She stopped to buy some milk on the way back and Johnny Barrett’s card fell out of her wallet.
She sat staring at it, thinking about him, thinking about Matt and the way he always won, and about people like Heather who always lost: and suddenly the wonderfully simple idea was born.
Scarlett couldn’t remember when she last met a single man, either unmarried or divorced; there just weren’t any, unless you counted one boozy travel agent, who had asked her to go away with him and sample some of the hotels on his books, and one very sweet boy who worked for one of the Hilton chain, who was, he told her over dinner, a virgin and, as the double brandies went down, so frightened of his first encounter that he always became impotent. Sometimes she thought of life with David, and the wonderful sex and the fun, and wondered if she had been crazy to finish it at all.
She tried to comfort herself, telling herself her life wasn’t all bad; her business was doing extremely well, and she had made a lot of money – although hardly comparable with Matt’s millions – but on reflection it was the only source of happiness or self-satisfaction left to her.
And so she did what she always did when things were bad; she planned a trip to Trisos, having first ascertained from Demetrios that there was absolutely no question of Mark Frost being there. She needed to be alone.
‘Hello, Johnny Barrett. Oh – hello. Yes, of course I remember you. Never forget an appreciative face. Nice to hear from you. What? Well, I’m always interested in ideas for a piece. Want to outline it now? And then I can put it to the editor, if I think he’d like it. Yes, sure, go ahead.’
Jeremy Northcott was very pleased to be back in London. The New York years had been incredible, and he had certainly learnt a lot about advertising – God, the Americans were good at it. He had met most of the gods of the game, David Ogilvy, English himself of course, Bill Bernbach, who founded Doyle Dane Bernbach, and broke the mould of the WASP tradition in Madison Avenue; the dazzlingly beautiful Mary Wells, the first woman to head up an agency; he had dined with them, heard them speak at conferences, and had learnt to value above all in advertising the rising sales graph. It had been a tremendously privileged experience and he was aware of being hugely changed and enriched by it.
But he had missed the old country, was homesick for its gentler ways, and his friends there, the customs and attitudes that he had grown up with, and he was impatient now to bring the sharp, edgy competitiveness of New York to London.
He found, of course, that there had been great changes; press ads had become more ambitious, broader in scope – there were a lot of corporate ads for the textile industry – and the TV commercial had become another art form, with creative directors on ego trips, vying for awards, making what amounted to mini films. Humour was crucial (in this Jeremy felt London led the world) and there was a craze for series ads and a build-up of personalities: for Hamlet cigars, ‘cars built by robots’, and of course the ongoing saga of Katie, the Oxo mum.
The creative director was a comparatively new animal. Rob Brigstocke, Jeremy felt, was destined to be one of the greats, but right now needed to be taken down a peg or three.
Jeremy was that rare creature in advertising, someone acceptable to both the account and creative teams. He was a lateral thinker; under him, creativity flourished and billings increased; and people enjoyed their work. That, he felt, was his greatest challenge: keeping everybody properly involved.
He arrived back from Norfolk for an intense three days before returning to New York for the last time; his secretary, Lucilla Fellowes, who was still at the agency, returned to her role of company wife with huge enthusiasm, making sure he had his favourite coffee, filling his (temporary) office with flowers and Bollinger champagne, running his diary and dovetailing meetings, and booking him into his favourite restaurants. It was as she checked the final arrangements for those few days that she realised he had slipped in a lunch without telling her: Eliza (his diary said in his huge scrawl), Caprice, 1 p.m. On the same day Lucy had with great difficulty managed to arrange for the CEO of Cumberland Tobacco to lunch in the boardroom with Rob Brigstocke, creative director, Michael Rushton, head of research, and Jeremy; she asked Jeremy if she could change the lunch with Eliza to drinks that evening.
‘Well, if it’s OK with her. She might not be free. Tell her it will be Bolly. That should swing it. Otherwise – maybe dinner? It’s up to her. But I’m sure she’ll understand about lunch.’
Lucilla Fellowes had rung Eliza twice now about the change to the lunch date, and got no answer; the third time, she decided she would have to leave a message on the answering machine.
Lucilla left her message, covered up her typewriter, put on her coat and went home to cook dinner for her barrister husband.
‘Matt, hello, it’s me. Look, I’m in a bit of a fix; I’ve had my car towed away – what? Well, I left it on a double yellow. Only for a minute – well, ten actually – and I’m waiting at the pound now to get it back. Yes, I know, I know I’m an idiot, and I’m very sorry, but it’s taking ages, and I’m going to be late to pick up Emmie. She’s out to tea. I don’t suppose you could do it, could you? Since you’re coming home early anyway. Well, you said you were. Yes, you did, you said you were shattered, and you really needed an early night and you’d better because I’ve made you a fish pie. Anyway – do you think you could possibly pick Emmie up? Oh, Matt please, I never ask you and it’s only in the next street and you like the mummy, it’s that blonde called Susannah with the big tits. Yes, Parkham Street, number seven. Six o’clock. I’ll be home by six thirty latest, and supper’s all under control, you might turn the oven up to five – what, no I know you’re not my housekeeper, but it would be helpful – yes? Oh, thank you. Thank you, Matt, very much. Must go, there’s a queue to use this phone.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Jack Beckham. ‘Like it. It’ll have to be fleshed out, of course, we need names, the landlord identified, all that stuff, but – yes. Time we ran a Rachman-style story. Haven’t had one for ages.’
‘My – my source was very anxious to protect the tenant. They’re very afraid of recriminations, the whole thing backfiring.’
‘Yes, well, they can’t come whining to the press and then expect everything to be done their way.’
‘They haven’t exactly come whining,’ said Barrett, ‘and I don’t want to drop them in it.’
‘Johnny,’ said Beckham, his voice developing the edge that his staff dreaded, ‘I’m struggling to turn you into a big name. Thought that was what you wanted. You’re not on the local rag in Bradford any more. You can’t afford to be queasy. Now, I see this as a spread, with plenty of quotes and another case study or two. If it’s half-good I’ll trail it the day before. OK?’
‘OK,’ said Barrett.
Matt and Emmie arrived home just after six. Matt had had a rather irritating conversation with the blonde, big-breasted Susannah, who had tried very hard to press him into joining their wine-tasting group at Hurlingham.
‘We all have such fun, meet once a month, only about twenty of us. And then dins afterwards, the restaurant’s not half bad these days. Do think about it, be terrific to have you with us.’
What was it with these people? Didn’t they have work to do?
Emmie demanded a drink and a biscuit and sat swinging her legs on a stool, chattering about her day, how she had got a star for her sums, and been top in spelling; Matt dutifully turned up the oven and then poured himself a large gin and tonic and went into the study.
The answering machine was blinking. He switched it on.
‘Mrs Shaw, hello.’ The tones were cut-glass finishing school; God, he hated voices like that. And their owners. ‘This is Lucilla Fellowes, Jeremy Northcott’s secretary. Mr Northcott is very sorry but he wonders if you could change lunch on Thursday to a drink, after work. He says to tell you, it will definitely be Bolly. Or possibly, dinner, if you could make it. If you just give me a call in the morning and let me know, that would be super. Thank you so much.’
He was so shocked he turned it back to listen to it again; as he did so Emmie wandered in.
‘He was my friend,’ she said as the message ended.
‘What?’ said Matt, turning to her. ‘Who was your friend?’
‘That man the message was about. Jeremy. He was at Mariella’s palace when we stayed, he played Hide and Seek with me and Mummy.’
‘Louise? Johnny Barrett here. Look – I’m writing a piece about wicked landlords. Yes. That’s right, thought you must know a few. Anyway, it’s to do with an idea that friend of yours, Eliza Shaw, put me on to.’
‘Really?’ Louise felt an unpleasant crawl somewhere deep in her stomach.
‘Yeah, some friend of hers, living in some tip in Clapham, part of a row she says, landlords letting the place go to rack and ruin to get rid of them all, doesn’t sound a very likely friend for the upmarket Mrs Shaw, but still, she’s taking me there to meet her. Anyway, I need to know who the landlord is, obviously, get a quote and that. I thought you might be able to help.’
‘Oh – no,’ said Louise, firmly. The crawl had burrowed deeper. Unless there were two rows of houses in Clapham with landlords desperate to get rid of the tenants … Oh, there were probably half a dozen, you’re being neurotic, Louise. Still, she absolutely didn’t want to be party to anything that could backfire. How many times had Matt told her what a small world it was? ‘And Johnny, I really think it would be better if you didn’t use that particular connection.’ She knew she was sticking her neck out; but she was surprised Eliza was so naïve as to get involved with anything that might backfire on her. Unless she wanted it to, of course.
‘What?’
‘Yes. An awful lot of people would be hurt by it. Quite badly.’
‘Want to explain?’
‘No. I really don’t. But – well, that’s all I have to say. And I certainly can’t help. I’m sorry.’
‘OK.’
‘OK, you won’t ask me any more or OK, you won’t write the piece?’
‘What do you think? Bye, Louise.’
Barrett put the phone down. This was clearly a much more intriguing story than he’d first imagined. Surely, surely it couldn’t be Matt’s property and Eliza didn’t know about it? Or did know about it? It was a case for some very serious sleuthing. And he could start in the morning when he and Eliza went to meet this poor unfortunate bird in Clapham.
‘Matt! Emmie! Hello. I’m home. Bloody cops. I had to practically kiss their backsides to get my keys back. Where are you?’
He came out of the office; his face was white and his eyes very dark. Eliza looked at him uncertainly.
‘Hello. You all right? You look—’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not all right. What the hell is going on?’
‘What? What are you talking about? I don’t understand—’
‘Jeremy Northcott,’ he said, ‘who you’re having lunch with apparently. Or a drink of Bolly, how delightful. Or even dinner. And who I now learn, just coincidentally, was in Milan with you. Emmie told me all about it, how you played hide and seek together. How nice, how very nice for you all. What the fuck are you playing at, Eliza? What are you doing—’
‘Emmie, go upstairs,’ said Eliza quickly, ‘see if you can be a big girl and get yourself ready for bed. I’ll be up in a minute.’
Emmie didn’t argue; she looked at her parents, her eyes large and thoughtful, and then walked out of the room. Eliza closed the door behind her and turned to face Matt.
‘You shouldn’t use language like that in front of Emmie,’ she said.
‘I’ll use what fucking language I like in my own house. And don’t try to change the subject.’
‘Matt, it’s not what you think,’ she said, ‘it really, really isn’t. It’s—’
‘Is that so? Well, whatever I think, the fact remains you’re clearly seeing him. Having dinner with him in London. Staying with him in Milan. How odd that you didn’t mention it. And how did you keep Emmie quiet about it all this time? What the fuck is going on?’
‘I’m not having dinner with him,’ said Eliza, ‘I was going to have lunch. To discuss the – the job.’
‘What job?’
‘The one you said I wasn’t to do. In your sweetly generous, liberated way.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. Don’t start that, please. You didn’t say he was at the agency when you told me about it. I thought he was in New York.’
‘He has been in New York. He’s only just back. The only thing he’s had to do with all this is tell Rob Brigstocke to call me.’
‘Oh, is that so. Just as he comes back? Well, that certainly settles it. You will not set foot near that agency while he’s there.’
‘Matt, I sometimes wonder which century you think you’re living in. Have you never heard of equal rights?’
‘Equal rights! Is that what you call it? Playing around with your ex-lover behind my back, at the first opportunity? And passing it off as some wonderfully fortuitous career move? Oh, Matt, it’s such a wonderful opportunity, oh, Matt, it’s only two days a week. How many days does it take for Northcott to get into your bed? And – and now I find out he was in Milan. On this therapeutic trip that was supposed to console you after the baby. How carefully was that planned? I suppose you and your friend Mariella cooked it up between you. And you took Emmie along, presumably as some kind of cover. Jesus, Eliza, I wouldn’t have believed it even of you.’