Clifford Rogers won’t like that, thought Philip; he was already regarding Eliza with a certain disdain, clearly seeing her as a younger version of her mother.
“Mrs. Shaw,” said Bruce Hayward, standing up, “are we to infer from this that you feel one of your prime duties as a mother is to organise your child’s social diary?”
“I object to the tone of that question, my lord.”
“No, it’s perfectly reasonable. Answer it, please, Mrs. Shaw.”
“No, of course not. Not a … a prime duty. What I meant was that … that … I can’t do this,” she said suddenly. “I think I should leave it to others to speak for me. I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Shaw.” Clifford Rogers looked at her quite sternly. “You are obliged to answer the questions put to you in court. Otherwise you are in contempt. Answer the question.”
“Yes. Well … well, no, not a prime duty. But one of them.”
“And the other duties?” asked Bruce Hayward.
“Well … to … to see to the child’s physical well-being, to give her love and attention, to make her feel secure …”
“And you don’t think leaving a child with a nanny and going out to work would make her feel less secure?”
“Um … possibly. It would depend how you … you organised everything.”
“Possibly. I see. So you decided to give it a go. To see how it worked out?”
“No. Not … not at all.”
Another long silence. Gilmour stood up again.
“Mrs. Shaw, tell us how you felt after your baby died. How this affected your performance as a mother.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, I was very, very … unhappy. And I found Emmie very difficult. She is a very demanding little girl. And she could see … she could see I wasn’t …” Another, very long silence. Then: “I’m sorry. I don’t want to go on with this. I can’t. There could be no defence of what I did to Emmie that day. However provoked I was. Nothing a child said or did could possibly excuse violence on the part of an adult. I’ve already tried to explain why I think Emmie would be better with me. I … I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Hayward,” said Clifford Rogers, looking both impatient and bored, “do you have any questions for Mrs. Shaw?”
“Only one, at this stage, my lord. Mrs. Shaw, your psychiatric treatment was clearly very successful, and how fortunate that it was. How long after the … the incident with your daughter were you able to go to Milan? To stay with your friends in their villa?”
He somehow managed to endow the word villa with connotations of debauchery.
“Oh … well … about three months. Maybe two.”
“Where you were obviously able to enjoy yourself quite considerably. Shopping, the opera, dining out—all very therapeutic as well, no doubt.”
Eliza was silent.
“And when you returned, then you began to think about returning to work, as I understand it. That would require considerable self-confidence, surely, after a prolonged absence?”
“Well, yes. Yes, I suppose so. But I knew … Well, I thought … Oh, I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Shaw,” said Clifford Rogers wearily, “that is not acceptable. I have said before, you are obliged to answer the questions put to you. Proceed, Mr. Hayward.”
“I was only seeking to ascertain, my lord, whether Mrs. Shaw had found it easy to find the necessary self-confidence to return to work. Mrs. Shaw?”
“Not really, no,” said Eliza, “but I also thought it would help.”
“Help what exactly?”
“My state of mind.”
“Which was?”
“Well … very unhappy. And … and lonely.”
“And … staying at home and caring for your child was not going to help that?”
He was a clever bastard, thought Toby; this was getting worse by the minute.
“Well … no, not really,” said Eliza.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. No more questions, my lord.”
Toby was back on his feet. “I would like to call Miss Scarlett Shaw.”
Overwhelmed by her failure to perform, Eliza sat and watched Scarlett in awe. She was dressed in a brilliant blue linen trouser suit, her glossy dark hair pulled back from her face.
“I have known Eliza Shaw for many years,” she said, smiling briefly across at Eliza, “and I have seen her with her daughter countless times; I was a frequent visitor to their home. She is a quite marvellous mother. She’s endlessly patient, she’s fun, plays with her all the time, never stops trying to amuse her, she plans outings, she takes her all over the place, and yet she’s very firm with her; she doesn’t spoil her. She makes her do her homework, learn her spellings and so on. And she runs her life. It’s very, very complicated, Emmie’s life, ballet, gym, music, the riding at the weekend, parties—I’d need a secretary if it was mine. And that’s one of the reasons I think my brother would find it so hard to cope with caring for Emmie full-time.”
Toby Gilmour was playing devil’s advocate. “I would have thought a man who ran a considerable business empire could organise a little girl’s life for her.”
“Well, yes, but not if he was still trying to run the empire. Matt—Mr. Shaw—is a very all-or-nothing person; that’s how he’s achieved what he has. And I know he says he’ll give it up, but I don’t think he’ll be able to; he loves it all too much. Don’t get me wrong; I admire him more than I can tell you, but … delivering and fetching to and from parties, taking Emmie to the dentist and the doctor, remembering to buy birthday presents for her friends, getting costumes made for the dancing displays—I’ve watched Eliza doing all this, at the same time as she’s running her own life, and she’s brilliant at it. Women are; it’s in our genes …”
“What is in your genes, Miss Shaw?” Clifford Rogers was watching Scarlett with a certain fascination.
“Well … you know … doing six things at once. Men—with respect, my lord—usually can’t.”
“I … must observe myself more closely,” said Clifford Rogers. There was a polite murmur of laughter round the court.
“Are you telling us, Miss Shaw”—Bruce Hayward had risen to his feet—“that this and this alone would prevent your brother from being a good parent to Emmeline?”
“No, of course not. And I do think he is completely devoted to Emmie; he’s a brilliant father, quite ahead of his time as a parent, but I don’t think he can play both roles. I really don’t. They’re both brilliant parents, in their different ways; it’s such a … a … dreadful shame.”
There was a long silence; then Toby Gilmour said, “Thank you, Miss Shaw.”
Scarlett stepped down from the witness box; everybody was watching her in various stages of admiration. As she left the court there was a slight disturbance and a clerk came in, gave a note to Philip. He read it, then scribbled something on it and gave it back to the clerk. And wrote a note of his own and passed it to Toby.
Eliza, her misery only slightly eased by Scarlett’s performance, was too wretched even to notice.
“My lord, I would now like to call Mr. Jack Beckham, the editor of the Daily News. Mr. Beckham, you employed Eliza Shaw as fashion editor on a magazine you edited, I believe? Could you tell us its name?”
Beckham looked relaxed and cheerful and clearly intended to enjoy himself hugely.
“It was called Charisma. I edited it from 1963 to 1968. Then I decided it was time I did a proper job and went back to Fleet Street.”
“And Mrs. Shaw came to work for you … when?”
“Oh, in 1963, as fashion assistant. I was very impressed with her from the word go. I had my reservations, as I knew she’d been a deb and all that nonsense, but she proved herself in days. She worked round the clock; nothing was too much for her. We gave her husband a big break, matter of fact, included him in a feature on the new young blood around—very good publicity, not sure that he appreciated it enough—but anyway … They were good together at the time. Damn shame, all this. But it happens, doe
sn’t it?”
“Try to keep to the point, Mr. Beckham,” said Clifford Rogers.
“I’d have thought that was the point. Certainly part of it.”
“And … when did you make her fashion editor?” asked Toby, terrified Clifford Rogers would haul Beckham up for contempt of court. But he actually appeared rather delighted by him.
“Oh … about nine months later. Everyone said it was too soon, but I knew it wasn’t; there wasn’t another candidate to touch her. Very, very clever girl, always coming up with the goods. I’m proud to have been involved in her career. Then she had to throw it all away.”
“Indeed? How did she do that?”
“She got herself pregnant. Said she had to leave when she’d had the baby. I did everything I could to make her stay, flattered her, bribed her with more money, but she said it was out of the question.”
“Did she give a reason?”
“Yes, she did; she said she had to stay at home and look after the child. I tried again a few years later to get her to come as fashion editor at the News, but she said she couldn’t. Same reason.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beckham.”
“Mr. Hayward?”
“Mr. Beckham, it was in your paper, I believe, that the article about Mr. Shaw’s tenants was published.”
“It was indeed.”
“So … you were still in touch with Mrs. Shaw?”
“I don’t know quite what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything, Mr. Beckham. Merely trying to find the background to the article.”
“I had nothing to do with the article; it was done entirely through my property editor, Johnny Barrett. She’d met him, and she got in touch with him herself. I subsequently discovered she tried to get it taken out of the paper, but it was too late.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beckham. Could we hear from Mr. Barrett next?”
Something was going on; Eliza was puzzled. Both Philip and Toby asked her to excuse them at lunchtime, and Caroline, Philip’s assistant, escorted her to a local coffee shop for sandwiches. Not that she could eat them. She felt sick with misery, overwhelmed by her wretched performance in the witness box.
“The reporter, Johnny Barrett, was great, wasn’t he?” said Caroline; and indeed he had been, stressing that Eliza had done her utmost to discourage him from writing the article, even before she had realised the developers were colleagues of Matt’s.
Bruce Hayward had suggested it was naive of Eliza to think that any article about the property business might not be in danger of damaging Matt, but Johnny Barrett said he had known Eliza for a long time, and he could vouch for the pride she felt in Matt’s company. “First time I met her, she practically bent my ear right off telling me how brilliant he was.”
He had also accepted that what he himself had done, tracking Heather down and coercing her into talking to him, was not entirely honourable. “But, sorry, Mr. Hayward, he who pays the piper calls the tune, and my piper is my editor and he wanted this piece. You know what they say about the British journalist, I’m sure.”
Bruce Hayward said he did not, but he had no wish to either, and Johnny Barrett was free to go.
“What do they say about the British journalist, Eliza?” Caroline asked now.
“Oh—gosh, yes, it’s a poem. ‘There is no way to bribe or twist, thank God, the British journalist; but seeing what the man will do, unbribed, there’s no occasion to.’ ”
“Very good. Oh, there’s Philip; he wants us to go back. It’s your friend this afternoon, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. Poor Heather, she’ll be so frightened.”
If Heather was frightened, she didn’t look it. She appeared calm, sensible, and made the same touchingly loyal speech about Eliza and her qualities as a friend and mother as she had a week earlier—omitting by mutual agreement that Eliza had lent her money.
It was immediately apparent that it had been a good idea to call her; Clifford Rogers was obviously not only rather taken with her—she did look very pretty, her brown hair cut to a swinging bob (at Eliza’s expense, but he was not to know that)—but he clearly liked the story of their friendship, and when Bruce Hayward enquired in honeyed tones whether Heather had ever wondered why Eliza wanted to spend so much time with her, he looked across at her most benignly as she said she imagined it was the same reason she had wanted to spend so much time with Eliza: that she liked her and enjoyed her company.
“But … did you really have very much in common?”
“Yes, we did. We had the children; they were the same age and they always got on very well. And we … just liked talking to each other. Doing things together.”
“You didn’t feel … that perhaps there was something of Lady Bountiful in Mrs. Shaw’s relationship with you?”
“My lord, I object strongly to that question.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Gilmour.”
“I am quite happy to answer the question,” said Heather firmly, “and no, there wasn’t. We were just good friends. I never felt she was spending time with me because she hadn’t got anyone among her own circle; she had lots of … of posh friends, but—” She stopped.
“Do go on, Mrs. Connell.”
“She always said they weren’t as interesting as me,” said Heather, looking down at her hands.
Clifford Rogers looked as if he would like to embrace her.
“And the article,” said Bruce Hayward, clearly regretting this line of questioning, “that must have upset you and your husband considerably.”
“Yes, it did, and we weren’t on speaking terms for a while, Eliza and me, but that was my fault, not hers. She tried and tried to make it up to me—came to see me and apologized the very next day, and said it wasn’t her fault, and she’d tried to stop it—but I was a bit stupid and said I didn’t believe her. But I do now.”
“And when was your friendship resumed?”
“A few months ago.”
“She didn’t contact you, I suppose?”
“No,” said Heather firmly, “I didn’t know anything about the case, if that’s what you mean. I wrote to her because I was missing her …”
It was the end of the session; Philip and Toby said they had something to tell her.
“Eliza … I’m sorry, and you must try not to get too upset, but … the old boy has asked to see Emmie. Tomorrow afternoon. She’ll need to be brought here; could your mother do that?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but … Oh, God, it’s awful, so awful; she’ll be so upset by it; I know she thinks it’ll be fun—”
“Does she?” said Toby sharply.
“Yes. She said she thought it was a good idea when I warned her. I was quite … surprised. But she doesn’t know what it means, the sort of things he’ll ask her.”
“And what do you think they will be?” said Philip gently.
“Well … I suppose whom she loves best, whom she wants to live with.”
“Eliza, it will be much more subtle than that, I promise you. He’ll be trying to establish how she views it all, how upset she actually is, how much she likes her school, possibly what she thinks about living mainly with Matt, whether any of the other children at her school have parents who don’t live together, perhaps how she feels about your going to work, how much she likes the nanny—that sort of thing. It will be quite gentle. Rogers likes children; he understands them, and he’s had two of his own; he’ll take it very steady. Try not to worry.”
“Worry? Of course I won’t worry … Oh, God … I’d better go home, tell her, get her used to the idea.”
“Yes, but don’t … don’t alarm her, make her think it’s going to be an ordeal. Will you? That will really be counterproductive. Just tell her he wants to have a little talk with her.”
Eliza looked at them. “You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?” she said coldly. “Look, call me a taxi, will you; I’ve had enough of all this; I really have.”
The opera house was very full: perfectly dre
ssed people smiling, waving, kissing; Mariella, following Giovanni through it all, felt quite quite alone, isolated in her terror, terror and longing, that at any moment she might find herself confronted by the person she wanted to see most and least in the entire world, and Jeremy, for his part, arriving deliberately as late as he dared, walked slowly up the great red staircase to meet his guests, filled with the same terror and the same absurd longing.
But thus far they had been spared, and the warning bell saw Mariella and Giovanni settled into their box and Jeremy and his guests into their seats in the stalls.
The first interval she had been safe; Giovanni had had champagne brought to the box, and had invited a friend he had seen in the foyer to join them. Perhaps, perhaps they would even now escape. But Giovanni had wanted to stretch his legs, he said and—
“Jeremy! My dear, dear friend, how marvellous to see you. Mariella, cara, here is Jeremy.” And Jeremy, bending to kiss her, breathing in her perfume, brushing against her hair, tortured, terrified, said it would be delightful to join them for dinner, but alas he had ten guests with him and they had booked a table at the River Room at the Savoy. “Then let us have a drink together now,” Giovanni said, “and we can meet perhaps for lunch tomorrow—after Mariella has made her appearance in court; she is a little nervous, I think, a little quiet this evening, but she will be wonderful, Jeremy, will she not, and you must join us at the Ritz at … shall we say one thirty? No, no refusals, I will not hear of it …”
And then they returned to their seats, away from each other once more, to the doomed love story playing out before them as well as their own.
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