by Nicole Trope
Last night I dreamed about the day I found out about our house. It was such a glorious day, and I remember that at the end of it I was acutely aware that my life had changed forever, that I would never again have to worry about money, or about explaining the choice I had made with Simon. I understood that I was living the dream. That’s how it felt, that I was living the dream.
Once the show became a regular Wednesday-night fixture, the money came rolling in. Television stars were lauded and fawned over then, even more so than they are today. That was, I now see, part of the problem. Even then it occasionally made me uneasy. Simon was the star that drove the show’s success; sometimes he would be relating an anecdote about the show and it struck me that his behaviour might be perceived as arrogant and even slightly abusive.
‘I told them that if they thought I was going to continue to wear those dreadful cheap suits, they would have to take the time to find another host. They know they would be nothing without me. Wouldn’t you know it, by the afternoon my office was filled with the most beautiful choices.’ He thought he was untouchable. A dangerous presumption for anyone to make.
Wherever we went, Simon was asked for his autograph. I would stand next to him with a wide smile painted on my face as he made benign conversation with everyone who complimented the show and admired him for his work.
The regular pay cheque changed everything. I, who had stood in the supermarket selecting the cheapest cuts of meat, suddenly had enough for whatever I wanted. For the first few months I was constantly surprised to open my purse and find it filled with money. Now it wouldn’t seem like much, but then it was a sum almost too magnificent to imagine. How proud Simon was. Our empty bank account filled up and overflowed. Simon and I would look through the bankbook and giggle like children.
One Sunday afternoon six months after the show started, Simon announced that he was taking me and the girls for a drive. It was a hideously hot day and I didn’t want to go. Rosalind and Portia had been fighting all afternoon and the thought of being locked in a hot car with them while they traded sly slaps and kicks was very unappealing. ‘Please, Simon, let’s leave it for another day,’ I said. ‘I know you’re enjoying the new car but I need to get the girls out into the fresh air for the afternoon. I want to take them to the park or something.’
‘I’m sure we will find a park where we’re going, Rose.’
‘Where are we going?’ I said. Simon winked at me, irritating me further.
‘They both hate just driving around. I don’t want them cooped up in a car, I really want a break.’
‘Rose, I will brook no argument from you. Put the children in the car now. I promise you will enjoy yourself,’ he said, his voice rising slightly with his impatience ‘Portia, Rosalind,’ he called and the girls came out of their bedroom. ‘We are going for a drive and there will be no fighting. If you are well behaved young ladies there will be an ice cream treat at the end, but if you cannot behave there will be no dinner before bed and no treats for a week.’
I sighed, knowing that Simon would not be there to enforce any punishment he dreamed up but the girls nodded and both promised to behave.
‘In the car now,’ he said to the three of us.
I looked at my beautiful husband and saw a gleam in his eye and knew that arguing with him would serve no purpose. I imagined that he wanted to treat us all to an indulgent afternoon that would ultimately be a failure because we had small children. Since the money had begun coming in he was prone to extravagant gestures that often fell flat. The week before he had dragged home an enormous teddy bear nearly the same size as me and given it to the girls. They had both been unimpressed with the stuffed creature. Portia was nearly eight and too old for such things and Rosalind was terrified of it. The bear was now crammed into a cupboard, taking up space we could ill afford in the small apartment. Simon’s devastation at his daughters’ reaction to the gift had been almost too much for me. I hated to see him upset, especially when I knew he was trying to be kind.
He was not a natural father. When he came home at night he seemed dismayed to find me still tending to Portia and Rosalind, as though at some point during the day the children should have been dealt with and put away. He never seemed to want to spend too much time with the girls, and sometimes I can’t help wondering whether he was protecting them somehow, protecting them from himself. When the allegations began I couldn’t think how to ask my daughters the question that I wanted to ask. I took their incredulous reactions to the allegations, as proof that he had never . . . had never hurt them. Portia would never have remained silent anyway. It was not in her nature. If Simon had done anything to her that she didn’t like she would have shouted and screamed. I hope. I hope she would have shouted and screamed.
‘It will be a wonderful afternoon, darling girl,’ he said, stroking my cheek, ‘please put them in the car so that we can go for a drive.’ He still made me liquid inside. Even after two children and operating on little sleep, his touch still affected me.
As it turned out, five minutes into the drive both girls had been lulled by the heat and the movement of the car into sleep. ‘Peace at last,’ I said.
‘I told you this was a good idea.’
‘Yes, you did. Do you mind if I nod off for a few minutes too? I’m just so tired.’
‘Not at all. It’s going to be a long drive but well worth the journey, I assure you.’
Thirty minutes later I stretched awake and turned my head one way and then the other to banish the stiffness in my neck. ‘Where are we?’ I said.
‘On the north shore.’
I laughed. ‘How very fancy!’ The north shore was a semi-mythical place to me, though I did remember my father once taking my mother and me over the bridge on a Sunday afternoon to show us how the rich in Australia lived. It’s all different now, of course, with millionaires everywhere in the city.
As Simon drove, I looked out of the car window, taking in the large houses and tree-lined driveways. We drove for a few more minutes until Simon turned into a street with several hidden mansions, then stopped in front of a house. It wasn’t terribly big compared to what I could see of the others in the street, but I was captivated by its gabled roof and pretty front yard complete with fountain.
‘Imagine living here,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Simon, ‘just imagine.’ He looked like Portia did on Christmas morning when she saw all the gifts under the tree. He got out of the car and stretched, and then he opened the front gate and walked up the path to the heavy wooden front door.
‘Simon,’ I called, jumping out of the car and feeling my face colour with shame at his behaviour. ‘I’m sure they don’t want visitors. Have you any idea who lives here?’
‘Yes.’ Simon turned back to face me, and it was then that I saw he was clutching a key in his hand. ‘We do.’
It never occurred to me to question why I had not been included in the decision. That was never how I had expected my marriage to work. I ran up the path and into his arms, kissing him all over his face and ignoring the girls who were climbing out of the car.
Inside the empty house, Portia and Rosalind ran up and down the stairs and in and out of rooms, shrieking with delight at the space. I ran my hand over the bright blue laminate kitchen counter tops and peered into cupboards, unable to take in all the splendour. Portia ran into the kitchen, chased by Rosalind, and pointed to the French doors, indicating the large garden complete with wooden climbing frame and swing set left by the previous owners. ‘It’s a park,’ she said. ‘Let’s go to the park.’
Once I had let them out I stood in the middle of a living room, awed by its size. ‘We don’t have enough furniture to fill even one of these rooms,’ I said to Simon.
‘That’s what a credit card is for, my dear. I’m not allowing you to bring a single dreadful piece from that terrible apartment. We shall start anew—whatever you desire will be yours.’
He chose most of the furniture for the house, of course. He laug
hed and joked with salesmen and women, charming them into discounts and signing his name as he went. I had no faith in my own taste. I would stand in the furniture store and feel myself close to tears at all the choices on offer and the terrifying expense. I had been brought up with furniture that was bought because it was cheap. Function was all that mattered. I had never learned to see the beauty in the wood grain of a table or the craftsmanship in the turn of a leg. But Simon had firm ideas of how he wanted the house to look. I’ve no idea where he learned it all from. I’m certain from the few things he said that his background was as humble as mine (albeit ruled by a violent not loving father), and yet wherever he went he never seemed out of place. I think now that he must have spent many years before I met him turning himself into the man he wanted to be. He shed his origins and dressed himself as an educated Englishman. Why then did he not let go of his most terrible flaw? Or had that only come later, with fame, success and power?
Simon loved the shopping, breezing in and out of stores, energised with every purchase. ‘I should have grown up surrounded by beautiful things,’ he said, ‘and I would have if my mother had chosen the right man. She used to tell me about the great houses in London, filled with antique furniture that had been handed down for generations. One day your great-great-grandchildren may sit at the very table we just bought. Isn’t it wonderful to know that?
‘Your mother would love this house,’ I said when we had been living there for a few months. I thought he would want to show it to his parents, to share his success. I thought it was a chance for him to finally reconnect with his mother, even if he did not want to speak to his father.
‘My mother died,’ he replied.
‘What? When? Why didn’t you tell me? Was she ill? How old was she?’ I was deeply shocked. My mother was, by then, an integral part of our lives.
Simon delivered the news of his mother’s death as though mentioning an incident he had seen on the news. He appeared to have no emotional connection to the words, no feelings for the woman who had raised him. It was disconcerting for me to see Simon so distant and cold.
‘It’s not something I wish to discuss, my dear. I’m sure you can understand that.’
I didn’t understand, but when Simon did not wish to discuss something, it remained undiscussed.
In the months after his death I spent a lot of time wandering around the house looking for him, and I realised that there wasn’t one piece of furniture in the house that I liked. Yet I had, when he bought them, thought that I loved them all. I have no idea who I really am, I thought. What do I like? What do I feel? If I had not been involved in the court case and then been sent here, it’s possible that I would have sold everything off and started again, but probably not. I don’t know what I will do when I get home, be it in a few months or a few years. Right now it’s difficult to think past tomorrow.
‘I will make all your dreams come true,’ Simon had said to me on our wedding night, just before he pushed himself into me, hurting me one way but soothing me with his words. And he had. He had done exactly what he’d promised. He was such a showman, and I was happy to simply be part of his show. I was happy to bask in his reflected glory.
His last burst of fame had energised Simon. He stood straighter, he laughed more often, and his voice seemed to boom across a room again. I accepted congratulatory calls from friends and acquaintances across the world, because the news about his induction into the Hall of Fame was quickly all over the internet, and then in one day it shifted and everything I had known was thrown into question.
When Henry called to tell Simon about the article in which the second woman was accusing him of groping her when she was a contestant on My Kid Can . . ., it took Simon three hours to tell me what had happened. It was two weeks after the first article had come out. I was standing in the kitchen with the fridge open, trying to decide between steak and chicken for dinner. Earlier I had heard the phone ring and known that Simon had picked up but I had not seen him all afternoon. I heard Simon come into the kitchen and turned, ‘do you want steak or chicken?’ I said. ‘I can do a nice béarnaise sauce or I could just get some rosemary from the garden for the chicken.’
He didn’t reply, instead turning around and heading for the living room and the bar where he poured himself a large whisky. I followed him, noting his pale face and the way his hands shook a little.
‘You can’t drink all that,’ I said.
‘Oh, Rose,’ he said. ‘My darling, darling girl . . .’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ By this stage the first article had been explained away and we had all moved on. Or so I thought.
‘It’s . . . no, I cannot say.’
I was beginning to panic. ‘Is it the girls? Is something wrong with Portia or Rosalind? You must tell me. Tell me now.’
‘What?’ he said. ‘The girls? No, it’s not the girls.’
‘Then what, Simon, what?’
‘You must give me time, my dear, I need time.’
I had no choice but to leave him alone. I called my daughters and both soon arrived at the house. We sat in the kitchen and waited for Simon to be ready to talk. Portia grumbled a little about how selfish he was being, but she understood that in our home his needs came first.
When she was a teenager and just beginning to push at boundaries she had once yelled at Simon for giving her what she thought was an unreasonable curfew. ‘You’re just a selfish old man!’ she said. ‘All you care about is what you want. You don’t give a damn about me or Mum or Rosalind. You think because you’re famous you can do whatever you want, but you can’t, you can’t!’ Then she burst into tears and locked herself in her room. Initially I was shocked by the fury of her first teenage tantrum—something I would eventually be quite blasé about—but more than that I was struck by her words and the certainty with which they were delivered. She saw her father in a very different light to the one I did and was not afraid to point out his failures. I did not think of Simon as selfish and if I ever did I dismissed his behaviour as being caused by stress or fatigue. Pleasing him, feeding him, keeping the house the way he liked it, keeping myself in shape and always looking nicely put together when he came home was how I showed him how grateful I was for the life he had given me. It was a life I had never even conceived to imagine for myself. I’m sure I wasn’t so very different to most of the wives of my generation.
My daughters and I waited for nearly an hour before Simon came to find us. ‘Oh, my loves,’ he said. ‘You have no idea what I have had to face today.’ He sat down at the kitchen table and grabbed my hand. His eyes filled with tears as he explained that another woman had come forward to accuse him of inappropriate behaviour. His hands trembled a little as he lamented the gross unfairness of it all, the vindictiveness of the woman who was obviously only using him for her own gain. We were distraught for him. We could not believe that someone would say such a thing. Simon sniffed and wiped his eyes and shook his head as though unable to comprehend such a thing.
Even then the show went on.
‘Another one,’ said Portia, and in her voice I heard a tinge of uncertainty and perhaps the beginning of accusation.
‘She must have got the idea from the first woman,’ said Rosalind. ‘What’s wrong with these people?’
‘Why would anyone do this?’ I asked. ‘Do you know who she is?’
‘Rose, do you know how many children were on the show over ten years?’
‘It must be at least a couple of thousand,’ said Rosalind.
‘Exactly,’ said Simon. ‘And that doesn’t include the thousands who auditioned and didn’t get in. I cannot be expected to remember every young girl I came across. They have all blended into one unmemorable face for me. I do not know why this woman has come forward to tell these dreadful lies, and I certainly have no memory of her ever being on the show.’
‘Maybe that’s why they’re doing it,’ said Rosalind. ‘Maybe both these women want to use this to extort money from you. They know
you can’t remember and they’re hoping you’ll just pay them off to make them go away.’
‘Roz, you’ve been watching way too much shitty television,’ said Portia. ‘This is not some fucking detective show. Why would these women have come forward? What would their motivation be?’
Simon stood up from the kitchen table. He took a deep breath and I could almost see him grow taller with indignation. ‘Portia, you are not suggesting with your foul words that I have done these things, are you? You simply cannot be implying that I have any interest in touching a child, in groping a child?’
Portia can be fierce when she wants to be, but even she was deflated by Simon’s tone. ‘No, Dad, I wasn’t. I just—’
‘You just wanted to trust a stranger over your own father,’ said Simon, and he turned around and walked out of the kitchen with his head held high and his shoulders back.
‘Why can’t he have a discussion like an adult?’ said Portia sullenly. ‘I wasn’t fucking accusing him, I just want to try and understand.’
‘Maybe if you showed him a little support he would want to stay and discuss it.’
‘Fabulous, you’ve managed to find a way to make this my fault.’
‘You’re such a bitch,’ said Rosalind.
‘Girls, please, this is hardly the time,’ I said, as I had said over and over throughout their childhoods.
‘It’s never really the time,’ said Portia.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Rosalind, ‘you don’t actually believe what these women are saying about Dad, do you?’
Portia sighed. ‘I don’t want to believe it. None of us wants to believe it, but why are they saying it? The first woman, I agree, seemed to be using her accusations as a platform for her career, but two? What’s that saying about once being a chance and twice being a coincidence?’
‘Three times is a pattern,’ I said, feeling myself grow cold in my sunny kitchen.
‘Accusing someone of something like this is a big deal,’ Portia went on. ‘Why would anyone do that? I work with girls who have been sexually assaulted. It changes who they are. Most of them never report it. It’s too hard to face and it’s fucking hard to prosecute. Children aren’t considered reliable and so they just keep quiet.’
