Page 91 of Ethan & Grace

I wasn’t the only one spring had woken up today; it had also brought out the tourists in droves, taking photos of Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and the red phone booths. I entered The Darlington through the back door to avoid the journalists and took the lift up to my floor. The metal doors had barely opened when I heard my dad’s furious voice. Normally I would have ignored it, but then I heard Henry too, just as loud.

I followed the voices to my parents’ door and rang the bell. The fighting stopped instantly. Silence fell, then I heard footsteps, before my mum opened the door. She was deathly pale, her eyes glassy.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she replied with a shaky smile.

I didn’t believe her, so I stepped past her into the penthouse.

Henry and our dad were joined by his crisis manager, Vivian, and his three lawyers—Boyd, Chawla, and Sandhu. They all wore serious expressions, which wasn’t unusual; in the courtroom, they never looked like people who laughed much. But today, there was none of their usual confidence or arrogance either.

“What are you all doing here?”

“Beholding human scum,” Henry said from the sofa, pointing at our dad. His expression was just as grim as the lawyers’, and if looks could kill, our dad would’ve had a heart attack on the spot.

“I’ve never seen that woman in my life!” our dad shouted. The vein on his forehead that stood out when he was angry looked ready to burst. “Someone is trying to frame me.”

“Sure,” Henry said, his voice dripping with scorn.

I had a pretty good idea of what might have happened, but I still looked to Vivian for a clear answer. She was the calmest person in the room—probably because dealing with human scum had been her day job for years. But instead of replying, she pressed a button on the remote, turning the television on. Henry shook his head and looked away, and even Sandhu seemed suddenly very interested in his shoes.

“New incriminating evidence has come to light in the Richard Darlington case, which has gripped public attention for months,” the reporter said gravely. According to the time stamp in the top right corner, it wasn’t a live broadcast, but had aired about an hour earlier. “Since March, Richard Darlington has been on trial for the sexual abuse of three former hotel employees. A verdict is still pending, but a new plaintiff could be decisive in this case. Hazel Parker, who was seventeen at the time, has accused Darlington of drugging her at a charity gala and forcing her to have sex with him.”

The reporter paused dramatically to let her words sink in. And they had their effect—they were like a punch in the gut, not only confirming my suspicions, but going one step further. Seventeen? My dad had raped a seventeen-year-old? Calling him human scum would almost be too generous.

“Video footage from the evening supports her allegations,” the reporter continued.

My mum let out a whimper behind me as the image on the TV changed and the video began to play. It was black and white, slightly grainy, and showed what looked like a storage room. The door to the room was flung open, and two people entered. Despite the pixelated quality, my dad was clearly recognisable. He was with a young woman in a dress, who hung limply in his arms.

My insides clenched as I watched my dad manoeuvre the nearly unconscious girl to a table and lay her out on it. Hazel was clearly trying to get up, but couldn’t. The video was censored with pixels, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. Vivian switched off the TV.

I was grateful: I’d seen enough. Having to hear in court what my dad had done to those women was bad enough. Seeing it with my own eyes was repulsive in an entirely new way. I didn’t want to begin to imagine how Hazel must have felt in that moment, while a man who was old enough to be her father—or even her grandfather—raped her: defenceless, frightened, and numb. The fact that he had drugged her made it even worse, because it showed that his crime had been planned.

“You disgust me,” Henry said, voicing what I was thinking. What everyone was probably thinking. He got up from the sofa and stepped in front of our dad. “I expect you out of The Darlington by the end of the week. I don’t want to see you here anymore. Mum, you can stay if you want. But you,” he raised his hand and jabbed his finger into our dad’s chest, “get out.”

Our dad batted Henry’s hand away. “You can’t kick me out.”

“I can and I will,” Henry retorted. “I’ve tolerated your presence at The Darlington until now because it’s your home. But that’s over now. Either you get out of here, or I’ll hold a press conference and dish all the dirt on you that’s piled up over the years. And when I say all the dirt, I mean all of it. Your choice, Richard. Pack your bags and get out of here, or stay and watch me tear you apart until there’s nothing left.”

My dad’s jaw clenched, and I was afraid he would fly at my brother at any moment. “That would cost you the hotel.”

“I don’t care,” Henry said firmly, sounding so determined that I couldn’t tell whether or not he was bluffing. He loved The Darlington, but after everything that had happened in recent weeks and months, perhaps that love wasn’t as unconditional as before.

I heard footsteps behind me, followed by a door slamming. I turned and saw that my mum had left the room. I followed, leaving Henry and our dad to argue.

I knocked gently on the guest bedroom door, but there was no answer. I tried the handle, and it thankfully gave. Inside, I immediately noticed a pair of pyjamas on the bed. On the bedside table lay a book and a bottle of hand cream. Clothes hung in the wardrobe. This was clearly no longer a guest room. My mum was sleeping here.

She sat now in an armchair by the window, her face buried in her hands. Her sobs filled the room, breaking my heart.

I closed the door behind me and approached her cautiously. “Mum?”

She didn’t respond, just continued crying hard with her shoulders shaking.

I knelt before her, not knowing what to say. Nothing could make this fucked-up situation any better. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I put my arms around her. I wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone. We were all trapped in this hell Richard Darlington had made for us.

My insides were in knots when I left the guest room an hour later, and my shirt was soaked with my mum’s tears. She had cried herself to sleep, exhausted, which was probably for the best. At least this way, she’d be spared a few hours of pain and humiliation. My throat felt raw and constricted, as though I might choke on the feelings boiling inside me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had done everything in the past few weeks to bring some order back into my life, to salvage what was left of this family. At times, like that evening with Logan and Henry, I’d actually believed it was possible. But now I was no longer sure. It felt like everything was falling apart all over again.

“Has your mother finally calmed down?” I heard my dad ask.