Thanks, Chas.” He sat down, raised his glass. “Cheers! Here’s to us then, good memories and all that. Thanks for organising it, Chas.”

“Yes, thanks, Chas,” said Happy.

He looked just as Matt remembered him, with his seemingly permanent smile, but Nobby was quiet.

“What’s up then, mate?” said Matt, wincing as a potato crisp bit into his tender tooth.

“He’s a condemned man,” said Happy, “got to get married and all. Couple of weeks, isn’t it, Nobby?”

Nobby nodded and sighed heavily.

“Go on. You never are. What on earth for?” asked Matt.

“He got a girl in the club, didn’t he?” said Happy. “Silly bastard.”

“Crikey,” said Matt, “you poor bugger.” Married and a father at twenty-two. Life ended before it had properly begun. “God, bad luck, mate. Where you going to live, then?”

“With me mother-in-law,” said Nobby. “Honestly, wish I’d bought it out in Cyprus now. Be better’n this.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” said Charles slightly desperately. “It’ll be jolly nice to have a kid, won’t it? To play football with and … and that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, s’pose so. Might be a girl, though. Then what’d I do?”

There was a silence: Charles suggested another round.

Nobby looked at his watch.

“I’d best go,” he said. “Janice said I had to be home by nine; she said she didn’t know what she was doing letting me out at all when she was feeling so rough. Nice to see you all. Thanks for organising it, Chas.”

He shambled out across the bar; the others looked at one another.

“Poor bugger,” said Charles, “what rotten luck.”

An hour later the party broke up. Nobby’s ill fortune had depressed them all. Matt hadn’t liked to talk about his promotion; it seemed tactless. Happy walked away from them towards Trafalgar Square; Charles asked Matt if he’d like a bite to eat.

“Not sure,” said Matt. “Got a bit of a toothache.”

“Oh, come on. Take an aspirin. I’ve got some—here you are. Chinese’d be nice and mushy; won’t do it any harm.”

They wandered towards Gerard Street and went into one of the less flashy-looking places.

“I got some good news today anyway,” Matt said, unable to keep it to himself any longer. “Got promoted. Can’t quite believe it myself.”

“That’s fantastic, Matt. Well-done. This calls for another beer. Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” said Matt.

They chatted easily for a while; Matt was surprised how easily. Chas was pretty all right, he reckoned. He’d never been able to talk to any of the other toffs he met, in the course of his work. They were so bloody patronising. But Chas was different: he could even listen to him talking about his work on the stock exchange without wanting to throw up.

“I say, Matt, you OK?”

“Not too good,” said Matt, wincing. “Bit on me bad tooth. Bloody agony it is.”

“When are you seeing your dentist?”

“Dunno. Haven’t got one, not really.”

“You haven’t got …” Charles’s voice trailed off. “Look, you must make an appointment right away. We go to a chap in Kensington; he’s awfully good. I’ll give you his number. Mummy and Pa pay, but Eliza and I see him on the National Health. Say you’re in pain and you’ll get in tomorrow. Damn, now I can’t find his number. Stay there and I’ll go and ring Eliza. There’s a phone box right outside. Don’t drink my beer; there’s a good chap.”

It was Charles who was the good chap, Matt thought—even if he did call his mother Mummy.

Charles came back smiling.

“Here’s the number. Frobisher 7592. Mr. Cole. Now, you must go, Matt, no chickening out. Promise.”

“I promise,” said Matt. “Er—how is your sister, by the way?”

He had never forgotten Eliza that day at Waterloo Station.

“She’s absolutely fine, thanks. She’s got a fantastic job, actually. In the public relations department for Woolfe’s. Always hobnobbing with journalists, buying them lunches. Seems to be a lot of fun.”

“She’s not married then?” said Matt. It seemed important to know.

“Good lord, no. Not yet. She’s in love with her job. And she just says no man could possibly compete with that.”

“Really?” said Matt. Eliza must have met some very dull men, if that was her view.

“Yes. Anyway, you can see her for yourself. She’s at her flat, and she said we could go round.”

“Oh,” said Matt. His toothache suddenly seemed inconsequential. “But she won’t want to see me, surely.”

“She remembered you. Said she’d love it, that we’d be doing her a favor. And that she could pretend you were her boyfriend if any of the others got back.”

“Yeah, right. I bet I’m exactly like one of her boyfriends.”

“Don’t be so touchy, Matt. I’ve told you before. All that stuff is over. Eliza was telling me the other day lots of the people in the fashion world are really … really …”

His voice trailed off. Matt looked at him.

“Really working-class? Is that what you mean?” He grinned at Charles. “It’s OK; I know my place.”

“Matt, for God’s sake, you don’t have a place.”

“OK,” said Matt easily, “if that’s what you think.”

“I do. Anyway, I’m only telling you what Eliza says. Come on, Matt, knock that chip off your shoulder and come and see Eliza with me.”

Eliza opened the door to them wearing a pair of calf-length jeans and a very large white shirt. Her feet were bare; her dark hair tumbled onto her shoulders. And as she leaned forward to kiss Charles and then, slightly tentatively, Matt, laughing as she did so, there was a wave of some infinitely delicious warm scent. She looked perfectly beautiful, and Matt, finding himself suddenly invaded by a violence of feeling that came somewhere between pleasure and distinct physical weakness, wondered rather feebly if this was like falling in love.

They were still talking at midnight as the other girls and their braying boyfriends came and went. Matt listened, hardly speaking, but committing everything that he could to memory: Eliza’s voice, her smile, her lovely hands, which she waved about as she talked, the way she sat with one long leg curled under her, the way she laughed, teased Charles,
managed to appear interested in what few things Matt managed to say. He stayed and stayed and would have been still there in the morning, had not Charles told him they really should leave, and with infinite reluctance Matt said good-bye to her and was kissed again and told how lovely it had been for Eliza to see him after all this time, and then walked all the way home from Kensington to Clapham, the tube being closed; almost two hours it took, and he was happy to do so, for he could live and relive the evening without interruption, replaying every moment.

And thinking that he could set up in competition with her job, no problem, he was sure of that. If he ever got the chance, which was pretty bloody unlikely.