Page 38 of The Elements
I step away, walk toward the sink, turn my back on him, and let the water pour over my hands for longer than necessary.
“You introduced me to him,” I say bitterly.
“To Robbie? No, I didn’t. You came here of your own accord and—”
“To Sir,” I say.
He’s quiet now. I’ve silenced him. For a moment, anyway.
“I knew he’d like you,” he says. “And he paid well. You were happy to take the money.”
“I have nightmares about him to this day,” I say. “I don’t remember the faces of any of the others. But him? He’s always there. I never felt like a whore except when I was with him. The things he did to me. You have no idea how depraved he was.”
“I have some,” he says, looking down, unable to meet my eye. So, he does feel some shame. “The boys before you… well, they didn’t walk away without their own scars.”
“And you let me walk into that, knowing what he was like? You said you wouldn’t put me in any danger.”
“Evan,” he says. “You worked for me. I was fond of you, yes. More than I usually am of any of the boys in my employ. But it was just a job, I told you that. And you knew what you were taking on. It’s not like you’d agreed to work the perfume counter at Selfridge’s.”
“He was a fucking animal!” I shout, my voice echoing around the room, and Rafe nods, accepts this, before exhaling loudly.
“Well,” he says. “This won’t count for much, but those days are over for him now, aren’t they? He won’t be hurting anyone ever again.”
This is true, but it’s small comfort.
“When it all broke,” I say. “His scandals, I mean. I wondered whether you’d get dragged into them.”
“I worried about that too,” he replies. “But he’s not stupid. I mean, he’s thick, yes, but he’s not stupid. You think you had a difficult childhood? Just imagine what his was like.”
I’m not unaware of this. But it’s no excuse.
“You think you’re so different from him, don’t you?” I ask.
“Of course I am,” he says, offended.
“No. You’re just another rich married man fucking the help.”
He turns away. He doesn’t want to hear this.
“Tell me what really happened that night,” he says.
“You want me to tell you that your son isn’t a rapist.”
“Of course I do,” he says, raising his voice, then glancing back toward the door. “Understand that I will do whatever it takes to prevent Robert from going to jail. Someone has to. You saw him on the stand today. He was arrogant. Dismissive. It didn’t play well with the jury.”
“I blame the parents.”
“We need to be clear on something,” he says, growing angrier now. “If Robert ends up going to prison, then you’ll be going too, and there will be consequences for you inside.”
“Severe consequences, I know,” I reply. “I’ve been on the receiving end of those before, remember?”
“A broken arm is nothing compared to what you can expect if this ends badly for my son. And you know from experience that when I say something, I follow through. I am not a man who deals in idle threats.”
We fall silent, staring at each other. He moves toward me.
Puts his palm to my cheek again. He does care about me, I think.
I could have been the son he wanted, the artist whose work he would have funded.
He would have attended my openings and marveled at the fortunes my canvases sold for.
We would have given joint interviews to the Guardian .
And Robbie could have been my father’s boy, the footballer, the wild man, the thug.
They could have sat in his apartment watching Match of the Day and phoning hookers at the end of the night.
I would have dedicated my Turner Prize to Rafe; Robbie his FIFA Best Men’s Player trophy to Charlie.
“Are you sure it’s Robert you’re in love with?” he asks quietly. “Or is it me?”
I say nothing. I don’t know.
“What is it you want from me, Evan? Tell me. Be honest.”
I shake my head and look him directly in the eyes. “I want someone to love me,” I say. “And not to hurt me. Never to hurt me.”
He holds my gaze, and I can see that somewhere deep inside him there’s something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.
The usual apathy, but for once mixed with regret and an unexpected touch of love.
This, I assume, has never happened to him before.
To my surprise, he leans forward to kiss me, and I let him.
Father, son; son, father. They’re wrapped up together in my head now and I don’t care which is which.
He puts his arms around me and holds me close, whispers something into my ear, and when I ask him to take me into the cubicle he wins the conversation, as every conversation must have a victor, by pulling away and shaking his head.
“Just remember what I said,” he tells me, making his way toward the door. “Find a way to keep my son out of jail. Because if you both go down, only one of you can expect to come out again.”
When he leaves, I lock myself in the cubicle alone, put the seat down, and weep, just like I did in the football stadium when I was a boy.
I’m crying for Robbie. For me. For our parents.
Even for my father. But also for Lauren.
It occurs to me that the jury now believes she’s a whore, even though, of the two of us, I’m the only one who has ever actually charged strangers for sex.