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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 spent 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.

‘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” victim, 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.