More Than You Know (56 page)

It was an icy, sparkly October Saturday. Eliza had arrived with Emmie the evening before, pale, touchy, but bearing a peace offering for her last outburst, a huge bunch of white chrysanthemums.

“Thank, you darling,” was all Sarah had said. “Er … no Matt?”

“No, he’s gone to some stupid conference in Manchester. He never used to go to conferences. It’s so he can get away from me. And I don’t blame him, I’m so bloody miserable all the time, I must be awful to live with.”

Sarah gave her a hug and didn’t pursue the subject, but over supper, she said very tentatively, “Darling, I wonder if you’ve considered having some help. You are depressed—”

“Yes, but you know why. For God’s sake, don’t you start; Maddy said the same thing.”

Good for Maddy
, thought Sarah.

“Did she? And—”

“I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“Eliza—”

“Oh, this is stupid. I’m going to bed. I’m going to try to sleep late, so if Emmie gets up, could you keep an eye on her, please?”

“Yes, of course. But—”

“Night.”

But in the morning, she was down in the kitchen before Sarah, making herself a cup of tea, looking exhausted.

“Bad night?”

“They’re all bad,” said Eliza briefly.

After breakfast, Emmie suggested they go to the village shop to buy some sweets.

“No,” said Eliza, “you eat too many sweets.”

“I’ll take her,” said Sarah.

“Mummy, no. Don’t try to undermine what I say, please. Emmie, if you get me your storybook I’ll read to you.”

“I don’t want a story. I want to go to the shop.”

“Well, we’re not going. And that’s that.”

Emmie came over to her and pushed her. “You’re horrible.”

“I am not horrible, Emmie. I’m simply trying to stop you from eating too many sweets. We could go for a walk if you like. To the woods.”

“I want to go to the shop.”

“Emmie, we are not going to the shop. Is that clear?”

“I hate you.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“It’s a true thing,” said Emmie. “I hate you.”

Eliza shrugged and picked up her coffee.

“I’m going into the drawing room to read. Come and find me when you want a story.”

“I hate you,” said Emmie again. “You’re horrible to me.”

Eliza walked out of the room, feeling her temper soar. She went into the drawing room and sat down on the chair by the fire. She looked down at her hands; God, they looked awful. Nails all broken and uneven, one of them bitten down to the quick. She’d been proud of her nails once, had regular manicures. What an extraordinary thing to care about. Same with hair. Who could go through all that rubbish just to look good? Crazy.

She couldn’t concentrate on her book, and picked up a copy of
Tatler
instead. That had been another world, when she had been in
Tatler
endlessly, a happy, happy world. When she had been able to sleep and not hurt all the time and—

“Mummy, please can we go to the shop? Please?”

“Emmie, I said no. Now stop it. And don’t fiddle with those ornaments; you’ll break one of them …”

“You’re horrible,” said Emmie, and came over to her, raised a small foot, and kicked her on the shin. She had outdoor shoes on; it hurt. “I hate you and I hate that stupid baby. I’m glad he died.”

Afterwards Eliza remembered very clearly thinking that the words
red mist
did actually describe rage; she saw the world through a bright, agonising light. She raised her hand and hit Emmie, hard, on the face. Emmie fell, catching her head on the edge of a low table.

And lay there staring up at her mother, her huge eyes shocked and dark, a trickle of blood oozing from the corner of one eye; then she covered her face with her hands and started to scream.

“Just shut up,” shouted Eliza. “Shut up, shut up—”

“What is going on—Oh, my God.” Sarah had run into the room. “Emmie … darling … Eliza …”

And then she scooped Emmie up in her arms and half ran with her out the door.

Eliza followed her, shaking, thinking she might throw up.

“No great harm done,” said the cheerful doctor at the local hospital, following Sarah and Emmie out to where Eliza was sitting in the casualty waiting room. “Just one stitch below her eyebrow, and she was very brave. It’ll be a bit swollen for a few days, but it’s fine. She told me how it happened …”

“Oh,” said Eliza, “oh, yes?”

“Yes. These accident things occur all the time at home, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Eliza again. She presumed it was only a matter of time before the social workers came and took Emmie away from her.

“Right, keep her quiet for the rest of the day; she’ll be fine. Perhaps some extra sweeties, Emmie, eh?”

They drove home in silence, Emmie sucking her thumb in the backseat.

They passed the village shop and Eliza asked her if she’d like some sweets; Emmie shook her head.

Once home, Sarah laid her down on the sofa and then fetched her a drink and a storybook. Eliza hovered in the hall, trying not to panic, trying not to scream. After half an hour Sarah came out.

“She’s asleep,” she said. “I’ll just fetch a blanket and then I think we should have a talk, Eliza.”

“Yes, of course,” said Eliza.

“Right,” said Sarah, “I’m not going to reproach you; I can see I don’t need to. But I hope now, Eliza, you’ll recognise what a terrible state you’re in and how much you need help. God knows what you might do next.”

“Yes,” said Eliza humbly, “yes, I do. Oh, Mummy, I feel so … so totally ashamed. I’m sorry, so, so sorry. And what Matt will say, I don’t know. Have her taken away from me, I should think.”

“Yes,” said Sarah, “I think he might. If he knew …”

“What do you mean? You’re not suggesting I don’t tell him? Mummy, I’m not that much of a monster …”

“Nothing to do with me. It’s Emmie. She was completely hysterical while the doctor was examining her, screaming and screaming, ‘Don’t tell Daddy; don’t tell Daddy; please, please don’t tell Daddy.’ Nothing would calm her until I promised I wouldn’t. What you say or do is, of course, up to you.”

“I don’t understand,” said Eliza.

“She saw it as her fault. She said she kicked you. On the leg. With her shoes on.”

“Yes,” said Eliza, looking down, rather surprised, at her leg, which was indeed developing a bruise of its own, “yes, she did. But that was no reason—”

“Of course not. And she said she didn’t hate you; she loved you, and she hadn’t meant to hurt you. And that she said a horrible wicked thing to you …”

“Well … she did say something quite … quite strong,” said Eliza, “but she’s a little girl, for God’s sake. She’s not quite four years old.”

“Indeed she is.”

Emmie woke up about an hour later. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, sucking her thumb, and walked over to her mother, took her hand.

“You won’t tell Daddy, will you?” she said. “Not what I said.”

“Emmie, I think I should—”

Emmie started crying again.

“No, no, don’t, please don’t. Don’t tell him any of it, please, Mummy. Don’t tell him.”

Eliza took her onto her lap and sat cuddling her, shushing her, telling her not to worry, that Daddy would understand.

“You’re not to tell him,” said Emmie. “If you tell him, I shall run away. Promise me.”

“Well,” said Eliza, “I promise not to tell him yet. We’ll talk about it some more. But I’m sorry, Emmie, so, so sorry I’ve been so horrible lately. I love you so much. I really do. Would you … would you like to go down to the shop now and get some sweets?”

“Yes, please,” said Emmie, and she smiled, her sudden, rather fierce smile. “Now. Straightaway.”

Eliza went to fetch their coats. She didn’t meet her mother’s eye. But later, while Emmie was up in the old nursery, playing with the dolls’ house, she said, “Mummy, I don’t quite know how to handle this. Of course Matt ought to know what I did. It was awful, dreadful. But he’ll want to go over it all with Emmie, so I’ll have to choose my time and my words very carefully. She really is in a terrible state. Thing is, she and Matt adore each other, and he’ll never hear a word against her, always takes her side against me, thinks she’s absolutely perfect. I think she wants to keep it that way. That’s my explanation for it, anyway.”

“That’s a very sophisticated thought process,” said Sarah.

“Not really. Pretty basic instinct. I just don’t know how to handle it. Oh, Mummy, I feel really frightened. It’s so, so awful. But on Monday morning I’ll find a shrink; I promise. I’m obviously going mad.”

But later, as she lay wide-awake as always in the small hours of the morning, she reflected not only on her own shortcomings but on Emmie’s power to manipulate and her steel-strong will. It was quite frightening; it really was.

It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t fair; here she was with her life in order at last, everything going well, the company a success, making money, and this had to happen.

“My dear,” Mrs. Berenson wrote, “I have some very sad news. David and Gaby are to divorce. It seems they haven’t been happy for a long time, and they see this as the only solution. I am devastated, as we all are. I don’t suppose you remember David very well—you only met him once—but I can tell you he is deeply upset by what has happened. I shall be over in the New Year and will hope we can share our usual tea at the Connaught then. With my love, Lily Berenson.”

Actually, Scarlett thought, reading and rereading this letter, trying to define how she felt—shocked? pleased? sorry? outraged?—the one thing that could be reliably acknowledged was that David and Gaby hadn’t been happy for a long time. If Gaby had made David happy, then he might have flirted with Scarlett, might have taken her to bed even, but it would not have gone on for a whole year. She had no real picture of Gaby, no idea of what she was like: the darling girl of Mrs. Berenson’s imagination, the perfect mother, the adoring wife; or the cold, distant creature of David’s, controlling and greedy.

Perhaps she would learn more over yet another of those life-changing teas at the Connaught; and meanwhile, she would simply wait. She wasn’t sure what for—a visit from David? A phone call? A letter? Or nothing?