Page 10

“Are you allowed to call him Marmie now?” I asked, shocked. Veronica detested nicknames. She’d named our children with great care and expected their full names to be used at all times.

Constance rolled her eyes. “She can’t really stop us when she’s never there.

Nice in a way, but yeah. I miss home. I miss being here with you.

And there’s a really good art college that I have my eye on here in London.

Mommy will kill me, as she already has me on the Ivy League path, but I don’t want to go into law.

I don’t want to be like her. I never did, and I don’t know how to get through to her. ”

“That’s growing up for you,” I said softly. “Choosing your own path. I just don’t want you to regret your choices later when you realise you’re a very poor artist instead of a high-grossing lawyer.”

“Like you?” She smirked. Trust Constance to call me out. “Looks like you’ve been burgled. When was the last time Olivia came to clean this place?”

“I had to let her go,” I admitted.

“He’s got me now instead. I’m going to work on the dust later, promise.” Stewart laughed as Constance grimaced.

“I think you should try again,” she told me sternly. “Get new representation and fight Mommy for this. I know what she’s up to, and it’s not fair. Phinneas is a mess, Marmie still wets the bed, and he’s nine, Dad. And I’m stuck in the middle, trying to avoid bloody Brandon.”

“Who’s Brandon again?” Stewart asked. He was armed with tea again. I was starting to wonder if he was some kind of domestic demon who produced the stuff like magic.

“Mommy’s new husband. Total sleazebag. Younger, fitter and definitely cheating on Mommy.”

“Constance,” I warned. But yes, she was probably right.

I’d met Brandon, and behind the fake tan and the unusually tight skin and puffy lips was someone I really didn’t care for, a lost puppy who followed Veronica around as she threw him titbits of affection.

Not a particularly nice person. He was a judge, though, and well connected.

“You need a new divorce lawyer, Dad. I know I shouldn’t say it, but whatever Mommy says, we’re not better off in America. She’s too busy to look after us, and I can’t do it all. I need to have a life. My life. I want to come back here.”

“I’d love for you to come back here,” I said in a voice that was a little too high-pitched.

“The boys need to come too.”

“There’s nothing I want more…” I was struggling to find the words, my whole body a mess of emotions.

“But?” she questioned. “What’s your excuse? Wanna hear Mommy’s reason for not moving us to New Orleans despite being there on a two-year tenure?”

“Constance, there was a settlement and an order of full custody to your mother and none for me. I’m not even allowed to contact you by letter.”

“Well, that sucks. Marmie thinks you’re dead because that’s what Brandon told him, and Phinneas doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know who Mommy is either because last time she was home, he hid behind the sofa the entire time.”

“Sounds like you should probably try,” Stewart put in.

I regretted my words because now I kind of wanted that privacy he’d offered.

“Constance, I never gave up. I want to have you all here, more than anything, but the law is the law, and I was given an order not to contact you again.”

“Bullshit! You have my number.”

“I do.” I was going to start to cry. Any second.

“Then bloody use it, Dad. You just abandoned us over there and fucked off. I know there was an injunction and all that, but you’ve got to fight back. Get some new lawyer, someone who really hates Mommy. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”

“Why would anyone hate your mother?” Stewart again. How much time did the man have to listen? Veronica was successful, and that came with a price. There wasn’t a lawyer in town who didn’t hate her guts. She made no friends but took plenty of prisoners.

I’d once had that mindset too, brutally climbing the ladder that Veronica had built, barely holding on then falling spectacularly to the bottom. I had no idea how to explain all that to my daughter, who was breathing heavily.

“You’re a chicken, Dad. Who was that lawyer who beat Mommy to the Michael Handel divorce? She was German, I think. Pistol something?”

“The Gun?” Stewart said like he knew what we were talking about.

“Yes! She hates Mommy. Imagine if you got her to take over and contest Mommy’s bullshit, Dad.”

“Gun Larsen is way out of my league. I’d have to sell this house and then raise a few million to get her to even agree to a meeting. It’s not like she takes on random divorce settlements, let alone custody battles that have already been fought and lost.”

I knew how negative I sounded, and the shame in realising what I’d become was crippling.

“When did you just give up, Dad?” My daughter stared at me in anger and disbelief and shook her head. “I’m going upstairs.”

She slammed the door on her way, exactly as I’d expected her to do .

“She’s smart,” Stewart said, both of us looking up at the ceiling as she stomped around above us. “I’m so pleased I got to meet her.”

“She’s right,” I whimpered. “I gave up. I’m a chicken. And I don’t know how to make this in any way better.”

“Gun Larsen,” he said, leaning back on the kitchen counter. “The Gun. Quite the legend.”

“She’s magnificent in a courtroom. Terrifying outside of it.” I shuddered. “But she doesn’t take calls. She comes to you if she wants to take you on.”

Stewart laughed. “Excuses.”

“You have no idea,” I said brusquely. “People like The Gun are not the kind of people you just approach and ask to represent you.”

“Let me see what I can do,” he said with a wink.

“Come on,” I whined. “This is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He laughed. “Now, are you going to walk your daughter back to the Wallace, or would you like me to drive her? Not sure she should get in a car with a strange man. She’s only, what? Fifteen? ”

“Sixteen,” she said, bumbling back into the room, carrying an armful of items, a bag slung over her shoulder. “In three weeks, in case you’d forgotten.”

“Constance, I—”

“I know you’re broke, Dad, and that Mommy would throw a hissy fit if she knew I’d seen you.

I also know that I’ll have no problems smuggling this stuff back to the boys because Mommy has no clue what’s actually in our rooms. But seriously, we need out.

The boys are becoming idiots raised by nannies, and I am struggling. Majorly.”

I could have said those words myself. I was struggling. Everywhere with everything.

“Then we’ll have to think of something,” Stewart said, thank God, because I had totally lost the ability to speak.