More Than You Know (72 page)

“I thought so. I’m glad you like it. I’m actually moving in in May and I’m going to have a lavish housewarming party. I shall hope very much to see you there.”

“Oh. Well … that’d be very nice … but …” She thought of his launch party, all those snooty, clever people.

“No buts, Miss Scarlett. I insist. It wouldn’t be at all the same without you. It would hardly be a party at all.”

“Mark, that’s just silly.”

“I’m not being silly. It wouldn’t. I mean, think about it. Larissa. Demetrios. Possibly Stelios. Ari the Ferry, Ari the Poison as well, of course, hopefully without that truly disgusting wine he produces, Stavros”—who hired out the scooters—“and me. Surely you can see we’d need you.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling now, for she had not liked the vision of the London literati descending on Trisos at Mark’s behest. “I thought you meant a … you know, a proper party—people from publishing—”

“Scarlett! I thought you would know me better than that. I cannot imagine anything worse. Oh, now I have to go get a taxi down to Piraeus; I shall miss the big ferry. Good-bye for now.”

“Bye, Mark. Have a good trip. Hope it’s calm.” For the crossing could be extremely rough, and even the goat—inevitable passengers on the small ferry—got seasick.

She looked after him, smiling, thinking how nice he was, and what a shame he was married—and as she settled into her seat on the plane,
how odd that Mrs. Frost had not been named among the guests at the housewarming.

Twenty-four hours later, Mark sat on the veranda with Demetrios and Larissa, admiring the new baby and hearing how Miss Scarlett had been not very happy at all and they had more than once heard her crying in her room late at night.

“We think she has no boyfriend still, so sad,” said Larissa.

Mark agreed that it was very sad, but reflected that if it meant whatever relationship Scarlett had had with the blow-dried brown-haired bugger was over, it was an excellent thing and a big relief to him, at least. He wondered whether he might try to see her in London.

Meanwhile: “I want to speak to you,” he said to Demetrios, “about constructing some ramps up the steps for my mother’s wheelchair …”

Mariella found out about the party by accident: a very lucky accident, as she said. She was in New York for a few days, ordering some clothes and shopping, and had offered to take a friend to dinner at Elaine’s. The friend was charmed and impressed. “I’ve wanted to go there so long. Did you know Woody Allen met Mia Farrow there?”

Mariella said she didn’t, but she wasn’t surprised. “Everybody meets everybody here. I love it. And she is so wonderful, Elaine, so bigger than life. Those flower-covered dresses she wears, so vulgar, and all those gold chains. I will book a table and we will have a wonderful evening. See how many famous faces we can see.”

However, there was not a table the following evening; Elaine’s was full. Mariella was not one of the vast number of people who would have been told this anyway, or turned away at the door; she was one of Elaine’s pets.

“We have a big party tomorrow night, Signora Crespi. I am so sorry.”

“Oh, that is so sad. I am not a large person; nor is my friend; could you not find us a tiny table in a corner?”

“I’m afraid not. Lunch perhaps?”

“Ah. Yes. We will come to lunch. Thank you. Not so exciting, perhaps, but … it will do.”

She and her friend had a very good lunch, eating the fettucine dish that Jackie Kennedy had famously cooked to Elaine’s recipe, and were drinking their coffee when a tall, incredibly thin blond woman walked in looking distracted, demanding to see Elaine. She was told Elaine was not available.

“It’s about the seating plan for this evening. I wanted to leave the place names with her and to make sure they were put out before Mr. Northcott’s party arrived.”

“And you are?”

“Mr. Northcott’s PA.”

“I can do that for you, madam.”

“Are you sure? They must be right; it’s quite imperative. I would really like Elaine to do it personally.”

“I will do it, madam. If you just give me the seating plan …”

“Come,
cara!
” said Mariella to her friend, jumping up. “We must go. I have a great deal to do.”

The Summercourt effect had not lasted. They were hardly inside the door before Matt was checking the answering machine, standing over it, listening to it intently, and then riffling through the post. Eliza felt a flash of hurt.

“You don’t trust me, do you? You really don’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Matt, you’re checking up on me. Just to make sure that Jeremy hasn’t rung, that there aren’t any love letters lying on the mat—”

“You’re being neurotic, Eliza. The purpose of an answering machine is to take messages in the owner’s absence. I merely wanted to see who might have rung.”

“Yes, sure. Well, now you know. Two of my friends. Women, so that’s all right. Unless you think I might be about to become a lesbian, of course.”

“Don’t talk in that disgusting way; Emmie might hear.”

“She’s heard you being pretty disgusting already, in my view. Oh, for God’s sake, Matt, give it a rest. I’m going up to bathe her.”

“It was you not giving it a rest. I’m going to do some work now; some of us have more to do than picking quarrels.”

“If I had more to do,” cried Eliza, her voice cracking with pain, “I maybe wouldn’t be picking quarrels, as you call it.”

“God, give me strength,” said Matt. “I thought we had heard the last of that one for a while, at least. You go to bed, Eliza. I’ll be very late. I’ll go into the spare room.”

“And bloody well stay there,” she said, and set off up the stairs.

Waking in the morning alone in the bed, she realised she was still hurting. When she got down to the kitchen, there were the messy remnants of toast making and a note saying, “I’ll be late tonight.”

And this was meant to be a marriage.

Reflecting that if marriage and motherhood were genuinely to be her life for the foreseeable future, she must pull herself together and put a one hundred per cent effort into it, Eliza called Matt midmorning to hold out a rather well-worn olive branch, and ask him whether he really had to work late, and if not, then she would cook proper dinner for them both, rather than the soup-and-sandwich supper she could leave out for him otherwise. He wasn’t there, and so she left a message to call her; an hour later, Mandy rang and said she was sorry, Mr. Shaw was out of town, but he had asked her to say that he would have to be late and not to wait for him for dinner. Stung that he had not even bothered to call himself, and feeling particularly lonely, Eliza rang Maddy and invited her to have supper with her.

“I need an injection of gossip; I’m going crazy.”

The phone was ringing when Eliza was getting in after school with Emmie and a small friend; she shot over to it, but the answering machine had cut in. As so often when a caller unused to such things was confronted by it, there was a long silence, and then a voice said, “Oh, doesn’t matter,” and rang off. It had sounded like Heather, but she couldn’t be sure; the voice was echoey and distorted. Eliza decided she would go round and see her in the morning, just in case—she could hardly go now—and addressed herself to settling the little girls in the playroom and making their tea. If it was important, Heather would surely ring again.

Heather sighed; she had no more change, and anyway, she needed every last penny for the meter. She would try again tomorrow. And it was perfectly all right about the article, she was sure. She just thought she ought to tell Eliza.

Eliza and Maddy were settling happily into gossip mode in the small sitting room when a key turned in the lock and Matt walked in.

“Oh,” he said, “oh, hallo.”

“Matt … hallo. What are you doing here?”

“I live here, I thought,” he said. He was clearly making an effort to sound lighthearted, but it didn’t quite work.

“I thought you were going to be late.”

“Yes, well, after your rather touching phone call, I made an effort, got back early; here I am. Evening, Maddy.”

“Hallo, Matt.”

“Well, how lovely.” Eliza got up, gave him a kiss. “You must join us, of course.”