The Decision (107 page)

‘Eliza, this is Toby Gilmour.’

Toby Gilmour. The barrister. The cold, not-clever-enough barrister, who so far had done almost nothing for her. Not Toby, who had made love to her in a creaky bed only three days ago, and made her think she might be falling in love with him …

‘Oh, hello.’

‘Look – bit of a shock. The judge has called your mother.’

‘What! At this stage?’

‘Yes. It’s extremely unusual, but he’s concerned to make sure the child’s case is properly understood and he’s taking a strong line on it.’

Terror shot through her. This was really the end of it for her.

‘I’m sorry. We just have to – to hope for the best. You’re doing wonderfully, Eliza. I’m – I’m very proud of you.’

It wasn’t very intimate; but it was something, some indication that he was at least human.

‘So, just hold tight today and then by tomorrow afternoon we should be in calmer waters. OK?’

‘Yes. OK.’

‘Oh, and Eliza—’

‘Yes?’

‘Remember not to pick your nose.’

‘Eliza, this is Rob. Look, you know how much I don’t want to do this. But – best to, my solicitor says.’

‘Rob, it’s OK. I understand. And the minute it’s over I want to talk about the clothes for the shoot next week.’

‘You’re amazing. I adore you, babe.’

‘Don’t tell the judge that.’

Jeremy also called to wish Eliza luck; and then surrendered himself to the agony of contemplating the following night, when he and Mariella would be at Covent Garden at the same time, and it would be almost impossible for them not to come face to face. In the presence of her husband. How was he going to bear it. How?

And Mariella, gazing down on London from the plane as it approached the airport, thought of the love and happiness held within that city that she could never know again and had to fight to contain her tears; and nonetheless managed to smile at Giovanni as he touched her hand and asked her if she was feeling quite well, as she had been so very quiet ever since they had left the villa; and assured him that she was feeling very well, just a little tired. For what was the point in any of this, this savage pain and sense of loss, if Giovanni, the entirely innocent reason for it, was to be deprived of happiness himself?

‘Mr Brigstocke, I believe you and Mrs Shaw work together.’

‘Yes, yes, we do.’

God, he looked scared, Eliza thought. The cocky little bugger had completely morphed into a rather pale, monosyllabic creature, who gripped the edge of the witness box and clearly would have given a very great deal to be somewhere different.

And he didn’t know what the cringing, slimy private eye Jim Dodds had just let him in for.

‘She advises you on fashion as it relates to the advertisements you work on. How the models are dressed and so on. Is that right?’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right.’

‘Is it a close working relationship? We know it extends to the personal, of course.’

‘Well – yes. We spend a lot of time together in the office.’

‘And do meetings and so on run on into the evening? I ask because, for example, of the need for Emmeline to be brought to the office.’

‘Well – yes, sometimes.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because you can’t stop thinking about a campaign, not if you’re really getting going, just because it’s six o’clock.’

‘Of course you can’t stop thinking about it. But – do the two of you continue to discuss it?’

‘Sometimes. Not often, because Eliza – Mrs Shaw – always has to rush off home.’

‘But if she does – stay – you have meetings in your department?’

‘Yes, we do.’

‘And do you ever enjoy a drink while you chat?’

‘Yes, we do. I don’t believe that’s illegal.’

Careful, Rob, don’t let him rile you. Philip looked at Clifford Rogers, who was regarding Rob Brigstocke with great distaste. Well, he would, he was exactly the sort of person he most disliked, steeped in privilege, doing a job which Rogers would regard as useless, parasitic even, raising two fingers to the law.

‘Drink – no. There is talk, according to Mr Dodds, of other – substances. Do you and Mrs Shaw ever partake of those?’

A long silence.

‘Mr Brigstocke, you are under oath.’

‘We have smoked – er, hash – very occasionally.’

‘How would you define very occasionally?’

‘Very occasionally,’ said Rob, ‘oh – once or twice.’

‘Once or twice a day?’

‘No, of course not.’

Rob … careful.

‘Then – how often?’

‘During our entire association.’

‘I see. No more questions.’

‘Mr Gilmour?

‘No questions, Your Honour.’

‘I would now like to call Mrs Sarah Fullerton-Clark.’

This was it. This was when she really finally lost her. Drinking, taking drugs, abandoning Emmie in a foreign city – nothing compared to hitting her.

‘Mrs Fullerton-Clark …’

Clifford Rogers won’t like her either, Philip Gordon thought, looking at Sarah, pale but composed, her dark hair neatly set, dressed in a skirt and twinset, and of course pearls, her grandmother’s pearls as Eliza could have told him, she was seldom seen without them – answering the questions in her rather dated, clipped, upper-class voice.

Generations of good breeding stood in that witness box; the kind that Clifford Rogers most resented. Sarah Fullerton-Clark was, as Scarlett Shaw had once observed, deeply posh.

‘So you have looked after Emmeline quite a lot over the years?’

‘Yes, I have. And enjoyed it, of course.’

‘And – did your daughter enjoy looking after her, would you say?’

‘Very much, yes. She was an excellent mother. She was very tired of course in the early stages, as we all are, but she coped very well.’

‘Did she ever discuss going back to work with you?’

‘Well – occasionally. I know she missed it. She always enjoyed being a working gel—’

Philip Gordon could almost feel the judge wince at that pronunciation.

‘But she was happy to be at home?’

‘Oh – yes. Very happy.’

‘Now home for you all is your family seat in Wiltshire—’

‘Oh, I’d hardly call it a seat,’ said Sarah, ‘it’s just a small country house.’

‘I see. I imagined something more substantial. How many bedrooms does it have?’

‘Ten – well, it depends how you count them, whether you include the rooms on the top floor. If you do – then – ten. Yes.’

‘Ah, yes. Not too small then. And you have continued to live there since your husband died?’

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

‘You son didn’t inherit it?’

‘Well, in terms of a family trust he did, but his life is very much in London, and—’

‘Is it not true that the house required a great deal of restoration, and that no one in the family could afford it?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘And your son-in-law bought the house, that you broke that trust to make it possible and that he has spent a lot of money, doing it up and so on. And he allows you to live there?’

‘Yes. That is correct. Matthew has been a very kind, generous son-in-law.’

‘Indeed. And how often do the young family come down?’

‘Oh – in the summer, most weekends. Emmie loves it there, she has a pony which we keep in the paddock.’

‘And which you look after?’

‘Oh – well, not exactly, a girl from the village comes every other day to groom and exercise him.’

This gets worse and worse, thought Toby.

‘Very good. Now – I want to hear about the time your daughter lost the baby. The little boy.’

‘Oh – yes.’

She looked down, fiddled with the pearls.

‘It must have been a very sad time for you all.’

‘It was, yes.’

‘Did your daughter spend much time with you over that period?’

‘Yes. Yes, she did. I was very worried about her, she was very low, very low indeed, she couldn’t sleep, wasn’t eating. Matthew was very upset too, but of course he had to go back to work and – well …’ Her voice faded.

‘Well what, Mrs Fullerton-Clark?’

‘It is always worse for the mother.’

‘That is your view? That your son-in-law was not as upset by the death of his son as your daughter?’

‘No, that is not my view.’ Sarah faced him down. ‘I said that Matthew was very upset, I simply meant that it is always worse for the mother, she can’t escape into the world of work, she has fewer distractions, and I truly believe we feel such loss more, it’s in our biology.’

‘I see. And – how did Eliza cope with Emmeline at this time? I imagine it must have been difficult for her, a lively – what, three- or four-yearold?’

‘Emmie was five at the time. Yes, my daughter did find it difficult, Emmie’s a demanding little girl and – yes.’ Her voice tailed off.

‘Was she – irritable with the child, that sort of thing?’

‘A – a little, yes.’

‘I see. So – she and the child, did they spend a lot of time with you?’

‘Yes they did. I could help entertain Emmie and let Eliza get a bit of rest.’

‘What form did this irritability take, Mrs Fullerton-Clark? Did Mrs Shaw snap at Emmie, that sort of thing?’

‘Er – yes. That sort of thing.’

‘Were you ever worried about her ability to cope with the situation?’

‘Not – not seriously. A little, I suppose. Yes.’

‘Did you suggest she sought help?’

‘Yes, yes, I did, but she didn’t want to give in, as she put it. I was very glad when she agreed to go and see a – a doctor.’

‘A doctor? Surely it was a psychiatrist she saw?’

‘Well – we agreed together she should seek help. We didn’t actually define what sort of help. It seemed to me at the very least she needed perhaps some sleeping pills. And to—’

She stopped.

‘And to what, Mrs Fullerton-Clark?’

‘And to talk to someone. About how she was feeling, how – how wretched she was.’

‘And – was there one particular incident which persuaded her this was necessary? Or did she slowly come round to the idea?’

Does he know, Eliza wondered; has he read Mary Miller’s notes, and how much had she given away?

‘Well – well, she – that is, I—’

‘Mrs Fullerton-Clark, please answer the question,’ said Clifford Rogers. He sounded irritable.

‘Well – she was down one weekend, without Matthew and – and she became very upset—’

‘Why was that particularly?’

‘Well, Emmie was being very difficult.’

‘In what way?’

‘She – she wanted to go to the village shop and buy some sweets and Eliza said she couldn’t. Emmie was very angry and started having a tantrum. Shouting at Eliza and so on.’

‘And—’

‘Well – Eliza became very – very distressed.’

‘And—’

‘And she – she, well, she lost her temper with Emmie.’

‘And—’

‘Well, and she – she—’

‘Mrs Fullerton-Clark, I have to ask you this. Did you ever observe any violence towards Emmie from your daughter?’

Sarah was silent; she looked at Bruce Hayward and then at the judge and then down at her hands, fiddling with her rings. The silence in the courtroom was profound.

Finally she said, ‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I did. Just – just the once. She – well, she hit her. I wasn’t there, in the room, but I heard screaming and shouting and I went in and Emmie – Emmie was holding her head which was bleeding – not from the blow, she’d fallen against the table – we had to go to Casualty, she needed stitches.’

Eliza looked at Matt, who was staring at her, sitting bolt upright, his dark eyes brilliant, blazing in his white face.

She would lose Emmie now; absolutely without doubt. And she would deserve to.

‘Oh, darling.’ Jeremy held out his arms. They were sitting on the sofa in his drawing room; without being sure why, she had wanted to see him more than anyone. ‘How utterly dreadful for you. I wish, I wish I’d been there. Just to – to have been there.’

‘It was so bad,’ said Eliza, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, sniffing hard, ‘I wanted to just run away. Everyone looked at me, you could see them thinking what an awful, awful creature I must be – and Mummy did try to explain that Emmie had been provoking me beyond endurance, but she hadn’t been in the room, I’ll get a chance to tell them exactly what she – what she said, and also that she begged me not to tell Matt, but … oh, Jeremy, how did all this happen, why did I let it, why am I so awful—’

‘You’re not awful. You’re wonderful. You’re brave and very strong. You weren’t well, Eliza, you were depressed. Obviously this psychotherapist woman will have made that clear in her report – here, have another glass of wine. You’re a superb mother and everyone who knows you knows that.’