More Than You Know (48 page)

“I don’t think I want it, thank you,” she said.

“Oh, right. But I’ve just got a message for you from Mr. Frost. He said to tell you Trisos was on page seventy-two.”

“Oh. Oh, thank you.” She felt herself blushing. Damn. Now she’d have to look at it again, or it would seem very rude.

She opened the book and there it was: a picture of Trisos, of a trio of white houses with the sun setting behind them, and a seagull trailing across the sky. She could almost hear it, with its wild, raw cry, feel the heat, smell the herbs. It was a glorious photograph; she turned to Mark Frost in a moment of pure, unself-conscious delight. He smiled again.

“I think,” she said to the assistant, “I think that I will get one after all. Thank you.”

“Good. It’s four pounds nineteen and eleven. I’ll take it over to the desk for you. Would you like to pay by cash or cheque?”

“Oh, cheque,” said Scarlett firmly. Nearly five pounds. For a book. She must be mad.

She joined the queue feeling a bit silly; there were only three people in front of her.

“Hallo,” he said, when she finally reached the table, taking it from her.

“Hallo. It’s … it’s a very nice book.”

“Thank you. Right now— No, I know what to write …”

He scribbled away, big sloping letters in thick black ink, handed it to her.

“There. Hope that’s all right.”

“I’m sure it will be. Yes, well, thank you.”

“Thank you for buying it. Maybe we’ll meet there again one day. On Trisos, I mean.”

“Maybe. Yes.”

She left the shop, the book in a large brown paper bag. She was dying to see what he’d written, but she couldn’t stop in the street to look; it was too heavy, and anyway, it was raining. She went into Lyons Corner House at Piccadilly Circus, sat down at one of the tables, and opened the book. And smiled with pleasure.

“For Miss Scarlett, from Mark Frost, a neighbour.”

Miss Scarlett. That was what Demetrios and Larissa called her. How nice that he’d remembered. He really was quite … quite charming, in
a quiet sort of way. She felt touched, sat there staring at it, at the black ink on the white paper, at the sprawling writing spelling her name. And then it happened.

One of the waitresses collided with another, both of them carrying cups of coffee: both cups went over the book. The precious five-pound book.

“Oh, madam! Oh, I am so sorry. Oh, how dreadful, how careless of me. Oh, dear.”

One of them dabbed helplessly at the brown-stained paper, smudging the writing into illegibility; the other tried to wipe the table, and the coffee dripped into Scarlett’s new Fenwick handbag. She suddenly felt furious.

“Look, just leave it, would you? You’re making it worse. Leave it alone.”

“What is this, Doreen?” It was the manager, pompous, red-faced.

“I spilt some coffee, Mr. Douglas, on this lady’s book.”

“Oh, I do apologize, madam. May we offer you a free coffee by way of recompense?”

“Coffee?” said Scarlett, losing her temper completely. “You call coffee recompense for a five-pound book? Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just bought it—”

“Yes, I do see. Very annoying for you.”

“Annoying! It’s much worse than annoying. I actually think you should buy me another copy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, madam; I’m afraid that’s not possible. Maybe a contribution—please wait.”

He went away, was gone for ages, came back smiling. “I’ve just spoken to our regional manager, and he says if you’d like to write a letter explaining what happened, he’ll consider it and perhaps send you a book token for some of the amount. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do.”

“It’s a very poor best,” said Scarlett, glaring at him.

The entire café was now silent, everyone’s eyes fixed on her. She picked up her ruined book and left.

Outside she found herself near to tears. Her lovely book with its lovely inscription—ruined. To make matters worse, it was raining much harder and the brown paper bag was getting soggy too and the cover wet.

“Oh … shit!” exclaimed Scarlett aloud, and dumped the whole thing in a rubbish bin.

“Was it that bad?” said a voice. “How very embarrassing.” It was Mark Frost.

Five minutes later they were back at Hatchards. Another book was found and inscribed, Scarlett protesting helplessly, and slightly quaking at the thought of parting with another five pounds.

“No, no,” said Mark Frost, as she rummaged for her chequebook. “I get a dozen complimentary copies from the publisher; I’ll bring Hatchards one of those.”

“Thank you again for coming, Mr. Frost.” It was the manager. “Such a success.”

Mark Frost handed the book to Scarlett. “Now you must excuse me,” he said.

“Of course,” said Scarlett. “I’ve taken up far too much of your time already. And thank you so much.”

“Please don’t mention it. And … perhaps on Trisos, then? Are you returning this year?”

“Oh … I don’t know.”

“I’ll be there in October. My house is supposed to be finished then. God, it’s taken a long time. Well, good-bye.”

The surprising smile again, and then he was gone. She felt a little odd. Shaken up. As if someone had given all her feelings a physical jolt.

“He’s so charming, isn’t he?” said the manager. “And such a wonderful writer, don’t you think?”

“Oh—yes. Wonderful.”

“He’s gone to meet Mrs. Frost now,” said the manager. “Have you met her? She’s the most brilliant poetess.”

“Um … no.”

“Such an amazing woman. And he is so devoted to her.”

Scarlett resisted slamming down the second book with great difficulty.

She walked down Piccadilly, feeling absurdly depressed. Another bloody married man, devoted to his wife. It wasn’t fair. It really, really wasn’t.

“Eliza, hi! It’s Annunciata. Have you heard the news?”

“Of course not,” said Eliza, “when did I ever hear any news? Did the pope elope?”

This was a well-worn joke of theirs.

“Much more exciting than that. Jack’s leaving.”

“No! Oh, my God. Where’s he going?”

“Back to Fleet Street. He says he can’t stand all the hormones any longer. Typical Jack, apparently he hasn’t even got anywhere to go yet.”

“Wow. So how do you feel about that?”

“Depressed,” said Annunciata. “It’s the end of this magazine as we know it.”

Eliza felt it was the end of her life as she knew it as well.
Charisma
would live on, no doubt; other editors would arrive and mould it to their own visions, and it would be quite possibly perfectly successful, but it would be different. The extraordinary fusion of Beckham’s Fleet Street brilliance and belligerence, the slightly effete intellectualism of people like Annunciata, and the stunning visual precocity of the art department, and indeed Eliza’s own, had made of
Charisma
much more than a magazine. It was a phenomenon, watched, wondered at, admired, and imitated, a meteor blazing through the sixties skies; it was of its time absolutely, both created by and contributing to it, and its like would not be seen again.

Eliza knew she had been privileged and blessed to have been part of it; it had made her as she had to a small degree made it; but its time, along with the decade that had spawned it, was drawing to a close.

The perfect symmetry would become a memory, and it made her very sad.

Jimbo had given his notice. Or rather, as Louise remarked with some asperity, he had jumped before he was pushed, Matt tiring of his ongoing absences due to his ever-increasing familial responsibilities. These had come to a head one afternoon when he had been summoned home to look after his small son while his wife took her mother to hospital to have a broken arm set.

Matt, who had arranged a big meeting with an important new prospect, was roaring at full throttle.

“So where’s that waste of space with nothing between his ears that he calls his assistant?”

“At a site meeting,” said Louise, caught as so often in the cross fire.

“Jesus wept.”

“He might be able to help. Jesus, I mean, not Terry.”

“Not the time for jokes, Louise.”

He walked out of her office shouting for his secretary, a determinedly cheerful girl with stout legs and a steady nerve. “Sally, get Jimbo for me, would you. He’s at home, it seems. And put it through to my office.”

Louise, walking past Jenny’s desk, heard the familiar roaring coming from behind Matt’s closed doors and winked at her.

Matt would have been less angry with Jimbo had this been the first time he had fled home at a snap of Roberta’s long, elegant fingers. But it was the latest in a long series of demands for his presence at bar mitzvahs, birthdays, and, of course, the Friday suppers.

“You’re supposed to be my partner, Jimbo, and you’re not playing fair,” Matt said. “And you might remind Roberta that it’s your salary that pays for that house she lives in, two kitchens and all, and she might find things less cosy without it.”

Three weeks later, Roberta called Jimbo to say that Mikey, their oldest child, was running a temperature and was asking for him; Jimbo looked at his life and prospects in his father-in-law’s firm, and made his decision.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” he said, “very sorry.”

“You will be,” said Matt briefly. “What notice are you on?”

“Six months, I think. But I won’t be working it out. Soon as you can let me go, I start with the old man.”

“What old man?”

“Roberta’s dad. He’s offered me a partnership and a big stake in the firm.”

“Well, that’s bloody convenient, isn’t it? Overnight, was it, this offer?”

“No,” said Jimbo, “no, over a year ago. But I didn’t want it. Still don’t. What I do want is a quiet life, and Roberta isn’t going to give me one until I join the family firm. Sorry, Matt. But … that’s married life, I suppose.”