More Than You Know (85 page)

“I’d quite like to move out,” said Matt to Ivor Lewis.

“Why?”

“Because it’s absolutely bloody awful living there in the same house, pretending to my daughter—”

“It’s a ghastly business, Mr. Shaw. Look. You’re fighting for custody of that child because you say your wife is an unfit mother. You move out of the house, what do you think that says?”

“I … don’t know.”

“Think about it. It implies you’re happy to leave the child with her, in her care. Not a good point in your favor when it comes to court. Presumably you’re anxious that she’s going to neglect her further, leave her with unsuitable people, continue to undermine your parenting wishes—”

“Yes, of course I am.”

“So you shouldn’t walk away from all that. Look … are you concerned that the child is in any physical danger? Has your wife ever struck her, to your knowledge? Because if she has—”

“No,” said Matt sharply, “no, I’m absolutely confident of that. She just … well, she wouldn’t. It’s out of the question.”

“You wouldn’t care to … check up on that?”

Matt stared at him.

“How, for Christ’s sake?”

“Ask your daughter?”

“Absolutely not. It would be an appalling thing to suggest to her. It would frighten her.”

“Not if there had actually been violence. Children keep very quiet about it, you know; they feel ashamed, as if it’s their own fault. And, of course, that there might be retribution from telling on Mummy or Daddy.”

“No,” said Matt, “Eliza would never do that. And if she had, Emmie would have told me. She’s quite … quite manipulative. In her own way.”

“Right. Well, anyway, I would advise you not to move out. Stick it out, Mr. Shaw. Hopefully it won’t be for too long. Has your wife suggested moving out?”

“No. No, she hasn’t. Apart from anything else, she doesn’t have any money, couldn’t afford a flat or anything.”

“I thought she half owned your country pile?”

“It’s a legal nicety. I paid for it, through the nose. To save her bloody family from penury. Or what passes for penury to those people. Her mother had to break a family trust to enable me to do it. Nice woman, we get along very well. She doesn’t approve of her working, for a start.”

“I’d like to look at the agreement,” said Ivor Lewis. “If you don’t mind. And … do you suppose the mother could be persuaded to appear as a witness for your defence? Because that would be a very powerful point in your favor.”

“Oh … no, I don’t think so,” said Matt. “Blood thicker than water and all that.”

“Well, if she’s not going to be a witness for you, she’ll certainly be one for her daughter. We can cross-examine in court. You never know. Something might come up.”

“Darling,” said Jeremy. “Sleeping on the job, so to speak. What a silly girl you are. Dear, oh, dear, Eliza, what a mess.”

“Yes. I know. I’m sorry, Jeremy. So sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, sweetie.”

“Well, it was while on agency business, so to speak. And you must think so badly of me. It’s not as if I was passionately and deeply in love with him. He’s just … just a mate, really. I thought better of myself; I really did.”

“We all do things that take us by surprise sometimes,” said Jeremy, “that we thought we wouldn’t be capable of.”

“Not you, Jeremy, surely? You’re such a gentleman, always so … so perfectly behaved …”

“I try,” he said, and sighed suddenly.

“What have I done, Jeremy? It’s an awful thing that someone who once loved you so much, and thought you were wonderful, despises you and wants to hurt you … You’ve no idea how frightened I feel; the thought of losing Emmie is just … Well, I don’t know what I’d do. It’s the one thing I don’t think I could bear. I thought baby Charles dying was the worst, but losing Emmie …” She started to cry.

“Oh, my darling, you really have had such a cruel, horrible time, haven’t you? It’s so unfair, and you’re so lovely.”

“I’m not very lovely,” said Eliza, sniffing, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. “I’m bad. I’ve been really bad. You don’t know—”

“Unwise, maybe. Hardly grounds for custody, though.”

“It depends on the judge, my solicitor says. Jeremy, you wouldn’t be a witness for me, would you?”

“Darling, of course I will. But … I’m the person who tempted you back to work. And who was your lover for a long time. Not sure your barrister would find that very satisfactory.”

“Maybe not. Oh, God, what a mess. What a filthy, horrible mess. If I could only go back a year. So much of it was me being brattish, Matt being stubborn—”

“Is it really too late now?”

She looked at him and sighed. “Oh, Jeremy, yes. Of course it is. Absolutely too late.”

“Now, you are not to be frightened, and remember I love you.”

She hadn’t got used to that yet. The sheer pleasure not just of hearing the words, but the way he spoke them. Very, very simply, and quietly, and as if he was half-surprised himself to be saying them. Which, actually, he said he was.

“I’ve led a very sheltered life, romantically,” he said with a slight sigh that first night, as they talked almost into the dawn lying in her bed, astonished at what was happening and its swiftness.

“You could have fooled me, Mr. Frost,” she said, stretching luxuriously, her body still half-shocked at the new, gloriously sweet discovery of him.

“Well … of course there has been the occasional encounter. Since … since Catherine.”

“Who died?” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he said, more quietly still. And then: “I mean … I do like … well …”

“Sex?” she said, and smiled at him.

“Yes. But what just happened to us wasn’t exactly sex, was it? It was making love, in the truest sense. It was me, the whole of me, telling you I wanted you, the whole of you. It was … it was lovely,” he said, kissing her gently. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. So … tell me about this sheltered life.”

“Well … as you must have realised, I am rather … shy. I’m not sure why; I was just born that way. It’s hard to describe; it’s a kind of fear, I suppose. Of being judged and found wanting. A feeling you’re safer just with yourself. And quite early I discovered the best way was to stay just with myself. I was an only child, and I liked it. I dreaded every effort people made to help me, as they saw it, to suggest friends, to invite me to play with other children; parties were a nightmare; I just stood in corners, watching while terrible mothers said, ‘Come along, Mark; join in the fun.’ ”

“What about school?”

“Oh, I didn’t mind school at all. School was all right; I had a role to play; I knew what I was meant to be doing and I could just get on and do it. I was quite … clever; I did well, got scholarships, things like that—”

“Did you go to boarding school?”

“No. My father thought I should go, but my mother wouldn’t allow it, and what my mother said went.”

Scarlett had been afraid of that.

“But day school was fine; it was a very academic place; there were other little swots, so, yes, I managed school; I did it quite well. It’s why I can give talks at those book launches and things; it’s having a clear role to play and playing it. But sitting next to some strange woman at dinner, expected to chatter and be interesting … oh, God. So just a couple of dalliances over the past years—”

“I can’t imagine you having a dalliance,” said Scarlett.

“Well … in both cases, they did the dallying. Very determined. Again, it meant I had a role to play, and they were both very nice, very attractive. It wasn’t difficult. And then … nothing. Till I met you. I saw you that first day, here on Trisos, all brown and beautiful and wild haired, and everything lurched. I felt … physically unsteady. I thought you were the most desirable thing I’d ever seen.”

“Goodness,” said Scarlett. “Rejecting every effort I made to talk to you, scuttling away as fast as you could—”

“Oh, I know, I know. But there was no role for me with you, clearly. Sophisticated, successful, independent woman—what truck could you have with me? It was very alarming.”

“Well, lots of truck now,” said Scarlett happily, leaning over and kissing him, “lots and lots of truck.”

“Indeed. And the most lovely thing about you for me is that you are part of Trisos and how I feel about it; I could never think about it from that moment without thinking also of you.”

“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever had.”

“I can’t believe that. You must have had a great many in your time.”

“Only a few that ever mattered,” she said.

They talked about David; it had to be confronted, and simply. She was brutal, did not spare herself. Even about the baby.

Mark listened quietly, interrupting only when she told him about the blackmail.

“How marvellous,” he said. “What an absolutely correct thing to do.”

It was a novel interpretation, but she liked it.

She stayed a week—as she had planned originally. A wonderful, sun-drenched week, as they explored each other and their lives, and wondered that it had taken them so long to come this far. They were at once impressed and delighted by each other, every day a delight of discovery.

On the last night, as she prepared to leave Trisos, he told her he loved her.

And now she was to meet his mother.

Scarlett Shaw, half-educated, ill-read, ex–air hostess, for God’s sake, being presented to this amazing woman who wrote poetry, who addressed festivals and lectured undergraduates, and not just in the ordinary course of things, not as a mere acquaintance, but as the object of his very great affection, as Mark put it—God, she loved his way with words—and by her only son. God, it was terrifying. She would have nothing to say, she would do the wrong things, she would fail the test completely, and Mark would abandon her …

And what did you wear to meet such a paragon of intellect? Did you look trendy or classic; did you wear color or try to blend into the background?

“Oh, God, oh, God,” she wailed to her wardrobe mirror, looking round at her bedroom, littered with every sort of combination of clothes. And thought of the words of Eliza, whose sartorial opinion she had always relied on—“When in doubt dress down”—and she put on a little black dress and a long string of pearls and some midheight heels and very little makeup, and went out to slay the dragoness.

Who was a fairly pleasant surprise. She looked rather like Mark, with the same clear-cut features, the same grey eyes, and what had clearly once been the same dark hair, only thickly interwoven with grey and drawn back into a chignon. Her clothes were a little poetesslike, to be sure: a long skirt, a heavily embroidered Russian-style blouse buttoned high on the neck, and a silk befringed shawl round her shoulders. She was pale and very drawn-looking, no doubt because of the constant pain, but her smile when it came was dazzling. She lived in a rather dark large flat in Bloomsbury—where else could it be? Even Scarlett knew Bloomsbury was the centre of female literary London—every wall lined with books, every surface covered with papers. She was cared for day-to-day by a companion called Dorothy, who seemed both efficient
and patient, and whose role was clearly not as subservient as Scarlett would have expected; she argued with her mistress quite frequently and eloquently indeed, but she was clearly fond of her and of Mark. “She’s like a rather strict nanny,” he confided to Scarlett afterwards.

Mark had brought some special teacakes from Fortnum that his mother loved, and Scarlett had brought flowers, a rather overlarge bouquet, she realised, which could have been interpreted as vulgar. But Mrs. Frost received them graciously, handed them over to Dorothy, and told her to sit down and “let me have a look at you.”

She proceeded to scrutinise Scarlett quite closely for what seemed a long time; then she nodded as if satisfied and said, “Good,” as if she had passed some inspection. Which she supposed she had.

“Mark told me you were very pretty: he was right. And what do you think of him?”

“Oh! Oh, I think he’s wonderful.”

“Do you? Well, he’s certainly talented. Have you read his books?”

“Most of them.”

“And how do you find his social skills? A lot of people find him rather dull.”

“How rude of them to say so,” said Scarlett. She felt surprised at this attack.