More Than You Know

by Penny Vincenzi

  As he turned and walked away from her, Sarah thought she had never seen anyone look so broken in her entire life.

  “Mummy! Mummy, something … something so awful …” Eliza’s voice was thick with sobs. “I … I can’t come. Not tonight. Oh, God, you don’t know, you just don’t know …”

  “I don’t know what, Eliza?” Sarah tried to keep her voice neutral, not too brisk.

  “Matt … Matt … oh, God …”

  “What do you mean, Eliza? Calm down, darling; you’re not making any sense.”

  “He … he’s just presented me with … with a divorce petition. And it’s not just that. He’s … he’s trying to get custody of Emmie. He wants to take her away from me. What am I going to do, Mummy; tell me; you’ve got to help me; what on earth am I going to do?”

  “Oh, Miss Mullen, it’s so sad.” Jenny’s huge blue eyes were brimming over with tears.

  “What is, Jenny?”

  “Mr. Shaw, he’s divorcing Mrs. Shaw.”

  Nothing could have prepared Louise for how she felt then. Or rather, for the confusion and conflict of how she felt. That in itself was a shock—more of a shock than the news.

  “He’s what! Jenny, how do you know that?”

  “Well, I had to ring the new secretary there about those files you asked me about, and she said she didn’t know if she ought to release them, and I said they were your personal files, and she said she’d have to ask, and then some junior”—she spoke the word with deep disdain—“rang me back and said she’d got them, and she was quite friendly, and I asked her how she was getting on, and started telling her about the old days and the fun we used to have, and then she said she wasn’t sure if she ought to tell me, but Mr. Shaw was getting a divorce. She said he was in a terrible mood all the time, and I said that was nothing new—”

  “Jenny! Anyway, go on.”

  “And apparently he’s going to try to get the little girl.”

  “What! Emmie! But how could he? Men never get custody. And … and …” She stopped.

  “I don’t know, Miss Mullen. It is awful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Jenny, it is. Really awful. Poor Eliza. And actually … poor Matt. Oh, dear. Could I have a coffee, please? Nice and strong.”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Mullen. And a biscuit? I’ve got some really nice custard creams with sort of flaky pastry—”

  “No, Jenny, no biscuit, thank you.”

  “I don’t suppose that new person gets nice biscuits in for Mr. Shaw,” said Jenny.

  “Possibly not,” said Louise. She went into her own office and sat staring out of the window. She felt, above all, deeply upset, despite the completely inexplicable confusion, a confusion she crushed, repeatedly and determinedly, refusing even to examine its roots. Matt had adored Eliza; she was the centre of his life; what on earth could have gone wrong? And he was basically a good man, fiercely passionate about his family. Eliza must have done something pretty dreadful for him to go down this route, maybe that article—but no. You wouldn’t divorce someone for that. He must be in an appalling state of rage if he was really considering fighting for custody of Emmie.

  She spent much of the day fretting over whether or not to ring him and finally decided to do so. The worst thing he could do was put the phone down on her.

  It was so truly shocking. And so desperately sad. And she did feel rather confused about it herself.

  Eliza was trying to calm down, think clearly, form a plan even, but she was finding it terribly difficult. Panic consumed her all the time. She felt beleaguered, alone in a completely alien, hostile environment. Even her mother seemed less than one hundred per cent behind her, telling her she wasn’t totally surprised about the divorce, even if it was a shock about Emmie, pointing out that she hadn’t exactly been behaving well.

  “God knows what possessed you, Eliza, to do what you did up in Scotland, and I certainly don’t want to hear any explanations—”

  “I don’t know either, Mummy. I can’t … I can’t believe I did what I did.”

  She had stayed at the house trying to recover some semblance of herself on the dreadful day the petition had arrived, waiting for Matt to come home; she rang the mother with whose child Emmie was having tea, and asked her if she could possibly keep her until the morning. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got the most terrible migraine, and my husband’s away; it would be such a help …”

  She spent the evening trying to do all sorts of normal things: trying to read, trying to eat, trying to watch television, but whatever she did, the terrible, gripping fear invaded her, and she roamed helplessly from room to room, up and down stairs, standing at the window, watching for Matt’s car. Afterwards she wondered why she had been so sure he would come home at all.

  He finally arrived after twelve; she was sitting on the stairs waiting for him. She was shaking, dry mouthed; she felt nothing except fear: not of him, but of what he was doing to her.

  He looked at her and nodded briefly.

  “Hallo. I thought you’d be in bed. Or out, of course.”

  “Matt … Matt, please. We have to talk. Discuss this.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to be discussed,” he said. “It’s too late for talking.”

  “Matt, I’ve been trying to talk to you for weeks.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. Anyway, the petition said it all. I want a divorce. I can only imagine you do too. I also want Emmie. I’m not quite sure how you feel about that.”

  “How do you think I feel? Don’t be so ridiculous. And let me tell you, you’re not going to get her.”

  “Oh, really? Your behaviour would have seemed to indicate that you’d be quite happy not to have her anymore. That she’s become a burden to you.”

  “You … you bastard,” she said, standing up, “how dare you, how dare you talk to me in that … that horrible way?”

  He shrugged. “It would seem to be true. Please let me past; I want to go to my room. Where is she now, by the way? I don’t want her waking up and being upset.”

  “You don’t … don’t”—she had heard of the red spots of rage before your eyes; she saw them now, blinding, flashing, like her mythical migraine—“you don’t want her upset. So you do this to her. Drag her through the courts. Tell her she has to live with one of us, rather than the other—”

  “Oh,” he said, “it will be me she lives with; you can be sure of that.”

  Eliza stepped forward, raised her hand to strike him. Strike his cold, complacently hostile face. Dropped it again. She mustn’t descend into violence. She mustn’t. It was dangerous.

  “I would like to know,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level and calm, “I would like to know why you are so sure of that.”

  “Didn’t you read the petition?”

  “Of course I read it.”

  “Well, then. It’s all there. But let me remind you how you neglect her and go out to work against my wishes. And leave her—overnight, mind—in the charge of strangers in a foreign city while you are out socialising, while leading me to believe she will be with you at all times. How you allow her to be around people I disapprove of. How you diminish me publicly—and, by implication, in her eyes. And then, of course, there is the small matter of your morals, your adultery—”

  “You’re mad,” she said, pushing down her fear. “As if any of that makes me an unfit mother.”

  “I disagree,” he said, “and my solicitor disagrees also. Anyway, we shall see what a judge makes of it.”

  “A judge, any judge, would know it was a pack of filthy lies—”

  “As I said, we shall see. Now, where is she?”

  “With a friend. Staying the night.”

  “Would you like to tell me why? So that you could go out with your friends, your lovers—”

  “No, you bastard. For the very reason you were so concerned about: so that she didn’t have to witness this … this hideous, filthy garbage.”

  “It’s you who’s making it hi
deous, Eliza. I’m very calm. And … which friend; do I know the family?”

  “Yes, of course you bloody know them. The Millers. She’s about three streets away.”

  “You told me she was with ‘friends’ in Milan. I don’t think that was quite the case, was it? She was with your friends’ servants. People unknown to either of us.”

  She suddenly felt violently nauseated, seeing how everything from now on—and indeed in the past—could be misconstrued, twisted. Her legs felt shaky; she sat down again.

  “Matt … Matt, please, can’t we—”

  “No,” he said, “we can’t anything. ‘We’ don’t exist anymore. You’ve killed ‘we,’ Eliza. I would prefer never to see you again, but”—he shrugged—“I have to think of Emmie. So, for now—”

  “I hate you,” she said. “I absolutely hate you. I don’t know how you can do this.”

  “You might ask yourself how you’ve done what you have to me,” he said very quietly. She looked at him, saw the pain in his face, and in spite of everything felt a stab of dreadful remorse.

  “Matt, can’t we … that is … I didn’t—”

  “No,” he said, “I told you, we can’t anything. Except separate our lives, and as soon as possible.”

  She was silent, then: “Are you moving out?”

  “No,” he said, “not at the moment.”

  “So … so I have to move out? Of my own house?”

  “My house. No, of course not. I’m not that unreasonable. You can stay.”

  “Matt, please,” she said, staring at him, hearing the horror in her voice. “You’re mad. We can’t … can’t stay here together. Not if you’re really going to go ahead with this.”

  “Of course I’m going ahead.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  He looked at her and there was absolute disdain in his eyes.

  “I really don’t care what you do,” he said.

  “OK. I’ll go to Summercourt. In the morning.”

  “If you wish. Will you be taking Emmie?”

  “Well, of course I’ll be taking her, you bastard.”

  “I could be forgiven for wondering. You might have been leaving her behind. To see some more of your … er, friends.”

  “Shut up!” She was screaming now. “Shut up, shut up.”

  “You will be back on Sunday night?”

  “Of course I will. She’s got school on Monday.”

  “You have proposed taking her out of school before, if you remember. In order to go to Milan. To … to cheer yourself up, as I recall.”

  “Matt,” she said, her rage stilled into pain, “you know why I wanted to go to Milan.”

  “Remind me. Shopping? The opera? To meet another, earlier lover?”

  “It wasn’t,” she said very quietly, and tears began now. “It was because of the baby; you know it was; you know perfectly well I was depressed and—”

  “And of course I wasn’t. I was perfectly happy. Or that was what you chose to believe.”

  “I can’t stand this,” she said. “I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to bed.”

  “If you do go to Summercourt,” he said, “please get Emmie to ring me on Sunday.”

  “What?”

  “I would like to speak to her. To be sure she’s all right. Quite happy. And actually with you. Not left with—what do you and your mother call them? Oh, yes, the villagers. So feudal.”

  This time it was too much for her. She felt the bile rising in her throat and made the lavatory just in time.

  When she came out, shaken and tearstained, he had gone to his room.

  “You need a solicitor,” said Charles, when she called him, “a good one. I’ll do a bit of research.”

  “Thank you. Oh, Charles, I’m so scared, so, so scared.”

  “Try to keep calm. He’ll have a very tough time getting Emmie away from you. No judge would rule against you. You’re an exemplary mother.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “You are. You’ve given up your career to look after her. At Matt’s express wishes.”

  “Until now.”

  “What, for two days a week? Leaving her in the care of an excellent nanny?”

  “And sneaking off up to Scotland and committing adultery with a work colleague. I don’t think so.”

  “Well,” he said after a long pause, “let’s see what a solicitor has to say about it.”

  It was an uncomfortable weekend; Summercourt didn’t work its usual magic. She paced the house and the garden, trying to crush the panic, the terrible sense of foreboding, trying to tell herself it couldn’t happen, that she wouldn’t lose Emmie, that no judge would rule against her. Telling herself over and over again. And trying very hard to believe it.

  Mariella had done it. Finally. After years of hard graft.

  She was at the top of one of the best-dressed lists. In Women’s Wear Daily, the bible of the fashion trade. Probably the most important list of all. And she was therefore all over the papers as well, the New York Times, the Daily News, and even the Times in London.

  She received the congratulations of her friends, and the press, graciously but modestly: “It is nothing,” she said, “just a little lucky moment.”

  She knew, of course, it was nothing of the sort: a huge financial investment, an absolute dedication to her cause, a most careful attendance at the openings, the premieres, the charity dinners, the semiprivate parties. Always slim, always glowing, hair and makeup perfect, dressed with wit and panache as well as perfect taste, always charming, always smiling, a shimmering star: the very brightest, for however brief a time, in the heaven she had set her sights upon.

  Giovanni was less discreet, telephoning the world, throwing an impromptu party at the villa, boasting about her, showing her off.

  A party was to be thrown for her in aid of one her favourite charities, by the American magazine US Flair, to celebrate her triumph: in New York, at the Metropolitan Museum, long the home of such affairs.

  All fashionable New York was to be there, of course: the fashion press, the designers, the photographers; but friends were invited too, from Milan, from Paris, from New York—and London. Among whom—of course—were Eliza Shaw and Jeremy Northcott.

  “Mariella, darling, so, so many congratulations!”

  “Eliza, cara, thank you. I am not a little bit pleased.”

  “Oh, you mean you are a very big bit pleased! And so you should be.”

  “Thank you, darling. Now you must, must come to the party. I will not hear of anything else.”

  “I’m afraid you have to hear of it, Mariella—”

  “Now, cara, I cannot celebrate this without you. You helped make me more famous, and I insist, insist you come. You can bring Matt, of course; I would not expect you to come without him, to leave him a hay widow—”

  “Grass, Mariella, grass.”

  “Well, but grass is young hay. Is that not right?”

  “I suppose it is,” said Eliza, “but anyway, I’m afraid he won’t come either. And there’s something I have to tell you; I’ve been putting it off because I can’t bear to talk about it, even to my friends but he’s … he’s divorcing me. I’m afraid I … well, I had an affair, Mariella. Well, not even an affair, just a … a—”

  “A one-night lay,” said Mariella, and she laughed. “Good for you, cara. How he does deserve that.”

  “Well,” said Eliza, thinking how apt this mistranslation was, “he certainly doesn’t think so. And I’ve done a lot of other horrible things too.”

  “I cannot believe that—”

  “No, you have to. Horrible things, things I’m really ashamed of. Anyway, he’s divorcing me and … and … oh, Mariella …” Her voice was shrouded suddenly in fright and tears. “He’s trying to … to get Emmie.”

  “What? He is mad. How can he get her; how can he make anyone think that is right?”

  “Well … he’s working very hard on it. And actually, Mariella, I have to ask you—and it�
�s a big favor—will you be one of my witnesses?”

  “You will have to produce witnesses,” Philip Gordon said. He smiled at her gently. “It’s essential.”

  “Witnesses?” said Eliza. “Witnesses to what?”

  “To your suitability as a mother. Several, in fact, who can speak up for you, give the lie to all the things your husband is citing as evidence to the contrary. Mrs. Shaw … here …”

  He pushed a large box of tissues towards her. He always had one ready for the first meeting with a client.

  Eliza blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and smiled a watery smile at him. She liked him. Very much.

  He had been recommended to her by a friend of Charles’s: “He appears very sweet and gentle, but don’t be fooled. He’s tough as the proverbial old boots and he gets—usually—very good results.”

  Philip Gordon was a partner in a well-known firm of lawyers just off Chancery Lane. He was grey haired, blue eyed, slim, and beautifully dressed in a dark grey suit, a blue shirt that matched his eyes, and the red-navy-and-brown-striped tie of the Old Wykehamist.

  “We like to live over the shop,” he said to Eliza, taking her coat.

  “Sorry?”

  “The Royal Courts of Justice. Just over there.” He pointed out of the window.

  “Oh, I see. It looks very grand from here.” She felt rather alarmed. “Would … would this case really be held there?”

  “Oh, yes. Now … coffee? Or tea?”

  “Coffee, please.”

  “Excellent. I do like clients who want coffee in the afternoon, not just midmorning. My preference precisely.”

  He was very charming, Eliza thought; she suddenly felt a little better.

  “Right,” he said, when the coffee had arrived. “Now, let’s see. I’ve read your husband’s affidavit, of course, and I must say it’s very aggressive. Gloves off from day one. These allegations about your being an unfit parent … now, I’m sure you can defend them, and we’ll go through them in a little while, one by one, but my first instinct on this is that several of them hardly hold water. Your going out to work—pretty standard these days, I’d have thought. But the other thing I would like to propose today, only for discussion, of course, is that we should consider not defending the divorce petition, and putting all our energies into the custody case. Do you think you could defend the charge of adultery? Or would you want to?”