‘I see. Thank you, Miss Mullan.’
She was amazing, thought Matt. Completely amazing. Standing up there, beating the drum for him; putting herself through this, when there was absolutely no need, just because she wanted to help him. Typical lawyer, trying to imply they had something going on between them. They stopped at nothing, these guys, they really did.
He watched her, cool and calm, and so bloody clear-headed and articulate, so impressive, for Christ’s sake, refusing to be rattled by any of them, and he felt a sudden thud of – God, he’d thought it was gratitude, but actually it was something a bit – a bit different.
‘I would now like to call my next witness, Mrs Sandra Shaw.’
Well, she’d be predictable … and she was … wonderful son … wonderful father … wonderful family man …
‘Mrs Shaw—’
Toby Gilmour had stood up very slowly; he smiled at Sandra Shaw.
‘Mrs Shaw. Could you tell us what sort of mother you consider your daughter-in-law to be?’
Good question, Toby, thought Eliza. Very good.
‘Oh. Well, I don’t really know—’
‘Remember you are under oath.’
‘I – I think she has been a good mother. In the early days, yes.’
‘How would you define good mother?’
‘Well – she looked after her very well. She seemed to love her. Emmie was certainly very well cared for. And Eliza used to work very hard at keeping her amused, take her to visit her friends, things like that. She used to bring her over to see me quite often, because she knew I liked that.’
‘That must have been – very nice for you both.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was. And I used to help her as much as I could, make suggestions, you know. It’s hard when it’s your first baby, you’re nervous. And Emmie was very naughty, she used to play up given half the chance – and with Matt working so hard, I think it was nice for Eliza to have a bit of help.’
‘Which she wasn’t getting from him? I thought—’
‘Well not during the week, no. He had his business to run.’ Sandra looked defensive. ‘It was a twenty-four-hour job sometimes.’
‘Indeed. But hard on Eliza, perhaps?’
‘Well, no worse than most wives have to put up with.’
‘Really? Did your husband, and the husbands of your friends, work a twenty-four-hour day, as you put it?’
‘No. No, they didn’t.’
A pause.
‘Did you get the impression she was lonely?’
‘No, I didn’t. She seemed to have plenty of friends. And a car and that, she wasn’t tied to the house, she could get out and about.’
‘So you were on good terms with her?’
‘Yes, yes, we were – then.’
‘But not any more?’
‘No. We’re not.’
‘Did you observe any change in your daughter-in-law’s behaviour, at any point?’
‘Well – when the – the little boy died, she was very low after that, of course. Very low.’
‘Did she talk to you about it, how she felt?’
‘No. Not really. I used to offer to have Emmie for her then, she didn’t often take me up on it. She said Emmie—’ She stopped, looked anxiously across at Matt.’
‘Go on.’
‘She said Emmie gave her a reason for living.’
‘I see. And – did she continue to appear depressed?’
‘For a while, yes. Then she saw this doctor and she got some pills for the depression, and she seemed better.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Shaw.’
Margaret was wonderful, Eliza thought; very cool, very calm. She stressed Eliza only worked two days a week, that she and Matt were never out on the same evening, they were both very devoted parents and she dealt quite firmly with the matter of what Bruce Hayward called the habit of taking Emmie to the agency.
‘It was not a habit. It was a suggestion of mine that if Mrs Shaw was held up in a meeting, I could save her half an hour or so by taking Emmie to her office occasionally. It was necessary for me to leave on time, as I have an invalid mother to take care of, but the offices are on my way home, and so it seemed to make sense. Mrs Shaw often arrived home in a state of panic, which worried me and this arrangement seemed helpful to both of us.’
‘An admirable plan, Miss Grant. I am sure Mrs Shaw was very grateful.’
‘She was.’
‘But – did this not delay Emmie’s bedtime?’
‘Only very little. I would give her her tea first, and then drive her to Carlos Place. Mrs Shaw was usually ready when I got there, it was a half-hour journey maximum, twenty minutes if the traffic was light. But it was a very unusual arrangement, as I say, very far from regular.’
‘How often? On average?’
‘Oh – perhaps once a month at the most.’
‘I see. And you would leave Emmie there, with her mother?’
‘Well – yes. Usually.’
‘And unusually?’
‘Well, once or twice, the receptionist would look after her. Just until Mrs Shaw was out of her meeting. She would pop down and make sure Emmie was all right, and then go back to her meeting.’
‘I see. So once a month – let us say – a very young child, who should have been in bed, and after her last meal of the day, was dragged across London, into an office environment and left in the care not of a qualified childminder, or her mother, but a receptionist.’
His implication was clear: a receptionist was rather lower on the social scale than a hooker.
‘No! No, it wasn’t like that.’
‘Really. In what way was it not like that? I have repeated exactly what you told me—’
‘She wasn’t dragged across London for a start. She was in the back of my car, and I am a very good driver. We would sing songs and tell stories on the way. It wasn’t late, it was about half past five. Emmie didn’t go to bed until at least half past six. And she loved going there, she asked every single day if we could.’
‘I see. Thank you. Now we come to the night Emmeline was ill and her mother was away.’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you could describe the chain of events …’
Margaret described them. They were exactly as detailed by Matt.
‘But I believe Mrs Shaw’s mother was also in the house?’ said Hayward.
‘Yes, she was.’
‘Why would that have been? At whose instigation?’
‘Mrs Shaw’s. It was the first time she had left Emmie to go away on a business trip and she felt that her mother added a – a safety net.’
‘So she didn’t entirely trust you, in other words?’
‘My lord, I object to the question.’
‘I agree, Mr Gilmour. Carry on, Miss Grant, please.’
‘Mrs Fullerton-Clark, that is Mrs Shaw’s mother, was there as a backup. She had looked after Emmie a lot and Emmie is very devoted to her. As she is to her other grandmother.’
‘Thank you, Miss Grant.’
Toby Gilmour stood up.
‘Miss Grant. How would you describe Emmeline? Is she shy, quiet, extrovert – we know little about her. You might provide us with an objective view.’
‘Oh – well, she’s extremely bright. Very sophisticated in her patterns of thought. Not remotely shy, no. Quite – naughty. A handful, really. Oh, and very popular at school.’
‘And – has she been badly affected by the recent train of events?’
‘She was very upset, yes, after her parents told her. They kept it from her for a long time. Her father was still living in the house, you see, so it was possible to sustain the fiction that all was well. Since then, she has suffered from nightmares, bedwetting, she has become very much more difficult to handle. I – I feel very sorry for her,’ she said simply.
‘Thank you, Miss Grant.’
‘I think,’ said Clifford Rogers, ‘we will adjourn for the day. Thank you. We will resume in the morning at nine o’clock.’
‘Eliza – do you want to come back for some tea?’
‘No, Philip. No, thank you.’ She felt like not just crying but screaming; this was so immeasurably worse than she had ever expected. She felt not only the whole courtroom, but everyone in the Law Courts, in the Strand, in Greater London, must be watching her, the news of her irresponsible behaviour, selfishness, adultery and complete unfitness to be a mother spread by some osmosis throughout the land. ‘No, I’ll go home. Mummy’s there, with Emmie, and Charles is there with them. I think I should go to her.’
‘And Matt – will he be there?’
‘No, no. He’s staying with his old friend and partner, Jimbo Simmonds. We really felt this week it was impossible for us to be under the same roof.’
‘Of course. Let us at least get you a cab. I imagine your whistling abilities might be affected.’
She stared at Toby almost as if she had never seen him before, didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘No, it’s fine, there’ll be plenty in the Strand. Yes. Who – who will they have on tomorrow?’
‘Not sure. Possibly some odious little private eye they’ve been using. Some of the people from the advertising agency.’
‘Oh – yes. Fine. Thanks.’
‘Eliza – are you all right?’ said Toby.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, turning to him in a sort of subdued savagery, ‘I’m absolutely all right. I mean it’s really wonderful, sitting there learning all about what a selfish, amoral slut I am, not allowed to defend myself, seeing any slight chance of keeping my daughter just slipping away. I’m fine. Thank you.’
And she ran away from them, out into the Strand, and hailed a taxi and went home to Emmie. She must enjoy that while she could.
Chapter 70
‘Breakfast, Matt?’
‘Breakfast? Oh – no, thank you. Couldn’t possibly.’ He spoke as if she had suggested a five-course dinner, or a pint of bitter.
‘You’ll need something inside you. Long day again today, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, I expect so.’
‘Coffee? Go on, do you good.’
God, she was irritating. Attractive in that sort of lush, Jewish way, but – thick. Well, Jimbo had never been too bright. He could see that now. If it hadn’t been for Louise, they wouldn’t have done nearly so well …
Louise. He had tried to see her the night before, to thank her, and to – well, to talk to her. To tell her how great he thought she was. But she’d gone of course, from the Law Courts, and when he rang her office, a girl there said she’d had to go and visit a client.
‘Tell her I called, would you?’ he said.
‘Yes, Mr Shaw.’
‘Oh and—’ This was difficult, he didn’t usually leave messages with secretaries, except to say he was going to be late. But it was important, he felt. Very important. ‘And could you say thank you for today and that she was – was really very good.’
‘Yes, I will. And – good luck tomorrow, Mr Shaw.’
Suddenly he recognised her voice: that breathy, sweet, South London voice.
‘Jenny, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was you—’
‘That’s all right, Mr Shaw. You’ve got a lot on your mind, I’m sure.’
‘Just a bit,’ he said.
He thought of Jenny, in all her blonde, blue-eyed, cliché-ridden prettiness, of the days when she had greeted him with a smile and an offer of coffee – and biscuits – however unpleasant he had been the day before. He grieved for them, those happy, straightforward days, albeit fraught and frantic, when he had run his life on a wing and a prayer and his worst nightmare had been the collapse of a project and his worst fear had been losing a few hundred thousand pounds … not a little girl with huge blue eyes and long dark hair like her mother’s, who sat on his knee and made him laugh, and could talk him into anything, anything at all, and who wound her arms round his neck when she went to bed, and told him she loved him. Long after her mother had ceased to do so. And he told Roberta that he wouldn’t wait even for the coffee and went out into the world to fight for Emmie some more.
‘Eliza, this is Toby Gilmour.’
Toby Gilmour. The barrister. The cold, not-clever-enough barrister, who so far had done almost nothing for her. Not Toby, who had made love to her in a creaky bed only three days ago, and made her think she might be falling in love with him …
‘Oh, hello.’
‘Look – bit of a shock. The judge has called your mother.’
‘What! At this stage?’
‘Yes. It’s extremely unusual, but he’s concerned to make sure the child’s case is properly understood and he’s taking a strong line on it.’
Terror shot through her. This was really the end of it for her.
‘I’m sorry. We just have to – to hope for the best. You’re doing wonderfully, Eliza. I’m – I’m very proud of you.’
It wasn’t very intimate; but it was something, some indication that he was at least human.
‘So, just hold tight today and then by tomorrow afternoon we should be in calmer waters. OK?’
‘Yes. OK.’
‘Oh, and Eliza—’
‘Yes?’
‘Remember not to pick your nose.’
‘Eliza, this is Rob. Look, you know how much I don’t want to do this. But – best to, my solicitor says.’
‘Rob, it’s OK. I understand. And the minute it’s over I want to talk about the clothes for the shoot next week.’
‘You’re amazing. I adore you, babe.’
‘Don’t tell the judge that.’
Jeremy also called to wish Eliza luck; and then surrendered himself to the agony of contemplating the following night, when he and Mariella would be at Covent Garden at the same time, and it would be almost impossible for them not to come face to face. In the presence of her husband. How was he going to bear it. How?
And Mariella, gazing down on London from the plane as it approached the airport, thought of the love and happiness held within that city that she could never know again and had to fight to contain her tears; and nonetheless managed to smile at Giovanni as he touched her hand and asked her if she was feeling quite well, as she had been so very quiet ever since they had left the villa; and assured him that she was feeling very well, just a little tired. For what was the point in any of this, this savage pain and sense of loss, if Giovanni, the entirely innocent reason for it, was to be deprived of happiness himself?
‘Mr Brigstocke, I believe you and Mrs Shaw work together.’
‘Yes, yes, we do.’
God, he looked scared, Eliza thought. The cocky little bugger had completely morphed into a rather pale, monosyllabic creature, who gripped the edge of the witness box and clearly would have given a very great deal to be somewhere different.
And he didn’t know what the cringing, slimy private eye Jim Dodds had just let him in for.
‘She advises you on fashion as it relates to the advertisements you work on. How the models are dressed and so on. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’
‘Is it a close working relationship? We know it extends to the personal, of course.’
‘Well – yes. We spend a lot of time together in the office.’
‘And do meetings and so on run on into the evening? I ask because, for example, of the need for Emmeline to be brought to the office.’
‘Well – yes, sometimes.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because you can’t stop thinking about a campaign, not if you’re really getting going, just because it’s six o’clock.’
‘Of course you can’t stop thinking about it. But – do the two of you continue to discuss it?’
‘Sometimes. Not often, because Eliza – Mrs Shaw – always has to rush off home.’
‘But if she does – stay – you have meetings in your department?’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘And do you ever enjoy a drink while you chat?’
‘Yes, we do.
I don’t believe that’s illegal.’
Careful, Rob, don’t let him rile you. Philip looked at Clifford Rogers, who was regarding Rob Brigstocke with great distaste. Well, he would, he was exactly the sort of person he most disliked, steeped in privilege, doing a job which Rogers would regard as useless, parasitic even, raising two fingers to the law.
‘Drink – no. There is talk, according to Mr Dodds, of other – substances. Do you and Mrs Shaw ever partake of those?’
A long silence.
‘Mr Brigstocke, you are under oath.’
‘We have smoked – er, hash – very occasionally.’
‘How would you define very occasionally?’
‘Very occasionally,’ said Rob, ‘oh – once or twice.’
‘Once or twice a day?’
‘No, of course not.’
Rob … careful.
‘Then – how often?’
‘During our entire association.’
‘I see. No more questions.’
‘Mr Gilmour?
‘No questions, Your Honour.’
‘I would now like to call Mrs Sarah Fullerton-Clark.’
This was it. This was when she really finally lost her. Drinking, taking drugs, abandoning Emmie in a foreign city – nothing compared to hitting her.
‘Mrs Fullerton-Clark …’
Clifford Rogers won’t like her either, Philip Gordon thought, looking at Sarah, pale but composed, her dark hair neatly set, dressed in a skirt and twinset, and of course pearls, her grandmother’s pearls as Eliza could have told him, she was seldom seen without them – answering the questions in her rather dated, clipped, upper-class voice.
Generations of good breeding stood in that witness box; the kind that Clifford Rogers most resented. Sarah Fullerton-Clark was, as Scarlett Shaw had once observed, deeply posh.
‘So you have looked after Emmeline quite a lot over the years?’
‘Yes, I have. And enjoyed it, of course.’
‘And – did your daughter enjoy looking after her, would you say?’
‘Very much, yes. She was an excellent mother. She was very tired of course in the early stages, as we all are, but she coped very well.’
‘Did she ever discuss going back to work with you?’
‘Well – occasionally. I know she missed it. She always enjoyed being a working gel—’
The Decision Page 79
