Eliza climbed into the back of the van, starting sorting through the rails, pulling clothes out, directing the girls what to wear. God, this was fun. Such fun. Forty-eight hours – no, more than that, three days – of working, being with adults, and her favourite breed of adults too, with no need to clock-watch, to get ready her excuses to leave, just to be able to immerse herself in the job in hand, and then at the end of the day, to laugh and drink and eat and gossip and no one glowering at her, or criticising her, or making her feel guilty – she really couldn’t believe it was happening.
It had been comparatively easy to organise, actually; astounded at her calm, she simply told Matt she was going away for a few days the following week, it was work, she had to go, it was very important. She arranged for Margaret to stay the two nights, together with her invalid mother, and for Sarah to come up and live in the house; she even told a couple of the mothers from school she was going away, and Emmie’s teacher too, so that any problems that Emmie might have, she would be surrounded by people she knew and loved.
Matt said she wasn’t to go, wasn’t to leave Emmie; she said she was going to, no matter what he said.
‘I don’t remember you consulting me about your business trip this week. And what are you going to do? This is about my work and it’s very important to me and it will be the first time I’ll have left Emmie in nearly six years—’
‘Might I remind you of Milan?’
‘Oh, yes, Milan,’ she said and her voice was thick with contempt, thicker even than his. ‘Yes, I forgot that, how I left her in Milan in a friends’ house for an evening while I went to the opera with only three people in charge of her. Dreadful. Matt, I’m going. I’ll be back on Friday afternoon, almost as soon as Emmie gets home from school. She’ll hardly know I’ve gone. Now please excuse me, I have to pack.’
She had rung home each evening, every morning; spoken to Margaret or Sarah, been assured Emmie was fine, was going out to tea, that Margaret had taught her to knit; had spoken to Emmie herself, who had told her she missed her, wanted her to come home, even put a sob into her voice in true Emmie style and then said she had to go, Margaret was waiting to take her to the park.
The second evening, they all had dinner at the hotel, a rather grand establishment in Ballater, and got extremely drunk. Even Hugh Wallace joined in, demonstrated a fine line in dirty jokes, and then recited a whole string of absolutely filthy limericks. Eliza threw in one of her own of those for good measure – and then was surprised when Hugh suddenly said, ‘I’d like to propose a toast. To Eliza.’
‘Oh,’ she said, astonished at being singled out in this way, ‘goodness, how nice, but why me?’
‘Because you’ve brought such wonderful style to the session. I know the client was immensely reassured when he heard you were coming, as indeed was I. And also because I know it wasn’t easy for you to leave your domestic commitments. We all really appreciate it.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Rob, raising his glass and grinning at her, ‘we do. To Eliza.’
‘Eliza!’ said Rex, and ‘Eliza’, said the twins in unison, adding ‘super clothes’ and ‘marvellous ideas’ several times.
And Eliza sat there, savouring the entirely unfamiliar sensation of being admired and appreciated, smiling slightly foolishly and thinking that whatever unpleasantness lay at the other end of the London to Scotland railway line it had been indisputably worth it.
Margaret was sitting in her room reading after an early supper when she heard Emmie call out and then, almost at once, start vomiting; calmly cheerful, she had put her in a bath, changed her bed and put her back in it in a clean nightie; fifteen minutes later it happened again. This time Sarah heard what was going on and appeared; the third time, Matt put his head round the nursery bathroom door.
‘She looks terrible,’ he said, ‘very hot, anyone thought to take her temperature?’
Margaret looked at him and said that vomiting didn’t usually go hand in hand with a fever, but that she would take it anyway; the thermometer read one hundred and two.
‘Right, well, I’m turning in,’ said Hugh Wallace, ‘we’ve still got one shot to do in the morning, haven’t we, outside Crathie church, and I imagine we’ll be starting pretty early.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rob, ‘we need to catch the dawn light. Down here, what time do you reckon, Rex?’
‘Oh – six should do it. Yeah, I’m definitely off to get my beauty sleep. I’m fucking exhausted. What about the rest of you?’
The twins said they would be going up right away as well; Rob ordered another bottle of champagne.
‘I think she’s probably just got a bug,’ said the doctor, ‘but she does seem a little disorientated. I’d give it another hour and then if she’s no better, I’d get her along to Casualty. She could become seriously dehydrated—’
Sarah looked at Emmie, lying on her pillows, her eyes closed, her face flushed and then at Matt, and spoke the unspeakable.
‘I wish Eliza was here,’ she said.
Rob and Eliza were sitting on the deep sofa in front of the fire; she felt happily exhausted and said so.
‘Or maybe you’re exhaustedly happy,’ said Rob.
‘Maybe. It’s been such fun. I’ve enjoyed it all so much.’
‘Us too. Nice of Auntie Hugh to propose that toast to you.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘You look much better for your break from domesticity. You should do it more often. It clearly suits you.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again for a long time,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Really? Why not?’
‘Rob, you know why not.’
‘I really don’t know what keeps you with the bugger,’ he said. ‘He’s obviously not very nice to you.’
‘Now how can you tell that?’
‘It’s bleedin’ obvious. You’re pale, thin, quite jumpy. Not exactly overflowing with happiness and fulfilment.’
‘Yes, and you’re a great expert on relationships, of course.’
‘Well, I’m certainly experienced. You’re so lovely,’ he said suddenly, reaching out his hand and touching her cheek, ‘and so fucking loyal. You haven’t said anything mean about him, haven’t complained once. I think you’re a bit of a star, Eliza Shaw. And I fancy you something rotten, you know that?’
‘Don’t come over all stud creative director on me.’
‘Why not? I am a stud creative director anyway. And in stud creative director language, I think you’re incredibly sexy and I have a very strong urge indeed to get into your knickers. Right now, as a matter of fact.’
‘Rob – don’t be – don’t spoil everything,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘Now why do you think I would spoil everything?’ he asked. ‘Do you think we wouldn’t have a very nice time? Because I know we would. I’m not asking you to marry me, Eliza.’
‘No,’ she said, laughing, ‘although on your past form, I don’t think anything would surprise me—’
‘Well,’ he said, leaning forward, kissing her on the cheek, ‘I’m not. Not this time. But I think you should try to overcome your moral scruples, just for one night, and just enjoy yourself. Have some fun.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Eliza,’ he said, bending over her, moving his mouth onto hers, slowly, carefully, determinedly, his tongue working at her and somehow deep, deep within her as well, and it took all her strength and determination to pull away from him and say, while hearing her own voice feeble and uncertain, ‘Rob, no, no,’ and ‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he said, ‘come on, Eliza, let’s go up to bed. You want it just as much as I do, you know you do,’ and suddenly it was gloriously, headily wonderful to be desired again, rather than repelled and rejected, and so fantastically uncomplicated and joyful, and it was true what he said, she did want it, in a harsh, hungry, needy way that she had almost forgotten, and she heard herself saying, as she pulled herself away from him, her eyes fixed on his, her mind on him and what he might do for her, ‘Yes, yes, I’m going up
to my room now, don’t be long,’ and then with no further thought of how insanely reckless she was being, of the risks she was running, taken over by a sort of madness that wanted her to be herself again, young, and sexy, and sure of herself, instead of somehow dying slowly, frigid and frightened, and without being sure how she got there, she was lying in the bed naked, waiting for him with a sort of crazed intensity, and there was not a thought in her head that she might be doing anything wrong, or even unwise …
‘Her pulse is very fast,’ said Sarah. ‘He said to take her to casualty if she was any worse. And I think she is. Margaret, what do you think?’
‘I do think she’s dehydrated,’ said Margaret. But I don’t actually think it’s at a danger level.’
‘How are we supposed to know when it is?’ said Matt. ‘And anyway, I thought you were a nurse?’
‘No,’ said Margaret patiently, ‘I’m not.’
‘Well, you’ve got the job under false pretences then. I remember seeing on your application that you were a nursery nurse.’
‘Mr Shaw, that is not quite correct. I did a nursing course, which is not the same thing as being a medical nurse, I do assure you.’ She smiled at him; anyone else would have hit him, Sarah thought. Emmie was breathing very fast, she was very pale, and she was whimpering now and saying she had a headache. It was very frightening.
‘I’m getting the bloody doctor back,’ said Matt, ‘make him earn his keep. How dare he bugger off home, when a child’s so ill, it’s bloody outrageous.’
The sex was wonderful; Eliza was quite shocked at herself. Transformed as she was into a shrieking, shouting harpy, clawing, biting, laughing, crying, her long legs wrapped round Rob, her back arched, her head thrown back, her entire body consumed by her orgasm, making her body sing as she thought it had quite forgotten.
And as she came down, slowly, sweetly, exhaustedly, as she pushed back her damp hair, and smiled rather shakily into Rob’s eyes, he smiled back at her with a certain triumph.
‘I told you we’d have fun,’ he said.
Matt came back into the room.
‘He’s on his way. Bloody irresponsible, he should never have left. He says he’ll come down to the hospital with us—’
‘That’s kind,’ said Sarah.
‘Not at all, it’s his job.’
Sarah didn’t like to say that in sixty years of being a patient and the mother of patients, she had never known a doctor agree to a second house call in one night and then to accompany a patient to hospital. ‘Er – Matt. I think perhaps we should ring Eliza. Don’t you?’
‘Why?’ he asked and his expression was so filled with distaste for the notion Sarah was shocked. ‘She can’t get here; she’s five hundred bloody miles away.’
‘Yes, but – if Emmie’s really ill …’
‘Emmie is really ill. There’s no if about it. And her mother should be here. But she bloody isn’t and ringing her up isn’t going to help. So—’
There was a ring at the door; it was the doctor.
He came in, looked at Emmie, said he thought she was no worse, possibly a little better, but that she should be taken to hospital just the same.
‘Let’s not take any chances.’
‘Of course we’re not taking any bloody chances,’ said Matt. ‘I’ll carry her, you can drive, doctor. You two,’ he turned to Sarah and Margaret, ‘you can come if you want to.’
They both said they would come.
Matt bent down and picked up the half-sleeping Emmie, enfolding her in the bedclothes; there was such tenderness, such care in the gesture, Sarah felt tears in her eyes. What a mass of contradictions he was, this husband of Eliza’s; she saw suddenly and for the first time what difficulties Eliza must face, living with him, probably on a daily basis, his bad temper, his abruptness, his near-rudeness indeed, his perfectionism – and his adoration of this precious only child.
They went downstairs slowly; Emmie’s small face had been more peaceful, but suddenly and without warning, she woke up, frowned and said, ‘Mummy, I want Mummy.’
‘Mummy’s not here, darling,’ said Sarah gently, smoothing her hair back, ‘she’s away, don’t you remember, she’ll be home tomorrow.’
‘I want Mummy, I want to see Mummy, I want to talk to Mummy, please, please—’
She was becoming agitated now, her breath faster still; Sarah looked at Matt over her head.
‘We could ring Eliza,’ she said. ‘If Emmie is getting so upset, maybe talking to her might help.’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Matt shortly, but the doctor turned and said, ‘I think that’s a good idea, the child’s agitated which doesn’t help and we won’t be able to call Mrs Shaw from the hospital. Another five minutes won’t make any difference.’
‘OK,’ said Matt. He sank down on the hall chair, holding Emmie against his chest. ‘We’re going to call Mummy, sweetheart, you can speak to her on the phone. Would that be nice?’
Emmie nodded listlessly; he dialled the number; they all sat there, watching him; heard the phone being answered the other end.
‘Crathie Hotel.’
‘Mrs Shaw please,’ he said. ‘Room – what’s her room?’
‘Twenty-one,’ said Sarah. ‘Room twenty-one.’
‘Room twenty-one please,’ said Matt into the phone.
‘I need to pee,’ said Eliza, surfacing from her deep, sweet, post-coital slumbers, ‘and maybe you should go back to your room. Rob? Rob, wake up—’
‘Yeah, yeah, OK, in a minute, go and have your pee—’
Faintly embarrassed, which was absurd, Eliza reflected, given her behaviour an hour earlier, she pulled the thick door of the bathroom firmly shut.
So she didn’t hear the phone ringing; if she had she would have told Rob not to do what he did instinctively, half-asleep as he still was, not to pick it up, not to hold it groggily to his ear and not, when asked who the hell he was, to say ‘oh shit’ and then ‘oh fuck’ very loudly indeed.
Part Three
The Divorce
1971
It had come on a day she was at home. Not working. Well, obviously, otherwise it couldn’t have been accomplished.
A lovely early summer day. They were going to Summercourt at the weekend. Emmie was with a friend for tea.
She’d made some soup for supper; she’d sorted the laundry; she’d tidied Emmie’s toy cupboard.
She couldn’t be faulted. Not today anyway.
There was a knock at the door. That would be Harrods.
It wasn’t.
‘Mrs Shaw? Mrs Elizabeth Shaw?’
‘Yes. That’s me.’
‘I have got some papers for you.’
‘Papers?’
‘Yes. Please look through them and then sign the acknowledgement where indicated.’
‘What sort of papers?’
‘You have to look at them yourself.’
She took the package he was holding out to her. A large white envelope.
She ripped it open, pulled a sheaf of papers out. Glanced at the top sheet, perfect typing on very white paper.
Didn’t take in the words. Not really. Clearly a mistake. Looked at the man, puzzled; he had turned away, was studying the street.
Looked again. The words hadn’t changed.
Divorce Petition.
Divorce? Petition? No. Couldn’t be.
‘In the matter of the Petition of Matthew Peter Shaw,’ it said and underneath that, ‘and Elizabeth Sarah Shaw.’
He couldn’t have sent this. He couldn’t. No matter what. Not without – without …
She looked again.
Divorce Petition, it said, issued by Morris and Foster. Solicitors for the petitioner. She felt dizzy suddenly, walked backwards into the house, sank onto the hall chair.
The man realised she had gone in, stepped forward, put his foot in the door.
She stared up at him.
‘Please look through all the papers,’ he said, ‘and then, as I said, sign this ac
knowledgement.’
‘What?’
‘Look at all the papers, please.’
Page two was worse.
‘This petition is issued by’ (it said) ‘Matthew Peter Shaw (the Petitioner). The other party to the marriage is Elizabeth Sarah Shaw (the Respondent)’.
It went on. Four pages in endless repetitive legal language. Ending with something called the Prayer. That ‘the said marriage may be dissolved’.
And then – beneath that, unspeakable. Obscene. Terrifying.
‘That custody of the child may be granted.’
Custody? CUSTODY!
She shut her eyes. Opened them again. Someone was shouting, shouting Emmie’s name and crying at the same time.
It was her.
Chapter 54
The worst thing was the fear. The fear of moving on, moving on from the present where at least the territory was familiar, the misery recognisable, into a future where nothing was even imaginable. He had clung to what he had, what he knew, foolishly, desperately and for a long time; but he had come to feel it held nothing for him, had no more to give him.
He would wake at two in the morning, sweating, sleep lost, with only the endless awful repetitive questions in his head: what had happened, how had it started, could it have been stopped? While knowing it couldn’t. Not now, not ever. His marriage was over, and he wept many of those mornings, heavy, heart-racking tears as again and again he forced himself to face it.
For, he felt, Eliza had not only betrayed him sexually, and undermined him professionally, she had mocked him, belittled him and ignored his most fundamental beliefs. It was too late, far too late, for any kind of reconciliation; he was in another country altogether, a strange, hostile, lonely place, where happiness had died finally and love was an almost laughable memory.
He would have given all that he had to have stepped out of it again, that country, to be back where he knew who he was and what he was doing, where he felt strong and confident and generous, rather than weak and timorous and bitter. But there was no way back. And of all the things Eliza had taken from him, his sense of self was the greatest. He had lost not only Eliza but the person he had thought himself to be.
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