The sun was weak and wintery as Stephen stood on the ledge of his tiny apartment overlooking the river. It wasn’t a balcony as such, but it was just big enough to stand on, get some fresh air. He quite liked living here, although he missed the kids, obviously: the view was amazing and his cleaner kept the apartment spotless, which was a relief after the sluttishness of Wandsworth.
Stephen was feeling peculiarly optimistic this morning. It had been nearly five months since Siobhan had died, four since Juliette had thrown him out, despite her concerns about the effect it would have on the children, and although he’d lost his job, at least he’d had a whacking big pay-off. Things had finally calmed down on the PR front too now, thank fuck. Once the media had latched onto the story of how the women had abandoned their friend, left her for dead (a prime example of the amorality of our times, according to the Daily Mail) the focus had shifted to them. So although his wife’s antics had indirectly got him the sack they’d perversely also let him off the hook in the end. The interest in his own loser of a brother, his dysfunctional family, his penchant for spying on his wife, had disappeared after a while. Chip paper, he thought with a sly smile. And, almost unbelievably, the rape story had never surfaced, even though there were at least five people who knew now – apart from him – from what he could tell. Juliette had confronted him, the night he’d hit her, and although he’d denied it she’d seen it in his eyes – and anyway she’d said that Renée had confessed at last, at the picnic, admitted she’d lied about the other man in Cleveland raping her. Renée had probably made that whole episode up, he thought, the fucking drama queen. According to Juliette, the only other person Renée had ever told before the night of the picnic was Siobhan, years ago, and she was dead and buried, which was probably just as well. So he was almost certainly safe now: Renée wouldn’t want to go through the ordeal of a trial, especially not with her sexual history, no-one would believe her; and even Juliette wouldn’t do that to the father of her own kids, no matter how much she might hate him herself. The others wouldn’t do anything either, they’d follow Renée’s or Juliette’s lead. Yes, he was off the hook, he was sure of it – and, he reminded himself for the millionth time, it hadn’t been actual rape, not really, more of a drunken misunderstanding. He’d honestly thought she wanted it too, it wasn’t his fault she’d changed her mind too late.
Nothing more had been said about Nigel’s death in Sardinia either, although Stephen was much more nervous about that story leaking. He’d been shocked when Juliette had told him how Sissy had known what he’d done all along, how it came out at the picnic that Sissy had heard through her delirium Nigel cursing the socket, saying there was something wrong with it; how she’d not trusted using it herself to plug in her hairdryer. But when the emergency services had turned up, she’d been carted off to hospital and put on a drip while another ambulance had taken Nigel’s body away, and the police hadn’t even been called. So when the report into Nigel’s death had concluded that it was accidental, with no reference to the faulty socket, Sissy must have known then that there’d been a cover-up, but had been too scared or distraught to do anything except accept the verdict.
Stephen still felt terrible about Nigel dying like that, he hadn’t intended it to happen, no way. It really had been just an unfortunate accident – he’d been trying to do the guy a favour, for Christ’s sake – but he’d panicked, hadn’t known what else to do apart from hush it up. Nigel was dead anyway, no investigation would have changed the outcome. It would have wrecked his, Stephen’s, life too – and what was the point of that?
Stephen looked down absently at a police boat on the river, cute as a bath toy, cutting through the water. So that’s why Sissy had hated him over these past years, they’d always got on all right before that, especially since they’d gone to America together – in fact he’d thought she’d liked him, before.
What got to Stephen the most though, he realised in this rare moment of reflection, was not what Sissy or Renée thought of him these days (he couldn’t give a toss about that), but the fact that Juliette despised him now, after what had been said at that fucking picnic. There had been no going back after that. They were finished.
Stephen sighed as his eyes glistened in the early sunlight – it was too bright out here – and he dabbed at them with his sleeve. Life goes on, he thought, there was no use moping, and even though he missed her sometimes (which annoyed the hell out of him) he knew he was better off without her – she may be beautiful but she was a lousy housewife, useless mother, unfaithful bitch. He looked at his watch. He’d better think about getting ready in a minute; his meeting to discuss a possible new tabloid launch was at eleven. The hacking scandal had done him a favour in the end – he’d managed somehow to avoid being implicated, and people were dropping like flies these days, which meant there were a couple of very juicy openings in the offing.
Stephen cheered up at this thought. It was a beautiful December day, he might even walk to Soho House, it was an interesting route and the exercise would do him good, make him nice and hungry for his lunch with Maddie later.