More Than You Know (58 page)

“Yes, all right, but I don’t count buying frocks among them. Look, I’m trying to help. To be … nice.”

“I … I know. But I don’t think you understand. Getting away would be so lovely—”

“Getting away from me, you mean.”

“No, Matt, of course not.”

“Well, that’s what it looks like. From where I am.”

“You are so self-obsessed,” she said. “You know that?”

“And you’re not, I suppose. Oh, what’s the use. You do what you bloody well want; you usually do.”

And he stalked out of the kitchen.

She hesitated for a moment, then followed him.

He was standing in the drawing room, staring out of the window.

“Matt. I’m sorry.”

He turned round; his face was flushed and his eyes very brilliant.

“You really are not the only one hurting, you know,” he said, and his voice cracked slightly. “I know it’s worse for you, but—”

“I know. And I am sorry. Really sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, you shouldn’t, Eliza; we’ve got to stop being so hard on each other. It isn’t helping.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. But I feel you don’t even like me anymore. I don’t know what I’ve done.”

“You’ve shut me out,” he said. “You’re so hostile …”

“Matt, it’s not me being hostile; it’s you. I just want—”

“What?”

“For things to be better again. Oh, we’ve had this conversation too many times.”

“Probably.”

She walked up to him, stood very close. He looked down at her, his expression blank.

“Please,” she said, “please, Matt. Let’s not give up.”

He didn’t answer, just kissed her rather perfunctorily and walked out of the room.

That night, he wanted to have sex with her; wearily, she gave in. He could sense her reluctance. Afterwards, he turned away from her and sighed, a deep, heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry,” she said, after a moment. “So sorry, Matt. I just can’t … don’t …”

“Want me anymore?”

She hesitated.

“Not just now, no. I can’t help it. Mrs. Miller says it’s quite natural; it’s—”

“You’ve been discussing our sex life with that bloody shrink?” he said. “Well, that’s great. Marvellous. All I need.”

“Matt, I tell her everything. It’s important in the whole process. How I feel about myself, my life, how I feel about Emmie—”

“What do you mean, how you feel about Emmie? Why should that need talking about?”

Eliza felt a pang of fear. “Well … it’s hard to explain,” she said carefully, “and it’s fine now, but being so unhappy, so exhausted, I felt I was failing her as well as everybody else. And she is so demanding, you must admit.”

“She seems like a normal little girl to me. And your life, what’s wrong with that? I thought you were feeling better since you’ve been taking those pills. Because—Oh, let’s stop this. I can’t cope with any more.”

“Where are you going?”

“Downstairs, to do some work. It’s a bit more rewarding than making love to a limp fish.”

“I hate you,” said Eliza.

“That’s fairly obvious,” he said, and went out, slamming the door.

In the morning they made up.

Uncomfortably, uneasily, but it was better than not doing so.

“I’m sorry,” she said, coming first with it, as always, “so sorry. I’m trying very hard. And I’m sorry about the sex especially. And sorry that you don’t like me telling Mrs. Miller. But … I feel I have to tell her everything; otherwise it doesn’t … doesn’t all work together properly. I’m sure in time it’ll all be fine again. I just feel so … so … unsexy.”

“I can tell,” he said, and managed a grin. “I suppose I’m a bit … jealous. That you can talk to her and not to me. Never mind the subject matter.”

“But we have been talking. More. Haven’t we?”

“I suppose so,” he said, and sighed. “I’ll hang around a bit longer—and let you go to Milan to stay with your terribly busy friend—”

“Matt!” she said. “You’ll let me go to Milan, indeed! You’re a feminist’s nightmare.”

“Good,” he said. “Now go and get my pipe and slippers, and look sharp about it.”

Eliza did something she thought she would never do again: she giggled.

Mariella said a visit early in December would be excellent.

“And it is the beginning of our social season, as you know.”

“I do know. That’s wonderful. Thank you, Mariella.”

And then Mariella called Timothy Fordyce at KPD Milan, and suggested he and his wife join her and Giovanni in their box at La Scala. “Callas is singing
Traviata
; it should be very beautiful.”

“Wonderful, thank you, but in that case, let us do dinner. Oh … no, that won’t do; it’s the week Jeremy Northcott is here.”

There was a silence, and then, “Well, he must come with you,” said Mariella, her voice a soft, sweet coo. “That would be truly delightful.”

Perhaps she could teach Matt a lesson …

“My dear, you look wonderful. Truly wonderful.” Lily Berenson smiled at Scarlett, kissed her fondly.

“Thank you. You look pretty good too, Mrs. Berenson.”

“Yes, I suppose I’m fairly well. Of course, this wretched business with David has taken its toll. I feel so angry with her. David would have been prepared to struggle on, try again, for the sake of the children, but Gaby has proved herself very selfish. There is another man, as I suspected, even though she has no intention of actually setting up house with him. She will have the children; she is a very good mother, if nothing else, and David couldn’t possibly cope with them. He’s away such a lot. She told me she puts a lot of blame for the marriage breakup down to that. I was very shocked.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I did point out to her that the extremely comfortable standard of living she has always enjoyed was down to David and his hard work, but she couldn’t see it.”

No longer a darling girl, Scarlett thought; how swiftly things had changed for Gaby. Poor Gaby. She could have told her a thing or two about David and the unselfishness of his absences …

“Well, now, my dear, how about you? How is your business going? Such a very clever idea.”

“Oh, it’s going pretty well,” said Scarlett. “I’m doing quite a bit in the States now; I’ve got a couple of hotels in San Francisco, and—”

“I keep telling you, dear, you should consider Charleston. It’s exactly your profile, especially in the spring. There are several small hotels that I think would suit you; in fact, I think I’m going to speak to David about it tonight—”

“David!”

“Yes, dear, he’s here with me. Just overnight in London; then he’s flying over to Paris. He knew I was seeing you this afternoon, but most unfortunately he had several appointments, so he couldn’t join us. I wonder if dinner might be a possibility for the three of us—”

“Oh, no,” said Scarlett, “no, I’m busy tonight, Mrs. Berenson. Sorry.”

“What a pity. You couldn’t make breakfast, I suppose?”

“No. I’ve got an early morning meeting.”

“What a hardworking girl you are. Now, you see, I think if Gaby had had a career, it might have been better; she would have been less inclined to think about herself all the time. She is a very self-centred woman …”

As she was leaving the Connaught, a taxi pulled up; it had David in it. She turned and made her way to the ladies’ and sat there at one of the dressing tables for ten minutes, shaking slightly. David still had the power to disturb her sexually and indeed emotionally; he was so bloody beautiful, damn him.

Later, she was settling at her desk when the phone rang.

“Scarlett?” It was him.

“Yes.”

“I was hoping to catch you this afternoon. I came back earlier than I had said. I was hoping to take you by surprise. I knew you’d never see me of your own volition.”

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“Scarlett … you know my marriage really is over now.”

“I heard that Gaby had come to her senses. Yes.”

“Well, you can interpret it how you will. Perhaps at last you will accept that what I told you was true: that she really didn’t care for me in the least.”

“And … little Lily? Was she conceived in an uncaring moment?”

“Scarlett, please. Of course I slept with Gaby occasionally. We were married, for God’s sake. These things happen.”

“You said they didn’t.”

“I know. But I was so afraid of losing you.”

“Oh, David, please.”

“Well,” he said, “I still love you. I always will. Remember that, Scarlett. Don’t throw it away without at least a little glance backwards.”

“I’m tired of looking backwards, David,” she said. “I need to look forward now instead.”

Just the same, after she had put the phone down she sat staring at it, thinking about him and their time together, and it was the first time she had smiled as she remembered it.

Heather was very low. She was sick and very tired now with her pregnancy, her inconvenient, unwanted pregnancy. Alan was increasingly bad tempered and depressed.

“And Coral doesn’t like her school, says she’s still being teased. How about Emmie?”

“She’s OK. Would you like to bring Coral to tea tomorrow?”

“I don’t think I can. I’ve got to do something about this toilet, and the landlord says he’s sending someone round tomorrow. Of course, he wouldn’t say when, so I’ve got to stay in all day, and I know what’ll happen: I’ll go out to collect Coral and he’ll come then, and then they’ll have an excuse.”

“I’ll collect Coral for you,” said Eliza.

“Oh, Eliza, would you? That’s ever so kind.”

She was very early to pick up Coral, so she parked and then dashed into a newsagent for a paper to read; the only one they had was the
Daily News
. Jack Beckham’s paper. He’d hired some fashion writer called Katya Rowlands and turned her into a star. Her waiflike face was indeed on the side of the bloody buses. Every time Eliza saw her, she felt sick.

She looked at her column and had to admit it was pretty good. Not brilliant, but pretty good. Style was a bit arch, but the content was good.

She turned the page quickly and tried to concentrate on the gossip
column instead. She hardly knew anybody mentioned; that depressed her as well.
Oh, Eliza, what have you come to? An embittered old has-been, that’s what
.