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“Was he close to Maddie?” I ask.
“No. She hated him.”
My brow furrows. “Really?”
“Our mother suffered with depression too, and Dad was unsympathetic—he just told her to pull herself together, and he’d yell at her when she couldn’t motivate herself to get out of bed in the morning and call her lazy, stuff like that. Eventually she plucked up the courage to leave. Their breakup was extremely acrimonious. He didn’t want her to leave the country with us, and he tried to get a court order to stop her. He was furious when the court found in her favor. He made her life a misery, and Maddie never forgave him. She hadn’t seen him in years.”
“Is your relationship with him better than hers was?”
“Fractionally. He’s not an easy man to love.”
I’m shocked, because somehow I’d imagined that rich people didn’t have the same problems as poor ones. They have the resources to pay for therapy and health programs and private hospitals. And yet, obviously, even billionaires have their issues.
He looks around the room. “Anything else?”
“A car seat?”
“She had one of those that clips to a stroller. I’m guessing that’s what Leia was found in.”
“So it should be with the foster mum.”
“I hope so.”
“Okay, that’s it then.”
Henry comes back in. “Are we done? We should get going if we’re supposed to pick up Leia at five.”
James looks around the room once more. Then, without saying anything, he walks out.
*
Henry parks out the front of the police station.
“I’m just going to visit the Gents,” James says.
“I might get a coffee,” Henry says, pointing to a nearby café. “Do you want one?”
“Please.” James picks up his jacket, gets out of the car, and walks over to the public lavatories.
Henry and I lock up the car and cross to the café.
“Poor James,” I say. “He must be so upset.”
“Of course, although he’s been brought up not to show it.”
“You’re talking about his father?”
“Yeah. I’ve met him a few times. If you look up the definition of toxic masculinity in the dictionary, it’ll have a photo of him. Imagine a man showing emotion! Appearing weak and vulnerable! There’s no worse thing in the world, according to him.”
“James isn’t really like that, though, is he?”
“Well, he’s not a racist, sexist homophobe, if that’s what you mean. But the guy’s his dad. He brought James up, taught him how to be a man. Sons emulate their fathers, until they know better.”
Henry’s expression is dark—he has his own issues there. I feel for these guys. Our society celebrates those with power, wealth, and ambition, and at the same time criticizes men for using dominance and control to assert their superiority. Our young men are under tremendous pressure to walk that fine line. It’s no wonder the suicide rate for them is so high.
James must be feeling awash with sadness and grief and guilt. I hate that they have to hold it all in. My father has been the same. Although my family is very open, he has been putting on a brave face, even though I know he’s desperately worried about how he’s going to pay the bills.
At the café, we order three coffees to go, and sit at a nearby table to wait for them to be made.
