Don't Get Me Wrong (20 page)

“I'm more of a republican myself,” said Jake.

“How interesting,” said Grace.

Kim cringed with embarrassment.

“Talking of royalty,” said Grace,” I see that Princess Anne's daughter has got herself engaged to that rugby player.”

“Mike Tindall,” said Eva.

“I do think she has to be careful. Standards are so important.”

“What standards?” said Kim.

“Standards of behavior.”

“Absolutely,” said Harry, grinning. “I couldn't agree more. Where would we be without standards of behavior?”

It was one snide remark too many. All day, it had been building up—that feeling that Harry was laughing at them, that they were toys in a nursery lined up for his entertainment. Kim, like a warm fizzy drink, suddenly exploded. “What would you know,” she said loudly, her voice shaking with dislike, “about standards of behavior? You don't have any. All you care about is yourself.”

There was a shocked silence. Kim looked round the circle of stricken faces. Her mother had her hand to her forehead as if she was about to faint. Eva looked upset. Even Jake couldn't meet her eyes, staring down at the floor between his thighs.

That night, lying next to a gently snoring Jake, she thought,
Enough. This has got to stop. As Christine always says, what's important is family. And I seem set on destroying it.

There was one silver lining. According to Grace, Jean-Marc was so overcome with horror when she told him about the appalling outburst (
the ultimate incivility, being rude to your host
), he insisted they get married straightaway so that he could protect her from future eruptions.

“Kim?”

Kim, whose heart was beating fast at the unwelcome memories of Christmas, blinked.

Izzie said again, “So is Jake going? To your mother's wedding?”

Kim took a deep breath. “He's not sure. Whether he can get time off work.”

Izzie frowned.

“It's true,” said Kim. “He's very busy.”

“Very busy.”

“What are you trying to say?” said Kim, raising her voice.

Izzie opened her eyes wide, pretending to be shocked. “I thought you'd turned over a new leaf. I thought from now on you were going to be all calm and serene.”

Kim opened her mouth to protest. And then shut it again in a thin, tight line.

•  •  •

Watching the kids' class in Tommy's Gym, Harry didn't recognize Ethan straightaway. A lot had changed in four years. Ethan now had a shaved head, which made his neck look bare and vulnerable, and his face was more angular. But he was still small. He
hadn't yet started that adolescent growth that turns boys into pieces of string. You must be at secondary school now, thought Harry. You must be one of the youngest, stunned by the giants with stubble who look way too old to be sitting in classrooms.

Ethan still didn't look you in the eye—just the odd quick glance when he thought no one could see.

Harry ran through his usual workout—jump rope, squats, push-ups, crunches, heavy bag work—and then, breathing hard, wandered over to where Leon was sitting in his usual place, legs astride a chair that had been turned the wrong way round, arms resting on the wooden back. The kids' class was just finishing. The coach was taking them through some basic stretches while they cooled down.

“Good Christmas?” said Leon.

“Full of comfort and joy,” said Harry.

Leon laughed.

One of the other coaches came up to ask a question about the staff rota, so Leon turned away and didn't see what happened next.

When Ethan bent over from the waist, arms reaching for the floor, his shirt fell down towards his ears, exposing his back.

It was covered in dark bruises.

The kind of bruises, as Harry knew well, that you get from being pushed against a wall, or kicked so hard that you fall downstairs.

•  •  •

When Kim suggested an outing to the winter ice rink at the Tower of London to celebrate Otis's fourth birthday, she had
imagined herself gliding about in the twinkly frost of New Year like Kate Beckinsale in
Serendipity
. The reality was very different. Clinging desperately to the side, she hobbled round the edge like someone recovering from abdominal surgery. Harry, meanwhile, sailed past with a cheery wave. Typical, she thought. Typical. He has to show off even on the ice rink.

Just in time, she caught herself and quickly erased the thought. I will not drift back into negative thinking. I will change the way I view Harry, and everything he does, by emphasizing his kindness and generosity. Like the fact that he has now taken hold of both of Otis's hands and is skating backwards,
backwards
, very slowly so that Otis can enjoy sliding along in the cold January air. It's
lovely
that Harry bought the tickets and refused to let anyone pay. It's so
exciting
to be here, on a bright clear day, surrounded by the sounds of happy laughter, with pretty tinkling music on the loudspeakers. So
awe-inspiring
to stand here in the shadow of the Tower of London, where King Henry, his eyes on a better wife, decapitated Anne Boleyn. Kim, holding tight to the side, watched as Eva—tentative but perfectly balanced—joined Harry and took one of Otis's hands. To the outside world, she thought, they look like the perfect family. But it's a lie. He has all the
benefits
but none of the
responsibilities
. He plays a part, like an actor onstage, but his arrogant, self-serving, self-centered life carries on as usual.

Kim screwed her eyes tight shut and made herself wipe her mind clean. Yes, they have an unconventional setup, all living in the same flat even though Eva still insists they're not together. But who am I to judge? I should be glad that Eva and Otis have a roof over their heads. I should be delighted that they have no
money worries because Harry's so rich he could use £50 notes as toilet paper. I should be happy that he always makes me welcome—insists I can call in at any time, stay for supper, spend the whole weekend with them if I want to. Which is completely ridiculous. I can't do that. What about Jake?

“You're always saying how busy he is. I thought you'd rather be with Eva and Otis. Instead of cooped up waiting for him.”

The worst thing, thought Kim, is that Jake is always in meetings where he has to turn his phone off, so I can't even text him to find out what's happening. “I don't just sit around waiting for him. I get on with things if he's not there. Work. Reading. Answering emails.”

Harry nodded. “Sorry. Yes, of course.”

He was trying hard these days. Kim could see that. Every time Kim suggested an outing together that Otis might enjoy—the Natural History Museum to see the dinosaurs, or Covent Garden to see the street performers—Harry was always enthusiastic. Maybe he hadn't enjoyed her mad outburst at Christmas either.

Although none of them had mentioned it since. It had been kindly forgotten, like a teenage misdemeanor.

With a sudden sound of scything ice, Harry came to a neat stop in front of her. “Need any help?”

“What?” said Kim, surprised out of her thoughts. “No, I'm fine. Just taking it slowly.”

Far away on the other side of the rink, Eva and Otis, hand in hand, were part of the great circular motion of skaters, sweeping round and round under the battlements.

Harry grinned. “There's taking it slowly. And there's being completely stationary.”

“Really. There's no problem.”

“You've never done this before?”

She shook her head.

“You need to find your feet,” said Harry. “It's like riding a bike. The only way to learn is to do it.”

Behind her, other equally terrified novices had come to a dead halt, like sleepwalkers stumbling into a wall. She looked over to the middle of the ice. A long-limbed boy with a gray woolly hat was scrabbling about like an emu trying the splits.

“Kim?”

For a moment, she thought Harry was going to put his arm round her and whisk her off into the crowd of skaters. She shrank back against the side. “I'm fine. Go and help Otis.”

He looked at her with that same unreadable expression she knew of old. For some reason, she felt ashamed.

“OK,” he said.

And then he was gone.

In the queue behind her, among all the people clutching on to the side, she heard an exaggerated sigh. “Excuse me,” said a young man in a bored, supercilious voice, “but are you ever going to move?”

“No,” said Kim. “I want to stand here and watch you skate past me.”

•  •  •

Michael Adewale was in his early forties. He had the kind of engaging expression—attentive and amused—that suggested he didn't take life too seriously. Despite being CEO of a company that was growing so fast it had recently opened new offices and
doubled its workforce, he looked fit, healthy, and relaxed—clear eyes, a very white smile, and a conspicuous lack of any kind of middle-aged paunch. Harry had once asked him the secret of his success. Michael laughed. “I'm not going to tell you that, am I? Or they'll all be doing it.”

The restaurant had been empty when Harry arrived. Michael didn't like waiting for anything—meals, taxis, company audits—and always suggested meeting before the lunchtime rush. Perhaps that's the secret, thought Harry, watching him greet the maître d' and stride past all the tables. He packs more into twenty-four hours than most people manage in a week.

“Ten point eight million pounds,” said Michael, waving a copy of the
Telegraph
. “Christie's lucked out. But then, Andy Warhol. And it covers a lot of wall. Red and white. I could go for it.”

“I didn't know you were an art collector.”

“I'm not.” Michael grinned. “I just like showing off.”

Michael's interests were broad and varied. For the next hour, the conversation ranged over President Obama's proposed budget, David Cameron's Big Society, Colin Firth being tipped to win Best Actor for
The King's Speech
, and Downing Street's new cat, Larry.

“Pest control,” said Michael, filling his glass with water.

“You'd think they'd use poison.”

“Ah, but you're forgetting the British love of hunting.”

Michael had four sons. His eyes lit up when he talked about them. He pretended to be outraged by the chaos they caused—the noise, the confusion, the expense—but it was easy to see that he thrived on it. I bet you're a good father, thought Harry.
Kind, generous, supportive. He felt a small stab of loss. Which, of course, made no sense. You can't lose what you've never had.

Over coffee, they discussed Medway's most recent trading update and press reports about the new factory in Rochester. Michael said, “I can't tell you anything specific, obviously, because there hasn't yet been a public announcement, but research and development is going well. We're focusing on diagnostic equipment for cervical cancer. That's where I see Medway going. Cheap, affordable tools that can be used anywhere—from NHS clinics to field hospitals in Uganda.”

“You'll end up with a knighthood.”

Michael smiled. “Why else would I be doing it?” He glanced at his watch. It was precisely one thirty p.m. “I must go. Thanks for lunch.”

“It's a pleasure.”

“I'll send you that Shapiro book.” As he stood up, Michael said, “Have you ever thought of going into business yourself? I know you're up for MD this year, so you probably won't want to move. But I think you'd like it.”

Was that an invitation? But before Harry could answer, Michael had put on his jacket, raised his hand in farewell, and set off through the restaurant, striding past all the diners who would end up eating too much and staying too long.

He moved fast, the CEO of Medway.

Harry signaled for the bill. I like my job, he thought. But it's people like Michael who set the pace. The rest of us just hold tight and hang on.

•  •  •

As winter turned to spring, Kim stuck to her resolve and made herself see Harry in a new light. It wasn't just to keep the peace. Sometimes, on rainy Sunday afternoons, all Otis wanted to do was lie on his stomach playing with his train set. Otis lived in Harry's riverside apartment. So if she wanted to see Otis, she had to get used to spending time with Harry.

One weekend in March, Kim turned up at the flat to find Harry and Otis painting large pictures on the dining room table. Otis seemed to be going for something in the style of Jackson Pollock, and there was a lot of red paint on the floor. Harry didn't seem to mind, or hadn't noticed.

The old Kim would have seen this as evidence of Harry's extreme wealth. He obviously didn't have to look after his possessions. (Don't bother mending it—just throw it out and buy a new one.) Reformed Kim decided that Harry was more concerned about Otis having a good time than whether there was the odd splash of scarlet on the floorboards.

“Look at my lion,” said Harry.

Kim opened her mouth to say that it looked more like a tortoise and then remembered her resolution to be nice. “It looks very fierce.”

“What noise do lions make?” said Otis.

“They roar,” said Kim.

“Can you roar?”

“She roars all the time,” said Harry, but he was smiling in a friendly kind of way, so she decided not to bristle with indignation.

Eva was lying on the sofa, facing away from them, Harry's
laptop open in front of her. “There's a farm in Devon,” she said, “with apple trees and a cider press.”

Eva still hadn't decided where she and Otis were going to live. She'd visited various communities in Essex, Kent, and Dorset. She'd talked on the phone to big groups managing acres of farmland and to small cooperatives living near Leeds and Oxford. Everything sounded good. But nothing was nudging her towards a final choice.