Giant constructions like the Shell Centre on the South Bank and the Vickers Tower on Millbank both rose above three hundred feet. There was no conservation lobby to contend with; the bomb sites were mainly all developed now, so old buildings were simply being bulldozed and a rash of functional glass and concrete boxes rose in their place. There was even a serious suggestion that the Houses of Parliament be demolished and the site redeveloped.
Matt and Jimbo already had almost more clients than they could deal with; they worked increasingly long days, often arriving as early as seven and leaving twelve or even fourteen hours later.
One morning in early December, a tall, rather severe-looking woman walked in. She was about forty, Matt reckoned, wearing a suit with a pencil skirt; she had blond hair drawn back from her face in what Louise afterwards described as a French pleat, very good legs and an extremely posh accent.
She sat down, accepted a cup of coffee and said she was setting up a secretarial agency in London. ‘You’ll have heard of the Brook Street Bureau, no doubt?’
Matt said untruthfully that of course he had.
‘Our agency, which is called Status Secretaries, is very similar, although with one important difference: all our girls will have GCEs and a shorthand qualification not merely in English, but in one other language. As I’m sure you know, there is an increasingly international emphasis in London business life.’
Matt said indeed he was aware of that.
‘So I need not just one but several offices, not too big, say about a thousand square feet each one. I’d initially require one in the City, one in the West End, one in Chelsea, and one in Bayswater. We are extremely busy, and struggling to operate out of somewhere totally inappropriate, just down the road from here. Can you help?’
‘I’m sure we can,’ said Matt, buzzing for Louise. ‘Miss Mullan, could you bring in the small offices file. This lady – I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name—’
‘I didn’t give it. Hill, Valerie Hill.’
‘Yes, Miss Hill is looking for space for her secretarial agency. Several offices in fact. In – let’s see, EC4 or maybe 2, W1, SW3 and W2. I’m sure we can help.’
‘Absolutely, especially in the City area. Several very appropriate properties there. I won’t be a moment,’ said Louise – she really was impressive, Matt thought, not just a pretty face as his father would have said – and was back well inside a minute holding several bulging files.
Valerie Hill was clearly impressed by her. ‘What an extremely efficient girl,’ she said, ‘exactly the type we would be looking to employ. Not that I would dream of poaching her, of course,’ she added hastily.
‘I hope not,’ said Matt cheerfully, ‘she’s worth her weight in gold. Now let me see – ah, yes – what sort of rent were you looking at, Miss Hill?’
Half an hour later, they were in a taxi travelling to the City; by the end of the day he was preparing draft contracts for two of her four offices.
It wasn’t always that easy; but it was seldom difficult either.
Matt had also acquired a flat. It was quite small, but exactly what he had been dreaming of, a studio in an old converted warehouse on the river in Rotherhithe. He heard about it through Mark Draper, who’d made a fortune himself in studio flats; Matt had met him in the Blue Post off St James’s Street, a favourite hangout for young men in the property business.
Draper was moaning one day about a flat he couldn’t get rid of. ‘Building next to it’s derelict, that’s all that’s wrong and I know for a fact your old boss, Matt, Andy Stein, has found someone who’s prepared to take it on, just haggling over timing but meanwhile no one’ll take a chance on this place.’
Matt looked at it, at the huge if filthy windows, giving onto the river, the reassuringly sound concrete floor, the makeshift kitchen and bathroom and the one huge, brilliantly light, cobwebby room and bought the freehold for £1,500, beating Mark Draper down from £2,000; his mum and Scarlett spent a weekend helping him clean it, his dad made good the windows and Matt himself painted it all brilliant white. It was now furnished, with a double bed – Matt had spent his life in cramped single beds, and besides who knew who might be sharing this one with him – two garden chairs, a card table and a camping stove. A client in the rag trade gave him a clothes rail, and he stored underwear, sweaters and casual shirts in an old leather cabin trunk, complete with exotic travel labels – Cairo, Bombay, New York – that he bought in the Portobello Road for ten bob. He didn’t want or need curtains at the windows, he wanted to see the river, all day, and all night, from the first streaks of dawn reflected on the water to the dredgers working through the black waters of night. The rats that scuttled around on the beach below him at low tide troubled him not in the least, nor did the noise of the river traffic, the wailing of police craft, the endless hooting of the tugs and cargo boats. The raw cries of the seagulls pleased him particularly. To him, it was a palace; his pride in it was huge.
He had money in the bank: not much personally, he and Jim had agreed they would stick to their original tiny salaries, but a steadily growing pile in the company account. They had formed a limited company; ‘better for tax,’ their accountant had said. Simmonds and Shaw Ltd. It sounded great. Sometimes he still had to pinch himself.
He wasn’t doing badly, for someone who’d done it all himself.
‘Mr Fullerton-Clark! Come in a moment would you?’
Charles smoothed his hair and walked into Mr Sayer’s office. His boss was looking stern: very stern.
‘Sit down, please.’
Charles sat; Mr Sayer was opening a drawer, reaching into it, pulling out a file, leafing through it. Then he looked at Charles, and his face was very serious. This was it. Definitely.
‘Not a bad year, Charles. You got off to a bit of a rocky start, but I have to say, the second half has shown a considerable improvement. Must be married life, or the prospect of it, eh?’
Mr Sayer smiled suddenly. ‘Yes, you seem to have pulled your socks up lately. Getting some good feedback from clients. Old Bosey knew what he was doing when he recommended you. Nice chap, isn’t he? See much of him these days?’
Charles felt so weak with relief, he thought he might pass out.
‘Oh – occasionally, yes. He shoots with my father.’
‘Good, good. Anyway, Charles, your bonus – well-earned. Here’s the cheque. Keep up the good work.’
‘I will, sir, yes.’
‘Help with the nuptials, I daresay. Got a house yet?’
‘No, not yet. We’re looking of course. But my fiancée is extremely particular.’
‘Women are, my dear chap. Better get used to it. Anyway – jolly well done and have a good Christmas.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sayer. Very much appreciated.’
Back in his office, he opened the envelope, whistled under his breath. This would help with the deposit all right. Although they hadn’t even found a house yet. But – it was true, he knew he’d been working better, more profitably since Juliet had been in his life. She’d definitely made him feel more sure of himself. Knowing she depended on him, and admired him, was terribly important. She might be a bit difficult at times, but she often said marriage was the most important career in the world and she intended to be very good at it. ‘Looking after you, Charles, that’s my job and always will be. And our children of course.’
The sense of responsibility her attitude gave him was quite literally inspiring. No wonder his performance at work had improved.
The invitation arrived three weeks before Christmas. In a very thick white envelope, addressed to him personally. He read it, said ‘Jesus Christ’ and then ‘Jesus H. Christ’, put it down, picked it up again, and then leaned it against his telephone and was sitting staring at it when Louise came in.
‘Let’s see that,’ she said, and leaned over and picked it up. She was so – so bloody cheeky, Matt thought, so bossy and nosy; and then decided he was actually rather happy for her to be looking at it.
‘My goodness, Matt, what are you going to wear? Can I come?’
‘No you can’t,’ said Matt.
‘Why not? She’s a client, isn’t she?’
‘Yeah, but she’s invited me. Not you, and not Jim. It doesn’t say anything about bringing anyone else, does it?’
‘Well – no. But I bet you could, they’re very casual, these arty types. Go on, Matt, I’d love to go.’
‘Louise, I said no.’
‘OK.’ She shrugged. ‘Fine by me. Now please can you sign these cheques, otherwise we’ll all be in queer street.’
‘Yeah, OK. And ring Mr Thomas, tell him I think we’ve let his office. But I need the name of his solicitor sharpish. Like within the hour.’
‘Course.’
Once she was gone, Matt picked up the invitation again, and sat reading it, smiling foolishly. This really was exciting. It meant she liked him; she didn’t have to invite him after all. Not that he fancied her, too much of a little doll. But there’d be dozens of models there, which would be very cool. And photographers and fashion artists – it would all be fantastic.
And – just possibly Eliza. She and Maddy were great friends.
‘Come and celebrate Christmas with us,’ it said, in big red letters on a bright white card, with a border of alternate knitting needles and studio lights, ‘Friday, 13 December, 8 till late. Connaught Design Studios, Paddington Way, W2. RSVP Maddy Brown or Jerome Blake.’ And at the top in that arty writing people like her always did, it said, ‘Matt. Do come!’
He put it in the top drawer of his desk and kept looking at it all day.
He didn’t reply for three days; he didn’t want to look too keen. And only when he had, did he start thinking about what to wear. Not a suit: too formal. Not jeans: too casual. Flannels? He couldn’t imagine Jerome Blake in flannels. He was getting desperate when he saw a red velvet suit in a window of that mecca for style, Male West One in Carnaby Street; he couldn’t really afford it, but he bought it anyway, and a ruffled white shirt to go with it. What his dad would say, he didn’t dare think, tell him he looked like a woofter or something.
‘I love you and I’m missing you. So much. I’m dreading Christmas. I’ll try to call, but it might be difficult. Meanwhile, keep safe and we’ll have our own festive season in January. All my love, David.’
All adulterers dreaded Christmas, Scarlett knew. Being forced apart, knowing the other person was not only not with you, but in the heart of their own family, warm, safe, busy, even while pretending happiness, faking jollity. She could hardly bear to think about the Berenson Christmas. It sounded perfect. Everyone, all three families, gathered in Lily’s house. The lavish decorations, the huge tree in the hall, fairy lights everywhere; Santa there on Christmas Eve to hand out presents; midnight service; Christmas morning brunch; Christmas night dinner; charades. She really hated hearing about it, but she’d been torturing herself, asking David, dragging it out of him. A lavish, fairy-lighted Christmas, with a house filled with over-excited children and smiling happy adults. Somehow, Christmas in the little house off the Northcote Road, with her parents and Matt and even with the two boys – teenagers now and bored with the whole thing – didn’t match up. And how unpleasant of her even to think like that, when Sandra would be working her socks off, baking and decorating and shopping and wrapping presents, loving that she still had all her brood with her. She cared so much about family, about togetherness; what would she say, Scarlett wondered, if she knew that her daughter, her beloved daughter was doing her damnedest to destroy another family, to disrupt togetherness. Well, maybe not her damnedest, she wasn’t actually urging David to leave Gaby, and he had never actually said that he would, or not for a long time. He had always told her that until the children were grown – ‘which is not so very long, my darling’ – he would need to be there, a proper part of their lives.
But he loved her, he told her constantly so. And – she loved him. And finally, she had told him so, on their last meeting, as they ate dinner together in the Ritz, in that corny, over-ornate dining room, the epitome of excess and foolishness, so well-suited to amoral, self-indulgent behaviour. ‘Tell me, my darling, darling Scarlett,’ he had said, ‘how you really and truly, hand on your heart, feel about me. I’ve told you how much I love you, for God’s sake, more than I’ve ever loved anyone, and often enough, so—’
And in a surge of emotion that contained sadness as much as joy, regret as well as delight, she took his hand across the table and looked into his eyes and half smiled and then heard her own voice shake, as she said, ‘David, really and truly, hand on heart and all the other clichés, I love you too. Not more than I’ve loved anyone, for I’ve never really loved anyone before; but I certainly can’t imagine anything greater than what I feel about you. So – so yes. How’s that? I’ve done it.’
She did love him, and so much that to deny it seemed wrong, a betrayal in itself. Although quite where it would lead her, that admission, she did not dare think.
Matt arrived at the party at half past eight. He knew better than to be early; nothing worse than being the first.
He was the first.
‘Matt, hello!’ It was Maddy, looking devastating in a gold knitted shift dress; Matt tried not to look at the hemline, which just covered her pants.
‘Hello. Yes. Sorry I’m early.’
‘You’re not, of course. Everyone else is late. Oh – actually, look, you have company, hello Simon – Simon Butler – Matt Shaw. Matt, Simon’s an art director at one of the agencies, I can never remember which one, terribly important anyway, CPV isn’t it, Simon?’