More Than You Know (10 page)

My dear
,

I was just wondering if you would be able to take tea with me one day either this week or next? I am staying at the Connaught hotel with my son, David. He is here on business, while I am taking in some fun!

Leave a message at the hotel and let me know. Any day will do, except next Thursday

Yrs affectionately
,

Lily Berenson
.

Scarlett had never believed in love at first sight; she had frequently declared it, indeed, to be a load of old toot. “You can fancy someone, obviously,” she would say, “think they’re good-looking and sexy and so on. But that can’t be love; it really can’t. You’d have to know someone to love them. Otherwise it isn’t love.”

And she was thus totally unprepared for it when love walked towards her in the lounge of the Connaught hotel and stood before her, holding out its hand and smiling: love in the form of a tall, brown-haired man with his mother’s green eyes. Beautifully dressed, love was, in a dark grey suit and a light blue shirt, with a deep, slightly drawling voice, and its handshake was firm and warm, and as it spoke her name and told her how delighted it was to be meeting her and that its mother had told it so much about her, she felt the ground shift a little beneath her, felt her knees, only a few moments ago perfectly strong, turn slightly weak, felt a strange, lurching sensation in her stomach and a slow, wondering disturbance in her heart.

She could not have told you what had been said or done over the next hour or so; clearly she had drunk her tea and picked at the smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches and smiled politely at Mrs. Berenson and listened to what she had to say and even responded, but all she was aware of was the presence facing her, sitting side by side with his mother, smiling at her, passing her sugar and plates and pastries, jumping
up once when a bellboy came into the room with a sign reading,
Phone Call for Mr. David Berenson
, and disappearing to take the call.

During his absence, Mrs. Berenson said that wasn’t it lovely she could meet David—“He is my firstborn, you know. Always so special to a mother”—and Scarlett was able to ascertain that David was married, to Gabrielle, “a darling girl, a huge presence on the charity circuit,” and that their youngest child was now ten, that David was in charge of the business, and that in so many ways she didn’t know what she would do without him.

“He seems … very … very charming,” said Scarlett carefully.

“Oh, my dear, isn’t he? Of course, all the boys are, but I really think David would win the prize. Digby is the cleverest—but David—Ah, there you are, darling. Who was that?”

“Oh, the guy I’m having dinner with tonight. Was going to have dinner with tonight.”

“Did he cancel, dear?”

“Postponed. Until tomorrow. So … looks like you and I have a date tonight, Mother. I’m relieved, actually; I am a little disoriented. Jet-lagged, I believe you call it, Miss Shaw. It must be quite a problem for you.”

“Oh—no. I don’t do the long-haul flights. I work for BEA. It’s the BOAC girls who fly to your country and even Australia.”

“And have you always been a stewardess?”

“Well, yes. Since I was eighteen. Before that I was a—” Suddenly
hairdresser
didn’t sound quite glamourous enough. “A beautician.”

“Oh, really? How fascinating. What made you change?”

“Oh, I thought it would … suit me better.”

“And she is a wonderful stewardess,” said Mrs. Berenson.

“Yes, Mother told me, Miss Shaw, how you comforted her and made her feel so much more confident. In fact, she hasn’t stopped talking about you since. And now I can see why.”

He smiled at her, the green eyes probing hers. Scarlett felt dizzy again, and something else: a squirm of sexual excitement, reaching into her.

“You know, I just had the nicest idea,” said Mrs. Berenson. “Would you be free to join us for dinner, my dear? It would be so nice to have your company, and you could tell us what shows we should see and so on. Don’t you think so, David?”

“I think it would be wonderful,” said David Berenson, “but I’m sure Miss Shaw will have better things to do than have dinner with two old people like us.”

“Oh—no! I’d love to have dinner with you both. Thank you. But I should go now, if you’ll excuse me; I have a few things to do.”

Like beg Andre Bernard at Dover Street, the hair salon she used for special occasions, to fit her in, press her black shift dress, maybe buy one of those long strings of pearls in Fenwick, and some new black stockings, ring Diana about what she thought was good at the theatre—so much to do.

“You sound very excited,” said Diana, her voice amused. “What’s going on; who are you having dinner with? And where?”

“Oh—just that nice American lady I met last autumn, who was very nervous and I sat with her through some turbulence. She sent me a Christmas card, care of the airline, and now she’s in town and she invited me to tea—”

“Sounds lovely. Well, tell her
Luther
is amazing. Bit heavy, maybe, but Albert Finney is incredible. Oh, and on the lighter side,
Oliver
.”

“Thanks, Diana.”

“And where are you dining?”

“The Connaught.”

“Goodness. Well, enjoy it. The food’s wonderful.”

Scarlett supposed the food was wonderful; she wouldn’t have noticed if they had served up porridge with chips. She devoted herself for the most part—they both did—to listening to Mrs. Berenson talk and reminisce, answering any questions that were put directly to her, suggesting they see
Luther
and also
Oliver
while carefully making it clear that she hadn’t actually seen either herself—no point pretending—and through it all, every time she dared to meet David Berenson’s eyes, feeling the same sweet, light-headed warmth.

And then, “I might leave you young people,” said Mrs. Berenson, as coffee was ordered. “I’m a little tired.”

“Oh—and I must go,” said Scarlett. “I have to be on the coach at seven in the morning. I’m flying out to Milan first thing.”

“Don’t go.” David Berenson’s voice was suddenly rather intense. “Stay for a coffee. It’s only just after ten.”

“Oh—well, yes, that might be nice But then—”

“Of course. It’d just be nice to … well, to chat a bit more. I’m feeling rather wide-awake now. It’s only, what, six or so in Charleston. Mother, I’ll see you to the elevator. Don’t turn into a pumpkin, will you, Miss Shaw?”

“I won’t. And please call me Scarlett.”

He was back in a few minutes, summoned the waiter. A brandy and soda. “What about you, Scarlett?”

“Oh—no, thank you.”

“Very well. Now … why don’t we take our coffee in the lounge?”

“Fine. Yes. Why not?”

Why did he make her feel so flustered? She just wasn’t a flustered sort of person.

The lounge was half-empty; he led her to a large sofa by the fireplace, with its back to the room, sat down beside her. Rather close, she couldn’t help noticing.

“So,” he said, “let’s talk about you now. Are you a very independent single girl? Or is there someone in your life? Do you have a boyfriend? I’m sure you do.”

“Well—several, you know, but no one special.”

“Ah. And your family—do you have brothers and sisters?”

She began to talk, decided to be completely honest, describing her childhood; told him about Matt, how proud of him she was, how well he was doing.

“It seems to me you’re doing pretty well, too. Your parents must be very proud of you both.”

“Well, I think they are, quite.”

“It must be great,” he said suddenly, “to have made your own way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well—you know. It’s all been easy for me. I just did what my father told me when he was alive, and now I just go on doing what he told me, more or less, even though he’s dead.”

“I’m sure it’s not that easy. And it’s obviously a very large and successful company, real estate, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. How clever of you to know.”

Brian had checked this out for her, intrigued by her friendship with Mrs. Berenson.

“Well, it may be a large company, but I inherited the success along with everything else. I doubt if I would have made it on my own.”

“I’m sure you would,” said Scarlett.

“Now, why do you say that? You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, no, but I can see you’re very clever—”

“How can you see that?”

He had her there; it had been a ridiculous remark.

“All you can see is someone rather spoilt, someone clearly with a bit of money, running a company that frankly would run itself for quite a long time, given a following wind.”

“Well … it’s obviously silly to argue with you,” said Scarlett.

“Very silly. Are you sure about that brandy?”

“OK—maybe just a small one.”

It was all so predictable after that, really, predictable and corny—the fact that he felt, if not a failure in his business career, very far from a success; and only a partial success as a person; and certainly a failure in his marriage.

“We rub along OK, and we love the children and put on a good show for them, but Gaby leads her own life, and I think she cares more about her charities than she does for me. We’re just biding our time for a while, until the kids are grown, and then we’ll go our separate ways. It’s very sad, but I guess that’s the way of the world these days.”

And why did she believe that, Scarlett wondered, half-amused and half-shocked at herself, and how many times had she heard it before? Because she wanted to believe it, she supposed.

Time disappeared into some odd, confusing place; one moment it was half past ten, the next almost midnight. At one stage he put his arm along the top of the sofa, and then it drifted down to rest on her shoulders. “Is that OK?” he said, and the acknowledgement of it, that there was a need to ask, her laughing affirmation that of course, yes, it was perfectly OK, took them further into an intimacy that was yet perfectly respectable. And all the time, his eyes were on her, attentive, appreciative, sometimes smiling, sometimes thoughtful, and now and again so intense, so probing, it was like a physical touch, an embrace indeed, and she had to look away lest she did something unseemly.

And then: “David, I must go,” she said. “It’s long after midnight, and I’m flying tomorrow.”

And he said, “How sad, how very sad for me, but yes, of course you must go.”

And he picked up her hand and studied it, as if it contained some important message for him, and then raised it and very briefly brushed it with his lips.

“I will see you safely on your way,” he said. “Come along, my lovely Cinderella; let us seek out your pumpkin.” And he stood up and pulled her to her feet, and then kept her hand in his and walked her to the front lobby and then ushered her towards the swing doors and told the doorman to get a cab.

“It’s been lovely,” he said, “so lovely. You are an enchanting companion and you have given me an enchanted evening, and I am very, very grateful to you. And I would like to do it again, next time I come to London. Which is fairly frequently. Do you think you might be available for dinner?”

And Scarlett, so dizzy with excitement, so confused with desire, so lost in this new, strange, overwhelming emotion, said that yes, she might well be available for another dinner and gave him the telephone number of her flat and got into the cab, having been kissed on the cheek most properly, and sank back in her seat and closed her eyes and wondered how she could be so stupidly, so absurdly, so dangerously happy.

Eliza was eating a sandwich at her desk when Lindy called her into her office; she was leaving Woolfe’s at the end of the year, she said, in order to marry a Swiss banker and move to Geneva. Eliza felt rather as if she had announced the earth was flat.

“But you can’t! What about your career, what about—”

“I know, I know, Eliza,” said Lindy, reaching for a cigarette, “but last time someone asked me to marry him, it was ten years ago, and I turned him down because I cared so much about my career. Anyway, I can’t risk another ten years. Jean-Louis wants a proper wife, he says, and I want to be a proper wife. Don’t look at me like that, Eliza; I’m thirty-seven, getting a bit old to be having babies, if I’m not careful. I don’t want to end up like some of the women in our profession, lonely and bitter, with only a set of tatty press releases for company.

“Now, you’re not to worry, Eliza. I’m sure whoever takes over will be delighted to have you working for them.”

Eliza hadn’t been worried until that moment; but then she began to.

She went back to her desk, worrying: worrying about her own future, worrying about what she could do. And grieving that she had lost her role model.

She’d always sworn she’d never put a man before her career. But if Lindy could …