The Decision by Penny Vincenzi Page B

Evening Standard and sank down onto the grass staring at it; photographs of the Minister for War, John Profumo, and Christine Keeler, the call girl he had been sleeping with (and sharing, it appeared, with a Russian naval attaché), covered the front page, along with speculation on a government possibly brought down, a fine political career undoubtedly ruined. The scandal had intrigued Matt hugely; he completely failed to understand how people could risk losing all they had achieved in life for a bit of sexual pleasure. Sex was great; but it wasn’t power, it didn’t show you’d made it. He was unable to imagine any woman, however beautiful or sexually gifted, could be as important as worldly success.
    He sat, smoking rather feverishly, wondering if there was anything, anything at all that he could do that would redeem him in the eyes of Eliza Fullerton-Clark; and he decided next morning he would have to apologise. Really crawl. She might not accept it, of course, but it was worth a try. And then he had another idea.
    He went into the office early, dialled Woolfe’s number, and asked for the PR department.
    ‘Hello. Eliza Clark speaking.’
    So didn’t use the Fullerton bit at work; Matt wondered why. He took a very deep breath.
    ‘Miss Clark, good morning. This is Matt Shaw.’
    She’d probably put the phone down now.
    ‘Yes?’ she said coldly. Very coldly.
    ‘I wanted to apologise. To you and Miss Brown. For yesterday. It was stupid and insensitive of me, and I feel really embarrassed about it. And – and – the thing is I think I might have the perfect space for Miss Brown. As a matter of fact.’
    Silence.
    ‘It’s in Paddington. It used to be a warehouse. The owner’s done a bit of work on it and it’s three floors, about three thousand feet, perfect for storing clothes and – and that sort of thing. And room for an office space and – and a studio if that was required. It’s not too expensive and I’d really like to show it to Miss Brown if you think she’d agree. And if she hasn’t got anywhere else yet.’
    Another long silence; then, ‘Well I can certainly ask her,’ said Eliza finally, her voice just slightly less cool, ‘and I don’t think she has got anywhere else, no. I’ll see if I can get her to call you.’
    ‘Right. And – and if you’d like to come along yourself,’ he said, ‘see what you think about it, that would be fine.’
    She wouldn’t. Of course she wouldn’t.
    But, ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I might. If I have time. I’m extremely busy.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    ‘And Matt, thank you for phoning and for apologising.’ Her voice was more itself now, warmer, smiley even. ‘It was nice of you. We’ll be in touch.’
    Perfect happiness doesn’t come often in life. It came to Matt then.
    He arrived at the building an hour before the appointed time, walking round and round it, checking every door and window, even every electrical fitting, anything in fact that might prompt a query. He was determined not to be caught out in any particular.
    He watched from an upstairs window as they arrived in Eliza’s Fiat. Eliza was wearing a short red shift, long black boots and sunglasses; she looked amazing. Maddy was very pretty too, but looked terribly young: tiny, with long blond hair falling down her back; it was hard to believe she’d got this important contract Eliza had been shouting at him about.
    Maddy loved the building, said it was absolutely fab; Eliza had been more practical and indeed critical, had stalked about, peering into corners, out of windows, up into the roof space. She said it needed a lot of money to convert it and that Maddy didn’t actually need three floors; what about subletting.
    Matt said he didn’t think that was possible.
    ‘Could you maybe convert one floor into a flat?’ said Maddy.
    Matt said it wasn’t designated for residential use. ‘It would make it far more expensive, you see, entail a completely different rate and rent