Our conversation during the meal was fairly limited, partly because Bob spent most of the time staring at Fiona in a way that should be reserved for one of Donatello’s nudes. By the end of the meal, I had come to the conclusion that Fiona would end up costing about as much, and it wasn’t just because she read the wine list from the bottom upward, ordered caviar as a starter and asked, with a sweet smile, for her pasta to be covered in truffles.
Frankly, Fiona was the type of long-legged blonde whom you hope to bump into, while perched on a stool in a hotel bar, late at night and preferably on another continent. I am unable to tell you how old she was, but I did learn during dinner that she had been married three times before she met Bob. However, she assured us that, this time, she had found the right man.
I was only too happy to escape that night and, as you have already discovered, I didn’t waste much time making my wife aware of my views on Fiona.
The marriage took place some three months later at the Chelsea Register Office in the King’s Road. The ceremony was attended by several of Bob’s friends from St. Thomas’ and Guy’s—some of whom I hadn’t set eyes on since our rugby days. I felt it unwise to point out to Carol that Fiona didn’t seem to have any friends, or at least none who were willing to attend her latest nuptials.
I stood silently by Bob’s side as the registrar intoned the words, “If anyone can show lawful reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, then they should declare that reason to me now.”
I wanted to offer an opinion, but Carol was too close at hand to risk it. I must confess that Fiona did look radiant on that occasion, not unlike a python about to devour a lamb—whole.
The reception was held at Lucio’s on the Fulham Road. The best man’s speech might have been more coherent if I hadn’t consumed quite so much champagne, or if I’d believed a word I was uttering.
When I sat down to indulgent applause, Carol didn’t lean across to congratulate me. I avoided her until we all joined the bride and groom on the pavement outside the restaurant. Bob and Fiona waved goodbye before stepping into a white stretch limousine that would take them to Heathrow. From there, they were to board a plane to Acapulco, where they would spend a three-week honeymoon. Neither the transport to Heathrow, which incidentally could have accommodated the entire wedding party, nor the final destination for the honeymoon, had been Bob’s first choice. A piece of information I didn’t pass on to Carol, as she would undoubtedly have accused me of being prejudiced—and she would have been right.
I can’t pretend that I saw a lot of Fiona during their first year of marriage, although Bob called from time to time, but only from his practice in Harley Street. We even managed the occasional lunch, but he no longer seemed to be able to fit in a game of squash in the evening.
Over lunch Bob never failed to expound the virtues of his remarkable wife, as if only too aware of my attitude to his spouse—although I never at any time expressed my true feelings. I could only assume that this was the reason Carol and I were never invited to dinner at their home, and whenever we asked them to join us for supper, Bob made some unconvincing excuse about having to visit a patient, or being out of town on that particular evening.
The change was subtle to begin with, almost imperceptible. Our lunches became more regular, even the occasional game of squash was fitted in, and perhaps more relevant, there were fewer and fewer references to Fiona’s pending sainthood.
It was soon after the death of Bob’s aunt, a Miss Muriel Pembleton, that the change became far less subtle. To be honest, I didn’t even realize that Bob had an aunt, let alone one who was the sole heir to Pembleton Electronics.
The Times revealed that Miss Pembleton had left a little over seven million pounds in shares and property, as well as a considerable art collection. With the exception of a few minor bequests to charitable organizations, her nephew turned out to be the sole beneficiary. God bless the man, because coming into an unexpected fortune didn’t change Bob in any way; but the same couldn’t be said of Fiona.
When I called Bob to congratulate him on his good fortune, he sounded very low. He asked if I could possibly join him for lunch, as he needed to seek my advice on a personal matter.
We met a couple of hours later, at a gastro pub just off Devonshire Place. Bob didn’t talk about anything consequential until after the waiter had taken our order, but once the first course had been served, Fiona was the only other dish on the menu. He had received a letter that morning from Abbott Crombie & Co, Solicitors, stating, in unambiguous terms, that his wife was filing for divorce.
“Can’t fault her timing,” I said tactlessly.
“And I didn’t even spot it,” said Bob.
“Spot it?” I repeated. “Spot what?”
“How Fiona’s attitude to me changed not long after she’d met my aunt Muriel. In fact, that same night, she literally charmed the pants off me.”
I reminded Bob of what Woody Allen had said on the subject. Mr. Allen could not understand why God had given man a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to connect the two. Bob laughed for the first time that day, but it was only moments before he lapsed back into a maudlin silence.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“Only if you know the name of a first-class divorce lawyer,” Bob replied, “because I’m told that Mrs. Abbott has a reputation for extracting the last drop of blood on behalf of her clients, especially following the latest law lords’ ruling in favor of spouses.”
“Can’t say I do,” I responded. “Having been happily married for sixteen years, I fear I’m the wrong man to advise you. Why don’t you have a word with Peter Mitchell? After all, with four ex-wives, he ought to be able to tell you who’s the best advocate available.”
“I called Peter first thing this morning,” admitted Bob. “He’s always been represented by Mrs. Abbott—told me that he keeps her on a permanent retainer.”
During the next few weeks, Bob and I returned to the squash court regularly, and I started beating him for the first time. He would then join Carol and me for dinner afterward. We tried to steer clear of any talk about Fiona. However, he did let slip that she was refusing to leave the stage gracefully, even after he had offered her half of Aunt Muriel’s bequest.
As the weeks turned into months, Bob began losing weight and his golden locks were turning prematurely gray. Fiona, on the other hand, seemed to go from strength to strength, taking each new hurdle like a seasoned thoroughbred. When it came to tactics, Fiona clearly understood the long game, but then she had the advantage of having experienced three away victories, and was clearly looking forward to a fourth.
It must have been about a year later that Fiona finally agreed to a settlement. All of Bob’s assets were to be divided equally between them, while he would also cover her legal costs. A date was set for a formal signing in chambers. I agreed to act as a witness and give Bob, as Carol described it, much-needed moral support.
I never even took the top off my pen because Fiona burst into tears long before Mrs. Abbott had read out the terms, declaring that she was being cruelly treated and Bob was causing her to have a nervous breakdown. She then flounced out of the office without another word. I must confess that I had never seen Fiona looking less nervous. Even Mrs. Abbott couldn’t hide her exasperation.
Harry Dexter, whom Bob had selected as his solicitor, warned him that this was likely to end up in a lengthy and expensive courtroom battle if he couldn’t agree to a settlement. Mr. Dexter added, for good measure, that judges often instruct the defending party to shoulder the injured party’s costs. Bob shrugged his shoulders, not even bothering to respond.
Once both sides had accepted that an out-of-court settlement could not be reached, a day was fixed in the judge’s calendar for a hearing.
Mr. Dexter was determined to counter Fiona’s outrageous demands with equally fierce resistance, and to begin with Bob went along with all his recommendations. But with each new demand from the o
ther side, Bob’s resolve began to weaken until, like a punch-drunk boxer, he was ready to throw in the towel. He became more and more depressed as the day of the hearing drew nearer, and even began saying, “Why don’t I just give her everything because that’s the only way she’ll ever be satisfied?” Carol and I tried to lift his spirits, but with little success, and even Mr. Dexter was finding it harder and harder to convince his client to hang in there.
We both assured Bob that we would be in court to support him on the day of the hearing.
Carol and I took our places in the gallery of court number three, matrimonial division, on the last Thursday in June, and waited for proceedings to begin. By ten to ten the court officials began to drift in and take their places. A few minutes later Mrs. Abbott arrived, with Fiona by her side. I stared down at the plaintiff, who was wearing no jewelry and a black suit that would have been more appropriate for a funeral—Bob’s.
A moment later Mr. Dexter appeared with Bob in his wake. They took their places at a table on the other side of the courtroom.
As ten o’clock struck, my worst fears were realized. The judge entered the courtroom—a woman who immediately brought back memories of my old school matron—a martinet who didn’t believe that the punishment should fit the crime. The judge took her place on the bench and smiled down at Mrs. Abbott. They’d probably been at university together. Mrs. Abbott rose from her place and returned the judge’s smile. She then proceeded to do battle for every jot and tittle in Bob’s possession, even arguing over who should end up with his college cufflinks, saying that it had been agreed that all Mr. Radford’s assets should be divided equally, so that if he had one cufflink, her client must be entitled to the other.
As each hour passed, Fiona’s demands expanded. After all, Mrs. Abbot explained, hadn’t her client given up a rewarding and happy lifestyle in America, which included a thriving family business—something I’d never heard mentioned before—to devote herself to her husband? Only to discover that he rarely arrived home in the evening before eight, and then only after he’d been out with his friends to play squash, and when he eventually turned up—Mrs. Abbott paused—drunk, he didn’t want to eat the meal she had spent hours preparing for him—she paused again—and when they later went to bed, he quickly fell into a drunken slumber. I rose from my place in the gallery to protest, only to be told by an usher to sit down or I would be asked to leave the court. Carol tugged firmly on my jacket.
Finally, Mrs. Abbot reached the end of her demands, with the suggestion that her client should be given their home in the country (Aunt Muriel’s), while Bob would be allowed to keep his London apartment; she should have the villa in Cannes (Aunt Muriel’s), while he kept his rooms at Harley Street (rented). Mrs. Abbott finally turned her attention to Aunt Muriel’s art collection, which she also felt should be divided equally; her client should have the Monet, while he kept the Manguin. She should have the Picasso, he the Pasmore, she the Bacon, etc. When Mrs. Abbott finally sat down, Mrs. Justice Butler suggested that perhaps they should take a break for lunch.
During a lunch, not eaten, Mr. Dexter, Carol and I tried valiantly to convince Bob that he should fight back. But he wouldn’t hear of it.
‘If I can hold on to everything I had before my aunt died,” Bob insisted, “that will be quite enough for me.”
Mr. Dexter felt certain he could do far better than that, but Bob showed little interest in putting up a fight.
“Just get it over with,” he instructed. “Try not to forget who’s paying her costs.”
When we returned to the courtroom at two o’clock that afternoon, the judge turned her attention to Bob’s solicitor.
“And what do you have to say about all this, Mr. Dexter?” asked Mrs. Justice Butler.
“We are happy to go along with the division of my client’s assets as suggested by Mrs. Abbott,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh.
“You’re happy to go along with Mrs. Abbott’s recommendations, Mr. Dexter?” repeated the judge in disbelief.
Once again Mr. Dexter looked at Bob, who simply nodded, like a dog on the back shelf of a car.
“So be it,” said Mrs. Justice Butler, unable to mask her surprise.
She was just about to pass judgment, when Fiona broke down and burst into tears. She leaned across and whispered into Mrs. Abbott’s ear.
“Mrs. Abbott,” said Mrs. Justice Butler, ignoring the plaintiff’s sobs, “am I to sanction this agreement?”
“It seems not,” said Mrs. Abbott, rising from her place and looking somewhat embarrassed. “It appears that my client still feels that such a settlement favors the defendant.”
“Does she indeed?” said Mrs. Justice Butler and turned to face Fiona. Mrs. Abbott touched her client on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. Fiona immediately rose, and kept her head bowed while the judge spoke.
“Mrs. Radford,” she began, looking down at Fiona, “am I to understand that you are no longer happy with the settlement your solicitor has secured for you?”
Fiona nodded demurely.
“Then may I suggest a solution, that I hope will bring this case to a speedy conclusion.” Fiona looked up and smiled sweetly at the judge, while Bob sank lower into his seat.
“Perhaps it would be easier, Mrs. Radford, if you were to draw up two lists for the court’s consideration, that you believe to be a fair and equitable division of your husbands assets?”
“I’d be happy to do that, your honor,” said Fiona meekly.
“Does this meet with your approval, Mr. Dexter?” asked Mrs. Justice Butler, turning back to Bob’s solicitor.
“Yes, m’lady,” said Mr. Dexter, trying not to sound exasperated.
“Can I take it that those are your client’s instructions?”
Mr. Dexter glanced down at Bob, who didn’t even bother to offer an opinion.
“And Mrs. Abbott,” she said, turning her attention back to Fiona’s solicitor, “I want your word that your client will not back down from such a settlement.”
“I can assure you, m’lady, that she will comply with your ruling,” replied Fiona’s solicitor.
“So be it,” said Mrs. Justice Butler. “We will adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, when I will look forward to considering Mrs. Radford’s two lists.”
Carol and I took Bob out for dinner that night—a pointless exercise. He rarely opened his mouth to either eat or speak.
“Let her have everything,” he finally ventured over coffee, “because that’s the only way I’m ever going to be rid of the woman.”
“But your aunt wouldn’t have left you her fortune if she’d known this would have been the eventual outcome.”
“Neither Aunt Muriel nor I worked that one out,” Bob replied with resignation. “And you can’t fault Fiona’s timing. She only needed another month after meeting my dear aunt before she accepted my proposal.” Bob turned and stared at me, an accusing look in his eyes. “Why didn’t you warn me not to marry her?” he demanded.
When the judge entered the courtroom the following morning all the officials were already in place. The two adversaries were seated next to their solicitors. All those in the well of the court rose and bowed as Mrs. Justice Butler resumed her place, leaving only Mrs. Abbott on her feet.
“Has your client had enough time to prepare her two lists?” inquired the judge, as she stared down at Fiona’s counsel.
“She has indeed, m’lady,” said Mrs. Abbott, “and both are ready for your consideration.”
The judge nodded to the clerk of the court. He walked slowly across to Mrs. Abbott, who handed over the two lists. The clerk then walked slowly back to the bench and passed them up to the judge for her consideration.
Mrs. Justice Butler took her time studying the two inventories, occasionally nodding, even adding the odd “Urn,” while Mrs. Abbott remained on her feet. Once the judge had reached the last items on the lists, she turned her attention back to counsel’s bench.
“Am I to u
nderstand,” inquired Mrs. Justice Butler, “that both parties consider this to be a fair and equitable distribution of all the assets in question?”
“Yes, m’lady,” said Mrs. Abbott firmly, on behalf of her client.
“I see,” said the judge and, turning to Mr. Dexter, asked, “Does this also meet with your client’s approval?”
Mr. Dexter hesitated. “Yes, m’lady,” he eventually managed, unable to mask the irony in his voice.
“So be it.” Fiona smiled for the first time since the case had opened. The judge returned her smile. “However, before I pass judgment,” she continued, “I still have one question for Mr. Radford.” Bob glanced at his solicitor before rising nervously from his seat. He looked up at the judge.
What more can she want? was my only thought as I sat staring down from the gallery.
“Mr. Radford,” began the judge, “we have all heard your wife tell the court that she considers these two lists to be a fair and equitable division of all your assets.”
Bob bowed his head and remained silent.
“However, before I pass judgment, I need to be sure that you agree with that assessment.”
Bob raised his head. He seemed to hesitate a moment, but then said, “I do, m’lady”
“Then I am left with no choice in this matter,” declared Mrs. Justice Butler. She paused, and stared directly down at Fiona, who was still smiling. “As I allowed Mrs. Radford the opportunity to prepare these two lists,” continued the judge, “which in her judgment are an equitable and fair division of your assets—” Mrs. Justice Butler was pleased to see Fiona nodding her agreement—”then it must also be fair and equitable,” the judge added, turning her attention back to Bob, “to allow Mr. Radford the opportunity to select which of the two lists he would prefer.”
Know What
I Mean?
“If you wanna find out what’s goin’ on in this nick, I’m the I man to ‘ave a word with,” said Doug. “Know what I mean?”
Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Page 12
