The vein on my dad’s forehead continued to pulsate. He wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted, but he should have thought about that before he’d crossed a line with those women. He argued that he was innocent, but I didn’t believe a word he said. Once upon a time, long ago, I had looked up to him, but now I knew that Richard Darlington was a cold, ruthless bastard.
“We could try again with an out-of-court settlement, if you’d be willing,” Mr. Boyd suggested. My dad had already whittled down the allegations from seven women to three with out-of-court settlements. The two million pounds he had offered each woman had proven too tempting.
“You promised there’d be no trial,” Vivian said, without responding to the suggestion. Her dark hair was gathered in a tight plait, and she wore a blue suit that looked like a uniform. At our first meeting, I’d been surprised that she was only a few years older than me—her CV was just as impressive as her clientele was questionable.
“I made no such promise, Mrs. Edwards,” said Mr. Boyd. “I said itprobablywouldn’t go to trial. Statistically, less than five percent of reported sex offences end up in court. There usually isn’t enough evidence. The indictment was only filed because of media pressure. The Metropolitan Police and the Crown Prosecution Service can’t afford bad press or to be accused of sloppy work. This is just theatrics.”
“You don’t seem particularly worried,” I said as I patted my suit, looking for my phone. Perhaps I had another appointment that would get me out of this one. I had nothing to contribute anyway. But my phone wasn’t there. It was probably still in my coat.
“I’m not,” Mr. Boyd said, head held high. “Your father hired the best law firm in town. My colleagues and I know this case inside out, and there’s no solid evidence. It’s their word against ours. We have the law on our side.”
I would have said the same in his position—and with his wage—but Vivian seemed satisfied with his statement and made fervent notes on her tablet. My dad looked smug.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“The prosecution has submitted an indictment to the Court of Justice. Based on this, the judge will decide at the first hearing whether the evidence is as airtight and whether there will be a trial or not. If he decides there will, the case will be referred to the Crown Court. Should this happen, we would push for immediatebail. It shouldn’t be a problem. There’d presumably be a fine, and they’ll take your passport to prevent you from leaving the country. You might also get a court order for electronic monitoring or a curfew.”
“Unacceptable!” my dad hissed.
“Could we circumvent that?” Vivian asked with a businesslike tone.
Mr. Boyd took off his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth he drew from his trouser pocket. “We can plead that Mr. Darlington is an upstanding member of society, and that the company and family domicile prevent him from being considered a flight risk. But ultimately, it’s for the court to decide.”
Vivian shook her head. “A photograph of Richard wearing an ankle monitor is the last thing we need. It would only cast him in a negative light. We need to create positive momentum.”
“Positive momentum is your job, not mine,” replied Mr. Boyd with a tight-lipped smile. He explained the next steps in the proceedings, which could, in the worst-case scenario, take several years. But, he speculated, public interest would likely make sure the case was dealt with swiftly. When he was done, Vivian went through possible measures that would make my dad look like a better person than he really was.
I only half listened to the discussion. While my dad was focussed mainly on himself, I was thinking about the hotel, about the cancellations and our employees. I drummed my fingers nervously on my knee. My thoughts snagged on the day’s to-do list. Unsurprisingly, I realised I wouldn’t have enough time to do everything. I glanced with irritation at the heavy Audemars Piguet strapped to my wrist. My mum had given me the watch as a present after my dad had appointed me CEO.
“Henry?”
I raised my eyes. I had been staring into space, lost in thought, drafting an email to the BBC in my head. I knew I wouldn’t be able to persuade them to make the documentary after all, but I wanted to write a dignified response to their rejection. “Yes?”
My dad scowled at me. “Did you hear what Vivian said?”
“No, sorry. What was it about?”
“The Pearl Gala.”
I frowned. “What about it?”
The Pearl Gala was a fundraising event that my grandmother Selma had started forty-three years ago. Every year in the last week of December, we invited people to The Darlington to raise money for a charity. The guest list was exclusive, and the red carpet was not only one of the most significant but also the final one of the year for most stars and celebrities. The media often reported that the Pearl Gala set the tone for the following year. But for the first time since its inception, no gala was planned for this December.
“Vivian thinks we should still hold it.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
She nodded resolutely and stabbed at her tablet with her stylus. “Yes. The Darlington is in desperate need of good press, and cancelling a charity event is the opposite of good press. The gala would give the family an opportunity to present itself as a unit. Your mother, Ethan, and you—you can all show your support for Richard and make a public display of your generosity. A particularly lavish donation is a must, of course.”
“Of course,” my dad echoed with a smile. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
My frown deepened. “You were the one who cancelled the gala.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” He gestured dismissively and stood up to walk over to a trolley in the corner, which held carafes of tea and coffee, along with a jug of water filled with floating cucumber and lemon slices. “The marketing team pushed for the cancellation. I was always on board.”
It was a barefaced lie. I’d been at the meeting where Dad had insisted on cancelling this year’s Pearl Gala. I’d even argued against it, but he hadn’t wanted to hear it. He didn’t care about the gala, though he’d been taking credit for it for years.
“It’s almost October,” I remarked, choosing not to argue further about his erratic behaviour.
