And now it was four, and he had a breakfast meeting at eight, and he was debating whether or not to go to bed at all, when there was a call from the porter to say there was a lady to see him, and he said she should come up and listened to the whirring of the elevator as it approached him, rather as the condemned man might listen for the steps of the executioner approaching his cell, and as she stepped out of it, holding a hooded cloak round her—“I think no one saw me; I left the hotel by the service exit”—and then slipped the cloak off and held out her arms to him, he thought there could hardly be a man in the universe who could resist such an invitation.
“Darling, I hear from your mother that you need some help.”
“Well … well, yes, I do. But—”
“Then you must let me give it to you.”
Somehow Eliza had never thought of the one person who really did have plenty of money and whom it would be acceptable to take it from.
“It sounds ghastly, darling, and quite ridiculous; he’ll never win, but I feel so sorry for you. I thought he loved that child. Not enough, that’s all I can say. If he really loved her he wouldn’t be putting her through this. I don’t know what’s the matter with you young people today, one affair and it all has to be over. All this ridiculous confessing and soul baring, such a waste of time and money …”
“I didn’t actually have to confess,” said Eliza ruefully.
“Well, no, maybe not. And having Matt still living in the house. Why on earth is he doing that?”
“God knows. The atmosphere’s awful. But I can’t afford to move out. And anyway, he’s so protective of Emmie, and obviously I’d want to take her; I just can’t think he’d agree to it.”
“He doesn’t have custody of her. You can do what you like. What about going to Summercourt?”
“No, because she has to go to school.”
“Your mother seems to be inclined to see his point of view,” said Anna thoughtfully. “Very odd, I thought.”
“Well, she’s very fond of him. And of course I’ve behaved so badly, and she minds that.”
“Badly! One night in six years or whatever it is. Good God, I call that grounds for sainthood myself. One thing I’ll say for Piers: very good at turning a blind eye. I remember being caught in flagrante one afternoon in the House of Lords—your friend Rex Ingham’s father, as a matter of fact—old fool forgot to lock the door; some stupid bugger had to tell Piers, of course; he never said a word.”
“Oh, Gommie! You’re so naughty,” said Eliza, laughing. “Anyway, Mummy really disapproves of my working; she always did, and of course Matt’s been incredibly generous to her, over Summercourt and everything—”
“Yes, but he can afford it. You’re still working, I hope?”
“Oh, God, yes. Just the two days a week, but it saves my sanity.”
“I did rather like Matt myself,” said Anna thoughtfully, “tough, clever, and very sexy, of course—”
“Yes. All the reasons I fell in love with him. But I shouldn’t have married him. We’re too different. Or … maybe we’re too alike. I don’t know. Our views of the world are certainly very different.”
And then she suddenly burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I just feel so … so hopeless about everything. And so ashamed of myself. Oh, not so much sleeping with Rob—well, not really …”
“What are you ashamed of, then?”
“Oh … I’ve just been horrible to Matt, made him hate me, and we used to love each other so much, and it’s all my fault, or mostly; I’ve just—”
“Darling, some of it was your fault, of course, and some of it was his. It’s called marriage. You mustn’t berate yourself so much; it won’t do you any good. Now do let’s talk about jollier things. Like your work. It’s Jeremy’s agency, isn’t it? I hope that doesn’t have any unsuitable implications.”
“God, no. We really are just friends. Best friends probably …”
“Dangerous to be best friends with a man,” said Anna briskly, “in my experience anyway. Unless he’s a fairy, of course.”
It was true, Eliza, thought. Work did keep her sane. She walked in through the revolving doors in the mornings and into the agency foyer a different person, with the old familiar happiness at suddenly knowing what she was doing, completely committed.
Of course, everyone had heard about her and Rob; she’d been petrified the first time she’d gone into the agency afterwards, but no one had seemed especially interested; it was so much the sort of thing that went on all the time, and everyone knew what a stud Rob Brigstocke was, so that, among the girls at the agency, Eliza found she was an object of surprise and admiration, rather than opprobrium.
“I suppose it’s because they see me as an old married has-been,” she said to Maddy as she sat amid the multicolored mountain in Maddy’s stockroom that was her autumn collection.
“Yes, well, you are,” said Maddy with a grin. Eliza grinned back. It was so lovely to have Maddy back in her life; with the best will in the world they had drifted apart, nothing in common, nothing to say to each other. How odd it was, Eliza thought, that her best friend for years had been an impoverished mother living in a squalid flat whose knowledge of the fashion business began and ended with whether her coat would last another winter. Well, she missed Heather horribly still.
“I hear they’re briefing Toby Gilmour,” said Ivor Lewis.
“Is he a barrister?”
“Yes—a junior. I suppose the big boys are too expensive. Oh, he’s clever, all right, very old-school, bit arrogant, but … nothing like we’ve got. Bruce Hayward will hang him out to dry.”
“Good,” said Matt. Wondering why he felt just a stab of unease.
“Now, look. I’ve been thinking. We need to go quite hard on her lifestyle. These advertising agencies, from what I’ve heard, very sex and drugs and rock and roll. Do you think there was anything like that going on there?”
“Probably.”
“Right. Well, we need a witness, someone she works with. Can you suggest anyone?”
“Not really,” said Matt shortly. “I tried not to get involved.”
He had a sudden sharp memory of Eliza sitting at supper and trying to interest him in her new job, her face alive as it hadn’t been for a long time; it had made him so angry, hurt him so much.
“Right,” said Ivor Lewis, “I think we try to find a witness. All right with you?”
“Absolutely,” said Matt. “Yeah. Whatever it takes.”
The sense of unease was still with him.
“Matt, I need to talk to you.”
“Scarlett, I was just going home.”
“Well, stop off here on the way. It’s important.”
He knew better than to argue. “OK, but I can’t be long.”
“It won’t take long.”
She was waiting for him with a bottle of his favourite Irish whisky on the coffee table; whatever it was, she clearly thought he needed softening up. Or something.
“So … what is it, Scarlett? What do you want?”
“Matt …” She reached for a cigarette; he saw her hand shake slightly as she flicked her lighter on. She was clearly nervous—interesting.
“Matt, I … I want you to drop this divorce and this whole case.”
“What!”
“Yes. Please, Matt. It’s not too late.”
“It’s far too late. Scarlett, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do. I really do. Look, I’ve seen divorce, don’t forget. Very firsthand. With David. The ugliness, the way it wipes out every single good thing and distorts and destroys whatever is left. Oh, it’s probably too late to save the marriage. I can see that. Just … please, Matt … just think, really hard. Everything you’ve had with Eliza, every good thing—and there has been so much good; you know there has—along with the bad, it will all be wiped out and … and made ugly and horrible. And Emmie will have to live with that, if you go down this road.”
“Scarlett,” he said,
his voice very quiet, “it is too late. We can’t go back now.”
“Even for Emmie?”
“It’s for Emmie I’m doing all this.”
“Matt! You’re not doing it for Emmie; you’re doing it for that bloody great ego of yours.”
“That’s an unbelievably filthy thing to say. Jesus, I can’t believe this. I was going to ask you if you’d speak up for me in court; I can see there’s no future in that one …”
“No, there isn’t.” She struggled to keep calm. “Matt,” she said, very quietly. “Divorce Eliza if you must. But … this custody thing, it’s so awful; it has to hurt Emmie, much, much more than the divorce. Can’t you find some way round that?”
“Of course not,” he said, and he sounded genuinely astonished. “I told you, it needs to be settled; we have to sort something out.”
“In this way? This hideous, public, mud-slinging way? With every sordid detail thrashed out in court, possibly reported in the papers—”
“Of course it won’t be reported in the papers!”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Exactly the sort of thing people like reading about over their cornflakes, two high-profile, self-centred adults fighting over an innocent little girl who loves both of you so much. It will be horrible for her, vile.”
“She won’t know about it, not the bad stuff; you don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, Scarlett—”
“Please don’t swear at me. I just don’t understand how you can be putting Emmie through this. She’s the completely innocent party—that’s the phrase, isn’t it?—and you’re just making her a pawn in this hideous game of revenge you’re playing—”
“It is not revenge,” he said, and his voice was icily, terrifyingly calm. “I want her to be safe, I want to see that she’s properly looked after and safe—”
“No! You don’t! You want to win her, and win this horrible fight, and you know something, Matt, win or lose you’ve lost anyway, because you’re ruining her life for her.”
“You are totally out of order,” he said, standing up, “and I’m going.”
“Good. And don’t come back.”
Matt drove rather carefully home. He’d had at least one too many whiskies. The house was in darkness, apart from a light in the study.
He went in very quietly, opened the door of the study; Eliza was asleep on the sofa with the TV on. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; her face in repose looked younger, more vulnerable. He stood looking down at her, and it hurt, even that, seeing her as she had been, when they were happy. Happy and hopeful. He had removed all the pictures of her from his desk, for the same reason. He just couldn’t bear to look at the past. At the happiness.
She woke up suddenly and saw him, and just for a moment she stayed there, held in what had been, her eyes soft, pleased to see him. And then she was back, back in the present, and so was he, and she turned away from him, standing up, walking to the door.
“You all right?” he said, and then: “How’s Emmie?”
“We’re both fine,” she said. “Please excuse me. I want to go up to bed.”
“Fine. But at some point, we have to have a conversation about Summercourt. I wonder if it will be possible for you to pay me your share of the value, which would now be something in the region of fifty thousand pounds.”
“Matt, you know perfectly well I couldn’t give you five thousand. Or five pounds, probably.”
“Right. Well, in that case, I shall have to buy your share. When the divorce is final.”
“I will never let you do that,” she said, “never.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. You signed up to it. I’ll find the agreement if you like; I have a copy in my desk.”
“Matt, you can’t do that, take Summercourt away from me; it’s not yours; it belongs to our family.”
“Well, unfortunately your family was unable to afford it. Oh, don’t worry; I’d buy your mother a nice little cottage nearby. So that she could stay in touch with her friends. But I’m very seriously considering selling the place.”
“Selling it! Matt, you couldn’t,” she said, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “You couldn’t sell Summercourt, even to hurt me.”
He said nothing; she sighed heavily.
“I’m going up to bed,” she said. “I’ve had enough.”
He watched her as she went up the stairs, a skinny, almost childish figure, and that was like the past again too, and he closed his eyes against the pain and sat down in the study, on the sofa where she had been, and fought down the grief.
The love they had felt for each other, so strong, so joyful, so good, was gone; it had died; they had killed it between them, and there was no hope for it, no hope of bringing it back, of reviving it, and all that he had left now was Emmie, and no matter what it cost, he was going to keep her to himself.
“Eliza Shaw, Toby Gilmour.”
“How do you do?” said Eliza.
“How do you do,” said Toby Gilmour. His voice was at once clipped and quite deep; it would be liable to sound impatient, that voice, she thought.
He was tall and dark and extremely slim, with brilliant dark eyes and heavy dark eyebrows, and a smile that came and went so fleetingly that it would have been easy to miss it. She would have put his age at early forties.
He was dressed very well—was she ever going to stop thinking clothes mattered so much?—in a beautifully tailored dark grey suit, a slightly surprising pink-and-white-striped shirt, and, even more surprisingly, Gucci loafers rather than the obligatory lace-ups. Clearly he too thought clothes mattered. Absurdly that seemed a point in his favour.
They sat down at Philip Gordon’s low table and Toby Gilmour started immediately spreading notes and papers across it; he had good hands, she noticed then, and on his wrist was a very beautiful, classic gold Cartier watch, clearly decades old, and the cuffs of his shirt were fastened with heavy gold plain cuff links.
“All well with you, Toby?” Phillip asked.
“Yes, yes, fine, thank you. Busy, of course. Tristram keeps us up to the mark. But that’s good.”
“Indeed,” said Philip, and then, turning to Eliza: “Tristram Selbourne is the senior QC in Mr. Gilmour’s chambers.”
“Oh,” said Eliza, “oh, yes, I see.” For God’s sake, she thought, say something half-intelligent; you sound completely witless. And managed, “What a wonderful name.”
“Yes, isn’t it? It’s said if it hadn’t been his real name he would have made it up,” said Toby Gilmour, and she felt immediately silly. “Now, if we could just review your case so far …”
Concentrate, Eliza; for heaven’s sake, concentrate. This is your future at stake, not some garden party. And he was obviously not keen on small talk …
“So I think that’s about the size of it,” said Philip Gordon half an hour later. “Any questions for us, Toby?”
“A few, yes. Do we have a date for the preliminary hearing?”
“I got it just this morning. I haven’t had time to tell you yet, Eliza. A fortnight’s time. Eliza, all right with you? Your husband can make it.”
“Oh … yes, of course. It will have to be, won’t it?”
“Not absolutely essential, but wise,” said Toby Gilmour briskly. He managed a fleeting smile. “Now, Mrs. Shaw—”
“Please call me Eliza. ‘Mrs. Shaw’ makes me feel old.”
“Eliza, then. Now, you’re not defending your adultery, I see.”
“No.”
“Probably wise, under the circumstances. And that makes the custody case at least a little more clear-cut. Now, your witnesses—you have, let’s see … well, your mother, not too good; I mean, I’m sure she’s a delightful woman—”
“She is, actually, yes,” said Eliza defensively.
“I’m sorry. I was going on to say that a mother is not an ideal defence witness. As you must see. A tendency towards bias.”
“Well … yes.”
“Now, your friend Mariella
Crespi. Tell me about her. What does she do?”
“She lives in Milan. She’s married to a very rich man; she … she doesn’t do a lot; she’s a sort of … of society lady; she just hit the best-dressed list.” She stopped, aware that Mariella didn’t sound hugely impressive. “She knows everything that really took place in Milan, how I was looking after Emmie properly, how she was never left with strangers, not the pack of lies my husband claims.”
“And she’d come over here for the case?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. Then there’s your nanny, Miss Grant.”
“Yes.”
“Is she quite articulate?”
“Yes,” said Eliza, irritated by this slur on the nanny class. “Very.”
“Well, they aren’t always. Now, Mr. Gordon has a couple of medical people, your gynaecologist and a psychotherapist, both with queries against them. Have you spoken to them?”
“My gynaecologist has agreed.”
“And the psychotherapist?”
“I’ve decided I don’t want to call her,” said Eliza. “I … I told her a lot of things I’d be embarrassed about, really very … very personal stuff.”
“Mrs. Shaw—Eliza.” The dark eyes were expressionless as he looked at her. “This whole thing is going to get very personal. I think you have to be prepared for it. It’s a dirty business, what you’re getting into—”
“I didn’t get into it,” said Eliza quickly. “It’s all Matt’s—my husband’s choosing.”
“Of course. But … but I would like you to reconsider calling your psychotherapist. It might be of great benefit to your case—”
“I really don’t want to,” said Eliza flatly.
“Well, we can come back to her if need be,” he said. “Anyone else?”
More Than You Know Page 52
