Chapter 13
First Day of Trial: Richard Darlington to Appear in Court!
Daily Mail headline
Ethan
A storm of cameras greeted us outside the Old Bailey, London’s central criminal court.
Today was the first day of my dad’s trial, which meant a frenzy of press coverage.
The photographers fired their shutters relentlessly, and the reporters shouted themselves hoarse in the hope of getting a statement from my dad.
He walked ahead of my mum and me with his three lawyers.
Instead of looking ashamed, he smiled pleasantly into the cameras.
Either he wasn’t aware of how serious the situation was, or sheer arrogance made him believe he would get away unscathed. Most likely, it was the latter.
I had read the indictment. The case was a little shaky, because my dad and his hangers-on had gone to great effort to make all evidence of his crimes disappear.
But the things he’d overlooked were damning, as were his victims’ testimonies.
I believed them. The only reason why I was here instead of skipping the trial like Henry was my mum.
Because while my dad waved at the cameras as if he were walking down the red carpet, my mum had linked her arm through mine, head bowed and shoulders hunched.
Her black outfit screamed funeral, and her oversized sunglasses concealed what her makeup couldn’t: her tear-swollen eyes.
My dad’s total lack of shame made it all the more uncomfortable for my mum.
Two security guards opened the doors for us, and we left the throng of journalists behind. We were immediately enveloped in silence. I could almost hear my mum breathe a sigh of relief—but the hardest part was yet to come.
Boyd, Chawla, and Sandhu, my dad’s three lawyers, led us through the Grand Hall of the Old Bailey.
It was intimidating and majestic, immediately instilling a sense of reverence.
Even my dad had stopped smiling. The high, ornately decorated ceilings arched into domes, giving the space an almost sacred atmosphere.
Stone sculptures flanked the corridors, and the floor was a mosaic of intricately laid tiles.
We reached the courtroom, which, with its dark-wooden panelling and judge’s bench at the front, was no less impressive.
Although proceedings weren’t due to start for another half hour, the public gallery was already full, and the press was there.
The cameras kept clicking. While my dad and his lawyers took their seats at the front, my mum and I sat among the spectators in seats that had been reserved for us.
“Thanks for coming with me,” my mum whispered. She reached for my hand. Her fingers were clammy and trembling, and her breath smelled of wine, even though it wasn’t yet noon.
I gave a weak smile. “Of course. I won’t let you go through this alone.”
“I wish Henry were here too.” She glanced at the empty seat beside her. Until the very last minute, she had hoped he would change his mind and come with us today, but his relationship with our dad had been in ruins since their argument last year.
I gave my mum’s hand a comforting squeeze. She tried to smile back at me, but managed only a wobbly twitch of her lips. She looked as if she might burst into tears again at any moment.
The courtroom door opened as a woman in a red suit and a man in a dark-blue one entered, followed by three women.
I recognised their faces, partly from the press and partly from the hotel—Miranda McCloud, Chloe Lawrence, and Amiyah Marsh, the three plaintiffs.
The murmurs in the room grew louder, and the clicking of the cameras became more frenzied.
My dad glanced over his shoulder and then immediately turned away again, as if these women weren’t worth his attention.
Beside me, my mum gave a whimper and pressed her free hand to her mouth to stifle the sound. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” she whispered.
“Want me to come with you and wait in the corridor?”
“No, I’ll manage.”
She grabbed her handbag and hurried from the courtroom briskly, her head lowered.
I leant back against the hard bench with a sigh.
I should be sitting in a lecture right now, being bored to death by Professor Sattler.
If I was honest, I would have much preferred to be there, despite the fact that Professor Sattler had given my deliberately bad paper an even worse grade than it deserved.
But he clearly just couldn’t stand me, and it would probably be smart not to take any of his courses next term.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and messaged James to distract myself. He’d offered to come from Cambridge to the hearing for moral support, but the spring term was drawing to a close, and I didn’t want him risking his grades on my account. I would get through this. Somehow.
Me:
We’re in the courtroom.
It’s absolute mayhem here. I hope this whole thing is over soon.
James:
I read that some of these cases can take weeks or even months.
Me:
Shoot me now.
James:
You’re my best friend. So no.
Me:
If I really were your best friend, you’d do me that favour.
James:
You can do this!
Me:
We’ll see . . .
James:
You can leave the courtroom anytime.
Me:
I don’t want to leave my mum in the lurch.
James:
I get that. But you also have to look out for yourself.
The atmosphere around me shifted, conversations growing quieter until they stopped altogether. When I looked up from my phone, I saw people at the front of the courtroom who hadn’t been there before. The hearing was about to begin.
I looked around for my mum, but she wasn’t back yet.
I texted James that it was starting, and then put my phone away.
I did my best to creep out of the courtroom without drawing attention, but my dad noticed anyway.
Ignoring his warning look, I stepped out into the corridor and followed the signs to the women’s restroom.
I pushed open the door carefully and peeked in.
“Mum?”
There was no reply, but I heard a quiet sob, as if someone was trying to muffle the sound with their hand. My heart cramped. God, I should have checked on her sooner. I slipped into the room and went over to the cubicles. Only one door was closed.
I knocked. “Hey, is everything OK?”
The only sound was the hum of the ventilation.
“Mum. I know you’re in there.”
Another sob. It wasn’t quite as bad as the cries of pain I’d heard from Grace, but it came pretty close. I hated seeing my mum like this. She was far from perfect, and had her fair share of flaws—she was vain to a fault and could sometimes be condescending—but still, this broke my heart.
I knocked again. “Could you please open the door?”
She finally seemed to realise that I wasn’t going to go away if she kept ignoring me. I heard the trumpeting sound of her blowing her nose, then a shaky voice. “I’m fine. I’ll be out there in a minute.”
It was painfully obvious that she wasn’t fine, and there was no way I would stroll back into the courtroom to support my dad while she cried in the restroom, needing me. I’d only come today for her sake, after all.
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” I said. “Open the door. Please.”
“Ethan . . .” she pleaded.
But I wasn’t going anywhere. If I did, nothing would ever change.
She’d continue breaking down in secret, over and over, covering it up afterwards with thick layers of makeup.
She refused to show any weakness, because we lived in a society where looks were everything.
Where our public image counted for more than what was happening inside us.
And where power and influence were number one, and compassion, empathy, and love played only minor roles.
“I’m not leaving.”
“But—”
“No buts, Mum. Either we go back in together, or we don’t go in at all.
” I leant against the wall. “For all I care, we can spend the entire trial in here.” In fact, I would have preferred it, especially since I was pretty sure the hearing had already begun, and all eyes would turn to us if we went back in now—assuming they even let us in again.
My mum unlatched the cubicle door and stepped out, her shoulders squared in an effort to keep her composure.
Still, she looked incredibly small and fragile, her posture obviously only a front.
Her face told the truth: eyes swollen, lashes clumped together with tears, and makeup completely smudged.
I had never seen her like this before. And though it wasn’t easy, I mustered a smile to give her courage.
“How bad is it?” she asked, avoiding the mirror.
“Nothing we can’t fix.”
I pushed myself away from the wall and took her Birkin handbag from her.
She always carried a makeup bag inside it.
As I set the handbag down next to the sink, my eyes fell on the hip flask tucked between her purse and a small notebook.
My stomach tightened, but this wasn’t the time to bring it up.
I pulled out the makeup bag, which, as I had hoped, contained makeup remover wipes.
I pulled one out of the packet and stepped closer to my mum. She was still avoiding the mirror, as if afraid of her own reflection. “Tilt your head up.”
She lifted her chin hesitantly. Her brown irises were clouded. She didn’t meet my eyes as I started wiping the mascara streaks from her cheeks. “You shouldn’t be seeing me like this,” she said hoarsely. Her breath now reeked even more strongly of alcohol.
“Stunning as ever, you mean?”
“You’re just as charming as your father,” she replied with a snort.
“I’d rather you didn’t compare us.”
Her lips trembled, as if she were about to start crying again. “He wasn’t always like this.”
“He has been for as long as I can remember,” I said bitterly, fighting against the old memories that were trying to force their way back to the surface. Suppressing them had cost me years of my life and too many parties, and I wasn’t ready to face them again.
“Your father loves you. It’s just hard for him to show it.”
“Why are you defending him?”
She shrugged. “Because I’m his wife.”
“But you don’t have to be.”
“We’ve been together for over thirty years.”
I took another wipe from the packet. “It’s never too late to make better choices. And divorce is always an option.”
She sniffed. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It is easy. Just make a decision and stick to it. You could decide, for example, that we won’t go back into the courtroom, but head somewhere for lunch instead.”
“That sounds lovely,” my mum murmured. There was a sparkle in her eyes, and for a split second, I hoped I’d got through to her. But then she blinked, and the sparkle was extinguished, replaced once more by sorrow, pain, and shame. “But we can’t. You know that. Your dad needs us.”
I pressed my lips together. More than anything, I wanted to shout that my dad didn’t need us at all.
If anything, he needed us for the illusion that he had a perfect family.
A happily married man made a far better impression in court than a freshly divorced one.
But telling my mum that wouldn’t have helped.
She had made her decision for today. And once again, it was the wrong one.
Even though I wanted to reach out and shake her, I simply nodded.
I knew now that change couldn’t be forced.
And my mum wasn’t quite there yet. All I could do for her today was stand by her side and hope that one day she would see what I had long since known: that she was just another one of Richard Darlington’s victims.