More Than You Know (55 page)

“Look at the figures, Roderick. Go on.”

“I told you, I don’t have that sort of money. I mean, what are you looking for, hundred K or are we into really fancy money?”

“I reckon we could make a start with a million. It’d have to be that, because of the site cost. It’d have to be central.”

“A million! Louise, I’d have trouble laying my hands on fifty grand right this minute.”

“Roderick, I’m not asking you to put up the money. Just to front the venture, with me as your partner. I told you, the bankers only turned me down because I’m a woman. One of them more or less said so. There’s so much money out there still; it’s growing on trees. We could get the capital I need tomorrow, with your record.”

He was silent for a moment; then he said, “No. Honestly. I’ve got enough on my plate, and I don’t know anything about the hotel business; it’d be crazy.”

“No one’s asking you to get into the hotel business—all we’re doing is providing the buildings. Then we sell them. Or build them under licence.”

Another silence. Then: “No, it’s just too risky. Sorry.” He looked at his watch.

OK. Time for the trump card
.

“Well … OK. If that’s your final word.”

“It is. Absolutely final.”

“You do know, I presume, that the government’s giving a tax incentive—or it might be a grant; my accountant told me this morning—to assist in the development of hotels just because of exactly what I’m talking about, the shortage. It’s going to be in the press tomorrow, apparently. Oh, well. I’ll just have to find someone else. Pity. But I will. I’m not giving up.”

Roderick put down his wineglass and waved at a passing waiter.

“Can I see the cigar list?” he said, and then turned back to Louise, picked up the file, and started leafing through it. “What sort of structure were you thinking of with this company, then?”

When Louise got home, she called Johnny Barrett.

“I’m going to have a really nice little story for you in a day or two,” she said. “And you will run the piece about the hotel grant, won’t you?”

“Do I get lunch at the Savoy and a bottle of the St. Emilion?”

“No. Two bottles.”

“OK. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Johnny—”

“It’s all right, honeybunch. It’s already in proof; I’m looking at it now. And a little bird told me the
Sketch
was doing it too.”

“Oh, my God. Johnny, I love you.”

Eliza really didn’t know what the worst thing was. Sometimes it was reliving baby Charles’s birth. Or his death. Or the funeral. Or the ongoing, savage guilt. Or people not knowing what to say, stumbling around the subject. Or people not mentioning it, being bright and cheerful as if nothing had really happened. Or telling her how wonderful it was that she had one healthy child, at least; that was one of the particularly worst things, as if the baby had been a new dress or a car or something that she could perfectly well manage without, as she had one already. Or being tired absolutely all the time, deep, deep, bone-weary tired. Or not wanting to do anything, not go out or stay in, see people or not see people, work or not work.

Being told that something would cheer her up, make her feel better, was particularly the worst. Because she didn’t want to feel better ever; if she felt better, she would be betraying baby Charles; he would really be gone. While she was so unhappy, while everything hurt so much, he was still real.

Matt found her behaviour and her constant weeping very trying. He had been as heartbroken as she when baby Charles died and for the first few weeks afterwards. But he was busy and he was preoccupied with problems at work, and he took refuge in them, as Eliza couldn’t, and she watched him through a haze of resentment as he visibly began to recover and resume something approaching normal life.

She took to going down to Summercourt at the weekends with Emmie, leaving London on Friday night and coming back late on Sunday afternoon; he joined her at first, but then, finding the same bleakness
in her there as in London, he started to drive down later and later on Saturday, or even Sunday morning, and for the past two weeks had not come at all.

Sarah tried to help with advice, sympathy, and practical action, offering her services as babysitter if Eliza wanted to go out with Matt, or spend a weekend with him in London, but she met with only blank rejection and a declaration that she didn’t understand.

Finally, after Eliza was particularly snappy with her one afternoon, she said, “Darling, I’m sorry to tell you this, and I do feel desperately sorry for you, but you can’t go on behaving in this way. You’re damaging your marriage. Matt is genuinely trying so hard to understand and help—”

“That’s really extremely nice of him,” said Eliza. “I mean, he is actually my husband, it was his baby too who died, and now everyone seems to think I’m selfish, because I’m so miserable and ought to be making more of an effort for him. How he can still even think about his bloody deals and where he’s building what, I don’t know.”

“Eliza,” said Sarah patiently, “Matt is a man. Of course he’s sad, extremely so, but he can’t possibly feel the loss as intensely as you do. He didn’t carry the child or bear it; he wasn’t physically affected by it. And I think he’s trying very hard to be supportive. You’re just not trying to meet him even halfway. And he does also have an obligation to continue to make a living for you all. For us all,” she corrected herself.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Eliza, “save me all that old-fashioned claptrap. Honestly, Mummy, Matt can do no wrong these days, can he, ever since he saved Summercourt. I never thought to hear you defending Matt against me.”

Sarah said no more, just walked out of the room.

Eliza went through the weeks in a daze, taking Emmie to nursery school, going home again, lying down on her bed and crying until she could cry no more. There was a great deal that had to be done in the new house—they had moved only a few weeks before baby Charles had been born—but she had no heart for it; rooms remained unpainted, curtains unmade, and books and pictures sat on the floor, stacked against the walls.

Quite often she didn’t have to pick Emmie up from school because she was constantly being invited out to tea, which was a help in a way,
because she didn’t have to look after her or amuse her, but it made her days longer and lonelier still.

She found it hard to be affectionate with Emmie, and worse, she was horribly, physically bad tempered, pushing her away if she interrupted her from trying to read or write letters, and even slapping her at times.

And then she did the really awful thing, and realised that she actually did need to get some help from somewhere, somehow.

Matt had been shocked when he heard Louise was going into business with Roderick Brownlow, partly because she had always been so hostile to his particular brand of sexual chauvinism, and partly because he felt she was too clever for him.

And why the hell couldn’t she have mentioned her hotels to him? They had reputedly acquired their first site, with planning permission, on the southerly edge of Regent’s Park; he heard that even before it hit the press from Scarlett, who seemed to be seeing a great deal of Louise.

“She’s a wonder, that girl, all that electric energy,” Scarlett said. “She’s going to make a killing with that company. You must miss her.”

It was true, and he missed Jenny dreadfully as well; he had already hired and fired three receptionists in the space of six weeks. Jenny’s dazzling prettiness, her gentle manners, her immense desire to please, even the simplicity of her thought processes, had done a lot for the atmosphere in the outer office. He could hardly bear to walk down the biscuit aisle at the supermarket. That bugger Brownlow had better be treating her well.

He felt guilty to be able to think about work at all, but had his eye on a new prize, a very fine row of houses in Clapham, just off the common. Owning Summercourt had increased his appreciation of architecture, but this was too big a plot to waste on aesthetic considerations. He could replace them with a huge block of flats; and the nutters, as Barry called the conservationists, hadn’t yet reached far out of central London. It would make him a new fortune, and it certainly helped to take his mind off what was happening at home.

“Mummy’s horrid to me,” said Emmie. “She doesn’t like me anymore.”

“Oh, darling!”

Sarah looked at her; she was beginning to recognize Emmie’s manipulative talents, but the small face was genuinely sad.

“Darling,” she said, “of course Mummy likes you. She loves you very much. But Mummy is very unhappy at the moment. You know the baby died, the one that was in her tummy, and that has made her so sad that she can’t think about anything else. She can’t sleep, so she’s always tired, and that’s making her a bit … a bit bad tempered.”

“It’s not a bit,” said Emmie. “It’s very and always and all the time. Anyway, I haven’t died; she shouldn’t be that sad.”

“I know, darling. And she does still love you.”

“She’s always smacking me too,” said Emmie.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, Emmie. Perhaps just when you’ve been a bit naughty.”

“No, it’s all the time, even when I’m good. Don’t you believe me?”

“Well …” Now what did she say?

“You just notice. You just listen and watch. You’ll see.”

“Yes, all right, darling. I’ll notice. But I’m sure you’re wrong. Now, what about some nice eggy bread?”