Disclaimer

30. SUMMER 2013

A duck egg blue Fiat 500 zips across the square. Robert watches it through the window. Catherine’s favourite colour. He had thought about buying one for her birthday. He is in the meeting he had turned up late for even though he had pushed it back an hour. He’d had to shower, shave, change his suit. He always kept a spare in the office. But it was the suit he had in case he had to go to a function — it was too smart for a day in the office and he’d seen the surprise on their faces, wondering what he was up to later. He is glad to be with them, just to have people around him, talking at him. He doesn’t have to perform, or speak yet, but simply observe and he can just about manage that. He is grateful for their voices. It is their confidence in him which stops him from falling. Each time he begins to wilt, another word punches through the air and pushes him upright again.

It was only a book. It is only a book. He knows it’s only a version of events written by someone who clearly hates her, but can he blame them? And it is a version with enough truth in it for Catherine to have wished for its disappearance. At the very least she fucked a stranger who then died saving their son’s life. It is not her, and yet it is. There is enough of his wife in there for him to recognise. And it has shown him things he had failed to see before. She is a woman who has always got her own way, always done as she pleased.

He remembers the first time he saw her. She’d asked him to meet her for a drink, said she wanted to talk to him off the record. She was young, it was her first job as a journalist. He shouldn’t really have gone, he could have lost his job, but she was so persuasive on the phone, she’d made him feel it was the right thing to do. He remembers she was late — even though he was the one doing her a favour — but she managed to turn it into something charming. He remembers a striking blond young woman walking into the pub and how he’d hoped it was her. She’d looked round, saw him watching her, and she’d smiled, quite shy, and he’d smiled back then stood up. She paid for the drinks, insisted on it, and he gave her everything she asked for, answered all her questions. Off the record of course, but she had used what he told her. She managed to keep him out of it, but still she didn’t hold anything back. She was a good journalist. But he could have lost his job. Even at that first meeting he was ready to do anything for her. She knew what she wanted and how to get it. Fuck the consequences.

The book shows him a mother who put herself before her child. It’s true, she has never been a natural mother. Her lover had died and work became her escape. Did she blame Nick for her lover’s death? Is that why she couldn’t bear to stay at home and look after him? No wonder it has always been so difficult between her and Nick. And Robert has covered up for her, smoothed things over, always been there to support her, tried hard not to make her feel guilty, never criticised her, never judged her. Until now. An image from one of the photographs comes back to him. He tries to push it away and focus on the present, but he sees the past. Catherine showering on the beach, her neck stretched back, her eyes closed as the water runs down her face and body, a smile on her lips. She is enjoying being looked at. His hand is shaking again and he clenches his fist, pushing it under the table. All the tension he’s buried for years, thoughts he’s never allowed himself to think before, rise up.

He loved her though. If she’d told him about her affair back then, he would have forgiven her, but not now. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself crying. He would have done anything for her. He’d wanted to have more children but even that he’d given up without a fight. She didn’t refuse but she always managed to come up with an excuse until it was too late. He’d wanted Nick to have a brother or sister; he thought it would take the pressure off him. Jesus, she has destroyed everything. He will never be able to trust her.

A piece of paper lands on the table in front of him. Information he should be reading, details he should be taking in. He picks it up and hides behind it. He has a vague memory of Nick wanting the dinghy, or something inflatable, and they had agreed it was not a good idea. But she had bought it for him, when Robert had gone home, and she hadn’t watched him, she hadn’t looked after him and someone else’s son died to save Nicholas. But whose? Who wrote this book? The girlfriend? A parent? The old man who dropped off the photos. That poor old man. A bastard thing to do but can he really blame him? Should Robert thank him for what his son did? He should be grateful, but he can’t manage gratitude yet. If “John,” or whatever the fuck his name was, hadn’t been there then “Charlotte” wouldn’t have been so fucking distracted and perhaps she would have stopped their son going into the sea on his own, and if Robert had been there then none of it would have happened.

There’s a throbbing mass in Robert’s head. Another in his stomach. Dark lumps of something he has not felt for years. Jealousy. Not green, but black and dense. He is jealous of this dead youth, who had an affair with his wife and saved his child. Who, a long, long time ago, in a faraway land, cut off Robert’s balls without him even realising it. He wonders how many times Catherine has thought of this boy when she has been with him. How many times has she compared the sex? Does she fake it with him? Sometimes? Always? And Nicholas. Nicholas, who can’t even remember the young man who saved his life, which to Robert makes “John” seem even more heroic. Unsung. A martyr. He flicks through the pages in his head. Robert barely gets a mention. He is a minor character who doesn’t even merit a name. Her husband.

He sinks into himself, drooping like a stakeless plant. The words have stopped. The room is quiet. He looks up. All eyes are on him, but he cannot read them. Are they waiting for a response? Are they watching him with curiosity? What do they see?

“A lot to think about,” he says and is reassured by the sound of his voice, deep and rich. He stands up, his authority here at least still intact. The meeting is over and everyone trickles from the room.

He will get in touch with the family — find out who they are and talk to them. The least Robert can do is let them know that he is grateful for their son’s bravery and try to make up for his wife’s failings as a human being. First though, he must look after Nicholas, bring him back under the protection of his wing. He picks up his phone.

“Nick? Really enjoyed seeing you the other night…. Listen, can we do it again? Are you free tonight? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”