And she went back into the kitchen and sat down and poured herself a cup of the now-cold coffee and sat licking her finger and picking up the crumbs of Matt’s French bread from his plate and eating them one by one. Which was probably about the closest to intimacy, she reflected, as they were ever going to get.
Chapter 61
‘I’ve got some really good news – at last,’ Eliza smiled almost proudly at Philip Gordon, ‘on the witness front.’
‘Good,’ he said. Cautiously. She knew he was worried about her situation in this area.
‘It’s my friend, Heather. The one who moved away, one who really can vouch for me being a good mother. Well, I hope so. She’s written to me.’
She still couldn’t believe it; seeing her letter lying there, on the mat. She hadn’t realised it was from her, of course, written as it was in a schoolgirl hand, and in a small, flimsy envelope, but once she had thumbed through what seemed some rather more impressive missives, invitations to fashion shows and parties and a letter from Emmie’s school saying she was doing well and would be moving up into the third form in September, she tore the small envelope open. And stood there, reading it, saying ‘Oh, my God’ over and over again.
Dear Eliza
I am very sorry I haven’t written before, but my life has been quite busy lately and I wasn’t sure at first about writing at all. I have a little boy, called Bobby, he is so gorgeous, Coral loves him and isn’t jealous at all. He is quite big and sleeps well and the birth was a complete doddle, he practically fell out and I nearly had him in mum-in-law’s front room, wish I had, and spoilt her carpet for her. Anyway, we’re not there any more, thank goodness, we’ve got a very nice council house, I can’t believe it, with a garden, quite small, but big enough for Coral to play and have a swing. The waiting lists are much shorter out here, and with two children we went to the top.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Eliza, and I feel bad about how I left things. I can see now, it wasn’t your fault, just a chapter of accidents, and you wanted to help. It was difficult for a bit, but Alan has got over it now, as well as me, and you did us a favour in a way as we could say we’d been hounded out of that flat.
Coral still talks about Emmie and I often think of our happy times together and I just wanted to say if ever you were in this area, it would be lovely to see you. We’ve even got a phone. Alan doesn’t like me using it, but this is the number, Watford 4694.
Love, Heather.
Eliza managed to find herself in the area the very next day, and she and Heather and Bobby went out for lunch in a café and Eliza begged her to come and speak up for her at the divorce.
‘I just need you to say I was a good mother and loved Emmie and always looked after her well. Because we were friends for such a long time, and it was when she was little, and also at the time I had the baby, it would really mean something. Will you, Heather, please?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Heather said, ‘it sounds very scary.’
‘It might be,’ said Eliza truthfully, ‘but if you think that’s scary, think what it’s like for me, facing losing Emmie.’
‘I can’t believe he wants to do that to you,’ said Heather. ‘And to her for that matter, poor little thing. It’s really shocking. How can he say all those things about you, they’re just so untrue—’
‘I know. Please, Heather, please! I think in the first instance’ – God, she was beginning to talk like a lawyer herself – ‘in the first place, a written statement from you would do. It might be all that we needed. Will you think about that, please?’
Heather said she would, but she’d have to ask Alan, and he might act up a bit; ‘might think we’d be back in the papers.’
‘Of course you wouldn’t,’ said Eliza, touching wood surreptitiously under the table; Philip Gordon had warned her that with Matt’s high profile in the business world, and her own media-based career, it was a very real possibility.
‘You said that last time,’ said Heather with a grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to talk him round. He’s so pleased with himself, having a son, honestly, men are all the same – oh, sorry, Eliza, I’m sorry, what a stupid thing to say—’
‘Heather, it’s OK. I’ve kind of got other things to worry about now.’
‘I know. Poor you. It does sound so awful. Anyway, Alan’s much less grumpy these days, he’s up for promotion next year and that plus the house, you should hear him going on about our spare bedroom and what sort of mower he’s getting for the lawn. The lawn! It’s a little bit of dead grass the size of our living room in Clapham.’
‘Oh, Heather,’ said Eliza, ‘I do love you. It’s so nice to be friends again.’
All this she announced to Philip Gordon, who was hugely delighted, and said he knew Toby Gilmour would also be very pleased.
‘Yes, and also more good news: we know who the blonde is.’
‘The blonde? Oh, the one in the restaurant?’
‘Yes. She’s called Georgina Barker, she’s an ex-girlfriend of Matt’s. Jerome, my photographer friend, recognised her from an article in the Sunday Times magazine, she runs a boutique in Kensington.’
‘She could well be an important witness,’ said Gordon. ‘Very good, Eliza. The tide seems to be turning just a bit. In our favour.’
‘Not before time,’ said Eliza. ‘I was beginning to feel like Queen Canute.’
Alan Connell, Heather’s husband, said she wasn’t to appear in court under any circumstances; but he did agree to her giving a written statement as long as he could approve it.
‘Well, that’s marvellous,’ said Philip, at their final meeting before the hearing. ‘I’ll go along and see her next week, and invite him to sit in on the interview. How would that be?’
‘Could I – could I come along?’ asked Eliza.
‘Possibly best not. Keep it professional,’ said Gilmour.
‘Oh – all right. But do you think it matters that the article – the one Matt was so angry about – was about her?’
‘No, no. Why should it?’
‘I feel everything matters at the moment,’ said Eliza gloomily, ‘you know, like I have to be careful not to pick my nose …’
‘Oh, now that would be very serious,’ said Toby Gilmour. ‘In court at any rate.’ He actually winked at her; it was the first time she had seen a side of him that was remotely humorous.
After the meeting, he escorted her out onto the street and offered to get her a taxi.
‘I think I can do that for myself,’ said Eliza, amused by this rather archaic chivalry.
An empty cab was moving towards them; she put two fingers to her mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle. The taxi pulled in.
‘That was rather good,’ said Gilmour.
‘I know. I learnt it when I was a fashion assistant. First rule of the job, being able to get a taxi at any given moment, even in Oxford Street in the rush hour. Where are you going, Mr Gilmour, can I give you a lift?’
She’d expected him to say no, but: ‘I’m heading for Chelsea.’
‘I’ll drop you off.’
‘Thank you. Very kind. So how are you feeling about the hearing tomorrow?’ he asked, settling in beside her.
‘Oh – fine. Not worried at all, obviously. I just think I might vomit every time I think about it.’
‘I have to say, that would be worse, even worse, than picking your nose. Do try to make it outside the courtroom at least. In both cases.’
‘OK.’ She smiled at him. ‘It’s nice to joke about it, it makes me feel better.’
‘I wasn’t joking,’ he said, and his face was totally serious. She stared at him; he stared implacably back. Then, ‘Well, certainly the vomiting. You could pick your nose very discreetly if you really have to. No, seriously, how do you feel?’
‘I just told you.’
‘Well, better that way round. Cocky clients, not ideal. But honestly, tomorrow won’t be anything much. No difficult questions even. We’ll arrive, find ou
t what court we’re in and what judge and wait.’
‘What, you’ve no idea? I thought—’
‘No, ’fraid not. They very often get allotted the morning of the case. I’m going to a dinner tonight, you can sometimes find out on the grapevine, but I wouldn’t bet on it. It does help to know if you’ve got some fusty old disciplinarian, or one of the new, quotes compassionate close quotes, ones. You can angle your presentation accordingly. But, again, less important than next time.’
‘Won’t it be the same one?’
‘’Fraid not. You might think that, but no. Anyway, then we sit and wait for a bit on some excruciatingly uncomfortable stone benches, and we see the other side sitting on theirs and nod politely.’
‘Could we nod rudely?’ she said, encouraged by his earlier hints of humanity.
‘I’m not sure how you would nod rudely, I’ll give it some thought tonight. But a frosty smile probably better, never goes amiss. In our profession developing the frosty smile is one of the first things we learn, bit like your taxi whistle.’
‘OK.’ She was liking him increasingly.
‘Then we all go in. It’s a court like one you’ve seen a hundred times on TV. The judge up on the bench. Us all ranged below him, gazing up respectfully. No wonder they enjoy their jobs so much. And then they will present their case, say what it’s about, that it’s an uncontested divorce and an application for custody, and present the relevant papers, we’ll do the same, both sides will say that they have several witnesses to call and the judge will harrumph about for a bit, and then say right, well, six witnesses each, so that’s going to take a bit of time and then we need to have time for the law—’
‘What does that mean? I thought this was the law?’
‘It means legal arguments, a sort of recitation of the whys and wherefores, and then of course, they allow time for the summing up, that can take a while in a case like this, and the judge might say he would want to talk to the child—’
‘WHAT!’ Eliza’s voice was almost a scream. ‘Emmie in court! No, no, surely, surely not, no one mentioned that.’
‘Well, yes, it is a possibility. But don’t worry, not in the witness box, he would talk to her in a side room, I thought you realised that.’
‘No. No, I didn’t. How absolutely horrible – I—’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not absolutely a foregone conclusion, in fact sometimes when it’s an open-and-shut case, he won’t.’
‘But this isn’t. Hopefully. Oh, God. This gets worse and worse. Do you think Matt knows this?’
‘I don’t know. I would have thought so, yes.’
‘He’s kept that to himself.’ She was silent, fighting back the tears, picturing the scene, tiny Emmie confronted by the judge, in his long wig; then she suddenly giggled.
‘What?’ said Gilmour, smiling.
‘I was imagining Emmie cross-examining the judge back. Which she probably might. Sorry. Not funny.’
‘I’m sure it would be,’ he said, politely brisk. He obviously found it beyond his imagination. And probably considered it inappropriate as well.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Eliza, pulling out a tissue and wiping her eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to be flippant about it. But – it was such a shock. It’s all such a shock. Every day seems to bring a new one.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said rather abruptly, and just as she had decided not to say any more, that she was back in her idiot role in his eyes, he added, ‘It’s all very difficult and distressing. Of course it is.’
‘Yes,’ she said and then, encouraged by this flash of humanity, ‘All this – this pulling apart your marriage, the way you used to feel for someone, and then dragging up bits of evidence—’
‘I know,’ said Toby Gilmour, surprising her. ‘Everyone finds it so.’
‘Of course to you, it’s all in the day’s work—’
‘To a degree, yes. But not entirely,’ he said and then, his voice at its most impatient, ‘I do know something of what you’re going through. I was divorced myself two years ago. I can remember every ugly moment.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Eliza looked at him; he was staring out of the taxi window, his face bleak.
‘Did – do you have children?’ she asked.
‘No. Thank God. I can see how much worse that makes it. Anyway, I really shouldn’t be talking like this. Very unprofessional. Old Selbourne, he’s been divorced three times.’
‘I’m surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, that anyone would marry him in the first place. Oh, dear, that was very impertinent of me. Sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said, but he didn’t smile. She had obviously offended him, overstepped the mark, when he had been trying to make her feel better; after all, Selbourne was his boss.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.
‘It’s all right. Please don’t apologise.’
The cab had slowed down: ‘What number, guv?’
‘Oh, that block there. Yes. Thank you. Goodnight to you, Mrs Shaw – Eliza, I’m sorry, I keep forgetting. I’ll see you in court.’
He got out, his face blank and aloof. She looked at him, thinking she had blown it totally now. He must think her …
He suddenly leaned into the cab and smiled. ‘Try very hard not to’ – he’s going to tell me not to worry about it, she thought, and I shall scream – ‘pick your nose please. Until we’re outside again.’
And he was gone, up the steps and through the doors of one of the redbrick mansion blocks in Lower Sloane Street; she sat looking after him, trying to sort out how she felt about him, whether she liked him or whether she didn’t. God knows how he must view her from his lofty, brilliant barrister position. A dimwit fashion stylist, going through a messy divorce; her only discernible talent wolf-whistling …
Toby Gilmour closed the door on his flat and leaned back against it, smiling. She really was rather lovely. Very attractive. And funny. And engagingly self-deprecating. Which was odd, because from all accounts she was a brilliantly successful fashion editor. Well, that was the divorce effect. He should know.
‘I’ll just say no, I won’t be a witness,’ said Gina. She confronted Matt’s rage calmly. ‘You can, you know. Refuse. Unless the judge thinks there’s a real reason to call you. And why should he? He’ll probably ask you what our relationship is about and you can tell him the boring, unbelievable truth. You’ll be under oath, so they’ll have to believe you. Oh, God.’
‘What?’
‘Four more weeks or whatever without any nookie. It’s getting very tedious.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Matt.
Sometimes she really wondered if it was going to be worth it.
‘Matt!’
It was late; he’d been out, with a client, he said. She wondered if it had been Gina. She hadn’t even confronted him with that one. The solicitors had, and that was all that was necessary. She really, really didn’t care.
‘Yes?’ he said, walking into the study.
‘We have to talk about Emmie. I didn’t realise until today that the judge might want to question her.’
‘Then your solicitor has been very remiss. He should have warned you of that.’
‘Warned me! You talk as if it was my fault, the whole awful thing—’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No,’ she said: and then, her voice rising, ‘No, no, no, it isn’t. It’s yours, your idea to do this, to take her away from me – or from you – to force her to live with one or other of us, growing up confused, torn in half, not sure who she’s supposed to love, who can tell her what to do, how to behave—’
‘That will be me,’ he said, ‘make no mistake about that.’
She bit back any retort. This was too important. ‘Well, but Matt, don’t you think we ought to prepare her? Poor little girl has no idea what’s happening, or rather what’s about to happen, surely if you love her so much you ought to face that fact, and we ought to talk to her, toge
ther, tell her, talk to her about it—’
There was a long silence; then he looked at her, and his face wasn’t harsh or hostile any more, it was exhausted and infinitely sad and he said, ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right, of course we should.’
‘Mariella, my darling, darling love, thank you for all of it. It’s been so lovely. So very, very lovely.’
‘Jeremy, carissimo, I love you so, so much. Can’t we – maybe – just a little while longer, next week I am in Rome, we could have one last wonderful meeting there, and then—’
‘No, Mariella. No, we can’t. We agreed, you know we did, we promised one another and – and Giovanni, I suppose, although he doesn’t know it, and we have to keep that promise. It’s the only thing to do, we can’t go on like this, it’s so …’
‘Yes, yes, I know. You are so, so good. So much more good than me.’
She sighed, a huge, heavy, tear-filled sigh; they were lying in bed in Jeremy’s apartment, had been there for what they had promised one another would be the last time, and now that the dawn was working its way most insistently into the room, the harsh, unforgiving dawn that would part them, they shrank from the task ahead.
‘It was the nightingale and not the lark,’ said Jeremy suddenly, reaching out, tangling a great lock of her hair round his fingers, raising it to his lips and—
‘What? I did not hear anything.’
‘Shakespeare, darling one, Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet. Like us, they had to part at dawn, like us they dreaded it, denied it had really come. Oh, Mariella.’
‘Oh, Jeremy.’
She turned to him, clung to him, weeping; he could feel her sobs, feel them in his own body, how could they do this, it was cruel, so cruel. How could they bear it, how could he bear it, so little happiness together, so much pain to come.
‘I go now,’ she said suddenly, and sat up, turned her back on him and went into the bathroom; appearing again, in a few moments, pale and tearstained, looking as he could never have imagined her, un-chic, tousle-haired, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her face stony, her eyes hard with resolve.
The Decision Page 70