More Than You Know (67 page)

“So, Jeremy. This is very … very nice.”

She was looking, of course, incredible. Red maxidress, wonderfully sexy, in soft jersey, high-heeled black boots, hair drawn back from her face, her huge eyes fixed on him, her lips just slightly parted. Her purpose very clear. He didn’t have a chance, really. And … did he want one?

She had called him out of the blue, had said she was in New York for a few days’ shopping, that Giovanni had stayed at home in Milan; he was tired after the Christmas celebrations. Could they have lunch? She wanted to see him.

And he had wanted to see her too, still disturbed, shaken indeed, by the flare of attraction—and more—that had begun at La Scala that night.

Love, real love, in all its unquestioning, troubling determination, had eluded Jeremy thus far in his life. He had felt great affection, sexual attraction; he had enjoyed several relationships, and been seriously engaged by a few. But there it had ended, and he had come to think that that was all he was to know or even be capable of. But he wanted it, and he wanted it more as time went on.

He did not lack for contact with beautiful and intelligent women—it was just that they were never absolutely suited to him, and to the complexity of his life and its demands. And this included Eliza, as he very well knew, more clearly than ever now.

And here was one of the most beautiful women in the world, seeking him out. He knew what she wanted, and he wanted it too, but he knew he could not supply it, could not even dream of supplying it. Jeremy was that rather unfashionable and even rather dull creature, a good man. He had made a rule all his life to reject any course of action that he felt to be morally unjustifiable. And a relationship with Mariella, however enticing, clearly came into that category, and so he refused to consider it.

Even so, he had said yes, lunch would be delightful, trying and failing not to see beyond it and its purpose. It was, after all, only lunch …

He smiled at her now. “It is. Very nice. But you’re not eating anything.”

“Yes, I am. I have eaten my salad and one of my eggs Benedict. That is quite a lot for me.”

“Half an egg Benedict, actually. What do you usually eat for lunch?”

“Oh … I don’t know. A little fresh pasta. With pesto, or perhaps some sauce
pomodoro
. Maybe in the summer some asparagus. Eating is not important to me.”

“I don’t believe you. I’ve seen you tucking into tiramisu.”

“Tiramisu is different. Tiramisu is more like a beautiful melody or … or making love.”

“Mariella! What a ridiculous thing to say,” said Jeremy, laughing.

“Well, perhaps. But I could not pass a tiramisu by. My mother made the most perfect tiramisu. Better even than they serve in Bagutta. Have you eaten their tiramisu?”

“I … don’t think so.”

“Then you must. We will enjoy it together, next time you are in Milan.”

“Mariella, I don’t think I shall be in Milan again for a very long time.”

“Oh, but you must. You can always stay with us.”

“Well, perhaps. Now, I want to know more about your mother.”

“Oh, I loved her so much. She was a very, very wonderful woman. We had no money, no money at all, but every day was happy. She cooked us delicious food; she made us lovely clothes; the house was full of music; she sang, all the time; she had the most wonderful voice.”

“Can you sing?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I am note-deaf.”

“Tone-deaf,” he said, smiling.

“Eliza does that.”

“What?”

“Corrects my English. How did it feel to see her again, after all this time? I think you loved her very much.”

“I’m not sure that I did,” he said. “I adored her, but love—in that sense—I don’t think so. If I had been sure, then I would have married her long before she met Matt, and all our lives would have been very different.”

“I do not like Matt very much,” said Mariella. “He will not let her do what she needs to do—he will not let her work; they quarrel a lot. I think he thinks only about Matt.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Jeremy, smiling. “Eliza is quite good at looking after herself, doing what she wants. Or she used to be. But I’m sorry if she isn’t happy. Very sorry. She seemed fine in Milan. Except, of course, over the baby.”

“Yes, but, you know, there was more problem over that—”

“Oh, dear. Poor Eliza.” He smiled at her. “You and Giovanni, now, do you quarrel? I’m sure not.”

“No, we do not. Never, never.”

“And … you are happy with him?”

“Oh … yes. I’m happy. How could I not be?”

“Well … no, I can’t imagine.”

“You are so diplomatic, Jeremy, but I know why you asked. You
think Giovanni is an old man, not a companion for me, maybe not even a sexual companion—and you would be right. Of course.”

“Yes, I see.” It was what he had suspected, but not that she would address it so soon and so directly.

“Now you are shocked,” she said. “I do not mean to do that. I was trying to explain. You do not have to have everything to be happy, just the right things. Giovanni loves me very, very much. And I feel quite, quite safe, all the time. And he has the right things too; he has me for the rest of his life, in his house, taking care of him, loving him, wherever he goes, and that is all he asks too. But now, all of a sudden, there is you. So …” She paused, smiled very directly into his eyes.

“Mariella, Mariella, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what, Jeremy?” Her expression was puzzled.

“Please, Mariella. Don’t insult me by playing silly games. I can’t … do what you want. I can’t have an affair with you.”

“Don’t you want to?”

The dark eyes filled with pain; the lovely mouth trembled. God, she was a master of this. Or rather a mistress.

“Of course I do,” he said. “I want it very much. It is agony for me to sit here and … and say this. But … I can’t do it, Mariella. I like Giovanni too much. He has given me his hospitality, his friendship. I can’t deceive him; I can’t take from him what he values more than anything on earth.”

“But, Jeremy, he would not know. It would not hurt him.”

“I would know, Mariella. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She stood up; she was going to walk out, he thought, possibly throw something at him, and in a way he hoped she would. It would make things easier.

But: “I go to the bathroom,” she said. “I will be back.”

She was gone a long time: ten, fifteen minutes. Jeremy sat, reflecting on the treasure he had rejected, hardly able to believe it of himself.

And then she returned, stood behind his chair, bent over him, put her arms round his neck, kissed him on the cheek. She smelt amazing, a thick, rich perfume, and when she sat down again, she was smiling, her eyes very bright, her makeup perfect, her hair absolutely in place.

“Oh, dear,” she said, shaking her head at him, “oh, Jeremy. Would
it not be just my bad luck to fall for a perfect English gentleman? Why could I not have found a … a … What should I have found, Jeremy?”

“A cad,” he replied, smiling. “I think that’s who you should have found. A bounder. A rotter. Who would have rushed you off to bed, as I so long to do, without another thought. That’s what you should have found.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I do not think so. It is you I want, dear gentleman Jeremy. So much, so very much. Well … perhaps. One day. I shall not give up, you know. I am not proud. And I always get what I want in the end.”

“Is that so?” he said, struggling to keep his voice light.

And: “Oh, yes,” she said, blowing him a kiss across the table, “that is really, really so.”

“Miss Scarlett! How nice of you to come.”

Scarlett smiled at Mark Frost. He really was so charming, she thought; and he was attractive too, with his shock of brown hair and those grey eyes peering through his steel-framed spectacles.

She had very nearly not come, except that Mark Frost’s PR had been doing a ring-round on the last morning and Scarlett had been out, and, the party being in her diary, the secretary had confirmed, and she didn’t want to let him down after that.

Although … it would hardly have mattered; the room was packed and every single person there seemed to know every other person, and they were all talking loudly and confidently about books and publishers and even agents … “Actually, the only one I really liked was her first … Aren’t those new Penguin covers just the most amazing works of art … I really think you should move on; they’re turning out absolute rubbish …” And although smiling rather distantly at her, as she walked slowly past with her glass of champagne or tried to infiltrate a group, they were the opposite of friendly.

“Anyone here you know?” Mark Frost said now.

She shook her head. “Not really.”

“Right. I thought you might know a few of the travel journalists.
Come and meet Chrissie Morgan; she’s on the
Daily Sketch
and quite tame, really. How’s your venture going?”

“Oh, pretty well.”

“Good. I asked Demetrios last time I was there, but he’s very discreet, always pretends he doesn’t know anything about it.”

“I don’t think he’s being discreet,” said Scarlett, laughing. “I think he really doesn’t.”

“Now, Chrissie, meet Scarlett Shaw. She’s the brains behind a wonderful travel club; you’ve probably heard of it—”

“Mark.” It was one of the extremely posh publishing girls. “Mark, time for your speech.”

“Oh, Christ.” He went quite white; it was the first time Scarlett had seen any hint of the original Mark Frost, the silent, withdrawn person she had first met in Demetrios’s hotel.

“Poor Frosty,” said Chrissie, looking after him as he was borne away, “he really does hate it. Speaking, I mean.”

But he spoke charmingly and amusingly, with some rather fulsome praise for his editor, his publisher, and his agent, and a funny story about how he had heard two ladies in Hatchards discussing the islands book and saying what a pity he hadn’t included the Isle of Wight.

“He’s such a star, isn’t he?” said Chrissie Morgan. “So funny and so charming.”

“Yes, he is. I didn’t think so when I first met him; he hardly said a single word.”

“No, that’s his way. He hides behind this sort of Trappist veil until he’s decided he really likes you, and then he drops it, just like that. It’s quite disconcerting, really.”

Scarlett felt rather flattered.

“Have you met Mrs. Frost?”

“No. No, I haven’t.” She felt promptly recalled to reality.

“She’s amazing.”

“I thought she’d be here.”

“No, apparently wheelchair access is difficult here.”

Wheelchair! So he was married to an invalid. How extraordinary, then, to build a house on a remote Greek island. Perhaps he liked getting away from her …

“So … your travel club—tell me about it,” said Chrissie. “I’m doing a piece on the smaller agencies, and I might be able to include it.”

Scarlett left with a signed copy of the book, a kiss from Mark Frost, and a sense of considerable achievement.

She just wished David Berenson could have seen her being chatted up by one of the foremost travel journalists of his day.

“Things have got worse here, Eliza. Much worse.”

“Oh, Heather, I’m so sorry.” Eliza felt a pang of remorse. It was mid-January and she had been round to see Heather—now seven and a half months pregnant—for the first time since Christmas, and found her in despair.

“It’s not me this time; it’s poor old Mr. Carter upstairs. You know, he’s the widower, can hardly get up and down those stairs at all. Anyway, yesterday morning, a bird got in through the hole in the roof and flew into his face. He panicked and tried to fight it off and then slipped and fell down three or four steps. If I hadn’t heard and found him, I don’t know what would have happened. Poor old thing, I got the ambulance and he’d broken his hip. Coral and I went to see him in the afternoon in hospital and she was much more worried about what would happen to his room and where he could go when he came out.”

“Poor old chap. Anyway, I’ll come over again tomorrow with Emmie,” said Eliza.

“Oh, would you? Coral is so bored, poor little thing. Getting her to school is all I can manage at the moment, and it gets dark so early—”