by Lewis Orde
‘Congratulations.’ Simon shook Roland’s hand and Nadine stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
‘Thanks, but I think Sharon deserves some of the credit.’ He bent over the bed to kiss her. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Worn out, and fed up to my back teeth with hospitals.’
‘That’s a good sign. You’ll be home in a couple of days. Is the baby asleep?’
‘He should be, he dined well enough.’
‘Roland,’ Simon cut in. ‘What happened this morning? At court, with Katherine?’
Roland wondered whether he should be surprised that Simon had remembered. ‘A fine. Probation—’
‘Must we talk about Katherine now?’ Sharon said sharply. ‘You came here to see me.’ She looked to her parents for support. ‘Isn’t it bad enough that you left me alone this morning? Do you have to talk about Katherine’s court appearance now?’
‘She was also banned from driving for three years,’ Roland continued with deliberate slowness. ‘But that doesn’t come into effect until she’s old enough to apply for a license.’
‘Roland . . . I do not wish to hear about Katherine,’ Sharon said.
‘You’d better get used to it, because she’ll be coming back to stay with us.’
‘What?’ Sharon fought to sit up higher, her face aflame. ‘After what she did?’
‘After what we forced her to do.’
‘She has no right—’
Roland ignored the anxious stares of Simon and Nadine. What he had seen that morning in court had hardened his resolve. ‘She has every right to live in our house with us. She’s my daughter, Sharon. And unlike my other children, she doesn’t have a mother she can live with. So she’s going to live with us.’
‘Roland, is this really the time for such a sensitive discussion?’ Simon interrupted while Nadine stepped forward to soothe her daughter. He pushed Roland aside until they were out of Sharon’s hearing.
‘Simon, what I saw this morning, what I felt when Katherine was standing in that court, made me realize something. My daughter belongs with me. She’s prepared to share the house with Sharon, so why can’t Sharon make the same compromise?’
‘Roland, she simply cannot accept anything that she views as a threat to her security. Especially now, with the baby. Can’t you understand that?’
‘Then when will she be able to . . . able to accept what she falsely considers a threat?’
‘Perhaps never. It all depends on how you treat her now.’
‘I’ve treated her almost like an invalid, because that’s what she wanted. I’ve been at her beck and call, and all it’s done is make her even more dependent on me – or more resolute to keep me pegged down. I’m not certain which is the case, but I can’t carry on like that. No one can.’
‘As you well know her welfare is my greatest concern. If you damage that—’
‘I’m not damaging it! She is!’ Roland turned abruptly and left the ward, unwilling to stay and argue. What was the point of it? No one wanted to damned well listen to reason anyway.
*
When Sharon returned home with the baby, who had been named David, Roland had a nurse waiting. He was determined to give Sharon all the help he could, if for no other reason than to make her less dependent on him.
The scheme was doomed to failure. Sharon started to call him at the office to complain that the nurse wasn’t caring for her properly and she needed Roland at home, but he refused to leave work. Instead he telephoned Nadine and she made the trip to Stanmore to be with her daughter. At least twice a week when Roland arrived home in the evening he found Nadine there. Soon, she began to sleep over. The house was full – Nadine, the nurse, the butler and maid, Sharon, and the baby – Roland began to feel like he was a guest. Unable to face Sharon’s nightly onslaught of questions and accusations, he found reasons to stay at work later, stopped off at the Morrisons’ to see Katherine every night, dreading to return home. Nor was there any way he could move Katherine back to the house with the situation as it was.
A month after returning from the hospital, when she could see that Roland refused to be tied down, Sharon attempted suicide. It was a clumsy effort, deliberately so, aimed not so much at success but at forcing Roland to be with her. She swallowed a bottleful of aspirin after making certain that her mother and the nurse were close by. Within ten minutes an ambulance had whisked her to the hospital where her stomach was pumped, and Roland was being driven from Regent Street to be at her side. He read the note that Nadine had found next to the empty bottle on the bedside table – Sharon’s confession that she couldn’t continue to live while her husband ignored her. Then he waited for Simon to arrive at the hospital from the bank.
‘Simon, this cannot continue. As well as ruining her own life, she is intent on ruining mine, yours and that of everyone else around her. She has us all running at her every whim, and if we’re too slow to respond this is what happens.’
‘Suicide . . . an attempted suicide . . . is a cry for help.’
‘This wasn’t an attempted suicide. Sharon hasn’t got the courage. This was a scream for attention, not a cry for help.’
‘What are you suggesting, Roland?’
‘Psychiatric care. She doesn’t need me, she needs someone who can cure her of this.’
‘You think a psychiatrist could?’
‘He couldn’t make her any worse than she is now. And don’t tell me that I haven’t tried, Simon. I’ve bent over backwards, neglected my other responsibilities to be with Sharon. She’s got an insatiable appetite for being indulged, and the more you do it the more she wants.’ He saw doubt on Simon’s face and was amazed that after all this the banker still refused to see the truth about his daughter. The woman was mentally sick and Simon didn’t want to face up to it.
‘If you don’t believe me, ask any of the doctors here. They’ll tell you the same thing. Your daughter needs help.’
‘Which you are not prepared to give her?’
‘I am not prepared to forego all my other responsibilities and continue to indulge her as I have. Even if I were to do so I’m not sure it would do any damned good.’
‘You are not prepared to help her?’ Simon repeated.
Roland’s face turned stony; he had accepted as much blame as he was prepared to accept. ‘All right, Simon, if you want it that way. No, I’m not prepared to help her by continuing as we are. Because it wouldn’t be help I’d give her – I’d just drag her deeper into the mire.’
‘Very well.’ Simon turned and walked away.
That night, when Roland returned to the hospital to visit Sharon, Simon acted as if he didn’t see his son-in-law. After ten minutes of being ignored, Roland left and caught a taxi to St John’s Wood. But even Katherine’s company failed to lift his sagging spirits and he soon left, wondering what he could do to take his mind off Sharon and Simon. He decided to go to Curzon Street. He telephoned first and Sally told him that Mellish had gone out. Roland invited himself around anyway – Sally had a sympathetic ear and he knew he could pour out his troubles.
She led him into the study where a desk was covered with sheets of paper, columns of figures and letters of application for positions on the morning newspaper which was scheduled to be launched in the fall. ‘Want to help me go through these?’ Sally asked brightly.
‘That’s your job. I only interfere if you make a mess of it. Then I come down on you like a ton of bricks.’
‘Thanks. Nice to know I’ve got my chairman’s wholehearted support.’
‘Sally . . .’ Roland sat down wearily at the desk, felt in his pocket for a cigar. ‘What do I do about Sharon? About the baby? She tried to commit suicide today.’
‘My God!’ Sally had heard through the grapevine only that Sharon had been taken ill. ‘Was it for real?’
‘I don’t think so, although Simon does.’
‘Roland, you’ve never been one to suffer a bad situation you could do something about.’
‘What are you
saying? I should leave her? Get a divorce?’
‘I told you you never should have married her in the first place.’
‘So did Simon, in as many words. And now he blames me for everything that’s happened.’
‘You took on more than you could handle, Roland.’
‘She was in love with me and I was in love with her. I thought that made everything right. How can anything go wrong when you’re loved?’
Sally’s face softened as she pulled up a chair and sat down next to Roland. ‘I guess that neither of us is fated to do very well in the love stakes.’
‘Christopher?’ Now she had to tell him; what a time to share a confidence!
Sally nodded. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if it was some other woman he was seeing, but it’s a bit downheartening for the competition to be a man.’
‘Charles Marsden?’
The name just slipped out, and Sally’s eyes shot wide open. ‘How do you know?’
Feeling guilty, Roland explained about how he’d had Alf Goldstein find out where Mellish went. ‘I did it because I wanted to protect you, Sally.’
‘Dear Roland.’ She reached out and held his face between her hands. ‘You’re like having a big brother around. But you never said a word, did you?’
‘I didn’t want to let on because I wasn’t sure you knew. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be very happy having me in on the secret.’
‘So you kept it to yourself. You’re a good man. That time I called you up, after you’d been here, I wasn’t angry at you. I just wanted you to stop worrying about me. Perhaps I was afraid you’d learn the truth.’
He took her hands in his. ‘I’ll always worry about you, Sally. You’re responsible for a lot of the success I’ve had. Funny thing is, I still like Christopher.’
‘So do I.’
‘Have you ever seen Marsden?’
‘No. Have you?’
Roland shook his head.
‘I wasn’t lying when I told you we have a very convenient marriage. Christopher’s very kind, very discreet about what he does. I suppose there’s even a kind of love between us. He’s tremendously good company, a lot of fun. When he’s around.’
‘And when he’s not?’
‘I get a little lonely. That’s when I’m not loaded down with work thrown on me by my unfeeling boss.’ Sally’s eyes sparkled for a brief moment. ‘You should meet him sometime. He’s a real tyrant, just weighs people down with work and couldn’t care less whether they can manage or not.’
‘I’ve heard he’s a real bastard.’
‘Oh, he is.’ She ran her fingers through his graying hair. ‘But I wouldn’t change him for anything.’
*
Three days later, while Sharon remained under observation at the hospital, Roland met with Alan Martin once again. This time the topic of their discussion was the latest issue of Probe magazine, which had been brought to Roland’s attention the previous day.
Rushden had written a lengthy episode of his Vulture Chronicles entitled: ‘Trouble in the Vulture’s Nest.’ From some source he’d gotten details of Katherine’s appearance at juvenile court. Purposely skipping the details of the sentence – the fine, probation and suspension of her driving license – Rushden had put together an article inferring that because of Roland’s obsessive interest in his business he’d neglected his daughter, who then tried to create attention for herself by demolishing a car she didn’t even know how to drive.
Roland was furious. Seeing his own name in Probe was something he’d learned to handle. But Katherine, especially after what she’d been through, should be spared such embarrassment.
‘Where do you think he got the information?’ Roland asked the lawyer.
Martin shrugged. ‘God knows. It’s against the law to divulge a minor’s name in a juvenile case, but when someone as well known as yourself is connected to that minor there’s always a shady character somewhere – maybe a clerk – who figures he can capitalize on it. He can’t go to the legitimate press because they already know about it and they know they can’t use the name. But he can always go to a rag like this. Could have been a reporter who passed on the information. Made himself a few pounds . . . or perhaps someone who has it in for you.’
‘I think they all do. But at least we’ve got something we can nail Rushden on now. Sue him clean out of business.’
‘I’m not certain that’s a very good idea, Mr Eagles.’
‘Why not?’
‘The only people who know about it are those who read Probe, and they might not even be particularly interested. If you push this, sue Rushden – which is probably what he wants anyway – it’ll be a big case. Everyone will know what happened to Katherine, it’ll be in all the papers. Do you really want that?’
‘No, I don’t. Surely I can do something, though.’ Roland was frustrated. He had come to Martin, anticipating a lawsuit against Rushden and Probe, against the magazine’s distributors, against anyone connected with it, and again he was being advised to do nothing.
‘Just leave him alone, Mr Eagles. Believe me, if there was a case I’d be the first to advise you to go ahead and nail him to the wall. I happen to share your opinion of this kind of journalism, but Rushden’s clever enough to practice it in situations where you’re powerless to fight back without causing more harm to yourself. He’s even been clever enough to avoid mentioning the court appearance. Technically, he hasn’t really violated the law.’
On the surface, Roland accepted Martin’s advice. Deep down, however, he was seething. All the aggravation he’d suffered wasn’t enough . . . Katherine . . . Sharon’s attempted suicide . . . then the decision by Simon to move his daughter and grandson back to his house once Sharon was released from hospital . . . No, all that wasn’t enough. He had to be dealt with more garbage from Daniel Rushden, then be told that he should sit and take it. But this time he’d be damned if he would.
Disregarding the mistake he’d once made when he tried to buy the magazine in order to shut it down, Roland telephoned Rushden at his office.
‘I just want you to know how close you’ve come to overstepping the line this time, Mr Rushden.’
‘A good journalist knows exactly where to draw that line, Mr Eagles. You should be able to understand that, being a newspaper owner yourself. Thank you for telling me, though.’ Rushden had purposely waited for enough time to elapse before using the information a journalist had sold him; such a gap would make it more difficult for Roland to act.
‘Pick on me, if that satisfies your twisted little mind,’ Roland said. ‘But if you ever mention my daughter again—’
‘You forced me to mention your daughter, Mr Eagles. If you hadn’t chosen to flaunt your power by treating a common juvenile court to the spectacle of one of London’s top lawyers parading up and down like some paid henchman, I would never have even considered the matter. But you were determined to show that your daughter, with your money behind her, wasn’t like any other juvenile appearing in court.’
‘Mr Rushden . . .’ Roland’s voice was barely controlled. ‘I’m going to make you a promise. One of these days I’m going to sue you clean into the poorhouse.’
‘Thank you for the warning. It’ll make me extra careful,’ Rushden replied as Roland slammed down the phone. Who the hell did Eagles think he was? Did he seriously believe his money, his power, could buy everyone? Then he started to chuckle. The last issue of Probe had passed all previous circulation figures. Again, Roland, as a newspaper owner himself, should be able to appreciate the dollars-and-cents logic of that.
Chapter Seven
In October, Roland launched his morning newspaper with a midnight champagne breakfast at Eldridge’s, to which he invited senior members of the staff, friends and business associates, and journalists from other newspapers.
The question on everyone’s mind – there had even been a contest running in the Burnham Press newspapers with a weekend for two in Paris as the prize for the first correct answer �
� was what it would be called. Everyone associated with the new venture had been sworn to secrecy, and Roland enjoyed the suspense that continued to build up during the meal. Although it would be nowhere as profitable as his retail ventures, the newspaper was his pride and joy at the moment. He had worked hard on it with Sally Roberts and the other members of the board, and at times wondered if he only did so to free his mind of thoughts of Sharon.
He understood that what had happened to Sharon wasn’t his fault; or maybe it was, but only to a small degree because he’d disregarded sound advice by marrying her. He’d been unable to cope with her illness, just as Simon and Nadine had been out of their depth. Love and dedication was only a small part of the cure, and Roland was grateful that Simon could see his way clear to put her under the care of a psychiatrist. Sharon spent hours each week in therapy while she lived in South Kensington with her parents and the baby. Roland telephoned the house regularly, always during the day when Nadine would be home. She would fill him in on Sharon’s progress, talk about the baby. Roland made a point of not calling in the evening for fear that Simon would simply hang up on him. He only hoped that in time Simon would come to his senses and see that Roland couldn’t be blamed for Sharon’s sickness. Most likely they would be friends again; perhaps one day they would be able to communicate in a civil manner. Friends . . .! Roland was still legally Simon’s son-in-law, although he had received a formal letter stating that Simon intended to file for divorce on his daughter’s behalf, and would Roland contest it? Roland, trying to bridge the gap which had opened between them, had replied in a much warmer tone that he would do whatever was best for Sharon’s interests. If Simon felt a divorce was right, Roland would agree. He was even willing to make a generous settlement upon Sharon and David, including their house in Stanmore. Another cold letter had come from Simon stating that Sharon needed nothing that Roland could possibly give her . . .
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ The red-coated toastmaster rapped on the table in front of Roland for attention, and the buzz of conversation died down. ‘Please lift your glasses to welcome our guest of honor . . .’
