More Than You Know (63 page)

“Well, after that, then?”

“Emmie, I said no.”

“But you’ve been away from me.” The voice became querulous, rising in volume.

“That’s true,” said Jeremy. “I’ll play with you, Emmie, even if your mother won’t. What did you have in mind?”

“Hide-and-seek,” said Emmie.

“Sounds fun. But we’ll have to do it in pairs; we’ll get really lost in this great big house if we’re not careful.”

“Oh, God,” said Eliza, and then giggled. And then, in a rush of amusement and relief upon at least having Emmie back: “Talk about a compromising situation.”

“What’s compromising?” asked Emmie.

“Fun,” said Jeremy, his face deadpan and winking at Eliza.

She had called Matt, both in the office and at home, every hour since they had got back. Mandy said he had come back and she had given him the messages but that he hadn’t asked her to try to ring Eliza back. Even now, at eleven o’clock—ten in England—there was no reply.

“He’s clearly worried to death,” said Eliza, sharply angry herself, and refilled her glass with the very nice Chianti they had all been drinking, and went off with Timothy Fordyce to look for Jeremy and Emmie. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. And so would Matt.

Matt received the news from Mandy at five, just after he got back to the office: Eliza wouldn’t be back that night, and possibly not the next.

“But she said she was on her way back to the villa and would be with Emmie tonight,” said Mandy. “Shall I try to get a line through to her, Mr. Shaw?”

“No, thanks,” said Matt, “no point. Make me some coffee, please. And I don’t want—” He stopped. No need to reject biscuits; with Jenny’s departure the biscuit tin had left as well. On the whole it was a relief.

“Yes, Mr. Shaw.”

He sat at his desk, sipping the coffee, contemplating yet another solitary evening. It was not a nice prospect. He was rummaging in his wallet for the card of a potential client, whom he’d sat next to at a lunch that day, and who had said he was looking for new, larger premises for his company, when Gina’s fell out. Matt turned it over, looked at it thoughtfully, half smiling as he read the words on the back in her rather childish writing. “Don’t forget! Lots to show you.”

No, Matt, don’t even think about it. She’s trouble, and you don’t need it. Not that sort. You’ve got enough
.

He pushed it aside and found the card he’d been looking for and
dialled the number. It was a direct line, and his lunchtime companion, the CEO of a large insurance company, was clearly pleased to hear from him.

Matt told him he had a short list of available premises for him. “I’ll bike it over tomorrow.”

“Great. Or …” There was a pause. “I’m actually free and on my own in town tonight; we could meet for a drink.”

The drink led to hands shaken on a deal, then dinner, and Matt arrived home after midnight.

Next morning he spoke to Eliza; she was very sorry, she said, but although the fog was lifting, there were no flights until the following day.

“But I’m with Emmie, at the villa; it was a bit hairy, the drive, but we made it, and she’s fine, and we will be back tomorrow.”

“That’s extremely good of you. Don’t rush on my account.”

“Matt—”

“Sorry, Eliza; I’ve got to go. In your own time. Bye.”

He arrived in the office tense with rage. How could she? How could she just sit there in that fucking palace and tell him she was sorry but she had to stay there another day? And expect him to be impressed that she had made an effort to get back to her own child? How could she; how dare she …

He roared for coffee, pulling out his diary. And saw, tucked into yesterday’s page, where he had discarded it, Gina’s card.

He arrived at Scott’s in Piccadilly, as she had suggested, just after six. He went over to the bar, looked at the menu, pulled out his cigarettes. He had a pleasant sense of playing truant, breaking rules. Which was ridiculous, of course. He was only having a drink with her, for God’s sake. He ordered a large gin and tonic, carried it over to a table in the corner, settled down behind his
Evening Standard
. She was late; but then, she always had been.

He enjoyed it all for about five minutes, then began to get irritable. He couldn’t stand people who were late; it was so bloody arrogant, wasting other people’s time. Five more and he was ready to leave; he’d just go to the gents’ and then leave a message with the barman … 
He was washing his hands when he heard the door open; he didn’t even look up. He was trying to decide whether to go out for a meal or find something in the fridge. He’d—

“Fuck off, will you!”

Someone was goosing him. No two ways about it. Some poof, he supposed.

He swung round. Someone was indeed goosing him. But it wasn’t a poof.

“Hallo, Matt. I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m quite enjoying myself; I’d forgotten what a neat little arse you had …”

It was Gina. Looking ravishing, laughing, reaching up to kiss him.

He’d forgotten how outrageous she was, how sexy. He’d forgotten what outrageous and sexy felt like.

“Gina,” he said, kissing her hastily back, “you’ll get us arrested.”

“For what?”

“Indecent behaviour in a public toilet?”

“Matt, it’s not public. And I’m not being indecent, not anymore. Pity, but … I just walked in by mistake, thought it was the ladies’. Who’s going to arrest me for that?”

“There might have been someone else in here.”

“There might. But there wasn’t. Anyway, let’s go and get a drink; I’m desperate. Now, how long have you got? Because I’ve got the whole evening …”

They had, of course, gone out to dinner. There didn’t seem much reason not to, as Gina pointed out.

“So, where shall we go? San Frediano? It’s such fun there.”

“Gina, I don’t think that’s a very good idea. Someone might see us. Someone who knows us.”

“So what? Eliza’s in Milan, for God’s sake. What are you supposed to do, sit at home eating bread and milk? And then sort out the laundry?”

She made that sound slightly insulting, reduced him to wimpish domesticity.

“No, of course not,” he said. “No, let’s go there, good idea.”

Someone was there who knew them: not a friend of Gina’s nor a friend of Matt’s. But a friend of Eliza’s, Jerome Blake, the photographer whose
studio was in the same building as Maddy Brown’s. He watched them, saw Matt tense at first, slowly relaxing into laughing, talking ease; watched the girl, sex on legs, with her low-cut clinging dress, her smoky come-to-bed eyes, teasing him, flirting with him, whispering in his ear, and then, as the evening went on, picking up his hand and playing with the fingers, resting her head briefly on his shoulder, and then as they left, in their coats, putting her arm round his neck and pulling him down to kiss him quickly on the mouth. And then a taxi pulled up and whether both of them got into it or only one, he was unable to tell.

London looked at once more cheerful than Milan and less appealing. The sun was shining, to be sure, and the sky was blue, but the shop windows, the garish Christmas lights, the endless Christmas trees, looked tawdry and clichéd.

Eliza did, however, feel much more cheerful, somehow, leaving behind her the clawing remnants of her depression over the baby, full of optimism and plans.

She arrived back at the house midafternoon, and spent the rest of the day playing with Emmie, cooking dinner, tidying up Matt’s appalling squalor, washing her hair, and changing: nothing fancy, she decided—that would look as if she was trying too hard—just jeans and a shirt. She bathed Emmie at six and put her into her pyjamas and dressing gown, but told her she could stay up until Daddy got home.

“Unless it’s really late.”

“What’s really late?”

“Oh, Emmie, I don’t know. About eight o’clock.”

“That’s not really late. Ten is really late. And in the villa we were playing till eleven—”

“Emmie, I don’t want to hear about the villa. That was quite different. We were on holiday. At home eight is late for you. You’re tired, and anyway—”

“I want to see Daddy,” said Emmie, her small face setting firmly against her mother. “I’ve missed him.”

Eliza gave in; the little girl could always go to sleep on the sofa, and Matt would be pleased to see her whatever the time was.

She’d rung him to say she was home and he said he couldn’t say
when he would be. He sounded cool, but not hostile. Maybe it would all be all right.

The biggest danger was that he would hear that Jeremy had been there at the villa, but she couldn’t possibly enlist Emmie as an accomplice; she would just have to tough it out.

He got home just before eight; she went out into the hall to greet him, her stomach heaving.

“Hallo,” she said, reaching up to kiss him.

“Hallo,” he said. He didn’t kiss her back, but he didn’t brush her away. His expression was impossible to read: blank, neither hostile nor welcoming, his eyes oddly wary.

“It’s … so nice to see you.”

“Daddy!” A small thunderbolt hurled itself across the hall and into Matt’s arms, covering his face with kisses. “I missed you so, so much. I love you so, so much.”

“I missed you too, Emmie. It’s lovely to have you home. What did you do? I want you to tell me all about it.”

“I had a lovely time and I’ve got a present for you. I got it at the airport.”

“The airport!” said Matt, laughing. “That sounds a bit last-minute to me.”

“No,” said Emmie, “it’s a beautiful picture. Of the Duomo.” Her pronunciation was perfect. “I chose it specially for you. It’s got a gold frame and everything.”

“Gold! It sounds wonderful. Where is it?”

“In my bedroom. I’ll get it.”

She ran up the stairs. Eliza’s eyes met Matt’s. To her surprise he was smiling at her. Emmie’s greeting had broken the chill.

“She’s wonderful, isn’t she?” he said.

They all ate supper in the kitchen; Matt admired the picture and to a lesser degree the wallet and the tie Eliza had bought him.

“So,” he said to Emmie, “tell me what you did, and was it fun?”

“Some of the time,” she said.

Eliza froze.

“Yes, some of it was boring. Anna-Maria’s very boring.”