…continued
It took a lot for Tom to lose his temper, but witnessing his father ‘outing’ Becca and Jodi in front of the playhouse staff sent him spiralling from infuriation into full-blown rage. Who the bloody hell did he think he was?
Without stopping to think, he grabbed his father by the elbow and dragged him from the café. ‘Upstairs, now!’ he bellowed, barely able to speak through his clenched teeth. An argument was about to happen and he didn’t want an audience.
In his periphery, he saw the look of horror on Becca’s and Jodi’s faces, and the smug look on Vivienne’s. Part of him wanted to stay and manage the aftermath of his dad’s bombshell, but the bigger part of him needed to yell at his father.
As they ascended the grand staircase, he vaguely heard his father talking behind him. But he wasn’t listening. He had no interest in anything his father had to say. He was too focused on breathing. His chest was tightening with every step. So much for rest and relaxation. Dealing with a damp roof, an unknown thief and a showcase they couldn’t afford wasn’t conducive to reducing his stress levels. And now he had to deal with his father.
By the time he reached the top, he was so breathless he had to use Uncle Henry’s bust to lean on. Recovering slightly, he marched down the galley corridor to his mother’s study, adrenaline and anger the only things spurring him on.
He pushed open the door and went inside, steeling himself. It was cold in the room, but he didn’t light the fire. He didn’t want his father getting too cosy.
His body was shaking, his chest rising and falling in short bursts. He took out his inhaler and administered a welcome burst of Ventolin. The pain in his chest eased a fraction. He noticed the state of his hands, dirty and bloody from hitting himself with the hammer. His suit trousers and waistcoat were smeared in cobwebs. Christ, he was a mess…unlike Harvey Elliot, who walked into the study looking pristine in his navy blazer and tailored trousers and wearing a totally unremorseful expression.
Tom had to fight the urge to pick up the elephant-shaped paperweight on the desk and smash it over his head. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
His father looked mildly alarmed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Downstairs just now. Telling everyone about Becca’s and Jodi’s past. Why did you do that?’ He closed the door, in case Vivienne decided to eavesdrop.
‘A more pertinent question would be: what are they doing working at the playhouse?’
Tom rubbed his chest. ‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘Of course it’s my concern. This is your mother’s business. If you’re making rash decisions that jeopardise the future of the playhouse, then it’s my duty to intervene.’
Tom wondered if he’d heard correctly. ‘Your duty? You have no right whatsoever to dictate what happens here. You gave up that right when you buggered off.’ He marched over to the desk. The room suddenly seemed too small. Or maybe the furniture was too big. He couldn’t decide which.
‘Not this again.’ His father sounded exasperated.
Tom spun around. ‘How dare you walk in here and act like you’re in charge. This is no longer your home.’
‘But it’s still your mother’s. And if you’re engaging the likes of that Roberts girl and Jodi Simmons to work here then your judgement is highly questionable.’
Tom banged his fist on the desk, making the framed photos wobble. His injured thumb began to throb. ‘Firstly, I didn’t hire Becca and Jodi, Mum did. And secondly, my judgement is none of your concern. I don’t care if you agree with my decisions, but I do care about you walking in here and relaying private information about Becca and Jodi to the rest of the staff.’
‘Your mother is an alcoholic. Her decision-making is impaired.’ His father had switched to QC mode, sullying the credibility of the star witness.
Tom wasn’t about to be outwitted. ‘But mine isn’t.’
‘If you’re trusting that pair to work here, then clearly it is.’ His father’s voice was calm, measured, displaying his ability to be ‘reasonable’ despite provocation. ‘Do you need me to remind you they both have criminal records?’
‘And do you need me to remind you about the law of slander?’
That shut his father up. It was a small win, but one he would relish.
‘Becca wasn’t charged, she was given a police caution, and because she was under eighteen at the time there’s no record of the offence on her DBS check. She’s perfectly within her rights to sue you, and I for one would be happy to represent her.’ God, his chest hurt. He glanced around hoping to find a bottle of water.
‘You’re being a little dramatic.’ His father’s patronising tone didn’t waver. ‘And the same cannot be said for Jodi Simmons. She has a record longer than my arm.’
‘Now who’s being dramatic?’
His father sat in the wingback chair. ‘My point is, they cannot be trusted.’
To anyone else, there was nothing strange about a man taking a seat in a study. But nothing Harvey Elliot ever did was random. It was a tactic. A manoeuvre designed to unsettle the opposition. He was allowing his son the opportunity to present his ‘opening argument’. No doubt, he hoped Tom would cave under the pressure and hang himself. Well, tough. That wasn’t about to happen.
Tom picked up an almost empty can of lemonade and drank the dregs. It was flat and disgusting. In the absence of water, it would have to do. ‘You haven’t seen them for twelve years. You have no idea what they’re like now. But you don’t care, do you? You’ve made your judgement and as we all know, the great Harvey Elliot is never wrong.’
His father crossed his legs. ‘So there isn’t five thousand pounds missing?’
Tom stilled. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘Vivienne was kind enough to enlighten me.’
‘Oh, I bet she was.’ Bloody woman.
‘Do you think it’s a coincidence that within weeks of those two showing up here money is taken from the safe?’
Tom needed to buy himself some time. He used the tissues on the desk to wipe his hands. The tick of the grandfather clock filled the silence.
Money had never gone missing before. So no, it wasn’t a coincidence. But if Jodi didn’t take the money then who did? He suspected it was a set-up to get rid of Jodi. But he had no evidence. And without proof, he didn’t need his father to point out he had no case.
Binning the tissues, he faced his father, who looked annoyingly relaxed. He was reading the spines of the books filling the wall-to-wall bookcases.
‘Whatever conclusions you’ve reached, you don’t know the facts. I trust Becca and Jodi. They work bloody hard, and they’re doing more to save the playhouse than anyone else. More significantly, Mum trusts them. She appointed them as deputies in her absence and she’s the only person who has the authority to reverse that decision. Not me, and certainly not you.’
His father tilted his head to one side. ‘So who took the money?’
Good question. ‘It’s under investigation.’
‘Are the police involved?’ It was asked in such an innocent way that it was obvious he already knew the answer.
‘Not yet. I didn’t want a scandal to ruin the showcase event we have planned.’
‘Ah, yes, the showcase.’ His father brushed a piece of lint from his jacket lapel. ‘I understand from Vivienne the missing five thousand pounds was to finance the event? Without the money, doesn’t that rather foil your plans?’
Bloody Vivienne again.
Of course, it did. But he wasn’t about to admit as much. Despite Becca and Jodi’s best efforts, he was realistic enough to know an event that big needed financing. He’d been racking his brain trying to find a solution. He would have financed the show himself if the flat sale hadn’t wiped him out. There hadn’t been much equity in the property, and what little there was had been used up clearing the secured loan taken out to cover Izzy’s debts. His income was currently lower than it had been, and he’d just forked out for Izzy’s second week at the Travelodge to prevent her from becoming homeless. He was skint.
So he’d done the only thing he could think of. He’d applied for a personal loan to finance the showcase and get the roof fixed. Maybe he was crazy, but he couldn’t cope with the idea of letting his mother…or Becca…down. But with no security in the form of a property or fixed income, there was no guarantee his application would be successful.
His father’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘After all this time, she still has a hold over you.’
Tom feigned ignorance. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘The Roberts girl. A schoolboy crush is one thing, but allowing her to distract you from your career and risk all you’ve worked for? Is she really worth it?’ His father was a clever sod. The question was typical of a seasoned QC, loaded with a series of hidden insinuations that made it impossible for the defendant to answer a straight ‘yes’ or ‘no’.
Tom’s answer should be ‘no’. They hadn’t been involved for twelve years. They’d both moved on. And yet, he still felt a connection.
He hadn’t ended the relationship because he’d fallen out of love with her. He’d been persuaded to walk away. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to her about what had happened, or explain face-to-face why he was ending it, so there’d been no…closure. One day they were together, the next they weren’t.
In her eyes, he’d betrayed her. He’d believed the worst and hadn’t stood by her, hadn’t resisted pressure from his father to break up with her. And she was right. But he’d been confused. He’d been unwilling to believe her capable of theft, but presented with the evidence, how could he think otherwise? And if Becca was heading for the same path as her cousin, then his father had been right: it could have affected his chances of becoming a barrister.
It was only months later that doubt had started to creep in. Becca had never been dishonest. She’d once insisted they return to a café when she’d realised they hadn’t charged her for her second juice. It was difficult to believe her capable of shoplifting. So in that sense the answer was ‘yes’. She did still have a hold over him.
‘No one’s distracting me from my career,’ he said, staring down at the unopened copies of Justice Weekly lying on the desk. No doubt his father had spotted them too.
‘That’s not what Arthur Watson tells me.’ His father tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. ‘Apparently, you’ve hardly been in chambers of late. Your trial rate has reduced to a fraction of what it was. If you’re trying to commit career suicide, then you’re going in the right direction.’
‘Quit with the career advice, Dad. I’m not interested.’
‘Well, you should be. Don’t you want to make Silk?’
Tom rubbed his chest. ‘Achieving Silk is your dream, not mine.’
‘Surely it’s what every barrister wants? And you have an advantage – someone willing to make it happen. Why would you reject that? For the sake of your pride?’
How could he explain that he’d become disillusioned with the profession? He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a barrister anymore, let alone a QC.
He’d been so chuffed to be called to the Bar and declared an ‘utter barrister’. To be allowed to practise and call himself learned and wear a wig and gown. It had been so exciting. And now he was thinking of walking away. The reality of dealing with petty criminals, speeding motorists and those posing a nuisance to their community depressed the hell out of him. He’d wanted to make a difference. And he wasn’t doing that.
‘When it comes to career decisions, I’ll decide what’s best for me.’ Tom leant against the desk, needing another puff of Ventolin, but unwilling to show any weakness in front of his father. ‘I’m sorry if that disappoints you, but I stopped looking for your approval when you walked out on Mum.’
‘So you’re prepared to give up years of study to work at a rundown arts centre?’
‘That’s the bit you don’t understand.’
‘Then enlighten me.’ His father opened his hands, a show of how reasonable he was being.
‘This place means everything to Mum. She’d be devastated to see it close. Unlike you, I’m not about to let her down. So if that means taking time out to support her and keep things going while she seeks help for her addiction, then it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.’
‘Even if it damages your career?’
‘Yes, Dad.’
There was no need to explain that he had no intention of ruining his career. His days as a defence barrister might be numbered, but he’d do something else law-related – he just wasn’t sure what. His father would never understand, so there was no point discussing it.
‘How is your mother?’ His father uncrossed his legs.
Oh, so now he was showing an interest in his mother? ‘No idea. She’s not allowed visitors.’
‘When will she be released?’
Jesus. ‘She’s not in prison.’
His father sighed. ‘I meant, when is she coming home?’
‘Not for another few weeks.’ He pushed away from the desk. ‘Now, unless there’s something else, I think it’s better if you left.’
His father stayed seated. ‘I was hoping you’d join me for lunch?’
Was he for real? Tom rubbed his chest. ‘Not going to happen.’
His father stood. ‘I really do want to make amends.’
‘Great. You can start by going downstairs and publicly apologising to Becca and Jodi for humiliating them earlier.’
His father didn’t reply.
‘Yep, just as I thought.’ Tom walked over to the door and opened it. ‘Have a safe trip back to London, Dad.’ When his father reluctantly left, he shut the door behind him.
Tom lay down on the sofa and took two shots of Ventolin, trying to slow his breathing. He focused on the swirl of the blue damask patterning on the curtain pelmet and listened to the grandfather clock. He wanted to check on Becca and Jodi, but arguing with his father had used up all his breath.