More Than You Know (90 page)

“Eliza,” said Philip after a long pause, “what are your plans for lunch?”

“Oh, I … I don’t think I can,” she said quickly. She really had had enough of Gilmour for now; he made her feel foolish, tongue-tied, completely uncool.

“Pity,” said Philip. “Well … how about you, Toby; are you free?”

“Yes, I am, as a matter of fact,” said Gilmour. “That would be very nice. Thank you, Philip. Mrs. Shaw—Eliza—I’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time.”

“Oh … no,” she said politely, “thank you for yours,” thinking what an absurd thing to say, that, and what a lot of her money—or rather Anna’s money—would be going to pay him for it. And did she really want to work with him? Or were all barristers as abrasive as that?

“Well,” said Philip Gordon as they heard the secretary say good-bye, heard the door of the outer office close, “what do you think?”

“I … thought she was very attractive,” said Toby Gilmour, looking at Philip and smiling briefly, “very intelligent as well. I liked her. I would say incidentally there probably was some violence. Which she’s not prepared to admit. This is far from an open-and-shut case. Yes, the child is only six, which will clearly count in Mrs. Shaw’s favour, but the adultery … very messy. And there’s clearly some history of mental instability. If she won’t call the shrink, her husband undoubtedly will, and I’ve heard he’s got Bruce Hayward as his barrister. I don’t need to tell you he’s savage in cross-examination. I hate to say this, and I’d love to handle it myself, but I think you should at least consider briefing Selbourne. She’s going to need some very strong advocacy—she’s not going to be impressive in court; there are too many areas she’s obviously nervous about.”

“Well,” said Philip Gordon, “I appreciate your honesty. I’m glad you like her, at least. So do I, very much. There’s something very vulnerable about her. Let’s go and have some lunch, shall we? I’ve booked a table at Simpson’s. Pity she couldn’t join us. But we’ll be able to speak more freely, at least.”

“Now, Emmie, come on; we’ve got to go. Otherwise we won’t get to Granny’s till it’s really late.”

“That’s all right. She won’t mind.”

“She might not, but then you’ll be so late going to bed. And tired tomorrow. Too tired to ride Mouse.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, if you don’t hurry up now, I shall ring Gail and tell her not to have Mouse ready for you to ride until Sunday.”

“I can get Mouse ready myself.”

“Emmie! Do what you’re told. Or I shall get really cross.”

Emmie’s eyes met her father’s and recognized defeat.

“I’ll just pack my shoes.”

“You’ve already got three pairs of shoes in there. You’re as bad as your mother.”

“I want to bring my special shoes. My lost shoes.”

“Emmie, if they’re lost how can you bring them, for heaven’s sake?”

“No, they’re not lost. I was lost when I bought them. In Milan.”

“What do you mean, you were lost?”

“I got lost,” said Emmie patiently, “when Mummy went shopping. I was with stupid Anna-Maria.”

“Well, you weren’t lost, then.”

“Yes, I was. I didn’t want to stay with her. So I went shopping by myself. I went to find some shoes. By myself. She was stupid; she was talking to her friend.”

“But … where was Mummy?”

“She was with Mariella. Shopping for herself.”

“Emmie, you went shopping alone in Milan? Without anyone with you?”

“Yes. It was fun.”

“So how long were you lost?”

“Oh … a long, long time. I went to the toy place first. Then I looked at some party frocks. They were so pretty, all frilly. And then I saw the shoes. I liked lots of them. When Mummy came, I had two pairs on. One on one foot, one on another.”

“And was she … had she been looking for you?”

Emmie shrugged.

“Yes, I think so. She was very cross,” she added, tucking the shoes into her small case.

“I bet she was,” said Matt.

“So … what are we going to do?”

Jeremy looked at Mariella across the vast expanse of his bed. She was lying quite naked, one arm flung out, the other tucked under her head; her hair was splayed out on the pillow. The beauty of her body had taken him almost by surprise; he had somehow expected a few small imperfections, but there were none. And … what it could do, that body! He had been astounded by its power, its passion, its near fury in the pursuit of pleasure. And had found himself taken into a new country altogether by it: a bewildering, intense place that he had not, he realised, properly known before. And was this love, at last? he wondered, lying beside her after the first time. Did love work this wonder whereby physical pleasure increased a hundredfold, where desire became sweeter, exploration more joyful, and release quite astonishingly triumphant? He told her this, as they lay there, and she listened, tenderly quiet, not the same Mariella at all that he had known for years, but someone wiser, sweeter, less self-concerned. “I will not ask you how you feel,” he said, “if it was different for you, for I would be afraid of the answer, afraid it would be no.” And: “Don’t be afraid,” she said, her eyes huge with tenderness, “but don’t ask it, just the same. It is best unspoken, I think. Safer that way.”

That was when he asked her what they should do. And when she said she didn’t know.

And when she left New York the next day to go home to her husband, there was nothing resolved between them whatsoever, and Jeremy walked round Central Park for hours, reflecting that this could not be just an affair, that he could never deceive Giovanni in so dreadful and
shocking a way, but that life without Mariella was suddenly completely unthinkable.

“What we’re going for is sole custody and care and control,” said Ivor Lewis. He was having lunch with Bruce Hayward, QC, the scourge of erring wives across the land. “The mother is going for joint custody, but Mr. Shaw feels that she isn’t fit to share in any major decisions about the child’s future. He’s looking therefore for day-to-day care and allowing the mother some access—”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well,” said Hayward. “I hope he’s aware how difficult that’s going to be. He’s clearly very fully employed and hardly likely to stay at home and look after her. The child’s not quite seven; any judge will award care and control to the mother, unless she is proven grossly unfit. I mean, he’ll have to employ a nanny, and it’s surely one of his beefs against the mother that she’s going out to work and employing one, and that’s only for two days a week. Joint custody, best he can hope for, and not sure about anything else.”

“Ah,” said Ivor Lewis. “Well, there seems quite a good chance of actually proving the mother grossly unfit.”

“Oh, really? What’s she doing, running a brothel?”

“Not quite. I’ve had Jim Dodds doing a bit of work for me; there’s quite a lot of gossip about her at the advertising agency, not just the adultery with the photographer—which, of course, she admits—but there’re rumours of her having an affair with some art director, drinking with him after work, having the child brought to the agency and left with the receptionist—”

“Ah, well, that sounds rather more encouraging,” said Bruce Hayward. “We might talk to the receptionist and maybe this artist chap, see if we can get them as witnesses—”

“Art director,” said Lewis.

“Art director, artist, they’re all the same, all in love with themselves, disappearing up their own orifices.”

“Indeed,” said Lewis. It seemed to him that this was a pretty fair description of Bruce Hayward’s opinion of himself.

That afternoon, leaving Maddy’s workshop, Eliza bumped into Jerome Blake.

“Lovely to see you here; how are you?”

“Oh … I’m fine. Yes, everything’s really good, thank you.”

“Well, I know it’s not,” said Jerome, giving her a kiss, “and I’m sorry. But it’s very nice to have you back in the real world. I hope KPD know how lucky they are.”

“I think it’s me that’s lucky,” said Eliza, “but they’re being very nice to me. Can’t say any more than that.”

“So they should be. You know me and my camera are always at your disposal, don’t you? I’d just love to work on that cosmetic account, the Japanese one; any hope of that, do you think?”

“I’ll talk to Rob. But … you know what he’s like; he has his favourites.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Jerome with a grin, “including you, we hear.”

“Jerome!” said Maddy. “Don’t be tactless.”

“Sorry. But what the hell, sauce for the goose and all that …”

“What do you mean?” asked Eliza.

“Well, I assume the blonde’s got quite a lot to do with all this?”

“What blonde?” said Eliza.