More Than You Know (87 page)

“Of course you will. What’s the latest from your solicitor?”

“He’s very confident,” said Matt. “Very confident.”

“Well … good. What did he think about my idea, you know, to call the psychotherapist?”

“I … I haven’t talked to him about that yet.”

“Why not, for God’s sake?”

“Because I’m absolutely sure she’ll be on Eliza’s side, talk about her depression, make me look bad.”

“She might produce her as a witness.”

He stared at her. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of course she might. For the very reason you just said, about how depressed she was, explain a lot of her bad behaviour away.”

“Oh, God. God almighty, what a mess. Give me another whisky, would you?”

“Yes, of course. And, Matt, why don’t you stay the night; you’ve had an awful lot to drink.”

He stared at her. “Stay the night? Are you mad? What do you think she’d do with that if she knew? Of course I can’t stay the night. I don’t like coming here, really—”

“Well, thanks.”

“No, I mean it’s dangerous. I mean no one would believe we weren’t having it away.”

“No,” said Gina, with a sigh, “no, I don’t think they would.”

“I think it’s time we thought about briefing a barrister,” said Philip Gordon.

“Oh. Oh, yes, I see.”

More money. Terrifying amounts of more money. If solicitors were expensive, how much more would a barrister be?

“Um … does it have to be a very … a very top-of-the-range barrister?”

“Now, why do you say that? You don’t have unlimited resources, is that it?”

“Well … yes, actually. That is it.”

Philip Gordon smiled at her. She wondered whether he’d smile if he knew she had no resources at all.

“Well, that’s all right. I was going to suggest we talk to a junior initially, just to discuss the case, timing and so on. I’ve got someone in mind, nice chap; you might find him a bit abrasive, but very good for a junior—”

“Timing?”

“Yes, the length of time the case might run. We’ll go along to the courts and the judge will hear what the case is about, what’s involved, and he’ll set a timetable, say you need three days or a week or whatever, maybe in a couple of months’ time, if there’s a lot of evidence and shilly-shallying to go through, and a date will be agreed on. And that will be set in stone. The judge will be sitting there, and he’ll say, ‘Right, I’ve got
the husband’s statement, and yours is yet to come, and there are going to be six witnesses each—’ ”

“Six?” said Eliza, hearing her voice rise in terror. “I haven’t got six.”

“I was simply pulling a number out of the air. Anyway, that’s when we can decide whether we need a junior or a senior barrister, or possibly both …”

“So … we’ll be in court twice?” said Eliza. “With two barristers?” This was getting worse and worse.

“Yes, possibly, but this first one is a very minor affair. And you’ll get a feel for the courts, find them less terrifying when the real case takes place. Now, there’s something else I want to talk to you about. You’ve mentioned you were very depressed after you lost the little baby—”

“Yes. Yes, I was.”

“Would you say you were clinically depressed?”

“I’m … not sure. My doctor put me on antidepressants.”

“Right. Well, we might ask him to present his evidence. Or at least give a written statement.”

“Why? What good would that possibly do? Matt would just say it proved I was unhinged and not fit to look after Emmie.”

“Not necessarily. It could win you quite a bit of sympathy.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well … well, I also saw a psychotherapist. She counselled me for weeks and weeks.”

“We could ask her as well. How would you feel about that?”

“Um … I’m not sure.”

“Think about it. Whatever you decide. I think it would be a good idea. But she could well plead confidentiality, so she might not do us a lot of good. Now, this meeting with the barrister—how are you fixed on Monday or Thursday? He could come in around twelve and then we could have a bit to eat afterwards, if all goes well.”

“You mean if we like each other? Thursday’d be good; I’ll put it in my diary. What’s his name?”

“Toby Gilmour. As I say, nice chap.”

Eliza was halfway home when she realised that she couldn’t possibly ask Mary Miller, her psychotherapist, to give evidence for her in court.
Witnesses were always cross-examined, and she had told Mrs. Miller absolutely everything. Including that she had once hit Emmie. So hard that she had had to go to casualty and have her face stitched … If that came out, she really would be doomed.

“Matt, hallo, this is Louise. How are you?”

“Very busy. Just going into a meeting.”

“OK. I just wondered if you’d like to have a drink sometime? Like tomorrow evening, I’m free?”

“Oh … no, thanks. No, I really haven’t got time, Louise. Sorry.”

“Matt! Come on. I’ve heard you’re not exactly having the best time. You don’t have to pretend, Matt. It’s me, Louise, remember? Old times in the office, Jenny, biscuits, all that sort of thing. Come on. I’ll pay.”

She could almost hear his grudging smile.

“Oh … all right. But I can’t be long.”

“You really are a charmer; you know that? Well, today or tomorrow?”

“Oh … tomorrow.”

“Fine. American Bar at the Savoy, OK? Six thirty.”

“Seven’d be better.”

“All right, seven it is. I can hardly wait.”

“It was your bloody idea.”

“Matt, joke!”

“OK, OK. See you tomorrow.”

He would have said it was the last thing he wanted to do, but when he was in the cab on the way to the Savoy, he realised he was quite looking forward to it. Life was so filthy at the moment, he felt like jumping off his new skyscraper half the time; home was hell, every evening an ordeal, being icily polite to Eliza, especially when Emmie was around, because they both knew if they let it crack for a moment, the rage and the hostility would break through; making excuses to Emmie why they could never do things together with her, watching her sometimes sad, sometimes playing on it, putting it to her advantage, playing off one against the other … it was horrible.

And then everyone kept tiptoeing round him at work, no one mentioning it, and putting up with his bad temper, and then Gina was so
bloody pushy with her Sympathy and her Understanding—you could hear the capital letters—although he needed a bit of that; even his parents kept urging him to reconsider; that had really been a blow. He’d been horribly hurt.

But at least Louise knew him inside out; he didn’t have to pretend, and he could tell her to back off if it threatened to get heavy.

God, he’d known her a long time—nearly as long as he’d known Eliza, and certainly a lot longer than he and Eliza had been together. He thought of the first time she came into the office, all long legs and big eyes, summing them up in a moment, making her claims, striking her deals—and then continuing to do so for almost a decade.

You had to respect her, he thought, and what she had achieved, and it was the real thing, what she did, a lot more impressive than photographing frocks …

He looked terrible, she thought as he walked into the Savoy—far worse than he had at the lunch. He must have lost at least a stone, and his face was gaunt and devoid of color. He was obviously suffering a lot. And … wouldn’t want to talk about it.

“Hey, Matt. You look great,” she said, standing up, kissing his cheek briefly. Funny—all those years working together and the number of times they had exchanged even the most platonic embrace could be counted in single figures. However excited they were, however amazing the deal or landmark they crossed—first really big contract, first million in the bank—she and Matt had never done more than grin at each other and perhaps give each other a thumbs-up.

“Sorry I’m late. What are you drinking?”

“I’m not yet. I was waiting for you …”

“I said I was sorry.”

“That’s OK. I just love sitting around looking as if I’ve been stood up. Martini? That’s what this place is about.”

“Yeah, why not?”

She was looking very good, actually, he thought. She’d got her hair cut in that new way, in layers, a bit like Eliza’s, only shorter, and she was
wearing a red dress that, although it was quite long, swung open from the hips when she sat down, so that her legs were still well on display. She did have very good legs. She looked altogether expensive and sleek and successful; he saw several of the men in the bar looking at her, and felt an emotion that at first he couldn’t analyse and then recognized—again from the early days with Eliza—as a certain pride at being with her.

“So,” he said, sipping at the martini—he’d rather it had been an ice-cold beer, but never mind; the alcohol content was probably higher and he needed that—“so, how are things?”

“It’s all pretty good. Got my sights on a spot in Chelsea—just on the edge of the park—for my next hotel. Americans will love it. Near the barracks, near Harrods, near the Albert Hall—perfect.”

“Think you’ll get it?”

“Not sure. Bit of an auction going on at the moment. But I’m pretty determined, so—”

“You’ll get it,” said Matt, and he meant it. “You always do.”