Primrose #2
“I assure you my memory is fine.” His tone is the verbal equivalent of a smirk. It makes me wonder exactly what he’s remembering. Nothing good, that’s for sure. Maybe my clumsy kiss or when I told him I haven’t had sex in an age.
“Ever been diagnosed with a mood disorder?” I demand, refusing to give up. “Bipolar? Schizophrenia?”
“I’m in peak mental and physical health, thank you for enquiring. I have to say, the more you talk, the more I’m convinced this is the right decision.”
“Cognitive issues and delusions,” I mutter with a frown.
“This has been fun, Dr Primrose, but the fact remains, I require you to accompany us to our house in Mallorca.”
I watch as he takes a sip from his glass. My eyes drop to his throat following his strong swallow.
“That’s not happening.” My gaze jerks up. “Not a chance.”
“Then you must explain—”
“Papa, Zoe gave me apples and mango for the birds!” Sylvie is a blur of motion as she bursts onto the terrace, her hands full, and munching on something.
“Wonderful, ma puce.” M. LDH (remember: brevity) is all smiles for his child. I smile too because she’s lovely. Unlike her father.
“Careful!” I call out as she slips a little, but she rights herself, then she’s gone. “As I was saying.” I turn my attention—my attitude—back. “No and hell no.”
“Then you will need to explain to Emmy why she no longer has a job.” He puts down his glass, not quite like a judge’s gavel. But the threat is more than implied.
“Fine.” Almost bite my lip with the hard fricative, because fuck that. “Then I expect we’ll see you in court.”
“Even if she has some way, someone, to cover her legal costs, her recent breach of confidence would not aid her cause.”
“What are you talking about? What breach?”
He stands and moves to a nearby credenza where the maid who served us earlier has left a crystal water jug. A moment later, he’s back with his phone, and I’m not wondering how many daily squats he must do because I wasn’t staring at his bum. Much.
One touch and his phone screen lights up. His face is impassive as he offers it to me.
“No thanks.”
“Take it. See for yourself.”
A dozen half formed thoughts flit through my head, half formed because I know there’s no way Emmy would do anything wrong, no matter what he’s insinuating. I know it in my bones as I ignore him. But his extended arm doesn’t waiver. And it doesn’t retract.
“Fine.” I snatch the phone from his hand.
I turn the screen and a relieved “Ha!” shoots from my mouth.
“It’s just Sylvie.” In the photo, her smile is as wide as half a bicycle wheel.
There’s a smudge of something that looks like Nutella smeared across her cheek.
In her hands, she’s proudly holding an A4 piece of paper.
“I’m going to assume that’s you,” I say as I study the childish picture of a man wearing what looks like a suit and a hugely oversized necktie. “She’s definitely flattered you,” I add as I hand him the phone back.
“The image was sent from Emmy’s phone.”
“So?”
“Look, Primrose. I can reach the bird table!” From the immaculate lawn, Sylvie waves manically.
“Yes, so I see,” I say, returning the gesture and her happy smile.
“Papa, look!”
“I’m looking, mon chou.” His attention slides back. “The image was sent to me from her own personal phone and not the handset she was given on the day her employment contract commenced.”
I shrug. With attitude.
“Written into the documentation she, and you, signed is an agreement not to capture images of my children from any recording device, save for those given to her by me. Those that may be accessed and monitored.”
“But—”
“Further, she, and you, are prohibited from distributing images—”
“She would never!”
“Ah, but she did.”
“Yeah, to you,” I say, like I don’t understand.
“Which was not only a breach of my daughter’s privacy and confidence under British law, under which Emmy is employed. But further, under French law, the offence is punishable—”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“—by up to one year in prison and a fine of up to forty-five thousand euros.”
“For sending you a photograph of your own kid?” If my voice gets any higher, I’ll be communing with dogs. Maybe I already am, I think, narrowing my eyes his way.
“For photographing or filming a person in their private place without their consent.”
“The way Sylvie is holding up her drawing, I’d say permission is more than implied.”
“And transmitting that image—”
“You’re crazy!”
“—without my consent is also punishable under those same terms. Sylvie is a minor.”
“A minor who wanted to send her dad a photo!” This makes no sense.
“Emmy has that photo on her personal phone, and she should not. The image does not belong to her.”
“Fine. Whatever. I doubt it would even make it to a court of law.”
“It doesn’t need to for it to be the cause of Emmy losing her position here with us.”
“You’d really do that?” My heart sinks as Emmy’s words echo in my ear. I’m buying my parents a house. A new build. I put down the deposit last month. “I don’t believe you,” I add without waiting for his answer.
“For the sake of your friendship, I do hope your part in this won’t come to light.”
“My part—” I clamp my mouth shut against the instinct to yell some very choice words about blackmail.
“I can’t think the hospital trust would have much confidence in a doctor who frequents sex clubs.”
“You’d be surprised,” I mutter, thinking of the snippets of gossip I’ve heard as a medical student and junior doctor.
“And what of your family?”
They’d probably need to see photographic evidence of me being used like a blow-up doll before they’d believe any of this. But he’d threaten my job? The audacity! How fucking dare he. “Why are you doing this?” I demand.
“You know why,” he says as his eyes continuing to penetrate me. I mean, mine.