‘Oh, God, Diana… I’m sorry. I didn’t…’ he stuttered, reaching for her – but Diana recoiled in an instant, that same shocked look on her face he’d seen on Sarah’s.
Robert watched hopelessly, powerless to stop her, as Diana grabbed up her things and fled. He’d only ever cried twice before in his adult life. Once at the funeral. Once afterwards, when he’d realised his wife would never again look at him with affection. By then, he’d accepted that things had fizzled out sexually between them –he’d had no choice – but he’d still needed her affection. He’d sought an outlet for his needs, of course he had, but he’d loved her still, in his own way. She must have known he did. Must have known that, as intolerable as things had sometimes seemed, he’d never envisaged a life without her. Why else would he have bothered working day after day, working himself into an early grave?
How could she do this to him? Feeling a tear spill from his chin as he stood amongst the ruins of his life, he reached to wipe it away. Attempting to compose himself after a while, he walked to the bathroom, where he extracted a bandage from the medicine cabinet and wrapped it round the hand he’d cut while retrieving large slivers of glass from the carpet. Going back to the bedroom, he paused, surveying himself in the shattered mirror. He didn’t recognise the broken person looking back: a worry-worn, defeated man with tell-tale ruddy cheeks and sagging jowls. A much older man than he perceived himself to be. That wasn’t him. Pulling himself taller, Robert squared his shoulders and braced himself to face those who would see him fall.
Moving back to the window, he looked out, feeling deep loathing for the money-grabbing rabble outside who would revel in his humiliation.Human flotsam.Robert peeled his disgusted gaze away and went to attend to the necessary clearing up. Minutes later, he descended the stairs with his stained dressing gown and the duvet cover. It took him a while, but he managed to work out how to put the washing machine on. The newspaper plopped through the letterbox as he walked back. Tiredly, Robert bent to pick it up.
uk businessman named in #metoo scandal, blazed the headline.
His chest constricting painfully, Robert read on: ‘Robert Fenton – who grew his hugely successful plumbing and bespoke bathroom business from the basement of a bookshop and is now worth an estimated £50m – is reportedly seeking to obtain an interim injunction preventing the press from publishing allegations of sexual harassment and abuse of staff. Fenton, who has “categorically” denied the allegations, is accused of using non-disclosure agreements in an attempt to prevent staff speaking out…’
Robert folded the newspaper, placed it on the hall table, sucked in a deep breath and held it. He should clean the bedroom carpet, he decided, and then get dressed. The premium wool suit in blue or the grey tailored fit, he pondered, as he went back to the utility for whatever cleaning paraphernalia he might need. Impressions were important, after all.
All-important, to Robert. One of six kids, brought up on an estate notorious for petty crime and drug dealing, he’d fought hard to free himself of his roots. He’d built his business with nothing but the sweat of his brow, better than his competitors, bigger and infinitely more successful. Finally establishing himself as one of the UK’s leading businessmen, he’d made sure to leave poverty behind him. He’d worked equally hard on his image, dressing stylishly but not flashily. He commanded respect amongst his peers, and had been paid substantial amounts to head up seminars and give inspirational talks. He’dbeensomeone. Yes, he’d made mistakes along the way. Might have misread one or two signals, but what’s a red-blooded man supposed to do when a lithe young thing smiles coquettishly and encourages him on? He would never have overstepped any boundaries had he not thought a little harmless flirtation was on offer. He’d had one or two women making silly noises after the event, forcing him to pay them off and remind them of the stipulations of their contracts. Overall, though, Robert considered he’d been more than reasonable. Generous, even.
Now it appeared that those who had benefitted from his generosity were determined to bring him down. Robert only had to look and see the great men falling around him to realise that eventually they would destroy him, too. He wouldn’t wait for the ignominy of that, for kiss-and-tell stories in the tacky tabloids. Lies. Unflattering photographs portraying him as a lecherous pervert.
No, he wouldn’t let them see a beaten man. His pride simply wouldn’t allow it. He would do as he’d always done: maintain his image, dress for the occasion and exit in style.
Forty-Three
KARLA
‘Were they late?’ I ask Jason, as he comes back after dropping Holly and Josh off at school. I know they will have been, because I overslept again and didn’t have time to prepare their lunches, meaning they would have had to stop and buy something on the way. But I overslept because of him, whathe’sdoing to this family. Yet still he plays the martyr to the children, the hard-done-by party. He’s painting me as the villain, trying to win them over. He’s stealing them away from me. I can’t let him. My heart thrashes, palpitating inside me.
‘A bit,’ he says, closing the door. ‘I had a quick word with their teachers though, so the kids were okay.’
‘A quick word communicating what?’ Anger surfaces above the fear twisting inside me. ‘That their mother is incapable of looking after them?’
Emitting a heavy sigh, Jason turns to face me, though he doesn’t look at me.
‘No doubt the poor harassed father dashing in with his children earned himself some sympathy?’ I add, my tone facetious, because I know that’s exactly what he would invite. Tongues will have been wagging, heads shaking and hearts going out to a lonely-looking man who’s suddenly started bringing his children to school.
Jason shakes his head wearily. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Karla.’
Yes, he does,Sarah says knowingly.
Of course he does. Won’t he be milking it? Wouldn’t I, in his shoes? ‘I’m not sure they’d be giving you any father of the year awards if they knew the truth,’ I go on, a toxic mixture of bitterness and cynicism simmering inside me, ‘that you’re the sort who picks up cheap little—’
‘Jesus Christ, Karla, will you just stop!’ Jason shouts over me. ‘I can’tdothis again.’
‘You stop!’ I yell back, my anger rising. ‘Pretending you’re the victim in all of this. As if you’ve beendrivento it. You’recheatingon me! With some—’
‘We’rebothvictims!’ Jason yells, louder. ‘For fu—’ Banging the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration, he stops and meets my gaze at last, and then emits a ragged sigh. ‘It’s better for you if you don’t know.’
‘Know what?’ Goosebumps prickle my skin as I note the wariness in his eyes.
Jason scans my face tiredly for a second, then, ‘Talk to your mother, Karla,’ he suggests quietly, turning back to the front door. ‘You need to.’
Destabilised, with apprehension creeping through me, I don’t try to stop him going. There’s no point demanding explanations. He will refuse point-blank to discuss anything to do with my father, and this has to be about him.
Grabbing my phone from my bag, I call my mother, my tummy clenching with a combination of nerves and nausea as I wonder whether she knows something I don’t. Something Jason has confided in her? Something she’s been keeping from me? She wouldn’t, surely?
Her phone goes to voicemail. Impatiently, I text her. And then, receiving no response, I call her again. Nothing. Ten minutes later, I’m halfway to my car when my phone beeps. I read the message twice, and then stare at it, stupefied.
I’ve left your father, it says.I need to get away from the attention. We need to talk, darling, but first I need a little time. Can you give me that?
Time? For what? My hands shake as I text quickly back:Where are you?
