Can you see what’s coming a mile off? I guess it’s fairly obvious. I decided that Simon would be our lifeline. The thought first came to me one night in my bedroom, as I went over the accountant’s notes on the mortgage, the school fees, the running of the house. The outgoings were enormous and there was no future income large enough to knit it together. Just ask your real father, a voice inside my brain whispered. I almost laughed. Me, contacting that man out of the blue, and asking him to fund a family he knew nothing about. Nonsense. And even if I could, I certainly didn’t want to get involved with that man. Not from any moral qualms – money is money and he certainly had plenty – but because it was all so tasteless and grubby. A newfound father, a man who was photographed with oligarchs at slightly seedy private members’ clubs. A Bentley driver.
I dismissed the thought, but it kept coming back. Every time I looked at the finances, his name danced around my mind. Finally, after a slightly harried conversation with the accountant, who explained bluntly that the girls would have to leave their school at the end of the year unless something was done, my resolve crumbled.
You don’t email a man like Simon Artemis. I’ve learnt that from a few short months in the finance world. People like that are too important. They have five assistants and their inbox is monitored, sieved, messages prioritised and actioned in minutes. Anything I sent would be assigned to the ‘bonkers’ pile and left well alone. So I turned up at his office. It was a risky move, but I felt the direct approach suited me well. From reading the financial pages every day, I knew that the Artemis company was eyeing up a smaller clothing company called ‘Re’belle’ with choice real estate in Soho and Kensington. The ancient owner wasn’t budging, insisting that the business would always be a family-run one. I used the name of his son at reception, and said I was there to open up a new channel of communication. It could’ve all gone tits up, but the assistant seemed to know who I professed to be （I suppose Benny Fairstein is a fairly memorable name if you’re in the fashion business） and got on the phone immediately. I only had to wait for ten minutes before I was shown into Simon’s office. His eyes narrowed as I entered, and I knew I only had a moment to explain who I really was.
Grace, you’re the only other person in the world who I care to share this with. I know you’ll find it fascinating, without being interested solely in the gossipy element of it. I was direct, I did not apologise for the false pretences. I sat down in an armchair across from him and looked him dead in the eye, and I told him that I was his son. Even before I explained further, I have to say he didn’t seem very surprised. Perhaps he’d been waiting for a stray child or two to appear. Sensible, if so.
I told him about Lottie, I asked him to cast his memory back. I waited. He examined my face with his eyes, and I examined his right back. We alighted upon our identical noses at the same moment. I guess in a film that moment would have cued up some soaring background music. But we sat in silence. Then he asked what I wanted. Now in business there are two ways of approaching this question. You can obfuscate, flatter, and throw up vague and unfinished ideas, or you go direct. I have no time for the first option. I told him that I had no intention of embarrassing him, that I didn’t want to be the long-lost son eager to join his new empire. I respected him, I assured him, but I had a family to support now and he was the only person who could help me out. I proposed a one-time deal, slid a figure tucked in an envelope across the table, and sat back. He opened it, and he laughed. I’m not sure what I was expecting but laughter wouldn’t have been my top guess. Looking back, I think it impressed him. Maybe he thought it was a power play. It wasn’t – I just wanted money plain and simple – but perhaps the leverage I had was enough to make me bold.
The strange thing was, it broke the ice. I guess when you’re that rich you spend your life assuming and suspecting that everyone wants something from you. If a person just confirms that outright, you can move on together. Instead of addressing my request, he stretched back in his chair and pressed the intercom, telling his PA to cancel his next meeting. Then he asked me about my life – where I lived, what I did, which football team I supported. It felt a bit weird initially, but I went along with it. He nodded when I told him about Christopher, and smiled when I said I was working in the City. It turned out that we both supported QPR, and we swapped opinions about the manager for a bit, him ribbing me for missing their last big game. To an outsider, it might have looked like a standard father–son encounter. I kept thinking that. I kept remembering that this man was my dad. This tanned, gym fit man in a steel grey suit who was wearing a gold watch which flicked sunshine into my eyes when he moved his arm.