The Decision (109 page)

‘I – must observe myself more closely,’ said Clifford Rogers. There was a polite murmur of laughter round the court.

‘Are you telling us, Miss Shaw,’ Bruce Hayward had risen to his feet, ‘that this and this alone would prevent your brother from being a good parent to Emmeline?’

‘No, of course not. And I do think he is completely devoted to Emmie, he’s a brilliant father, very patient and interested, he plays with her and reads to her for hours as well, and when she was little he was amazing, he’d actually change her nappies, my dad – our dad – thought it was all a bit, you know, soft, he was embarrassed by it, and actually, I think Matt is quite ahead of his time as a parent, but I don’t think he can play both roles. I really don’t. They’re both brilliant parents, in their different ways, it’s such a – a – dreadful shame.’

There was a long silence; then Toby Gilmour said, ‘Thank you, Miss Shaw.’

Scarlett stepped down from the witness box; everybody was watching her in various stages of admiration. As she left the court there was a slight disturbance and a clerk came in, gave a note to Sarah Jennings, who read it and reached behind her to give it to Philip. He read it too; then scribbled something on it and gave it back to the clerk. And wrote a note of his own and passed it to Toby.

Eliza, her misery only slightly eased by Scarlett’s performance, was too wretched even to notice.

‘My lord, I would now like to call Mr Jack Beckham, the editor of the
Daily News
. Mr Beckham, you employed Eliza Shaw as fashion editor on a magazine you edited, I believe? Could you tell us its name?’

Beckham looked round the courtroom and waited several moments before he spoke; he looked relaxed and cheerful and clearly intended to enjoy himself hugely.

‘It was called
Charisma
. I edited it from 1963 to 1968. Then I decided it was time I did a proper job and went back to Fleet Street.’

‘And Mrs Shaw came to work for you – when?’

‘Oh, in 1963, as fashion assistant. I was very impressed with her from the word go. I had my reservations, as I knew she’d been a deb and all that nonsense, I thought she might just be passing the time till she found some chinless creature to marry, but I was wrong. She proved herself in days. She worked round the clock, nothing was too much for her. We gave her husband a big break, matter of fact, included him in a feature on the new young blood around, very good publicity, not sure that he appreciated it enough, but anyway … I saw quite a bit of him, when he came to pick Eliza up and so on. They were good together at the time. Damn shame, all this. But it happens, doesn’t it?’

‘Indeed, Mr Beckham.’

‘Try to keep to the point, Mr Beckham,’ said Clifford Rogers.

‘I’d have thought that was the point. Certainly part of it.’

‘And – when did you make her fashion editor?’ asked Toby, terrified Clifford Rogers would haul Beckham up for contempt of court. But he actually appeared rather delighted by him, sat looking at him benignly as he certainly had not for the past two days.

‘Oh – about nine months later. Everyone said it was too soon, but I knew it wasn’t, there wasn’t another candidate to touch her, she’d done a fantastic job at the collections in Paris, the fashion editor was ill, and she just took over. Very, very clever girl, always coming up with the goods, wonderful ideas and nothing but nothing was good enough but the best. I’m proud to have been involved in her career. Then she had to throw it all away.’

‘Indeed? How did she do that?’

‘She got herself in the family way. Pregnant. Said she had to leave, when she’d had the baby. I did everything I could to make her stay, flattered her, promised her the moon, bribed her with more money, but she wouldn’t. She said it was out of the question.’

‘Did she give a reason?’

‘Yes, she did, she said she had to stay at home and look after the child. I tried again a few years later, to get her to come as fashion editor at the
News
, but she said she couldn’t. Same reason.’

‘Thank you, Mr Beckham.’

‘Mr Hayward?’

‘Mr Beckham, it was in your paper I believe that the article about Mr Shaw’s tenants was published.’

‘It was indeed.’

‘So – you were still in touch with Mrs Shaw?’

‘I don’t know quite what you’re implying.’

‘I’m not implying anything, Mr Beckham. Merely trying to find the background to the article.’

‘I had nothing to do with the article, it was done entirely through my property editor, Johnny Barrett. She’d met him, and she got in touch with him herself. I subsequently discovered she tried to get it taken out of the paper, but it was too late.’

‘Thank you, Mr Beckham. Could we hear from Mr Barrett next?’

Something was going on; Eliza was puzzled. Both Philip and Toby asked her to excuse them at lunchtime and Sarah escorted her to a local coffee shop for sandwiches. Not that she could eat them, or even swallow more than half her coffee. She felt sick and numb with misery, overwhelmed by her own wretched performance in the witness box.

‘I feel I’ve let you all down,’ she said to Sarah, nibbling half-heartedly at a sugar lump; Sarah told her not to be silly.

‘We’re here to look after you, not the other way round.’

‘I know, but I’m making it impossible for you.’

‘The reporter, Johnny Barrett, was great, wasn’t he?’ said Sarah, in a clear attempt to change the subject; and indeed he had been, stressing that Eliza had done her utmost to discourage him from writing the article, even before she had realised the developers were colleagues of Matt’s.

Bruce Hayward had suggested it was naïve of Eliza to think that any article about the property business might not be in danger of damaging Matt; but Johnny Barrett said he had known Eliza for a long time, and he could vouch for the pride she felt in Matt’s company – ‘First time I met her, she practically bent my ear right off telling me how brilliant he was.’

He had also accepted that what he himself had done, tracking Heather down and coercing her into talking to him, was not entirely honourable; ‘But, sorry, Mr Hayward, he that pays the piper calls the tune, and my piper is my editor and he wanted this piece. You know what they say about the British journalist, I’m sure.’

Bruce Hayward said he did not, but he had no wish to either, and Johnny Barrett was free to go.

‘What do they say about the British journalist, Eliza?’ Sarah asked now.

‘Oh – gosh, yes, it’s a poem. “There is no way to bribe or twist, thank God, the British journalist; but seeing what the man will do, unbribed, there’s no occasion to.”’

‘Very good. Oh, there’s Philip, he wants us to go back. It’s your friend this afternoon isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is. Poor Heather, she’ll be so frightened.’

If Heather was frightened, she didn’t look it, once the first few minutes were over. She appeared calm, sensible and made the same touchingly loyal speech about Eliza and her qualities as a friend and mother as she had a week earlier – omitting by mutual agreement that Eliza had lent her money.

It was immediately apparent it had been a good idea to call her; Clifford Rogers was obviously not only rather taken with her – she did look very pretty, dressed in grey trousers and a blue blouse, her brown hair cut to a swinging bob (at Eliza’s expense, but he was not to know that) but he clearly liked the story of their friendship and when Bruce Hayward inquired in honeyed tones if Heather had ever wondered why Eliza wanted to spend so much time with her, he looked across at her most benignly as she said she imagined it was the same reason she had wanted to spend so much time with Eliza, that she liked her and enjoyed her company.

‘But – did you really have very much in common?’

‘Yes, we did. We had the children, they were the same age and they always got on very well. And we – just liked talking to each other. Doing things together.’

‘You didn’t feel – that perhaps there was something of Lady Bountiful in Mrs Shaw’s relationship with you?’

‘My lord, I object strongly to that question.’

‘I agree with you, Mr Gilmour.’

‘I am quite happy to answer the question,’ said Heather firmly, ‘and no, there wasn’t. We were just good friends. I never felt she was spending time with me because she hadn’t got anyone among her own circle, she had lots of – of posh friends, but—’ She stopped.

‘Do go on, Mrs Connell.’

‘She always said they weren’t as interesting as me,’ said Heather, looking down at her hands.

Clifford Rogers looked as if he would like to embrace her.

‘And the article,’ said Bruce Hayward, clearly regretting this line of questioning, ‘that must have upset you and your husband considerably.’

‘Yes, it did, and we weren’t on speaking terms for a while, Eliza and me, but that was my fault, not hers. She tried and tried to make it up to me, came to see me and apologised the very next day, and said it wasn’t her fault, and she’d tried to stop it, but I was a bit stupid and said I didn’t believe her. But I do now.’

‘And when was your friendship resumed?’

‘A few months ago.’

‘She didn’t contact you, I suppose?’

‘No,’ said Heather firmly, ‘I didn’t know anything about the case, if that’s what you mean, I wrote to her because I was missing her …’

A few more innocuous questions and then …

‘Thank you, Mrs Connell. You may go.’

It was the end of the session; Philip and Toby escorted her out of the building, offered her tea in the chambers, said they had something to tell her.

‘Eliza – I’m sorry and you must try not to get too upset, but – the old boy has asked to see Emmie.’

‘Oh, no, no, please, he can’t.’

‘He can, I’m afraid. Tomorrow afternoon. She’ll need to be brought here, could your mother do that?’

‘Yes, yes, of course, but – oh, God, it’s awful, so awful, she’ll be so upset by it, I know she thinks it’ll be fun—’

‘Does she?’ said Toby sharply.

‘Yes. She said she thought it was a good idea when I warned her. I was quite – surprised. But she doesn’t know what it means, the sort of things he’ll ask her.’

‘And what do you think they will be?’ said Philip gently.

‘Well – I suppose who she loves best, who she wants to live with.’

‘Eliza, it will be much more subtle than that, I promise you. He’ll be trying to establish how she views it all, how upset she actually is, how much she likes her school, possibly what she thinks about living mainly with Matt, whether any of the other children at her school have parents who don’t live together, perhaps how she feels about you going to work, how much she likes the nanny – that sort of thing. It will be quite gentle. Rogers is a bit of an old war horse, but he likes children, he understands them, and he’s had two of his own, he’ll take it very steady. Try not to worry.’

‘Worry? Me? Of course I won’t worry … Oh, God … I’d better go home, tell her, get her used to the idea.’

‘Yes, but don’t – don’t alarm her, make her think it’s going to be an ordeal. Will you? That will really be counterproductive. Just tell her he wants to have a little talk with her.’

Eliza looked at them. ‘You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ she said coldly. ‘Look, call me a taxi, will you, I’ve had enough of all this, I really have.’

The opera house was very full: the crush bar packed with perfectly dressed people, smiling, waving, kissing; champagne was poured, drunk, poured again, shreds of conversation were tossed into the heady air; but Mariella, following Giovanni through it all, on the way to their box, felt quite quite alone, isolated in her terror, terror and longing, that at any moment she might find herself confronted by the person she wanted to see most and least in the entire world; and Jeremy, for his part, arriving deliberately as late as he dared, walked slowly up the great red staircase to meet his guests, filled with the same terror and the same absurd longing.

But thus far they had been spared; and the warning bell saw Mariella and Giovanni settled into their box and Jeremy and his guests into their seats in the stalls and it was only as the lights went down and the overture began that Jeremy allowed himself the luxury, the rash, foolish, dangerous luxury of looking round and up at the boxes to the one where he knew she was; and saw her, less rash, less foolish, leaning out just a little, one white gloved hand resting on the front of the box, the other holding her opera glasses to her eyes, and it was so intensely painful, seeing her, knowing she was there, breathing the same air, listening to the same music, witnessing the same passionate, dreadfully familiar story, that he did wonder how he could possibly survive several hours of it.

The first interval she had been safe; Giovanni had had champagne brought to the box, and had invited a friend he had seen in the foyer to join them. The performance was sublime, but she had seen little of the opera, and heard less; for while aware of the dreadful irony of it, this story of forbidden passion, of the struggle of duty, she could think only of the last time she had seen it, at La Scala the night of the
nebbia
, pulled into her own forbidden love affair.

Perhaps, perhaps they would even now escape. But Giovanni had wanted to stretch his legs, he said and—