Page 16 of Ethan & Grace

“I heard from Claude Asterdam that you’re planning to go out with James at the weekend,” my dad said, changing the topic abruptly to signal he’d had enough talk about my playing. “I hardly need to remind you that my trial starts soon. I’ve been preparing with my lawyers, and they’ve stressed once again that it’s crucial not to attract any negative attention right now. So until this farce is over, I don’t want to read a single headline about wild parties, property damage, or scandalous liaisons with women.”

“Ethan will behave impeccably,” my mum said, defending me before I could say a word. It hadn’t escaped her notice that I was trying to do better, though that had nothing to do with my dad and his trial, and everything to do with me and my life.

“I should hope so,” my dad replied, not taking his eyes off me. “Any wrong move on Ethan’s part could reflect badly on me. So I expect faultless conduct. Anything else is unacceptable.”

I didn’t speak, though I was raging on the inside. There was so much I wanted to say to him—that it hadn’t been my wrong moves that had brought him to this point, that everything was his fault, that neither I nor my behaviour would determine the outcome of his trial. But I said none of it. I couldn’t. It felt as if someone had clamped a hand over my mouth, and that someone was me. A younger, frightened me.

“Are you listening to me?” my dad demanded.

I looked at him, my stomach clenching. His eyes were the same pale blue as mine, but it felt like I was looking straight into an abyss. There was no light, only an all-consuming darkness that robbed me of not only my courage but also my self-confidence and strength, until there was nothing left but fear. I hated it. I hated what being close to this man did to me, how I felt in his presence. I was no longer a child but an adult, bigger and stronger than him, yet the old fear remained the same. “Yes, sir,” I answered with the obedience he’d drilled into me.

My dad nodded, satisfied. A triumphant smile played on his lips, as if he were not only aware of the power he had over me but actively took pleasure in it.

“Excuse me,” I said, pushing my chair back, unable to sit at the table with him for another second. “I have a paper to finish.”

I cast my mum an apologetic look as I left. She nodded. She understood why I couldn’t stay. I left the tearoom and strode to the lifts without turning back. A single word echoed through my head: coward.

Coward.

Coward.

In my fantasies, I was brave enough to confront my dad with all the things that ran through my mind when I saw his face. In reality, I wasn’t—not yet, anyway. But one day, I would be. Hopefully.

I took the lift up and told my smart-home system to switch on the lights, as the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds. Yet even with the lights on, my mood made everything seem bleak and grey, empty and joyless. Or perhaps it was simply my lifeless flat. There were no photos on the walls, no keepsakes on the shelves, nothing to remind me of my past. I had spent years at boarding school pretty much living out of suitcases, and when I returned to London, I hadn’t made an effort to make the penthouse my parents had given me feel like my own. I had never intended to stay. But then everything with my dad had happened, and . . . here I still was.

I put on my workout clothes and strapped myself into the rowing machine in my gym. It didn’t take me long to settle into a fast, hard rhythm. My muscles throbbed and my throat burned as I rowed, my heart fighting desperately to pump more oxygen through my body. Sweat dripped from my forehead. It didn’t cross my mind to stop, not even when I felt a stabbing pain in my lungs and tasted bile rising in my throat. As long as my body was battling the pounding, the burn, and the strain, there was simply no space left for negative thoughts.

The Blackroom

An old interview with Richard Darlington has recently resurfaced—and it reads like a relic from a time when women couldn’t vote or work without their husbands’ permission. In it, the hotelier bluntly declares that he’s glad not to have daughters and that he dislikes putting women in leadership positions at The Darlington. Women, he claims, are “too emotional,” and promoting them would be “a loss-making venture,” since they might get pregnant.

Yes, you read right. According to Richard Darlington, the mere possibility of a woman having a child makes her unqualified for promotion. This old white man seems to have forgotten which century we live in. To him, women are nothing more than ticking baby time bombs, liable to “explode” at any moment.

This shouldn’t come as much of a shock—Darlington’s lack of respect for women is hardly news. If he had any, he wouldn’t now be facing trial on multiple rape charges. Perhaps he should spend less time whining about emotional, child-bearing women and more time reflecting on how utterly pathetic and embarrassing it is that his worldview hasn’t evolved since the last century. Because let’s be honest—any woman, with or without children, would do a far better job at running The Darlington than this sorry excuse for a man.

6

I miss you.

Unread message from Grace to Amy

Grace

“How was work?” Mum asked when she heard me come in.

The delicious aroma of caramelised onions and melted cheese hung in the air. Mum stood in the kitchen, her blond hair plaited, briskly stirring a pot without so much as a glance in my direction. I couldn’t tell if she was just making sure nothing burnt or if monitoring the pot was a convenient excuse not to look at me. It felt like a ridiculous thing to have to wonder.

“Stressful,” I replied, hanging up my coat on a stand that already strained and threatened to topple at any moment under the weight of five people’s jackets—Amy’s were still there.

“Because of the trial?”

“Yes and no. Mainly because of the staff shortages.” Giulia hadn’t been exaggerating. There was a lot to do in the hotel, but at least it kept me busy enough to avoid the pitying looks of colleagues. And it left me no time to dwell on the breakdown I’d had earlier in the week in front of Ethan Beelzebub Darlington. I still felt queasy when I remembered how I’d clung to him. Why did it have to be Ethan? Why not Giulia? Or Rakesh? Even Henry would have been better. The only good thing was that I hadn’t run into Ethan since, and with any luck, he’d be back to his usual drunk, sometimes stoned, arsehole self at the weekend.

“Are you working tomorrow?” Mum asked, still not looking at me.

I went to the fridge and took out a can of Coke. “Yes. And I’m going out afterwards with Rose. There’s a new club opening in town, and she got us on the guest list.”

“Lovely. I’m sure a night out will do you some good.” My mum turned away from the pot to pluck herbs from a planter on the windowsill above the sink. She loved plants, and I could remember a time when our flat had been full of them, green leaves peeking out from every corner. But that had been before Jason was born and our place became too small. Now the corners of our flat were crammed with clutter that had no other place to go. We didn’t even have a living room anymore, and the kitchen had become our family’s communal room in its place.