‘Up the back stairs, first door on the right.’
They went up into a small room, with a huge desk. Its occupant, clearly engrossed in his task, didn’t hear them come in.
Leo crept forward, put his hands over his eyes.
‘Guess who?’
There was a shout of ‘You bastard!’ and Marcus, or so Diana presumed he was, turned, embraced Leo and then stared questioningly at Diana.
‘This is Diana. She’s a tourist. I picked her up in the drive.’
Marcus grinned at Diana, held out his hand.
‘Tourists don’t usually come as pretty as you. Hello. Marcus Bennett.’
‘Hello, Marcus. What an amazing view.’ She nodded at the window, at the grounds beyond; they were indeed amazing, broad rolling sweeps of meadowland, tree studded, set further from the house with what looked like toy sheep.
‘Isn’t it? The owners, frightfully nouveau, I’m afraid, but rich, want me to install a Greek temple – and a couple of little classical bridges.’
‘Where’s the water?’ asked Diana curiously.
‘There isn’t any. But we can make a lake, that’s no problem.’
‘Sounds a tad naff to me,’ said Leo.
‘It is. But they’re paying me zillions, and I can do tasteful naff. Shall we go and have coffee?’
They sat on an outside terrace, drinking coffee and eating shortbread biscuits, and Diana decided she liked Marcus very much. He was very like Leo both physically and in personality, but less abrasive. They were obviously very fond of one another, telling jokes in between more serious stories.
Diana left them to it and went in search of the ladies; when she came back, Leo was saying, ‘I do actually want a divorce this time, you can see why.’
Hoping she could construe this in the best possible light, she smiled as she sat down, gave Leo a quick kiss. He took her hand and kissed that.
They were still at the stage of their relationship where any touch, any intimacy was still exciting; Marcus sat smiling at them benignly.
‘He’s a nice bloke,’ he said to Diana, when Leo left them to see if the bar could provide anything in the way of alcohol. ‘Not nearly as tough as he pretends.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Most women take him for a ride emotionally, if you get my point, use him as a provider of gossip and fun and possibly even a way into his column.’
‘How horrible,’ said Diana.
‘Yes, but you’re famous in your own right, so he knows he can trust you. He really likes you, I can tell.’
‘Good,’ said Diana lightly.
‘But don’t hurt him, Diana, he’s had a hard time of it lately.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ she said as Leo walked back towards them, smiling; her heart turned over and she vowed she never would.
Chapter 66
‘Anyway, show me the rest of this wonderful flat and then we’d better make for your vast Chelsea acreage. What are we having for lunch?’
‘Salade Ni?oise. Have you come across Elizabeth David?’
‘Darling, of course I have. And her Mediterranean cooking. Wonderful. What a perfect day I’m having. Especially seeing you so happy.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I am so very happy. I can’t quite believe how much.’
And Persephone, looking at him, thought this was how she would always remember him now, relaxed, smiling, totally at ease, his future set fair.
It made her very happy too.
‘Oh, Diana, thank goodness you’ve rung. I don’t know what’s the matter with your phone – it just rings and rings, I’ve been trying all morning. I’ve even had it tested. You’re usually so good at ringing in.’
‘Sorry, Esmé. Been away.’
‘You know you have to ring in first thing. Anyway, the Evening Standard rang an hour ago. Can you do a job on Wednesday? Rainwear?’
‘Jolly short notice. Who’s the photographer?’
‘Some new young genius called Russell. Just that. Anyway, he’s in the Bateman mould. Not as good, of course, but – think you’ll like him.’
‘OK. Yes, I’ll do that. Sounds fun.’
‘Good. Then Harper’s are after you, two days next week, Wednesday and Thursday, and Woman’s Journal are so thrilled with those pages they want to book you again, for their big autumn fashion issue. But that’s not for a couple of weeks –’
‘Esmé –’
‘And how would you fancy a trip to Paris? Only a couple of days, but it’s advertising, so the money’s good.’
‘Depends when. And what I decide to do.’
‘About what?
‘New York, of course.’
‘I thought you were going. That’s why I’m cramming so much into the next two weeks for you.’
‘And what’s happening about Enchantée?’
Enchantée was a new perfume; they had approached Diana about signing her up exclusively not only in England, but France and the States as well. It was a big contract worth hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds. It would take her right into the model stratosphere, one of a small exclusive band, but there hadn’t been time for the lawyers to look at the contract.
‘Diana . . .’ Esmé hesitated, sounding more awkward than Diana had ever heard her. ‘Enchantée have cancelled. I’m so sorry. They decided they wanted a blonde.’
‘Ri–ight. When did this happen?’
‘While you were in New York.’
‘Bit sudden. I mean, I know we were dithering a bit, but they knew I was frightfully keen. It just seems – odd. So who?’
‘The rumour is it’s Jo Courtney.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. ‘
Jo Courtney was new on the scene, young, blonde, classically beautiful; she was clearly going to make it in a big way. And she could not have been more different from Diana.
‘Bastards.’
‘Yes, I agree. I did try, of course, fought very hard for you, but – well, it was no good. I’m sorry, Diana. But everyone else loves you.’
Diana was silent, then she said, ‘Well, you win some and you lose some. Never mind. The exclusivity clause was a bore. Anyway, Esmé, you go ahead and call the Standard and Harper’s; I need a bit of time to think about Woman’s Journal. Sorry I didn’t call in this morning.’
Waking, sleepy with love, in Leo’s bed that morning, looking at him tenderly as he slept on, she wished – most unusually for her – she need never get up again, never work again, never go to another casting. She was in no mood for Monday, and especially this Monday, when she had to ring Freddie with her answer about New York. She and Leo had had a perfect Sunday, talking, talking, talking.
‘Do you think we’ll ever run out of things to say?’
‘Not if you’re there, Diana.’
They were walking in Kensington Gardens, saying ‘Good morning’ to Peter Pan, lunching at the Berkeley, and then back to Leo’s flat for afternoon tea and the newspapers. ‘I have to read them all, by mid-morning usually,’ said Leo. ‘Bath and bedtime,’ he said firmly very shortly after that.