More Than You Know (105 page)

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 who 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?” Caroline 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. 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 that it had been a good idea to call her; Clifford Rogers was obviously not only rather taken with her—she did look very pretty, 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 enquired in honeyed tones whether 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 apologized 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 …”

It was the end of the session; Philip and Toby 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. 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 whom she loves best, whom 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 your going
to work, how much she likes the nanny—that sort of thing. It will be quite gentle. Rogers likes children; he understands them, and he’s had two of his own; he’ll take it very steady. Try not to worry.”

“Worry? 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: perfectly dressed people smiling, waving, kissing; Mariella, following Giovanni through it all, 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.

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

“Jeremy! My dear, dear friend, how marvellous to see you. Mariella,
cara
, here is Jeremy.” And Jeremy, bending to kiss her, breathing in her perfume, brushing against her hair, tortured, terrified, said it would be delightful to join them for dinner, but alas he had ten guests with him and they had booked a table at the River Room at the Savoy. “Then let us have a drink together now,” Giovanni said, “and we can meet perhaps for lunch tomorrow—after Mariella has made her appearance in court; she is a little nervous, I think, a little quiet this evening, but she will be wonderful, Jeremy, will she not, and you must join us at the Ritz at … shall we say one thirty? No, no refusals, I will not hear of it …”

And then they returned to their seats, away from each other once more, to the doomed love story playing out before them as well as their own.

“Good luck, darling, and I’ll have Emmie there at three; don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Mummy. On second thought, I think the Pollyanna sailor dress. It’s her favourite and it’s very little-girly. The judge will like it.”

“She … she says she wants to wear her stripy dungarees. You know, the OshKosh ones.”

“Well, she can’t. Mummy, you are not to bring her to court in dungarees.”

“No, darling, of course not.”

“My lord,” said Toby Gilmour, “I would like to call Signora Mariella Crespi.”

Judge Rogers nodded rather curtly; he had already formed an opinion of Signora Crespi and it was not benign.

Mariella swept into the courtroom and the witness box. She looked incredible; even Bruce Hayward appeared slightly stunned. She was wearing a white trouser suit, with apparently nothing under the jacket, a thick, thick gold-and-pearl rope round her neck, and matching gold bracelets on her slender wrists. Her makeup was flawless, her eyes hugely dark, her lips a brilliant red gloss. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, and in her ears were large pearl-and-gilt studs—Chanel, thought Eliza automatically, and that suit was undoubtedly Yves Saint Laurent, the very same design Bianca had worn for her wedding to Mick.

Toby turned to face her. His face was admirably blank.

“Signora Crespi, you met Eliza Shaw, I believe, while she was fashion editor of
Charisma
.”

“Yes, that is correct. She was very, very important to me; she made me famous. Famous enough to win the best-dressed title early this year.”