by Lucy Lord
‘Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll get you out of here,’ says Max.
‘Of course we will,’ I agree, trying to smile.
‘Thanks kiddos,’ says Dad, also trying to smile. ‘I feel better already, seeing you guys …’
Once the heavy door has clanked shut again, I burst into fresh floods of tears. What a fucking hideous day.
Andy gets up as we walk into the police waiting room.
‘How is he?’
‘As well as can be expected,’ says Max. ‘We’ll tell you everything in the car.’
‘Where do you want to go?’ asks Andy.
‘Back to Bella’s is probably closer from here,’ says Max. ‘Is it OK if I sleep on your floor, sis?’
‘Course it is.’ We all get back into Andy’s car.
During the journey west, we give him the full story.
‘Mate.’ Max suddenly turns in the front seat and lays his hand on Andy’s arm. ‘Say you’ll help us. You’re brilliant at digging up dirt on people. It’s what you do for a living.’
‘I don’t think I could in this case,’ says Andy slowly. ‘It would be all about discrediting the alleged victim, which usually involves bringing up her sexual history. Which is, as we all know, wrong.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, can’t you forget your fucking principles for one minute?’ shouts Max, unusually passionately for him. ‘This is our innocent father we are talking about!’
We are all silent for a few more minutes. Andy turns into Portobello Road and asks for directions, which I give, mulishly. We arrive outside my front door and are about to get out of the car, when Andy says,
‘Listen, I’m really sorry to have to ask – I know he’s your father, but I’ve got to be objective when looking at the facts …’
‘Why?’ I ask, chin jutting.
‘In case I want to help you.’ He smiles and my heart leaps. ‘I promise I won’t ask again.’
‘What?’ Max and I say in unison.
‘Are you one hundred per cent certain he is innocent?’
‘YES!’ we both shout.
‘In that case,’ he says, ‘why would Kimberly make something like that up? It’s not as if she was some wet-behind-the-ears virgin who suddenly regretted her actions …’
‘Revenge!’ A metaphorical light bulb goes on over my head. ‘It’s revenge pure and simple, I’m sure of it. Because Dad didn’t get her the cover of Italian Vogue!’
‘Surely that’s a bit over the top?’ says Max cautiously, though I can tell he’s dying for it to be true.
‘I reckon she’s capable of it,’ I say eagerly. ‘I wouldn’t put it past her to be spiteful and vindictive if she didn’t get her own way. You met her, Andy, you must agree!’
‘She wasn’t the nicest person in the world,’ he muses. ‘But trumped-up rape charges? Oh, I don’t know.’ He sighs and runs a hand through his dark hair, making it go all spiky. ‘I’ll sleep on it. You two get a good night’s sleep too, OK? Give me a ring in the morning, Max, and let me know how it’s all going.’
‘Thank you so much for everything tonight,’ I say, kissing him through the open window. ‘You’ve been so kind. I hope you don’t get into too much trouble over picking up the printing.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Al will understand,’ he says, smiling bravely. And with a final wave, he is gone.
‘That, I very much doubt,’ says Max.
‘My beautiful babies,’ says my mother theatrically, enveloping me and Max in a cloud of Joy and incense. ‘What a pretty pickle this is and no mistake.’ She’s in shock, I tell myself, that’s why she’s spouting rubbish. A pretty pickle?
It is lunchtime, and we have convened in The Cow for a crisis meeting. Max called Mum first thing this morning and she and Bernie dropped everything to drive up to London. Mum is wearing flared jeans, a floaty purple tunic top and long ropes of jet and amber beads, her longish dark hair in the half-up/half-down, shaggy fringe style she’s been sporting, on and off, since I was born. She looks very pretty and rather cool, in a knit-your-own-lentils kind of way.
‘Can I get you a drink, Mum?’ asks Max.
‘A glass of white wine would be lovely. Thanks darling.’
‘So let’s get this straight,’ rasps Bernie. ‘This young lady – who don’t sound much like a lady to me – was there with another geezer. She then started courting your dad, and now she says he raped her? Thanks son, I’ll have a Scotch and water, no ice.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ I say.
‘And you say your old man definitely wouldn’t do it?’ He takes off his wraparound shades and looks at me intently through his beady little eyes. In his lurid tropical print short-sleeved shirt, he’d fit right in on the terrace of an ex-pats’ bar on the Costa del Crime.
‘Bernie, Justin wouldn’t dream of it,’ says Mum, taking him by the hand. ‘He may be a dirty old man – Christ knows, if anyone knows, I do, I was married to him long enough – but a rapist? No. Never.’
‘If you say so, Princess.’
‘You should see him, Mum, he looks awful,’ I say, tears welling again. For fuck’s sake, I thought I’d cried enough in the last few weeks to last me a lifetime.
‘Poor geezer must be shit scared,’ says Bernie. ‘Rapists don’t have a good time of it in the clink.’
‘Oh my God, I hadn’t even thought of that,’ I say. ‘Poor Dad.’ I have a horrible sudden image in my head of burly, tattooed thugs queuing up to bugger my dear, arty father. No. It cannot happen.
‘So. We’ve got to get this – what’s her name, Kimberly? – to withdraw her statement,’ says Bernie. ‘Do you want me to get the boys to put the frighteners on her?’ Thank God Andy isn’t here yet with his tiresome principles.
‘Thanks, Bernie, but I don’t think that would be the right way of going about it,’ says Max, returning with the drinks. ‘Can you imagine if it got out? The Press would have a field day.’
Jesus. The Press. That’s something else I hadn’t thought about, even after Andy’s inspired intervention in the nick last night. Dad has a high enough profile and the story enough unsavoury loucheness for it to be headline news. The tabloids would probably illustrate it with Kim’s Playboy centrefold, juxtaposed with a picture of Dad looking particularly old and seedy. And photos of all the models he has shagged over the years, of course.
‘We must do everything we possibly can to keep this out of the papers,’ cries Mum, identical thoughts clearly passing through her mind.
‘In that case, keep your voice down,’ says Max quietly.
‘Walls have ears,’ mutters Bernie.
‘In this place, that’s probably truer than you realize,’ says Max, and I look around. This lunchtime, there are only a few other patrons. The Westbourne across the road is doing a roaring trade thanks to its beer garden; The Cow, with its cosy interior, all dark wood and vintage posters, tends to get more crowded in winter. However, any one of the few customers in here could easily be journalists, judging by their shared air of studied dishevelment. And the fact that they’re drinking at lunchtime.
Andy walks into the bar, looking neither studiedly dishevelled nor much, come to that, like a lunchtime drinker. So much for my sweeping generalization.
‘Hello, Olivia, sorry to have to see you again under such distressing circumstances.’ He bends down to kiss Mum on the cheek.
‘Hello, Andy darling. Thank you so much for agreeing to help us.’
‘Well,’ says Andy, looking Mum straight in the eye. ‘I’ve said I’ll see if I can find out anything about Kim’s background that might indicate a predisposition for dishonesty. Anything that might support the idea that she is liable to make things up; that she’s spiteful, vindictive.’ Is he quoting me directly? ‘What I won’t be doing is digging up dirt on her sex life.’
‘Why’s that, son?’ asks Bernie.
‘Because I genuinely don’t think it’s relevant. The idea that promiscuity somehow makes somebody a more “deserving” vi
ctim, that she might have been “asking for it”, is a dangerous one. Nobody asks to be raped. What is important is who’s telling the truth.’
‘Thank you so, so much,’ I say warmly, reassured by both his presence and his moral integrity. There seems to have been rather too much filth in my life of late. ‘I know how busy you are, what with the wedding and everything.’
‘Max has been a great friend to me over the years.’ He looks over at my brother. ‘If I can help, within the parameters I’ve described, I will.’
‘Thanks mate,’ says Max, coming over all emotional. He had a dreadful night’s sleep, even though I made the floor as comfortable as I could with cushions and blankets, and looks really washed out. He gets up and gives Andy a man hug and I can see he’s blinking back the tears.
‘What’s the next step?’ I ask. ‘Will Dad get bail until the court case comes up?’
‘I’ve called David Simpson,’ says Mum, referring to the lawyer who managed to make my parents’ divorce as cheap and hassle-free as possible. ‘He says it’ll probably be decided this afternoon, but Dad needs to be prepared to face a hefty sum – if he actually gets it.’
‘Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll stump up and he can pay me back,’ says Bernie, and she gives him a big kiss.
We stay in the pub until 2.30, when Andy has to go back to work, and Bernie drives Mum, Max and me to the police station in time for visiting hours.
‘Darling, how are you apart from all this ghastliness?’ Mum asks as we sit in the back of the car together. ‘I saw Poppy and that bastard in the paper yesterday. I do hope you’re getting over it.’
I shrug, trying to hold back the tears again, as we should be focusing on Dad right now.
‘I hope you don’t mind, darling –’ Mum looks dreadfully worried and I’m suddenly scared at what she might say – ‘but I’ve been back in touch with Diana.’
I laugh with relief. ‘Course I don’t mind, Mum. My situation with Poppy has nothing to do with your friendship with Diana.’
Mum beams. ‘I knew you’d see it like that. Well, I’m not excusing her behaviour, and Diana is utterly mortified, of course, but I really don’t think Poppy’s in her right mind at the moment. Ken’s situation has been really difficult for her, you know.’
‘Yes, of course I know, and I hope you’re not bloody well excusing it,’ I say hotly, as the pain, betrayal and humiliation I felt when I saw Ben and Poppy fucking flood through my body all over again.
‘No, darling, I’m not.’ Mum takes my hand. ‘But for what it’s worth, I don’t think Poppy’s very proud of herself. Apparently she keeps telling Diana how sorry she is that she hurt you, how much she misses you.’
‘Yeah right,’ I snort. Mum gives me a look and continues.
‘She refuses to talk about Ben, and he never accompanies her down for the weekend, unlike dear Damian.’
‘That figures,’ I say, thinking of Ben’s complete self-centredness. Visiting an elderly man who’s losing his mind is unlikely to be top of his list of fun/cool/self-promoting things to do at the weekend. Just for a moment I feel a glimmer of sympathy towards Poppy.
No, she made her bed and now she can bloody well lie in it.
‘You know, at the moment, I couldn’t care less about either of them,’ I add, almost honestly. ‘I just want to see Daddy acquitted. Let them get on with their sordid tabloid lives.’ I had a couple of pints with my lunch and am feeling expansive.
‘That’s the spirit, darling. And we will make everything OK. I have great faith in Andy, don’t you? I’ve always thought he was such a lovely boy …’
‘Yes,’ I smile. ‘I do.’
Ten minutes later, we get out of Bernie’s pale blue Roller.
‘I’ll come back in an hour, all right, Princess? Things to do, people to see. And your old man don’t need me hanging round.’
As we walk down the grimy corridors of the police station, which are starting to become more familiar than I’d like, Mum says, all of a panic, ‘Do I look OK? I haven’t seen Justin for years …’
‘Mum, you look gorgeous,’ says Max. ‘And don’t be silly. You’re not exactly meeting him for a date.’
If anything, Dad looks even worse than he did yesterday, which is understandable, given the lack of grooming facilities in the clink. Mum takes one look and starts to weep, gently.
‘You silly old sausage. How did you get yourself into such a pretty pickle?’ This time the expression seems apt.
‘Thanks for coming, Liv,’ says Dad softly, as she goes over to give him a hug. ‘You’re looking great, old girl.’
Max and I decide to leave them to it for a bit.
Chapter 15
‘I think that’s sixty-two points to me,’ says Charlie, who has just put a Q on a royal blue triple letter score, next to an I to its right and another one below it. Bugger. Should have seen that coming. There aren’t many letters left, and neither the Q nor the Z has been played till now.
‘What kind of word is that? Qi?’ Alison pronounces it like the French interrogative pronoun.
‘I’m afraid he’s right,’ I say. ‘It’s pronounced chee and it is valid. It’s to do with chakras and stuff.’ Eloquent and knowledgeable as ever.
‘I want to look it up.’ Alison stumbles to her feet (we’re sitting on the floor) in search of a dictionary.
Charlie and Alison’s ground-floor flat in Highgate is just what you’d imagine from such a nice, well-read, well-fed couple. Plumped-up sofas from Heal’s, books, CDs and DVDs, neatly contained in their respective shelves, standard-issue middle-class polished wooden floorboards. It’s Sunday, and with, I suspect, some prompting from Max, who was worried about me worrying about Dad, they have kindly invited me over for an afternoon of late lunch and board games. Alison’s rare roast beef, crisp-edged potatoes and airy Yorkshires were fabulous, if not exactly summery.
After the recent events of my somewhat sordid existence, it’s lovely to be welcomed to warmly reassuring normality. Looking at them, so comfortable and happy, I feel a brief envious pang, then remind myself I’m lucky to be here, under their hospitable wing. I take another swig of my red wine.
‘OK, you’re right.’ Alison admits defeat. ‘But I still think foreign words have no place in the English dictionary.’
‘Come on babe, we all know the best thing about English is that it’s constantly evolving. That’s why it’s the most expressive language in the world,’ says Charlie. ‘And why we’re better than the fucking Frogs with their Académie française and innate xenophobia.’
Alison laughs. ‘You do realize what you’ve just said, you Alf Garnett you? Innate xenophobia indeed. Physician, heal thyself.’
I laugh and Charlie turns to me.
‘Good to see you looking a bit happier, Belles.’ It’s nice he’s using the affectionate version of my name. ‘The last few weeks must have been bloody grim for you.’
‘Bloody grim is about right, but I’m OK at this precise moment, thanks to you two. You’re absolute stars.’
‘Apart from this cheat with his made-up dirty foreign words,’ says Alison, kissing Charlie. I look at them, trying to enjoy their happiness vicariously. Alison is wearing boyfriend jeans, which don’t really flatter her, and a pale pink, low-cut top, which does. Her rosy cheeks (which are getting rosier by the glass), round face and blondish hair put me in mind of a seventeenth-century serving wench.
‘You look just like a shaggable seventeenth-century wench,’ I say, too much booze having already loosened my lips.
‘I’ve always wanted to look exotic and slim, like Lucy Liu or – what’s that Bollywood one called? Freida Pinto?’
‘Phwoaaargh yes, she’s gorgeous,’ says Charlie, chuckling. God, men can be insensitive bastards. I say to Alison innocently,
‘He’s got a point. Those dark, slender, high-cheekboned men can be nice too – like Jude Law? Or Johnny Depp?’
‘Oh yeah, God, Johnny Depp.’ A lusty smile creeps over Alison’s face. �
�He’s one of my all-time fantasies …’
Charlie looks surprised and offended, while I shout, delighted,
‘You mean you wank over him?’
At this moment I hear somebody shutting the front door quietly; Alison said she was leaving it on the latch as Andy and Alison might pop by. A few seconds later, Andy’s head pops round the corner. Oh great.
‘Sounds like you guys are having a good night.’ His dark eyes look amused behind their specs.
I stand up to greet him and knock my red wine onto the floor with a stray foot. ‘Oh bugger, sorry, sorry Alison.’ I bend down idiotically. What am I intending to do? Slurp it out of the grooves in the floorboards with my tongue?
Alison laughs, ‘Hey no worries, this is the best thing about not having a carpet,’ and goes to get a cloth.
Andy crouches behind me and looks at my Scrabble letters, which are a measly TNREARI. No big hitters at all. Quietly he rearranges them into TERRAIN, then gives me a little nudge to show me what he’s done.
Yay. That extra fifty for making all seven into a word might just give me the edge on Charlie. I scan the board for somewhere to place the word and spot an S, with a double word score too. I grin up at Andy, wanting to kiss him. Strangely, it looks as if he might want to kiss me too.
‘Well, it’s my turn now,’ I say, dragging my gaze away. Luckily Alison and Charlie are too engrossed in their own letters to notice. I plonk down TERRAIN and nudge Andy back.
‘That is so not fair,’ says Charlie, like a stocky Valley Girl who specializes in bought ledgers, pushing his thick blond hair away from his forehead. ‘Bella wouldn’t have had any idea what to do with those letters …’
‘Oy mate, calling me thick?’ Bloody cheek, I’d have got there eventually.
The doorbell rings. Andy must have left it off the latch.
‘That’ll be Al,’ he says, jumping up and adjusting his glasses. ‘We’re off to The Wolseley tonight, which should cheer her up. She’s been working all day.’ He goes to let her in.
Alison walks in looking stunning (as long as you don’t look at her face, which is trying to smile) in rolled-up safari shorts and a white silk vest that would look gross on anybody with an ounce of flesh on them. And who was capable of sweating.
