More Than You Know (79 page)

“Miss Scarlett”—it was Demetrios—“Larissa tells me you say not to disturb you.”

“Yes, but not so I missed the ferry. I just can’t believe this; it’s ridiculous, totally ridiculous, and I thought Ari was ill—”

“He felt better, and he thought to go. Excuse me now, Miss Scarlett, and don’t worry; you can go tomorrow; it is only one night …”

One night. With Mark Frost in the same house.
God. God almighty
.

She heard the ferry coming in just after four; she had told Larissa she didn’t want any supper; she would just have to stay where she was until it was time to get the ferry in the morning. She couldn’t risk bumping into him.

She heard him coming into the house, talking to them; heard him
leaving to go up to his house, then coming back again at suppertime, heard a cork being pulled, heard the clink of knives and forks on plates. She felt increasingly beleaguered and stupid.

She became increasingly aware of a need to pee—hardly surprising; she’d been locked away for hours. If Mark didn’t leave soon she’d have to brave the corridor, and the dining area was at the bottom of the stairs. If the door was open … No, she’d have to wait; it was too much of a risk.

But her bladder grew more and more excruciating. She felt quite desperate. And then she looked at the window; although her room was on the first floor at the front of the house, it had been built into the hill at the back and was more or less at ground level; she could climb out easily.

She opened the window cautiously and looked out: absolute silence and stillness. She slithered out and ran gratefully to the nearest bougainvillea bush … although why she was looking for shelter she had no idea; there was no one to see her. Probably because there was a full moon and it was light as day; she felt very exposed. She pulled down her pants and …

“What on earth are you doing?” It was Mark Frost.

It was such an utterly ridiculous question that she giggled.

“Well,” she said, after completing her task, standing up, and pulling up her pants again, “you’ve got to guess. Do you think I was (a) writing a letter, (b) sunbathing, or (c) having a pee?”

And then she felt stricken at having laughed at him. “Sorry; that was very rude of me. I’m so sorry, Mark.” And she turned and walked back towards the open window.

And decided that the more dignified option was to walk round to the front of the house and go in the front door. And set off at a brisk pace to do exactly that.

At which point she felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned, and he said, clearly trying not to laugh himself, “If you’re going in that way, Scarlett, I think you should pull your skirt down. It’s tucked into your … your knickers. Just thought you ought to know.”

“Oh,” she said, desperate now to regain a little dignity, and fumbled with her skirt; and then something extremely unexpected happened and he said, “Here, let me help,” and she felt his hand smoothing out her
skirt, pulling it out of her knickers and setting it straight; and then he said, “Let me escort you to the door,” in a very formal voice.

“No, no, it’s fine,” she said. “I can see; it’s very light. It’s the moon, I suppose.”

“I suppose it must be,” he said politely; and she thought,
There I go, saying another stupid thing; he must think I’m half-witted
.

There was a silence and she stood there, not knowing whether to move or not now, and he suddenly said, “Since things can’t possibly get any worse …”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, since you’re in love with someone else, and you’ve refused my invitation to dinner, and you’re dashing away from the island the minute I get here, you dislike me so much—”

“Mark—”

“I would just like to say I think you look very beautiful in the moonlight.” There was a pause and then: “And also that you have an extraordinarily attractive bottom.”

“Oh,” she said, “oh, Mark no, no, you are quite wrong, and things could get much, much worse.”

“In what way?” he asked, and followed it with a sigh of some magnitude.

“I might never see you again; that would be much worse, and since you’ve been brave enough to compliment me in that rather personal way, I want to tell you that I am not in love with anyone else, and I wanted to accept your invitation to dinner more than anything I can remember, and I don’t want to leave the island tomorrow or indeed for as long as you are here, and the thing is, I thought that you were married, and—”

“Married!” he exclaimed, staring at her. “What on earth made you think that?”

“Well … well, you see, I thought that this Mrs. Frost I kept hearing about was your wife. Not your mother. Dumb, that’s me.”

“Oh, Miss Scarlett,” he said, “that is so, so stupid. Wonderfully, brilliantly stupid. Come here and let me kiss you.”

And she stood there being kissed by him, and thinking however shy he might be, he had certainly managed to learn how to kiss, on and on it went, and Larissa, glancing out, saw them and called Demetrios
over and indicated the pair in the moonlight and said whatever “I told you so” was in Greek, and how clever she had been to know that if they could only keep Miss Scarlett on the island until Mr. Frost arrived, it would work its magic and all would be very well.

Marriages do not suddenly drop dead; they expire slowly, from a thousand cutting words, a million misunderstandings, from an unwillingness to apologize to a willingness to take revenge. There is a dawning—slow at first, then gathering pace—that things are not as they were and moreover not as they should be, that responses are not what is hoped for, that disappointment is more frequent than delight, that resentment is more persistent than forgiveness, all remarked upon and brooded over and then stored angrily away. Desire dies; affection withers; trust becomes a memory.

But there has to be a catalyst, a final piece of havoc, that sees the whole edifice finally crumbling, that makes forgiveness unthinkable and happiness finally an impossible memory, but it is still the rot beneath that makes for that final collapse.

For Matt and Eliza, struggling along in savage resentment and outraged despair, aware of the hopelessness but fearful of the alternative and lost for what to do, the end when it came was shockingly swift.

Eliza was watching
The Magic Roundabout
with Emmie when the door opened and Matt walked in. He nodded at her briefly, bent, and kissed Emmie.

“How’s my best girl?”

“Fine, thank you,” said Emmie without looking at him.

“You’re home early,” said Eliza tentatively.

“Yes, I’ve come to pack.”

“Pack! Where are you going?”

“To Manchester for a couple of days.”

“What for?”

“A conference.”

“You didn’t tell me,” she said, struggling to sound friendly and interested. “What sort of conference?”

“A property development conference. I didn’t think it would interest you, given your contempt for what I do. Anyway, I must get on; if you’ll excuse me, I’m going up on the sleeper.”

“What, tonight?”

“Yes, tonight. And therefore I have to pack. Unless of course you’d like to do it for me. But I imagine you’re too busy.”

Eliza turned away without saying any more; she felt the usual surge of anger. Matt could go away at literally a moment’s notice, without warning, without the need to make any arrangements, leaving her on her own. Not that that made any real difference, she reflected; she might as well be living in the house without him, for all the contact there was between them. But she was not able to even contemplate two days away to do her work. It was so unfair. So totally unfair.

“Mummy! Mummy, look, I can jump like Zebedee; watch …”

It was bound to happen sooner or later, of course: the world in which they moved, Louise and Matt, was not a large one. Nevertheless, confronted by his name placed next to hers at the table at an awards ceremony, Louise felt momentarily panicked, unsure of what either of them might say or do.

She was as usual the only woman; she was just shaking out her napkin when she saw him approaching the table, but too engrossed in conversation with someone to have seen her. By the time he had sat down himself, he realised his escape was impossible.

“Hallo,” she said, trying to achieve eye contact and failing, as he reached for his glass of water without looking at her, “fancy seeing you here. Small world.”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “Very.”

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

“How is that building in the city going?”

“Very well, thanks.”

Louise turned to her neighbour on her other side; he couldn’t be worse, she thought.

Ten minutes of appallingly patronising conversation later, she discovered she was wrong. Donald Miller was the managing director of
a cement company, and asked her how it was working for Roderick Brownlow—“With, not for, we’re joint managing directors”—how it was going—“Pretty well, third hotel going up now, on the Bayswater Road, on the edge of Hyde Park”—and told how nice it was to have a lady at such luncheons. He finally managed to flick a small splodge of prawn cocktail off his fork and onto Louise’s blouse; he turned a violent puce.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Louise—may I call you Louise?—what my wife would say I dare not think. Here, let me help.”

He started dabbing at her shirt with his napkin; the stain was perilously near her bosom. She tried to smile. “Please don’t worry.”

“No, no, I insist; here, let me call a waiter, see if we can get some water and—”

“Here.” It was Matt’s voice; he was proffering his napkin, dipped in his water glass. “This should help.” She took it gratefully and dabbed at the stain.

“It’s great to see you again, Louise,” he said, deliberately loud, “and I’m very interested in how the new hotel is coming on. Will it be ready for the summer tourist trade?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said, surprised he should ask such a thing when the hotel had hardly begun its construction, and then realised he was smiling at her.

“Thank you,” she hissed, giving him back his napkin and turning, relieved, away from Donald Miller, “thank you so much.”

“It’s OK. I thought you deserved a break. I must be getting soft in my old age. Seriously, how is the hotel coming on? Ready for next spring, I suppose. That’s a very good site.”

“Yes, hopefully. I had a rival for it; you must have heard.”

“I did. I was pleased you won.”

“Thanks.” It was—actually—nice to see him; she smiled at him.

“How are things with you, Matt? Apart from your new city skyscraper?”

“Oh … pretty good, yes. Increasingly hard to find sites for redevelopment now, as you must know. Only thing that’s safe is office development. All these grants for improving old places. Absurdly generous, they are, the government, with taxpayers’ money, all those bloody
do-good councils. It’s certainly changing London all over again. You find posh people in the most unlikely places. Like Islington.”

“Yes. Or even Fulham … How … how is Eliza?”

“She’s all right,” he said shortly.

Not a good time to discuss the return to work that she’d heard about, then.

“And Emmie?”

“Emmie’s fine. Doing very well at school. And I’ve got her a pony, down at Summercourt; she loves him, loves riding. Very good at it.”