More Than You Know (84 page)

“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?”

“Well … no,” said Eliza, living yet again the horror of that moment, of a naked, shaking Rob handing her the phone across the bed, saying, “It’s your husband.” “But … wouldn’t that immediately make me the guilty party?”

“It would, insofar as you were admitting adultery, but not to the other charges, alleging your unsuitability as a mother. Do you think the … the other party would agree to your doing that?”

“I’ll have to ask him, but I … I think so,” she said, reflecting on Rob’s reaction when she called him to say what Matt had done.

“Stupid bloody idiot,” he said. “Well, I’ll do whatever you want, Eliza.”

“Good. So there is no … no emotional complication?”

“I … That is … no,” she said, blushing. One of the worst things was the way she had been forced to view herself: as a slut, a good-time girl, sleeping with someone she hardly knew. She felt deeply and horribly ashamed of herself … Maybe Matt was right … She didn’t deserve to have charge of Emmie.

“Good. Then we simply fight the custody case only. I think you might do better that way. Judges get very weary of listening to couples bitching about one another, for want of a better expression, wasting several days of court time.”

“Would that get it over more quickly?” said Eliza.

“It could. Yes.”

“Because it’s so awful, what’s happening now, living with him in the same house, sort of pretending to Emmie—to my daughter—absolutely ghastly; you can’t imagine. I don’t know why he’s doing it, when he obviously hates me so much. Why doesn’t he move out into a flat or something?”