More Than You Know (46 page)

Eliza knew what “very informal” would mean: not black tie. She wore a black silk dress and high-heeled sandals; Mariella was in palazzo pyjamas, Giovanni in an exquisitely cut smoking jacket.

It was an absurdly relaxed evening, given the setting and the constant attendance of staff. Giovanni spoke perfect English; Eliza, who spoke no Italian at all, felt embarrassed, and even said so, but he smiled at her and said it was good for both of them to speak English.

Giovanni clearly enjoyed gossip; Mariella chattered away about mutual friends, about clothes and shops, about their summer on their yacht, moored at Portofino.

“Everyone leaves Milan in the summer months,” she said. “You cannot buy so much as a loaf of bread. It is deserted. The families have to leave, the city is so hot, unbearable even out here.”

“And the mosquitoes are terrible; you are eaten alive,” Giovanni said. “Milan is built on a swamp, you see, surrounded by the mountains. People go to the seaside, the country, a few to chalets in the mountains. We have a place there, in Cervinia, but we usually only use that in the winter.”

“And do you ski?”

“A little. Mostly we just eat lunch.” Giovanni smiled at her, refilled her glass. “You must think we are very idle. I don’t suppose Mariella has told you about her charity work. That redeems us both, I hope.”

“She hasn’t, no,” said Eliza, intrigued. “What charity work, Mariella?”

“Oh … I help other ladies raise money for the poor children of Milan. And once a year, I go to Lourdes with some of the sisters from the convent here, and other volunteers; we accompany the poor pilgrims on their journey. It is a long journey on the train, or sometimes for the very worst cases by ambulance and coaches. They need much help, and some have no families. It is very, very sad at times. But wonderful, nonetheless.”

“Tomorrow, we have a more interesting evening for you,” Giovanni said, clearly in need of a change of subject. “A few friends, two of them English.”

“English!”

“Yes, there are many English working in Milan. It is an industrial city and an international one. I try to support our motor industry,” he added with a smile. “Mariella has her Fiat and I have a Lancia. But then in the garage, we have an English Rolls-Royce.”

The next morning, Mariella said they would drive into Milan.

“Emmie can come if you wish; we will take Anna-Maria too, and then if the little one gets bored, they can go for a walk.”

Eliza had been to Milan in her work but, moving from hotel to fashion show to photographic studio, had simply seen it as a plain, if stylish sister to Florence and Rome. Now she was able to appreciate it so much more, to see it above all as a working, lived-in, sleekly fashionable city: large avenues lined with balconied houses, with smaller charming ones, little more than lanes, turning abruptly off them, the chic streaks of color that were the fashion streets, the treasure troves of Via della Spiga, Corso Venezia, Via Sant’Andrea; the sudden glimpses of tranquil, tree-filled private courtyards opening off the busy streets; the orange trams with their blazing headlights carving their way through the city; the palazzos, great and small, set so casually among the streets and squares; the wide piazzas; the vast open space occupied by the Duomo; the elaborate wedding cake–white cathedral, topped by
La Madonnina
—and the great curving colonnade of the most famous shopping street of all, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, leading from it, for another kind of worship altogether. And all of it bathed in the brilliant clear light of autumnal Milan.

And the Milanese women: so chic, so perfectly presented, with their strong features and wonderful hair, in their exquisitely cut jackets, brilliantly
colored scarves, and their high leather boots. It was a visual gluttony; Eliza found herself constantly sighing with pleasure.

Mariella’s main preoccupation, it appeared, was preparing for the Milan social season.

“It starts on December seventh, every year, the day of Saint Ambroeus, the patron saint of Milan. Everyone goes to La Scala; that is the great social event of the year. Always Verdi, although just very occasionally Rossini. Heads of state attend, and very often monarchs from other countries. Certainly from France and Austria, and I think sometimes your Queen? There are pre-Scala parties the night before, very, very grand, and, of course, many, many afterwards. So, you see, one needs so many dresses. Today we will visit my dressmaker. And also I have an appointment with Mila Schön, my favourite Milanese couturier. I thought you would be interested in that. But before we start, we will go to Cova for coffee. You will like it.”

Anna-Maria took Emmie for a series of little walks, and they visited Mariella’s dressmaker, where she had fittings for six long dresses—three silk, three satin—then to Mila Schön, where she ordered two cocktail suits; then to Sebastian in Via Montenapoleone for some shoes.

“Nothing for you?” Mariella asked.

“No, I really mustn’t. I’ve spent all next year’s dress allowance already.”

“Then I will buy you a little present. Some gloves? Perhaps a handbag? Yes, we will go to Prada. We must walk down the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele; it is very, very important.”

“Yes, I do know,” said Eliza, suddenly anxious not to appear a fashion bumpkin.

“Yes, yes, of course you do, but also it moves between Milan’s two great landmarks, La Scala and the Duomo. Come. Look, the little one is asleep in her chair-push. Now, there is Rinascente, our great department store. Look at the windows, Eliza; are they not wonderful? They have a brilliant young man dressing them, Giorgio Armani. I think he will go far. Come, to Prada.”

Mariella marched towards Prada, through the great vaulted arcade of the Galleria, and ushered Eliza inside. Anna-Maria sank into a chair in one of the cafés nearby.

They knew Mariella in Prada. A great deal of greeting and fast-fire Italian went on; five handbags appeared on the counter with great speed.

“There. You choose,
cara
. You need a bag. The one you have is not worthy of you.”

“Oh,” said Eliza, enchanted by the notion of being worthy of a bag, protested a little longer, and then gave up and decided it would be rude not to accept.

The one she chose was a glorious soft pouch of a thing. “That will hold the kitchen cupboard, I think,” Mariella said. “Why not something a little more chic?”

“No, this is what I want, please,” Eliza said, “and I often have to take the kitchen cupboard when I go out these days. So—”

“Bene,”
said Mariella. “Then have it, with my love.”

They left, no money apparently having changed hands.

“And now,” said Mariella, “shall we have lunch?”

“I couldn’t eat lunch,” said Eliza, laughing, “and I think Emmie has had several lunches already.”

“Then we will have an early tea and go home. And prepare for our dinner party.”

The dinner party was fun, conducted for the most part in English, as a clear courtesy to Eliza: the guests included a delightful Italian couple, a fashion editor on Italian
Vogue
called Allessandra and her banker husband; an Italian woman friend of Mariella’s who had once been a dancer, who was very grand until a few glasses of wine had gone down and then became rather bawdy and even sang a Billie Holiday number at one point, rather well; and an Englishman called Timothy Fordyce, who worked, it transpired, in advertising. And not only in advertising, but for KPD in Milan.

“I don’t believe it,” said Eliza, laughing. “I had no idea they had a branch in Milan.”

“Oh, they do,” said Fordyce. “KPD is everywhere. You know the one in London, of course.”

“Of course. A … a friend of mine, a great friend actually, worked there—Jeremy Northcott. He’s in New York now—”

“Oh, Jeremy. Yes, I’ve met him a few times. He’s running the office there now, meant to stay six months and they won’t let him go. Tell me,
has he married yet? I heard some English beauty broke his heart; is that true?”

“Um … it could be,” said Eliza.

“The English beauty, Timothy,” Mariella said, “she is sitting next to you.”

“No! Good lord. Is that right; was it really you?”

“There could have been another one since,” said Eliza feebly. “I don’t know.”

“Well, small world,” said Timothy Fordyce. “Wait till I see him. I’m off to New York in a few weeks, big agency conference.”

“Well, give him my … my regards.”

“I will. And you’re married, are you?”

“Oh—yes. So, what do you do at KPD?” she asked. “Are you on the account side?”

“Yes. We service all the international clients. There are several English agencies in Milan, as a matter of fact: McCann’s, JWT. The art directors are all English too; they despise graphic design at the art schools here, only teach them the classical stuff. And you, what do you do?”

“Eliza and I, we met in Paris,” said Mariella. “She is a very famous fashion editor.”

“On?”

“A magazine called
Charisma
.”

“
Charisma
! No! Marvellous magazine. Absolutely marvellous. Fashion pages are incredible. Well … clever old you.”

Eliza felt very sad suddenly, rather like Cinderella at the ball, only less fortunate, for where was the prince who could save her and keep her in this enchanted kingdom? Then she told herself she was being ridiculous, and that she wasn’t here to mope, but to be amusing and earn her keep.

She fell asleep with the curtains open, a full moon streaming onto her bed. Emmie slept sweetly and peacefully; a note on Eliza’s pillow said that if she wanted to stay in bed late, she had only to ring for Anna-Maria when Emmie awoke.

The thought came to her, swift and unbidden, that if she had married Jeremy, her life would be at least a little like this one.

On the morning of the day that Adrian died, he had been listening to the news about the shooting of Bobby Kennedy and had called Sarah to join him.

“Who could have imagined anything so dreadful,” he said, “only five years after his brother. What a dreadful thing. And how hard for the family to bear. We’ve been lucky,” he said, taking her hand, his voice faint, but quite cheerful. “We’ve been spared that kind of grief; we still have each other and our … our …”

“Children,” Sarah said into the silence, for he often lost his place in sentences these days, but then, turning to smile at him, she got nothing in reply but a blank stare, and watched as his head lolled sideways and his body slumped heavily away from her, still holding her hand.

She sat for a short while, listening quite carefully to the details of the events in the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, recognising the much greater importance of what had just happened in her own kitchen, but not quite yet able to face it and all the procedures that must follow.

And so Eliza heard the news not as she had always feared—by way of a panicked phone call in the middle of the night—but by an almost unnaturally calm one, halfway through the morning: a small, sad voice that was almost unrecognisable as Sarah’s, telling her that her father was in hospital and was not expected to last the day.

She and Charles arrived too late to say good-bye to him. Sarah was calm, clearly shocked and relieved in equal measure; they spent the rest of the day talking, the three of them, remembering, laughing, crying, reliving what had been the happiest of childhoods and family life—Adrian’s greatest gift to them all.

The funeral, a week later, was beautiful. The little church was full, people standing at the back and even on the porch, the flowers done with particular care by the ladies of the parish, the vicar at full throttle, his rather fruity voice extolling Adrian’s courage through his long illness, and his outstanding virtues as church warden, his generosity both with his time and Summercourt’s produce (eggs and strawberries) at the village fête, his diplomatic skills as a parish councillor.

Charles, pale and very nervous, spoke of childhood and adult memories of his father and said how greatly his life had been shaped by both
Adrian himself and life with him at Summercourt; Eliza spoke briefly but tenderly of her parents’ long and happy marriage, and of their wedding in the same church, almost forty years earlier.