Revelry

by Lucy Lord

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ says Max, handing over my drink in exchange for the phone. Which is doing the rounds, with everybody oohing and aahing, when Andy arrives.

  ‘Hello everyone,’ he smiles, poking his head out of the skylight. He is wearing an olive green T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and skims his flat stomach, his long legs clad in their habitual faded Levis. The green is good with his dark colouring, I catch myself thinking, remembering his nice torso in Mum’s mill pool. I pull myself up short.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Bella, you haven’t even recovered from the Ben debacle and you’re eyeing up other men already? You are over men; you’ll never trust another of the fuckers in your life. Especially one that’s about to get married, you moron.

  ‘Mate, how are you?’ asks Charlie, shaking one hand and putting the other arm around Andy’s shoulders in a brief man hug.

  ‘Bloody knackered,’ says Andy. ‘I’ve spent the last few weeks researching a feature on Albanian sex-traffickers and now my main interviewee – a girl who escaped from one of the brothels – has changed her mind about being interviewed as the poor little thing is so terrified of her pimps. And of course every other minute is devoted to planning the Wedding of the Century. So tonight is a very welcome night off.’

  ‘You sound like you need this,’ says Max, handing him a margarita. ‘Sit down and relax, mate.’

  ‘Thanks. That’s just what I intend to do.’ Andy sits down next to me.

  ‘Hi Bella, lovely to see you,’ he smiles. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ I smile back, the idea of girls being trafficked for sex making my own problems seem a tad trivial all of a sudden. ‘Tell me more about the piece you’re writing – it sounds horrible.’

  ‘It is horrible.’ Andy looks down at his drink. ‘Adila was fourteen when her cousin Vasil offered her a job working at a hotel in London. Of course she thought it was a great opportunity, better life, blah blah. She was intending to send money back to her parents and younger brother. When they got to Berlin, Vasil raped her for the first time. She was a virgin, she says.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say unintelligently.

  ‘By the time she arrived in London, all six of the main gang members had broken her in several times. They beat her too, of course, to break her spirit – like that was really necessary,’ he adds with a brittle laugh.

  I don’t know what to say.

  ‘She’s now sixteen and guesses that over the last two years she’s seen on average ten punters a day, which by my reckoning is around seven thousand in total. Her body is covered in bruises, scratches, cigarette burns.’ He lights a cigarette and looks at me. ‘When she looks you in the eye, it’s impossible to hold her gaze for more than a second. It makes me ashamed to be male.’

  ‘But these guys are monsters, not normal men.’

  ‘One of the punters helped her, so it must have been fairly obvious that she wasn’t what you might call a willing participant,’ he says, and it clicks. I feel sick to the stomach.

  ‘So six thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine-odd other punters either got off on the fact they were fucking her against her will, or didn’t care, as long as they were getting their end away?’ He nods grimly and I pull a face. There are no words.

  ‘She’s staying at a women’s refuge but is terrified that her family back home is at risk if she agrees to be interviewed. The awful thing is, she’s probably right, and I really don’t see how I can try and persuade her otherwise.’

  ‘Couldn’t you interview her anonymously?’

  ‘I could, but I’ve now decided to hand over everything I’ve discovered to the police and hope that they get the sick bastards. If we published anything now it could put the case in jeopardy.’ He takes a swig of his drink. ‘So that’s weeks of hard work down the drain.’

  ‘It’s not down the drain at all!’ I say hotly. ‘It’s absolutely brilliant! If they manage to catch the fuckers because of your research, think of all the other girls who might be saved.’

  ‘That would be fantastic, if extremely unlikely. And I’m afraid it doesn’t wash with Alison. The piece would have paid bloody well and getting married is an expensive business.’ He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. He does look tired. I reflect that, for a human rights lawyer, Alison seems to have pretty skewed moral priorities. ‘My editor’s not best pleased with me either,’ he says with a rueful smile.

  ‘Well, I think you’ve done the right thing. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses.

  ‘So how’s the wedding planning going?’ I ask, bringing the conversation back down to my superficial level.

  ‘We’re getting there. I can’t believe it’s only a month away. Poor Al is quite stressed about things but I’m sure it’s going to be great.’ He smiles determinedly and I want to give him a hug.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. Hambledon Hall is gorgeous. And you’ve got the honeymoon to look forward to, too. Where are you going?’

  ‘Eco-trekking in Indonesia,’ he says, his eyes shining with real enthusiasm. ‘It looks amazing. We’ll be staying in a hotel on the edge of a lake, which was built to blend in with the rocks around it, so it’s now part of the landscape, with monkeys perching on the balconies and bats swooping down the corridors at night.’

  ‘Wow, sounds incredible,’ I say, wondering if the swooping bats aren’t a step to oneness with nature too far.

  ‘Oh, and the bit I’m most looking forward to is that one of the infinity pools is at treetop height, so you’re swimming at eye level with tropical birds!’ His deep voice sounds almost boyish with excitement.

  ‘Oh, I’d love that.’ This time I mean it.

  We hang out on the roof terrace for another hour or so, and for the first time since The Day of Doom I really enjoy myself, even managing to forget about Ben and Poppy for a full five minutes at a time. Max and his mates are gentle, intelligent company, and Alison is well on her way to becoming my New Best Friend.

  ‘Well, I think we can safely say we’ve milked the last drop of sunshine from today,’ says Max. It’s practically dark now. ‘Shall we adjourn for some food?’

  Andy’s phone rings.

  ‘Hi darling,’ he says. ‘How’s it going? Oh I see … you poor thing. Yes, I understand that must be very annoying … What’s that? No, I’m still at Max’s – we’re just about to eat. Who …? Well, Charlie and Alison, and Dave, who you don’t know, and Bella. Yes, darling, I’m sure I told you. Calm down, sweetheart …’ He raises his eyebrows at us apologetically. ‘Yes … yes … oh come on Al, that’s not fair. Yes darling … Surely that can wait till the morning? No, no, no, of course not, sweetheart. Calm down. Yes, I’ll pick them up. Don’t worry, you just concentrate on your work. OK, bye then. See you later.’ And he hangs up.

  Turning to us all, he says, ‘I’m sorry, guys, I’m going to have to go. I’ve got to pick the Order of Service up from the printers, which shut at nine. Listen, I’m not stupid, I know what you all must think of Alison’s recent behaviour, but you know she’s not like that really.’

  ‘It’s none of our business, mate,’ says Charlie.

  ‘But I want to tell you,’ says Andy earnestly, and I think what a nice man he is. ‘Al’s been under loads of stress recently with work. She’s working on a really upsetting case about child abuse and she’s been under huge pressure since her promotion last year. On top of all that, she is putting herself under huge pressure for the wedding to be absolutely perfect – I’d just as happily get married on a beach, to be honest, but Al is a real perfectionist. Her parents are being a nightmare too.’

  ‘God, I remember them,’ says Charlie. ‘Religious nutters, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, very strict old-school Christian. The fact that we’ve been living in sin for the past thirteen years hasn’t exactly gone down well. Now I’m finally making an honest woman of Al, they very much want it to be their show, even though we’re paying for the whole bloody
thing ourselves. They have an opinion on everything from our choice of hymns to how much wine we serve at the reception – they think more than one glass per head is the work of the devil.’ We all laugh at this.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sure that once the pressure of the wedding is over, we can relax into being happily married. Alison’s a very good person, you know. She tries very hard to make the world a better place.’

  Could have fooled me, I’m thinking, when we are interrupted again, this time by Max’s phone.

  ‘God, we’re never going to eat at this rate,’ laughs Max, before answering it. ‘Hello? Dad? How are you? … WHAT?’ His tone is shocked and I experience a sharp stab of fear.

  ‘What is it?’ I mouth at him, but he waves me away. ‘Bella’s here with me. Yes, of course, we’ll come over right away. What’s the address? Oh OK. Yes I know it. Don’t worry Dad, keep calm, I’m sure we can sort this mess out. We’ll be with you as soon as we can.’ He hangs up and I cry in panic, ‘What is it? Is he OK? What’s happened?’

  Max takes a deep breath. ‘Dad’s in police custody. He’s been accused of rape, but he swears he didn’t do it.’

  ‘What? By whom?’ I ask, my mind racing.

  ‘Dad says you know her. Her name is Kimberly.’

  Chapter 14

  Charlie is the first to speak.

  ‘But didn’t they leave Ibiza together? Surely she wouldn’t have gone with him if he’d raped her? And why leave it till now to report it?’

  ‘Her?’ says Max, the penny dropping. ‘The model who was going out with Ben, then was all over Dad once she realized who he was?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ I say, as Charlie, Alison and Andy nod. ‘God, the lying bitch! How fucking dare she?’

  ‘Well, that’s just ridiculous,’ says Max simultaneously. ‘Didn’t sound like rape to me …’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t rape,’ I say. ‘She really was all over him. God, it was repulsive.’ And I tell them about witnessing Kim’s heavy come-on from the kitchen garden.

  ‘However provocative somebody’s behaviour, no should still mean no,’ says Andy, and I round on him.

  ‘Of course it should, you pompous idiot. But do you really think she would have dumped Ben for my dad like that if she wasn’t going to shag him? It just doesn’t make sense …’

  ‘Well, we need to get over to the police station now,’ says Max. ‘He’s being held at West End Central.’

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ asks Andy, who moved on to lime and soda after the first two margaritas.

  ‘Thanks mate, much appreciated,’ says Max. ‘Looks like the party’s over, folks.’ We bid a subdued farewell to Charlie, Alison and Dave, who head to the minicab place on the corner to share a cab back to North London.

  Inside Andy’s comfortable dark green Renault, I tap him on the shoulder and say sheepishly, ‘Sorry I called you a pompous idiot.’

  He turns his head briefly to smile at me.

  ‘It’s OK. It must have been an awful shock for you both. It’s probably best not to speculate on what might or might not have happened until you hear what your father’s got to say, don’t you think?’

  He thinks Dad’s guilty, I think miserably. But what do I think? Of course I don’t think my father’s a rapist. He’s a kind, gentle man. He’s my dad, for Christ’s sake! But he has always had an eye for the ladies. Which doesn’t make him a rapist. And I saw them together; I heard what she said to him. But what if she was playing some prick-teasing game for reasons best known to herself? Though what would she have to gain by doing that, especially as it meant losing Ben? Or are boyfriends as gorgeous as Ben two-a-penny when you look like Kim? Jesus Christ, I don’t know what to think.

  ‘Looks like I picked the wrong month to give up glue-sniffing,’ I say in a desperate attempt at gallows humour.

  Andy drives well, steadily but as fast as he can within the speed limit, neatly avoiding the traffic hotspots of the West End. At last we reach Savile Row and all three of us walk into the police station.

  ‘We’re here to see Justin Brown,’ says Max to the hatchet-faced WPC behind the desk.

  ‘Well, you can’t,’ she says sourly. ‘Visiting hours are between three and five p.m.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I ask frantically. ‘Surely he’s only being held overnight? You can’t just lock people up with no evidence!’

  ‘Please, we’re his children,’ adds Max. If he was hoping this would soften her up, he was very much mistaken.

  ‘Do you know what your father is accused of doing?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I said, do you know what he is accused of doing? It’s a very serious crime and he can be held for up to three days without charge.’

  ‘Please, just let us see him,’ I beg, tears threatening to spill. It’s like banging my head against a brick wall. The policewoman walks away from the desk, leaving us standing there like idiots.

  ‘I don’t often do this,’ says Andy quietly, ‘but I do believe in innocent until proven guilty. Excuse me!’ he shouts after the policewoman. ‘Press.’ He holds up his Press pass. ‘I’m writing an article on how the elderly are increasingly marginalized in this country. A story about a pensioner being locked up for three days without evidence might just illustrate my point nicely.’ I look at him in awe, though I don’t think Dad would be too happy about the pensioner bit. Whatever, it works.

  The WPC looks at him with acute dislike. ‘You’ve got five minutes,’ she says to Max. ‘Sarge! Take them to Cell Fourteen. No more than five minutes, you understand?’

  ‘I’ll wait here, shall I?’ asks Andy.

  ‘No mate, you go home, you’ve done more than enough,’ says Max, as I remember:

  ‘Oh God, what about the stuff you had to get from the printers?’

  ‘That can wait,’ says Andy firmly. ‘Listen, you’ll need to get home once you’re done here, right? I’m here, and I’ve got a car. I’m very happy to wait another five minutes.’

  We thank him again and follow the sergeant towards the cells, behind a shackled drunk shouting incomprehensible abuse. The sergeant opens the heavy metal door and lets us in, then shuts it behind him with a large clank.

  ‘Can’t you leave us alone with him?’ I ask, distraught at the sight of my father.

  ‘Sorry love, we’re doing you a favour letting you see him as it is. Don’t mind me,’ he says kindly, turning his back to us.

  Dad is sitting hunched on a bare bench, wringing his hands, his eyes bloodshot and saggy. I realize with a jolt that I’ve never seen my father cry before. His long grey hair is straggly around his shoulders, his skin almost yellow in the harsh light of the cell. The vertical lines on his strong, hawk-like face seem deeper than ever, pulling the corners of his eyes and mouth down. He looks very old and very tired. I remember how he used to look – my big, handsome Daddy – and my heart breaks a tiny bit more.

  ‘Kiddos,’ he says, getting up and opening his arms to us. We both walk into them, all three of us crying now. Standing here like this reminds me of how Dad used to play with us in the sea, picking one of us up in each strong arm and hurling us, giggling and screaming, through the air back into the water. He had a very specific, comforting smell. The smell of wet Dad.

  ‘I didn’t do it, I didn’t,’ he is saying. ‘I didn’t rape her.’

  ‘Shhh Dad, it’s OK, we know you didn’t,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you tell us what happened?’ We sit down either side of him on the bench.

  ‘It started the night we went to Manumission, Bella. When we got back to the villa, we made beautiful, passionate love under the stars.’ Oh yuck. ‘But I didn’t rape her, she was enjoying it just as much as I was. She was, kiddos, I promise.’ Oh Daddy, she saw you coming, you poor old love.

  ‘Once it got light, we thought that under the circumstances – you know, the business with that pretty boy Ben –’ Max gives me a sympathetic glance – ‘it would be better to go home to Mallorca. Well, you know that anyway. She s
pent a few days with me, I told her I’d try and get her the cover of Italian Vogue, and we parted on good terms, I thought. We’re both adults, we knew where we stood.’ He looks at me and Max in turn. ‘But I never forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do.’ Thank God, I believe him. But will everybody else? There’s no smoke without fire …

  ‘But it’s my word against hers. Who’s going to believe me? Look at me and look at her,’ says Dad pathetically, and I feel horribly sorry for him. This is a man who used to have girls at his feet all the time, and not just because of what he could do for them. ‘I know I’m not the handsome bloke I used to be. But if hot chicks like Kim want to throw themselves at me because they think I can help them get on in the biz, who am I to say no?’

  And all of a sudden not quite so sorry for him. Unbidden, an image of Poppy’s father pops into my head, shuffling his tragic way to total loss of faculties through absolutely no fault of his own. The contrast in their respective situations makes Dad’s mess look more than a little seedy, despite his innocence.

  ‘When is she saying the rape took place?’ I ask, forcing myself back into loyal daughter mode. ‘The fact that she spent so much time with you surely makes it look unlikely …’

  ‘In Mallorca,’ says Dad. ‘The date they’ve got is her last night in Mallorca. I don’t get it, she was just as willing then as she was the rest of the time.’

  ‘Why would she make it up?’ asks Max. ‘I don’t understand. Did you get her the cover of Italian Vogue?’

  Dad shakes his head. ‘I tried my best, but they weren’t interested. Told me they thought I’d lost my touch. Used to introduce them to classier birds than that.’ At this I bite my lip to stop giggling, despite myself. I am feeling deeply peculiar.

  ‘What are you doing in London, anyway?’ I ask, trying to quell the incipient hysteria.

  ‘Photo shoot for Esquire. I flew in this morning, did the shoot, went back to my room at the Lanesborough and was just thinking of ordering room service when the coppers came knocking at my door …’

  ‘Time’s up!’ says the sergeant. Max and I hug Dad goodbye.