More Than You Know (86 page)

“Oh, my dear, most of my friends are rude. Outspoken, anyway. I am myself. Anyway, I’m glad he amuses you. He amuses me too. And you met on Trisos, I understand. Lovely place. I adore the Greek islands. I always wanted to do what Mark is doing and make a second home there. But my husband—now, he was a dull man—couldn’t understand it. Preferred the home counties,” she added disparagingly.

“Oh,” said Scarlett, “oh, I see.”

“But Mark has been wonderful and taken me there twice. I’m going this summer to see this marvellous new house he’s built. Have you seen it?”

“Yes, and it’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”

“Good. Now, Miss Shaw—”

“Oh, please call me Scarlett.”

“Very well, but only if you call me Persephone.”

“Oh, I’d like that. What a pretty name.”

“Yes, it is, rather a lot to live up to, though.”

“Yes, of course,” said Scarlett carefully. She had no idea who Persephone was and why she should be such a lot to live up to.

“You don’t know, do you? You should. She was the goddess of spring. You obviously haven’t studied mythology.”

“Mama,” said Mark warningly.

“No, I haven’t,” said Scarlett firmly. “I haven’t studied much, I’m afraid.”

There was a silence. Then Mrs. Frost said, “I believe you’ve achieved a lot of other things, though, and I must respect that, I suppose. And you could argue that what matters is achievement. In whatever field. I’m not sure I agree. Still … Well-done. She’s perfectly nice, Mark,” she added as if Scarlett was no longer there. “I like her. Now … where is that wretched Dorothy and where is our tea.”

Later, as Scarlett recovered over a stiff gin and tonic in the nearest pub, Mark said, “You did so well. I was so proud of you. I was terrified you were going to pretend to be what you so clearly are not, and she’d have hated that.”

“Mark,” said Scarlett, “I never pretend to be what I’m not. It doesn’t work. I learnt that long ago.”

“And it’s one of the reasons I most love you,” he said. “And now shall we go back to my place?”

“That could be a very nice idea. And I’m glad I’ve cleared the first hurdle.”

“With furlongs to spare,” he said.

Eliza, staring at the letter, or rather at the bottom of the second page, felt rather sick.

“I thought I should let you know our terms … Charges will be calculated by reference to the time spent by me and other fee earners dealing with this matter … This will include advising, attendances, dealing with papers, correspondence, telephone calls, and travelling time … My own charge-out rate is at present fifty pounds per hour … My assistant’s charge-out rate is thirty pounds per hour … I estimate that handling your divorce case will take at least fifty hours of my time, and possibly more of my assistant’s, taking into account meeting with yourself, meeting
and interviewing witnesses, briefing a QC, attending court … Our charge may therefore be in the region of, and certainly not less than, four thousand pounds … I will review this with you as necessary … In addition all expenses incurred will be added to the bill …”

“Shit!” she said aloud. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Naughty Mummy.”

“Sorry, Emmie. Yes, very naughty Mummy. Don’t say that at school, Emmie, and don’t, please, say it in front of Daddy, all right? He wouldn’t like it.”

“Daddy says rude words too, sometimes. But you say more.”

Right. Let’s add that to the list of misdemeanours, shall we, Your Honour? The mother persistently uses bad language and has taught her daughter to use it as well …

“Come on, then; finish your breakfast and then go and clean your teeth or we’ll be late.”

“I was late two times last week.”

“Were you?”

“Yes, those two mornings you were crying and you said you just had a cold, I was late.”

And there’s another. The mother delivers the child persistently late to school …

“One day I was so late that my teacher asked me what had happened and I told her that you were crying and that you’d even told me not to clean my teeth so we wouldn’t be even later …”

And another: the mother frequently tells the child not to clean her teeth; the dentist reports considerable decay as a result …

“Well, there’s time for you to clean them today. Go on, Emmie; get a move on.”

Emmie went upstairs; Eliza sat reading the letter again and then again, as if willing the words to change. They didn’t.

Four thousand pounds at the very least. She didn’t have four hundred pounds, not that she could call her own. There was, in her own bank account, eighty pounds, and when she had paid Jennifer, there would be twenty pounds.
Shit indeed
.

A new reason to panic, she thought, to add to the other, darker fears.

She asked her mother—“I’m so sorry, darling; I’d help if I could”;
she asked Charles—“Sorry, Eliza, still being stung for a hefty amount by Juliet every month.” She even, heart thudding so loudly she felt he must hear, tried to talk to Matt about it.

“I don’t have any money; you know I don’t; how can I possibly pay for solicitors and barristers and courts; it’s so ridiculous—”

“You should have thought of that,” he said, “before you started on this. Why don’t you ask one of your lovers; Northcott’s got plenty of money; I’m sure he’d love to help. Or your friends in Italy. Or even that art director; they earn a lot, don’t they?”

“I hate you,” she said, “so much.”

“I know you do,” he said. And walked out of the room.

With only ten days to go before the party in New York and a week before they were due to leave Italy, Giovanni developed a very nasty cold. Which in turn developed into bronchitis, and then a more generalised infection, and his doctor advised him very strongly against making the trip; alarmed by the speed with which he had felt himself become ill, he acquiesced and told Mariella she must go alone.

Mariella, equally alarmed, said she would not go, would not leave him; he said—of course—that the party was of immense importance, not only to her and her guests and the entire fashion world, but to the charity that was about to benefit by thousands of dollars.

And so—genuinely reluctant—she agreed, although only with the proviso that he was recovering, which, by the day before her departure, he most undoubtedly was.

And so, while still protesting most volubly, Mariella agreed to go alone.

Matt had—finally—told his parents. Their initial sympathy made him feel embarrassed and even foolish, but when he had moved on to his plans to get custody of Emmie they became almost hostile.

“What?” said Sandra. “You’re going to … to try to take Emmie away from her?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Matt! Is that really a good idea? It could get very nasty, surely. I
mean, I can see it’s dreadful what Eliza’s done; it makes me feel really … really sick, but poor little Emmie … have you really thought what fighting over her would do to her?”

“I think it would be better for her in the long run than leaving her with Eliza.”

“But, Matt, she’s … she’s been a good mother, whatever else she’s done. I always thought that.”

“What, leaving Emmie while she goes to work, running off to meet her lover, pretending she’s on some photographic session—”

“Well, I know, but … look, love, don’t you think you should take this a bit more slowly? I mean, every marriage goes through rough patches, but you get through it, you know and—”

“Mum, she’s completely betrayed me; I can’t get over that.”

“I didn’t say over it, love; I said through it. And I do think you should try to think of Emmie, poor little mite, and how she’s going to feel, however it turns out.”

“Too right,” said Peter. “If you really care about Emmie, you’ll try to put it behind you. I know Eliza’s been playing away, and I can see that’s bloody awful for you; I’d want to send her to kingdom come myself, but these things happen, and Emmie and her life with the two of you as a family is more important than your hurt pride.”

This was probably the longest speech Matt or Sandra had ever heard Pete make; they both stared at him in silence. Then Sandra said, slightly nervously, “He’s right, Matt; you should try to see it differently, for Emmie’s sake.”

“Well,” said Matt after a silence, “I know where I stand now, then. I won’t be coming to you for support or help again. Thanks, both of you. I came to ask you to be witnesses for me, speak up for me, say I’m perfectly able to look after Emmie—”

“But, Matt, how could you? When you work so hard, such long hours …”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted. “If my own parents won’t come down on my side, who will? What a waste of bloody time this has been. Thanks for nothing.”

He walked out and slammed the front door; the little house shook. Sandra burst into tears; Pete got out his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette, his invariable response to any difficult situation.

“Oh, Pete,” said Sandra, pulling out a handkerchief, wiping her eyes. “What have we done? Poor, poor Matt.”

“We haven’t done anything,” said Pete. “They just don’t work. She’s nice enough, but she sees the world differently.”

“Pete! You’re talking rubbish. And all that class stuff is old hat—”

“Now you’re talking rubbish,” said Pete. “Class is in your bones; it’s what makes you what you are, and it’s no use pretending it doesn’t. Still, no point arguing about that now; we’ve got to support him; course we have. He won’t get Emmie, not in a month of Sundays, but we can’t fail him; we’re his flesh and blood, after all. I’ll go and see him tomorrow, tell him so. Best leave him to cool down now.”

But Matt wasn’t cooling down; he was shouting at Gina.

“My own parents can’t see it. They think all she’s done is sleep with someone else; they can’t see any of the rest of it.”

“Well, even if all she’d done was sleep with someone,” said Gina carefully, “it would be quite bad. I’m surprised they’re not on your side over that.”

“Well, Mum is. Dad said I should grow up, put it aside for Emmie’s sake. When it’s Emmie I’m doing it for, Emmie I want to keep safe.”

“Yes, of course,” said Gina soothingly, “of course it is.”

“And I will get her; I will.”