newspaper if his father had become a politician or a leader of industry.
He dared not ask what it was exactly Eddie Taylor had been searching for, and whether he had found it. He did not want to face the fact that he might have been abandoned so that his father could pursue a life of indulgence and womanising, because whilst that was how Dean spent most of his time, hearing his father admit to as much would somehow seem so mediocre. Anything but that.
âThere was a woman,â Eddie said.
âOh fuck.â Dean wanted to howl.
âActually, there were loads of them. I wasnât designed for fidelity. I had appetites. I was young.â
âNot that young. You were thirty-four when you left. My age. I donât feel young.â He never had. Eddie closed his eyes once more. His breathing slowed a fraction. Dean did not want him to lose consciousness again. Not before he had his answers. âWho was she?â
âShe was posh. Married. Different to the others. I thought we could live better.â
âBecause she was wealthy?â
âNo, because she was
her
.â
It seemed an oddly romantic thing for the most selfish man on the planet to say, and Dean found himself asking, âWhat happened?â
âShe didnât want me once I was free. She stayed with her husband.â
Dean froze. He used every iota of self-control to hold his body in place. If he moved, even a fraction, he might start to flay and spin, break and smash. He might upturn the vital medical equipment that was reducing Eddieâs pain; he might rip down the curtains that were offering the last shred of privacy and dignity. He might let out the scream that heâd swallowed for so many years. All that agony. All that sorrow. For pussy that didnât want even want Eddie Taylor. Heâd hated his father for so long and with such intensity, heâd never thought it was possible to hate anyone more, but now he found he did. He hated her, this woman, whoever she was, wherever she was. He hated her more.
10
Jo
I head back to my parentsâ. I canât think of anywhere else to go, which says it all really. As I sit on the tube, travelling towards Wimbledon, I think that I might as well be carrying a placard declaring âTHIRTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD SCREW-UPâ . Iâm sure my failure is obvious to everyone; it pools around my feet like rainwater around an umbrella. How have I become this homeless, jobless, loveless woman? What will my parents think? Theyâre the opposite. They donât have a hint of failure about them. They own
two
beautiful homes: the family home in Wimbledon and a ski lodge in the Alps. My father is an incredibly successful City analyst, and although Mum doesnât have a paid job, sheâs a faultless homemaker and sheâs also enthusiastically involved in raising funds for a number of worthy causes. In addition, they are the most loved-up couple you could hope to encounter. Even after all these years they still hold hands in public.
Itâs sickening, really.
My parents live in a prestigious four-storey detached house close to Wimbledon Common. My fatherâs income and my motherâs dedication to home decor has ensured that itâs one of the most impressive and stylish homes most people could imagine stepping into, let alone living in. Floor-to-ceiling windows guarantee that light spreads throughout the house, allowing Mum to be bold with the colour scheme; the ground floor is awash with muted taupe and mushroom, but the tones deepen with each floor, culminating in the pewter and purple master bedroom at the top of the house. The entire place is elegantly fitted out. Carefully selected antique bureaus and writing desks nestle against daring Designer Guild wallpapers, while restored high-backed Queen Anne fireside chairs and slouchy retro leather sofas welcome guests. There are a large number of bookshelves that house early-edition classics as well as
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