We took our glasses and made our way in. Nigella, knowing the house better, walked slightly ahead and led me to a different room from any I had been into on my several prior visits. It was a smaller, brighter room at the back of the house. There were open windows all along one side, which enabled a lovely breeze. The room wascovered in knick-knacks and chintzy tables. Rose-pink and white swirling wallpaper covered the walls. I suppose in certain lights you could call it red.
Everyone turned to look at us as we entered, and the expressions on their faces told me my good mood had been as misplaced as I expected it to be. Lady F wasn’t there, which surprised me. Perhaps her nephew’s genitals making it onto the internet was too tawdry for her to deal with.
“Oh, Arden,” said Rita Parkinson from where she sat on a sofa, twisting her hands together. “I’m so sorry.”
Riz came up to me before she could elaborate and held my shoulder in a firm grip, leading me forward. “The most important thing to do now is to not panic, if you want to sue them into oblivion, you’ve got to be calm and not say anything that could exacerbate it or be misconstrued.”
I looked around the room. As well as Riz, Simon stood in the corner, looking furious. Beside Rita was her husband, John, giving me a sympathetic look. Eleanor Hetherington and her parents sat across from them. Surprisingly, Suzy Rabbit, the Lib Dem candidate and her campaign manager, Errol Mottley, were also there. On the other side of the room was Odette and Tommy Hughes with Marina Holt – I was surprised she’d let Riz in the same room as me. Standing beside her was Katrina Pettigrew.
“What’s happened?” I asked. Simon came over to me, and for the second time in a week, someone else’s phone blew up my life.
“I’m so sorry, Arden,” he said. His voice was choked.
He handed over the phone. On it was a news article.
THE TRUTH ABOUT ARDEN FORREST – The openly GAY author who changed his name to hide his FOREIGN past and CRIMINAL family.
I froze.
“When did … when did this …”
Simon spoke up after an awkward silence. “It went up online about an hour ago. It’ll be published tomorrow in the Sunday edition.”
Behind us, the door opened, and Guy came in. “Ah, good, everyone is here. Arden, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He stood there, handsome and smiling and wearing his hug-a-hoodie outfit he’d had on the other day, even though he’d dropped out of the race.
“I have to go,” I said and brushed past him, dropping Simon’s phone on the table by the door as I exited. Behind me, followed a chorus of my name and the clatter of footsteps as people raced out of the room after me, but I can be quick when I want to be, and escaping through a part of the house I remembered from my last visit, I found my way to the tiny toilet at the back of the stairs, where I had once run into Miles Sweet.
I locked myself inside and leaned against the door, trying not to make a sound. Chest heaving, I fought to even my breath enough not to puke.
There were voices outside and heavy footsteps. Occasionally, my name would be called.
“He must’ve legged it back over the stile and through the village,” I heard Riz say from near the door.
“No, because Tommy and John would have caught up to him by now,” said Nigella. “He doesn’t know the route, and everyone always gets lost the first few times they use it.”
“So, he’s still here?” came Guy’s voice from further away. “He must be out in the gardens then. Keep looking!”
Footsteps departed, and I breathed again. There was the tiniest of knocks on the door.
“Arden,” came a familiar voice in a reassuring accent. “I know you’re in there. If you wanna make a break for it,let me know and I’ll distract them. But don’t go out the front. There are still reporters there.”
I didn’t say anything. Eventually, I heard Simon move away.
As his footsteps receded, I put the lid down and sat heavily on the toilet. I took my phone out. Missed call after missed call. I opened Google and searched my name. Up it came.
The smoke and mirrors man who has been trending on Twitter all week. Despite not being in the TruthGate photos, which have kicked off one of the biggest scandals in British political history, Forrest was front and centre in the case.
Forrest, 35,(“I’m thirty-two, you arseholes,” I said to no one.)was the ‘boyfriend’ of alleged murderer Tarquin Scott when Scott committed the heinous act, and is a close personal friend of Guy Frobisher. The handsome multimillionaire was seen days before the photos were leaked at one of Frobisher’s campaign events, smiling and even hugging the prospective MP.
“I didn’t hug him,” I muttered. “But I’ll take handsome multimillionaire.”
FRACTURED FAMILY
Arden Forrest, or Arkadiusz ‘Arek’ Puszcza, as he was originally known before changing his name to the current Anglicised version, came to the UK from Poland when he was eight to escape the horrors of post-Soviet life.
He was born in the impoverished village of Skymr on the country’s eastern border with Belarus. His mother, Julia, brought her three children to England after leaving Forrest’s biological father, Tomek, who had several previous convictions for violence-related offences.
