Chapter 4 #2
As a kid, I’d always been creeped out by this room, its walls lined with portraits of deceased Darlingtons.
Logan and I had firmly believed that the room was haunted, and the pictures of the dead were watching us.
But today, I was more afraid of the living who were waiting there for me: my dad and Mr. Boyd.
Vivian would presumably also be in attendance.
My dad had hired her several months ago to clean up his image, a feat she’d achieved once before with a professional athlete who had fallen into disrepute after similar allegations.
“You made it,” my dad snapped, irritated, when I stepped into the room.
He sat grimly at the head of the table, which was now technically my place.
His dark-grey suit was the same shade as his hair.
Looking at him was like looking into my future, only I hoped my eyes would be less embittered. “What took you so long?”
“I was busy,” I answered evasively, hanging my coat on the coatrack next to the door. I sat down in a chair to his right; I didn’t want to start a debate about which seat belonged to whom. “What’s so urgent?”
The mood in the room soured at my question, like a glass of milk left out in the sun for too long.
My dad’s expression grew even darker. For a split second, worry flickered across Vivian’s face, before it was replaced by her usual steely resolve.
It seemed the update about the BBC and Diana D’Angelo hadn’t been the only very bad news today.
Mr. Boyd spoke up. “I got a phone call this afternoon. Apparently, it has been decided to take your father’s case to court. The authorities say there is enough evidence for a lawsuit.”
“The audacity!” my dad objected. The vein on his forehead popped—something I’d always feared as a child, because it meant I was in trouble. “I did nothing that those women didn’t want. To make out now that I assaulted them is outrageous. This is defamation! Can we file a libel suit against them?”
I bit back a snide comment. My dad pretty much asked the same question at every meeting.
His default response to criticism was to silence the other party using his money or power instead of reflecting on himself.
Self-reflection was a concept that I only understood thanks to Shelley, my old nanny.
She had set great store by making Logan and me aware of our privilege and liked to bring us down to earth.
“I’d counsel against it at this moment in time, Mr. Darlington,” replied Mr. Boyd.
His hair had been sparse since I’d known him, but in the last few months, it seemed to have grown even thinner.
Presumably because of my dad and this case, which was enough to make anyone want to pull their hair out.
“A defamation suit could reflect poorly on you. We can think about that once we’ve won the case and the full extent of the situation is clear. ”
The vein on my dad’s forehead continued to pulsate.
He wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted, but he should have thought about that before he’d crossed a line with those women.
He argued that he was innocent, but I didn’t believe a word he said.
Once upon a time, long ago, I had looked up to him, but now I knew that Richard Darlington was a cold, ruthless bastard.
“We could try again with an out-of-court settlement, if you’d be willing,” Mr. Boyd suggested. My dad had already whittled down the allegations from seven women to three with out-of-court settlements. The two million pounds he had offered each woman had proven too tempting.
“You promised there’d be no trial,” Vivian said, without responding to the suggestion.
Her dark hair was gathered in a tight plait, and she wore a blue suit that looked like a uniform.
At our first meeting, I’d been surprised that she was only a few years older than me—her CV was just as impressive as her clientele was questionable.
“I made no such promise, Mrs. Edwards,” said Mr. Boyd.
“I said it probably wouldn’t go to trial.
Statistically, less than five percent of reported sex offences end up in court.
There usually isn’t enough evidence. The indictment was only filed because of media pressure.
The Metropolitan Police and the Crown Prosecution Service can’t afford bad press or to be accused of sloppy work. This is just theatrics.”
“You don’t seem particularly worried,” I said as I patted my suit, looking for my phone. Perhaps I had another appointment that would get me out of this one. I had nothing to contribute anyway. But my phone wasn’t there. It was probably still in my coat.
“I’m not,” Mr. Boyd said, head held high. “Your father hired the best law firm in town. My colleagues and I know this case inside out, and there’s no solid evidence. It’s their word against ours. We have the law on our side.”
I would have said the same in his position—and with his wage—but Vivian seemed satisfied with his statement and made fervent notes on her tablet. My dad looked smug.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“The prosecution has submitted an indictment to the Court of Justice. Based on this, the judge will decide at the first hearing whether the evidence is as airtight and whether there will be a trial or not. If he decides there will, the case will be referred to the Crown Court. Should this happen, we would push for immediate bail. It shouldn’t be a problem.
There’d presumably be a fine, and they’ll take your passport to prevent you from leaving the country.
You might also get a court order for electronic monitoring or a curfew. ”
“Unacceptable!” my dad hissed.
“Could we circumvent that?” Vivian asked with a businesslike tone.
Mr. Boyd took off his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth he drew from his trouser pocket. “We can plead that Mr. Darlington is an upstanding member of society, and that the company and family domicile prevent him from being considered a flight risk. But ultimately, it’s for the court to decide.”
Vivian shook her head. “A photograph of Richard wearing an ankle monitor is the last thing we need. It would only cast him in a negative light. We need to create positive momentum.”
“Positive momentum is your job, not mine,” replied Mr. Boyd with a tight-lipped smile.
He explained the next steps in the proceedings, which could, in the worst-case scenario, take several years.
But, he speculated, public interest would likely make sure the case was dealt with swiftly.
When he was done, Vivian went through possible measures that would make my dad look like a better person than he really was.
I only half listened to the discussion. While my dad was focussed mainly on himself, I was thinking about the hotel, about the cancellations and our employees.
I drummed my fingers nervously on my knee.
My thoughts snagged on the day’s to-do list. Unsurprisingly, I realised I wouldn’t have enough time to do everything.
I glanced with irritation at the heavy Audemars Piguet strapped to my wrist. My mum had given me the watch as a present after my dad had appointed me CEO.
“Henry?”
I raised my eyes. I had been staring into space, lost in thought, drafting an email to the BBC in my head. I knew I wouldn’t be able to persuade them to make the documentary after all, but I wanted to write a dignified response to their rejection. “Yes?”
My dad scowled at me. “Did you hear what Vivian said?”
“No, sorry. What was it about?”
“The Pearl Gala.”
I frowned. “What about it?”
The Pearl Gala was a fundraising event that my grandmother Selma had started forty-three years ago.
Every year in the last week of December, we invited people to The Darlington to raise money for a charity.
The guest list was exclusive, and the red carpet was not only one of the most significant but also the final one of the year for most stars and celebrities.
The media often reported that the Pearl Gala set the tone for the following year.
But for the first time since its inception, no gala was planned for this December.
“Vivian thinks we should still hold it.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
She nodded resolutely and stabbed at her tablet with her stylus.
“Yes. The Darlington is in desperate need of good press, and cancelling a charity event is the opposite of good press. The gala would give the family an opportunity to present itself as a unit. Your mother, Ethan, and you—you can all show your support for Richard and make a public display of your generosity. A particularly lavish donation is a must, of course.”
“Of course,” my dad echoed with a smile. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
My frown deepened. “You were the one who cancelled the gala.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” He gestured dismissively and stood up to walk over to a trolley in the corner, which held carafes of tea and coffee, along with a jug of water filled with floating cucumber and lemon slices. “The marketing team pushed for the cancellation. I was always on board.”
It was a barefaced lie. I’d been at the meeting where Dad had insisted on cancelling this year’s Pearl Gala. I’d even argued against it, but he hadn’t wanted to hear it. He didn’t care about the gala, though he’d been taking credit for it for years.
“It’s almost October,” I remarked, choosing not to argue further about his erratic behaviour.
He poured himself a glass of water. “What are you trying to say?”
“We usually start preparing in March.” I had started managing the gala two years ago. It had been my segue into the family business after I graduated, and it had given me a chance to prove myself after my grandmother died. “It’s almost impossible to organise an event like that in three months.”
“Almost being the operative word.”
“I don’t have time.”
My dad cast me a warning look intended to put me in my place, but I wouldn’t let it intimidate me.
He’d clearly forgotten that his former role was now mine.
“And we don’t have time to hire someone new to take this on.
You’re familiar with the event, and the only one who knows the processes, suppliers, and sponsors. Vivian and Rakesh can give you a hand.”
What about you?
The question was on the tip of my tongue, but I kept it to myself.
I would organise the Pearl Gala, even if it became stressful.
Because I wanted to, and because I loved the gala.
I would carve out time for it in my already busy schedule, but I would do it without my dad’s sceptical comments and criticisms. And I certainly didn’t want to spend any more time than necessary in his presence.
“I’d be happy to help with the planning as much as I can,” Vivian chimed in. Which realistically meant she wouldn’t lift a finger. Confirming my suspicions, she said, “I’m sure your mother would be willing to help too. She likes to organise events.”
“A brilliant idea,” my father agreed.
Suck-up.
“You’d be doing the hotel an enormous favour,” Vivian added, her smile triumphant. She knew how much I loved The Darlington and that I’d do anything to save it.
“Fine,” I heard myself saying. But I wasn’t doing it for Dad or Vivian.
I was doing it in memory of my grandmother, and because the gala could help a lot of people.
Besides, my dad was right: We couldn’t hand the planning over to someone else this last minute without risking the event being a disaster.
The last thing The Darlington needed was yet more negative press.