More Than You Know (78 page)

“Well, that was a right royal fuckup.” Rob Brigstocke walked into Eliza’s office and scowled at her. She’d styled a session for a shoot yesterday and hadn’t seen him since; he’d seemed jumpy all through, but he often was, and she’d put it down to the fact that it was a new client, a big one, a sports-car manufacturer.

“What? Didn’t they like the pictures; didn’t they like the clothes? I knew I should have got some more in reserve.”

“Darling, calm down. Not yesterday, that went like a dream. No, stupid bloody art director brought the wrong roughs to the presentation today, made me look a complete fool. Eliza, you’re as white as a sheet; what’s the matter with you?”

“I … I thought it was my fault, that I’d messed up—”

“You really are a bundle of nerves, aren’t you? Silly moo. I told you, the clothes were fabulous.”

“I know, but—”

“Come and sit down here.” He patted the sofa in the corner of his office. “You really mustn’t worry so much about things. You’re a star and I couldn’t manage without you. Drink?”

“Oh … no. I’ve got to go home in an hour; I daren’t start drinking.”

“That hubby of yours really does rule you with a rod of iron, doesn’t he? Silly bugger.” He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. “OK, I’ve got a better idea. Really calm you down. Here …” He rummaged in the drawer of his desk, came back over to her with a packet of cigarette papers and a small silver foil package.

She felt a stab of total panic.

“Oh, Rob, no, not here, we can’t; someone might come in—”

“If they do, they’ll want to share it. God almighty, Eliza, it’s only hash. Haven’t you ever seen Billy Porter snorting cocaine before a big presentation?”

“No,” she said irritably, “of course I haven’t.”

“OK. But this will do you good. Come on; have a puff. Make you feel much better …”

“Well …” Slightly reluctantly she took the joint, sat looking at it.

“Eliza, it won’t bite you.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Come on, baby, loosen up. Just for me.”

“Oh … oh, all right.”

She took a puff, rolled it round her mouth, looked at him laughing at her, and inhaled deeply. And again. Waited. And it was … well, it was amazing. She had forgotten how quickly it worked. She felt all at once cool, calm, clearheaded. And relaxed. So relaxed. So in control of her life. She looked at Rob and smiled: a sweet, happy smile.

“This is great,” she said.

“Told you so. And no way hubby will be able to detect that.”

After that they shared a joint quite often, if they’d been working together.

That afternoon Scarlett went for a walk; she struck up right through the village and walked along the high rocky path; she sat down, looking out to sea, the sun warm on her face, listening to the gulls crying, and thought how sad it would be if she could no longer come here.

She went back down a different path and found herself outside Mark Frost’s house; intrigued, she walked round it, peering in the windows, admiring it, the wonderful stone floors, the vaulted ceilings, the spiral staircase. She climbed the steep back garden and found she could get
onto the roof terrace; it looked directly over the sea, across the houses below. Lucky Mark. And lucky, lucky Mrs. Frost.

“Miss Scarlett, hallo. You want to go in, have a look?”

It was Demetrios. She felt foolish, as if she had been caught trespassing. Which she supposed she was.

“I am to plant some things here, on the terrace. You go in, Miss Scarlett; have a look. I show you round. Come in, come in.”

He showed her round. It was lovely, cool and calm, filled with light, an absolute refuge from the world.

“This is kitchen; this living room; this terrace for vine. Come upstairs, come, come. This is bathroom, this Mr. Frost’s bedroom, this bedroom for Mrs. Frost—”

“Oh,” she said, and then again, “oh.” Of course they would perhaps need separate rooms, her being an invalid, but … the whole length of the corridor apart?

“Anything wrong, Miss Scarlett?”

“Oh, no. No, of course not.”

“She will come this summer, Mrs. Frost, and I hope it will be good for her. The sun helps. Poor lady, she suffers so—”

“Yes, what exactly does she suffer from, Demetrios?”

“She has trouble with her back. So she cannot walk. For many, many years …”

Many, many years? That sounded a bit … odd. Old.

“What, from childhood?”

“Oh, no, I think only the past ten, maybe fifteen years. But for many years before that, she was on the sticks …”

The sticks … fifteen years in a wheelchair … what … how … no, no … could it … surely not … but …

“Demetrios? Um … how old … How long … Well, how old is Mrs. Frost, would you say?”

“She was sixty just one year ago. Mr. Frost wanted to bring her here for her birthday, but she was not well enough.”

“I … I see.”

Sixty. So … what an incredibly, absurdly, amazingly, and … well … wonderfully stupid thing. Not Mrs. Frost the wife at all. Not the brilliant, kind, poetry-writing, not-frightening, not-worrying wife.
But Mrs. Frost the mother. The brilliant, kind, poetry-writing, not-frightening, not-worrying mother.

“We’re going to shoot this in Scotland,” said Rob Brigstocke. “Fancy a trip to the Highlands?”

“Madly,” said Eliza, “but there’s no way I can come.”

“Pity. The client thinks you’re the best thing since sliced bread. Hugh’s coming, of course.” Hugh was the very sweet, if slightly old-womanish account director.

“Well, then … you certainly don’t need me there.”

“Eliza, we do. It would give Hugh confidence; he’s very nervous about this one, and he really likes you. Not to mention everything you’ve done already for this campaign. Bloody good. Getting your mate to knock up some of the clothes—those tam-o’-shanter beret things were a stroke of genius—and the roller skates, using those twins—”

“I can’t quite see roller skates in the Highlands. We were going to have them skating down Park Lane.”

“No, no, this is Scottish knitwear we’re talking about. It does have to be recognisably Scotland. But the roller skates will do exactly what he needs: make Craigie’s stuff look young and zappy instead of the century-old brand it is. It’ll be fine; there are roads running across all those moors; they’re not just heather, much easier to shoot there than in Park Lane.”

“That’s true. Who’s doing the pictures?”

“Rex Ingham.”

“Rex? Oh, you lucky things, you’ll have such fun.”

“Yes, we will. Well, come and join us. The offer’s on the table. We’ll only be away two nights, hardly a round-the-world trip.” He offered her his pack of Gitanes; she shook her head.

“They’re too strong for me.”

“Oh … OK. Want some of the other sort?”

“No, no, I’m late already; I’ll have to hit the road in five minutes.”

“Going out somewhere?”

“No, no, just got to get back home, bath time and all that, dinner to cook.”

He looked at her consideringly. “Not a lot of fun in your life, is there?”

“Of course there is,” she said indignantly. “I have lots of fun. I love working here and I love being with Emmie, and … and seeing friends and going down to our house in the country—”

She stopped. It sounded pretty lame.

“That it?”

“It’s plenty for me.”

“What do you and Mr. Shaw do for fun?”

She met his eyes and then looked away, and felt a dreadful heavy sadness.

“Not very much,” she said, struggling to sound cheerful, and even slightly amused. “Not very much at all. Maybe I’ll have one of those cigarettes after all.”

“Good girl.”

But as she drew on the cigarette and exhaled again, he leaned forward and removed it from her lips, and then kissed her.

“We could have lots of fun together,” he said.

So … now what did she do? Now that Mark, lovely, gentle, shy, sweet, funny, perfect Mark—now that he wonderfully wasn’t married, now that she could like him, could enjoy him, could talk to him, could be with him—how did she let him know all that, without looking a complete and utter fool? And in more ways than one, for she certainly couldn’t rush up to him, saying, “You’ll never guess what; I thought you were married; now I know you’re not will you take me to dinner after all?” It would look crass, utterly crass. And he had probably thought David was her boyfriend. And then … surely she should have heard of Mrs. Frost. As she was so famous. He would think it terrible, stupidly ignorant that she hadn’t. All those clever people who surrounded him at his publisher’s and at those parties and bookshops—whatever would they make of someone who had so little idea of who Mrs. Frost was that she could think she was Mark’s wife and not his mother. It was awful, dreadful, and getting worse. Her original euphoria was fading; she felt helpless, tossed about by fate; it wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair.

Probably best to go back as planned next day. It would look very … 
very strange if she just hung around, waiting for an opportunity to talk to him. And what would she say? She had refused his invitation to dinner—uttered no doubt at some cost, through his anguished shyness; he would not ask her again. He would be as embarrassed as she was, would probably want to avoid her altogether, stay in his house, waiting for her to leave. Yes, best to go. Cut her losses.

The morning was brilliant blue and gold; the sea was very calm.

Weary after a wretched night, Scarlett stood on the jetty waiting for Ari. After fifteen minutes she grew impatient and went and knocked on his door; no reply.

“Ari is not well.” It was Demetrios, emerging from the little house. “He cannot go, Miss Scarlett. I am sorry.”

“But … but Demetrios, I need to leave. And … and Mr. Frost needs to arrive. What shall we do?”

He shrugged. “Both of you must wait.”

Scarlett stalked back to the house, told Larissa not to disturb her under any circumstances, and settled in her room to read, fighting to stay calm; she had scarcely opened the book when she heard the familiar throb of the heavy diesel engine of the ferry.

“Oh … oh, no!” She went to the window; sure enough the ferry was chugging out to sea.

“Larissa! Demetrios! For heaven’s sake, the ferry’s going; why didn’t you tell me?”