It’s strange to realise that you loathe your father before you ever have a chance to meet him. Of course I knew that he had treated my mother badly, but there was more to it. Just from a few photos, he made my skin crawl. His tanned, shiny face spoke to a vanity I’d not encountered before. His obvious need to grab all attention available was pathetic. He took up other people’s space – women were pushed out to the margins, only featured as beautiful props for Simon Artemis. His gang of friends looked about as shifty as you can imagine – certainly the kind who would be wise to keep their heads down in a post #MeToo era. Everything I saw made me feel slightly ill. This man, with his horrible flashy clothes and his clear need to advertise his testosterone levels with every pose, this man shared and contributed to my DNA, my character, my existence. Again, I wondered whether Marie had successfully hidden some major personality defect from me – how else to explain this man, this choice. How could she have made such a huge mistake?
I was 13 when I first saw these photos. I didn’t know much about the relationships between men and women, the concept of patriarchy, the idea of emotional manipulation or even just the facts about basic sexual attraction. I just saw this disgusting man openly displaying all his worst qualities for the camera, as my beloved mother stared at him. And I hated her in that moment too.
As I shoved the pictures back in the box, I noticed that my fist was curled into a ball, and that the muscles in my neck were beginning to burn slightly, always the precursor to a headache, but I knew that if I didn’t plough on, I might not have the chance again for a while. Who knows what Helene planned to do with the files?
Next up were the newspaper clippings, musty and fading. The headlines were a mixture of business and personal news. ‘Simon Artemis buys teen fashion chain Sassy Girl’， ‘Artemis criticised for “sweatshop” conditions’， ‘Simon and Janine show off their perfect new daughter’， ‘Simon Artemis, OBE? Rumours of an honour for the CEO of Artemis Holdings’。 The last one was from a glossy magazine and had photos of Simon and his wife （who I now knew to be Janine）， surrounded by fluffy dogs, fluffy carpet, and flanked by an enormous Christmas tree, the height of the room. In his arms, he held their daughter, who I noted was called Bryony. She looked to be about three. I checked the date on the article. The neck muscles were getting hotter. I was 13 months younger than her. My sister was a baby when Simon was in those clubs, wooing my mother, promising her who knows what. The photos showed the same house my mother had walked me past that wet day in Hampstead. It looked, even to my young eyes, fucking hideous. Janine （I assume it was Janine, given that men so often still assume it’s the job of women to keep the house nice）， clearly had an overwhelming passion for grey and silver. Have you ever seen a silver mantelpiece? I’m not talking metal, or paint, I mean real silver. Imported from Vienna, I learnt many years later, when I was very briefly allowed into their house for a staff party. Janine was a gracious hostess, speaking to everyone for a few moments as though she were the queen, and I asked many questions about her, let’s say, unique take on interior design. She probably wouldn’t have been so nice had she known my plans for her and her nearest and dearest, but she was so proud of that appalling fireplace it’s actually hard to be sure.
The clippings showed me a little of what Simon did. He owned, amongst other things, Sassy Girl, the budget airline Sportus, and about 1,800 properties across the South East, the state of which had earned him the mildly amusing moniker ‘The scum landlord’。 He also owned a few hotels, and a couple of yachts which could be rented out by the week if you felt a five-star hotel was a little too downmarket for your holidays. In what was the very definition of a vanity project in 1998, Simon and Janine also had a vineyard, and produced wine which I assume was only bought by their friends and cronies. It was bottled under the name ‘Chic Chablis’。 As if anything could tell you more about a person.
The last thing in the box was a thick, cream envelope. Inside were two pieces of paper. The first one I opened was a letter from Simon himself. It was a hasty scrawl, written in black ink, the words almost ripping through the paper.
Marie, thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear that you are ill, but what you suggest is impossible. As I have told you many times before, your decision to have your child was yours alone. You had no right to imagine that I’d risk my family and reputation for the product of a six-week fling. Instead, you chose to have the baby （which I have no proof is mine anyway）， and then try to entice me into seeing her. This delusion has to stop. Your daughter is not, nor ever will be, a part of my family. I have a wife, Marie! I have a daughter. I may possibly be due a peerage in next year’s Honours list. You must stop trying to impress upon my life. I have enclosed a cheque for ￡5000, which is more than generous, but given your health problems feels like the right thing to do. In return, I demand that you cease all contact. Simon.