‘Shut up, Rex,’ said Eliza, ‘we need Alethea and if pretending she was practically Churchill’s favourite daughter and saying how sorry we are will help, then we’re all going to do that, OK? Ah—’ An extremely tall redhead had come into the room, swathed in black fur, dabbing theatrically at her enormous green eyes. ‘Alethea, darling, come in. I’m so sorry, you must be feeling terribly sad. Just sit down here and relax. Rex has got his radio all ready, so you don’t miss anything, and then Mariella is going to do your make-up. It’s wonderfully brave of you to come.’
‘And you,’ she hissed to Milly, who was rushing about collecting boxes of tissues, ‘you are going to get just the biggest rise I can possibly manage when we get back. You’re a star.’
The shoot finished at half past six when Paris was still in darkness; Eliza sat in the emptying studio, high on excitement, gazing at Rex’s polaroid and rather irreverently paraphrasing Winston Churchill, that ‘this is our finest hour’.
‘I want some money,’ said Scarlett. ‘Quite a lot.’
She hadn’t gone to Charleston. What, after all, would it have achieved? Except frighten him, to no real end.
But she could see quite clearly now what common sense should have told her from the beginning. David was never going to leave his wife and children.
He had simply been playing with her, enjoying her, amusing himself; he was the archetypal philanderer, and she should have realised it, recognised him for what he was, instead of falling for all the moonshine like some pathetic virgin. It was her own stupidity that made her angriest, her wide-eyed willingness to believe him, her misplaced selflessness in sparing him the anxiety of the pregnancy, the anguish of the abortion. She should have told him, frightened him, demanded he paid for it, instead of tiptoeing round pretending everything was all right. She thought of all the men she had met during the course of her affair with David, men with whom she might have had fun, found affection, possibly even love itself, had she not held them up to invidious comparison, and refused their invitations, crushed their interest, denied their potential.
She wished she could say she hated David, but of course she did not; love, she had discovered, could not be extinguished with the flick of a switch, the drop of a phone. Love invaded you, and even when it had become the enemy it was not to be easily overpowered.
Had David called her that afternoon, as she sat in her flat, weeping with anger and humiliation and pain, had he begged her forgiveness, said he must see her, told her that he did indeed still love her, she would, she knew, have had difficulty in rejecting him.
But – thankfully, he had not. And in the interim her heart had hardened, had even recovered a little.
And now she had a plan.
The first thing was to make him sweat. That wasn’t very difficult. After a silence of about a week, he started calling her. How was she, was she feeling a little better, he’d like to try and explain, what were her plans …
She rang off: every time.
Another week: he rang again. ‘You’re not coming to Charleston, then?’
‘Not yet. But I hope to.’
She rang off.
He rang on a weekly basis; he was worried about her, he needed to know how she was, he would like to see if he could help.
She continued to ring off.
He sent her a Christmas card, signed ‘Bertie’, their code name for him. He missed her; was she well? She threw it on the fire.
Mrs Berenson sent her a card, reiterating her invitation: ‘I told David I’d invited you, he was so pleased. The whole family knows about you, how kind you have been to me over the years. Gaby in particular would like to meet you, she says, having heard David talk about you.’
Yes, that would be fun, Scarlett thought; she would enjoy adding to Gaby’s knowledge of her.
He called her early in January, to wish her Happy New Year and to ask her how she was. She said she was fine. ‘Your mother has just invited me again. Apparently it’s lovely there in the spring. And Gaby will be having her baby, she tells me. I could meet him or her. I told her I’m looking at my schedule again.’
Finally, she called him in the office. ‘I’d like to see you,’ she said.
‘Of course, of course. I shall be in London in about ten days. Would that suit you?’
He was obviously, she thought happily, shitting himself. ‘Yes, very well. You can come to my flat if you like.’
‘Oh, darling,’ he said, ‘would I like?’
He arrived looking apprehensive, his arms full of flowers, and a small Tiffany carrier bag in one hand.
‘Hello, Scarlett.’
‘Hello, David.’
‘You’re looking marvellous.’
‘You’re looking tired. Is Gaby not sleeping well?’
A pause: then, ‘I’ve been working very hard,’ he said.
‘Oh dear. Are those things for me? Shall I take them?’
She put the roses in water, opened the Tiffany box, drew out a gold locket and chain.
‘That’s lovely, thank you. Drink?’
‘Yes. Yes please. Bourbon if you have it.’
She had always kept some for him; now she shook her head regretfully. ‘I’m so sorry, David, I don’t have any. None of my friends drink it. Wine?’
‘Yes, very nice. Thank you.’
She poured him a glass of white wine and one for herself, sat down at the small dining table, signalled to him to sit opposite her.
‘I want to start a business,’ she said.
‘How exciting. What sort of business?’
‘Travel.’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, that would make sense.’
‘I hope so. I’ve got quite a good idea. But I need some capital. About ten thousand pounds.’
‘That doesn’t sound very much.’
‘Oh, it’ll get me going. Pay for an office – I’ve spoken to my brother about that, an assistant’s salary, bit of promotion. My idea doesn’t require huge investment. It’s hopefully word of mouth, and I think I’ll get quite a lot of PR. But of course I’d like to ensure I could get some more if necessary. It would be a pity to see a good idea go down the pan for lack of capital.’
‘A great pity. So – where do you see it coming from in the first instance? Your bank?’
‘Well no. I don’t have any security, you see.’
‘What about this place?’
‘David! I rent it, you know I do.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Well—’
‘No, I think I know where the money will come from.’
‘Good. That’s splendid. Excellent. Where?’
‘You.’
‘Me!’
‘Yes. Who’s got lots of money, I thought, who would like to invest in me? Who could afford to invest in me? And then I thought – who could afford
not
to invest in me?’
‘Scarlett!’
‘Yes, David?’
‘Scarlett, I – I don’t have that sort of money.’
‘Oh, I think you do.’
‘And besides – it would be very dangerous.’
‘Really?’
‘Well – yes. I mean, I couldn’t slip that through on my cheque account. It would have to be formally done.’
‘That would be all right. You could be a director if you like. I’ll tell you more about it, it’s a clever idea, I’m sure you’ll be impressed—’
‘Scarlett, no, I’m sorry.’
‘David, yes, I’m sorry. Otherwise – well, I’d hate to think of Gaby being upset at this point in her pregnancy.’
‘Scarlett, this is blackmail.’
She smiled at him, happily.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Her idea was a very simple one. Simple and clever. The big new thing was package holidays: to the sun. The English were sick of wet, windy beaches and inhospitable landladies; they wanted to go and lie on golden sands and swim in warm seas and swimming pools. Daunted by the prospect of booking flights and hotels in unknown destinations and complicated foreign currencies, they were being offered something wonderfully simple from the big companies like Thomas Cook: one simple payment in sterling paid for a flight and two weeks in a hotel, including meals. The only extra costs were alcohol and shopping money.
Eliza wouldn’t be taking on Thomas Cook, obviously. She would be running a travel club, which would book holidays that were several steps up from fourteen nights in the vast blocks being built all along the Costa Brava.
Members would be assured of smaller hotels, not very grand, all personally vetted – and she would certainly include her small taverna on Trisos. There were already horror stories about people arriving with their luggage at what were, literally, building sites; for their annual fee of, say, thirty pounds on top of the cost of their holidays, her clients would get absolute peace of mind. And the hotels would be asked for a small fee as well, to be included in her portfolio.
It would probably take a little time – and a fair bit of publicity – but she was absolutely sure it would be successful.
All she needed was the initial investment. And she knew she could get that. No trouble at all.
‘I’ve got to go out, Jenny, I’m afraid. Leave you alone with him.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Miss Mullan. He can’t kill me, can he?’
‘Well he could,’ said Louise, ‘but I don’t think he will. Anyway, Mr Simmonds will be in soon and he’ll protect you.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Jenny, ‘he’s been pretty grumpy lately too.’
‘I know. Well, I won’t be long. Wish me luck.’
‘Where are you going, if Mr Shaw asks?’
‘Tell him I’ve run off with the petty cash’
‘Yes, Miss Mullan.’ There was a pause, while the blue eyes grew even larger. ‘You’re not really, are you?’
‘Wait and see,’ said Louise.
She knew what was upsetting Matt this morning; he’d been to see yet another bank. About financing his office factory scheme. And yet another bank had clearly turned him down. It was all proving much more difficult than he had expected; and as always when crossed, he was unable to see anyone else’s point of view.
He had become completely obsessed with his new scheme. Which was, Louise did think, very clever. To offer offices, ready-built, to any large company that might be looking to move out of London. He had established his areas quite swiftly; both to the west of London, the first north, in the direction of Ruislip – splendidly served by the Central line, and the second due west, taking in Slough and Reading – both of which benefitted from not only a very good mainline service, but the large roads, and therefore bus and coach routes, leading to London Airport.
He had spent the best part of two weeks exploring both areas, and finally settled on a place called Barkers Park, due west of Slough. He had found an actual site, big enough for a development of a thousand staff, and established that planning permission was obtainable. It was ideal, in every way; the only thing was the money required – around five to seven million, he said. ‘And then the construction costs would be much less than that, about two, two and a half million.’
‘Any investor worth his salt’ll come across with the money. Trust me, Jimbo, it’ll be like taking candy from a baby.’
But it was proving rather more difficult than that.
Louise was not running off with the petty cash, she was going to see a builder, Barry Floyd, who had just completed a ten-storey office block in Vauxhall; Louise had been retained as the letting agent. Floyd had become hugely successful over the previous ten years by the simple process of coming in ahead of time, if slightly over budget, on every project he had worked on. Time being an even more expensive commodity than money, Floyd was greatly in demand and had work scheduled for up to two years ahead. He was still young – only thirty-five, having come over from Ireland ten years earlier to work with his father, Michael, in the familiar expectation that the streets of London were paved with gold. Between them they found a little gold-dust, but then Michael had dropped dead of a heart attack and young Barry had taken over the company and made it a great success.
He was in fine form that morning, and when Louise had made her inspection, he invited her to join him for a coffee.
‘I have a little something to celebrate,’ he said, as they settled into a rather insalubrious café on the Kennington Road, ‘and if I thought you had time I would have invited you to join me for lunch at the Ritz.’
‘And I’d have come,’ said Louise.
‘And would you now? Well, another time perhaps, when I have me indoor shoes with me.’
‘Great. And what are you celebrating?’
‘Two things. You see before you the chairman and managing director of Barry Floyd Ltd. As from today. My old father must be dancing the jig in his grave.’
‘I’m sure he is. Well, that’s very good. And what’s the other thing?’
‘My accountant tells me I am now officially a millionaire. He did the last set of accounts and that is what they show. And what a pity it is that so much of it will be going to that miserable creature in Number Eleven Downing Street.’
‘Well – yes. Matt Shaw is always saying the same thing, but there’s not a lot you can do about that.’