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At that moment, the door opens, and Hobbs and Mrs Bullivant enter the room carrying silver trays of French onion soup. So much has happened, I totally forgot about the starters Mrs Kingswood ordered earlier. It looks delicious but sadly, my nerves are so jangled, I have completely lost my appetite and doubt I’ll be able to eat much. Right now, food is the last thing on my mind. All I want is to go home.
And then a funny thing happens. The freezing cold air suddenly melts away and the room begins to heat up, as if all the radiators in the house have been turned on. It’s an uncanny sensation, almost like a swift changing of seasons, and for some reason, as crazy as it sounds, I am convinced Alex is responsible.
A bowl of soup is placed before me in a delicate silver bowl, but all I do is stare at it. My limbs are rigid with fear. My head is all over the place and I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.
When Alex next speaks, his tone has softened, and I sense he’s now trying to appease me. “Jessica, I would like it very much if you stayed for dinner. You’ve taken the trouble to come all this way so you might as well stay.”
“I’m not sure,” I mumble. “I really think I should be getting back. I’ve got some stuff to do tomorrow and must be up early so—”
“I’m prepared to pay half the money. That is £25,000 for you just to spend a couple of hours here with me. It’s my birthday and I could do with the company, plus it will be nice spending some time with someone around my own age. How sad will it be if I end up spending my 21stbirthday alone with just my mother? Stay until ten, and I promise I’ll arrange for Hobbs to drive you home safely. What do you say?”
Tentatively, I glance across at Mrs Kingswood. Her face has a strained expression, but she doesn’t say anything. The decision is clearly mine to make. My mind races. Of course, I’d been bluffing when I mentioned catching the last train home. The nearest train station is miles away and without a car, I’m pretty much stuck in the middle of nowhere. I realise the best way to get out of this house in one piece is just to play along. Plus, there’s his amazingly generous offer of £25,000 just to stay for dinner. Who could pass up that kind of money? With Mum’s medical treatment hanging in the balance, I decide it’s too good an opportunity to miss.
“All right, I’ll stay,” I whisper.
“Fantastic.” Alex sounds genuinely thrilled. I still can’t look at him.
An uncomfortable hush descends. After we finish eating our soup, Mrs Bullivant serves up a superb fillet steak in mushroom and whiskey sauce with vegetables for mains and peaches and cream for dessert, all washed down with bottles of expensive red wine. For the next hour, the three of us barely speak. We just sit around the table, eating our dinner, and as I suspected, Mrs Kingswood barely touches anything, continuously pushing the food around her plate to give the illusion of participating. Something is definitely wrong there. Having said that, I too have very little appetite but force myself to eat every scrap out of politeness.
All throughout the meal, I can feel Alex staring at me constantly. It’s like he’s obsessed, and I find his relentless attention deeply unnerving but do my best not to let it get to me. In my mind, this is just a job, so I need to behave like a professional. If he wants to pay £25,000 to look at me all evening, then why not? It’s a small price to pay and certainly better than having to sleep with him.
As the wine continues to flow, the room starts to spin and my head gets woozy. Never much of an alcohol drinker, it takes very little to get me tipsy, and midway through my second glass, the booze begins to loosen my tongue and I gain enough confidence to strike up a conversation.
“You have a really beautiful house,” I slur. “I’ve never been anywhere so grand. It’s like a palace.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Alex replies. “Although, after spending 21 years locked up here, I now see it more as a beautiful prison.”
Mrs Kingswood squirms but continues to stay silent, her eyes fixed resolutely on her plate.
“You’ve spent your whole life locked up here?” I gasp. “Are you joking?”
“No, I wish I was. As soon as I was born, my parents decided I was too hideous for the world to see me, so they locked me away and had me home schooled for my own protection. Children can be so cruel, and I was constantly picked on, so I think my parents thought they were doing the right thing. Also, it was the ‘80s, people did things differently then. Plus, I think it saved them from embarrassment, they didn’t want me around to spoil their image.”
“That is not true, and you know it,” his mother says quietly. “Your father and I only ever did what we thought was in your best interests, Alex. Home schooling you was never anything to do with saving face. We never hid you from our inner circle of friends and you know that.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Alex agrees. “All I know is, throughout my childhood, I barely went out, barely had any contact with anyone. It’s been a lonely existence.”
My heart breaks for him. I can’t believe any parent would be so heartless to do that to their child. How can Mrs Kingswood live with herself every day, knowing she has locked her son away in this prison? Once more, I ask what kind of a person is she? It’s like she wants him to be apologetic for even existing, and that’s not on in my book. He didn’t ask for the card life dealt him, so why the hell should he be kept hidden from the world? No matter what, Alex deserves the same shot in life as everyone else. He deserves to be able to live his life freely, see the world, make the most of every opportunity, and to hell with what people think. How dare she lock her son away to please others?How dare she?
“Oh my gosh, that’s awful,” I say. “It must have been so hard for you being so isolated from everything.”
“I thought so too, at first,” he replies. “But you know, Jessica, as the years go by, I think it might have been a blessing in disguise. When I was younger, I used to long to go out and be part of society, I thought I was missing out on something. But every time I come into contact with people, I’m thoroughly disappointed. More often than not, I find that they are cruel and prejudiced, unwilling to accept anything that challenges their narrow perception of the world. With a few exceptions, they are a scourge on this planet and if I’m honest, I much prefer the company of animals. Animals never judge you, are loyal to you, love you unconditionally and never let you down in the way humans do.” He pauses. “You have gone silent. Tell me, am I wrong?”
I think of all the years of torment Georgina Wickham subjected me to at school, all the pain and misery she put me through, and I’ve got to admit I agree with him.
“No, you’re not wrong,” I say. “A lot of people are the way you have described. Cruel. Prejudiced. But not everyone is like that, there are some good ones, so you shouldn’t tar everyone with the same brush.”
“How old are you, Jessica?” Alex asks, changing the subject.
“Nineteen,” I reply.
“Where do you live?”
“London.”
“Where specifically?”
“Clapham Common. I live on a council estate.”
