More Than You Know by Penny Vincenzi Read Free Book Online Page B

Fourth of June and so on. And I was at the Harlots’ Ball the year you came out, but I didn’t manage to dance with you—too much competition.”
    Eliza giggled. “Well, maybe we could put it right some other time.”
    “That’d be marvellous.”
    He smiled at her again; he really was knee-shakingly attractive.
    “Well, what have you been doing with yourself, you old bugger?” asked Charles. “Where are you living now?”
    “In a flat I kind of inherited in Sloane Street,” said Jeremy.
    “Lucky you,” said Charles. “That’s the sort of inheritance I’d like.”
    “What are you doing then, Charles? Working in the city, I heard?”
    “That’s right, with a firm of stockbrokers. Not a bad life. How about you?”
    “I’m working in advertising,” said Jeremy. “Terrific fun. Firm called K Parker Dutton, KPD for short. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
    “I certainly have,” said Eliza, smiling at him. “It sounds like complete heaven to me. Is it true you all have your own offices complete with sofas and fridges?”
    “Absolutely true.”
    “You on your own, Jeremy?” said Charles. “You’re very welcome to join us.”
    “No, sorry, whole crowd of us. I must get back in a tick.”
    “We must arrange an evening,” said Charles. “Been to the Saddle Room yet?”
    “Yes, I’m a member. Great idea. So what are you up to, Eliza? Working girl?”
    “Is she ever,” said Charles. “You’re looking at a bona fide career woman, Jeremy. Eliza works in fashion.”
    “Really? Are you a model?”
    “No,” said Eliza, not sure whether to be flattered because he should think that possible, or irritated that he should think modelling a career. “No, I work for Woolfe’s department store in Knightsbridge. I do the publicity.”
    “Oh, I know Woolfe’s. Great store. Publicity, eh? I know what that means: taking all the fashion editors out to lunch?”
    “Well, that’s only a very small part of the job,” said Eliza, “but yes,that is one of the perks. And telling them about everything in the store, hoping they’ll write about it. And then making sure—”
    “Steady on, Eliza,” said Charles. “Jeremy’s supposed to be enjoying himself; he doesn’t want a lecture on the PR industry.”
    “No, no,” said Jeremy, “it’s my line of country, you know. Look, I must get back. Let’s have lunch soon, Charles. Here’s my card; give me a ring. And I’ll fix that evening at the Saddle Room. Lovely to meet you, Eliza. Bye for now.”
    And he unwound his considerable height from the sofa and made his way back across the room.
    “He seems very nice,” said Eliza.
    “I knew you’d like him,” said Charles rather complacently, “and he’s fearsomely rich. Now, if you married him that would solve all our problems. Summercourt included.”
    “Charles!” exclaimed Eliza, hurling a packet of cigarettes at him. “I said he was very nice, not that I wanted to marry him. Please stop going on about it. I am just not interested in getting married at the moment; I’m only interested in my career, OK?”
    “OK,” said Charles.

    “Scarlett, could I possibly go up the front on the way back?”
    “OK. As long as Brian agrees.”
    Brian was one of the stewards on their flight; it was the stewards who decided which girls did economy (“down the back,” as it was known) and which first (“up the front”). The posher a girl, the more likely she was to be sent down the back; it was the totties who got given first class, a cushier number, because they were more likely to reward the stewards—those who weren’t homosexual, at least—by sleeping with them. No really classy girl would dream of sleeping with the stewards. Scarlett was seldom up the front because she wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with them either. She’d actually hoped to be there this trip, for a treat; it was from Vienna, almost four hours, but Diana was looking dreadful.
    “Why, what’s wrong?” she said.
    “Oh,