More Than You Know (64 page)

“Really?”

“Yes.” A huge yawn engulfed her face.

“Emmie,” said Eliza, “what about bed?”

“No, not till I’ve shown Daddy my new shoes.”

“New shoes!”

“Yes, I’ll show you. And a new dress. Wait there, Daddy.”

Eliza waited for her return, feeling sick.

But, “Mariella bought them for me,” was all she said. She was clearly more remorseful than she had let on about her Milanese adventure.

“And I’ve got another picture for you,” she said, producing it from her small flight bag. “One I did. It’s of the villa. Look. This is the back of the house, here. That’s a fountain.”

“Fountains! For God’s sake.”

“Yes, and that’s a maze. A … a minty maze.”

“Miniature, darling. We loved that maze, didn’t we, Emmie?”

“It’s a very good picture, Emmie,” said Matt.

“Yes, the man said so too.”

“The man? You mean Mr. Crespi?”

He refused to move into Italian even in the most minimal way. Eliza sat, her fork poised, her mouth dry with terror.

“No, not him, the other man—”

“What other man?”

This was it then: the end of her marriage.

“The man who looked after me.”

“Oh,” said Eliza, relief surging through her, “oh, you mean Bruno. He didn’t really look after you, Emmie; Anna-Maria did, didn’t she?”

“Bruno was much nicer. Bruno was fun.”

“Bruno is Giovanni’s valet,” said Eliza. “He and Emmie hit it off, rather.”

“I see. So what else did you do with Bruno?”

“Played snap. I taught him; he didn’t know. And ate in the kitchen, with him and Lucia.”

“Lucia? Another servant?” asked Matt.

“Yes. The cook.”

“Dear God in heaven. So … what’s this blue stuff? The sky? I thought it was foggy?”

“No. It’s the lake. And it was only foggy when Mummy went to the theatre. Till then it was really nice.”

“And what else did you do?”

“Oh … I don’t know.” Emmie had every child’s dislike of being interrogated. “Will you come and read me a story?”

“Of course I will.”

They disappeared, Matt without a backward glance at Eliza. No prizes for guessing who
his
favourite person was.

“Welcome home to you too, Eliza,” she said, and started clearing the table.

He was gone a long time; when she went up to find him, he was stretched out half-asleep on the bed.

“Think I might sleep next door,” he said, standing up hastily, avoiding her eyes. “Got a very early start.” And he moved into the spare room. She didn’t argue—in fact, she was grateful; she felt exhausted and very tense. Well … so far she’d got off very lightly. But it was without doubt odd.

Several very chilly days followed. Eliza lurched from anxiety to relief, then hurt and all the way back again. He wasn’t even acting suspicious. Just … odd. Working late—which meant at least there was no more questioning of Emmie. But very, very distant, and very, very cold.

On Saturday, she had to take Emmie to a party after lunch; when she got back, he seemed to have disappeared. She looked in the sitting room and the study, and sighed, assuming he had gone out without telling her. Then she heard his voice calling her.

“Eliza! I’m up here.”

He was in the bedroom, in bed. Naked. Sitting up and grinning at her, half-embarrassed.

“Oh,” she said, “oh. I thought—”

“What did you think?”

“I thought … well, you didn’t … didn’t like me anymore.”

“Now, why on earth should you think that?”

“You haven’t exactly been acting pleased to see me.”

“Eliza … look, sorry if I’ve got it wrong, but it was you who went off to Milan, saying it would cheer you up, you who were late back. I’m a simple sort of chap; that didn’t exactly tell me you wanted to be with me.”

“I’m … I’m sorry, but—”

“Look,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “look, I think it’s starting-again time.”

“But—”

“Eliza, I’m sitting here stark bollock naked. Waiting for you. Can’t spell it out clearer than that. Why do you have to argue about everything? Emmie’s out; we haven’t really spent any time together since you got back. Don’t you want to come and join me?”

She looked at him, feeling almost with surprise a rush of tenderness, and then of desire, the wonderfully powerful clenching deep within her that she had almost forgotten, suddenly longing to be held, kissed, stroked, played on.

“Oh,” she said, “oh, yes, Matt, I do. More than more than, I do.”

Later, lying beside him, her body still throbbing, but sweetly released for the first time since the summer, she lay smiling at him, her eyes exploring his.

“That was so lovely,” she said.

He looked at her very seriously.

“Was it really?”

“It really, really was.”

“Well, hallelujah!” he said. She looked at him sharply, fearing irony, but he smiled suddenly.

“Welcome back,” he said. “And I don’t mean from Milan. Although it obviously did you good. I have to admit that.”

“Thank you. And yes, it did,” she said, thinking that in a million years he would never understand how or why, and how dangerous such an explanation might be.

“Love me?” said Matt, rather absentmindedly kissing her shoulder.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I do. You?”

“Oh, I love me too,” he said.

She remained terrified of Matt finding out about Jeremy, but as the days went past, Emmie said nothing more about Milan; as it receded from her memory behind the excitement of Christmas, Eliza began to relax. They were happier than they had been for months, and that was enough for both of them for the time being.

And certainly too much to risk by confronting another matter: a suggestion from Jeremy as she had chatted to him and Timothy over breakfast following the hair-raising drive to the villa, as the unfortunate Bruno was borne away to play snap with Emmie once more.

“So,” Jeremy had said, “what are you doing, work-wise?”

“Nothing,” she said, and then, too quickly: “I didn’t want to. Not while Emmie was small. I think she needs me at home.”

“Most admirable. Not what you used to say.”

“No. I know. But … I’m not who I used to be.”

“I think you are. In some ways.” He smiled at her; she smiled easily back. “Anyway, now she’s at school?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ll be wanting to go back.”

“I want to,” she said, “but Matt … That is, I … We’re not sure—”

“And perhaps you’ll be having other babies.”

“Yes,” she said, “perhaps.” And as always happened at such a point in the conversation, the tears came, try as she might to stop them, and one fell rather dramatically on the tablecloth, followed by another.

“Sorry,” she said, “so sorry, Jeremy.”

Timothy cleared his throat and excused himself, hurried off; living abroad had left his English reserve untouched, she thought. “Tell me about it,” Jeremy said gently, and she did, and he was sweet and kind and seemed to understand, but when she said she had been quite depressed, he said, “Maybe working would do you good.”

“It … might do. Yes. But … hard to organise. Matt’s very against nannies. And the school day isn’t very long.”

“Mmm. There’s one thing you might consider. It’s something I inaugurated in New York and suggested they do in London.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, we employ a fashion consultant who works with a creative group on a project. Once they’ve decided whether an ad is going to be TV or press, she advises them on what they’d be wearing. And then sources the clothes. And goes along to the shoots. Books the makeup artists and sometimes the models. How does that sound?”

“Utterly wonderful,” said Eliza.

“And it’s maybe two days a week. They’d love you, having been in the forefront of it all. You’d be perfect. Think about it.”

“But … why should a complete stranger of a creative director want to hire someone suggested by you? I mean, London and New York, pretty far apart. Surely.”

“Well, yes. But I am coming back to London. Early next year. So straightaway after Christmas, call me. OK? Don’t forget.”

She would not forget. No danger of that. Whether she actually would do it was extremely doubtful. Her truce with Matt was far too important to her.

It arrived by a rather circuitous route: a letter addressed to Miss Scarlett, c/o Demetrios on Trisos, enclosed in an envelope sent by Demetrios to her office address.

She opened it, puzzled, pulled out the contents, read it several times over and then set it on her desk and sat smiling at it.

Miss Scarlett

Bristow and Baring, Publishers
,
request the pleasure of your company
at a party to launch the publication of
Favourite French Journeys
by Mark Frost.
Six p.m., the Gondoliers Room, Savoy Hotel
,
January 20, 1970
.

Goodness. He must quite have wanted her to be there. To have gone to that much trouble.

How exciting. How interesting. How …

Then she remembered Mrs. Frost. No doubt she would be there. Well, it would be interesting to meet her, she supposed.

It would also be interesting to go to a publishing party. She’d have to ask Eliza what to expect. And what to wear.

She pulled a sheet of her letterhead paper towards her (“Scarlett Shaw, Exclusive Travellers’ Club”) and wrote to tell them that Miss Scarlett would be delighted to accept their kind invitation. Now at least he would know her address. And she might even get a bit of free publicity in one of his articles in the
Daily News
. So … who cared about Mrs. Frost?

The day before they left for Summercourt for Christmas, Eliza and Emmie went to visit Heather and Coral. They hadn’t been there for a
while, and Eliza had been worrying about them. She hadn’t been much of a friend to Heather, had failed her entirely over her landlord; she felt guilty. They had bought them presents—an Amanda Jane doll for Coral, with lots of clothes, and a huge, thick knitted cardigan for Heather. She’d also brought a bottle of port for Alan. All men liked port, and it wasn’t a flashy present, not like champagne.

“Now, look,” she said to Emmie warningly as they pulled up outside, “you are not to talk about how we’ve been to stay in a palace.”

Emmie gave her a withering look.

“Of course I won’t,” she said.

Sometimes, Eliza thought, she didn’t give Emmie enough credit. She was actually a rather amazing little girl.

Heather opened the front door, looking exhausted.

“Hallo,” she said, “it’s so lovely to see you. Come in. If you can face it.”

The house smelt bad. Coral was clinging to her mother’s legs, suddenly shy. Emmie was having none of it.

“Come on,” she said, grabbing Coral’s hand. “We’ve got a present for you.”

“Emmie,” said Eliza, “it’s a Christmas present. Not for today.”