More Than You Know (69 page)

“Well,” Rob said, shaking her hand in reception, “cheers. Thanks for coming in. I’ll call you. But—first off—you’d be interested, would you?”

Eliza said she could be, struggling not to show how desperately interested she already was.

Three days later Brigstocke called and made her an offer: the job of fashion consultant, two days a week, rising to three as and when necessary, a salary for those two days more than she had been paid full-time at
Charisma
, and, as far as she could make out, absolutely unlimited expenses. She had stood in the hall, listening to what sounded like an invitation to enter some enchanted kingdom, and heard herself saying, well, she would think about it. And let him know in a day or two. And heard him sounding first surprised and then impatient and telling her he would need to know very soon, as there were several other people he wanted to approach, and longing more than anything to say,
Oh, no, no, don’t, please don’t even think about approaching them
; and then he rang again, and said if she hadn’t made her mind up in the next twenty-four hours, the job would be gone, and she realised she really would have to talk to Matt about it.

Mariella had been only mildly disappointed at the failure of her mission. She wanted Jeremy Northcott, and very badly, more badly indeed than she had ever wanted any man, and this was not just sexual greed, not just
a demand for romantic attention; it was altogether more tender, gentler, more intense than anything she had experienced before. With the exception, of course, of what she felt for Giovanni.

Mariella was not actually promiscuous at all; she loved Giovanni, very much, and she had married him for that reason. He was the centre of her world; he gave her things she could not have dreamed of, to be sure, but he also showed her tenderness, gentleness, and deep admiration. Always intelligent, she became under his tutelage cultured, socially adept, well-read. Their life together was indeed charmed, but it was not simply because of their wealth. It was also because they were, quite simply, good to each other.

And in the early days of their marriage Giovanni was a sensuous, imaginative, tireless lover; he taught her more than she could teach him. He combined sexual skill with emotional; he could catch her unawares, at inappropriate times, and they had made love in a great many more places than their vast, deep bed as night fell over Como.

But as his eightieth birthday dawned, Giovanni’s sexual powers had begun to dwindle. In three years, his impotence was total. And Mariella had kissed him and said she never wanted to betray him, never wished to sleep with anyone else, and he had said how much he loved her and fallen asleep. And she had meant what she had said with all her heart.

But with the best will in the world she became restless, fractious, snapping at Giovanni as she had never done, until she had wondered whether it might be better for both of them if she sought—just occasionally—distraction elsewhere. And then, wonderfully, there was Jeremy, who instilled in her an emotional longing as well as a physical one. And even while she was shocked at herself that she could feel such a thing, she yearned to have what she had never had: a love affair in the truest sense, with a young and beautiful man.

Well, she always got what she wanted. In the end.

“Eliza? It’s Jeremy.”

“Oh … Jeremy! How lovely to hear from you; where are you?”

“In London. For a few days. Just casing the joint. I’ll be back permanently next month. Look, I’ve talked to Rob Brigstocke, and I hear he’s pretty impressed by you. Wants you to join us, in fact.”

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I … I know. It’s wonderful. I’m completely, completely over the moon.”

“I hoped you would be. But he also tells me you haven’t accepted the job yet. Look, I know you’ve got problems with Matt, and the whole child-care thing. But two days a week—surely you can make that work. We really do want you. We think you have a lot to offer the agency—”

“I—Oh, it’s not Matt,” she said, taking a deep breath, “honestly. I’m not that much of a little woman, Jeremy. It’s just that I heard of this wonderful nanny and I was just waiting to see her before I committed myself. But … well, it looks like she’s agreed, so … yes. I’d adore to take the job. It sounds wonderful.”

“Marvellous! I’ll tell Rob. He’ll be thrilled. Now, what about lunch? To seal the deal?”

“I’d love to have lunch. Please, please, please.”

They settled on a date the following week. He was off to Norfolk for a few days. “See Pa, all that sort of thing. So I’ll have lots of exciting news about country life as well.”

“I would actually like to hear it,” said Eliza soberly. “It’d be lovely. So … so normal.”

“My father, normal! Hardly. You can come with me if you like.”

“Oh, I wish I could. Matt would be really thrilled. But give my love to your father; tell him how sorry I am. I did write to him about your mother.”

“Sweet of you. I will. OK, then, next Thursday. Shall we make it the Caprice? For old times’ sake?”

She put the phone down and sat staring at it, feeling alternately wildly happy and violently sick. She couldn’t renege on that now. Whatever Matt said …

“No,” said Matt. “I thought we agreed that for at least her first year at school, Emmie would need you to be around.”

“But, Matt, it’s only two days a week. Your mum could look after her; she’d love it. And I get so bored now with Emmie at school all day; I’ve got a brain and it’s just rotting away, doing nothing. I want to—”

“I get very bored with these cries of anguish about your brain, Eliza.
Your brain could be put to perfectly good use doing things with Emmie and even with me, come to that.”

“You?” she said. “I really don’t see what you could ask of me, Matt, that requires my brain. I don’t actually recall your ever wanting to go to the theatre, or discussing books with me. Asking what’s for dinner and telling me what developments you’ve instigated in the past twenty-four hours seems to be what might pass for intellectual conversation on your part. As for Emmie, I spend a lot of time reading to her and playing with her, and I resent the implication that I don’t.”

“Yes, all right,” said Matt, “but what about the discussion we had the other night, on the possibility of our having another child one day? I presume that wouldn’t be even under consideration anymore if you took this job, far less important.”

“You are so vile,” said Eliza, holding back the tears with a huge effort, “and that is completely unfair. I just can’t believe you can be so arrogant and so … so old-fashioned. You live in a time warp; do you know that? Forever Fifties Man, with a wife in a pinny, waiting for you to come home so she can wait on you.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” said Matt, and stalked out, slamming the door after him.

Driving Emmie to school, still fighting down the tears, she felt fiercely, and—yes, all right—childishly intent on revenge. She had tried so hard, given up so much, waited so long for what seemed the perfect opportunity—and he still wouldn’t move to meet her even a quarter of the way. It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.

She stopped to buy some milk on the way back, and Johnny Barrett’s card fell out of her wallet.

She sat staring at it, thinking about him, thinking about Matt and the way he always won, and about people like Heather who always lost, and suddenly the wonderfully simple idea was born.

“Hallo, Johnny Barrett. Oh … hallo. Yes, of course I remember you. Never forget an appreciative face. Nice to hear from you. What? Well, I’m always interested in ideas for a piece. Want to outline it now? And then I can put it to the editor, if I think he’d like it. Yes, sure, go ahead.”

Jeremy arrived back from Norfolk for an intense three days before returning to New York for the last time; his former secretary, Lucilla Fellowes, who was still at the agency, returned to her role of company wife with huge enthusiasm, making sure he had his favourite coffee, filling his (temporary) office with flowers and Bollinger champagne, running his diary and dovetailing meetings, and booking him into his favourite restaurants. It was as she checked the final arrangements for those few days that she realised he had slipped in a lunch without telling her: “Eliza,” his diary said in his huge scrawl, “Caprice, one p.m.” On the same day Lucy had with great difficulty managed to arrange for the CEO of Cumberland Tobacco to lunch in the boardroom with Rob Brigstocke, as creative director, Michael Rushton, head of research, and Jeremy; she asked Jeremy if she could change the lunch with Eliza to drinks that evening.

“Well, if it’s OK with her. She might not be free. Tell her it will be Bolly. That should swing it. Otherwise … maybe dinner? It’s up to her. But I’m sure she’ll understand about lunch.”