‘Means I don’t have many people working for me at the moment,’ Harold said. ‘If you wanted a job.’
For the first time that day, Quinn turned to Harold, incredulous.
‘Wow. Thanks.’ Quinn pretended to consider the offer. ‘I think I’ll pass.’
‘Figured.’ Harold reached for a chocolate in a tin of Quality Street, his fingers roving for something in particular. ‘I’m probably going to sell it.’
‘Youwhat?’ Claire spoke before Quinn. It seemed she hadn’t been as shellshocked as he’d been. Sell it? After everything that happened?
‘Sell it,’ Harold said, only this time slower, like he was uncertain.
‘You said you wanted it as a ticket office.’
‘Yeah,’ Harold said. ‘About that. I saw people coming into the castle and thought, you know what, we can just sell tickets at the front.’
Quinn looked at his mother, and even now he feared the look on her face. It was the ‘don’t you dare talk to me right now because I’m processing something that has made me furious’ sort of look. The type of look that every mother seemed to acquire as soon as their child was born.
‘So, you don’t want it?’
‘Well, I realised I could get more out of it by selling it.’ Harold found the chocolate he was looking for – a green triangle. ‘It’s a much bigger cost if it’s a ticket office, isn’t it? When I could sell it and get close to half a mil.’
‘I am … so disappointed.’ Claire said.
‘Me too.’
Harold shrugged, mid-chew. ‘Just business.’
What was the true meaning of Christmas? Spending a wonderful time with family, relaxing and laughing, playing games? Whatever it was, it wasn’t this moment.
Claire was on her feet as the opening bars of Eastenders played, and Quinn hoped, prayed, wished that she would do a Kat Slater and throw some wine over Harold. But she turned her back on him and left the room.
‘Where are you going? Phil’s facing life or death!’
‘I don’t care about Phil Mitchell!’
It would have been comical if it wasn’t so gut-wrenchingly atrocious. It felt like one big trick, like a dirty secret had been exposed. Their very own Eastenders moment.
‘I didn’t think you would be so low.’
Harold looked confused. ‘I’m not following.’
‘You don’t think it’s an issue that you’re selling?’
‘Not at all. It’s my place. I can do what I want.’
Quinn stood, unable to be in the same room a moment longer. As he was about to leave, Harold called after him.
‘I wouldn’t have had to sell if you hadn’t made my boys get all righteous!’
‘They didn’t need me to realise what a horrible man you are,’ Quinn retorted.
He expected a shout, maybe something thrown, but nothing came. Either he’d shocked Harold into silence, or he didn’t care enough to make sense of the situation. Quinn expected the latter.
He found his mum in the kitchen, crying over a strawberry trifle. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘I know you didn’t.’
‘What am I going to do?’
