“Ye-es.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about what he said, that you might lose. They all do that; it’s to make them seem even more impressive when they win. If he will take the case, and if your … your funds will meet his very high charges, then you will certainly have the very best hope of winning.”
“Yes. Yes, I see,” said Eliza, thinking about snide, slithery, spluttering Tristram Selbourne fighting her case, based as it was on such virtues as integrity and courage and love, and thinking then of Toby Gilmour and that flash of approval, and she suddenly heard herself saying, “You know, Philip, I don’t think I want him to take my case. I think I want Toby Gilmour to. In fact, I’m quite, quite sure I do.”
Tristram Selbourne would distort and destroy what little she had to offer; she wanted Toby Gilmour and that was all there was to it.
At home she went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea and heard the phone ringing in the hall.
She went out and picked it up and said, “Hallo?” It was Toby Gilmour.
“I just rang,” he said, his quick, impatient voice making her nervous again, “to say thank-you. Obviously I am pleased and flattered. And I will do my utmost for you. But I do feel nonetheless that you should know it won’t be easy.”
“I realise that. As Sir Tristram said, I would be lucky not to lose it.”
“Well, if you don’t lose it, Mrs. Shaw, luck will have very little to do with it. If you don’t lose it, it will be because we, and I include you, will have done an extremely good job.”
“Oh … right. Yes. Well … I’m sure we will. Good-bye, then, Mr. Gilmour, and thank you for ringing.”
He was a bit … odd. But really very, very nice.
“I’ve got some very good news, Matt,” said Ivor Lewis.
“What’s that?”
“They’ve dropped Selbourne.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I imagine his fees were too high. They’ve gone for the junior. Toby Gilmour. Very bright, but none of Selbourne’s substance. Obviously.”
“As you said before.” Why did he feel like this? Uneasy? Uncomfortable?
“So Hayward will slaughter him. We’ll win. It’s a foregone conclusion.”
“Well … that’s good. That’s very good.”
“You OK, Matt?” Louise looked at him across the table. “You seem a bit … distracted.”
“Of course I’m bloody distracted. I’ve got a bid in on a ten-million contract, and a divorce case starting in earnest on Friday.”
“Yes, OK. It’s not my fault.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Listen—I’m … I’m sorry.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought that was what you said. God, Matt. That’s a first. How long have I known you?”
“Too long probably,” he said, then: “I just got punched very hard below the belt by my own family.”
“What’ve your family done?”
“Only my sister, really. She’s turned traitor in a big way. She read me a filthy great lecture about how I was hurting Emmie, and told me it wasn’t too late to stop the whole thing …”
“Ye-es …”
“Don’t tell me you agree with her?”
“Well … I … do worry about Emmie. Quite a lot.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said.
“But … go on. I won’t say any more. Yet.”
It had shocked and hurt him beyond anything when he heard: Scarlett was going into the witness box for Eliza.
“I can’t believe it. The disloyalty of it. We were mates. Always. She says Emmie will be better off with her mother than me, and she feels she’s got to do what she can to help make it possible.
“The thing is,” he said, “she could have really helped my case. I need people to say I’m a good father, and the only one I’ve got doing that is Mum. Who is hardly an ideal witness. Bit biased, you could say.”
She was silent for a bit; she looked at him. He was so thin, and horribly pale, and there was a lot of grey in his hair. She thought of the young Matt, so strong and tough and tenacious, and she felt her heart turn over with sympathy and … and, well, sympathy.
“Not even Dad will do it. And I can see why: I’m a man, and she’s a little girl, and I work all the hours God sends, and … But I’m going to change, Louise; I’m going to be home every night by six, and I’m going to read her stories and not go out to dinners, and I’ve found this very good nanny, an older woman, highly qualified, and in the school holidays, my mum’s going to be there too, and I’m going to take a lot of time off—”
“Matt, can you really cut your hours and never be away from home and—”
“Don’t you bloody well start.”
“Sorry.”
“No one fucking believes me. No one. Except the lawyer, and I pay him to.”
Louise was silent for a moment; then she said that if he would like her to, if it would help, she would go into the witness box for him, and that she felt she knew enough of him for her words to count.
When she got home, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat down and thought for a long time about what she had done, and why she had made the offer. And felt deeply thankful she had managed to keep her counsel and not tell him, in the inevitably high emotion of the moment, why she had done it.
For how stupid that would have been, after fighting it down for years, all those long, heady, confrontational years, when she had followed him and argued with him and admired him and hated him and beaten him at his own game and never, ever allowed herself to recognise how Louise the person felt about Matt the person, had put up a steely barrier indeed between herself and her feelings about him. For what good would have been served by doing otherwise? If ever a man had been in love with a woman, Matt had been in love with Eliza. And it had been only then, that evening, moved beyond anything at his hurt and his resolve, and making what was a rather reckless offer—for what did she know, really, about Matt’s performance as a father—that she had finally been forced to admit to herself how much, actually, she loved him.
“I’ve got some really good news—at last”—Eliza smiled almost proudly at Philip Gordon—“on the witness front. It’s my friend Heather. The one who moved away, one who really can vouch for my 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 had 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 anymore, 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 favor 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, Slough 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. Will you, Heather, please?”
“Oh, 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 a written statement from you would do. 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 under the table; Philip Gordon had warned her that 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.”
All this she announced to Philip Gordon, who was hugely delighted, and said he knew Toby Gilmour would also be very pleased.
“Yes, and we know who the blonde in the restaurant is. She’s called Georgina Barker, and she’s an ex-girlfriend of Matt’s. She runs a boutique in Kensington.”
“Very good, Eliza. The tide seems to be turning just a bit. In our favor.”
“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 humourous.
“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 whether it was going to be worth it.
“Matt!”
It was late; he’d been out—with a client, he said. She wondered whether it had been Gina.
“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 the other of us, growing up confused, torn in half, not sure whom 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 about to happen; surely if you love her so much you ought to face that fact, and we ought to talk to her, together, 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 anymore; it was exhausted and infinitely sad, and he said, “Yes. Yes, you’re right; of course we should.”
“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 each other 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 each other 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 bear it; how could he bear it, so little happiness together, so much pain to come … It was over. That bit, at least. The whole thing seemed like a dream now, walking with Philip Gordon into that vast Victorian Gothic building with its great wrought-iron gates that she had seen a hundred times on the news and in corny old films. She followed Philip and his pretty, posh assistant, Caroline, into the huge cathedral-like atrium with alcoves on either side where people huddled, having clearly urgent conferences, and barristers berobed and bewigged strode about looking important. It was all totally … what? Terrifying. That was about it.
A glass-fronted, double-sided notice board stood just inside the cathedral entrance, with details of the day’s cases, and there it was, pinned up: “Court number 31, Mr. Justice Harris, Shaw v. Shaw.” That was her, and how had that happened, that her marriage, her really rather amazing marriage, entered into with such happiness and love and hope, had become Shaw v. Shaw and had been sent into court number thirty-one to be dismembered by Mr. Justice Harris? She felt her eyes fill—God, she must stop weeping all the time—brushed the tears impatiently away, got out a hanky and heard a crisp voice—“No bogies, please!”—and there was Toby Gilmour, not quite smiling, looking oddly older and more important in his gown and his wig.
“All right?” he said, and she nodded and managed to smile. “Good. We’re lucky in Harris, nice old chap, quite benign. Pity we won’t have him next time. He’d be ideal. Still … you OK?”
It was over in less than an hour; Mr. Justice Harris listened courteously to what was put before him, occasionally with a sharp glance at whoever was speaking, and once or twice at Matt or Eliza, and then opined that it would be a whole week’s case and that they would need at least six weeks to have it in shape, as he put it. “You will be required to have all your witness statements, medical reports you may want to rely on, documents, letters lodged in a month’s time. Your solicitors will then prepare your case. So I suggest the first week in July for the hearing commencing on, let me see, Monday the fifth, and that date will be in the court diary and cannot change. I hope that is clear.”
There was a murmur of “Yes, my lord,” and then the clerk of the court told them to ris
e and Mr. Justice Harris swept out without a further glance at any of them.
“Come along,” whispered Philip Gordon, taking Eliza’s arm, and she looked at him, slightly bewildered, feeling she wasn’t quite sure who he was, or indeed who she was, and they left the courtroom ahead of the others, and found themselves suddenly and rather wonderfully out of the building and into the sunshine by way of a side entrance, and thence into New Square.
Eliza’s legs suddenly felt rather weak and she sank gratefully onto one of the seats and said, “Oh, dear.”
And Matt, having refused the offer of lunch and its attendant postmortem with his legal team, and loathing the air of complacency draped almost visibly around them, said he had to get back to the office and went and drove very fast out of town, quite where he had no idea, merely struggling to escape from the demons that had attached themselves to him so firmly in the courtroom that morning; he bought himself a couple of beers and parked in the gateway of a field, and sat there for a long time, drinking and thinking, and then, as the long afternoon became evening, he turned the car back towards the city …
“Scarlett, this is Persephone. I would like to see you as soon as possible. And please don’t tell Mark.”
Oh, God. This was it. Mark had told her they were engaged, and she was obviously displeased. He had been very quiet when he got back from the interview, and refused to say anything, except that yes, it had gone fine.
“And did you tell her we wanted to be married on Trisos?”
“Yes, of course. And it was fine.”
“And did you ask about writing the … the—”
“Epithalamium? Yes.” An epithalamium, it transpired, was a poem celebrating a marriage.
“And is she going to do it?”
“Yes, I think so.”
It was like being back with the Mark Frost she had first met. And now … “Ah, there you are. Lovely flowers, but actually next time, I’d rather have chocolates. If you don’t mind. Dorothy, put these things in water, would you? And bring us some tea.”
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