‘Like what?’
‘Well—’ He produced a rather nice Colibri lighter; he really was moving up in the world, she thought. The old Matt would have had a box of matches. ‘Well, we’re hoping to move into the development side. That’s our next plan. But – don’t know when. So, what’s this about then?’
‘You see—’
‘Eliza! Hello. What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were working late.’
She looked up; it was Jeremy. Jeremy with a couple of friends. Or were they colleagues? Impossible to tell. For some reason she wasn’t particularly pleased to see him.
‘I am working,’ she said, just slightly cool. ‘I’m about to tell Matt here about a feature. In the magazine. I’m not sure if you’ve met. Matt Shaw, Jeremy Northcott. Matt was in the army with Charles.’
‘Really?’ She could see Jeremy looking at Matt slightly doubtfully. Then he said, ‘How do you do.’
‘Great, thanks. Pleased to meet you,’ said Matt.
‘Right. Well, we’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your drink.’ His companions had moved on towards the bar; he bent down, kissed Eliza’s cheek, then hissed in her ear ‘clients’. And then more audibly, ‘Let me know when you’ve finished, maybe we could have a bite.’
‘Oh – well maybe, yes.’ She smiled at him, then turned back to Matt. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s OK. Who’s he, then?’
‘Just a friend.’
There was a silence; the bar was quite empty, and Jeremy and his companions were making the usual, rather predictable noises, loud laughter, a joke clearly told, more loud laughter. Eliza felt uncomfortable without being quite sure why.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you’ll want to know why I’ve asked you here.’
‘I do rather, yes.’
‘Well, you know I work on a magazine now.’
‘Oh, right. What’s your job there, then?’
‘I’m called assistant fashion editor. But I’m just a dogsbody really.’
‘Like it?’
‘Oh, Matt, I love it. I’m so happy there, I actually look forward to—’
‘I know. Monday mornings. Me too. Most important thing of all, I reckon, enjoying your job. It’s what you spend most of the time at, after all. Course, most people see it a bit differently. Live for the weekends and that. Your friend Maddy, I reckon she feels the same.’
‘I think she does. Well, we’re all so lucky, doing such interesting things.’
‘Yeah, that’s true. My dad, he’s a builder, that’s really hard, specially in the winter. He feels the cold something – really badly. And one of my little brothers, not so little now, he works for an insurance company, so boring—’
‘Haven’t you got a sister?’
‘Yeah, I have. Now she’s one of us. Likes Mondays, I mean.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s an air hostess. Works for BEA.’
‘Goodness. That’s very impressive.’
‘Yeah. Well, my mum certainly thinks so.’ He grinned at her.
‘And is your mother impressed by what you do?’
‘Yes, she is. My dad, he just worries about it. Reckons I should get a steady job, you know?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Your parents pleased about what you do? I suppose they are.’
‘Not really,’ said Eliza, laughing, ‘they think I should be married. Not working at all.’
‘Married! What, to some rich bloke, I suppose.’
‘Ideally, yes. Did you know Charles was getting married?’
‘Yeah, I did. He asked if I could help him find a flat. Said he’d ask me to the wedding, matter of fact.’
‘Really?’ She knew, try as she might, there was a touch of surprise in her voice, hated herself for it.
‘Yes, really,’ he said.
She struggled to put it right. ‘Well, that’d be lovely. Although I’m afraid I’ll be looking like something out of a Christmas cracker, I’m a bridesmaid, and his fiancée’s very keen on frills. Pink ones. Well you won’t have to look at me.’
‘I think I’d find that rather difficult,’ he said and his eyes on her were quite serious suddenly. ‘Whatever you were wearing.’ And then he flushed and said, ‘Another cigarette?’ and she took one, flustered herself, surprised at the sudden move of the conversation from formal to personal.
‘Thank you,’ she said. There was a silence, then, ‘And – you’re not married? Or engaged or anything?’
‘Not likely. I’m married to the job. Wouldn’t have time to spend on a wife. I hardly ever go home. I’ve got my own place now,’ he added. ‘Old warehouse, on the river.’
‘Sounds lovely. Right, let me come to the point. This magazine I work for,
Charisma
, the features editor has asked us all if we can suggest people who are doing well, really well, and—’ She stopped suddenly. Careful, Eliza, you’ll say something tactless if you don’t watch out.
‘You’re not thinking of putting me in this article, are you?’
‘I am, actually. If you’d like it.’
‘Sounds all right so far. Tell me more. Who else is in it? You got Charles, I suppose, he’s doing all right for himself.’
‘No, not Charles. No, it’s got to be people working for themselves. With their own companies.’
‘Yeah? Right. Well, that’s me.’ He smiled at her expectantly. ‘Anything else?’
‘Well – well, yes. It’s also about people who haven’t been to university, or –or well, you know – public school. That sort of thing.’ She was aware she was talking rather fast now. ‘Self-starters, I suppose you could say.’
‘Oh yeah?’ His expression had changed; it was wary, there was no amusement in it. ‘You mean working-class heroes, don’t you? I keep reading about them – us. Lot of us about. All of a sudden.’
‘Really? Well, yes, I think it’s because of the times we’re living in, don’t you – really, really new world, isn’t it, completely – completely classless – and thank goodness for that—’
‘Eliza!’ It was Jeremy again. He was walking to the door with the rest of the party. ‘Don’t disappear, I want to see you.’
He waved them off, then came over and sank down beside her. He was, she realised, quite drunk.
‘God, I’m knackered. Been at it since noon. Bloody hard work. We’re off to dinner at Quags now, you wouldn’t like to come, my darling, would you? It’d be fantastic if you did, really help—’
‘Jeremy—’
‘Yuh? Or, sorry, you haven’t finished. Don’t mind me, I’ll just sit quietly for a bit. Can I get you another drink, Matt?’
‘No,’ said Matt, ‘thank you. I’m just leaving.’
‘Leaving!’ said Eliza. ‘But Matt, I haven’t finished explaining—’
‘You’ve explained quite enough, thanks. And the answer’s no. I’m sorry, Eliza, but I don’t want to be cannon fodder for some patronising article about the working classes making good. I don’t want to be held up as some sort of cretin from a secondary mod who’s doing well in spite of it, and isn’t that wonderful, he can actually run a business, even if he doesn’t speak properly, he can add up and read and write, and aren’t we all just so astonished by that, who’d have thought it, and isn’t it great of us to write about him in our very posh magazine.’
‘Matt – please – you’ve got it all wrong.’
‘I don’t think so. If you want to know, I think the whole idea stinks. It’s condescending crap and I don’t want any part of it.’
‘Look – Mr Shaw.’ Jeremy had been listening quite intently, looking at Matt with increasing distaste. ‘Could you stop talking like that to Eliza, please? You’re being pretty rude, I’d say, and it’s completely unwarranted. It might be better if you left.’
‘Yeah, I will, I’m going right now. And you two can sit and discuss how ungrateful I am, over dinner at – what was it? Quags? Yeah. Have a great evening.’
And he stalked out of the pub.
‘Ghastly chap,’ said Jeremy. ‘How on earth did you get mixed up with him?’
‘Oh, just shut up,’ said Eliza, ‘you were a lot of help, weren’t you?’
‘Well, I thought I was, yes. He had a nerve talking to you like that. And the feature sounded like a great idea to me. He should have been bloody grateful.’
‘Jeremy,’ said Eliza, ‘I can’t believe how stupid you’re being. That’s the whole point, why he was so upset, him feeling he was supposed to be grateful.’
‘Darling.’ He put out his hand, tried to take hers. She snatched it away.
‘Don’t. And don’t call me darling. And you can find someone else to sweet-talk your clients at dinner. I’m going home.’
‘So – it’s terminal?’
‘Well.’ The consultant looked down at his desk. ‘I wouldn’t say terminal.’
‘Incurable though?’
‘Er – yes. I’m afraid so.’
‘I’d call that terminal. Actually. What can you do for me?’
‘Well, there are drugs, of course. Very good ones, these days. Which will delay the – the progress of the disease quite a bit.’
‘And – how fast will it progress? How long have I got?’
‘Hard to say. It does vary from patient to patient.’
‘There must be some kind of an average.’
‘Maybe – maybe five years. But I really couldn’t say anything very definite.’
‘Now look, I don’t want to tell anyone yet, how long do you think I can keep it to myself?’
‘Not long. A few weeks, perhaps. I’m surprised your wife hasn’t noticed anything, to be frank.’
‘Well, she has a lot of worries. And I always was a clumsy bugger. If you could give me a prescription for one of those drugs—’
‘I could write to your GP, you should be able to get them on the NHS.’
‘Please don’t. It might get out locally. I’ll pay for them until such time as I think my wife can cope with the news.’
He was a brave chap, the consultant thought, watching him as he walked out of the room; dealing with this on his own. Hopeless to think he could keep it from his wife for long though. Poor old bugger. Not a nice way to go.
‘Matt!’ It was Jimbo, sounding excited.
‘Yeah, what?’ He still felt out of sorts about the evening before, embarrassed even, when he’d calmed down. She hadn’t meant any harm, probably thought she was doing him a favour. But him: what a wanker. It had changed his view of Eliza, uncomfortably so. She clearly liked the prat, went out with him; how could she? He hauled his mind back to the present with an effort. ‘Yeah?’ he said again.
‘It’s Paul Crosse. He wants to meet us. Can you do tomorrow? Around eleven?’
Paul Crosse was an aggressive young developer who had already made a lot of money. More than Matt, much more than Matt. And Crosse had come to them, asking them to find him a building in the Elephant and Castle area; it was developing fast, the ideal location, cheek by jowl with Waterloo, but cheaper. He wanted it simply to develop and then sell on, ‘for offices. Many as I can get in’.
Matt had heard of a building that was going begging. It was in an appalling state, next to a bomb site, infested with rats, the roof falling in on one side, with consequent damage to floors and ceilings. Nevertheless, it was a building, it didn’t have to be designed or built; it just needed some skilful renovation. And Paul Crosse had said, over a pint after the viewing, that it was what he wanted in a way, but needed more work than he was prepared to take on, and he had his hands very full at the moment. And Matt had said, after taking a deep breath and swig of rather warm beer, that he might be able to help.
‘What we could do,’ he said, ‘is develop it for you. Get it ready for you to sell on. I know that area, I got very good contacts there. I know the planning people as well, of course,’ he added, not entirely truthfully.
‘And, what’d be in it for you?’
‘A cut in the profits,’ said Matt, ‘say ten per cent. Just an idea.’
Paul Crosse said he’d think about it. And a week later agreed.
‘But you’ll have to earn it, mind. A weekly report, and a regular site meeting, that’s all I want to do with it.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Matt, ‘that’s absolutely OK. That’s how we like to work too.’
‘Good. Right then. Now – how about a drink?’
Simmonds and Shaw, property developers, were on their way.
Matt walked back to the office on his own; Jimbo had gone on to meet another client. He felt elated, powerful, totally self-assured once more. Today had been special, a huge leap towards the future. He was getting there; he was within grabbing distance of success. It felt suddenly and wonderfully near. And it felt very good. Very good indeed. And it had certainly taken his mind off Eliza.
Things felt slightly less good when he actually reached the office. It was empty, apart from Jenny, who was sitting on her desk, reading a newspaper with a feverish intensity. She looked up at him, and he saw she was flushed, her huge blue eyes brilliant.
‘Oh, Mr Shaw,’ she said, ‘isn’t it exciting?’
Matt was slightly surprised she knew about the new deal, but maybe Jim had rung.
‘It is, yes,’ he said.
‘In the paper, I mean, fancy! I think it’s wonderful. I’ve never known anyone be in a paper before. Except when my nan died that is, and the local paper put in about her funeral. That was because she was once the Carnival queen back in the 1930s and …’