“Come on, then; finish your breakfast and then go and clean your teeth or we’ll be late.”
“I was late two times last week.”
“Were you?”
“Yes, those two mornings you were crying and you said you just had a cold, I was late.”
And there’s another. The mother delivers the child persistently late to school …
“One day I was so late that my teacher asked me what had happened and I told her that you were crying and that you’d even told me not to clean my teeth so we wouldn’t be even later …”
And another: the mother frequently tells the child not to clean her teeth; the dentist reports considerable decay as a result …
“Well, there’s time for you to clean them today. Go on, Emmie; get a move on.”
Emmie went upstairs; Eliza sat reading the letter again and then again, as if willing the words to change. They didn’t.
Four thousand pounds at the very least. She didn’t have four hundred pounds, not that she could call her own. There was, in her own bank account, eighty pounds, and when she had paid Jennifer, there would be twenty pounds. Shit indeed.
A new reason to panic, she thought, to add to the other, darker fears.
She asked her mother—“I’m so sorry, darling; I’d help if I could”; she asked Charles—“Sorry, Eliza, still being stung for a hefty amount by Juliet every month.” She even, heart thudding so loudly she felt he must hear, tried to talk to Matt about it.
“I don’t have any money; you know I don’t; how can I possibly pay for solicitors and barristers and courts; it’s so ridiculous—”
“You should have thought of that,” he said, “before you started on this. Why don’t you ask one of your lovers; Northcott’s got plenty of money; I’m sure he’d love to help. Or your friends in Italy. Or even that art director; they earn a lot, don’t they?”
“I hate you,” she said, “so much.”
“I know you do,” he said. And walked out of the room.
With only ten days to go before the party in New York and a week before they were due to leave Italy, Giovanni developed a very nasty cold. Which in turn developed into bronchitis, and then a more generalised infection, and his doctor advised him very strongly against making the trip; alarmed by the speed with which he had felt himself become ill, he acquiesced and told Mariella she must go alone.
Mariella, equally alarmed, said she would not go, would not leave him; he said—of course—that the party was of immense importance, not only to her and her guests and the entire fashion world, but to the charity that was about to benefit by thousands of dollars.
And so—genuinely reluctant—she agreed, although only with the proviso that he was recovering, which, by the day before her departure, he most undoubtedly was.
And so, while still protesting most volubly, Mariella agreed to go alone.
Matt had—finally—told his parents. Their initial sympathy made him feel embarrassed and even foolish, but when he had moved on to his plans to get custody of Emmie they became almost hostile.
“What?” said Sandra. “You’re going to … to try to take Emmie away from her?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Matt! Is that really a good idea? It could get very nasty, surely. I mean, I can see it’s dreadful what Eliza’s done; it makes me feel really … really sick, but poor little Emmie … have you really thought what fighting over her would do to her?”
“I think it would be better for her in the long run than leaving her with Eliza.”
“But, Matt, she’s … she’s been a good mother, whatever else she’s done. I always thought that.”
“What, leaving Emmie while she goes to work, running off to meet her lover, pretending she’s on some photographic session—”
“Well, I know, but … look, love, don’t you think you should take this a bit more slowly? I mean, every marriage goes through rough patches, but you get through it, you know and—”
“Mum, she’s completely betrayed me; I can’t get over that.”
“I didn’t say over it, love; I said through it. And I do think you should try to think of Emmie, poor little mite, and how she’s going to feel, however it turns out.”
“Too right,” said Peter. “If you really care about Emmie, you’ll try to put it behind you. I know Eliza’s been playing away, and I can see that’s bloody awful for you; I’d want to send her to kingdom come myself, but these things happen, and Emmie and her life with the two of you as a family is more important than your hurt pride.”
This was probably the longest speech Matt or Sandra had ever heard Pete make; they both stared at him in silence. Then Sandra said, slightly nervously, “He’s right, Matt; you should try to see it differently, for Emmie’s sake.”
“Well,” said Matt after a silence, “I know where I stand now, then. I won’t be coming to you for support or help again. Thanks, both of you. I came to ask you to be witnesses for me, speak up for me, say I’m perfectly able to look after Emmie—”
“But, Matt, how could you? When you work so hard, such long hours …”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted. “If my own parents won’t come down on my side, who will? What a waste of bloody time this has been. Thanks for nothing.”
He walked out and slammed the front door; the little house shook. Sandra burst into tears; Pete got out his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette, his invariable response to any difficult situation.
“Oh, Pete,” said Sandra, pulling out a handkerchief, wiping her eyes. “What have we done? Poor, poor Matt.”
“We haven’t done anything,” said Pete. “They just don’t work. She’s nice enough, but she sees the world differently.”
“Pete! You’re talking rubbish. And all that class stuff is old hat—”
“Now you’re talking rubbish,” said Pete. “Class is in your bones; it’s what makes you what you are, and it’s no use pretending it doesn’t. Still, no point arguing about that now; we’ve got to support him; course we have. He won’t get Emmie, not in a month of Sundays, but we can’t fail him; we’re his flesh and blood, after all. I’ll go and see him tomorrow, tell him so. Best leave him to cool down now.”
But Matt wasn’t cooling down; he was shouting at Gina.
“My own parents can’t see it. They think all she’s done is sleep with someone else; they can’t see any of the rest of it.”
“Well, even if all she’d done was sleep with someone,” said Gina carefully, “it would be quite bad. I’m surprised they’re not on your side over that.”
“Well, Mum is. Dad said I should grow up, put it aside for Emmie’s sake. When it’s Emmie I’m doing it for, Emmie I want to keep safe.”
“Yes, of course,” said Gina soothingly, “of course it is.”
“And I will get her; I will.”
“Of course you will. What’s the latest from your solicitor?”
“He’s very confident,” said Matt. “Very confident.”
“Well … good. What did he think about my idea, you know, to call the psychotherapist?”
“I … I haven’t talked to him about that yet.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“Because I’m absolutely sure she’ll be on Eliza’s side, talk about her depression, make me look bad.”
“She might produce her as a witness.”
He stared at her. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Of course she might. For the very reason you just said, about how depressed she was, explain a lot of her bad behaviour away.”
“Oh, God. God almighty, what a mess. Give me another whisky, would you?”
“Yes, of course. And, Matt, why don’t you stay the night; you’ve had an awful lot to drink.”
He stared at her. “Stay the night? Are you mad? What do you think she’d do with that if she knew? Of course I can’t stay the night. I don’t like coming here, really—”
“Well, thanks.”
“No, I mean it’s dangerous. I mean no one would believe we weren’t having it away.”
“No,” said Gina, with a sigh, “no, I don’t think they would.”
“I think it’s time we thought about briefing a barrister,” said Philip Gordon.
“Oh. Oh, yes, I see.”
More money. Terrifying amounts of more money. If solicitors were expensive, how much more would a barrister be?
“Um … does it have to be a very … a very top-of-the-range barrister?”
“Now, why do you say that? You don’t have unlimited resources, is that it?”
“Well … yes, actually. That is it.”
Philip Gordon smiled at her. She wondered whether he’d smile if he knew she had no resources at all.
“Well, that’s all right. I was going to suggest we talk to a junior initially, just to discuss the case, timing and so on. I’ve got someone in mind, nice chap; you might find him a bit abrasive, but very good for a junior—”
“Timing?”
“Yes, the length of time the case might run. We’ll go along to the courts and the judge will hear what the case is about, what’s involved, and he’ll set a timetable, say you need three days or a week or whatever, maybe in a couple of months’ time, if there’s a lot of evidence and shilly-shallying to go through, and a date will be agreed on. And that will be set in stone. The judge will be sitting there, and he’ll say, ‘Right, I’ve got the husband’s statement, and yours is yet to come, and there are going to be six witnesses each—’ ”
“Six?” said Eliza, hearing her voice rise in terror. “I haven’t got six.”
“I was simply pulling a number out of the air. Anyway, that’s when we can decide whether we need a junior or a senior barrister, or possibly both …”
“So … we’ll be in court twice?” said Eliza. “With two barristers?” This was getting worse and worse.
“Yes, possibly, but this first one is a very minor affair. And you’ll get a feel for the courts, find them less terrifying when the real case takes place. Now, there’s something else I want to talk to you about. You’ve mentioned you were very depressed after you lost the little baby—”
“Yes. Yes, I was.”
“Would you say you were clinically depressed?”
“I’m … not sure. My doctor put me on antidepressants.”
“Right. Well, we might ask him to present his evidence. Or at least give a written statement.”
“Why? What good would that possibly do? Matt would just say it proved I was unhinged and not fit to look after Emmie.”
“Not necessarily. It could win you quite a bit of sympathy.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Well … well, I also saw a psychotherapist. She counselled me for weeks and weeks.”
“We could ask her as well. How would you feel about that?”
“Um … I’m not sure.”
“Think about it. Whatever you decide. I think it would be a good idea. But she could well plead confidentiality, so she might not do us a lot of good. Now, this meeting with the barrister—how are you fixed on Monday or Thursday? He could come in around twelve and then we could have a bit to eat afterwards, if all goes well.”
“You mean if we like each other? Thursday’d be good; I’ll put it in my diary. What’s his name?”
“Toby Gilmour. As I say, nice chap.”
Eliza was halfway home when she realised that she couldn’t possibly ask Mary Miller, her psychotherapist, to give evidence for her in court. Witnesses were always cross-examined, and she had told Mrs. Miller absolutely everything. Including that she had once hit Emmie. So hard that she had had to go to casualty and have her face stitched … If that came out, she really would be doomed.
“Matt, hallo, this is Louise. How are you?”
“Very busy. Just going into a meeting.”
“OK. I just wondered if you’d like to have a drink sometime? Like tomorrow evening, I’m free?”
“Oh … no, thanks. No, I really haven’t got time, Louise. Sorry.”
“Matt! Come on. I’ve heard you’re not exactly having the best time. You don’t have to pretend, Matt. It’s me, Louise, remember? Old times in the office, Jenny, biscuits, all that sort of thing. Come on. I’ll pay.”
She could almost hear his grudging smile.
“Oh … all right. But I can’t be long.”
“You really are a charmer; you know that? Well, today or tomorrow?”
“Oh … tomorrow.”
“Fine. American Bar at the Savoy, OK? Six thirty.”
“Seven’d be better.”
“All right, seven it is. I can hardly wait.”
“It was your bloody idea.”
“Matt, joke!”
“OK, OK. See you tomorrow.”
He would have said it was the last thing he wanted to do, but when he was in the cab on the way to the Savoy, he realised he was quite looking forward to it. Life was so filthy at the moment, he felt like jumping off his new skyscraper half the time; home was hell, every evening an ordeal, being icily polite to Eliza, especially when Emmie was around, because they both knew if they let it crack for a moment, the rage and the hostility would break through; making excuses to Emmie why they could never do things together with her, watching her sometimes sad, sometimes playing on it, putting it to her advantage, playing off one against the other … it was horrible.
And then everyone kept tiptoeing round him at work, no one mentioning it, and putting up with his bad temper, and then Gina was so bloody pushy with her Sympathy and her Understanding—you could hear the capital letters—although he needed a bit of that; even his parents kept urging him to reconsider; that had really been a blow. He’d been horribly hurt.
But at least Louise knew him inside out; he didn’t have to pretend, and he could tell her to back off if it threatened to get heavy.
God, he’d known her a long time—nearly as long as he’d known Eliza, and certainly a lot longer than he and Eliza had been together. He thought of the first time she came into the office, all long legs and big eyes, summing them up in a moment, making her claims, striking her deals—and then continuing to do so for almost a decade.
You had to respect her, he thought, and what she had achieved, and it was the real thing, what she did, a lot more impressive than photographing frocks …
He looked terrible, she thought as he walked into the Savoy—far worse than he had at the lunch. He must have lost at least a stone, and his face was gaunt and devoid of color. He was obviously suffering a lot. And … wouldn’t want to talk about it.
“Hey, Matt. You look great,” she said, standing up, kissing his cheek briefly. Funny—all those years working together and the number of times they had exchanged even the most platonic embrace could be counted in single figures. However excited they were, however amazing the deal or landmark they crossed—first really big contract, first million in the bank—she and Matt had never done more than grin at each other and perhaps give each other a thumbs-up.
“Sorry I’m late. What are you drinking?”
“I’m not yet. I was waiting for you …”
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s OK. I just love sitting around looking as if I’ve been stood up. Martini? That’s what this place is about.”
“Yeah, why not?”
She was looking very good, actually, he thought. She’d got her hair cut in that new way, in layers, a bit like Eliza’s, only shorter, and she was wearing a red dress that, although it was quite long, swung open from the hips when she sat down, so that her legs were still well on display. She did have very good legs. She looked altogether expensive and sleek and successful; he saw several of the men in the bar looking at her, and felt an emotion that at first he couldn’t analyse and then recognized—again from the early days with Eliza—as a certain pride at being with her.
“So,” he said, sipping at the martini—he’d rather it had been an ice-cold beer, but never mind; the alcohol content was probably
higher and he needed that—“so, how are things?”
“It’s all pretty good. Got my sights on a spot in Chelsea—just on the edge of the park—for my next hotel. Americans will love it. Near the barracks, near Harrods, near the Albert Hall—perfect.”
“Think you’ll get it?”
“Not sure. Bit of an auction going on at the moment. But I’m pretty determined, so—”
“You’ll get it,” said Matt, and he meant it. “You always do.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” she said. “And you—how’s it working out with Barry? Is he good enough?”
“Providing I’m there too,” said Matt, “you know what I mean?”
“Yes, of course. Same with Roderick.”
“I heard you might be breaking away from Roderick.”
“You did?” Her dark eyes became blank. “Well, that’s very interesting.”
“True? Or just a rumour?”
“Matt Shaw, if you think I’d tell you, of all people, something like that, you’ve lost the plot, seriously.”
“That means it’s true then.”
“No, Matt, it doesn’t. It doesn’t mean it’s true or not true; it means I’m not going to tell you.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Professionally? Of course not. Why should I?”
“Not even for old times’ sake?”
“Least of all for that, Matt.”
For the first time in months Matt realised he was enjoying himself.
“Same again?” he said, nodding at her glass.
They parted, slightly unsteadily, with another brief kiss, four martinis down, and agreed to do it again in a week’s time.
There is temptation and there is serious temptation and then there is temptation almost beyond endurance. This came to Jeremy Northcott as he loosened his black tie, having got home from the reception for Mariella Crespi that evening. He had watched her as she stood smiling, looking utterly ravishing in a black crepe Pierre Cardin sheath dress, her hair pulled back in a chignon, being kissed and embraced and congratulated for over an hour; he had kissed her himself, breathing in her rich, heady perfume; he had chatted to her briefly and then waited patiently while she circulated the room ushered by M. Cardin himself and the director of the charity; he had sat not quite near enough to her at a dinner for the chosen few at Elaine’s, and danced with her only once when they went on to Studio 54 at two in the morning.
More Than You Know Page 51
