The Decision (11 page)

‘Yeah, s’pose so. Might be a girl though. Then what’d I do?’

There was a silence; Charles suggested another round.

Nobby looked at his watch.

‘I’d best go,’ he said, ‘Janice said I had to be home by nine, she said she didn’t know what she was doing letting me out at all when she was feeling so rough. Nice to see you all. Thanks for organising it, Chas.’

He shambled out across the bar; the others looked at one another.

‘Poor bugger,’ said Charles, ‘what rotten luck.’ There was a silence; Charles said he’d get another round.

An hour later the party broke up. Nobby’s ill-fortune had depressed them all. Matt hadn’t liked to talk about his promotion; it seemed tactless. Happy walked away from them both towards Trafalgar Square; Charles asked Matt if he’d like a bite to eat.

‘Not sure,’ said Matt. ‘Got a bit of toothache.’

‘Oh, come on. Take an aspirin. I’ve got some – here you are. Chinese’d be nice and mushy, won’t do it any harm.’

They wandered towards Gerrard Street and went into one of the less flashy-looking places.

‘I got some good news today anyway,’ Matt said, unable to keep it to himself any longer. ‘Got promoted. Can’t quite believe it myself. ’

‘That’s fantastic, Matt. Well done. I knew you’d do well in life, knew right from the beginning. This calls for another beer. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ said Matt.

They chatted easily for a while; Matt was surprised how easily. Chas was pretty all right, he reckoned. He’d never been able to talk to any of the other toffs he met, in the course of his work. They were so bloody patronising. But Chas was different: he could even listen to him talking about his work on the Stock Exchange without wanting to throw up. Although now he was talking about his parents’ house in the country, which was clearly vast, but which was what he called ‘going to rack and ruin’.

‘They just can’t afford to keep it going, not really. They’re really hard up, worried to death, poor old things.’

Really hard up, Matt thought, living in a house with ten bedrooms.

‘So Eliza and I are trying to help a bit. They can’t sell it, thank God, losing it would be too awful, it’s owned by a family trust. It’s been in the family for generations. I say, Matt, you OK?’

‘Not too good,’ said Matt, wincing, ‘bit on me bad tooth. Bloody agony it is.’

‘When are you seeing your dentist?’

‘Dunno. Haven’t got one, not really.’

‘You haven’t got—’ Charles’s voice tailed off. ‘Look, you must make an appointment right away. Your face is quite swollen, you could have an abscess. We go to a chap in Kensington, he’s awfully good. I’ll give you his number. Mummy and Pa pay I believe, but Eliza and I see him on the National Health. Say you’re in pain and you’ll get in tomorrow. Damn, now I can’t find his number. Stay there and I’ll go and ring Eliza, she’ll know. There’s a phone box right outside. Don’t drink my beer, there’s a good chap.’

It was Charles who was the good chap, Matt thought – even if he did call his mother Mummy. At twenty-five; it was pretty weird really.

Charles came back smiling.

‘Here’s the number. Frobisher 7592. Mr Cole. Now, you must go, Matt, no chickening out. Promise.’

‘I promise,’ said Matt. ‘Er – how is your sister, by the way?’

He had never forgotten Eliza that day on Waterloo station; he could still see her there, in her black trousers, and black-and-white coat, her dark blue eyes smiling at him, had never forgotten how the ground had seemed to heave slightly underneath his feet as he looked at her.

‘She’s absolutely fine, thanks. She’s got a fantastic job actually. In the Public Relations department for Woolfe’s, you know—’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Matt again. He wondered what on earth Woolfe’s might be. Insurance office? Bank? Law firm?

‘Yes, she’s doing brilliantly. Always hobnobbing with journalists, buying them lunches. Seems to be a lot of fun.’

‘She’s not married then?’ said Matt. It seemed important to know.

‘Good lord, no. Not yet. She’s always going out with someone or other, spends her evenings in various discotheques and so on, you know, but no one at all serious. Mummy’s getting quite anxious, keeps saying she really ought to be settled, but she’s in love with her job. And she just says no man could possibly compete with that.’

‘Really?’ said Matt. Eliza must have met some very dull men, if that was her view.

‘Yes. Anyway, you can see her for yourself. She’s at her flat, and she said we could go round, she’s at a loose end, only girl not out with a beau.’

‘Oh,’ said Matt. His toothache suddenly seemed inconsequential. ‘But she won’t want to see me, surely.’

‘She remembered you. Said she’d love it, that we’d be doing her a favour. And that she could pretend you were her boyfriend if any of the others got back.’

‘Yeah, right. I bet I’m exactly like one of her boyfriends.’

‘Don’t be so touchy, Matt. I’ve told you before. All that stuff is over. Eliza was telling me the other day lots of the people in the fashion world are really – really…’

His voice tailed off. Matt looked at him.

‘Really working-class? Is that what you mean?’ He grinned at Charles. ‘It’s OK, I know my place.’

‘Matt, for God’s sake, you don’t have a place.’

‘OK,’ said Matt easily, ‘if that’s what you think.’

‘I do. Anyway, I’m only telling you what Eliza says. There’s this fantastic new photographer called David Bailey, and another called Terry something, beginning with D … Dudley? No, Donovan, yes that’s the one. Both from the East End, left school at fifteen or whatever. Everyone thinks they’re wonderful. Come on, Matt, knock that chip off your shoulder and come and see Eliza with me.’

Eliza opened the door to them wearing a pair of calf-length jeans and a very large white man’s shirt. Her feet were bare, her dark hair tumbled on her shoulders. And as she leaned forward to kiss Charles and then, slightly tentatively, Matt, laughing as she did so, there was a wave of some infinitely delicious warm scent. She looked perfectly beautiful and Matt, finding himself suddenly invaded by a violence of feeling that came somewhere between pleasure and distinct physical weakness, wondered rather feebly if this was like falling in love.

They were still talking at midnight as the other girls and their braying boyfriends came and went; Eliza chatting and laughing and telling funny stories of a world of which Matt had absolutely no knowledge but which sounded like some enchanted kingdom, peopled with fashion designers and photographers and models and journalists and beautiful clothes and star-studded parties; Charles begging for introductions to ‘just one of the models’, smiling as he teased her about her ambitions and her career.

Matt listened, hardly speaking, but committing everything that he could to memory: Eliza’s voice, her smile, her lovely hands which she waved about as she talked, the way she sat with one long leg curled under her, the way she turned her head to listen intently to people, the way she laughed, teased Charles, managed to appear interested in what few things Matt was able to say. His toothache was forgotten, his last bus missed, none of it of any importance whatsoever. He just stayed and stayed and would have been still there in the morning, had not Charles told him they really should leave, that Eliza needed her beauty sleep and so did he for that matter; and then finally and with infinite reluctance Matt said goodbye to her and was kissed again and told how lovely it had been for Eliza to see him after all this time, and then walked all the way home from Kensington to Clapham, the tube being closed: almost two hours it took and he was happy to do so, for he could live and relive the evening without interruption, replaying every moment.

And thinking that if Eliza really felt no man could compete with her job she must be seeing the wrong sort of men. He could set up in competition with her job, no problem, he was sure of that. If he ever got the chance, which was pretty bloody unlikely.

In fact, much more likely, he would never see her again.

‘Charles? It’s me. Look – friend of mine makes the most fabulous jumpers and things; she’s looking for a studio/workshop. Would that be the sort of thing your nice friend Matt might be able to help with, do you think?’

‘Possibly. Probably. I’ll give you his number. Oh, and Juliet wondered if we could go out for a meal together next week. She says she wants to get to know you better.’

‘Oh – course. Sounds wonderful. Only thing is, I’m quite busy next week.’

‘Well, the one after then. Why don’t I get her to ring you?’

‘Lovely idea. Yes. I’ll look forward to it. Now – Matt’s number?’

As she waited, she contemplated Juliet and an evening with her and Charles.

Juliet Judd – her name alone made Eliza want to giggle, it was like a girl in a cartoon – was his new girlfriend, and he appeared oddly besotted by her.

She worked as a secretary for the lawyers who worked for Charles’s stockbroking firm and she was a hugely irritating, simpering creature, so much the sort of girl Eliza disapproved of that she found it hard even to be polite to her. She was acutely and self-consciously feminine, a blue-eyed blonde, but her hair was over-styled and, at a time when most girls were wearing simple, ever-shorter shift dresses, or Mary Quant’s pinafores over black sweaters or even the latest craze of jeans tucked into knee-high boots, she favoured girly blouses and flared skirts, or neat little suits, and always had matching bags and shoes and gloves. She had left Roedean with two O-levels and gone to finishing school in Paris where she had learnt to cook and sew and do flowers and was always saying things like ‘I don’t think men like girls to be too clever’.

Eliza was sure it wouldn’t last; it was the novelty, she kept telling herself.

‘Matt! This one’s for you. Nice little building out Paddington way, near the station. Five hundred square feet, three floors, see what you can do with it. Landlord’s in a hurry, burnt his fingers a bit with his financing, OK?’

‘Fine,’ said Matt. He still hadn’t got over the excitement of having his own clients, of sorting out a deal. He enjoyed all of it, talking to the landlord, getting out the files, checking potential tenants, fixing appointments, showing them round; it was all dizzy stuff. The day both sides were due to sign, he would wake up feeling as if it was his birthday. He once asked Paul Dickens if he felt the same; Paul was very amused.

‘Course not, you silly bugger. It’s a job, innit? I’d be just as happy working in the motor trade to be honest with you. Bigger commission too.’

Matt was shocked. How anyone could compare the dizzy matchmaking of landlord and tenant with selling a car was beyond him. Money just wasn’t the point. The point was involvement, was feeling part of this mighty fusion of money and bricks and mortar and commercial expertise at a time when the entire city was being reborn.

He phoned the landlord: a sharp young man, no older than Matt himself, called Colin White. They met at the building, which had been a warehouse and had had only the most minimal work done – new windows, whitewash on the walls, reconcreted floors – and White professed great nonchalance over the deal.

‘I want the right tenant, and I don’t want no hassle, people moving out again in a year. I want it settled, so I don’t have to think about it any more, OK?’

Matt said OK but he thought the rent was too high.

‘It’s a good space but it’s the location, I just don’t see it as offices, more manufacturing, storage, that sort of thing.’

‘Well I don’t,’ said White coolly. ‘I spent a lot of money on this place, Shaw, I want a proper return, I was told you was a good salesman, I think I might be disappointed. I’ll give you a couple of weeks, then I might have to take it somewhere else.’

‘You won’t have to do that,’ said Matt firmly. ‘I’ll find you someone for it well inside a fortnight.’

‘Good,’ said White, ‘and don’t bother me till you’re sure. I’m a busy man, I don’t want a lot of poxy phone calls about this, that and the other.’

Matt went back to the office and trawled through his files. It wasn’t going to be easy. The building was in a noisy dirty street, very near the route of the new Westway, the M40 extension leading into Central London. It might make a light factory but it certainly didn’t seem suitable for the offices Colin White was so determined on.

Two days later he was three quarters of the way through his list of prospects, feeling increasingly panicky; nobody wanted it. Then Janice, the telephonist, put a call through.

‘Potential client, Matt. Sounds really sweet.’

Janice would have described the Kray twins as sweet had they telephoned Barlow and Stein; Matt picked up the phone warily. A female voice said she had heard he might be able to help her.

‘My name’s Maddy Brown. I’m looking for some premises for my business.’

‘What type of business would that be?’

‘Well, fashion. I design clothes.’

‘Oh yes. And where are you working at the moment?’

‘In my parents’ house.’

‘I see.’

That wasn’t going to pay Colin White’s rent. He’d heard about these girls, straight out of art school, looking to cash in on what the papers called the youth boom. Probably hadn’t got a single customer. As politely as he could, he suggested she took a flat with a spare room, ‘Or carry on working at your parents’ place. Just till you get going a bit.’