The Decision (27 page)

‘Jenny, what’s in the paper?’

‘It’s Miss Mullan, Mr Shaw. Here, look. Only you will give it me back, won’t you, I want to show my mum. She’ll never believe it.’

‘Yes, of course I’ll give it back,’ said Matt impatiently. ‘I’ll just – just take it in my office. And I’d like some tea, Jenny, if it’s not too much trouble.’

Matt stalked into his office and slammed the door; he felt slightly sick. He sat down at his desk and started to read the article. It was in the new property pages of the
Daily Sketch
; they had all attended the launch a few weeks earlier and while he and Jimbo had spent much of the evening talking to each other, Louise had been circling the room like a hula hoop. And this was clearly the result.

‘A new breed of negotiator,’ it was headed. ‘Not many women make it in the world of property development, but Louise Mullan looks set to shin up the scaffolding any minute now. She started work as a secretary at Shaw and Simmonds, a small commercial agency, less than a year ago and now does up to fifty per cent of the negotiating work herself. An attractive brunette, Miss Mullan smiled happily as she sipped her orange juice. (She never drinks on duty.) “I love my work,” she said, “and I think it’s an absolutely ideal job for girls. It involves all the things we’re best at: spotting a bargain, matching up people and places, and doing a dozen things at once. I think the sky’s the limit for us, in the property world.”

‘So it’s hard hats off to Miss Mullan; we wish her all the best.’

As if this wasn’t hard enough to swallow, there was then a photograph of Louise, sitting on a pile of breeze blocks in a half-completed building, swinging her long legs, a hard hat perched on her head, and smiling happily.

Somehow, even the thought of the Paul Crosse project and the twenty grand minimum they were going to make from it could not compete with that.

Eliza was sitting in the Palm Court of the Ritz, waiting for Jeremy, when she heard a joyful cry of ‘Eliza!’ and was smothered in a headily perfumed embrace.

‘Mariella! Oh, how lovely to see you. What are you doing here?’

‘What would I be doing here? I am shopping.’

It was the loveliest surprise: Mariella was easing herself gracefully out of her red jacket, revealing an exquisitely simple matching shift (Cardin, Eliza thought), slinging it at the hovering waiter. ‘I am exploring this wonderful new London I keep reading about. I have already been to the King’s Road, and Carnaby Street, where else should I go? This is so wonderful, that you should be here. May I join you for a moment?’

‘Yes, of course, I’d love that. Come and sit down.’ She called the waiter over, asked for another glass of champagne. ‘Mariella – are you here alone?’

‘Yes, quite alone. Giovanni had work to do, and he said he could spare me for a few days.’

‘I wish I’d known you were coming.’

‘I thought of telling you, but I know how busy you are. Anyway, this is extremely nice. I don’t suppose you are free for dinner?’

‘No – well – no, I really can’t. I’m waiting for my – my boyfriend now, we’re not even going out with friends or clients, or I’d ask you to join us.’

‘
Cara
, I know about clients and how important they are. Tomorrow perhaps? We could eat here.’

‘That would be wonderful. Thank you. Now, let me see, you must go to Woollands, the 21 shop and to Woolfe’s to New Generation, that’s the boutique I helped launch.’

‘You? Eliza, you are a wonderful girl, the things you have done. And I have done nothing with my life, not really—’

‘Oh, no not really, only married—’ She stopped. ‘One of the richest men in the world,’ she had been going to say but it suddenly sounded rude, as if it implied Mariella was a gold-digger. She saw Jeremy weaving his way across the foyer with a certain relief.

‘Jeremy! Over here! I want you to meet my friend Mariella Crespi, from Milan.’

He bent and kissed Eliza, then made a small bow over Mariella’s hand – God, he was so bloody charming – and smiled into her great dark eyes.

‘How lovely to meet you, Mariella,’ he said. ‘Jeremy Northcott.’

He was looking particularly gorgeous in a light grey flannel suit, exquisitely cut, and a light blue shirt. She saw Mariella taking him in, approving him, clearly doing more than approve of him.

‘It is very lovely to meet you too,’ she said.

Over dinner the next evening, she cooed about him for some time.

‘So elegant, Eliza, so charming, so good-looking. So very much the English gentleman. You have found, I think, the perfect man.’

‘Yes, well he is, I suppose,’ said Eliza.

‘You suppose! Eliza, you are so English. So stating under, is that right?’

‘Understating. Nearly right.’

‘And he clearly adores you, too.’

‘I – well, I’m not sure about that,’ said Eliza truthfully.

‘Is he rich?’

‘Terribly rich.’

‘Well then.’ Mariella sat back. ‘Truly perfect. You must marry him.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not quite up to me,’ said Eliza. And then in an attempt to change the subject, ‘Now, Mariella, how was today? And what did you think of Young Generation?’

‘It was very nice. I bought two dresses from Jean Varon.’

‘Absolutely my favourite evening dresses in the world. And what are you doing tomorrow?’

‘Eliza, you are trying too hard to change the subject. I want to know about Jeremy. Is this a serious relationship? Would you like to be married to this perfect man?’

‘I – I’m not sure,’ said Eliza. ‘Maybe because my job is so important to me – but then Jeremy knows that, and he respects it, he’s really interested in my career and he’s even a champion of working mothers.’

‘Really? Now that is very unusual, for an Englishman, I think?’

‘Very. He thinks it’s important for women not to waste their brains and training.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, so there is no problem anywhere, then?’

‘No. Not really. Maybe I just don’t love him enough, maybe he doesn’t love me enough.’

‘Oh,
cara
,’ said Mariella, ‘if everything else is right, there is enough love. Love grows, with the marriage. Believe me, I should know. It is clear to me that he is quite perfect for you, and he is simply waiting for the right minute. And when he does ask you, I want to be one of the very first to know.’

‘You will be,’ said Eliza, ‘if he does. Now can I see your Jean Varon dresses and all the other things you’ve bought after dinner?’

She was discovering that however heavily gilded it might be, Mariella did live in a cage. Giovanni might genuinely love her, he might be the soul of generosity, but he wanted her near him almost all the time; and when she was not, he had to know where she was and what she was doing every minute of the day.

‘I could never, ever have an affair,’ Mariella said, ‘Giovanni would find out in days. But I do not wish to have an affair,’ she said, with her dazzling smile, ‘I love him very, very much, and more all the time. As I told you, love grows. It is probably just as well, in Italy you can be sent to prison for adultery.’

‘What!’

‘Oh, yes. So you could never book into a hotel under a false name, or anything like that, you have to be terribly careful.’

‘Good heavens.’

‘But anyway, I love Giovanni, very dearly. No one else is good enough, handsome enough, charming enough. Except perhaps your Jeremy,
cara
! Don’t look like that, I am only teasing you. Giovanni is a very difficult play to follow.’

Eliza was constantly enchanted by Mariella’s take on the English language.

She thought a lot about Mariella’s philosophy of marriage in the weeks that followed: that if everything else was right, love would grow. She wondered if it would work for her. And perhaps more importantly for Jeremy.

‘This has been so lovely.’

‘Hasn’t it? I’ve had just the best time.’

‘No, I’ve had the best time.’ Scarlett leaned across the table, gave him a kiss. ‘I love, love, love New York.’

‘Me too. Always have.’

‘And the Carlyle is just – well, gorgeous. Is it true it was JFK’s favourite hotel?’

‘Absolutely true. And you know something else, every single US president has stayed in it.’

‘Every single US president and me. And you. Oh, David. It’s been so heavenly. Thank you!’

‘I won’t say it was entirely my pleasure; I think that would be a little inaccurate.’

‘Certainly would. Very mutual, the pleasure’s been. And I love my Kelly bag so much. You are just so generous.’

‘Well, I’m glad you love it. Do you know the story about it?’

‘No. No, I didn’t know there was one. Except that it was designed for Grace Kelly.’

‘Not quite. It was designed sometime in the Thirties, I think – but it was named after her because she famously used it to conceal her pregnancy from the paparazzi.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, she held it across her stomach. So it didn’t show. Of course it was very early days, or it wouldn’t have done the job. Later on she’d have needed a cabin trunk.’

‘Why should she want to stop it showing?’ said Scarlett. A knot of hurt had suddenly formed somewhere near her heart. ‘She was married to her prince by then, I presume.’

‘Yes, of course. But – she was shy, nervous. And women are very sensitive about these things, you see. Something so intensely personal.’

‘Is that so?’ said Scarlett and she could hear her voice getting harsh. ‘Well, I suppose you would know.’

She met his eyes, those amazing green Berenson eyes, and saw them first puzzled, then wary; then his whole face changed, into something carefully and neatly composed.

‘Well of course,’ he said. ‘Is that so terrible?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘of course it’s not terrible. I just thought it was a bit – odd. That a married woman should be sensitive about concealing her pregnancy. But it is a very sweet story.’ She smiled with a huge effort. ‘Let’s have another cocktail and then I want to go out to dinner. You said you’d take me to Sardi’s.’

‘And I will. I’ve booked a table. Can you be ready in ten minutes?’

She had been so looking forward to going to the legendary Sardi’s; now she wasn’t so sure. She felt irritable, disorientated, and she knew why, even as she acknowledged it as unreasonable. Any talk of pregnancy hurt; hurt in a confused, desperate way. To hear it discussed lightly, almost jokily, by David was almost unbearable.

And however often she told herself that what had happened was not his fault, that it was she, if anyone, who had done the wrong thing, she realised, as she combed her hair and sprayed on some scent before rejoining him, she was still dreadfully, painfully angry with him.

Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Judd request the pleasure of your company at the wedding of their daughter Juliet Carol to Mr Charles Edward Fullerton-Clark at 3 p.m. on Friday 26 June 1964 at Summercourt, Wellesley, Wiltshire
.

RSVP Mrs Adrian Fullerton-Clark
.

Summercourt, Wellesley
.

All in perfect, curvy script on ivory card and ‘Matthew Shaw’ written in bold black ink at the top. He’d never expected to see his name on anything like that. He’d never really expected the invitation at all, had thought it was just Charles being polite; and especially after the business with Eliza. Which she was sure to have told him about.

There was another sheet of paper inside with a map of how to find Wellesley – obviously that was the entire address, no street name or anything – and a list of local hotels if people wanted to stay. It arrived at the office, together with a scrawled card inside from Charles apologising, ‘Sorry, don’t know your home address. Please come. It’d be so nice for me. Let me know if you want to bring anyone. Charles.’ And then, ‘PS Morning dress.’

That would be the monkey-suit number; he was probably the only person they’d had to spell it out to. He couldn’t go. He just couldn’t.

He kept it in his drawer for a bit, then left it on top of the desk by mistake while he was rummaging in the drawer, where it was spotted by Louise.

‘Gosh, Matt, you are going up in the world. First a trendy party, then a society wedding.’

‘Yeah, well, I won’t be going to it.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Because I don’t want to.’

‘Matt Shaw, you need your head examined.’

He took it home, and left it on the kitchen table, where of course Gina found it.

‘Crikey, Matt, I didn’t know you had friends like this.’

‘I don’t. I never set eyes on the Judds and I won’t know anyone there.’

‘You could take me. Sounds a bit funny, replying to the bridegroom’s parents. Is Summercourt where he lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Posher and posher. Why isn’t it being held at her parents’ place?’

‘I have no idea.’