‘I’m fine thanks, Charles. Yeah. Good to hear from you.’
‘Yes, it’s been too long.’
He was a funny bloke, was Charles, Matt thought, persisting in the idea that the two of them were actual friends; it was quite – quite nice, but he couldn’t possibly really think it.
‘Yeah, it has,’ he said dutifully.
‘What’ve you been up to then? Things going well?’
‘Pretty well. Yeah, I’d say so.’
‘When did you go on your own?’
‘Oh – a few months ago. How’d you find that out?’
‘Called your old firm. They told me. Congratulations, Matt. Jolly well done.’
‘Yeah, well, we haven’t made it yet. May end up in the gutter still.’
‘I doubt it. I envy you. I’d love to be my own boss. Anyway, I wondered if you could help me, in a more direct way. I’m getting married. Next summer.’
‘Yeah? Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Oh – don’t know that she’s that lucky but I certainly am. Juliet, she’s called. Juliet Judd. Anyway, obviously we need somewhere to live. A flat we thought, just to start with. Wondered if you could help.’
‘Sorry, Charles. Wish we could. But we’re a commercial set-up. We don’t do residential. But – tell you what, I’ll speak to a couple of mates on that side of things, and drop you a line. How’s that?’
‘Excellent. Thanks, Matt.’
‘What areas, then?’ As if he didn’t know.
‘Oh, you know – Chelsea, probably a bit too expensive, but worth a look, Kensington, Fulham even. That neck of the woods, anyway.’
‘Sure. Leave it with me.’
‘Fantastic. Well, I hope you’ll come to my wedding.’
As if, thought Matt. He didn’t mean it, obviously. He was just saying it.
‘I’d love to have Happy and Nobby too, if I could find them. You’re not in touch with either of them, I s’pose?’
‘No,’ said Matt. ‘No, ’fraid not.’
‘Shame. We were such a team, weren’t we? God, I loved those days. Happiest of my life, in some ways. Well, cheerio, Matt. I’ll look forward to getting those names. And let’s have a drink one night.’
‘Yeah,’ said Matt, ‘yeah, that’d be great.’
He put the phone down, stared at it, shaking his head. And then realised Louise was watching him and had been listening to the entire conversation.
‘We should have a residential side, maybe,’ she said. ‘I’ve often thought about it.’
‘Yeah, well, you can stop thinking about it,’ said Matt, ‘there’s not the same money in it, and anyway, you need a clear profile in this business.’
‘It could be a separate company. I could run it. And there’s quite a lot of money in it, actually.’
‘Louise,’ said Matt, ‘I said no. And you have your work cut out as it is, with what you do already.’
‘I could have an assistant.’
‘Give me strength. If anyone gets an assistant round here, it’ll be me. Now, can you find me those files on the Elephant and Castle development I asked for half an hour ago … if you’re not too busy, that is.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Louise. ‘It just seems a pity to miss an opportunity, that’s all. Still it’s your decision, I suppose.’
She had a disconcerting way of getting the last word.
Sarah enjoyed the weekend; most of it anyway. It was wonderful to see Charles, she saw less and less of him these days: which was perfectly understandable of course, it was natural that he would want to spend time with Juliet.
But he had been so sweet over the two days; and he did seem very happy. And it had been lovely to see Eliza, of course; they had had the most marvellous walk together on the Saturday afternoon, Eliza chattering all the way. She was so excited about her new job, which did sound wonderful. And she had been out with Jeremy Northcott several times, it seemed.
‘But don’t look at me like that, Mummy, I do like him and he likes me, we get on together very well but that’s all.’
Sarah tried not to think beyond that, but it was difficult.
They all had a very jolly supper on Saturday night, and played Scrabble afterwards; Charles explained to Juliet it was a family tradition.
‘It’s scrabble or the cinema and there’s nothing on.’
Juliet protested that she was hopeless at Scrabble and Charles said he’d help her, which made her cross.
‘I don’t want you to help me; I’ll feel like a child. I just don’t seem to be able to see words somehow. I suppose I should read more, I’m so dim really—’
‘Darling, you’re not dim,’ said Charles quickly, and indeed she wasn’t, Sarah thought, she was quite sharp, but she certainly had a very limited vocabulary. After about half an hour when she was doing really badly, she started to sulk and said she’d like to go to bed, she was terribly tired.
‘I don’t want to appear rude,’ she said, ‘but I’ve had a terribly busy week, and I’ve got a bit of a headache.’
Sarah said of course she didn’t appear rude. ‘Just have an early night, my dear Charles, what about some cocoa for Juliet—’
‘Cocoa would be lovely. Charles, darling, would you mind?’
They started discussing the wedding plans next day, immediately after breakfast.
About the number of guests, how big the marquee should be, where Juliet might get her dress and the bridesmaids’ dresses, what colour they should be, whether the caterers should be local, or from London, did Sarah think it would be all right for them to be married in the village church, even though she didn’t live there, what her mother had thought of wearing, what would Sarah wear.
She made notes in a pink spiral-bound exercise book into which she had already stuck photographs torn out of magazines of wedding dresses, bouquets, even honeymoon locations.
It was all perfectly natural of course, Sarah thought, that she should be so excited, but she couldn’t help feeling rather sorry for Charles, who was clearly dying to get outside and to spend some time alone with his father. Juliet wouldn’t allow that, she said she wanted him very fully involved.
No doubt about who would be boss in that marriage …
After they had all gone, Adrian went upstairs for a rest – a misnomer for sleeping off an excess of wine at lunchtime, although he did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time resting these days. He was altogether a little subdued, and had even discussed giving up shooting next season. Well, that would be a financial relief at least …
Sarah went for a walk and then came back and sat in the kitchen, next to the Aga – it being the only really warm place in the house – and tried to concentrate on the
Sunday Times
. It was difficult; she really couldn’t get worked up about the successors to the ailing Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. It seemed very unimportant.
She was delighted – of course – that Juliet and Charles wanted to have their wedding at Summercourt, but it did seem to fly in the face of the natural order of things. She quite liked Juliet – no, no, she liked her very much, she was sweet, and in many ways would be a very good daughterin-law, but she just wasn’t quite what she would have expected Charles to have chosen.
Sarah’s dream had once been that Charles would marry an heiress, one who could bring some money into the family, but she had long given up on that idea. Why should a girl with a fortune marry a man who so patently had none. But she had hoped for – well, someone a bit better than Juliet. She was simply – oh, stop beating about the bush, Sarah thought, she was simply not quite their class. She was rather dreading meeting her parents; she could see they would have very little in common.
The phone rang.
‘Mummy?’
‘Yes, hello darling. Back already?’
‘Yes, I had a terribly good run. Anyway, I just wondered if you were all right. I thought you looked a bit tired.’
‘Well, I am a bit, of course. But happily so. I thought it all went very well, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, I don’t know, my babies seem to be getting settled. You next, I wonder?’
She knew as the words came out, it was the wrong thing to say.
Eliza was annoyed; she could tell. Worse than annoyed.
‘No, Mummy, I am not going to be next, as you put it. I know you think I ought to have a ring on my finger by now, and be all wrapped up in a tulle parcel like Juliet, but I’m not.’
‘Well, I’m sorry darling, and I know of course your job is very important to you and all that. But – don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s more important than marriage and babies. You’re twenty-three next year, most of your friends are married and—’
‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ said Eliza. ‘I’m not my friends and I’m certainly not getting married just because they are. OK? Now I must go. I’ll ring you in a few days. Thanks for a lovely weekend.’
‘Bye, darling.’
Sarah put the phone down, trying not to feel too rebuffed. Eliza would come round, she told herself. And she was still very young.
Like millions of other people, Eliza knew exactly what she had been doing when she heard that President Kennedy had been shot. She was in bed for the first time with Jeremy Northcott. For the rest of her life she was unable to think of one event – with its attendant shock and sense of unreality – without the other.
They were in her flat; he had left behind what he described as his favourite scarf – he must have hundreds, she thought – after a dinner party she had given the weekend before, and they were trying to decide what film to see that evening. They were both keen cinema buffs, they had discovered, and it was a toss-up between a rerun of
La Dolce Vita
at the Curzon, which she wanted to see, and
Lord of the Flies
, which he did.
They were spending more and more time together; they enjoyed the same things, they liked each other’s friends, they amused, pleased and interested one another; it was all very suitable. And Eliza was very happy. Very happy indeed. She didn’t think about what might happen in the future, she was just enjoying the present.
The weekend looked good. She and Jeremy were going to a party on Saturday, and meeting a load of friends at the Pheasantry in the King’s Road for Sunday lunch; Charles and Juliet were going down to Summercourt, with the Judds; Sarah had wanted her to go, but she couldn’t face it.
‘Do you want a cup of coffee while we argue about the film?’ she said now, and, ‘Do you know, I wouldn’t mind,’ he said. ‘Had one too many G and Ts at lunchtime. Mind if I put the radio on?’
He was a news junkie, always ‘catching the news’ as he put it. He bought three or four newspapers a day. Eliza smiled at him, then turned her attention to finding the coffee pot; as she did so, she heard a newsreader’s voice, ‘… has been shot as he rode in his motorcade through the streets of Texas. It is not yet known how serious his condition is.’
‘Who?’ she said stupidly. ‘Who are they talking about, who’s been shot?’ and, ‘Shush,’ said Jeremy, ‘I’m trying to hear.’
She stood there, utterly motionless, holding the coffee pot; when she heard the words ‘Mrs Kennedy is at the hospital’ she sat down abruptly and listened, stunned with a shock that felt personal, as the ghastly story was told. And when finally Jeremy said, ‘Dear God in heaven,’ she went into his arms, surprised at her need for comfort.
They sat on the sofa in the drawing room, drinking the coffee and listening to the endless reports, repeating over and over again, ‘John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the President of the United States, is dead,’ first the English voices, shocked and stunned, then the American ones, even more so, reactions from the crowds, first in Texas and then in New York, disbelieving, grief-stricken. They turned on the television, saw the photographs that would become iconic, of the Kennedys arriving in Texas, both untouchably glamorous, both smiling, waving, she in her Chanel suit and pillbox hat, he with his thick hair lifted by the wind. ‘It’s almost unbearable,’ Eliza said, ‘look at them, they were safe then, just an hour or so before, oh I’m talking nonsense, sorry Jeremy.’
‘No, no, it’s not nonsense, I understand, I feel the same, it’s like some awful nightmare that we should wake up from.’
The phone rang. It was her mother.
‘Darling … darling, did you hear the news? Isn’t it so awful, so sad, I can’t believe it, he was so marvellously handsome and charming, a real breath of fresh air, and she is so beautiful, poor girl, those tiny children and the last baby died, of course, it must have been so appalling for her, sitting in the car with him – oh dear—’ Her voice was very tearful.
‘I know, it’s horrible, it seems unbelievable, such a shock – oh dear – sorry, Mummy, so ridiculous to cry, not as if we knew him.’
‘I feel as if we did,’ said Sarah. ‘Daddy was saying the same thing, he seemed like a friend—’
‘Jeremy said that too,’ said Eliza, and then cursed herself; she tried to play down the relationship, knowing that every report of every meeting heaped fuel on the fire of her mother’s obsession, and sure enough, ‘Oh, I’m glad you’re not alone,’ Sarah said, ‘you sound so upset, can he stay there for a while?’
‘Probably,’ said Eliza, gesturing at Jeremy to pour her a drink. ‘I’m not sure.’