to slow. A disembodied voice informed the passengers they were approaching Bronxville.
‘Bronxville. This is my stop.’
Extricating himself from Maureen’s vise-like embrace, he began to elbow his way through the human wall of commuters, only just making it out before the carriage door closed. He stood on the platform as the train pulled away.
Thank God. She’s gone.
Maureen Swanson’s voice rang out behind him: ‘What a coincidence. This is my stop too.’
Robbie’s heart sank.
How had she made it off the train without him noticing? Who was she, Harriet Houdini?
Maureen Swanson was two years older than Robbie Templeton. Maureen Swanson was also a goddess. The type of girl who could have any guy she wanted. Of course, the guys Maureen Swanson wanted were college linebackers built like O.J. Simpson. Robbie was built more like Wallace Simpson. Handsome undoubtedly, but at fifteen still small and slight and looking every inch the tenth-grader that he was.
On the other hand, Robbie was also the heir to the Kruger-Brent fortune. For ten billion dollars, it appeared, Maureen Swanson was prepared to make an exception to her usual dating criteria. Robbie Templeton might not be built like a football player, but he was worth more money than most pros.
Maureen smiled. ‘I know a guy who lives around here. There’s always a party going on at his place. You wanna check it out?’
Robbie weighed up his options. He did not want to check it out. He did not want to go to a party, especially not with Maureen Swanson. He wanted to be left alone so that he could go and kill himself somewhere, quietly, without his last memory being a pair of Dolly Parton breasts or daisy-patterned panties from JCPenney. Was that so much to ask?
And yet … a party meant other people. Noise. Drugs. Distractions for Maureen.
Drugs.
Robbie shrugged. What the hell.
‘Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.’
When Peter Templeton got home that evening, he expected to find his son waiting for him.
‘Robert!’
He let the front door slam shut behind him.
‘ROBERT!’
Peter Templeton no longer felt guilty about slapping Robert this afternoon. He was against physical violence generally, especially as a form of parental control. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Robert had stood in his office, laughing at him. Actually laughing. After all the trouble he’d caused the family: the expulsions, the run-ins with the police, the shoplifting. After all the money and time that Peter had personally spent trying to help him: all the therapists and vacations and hundred-dollar-an-hour piano lessons: Robert still thought of the situation as one big joke.
Well the joke was on him this time. Peter Templeton had had enough.
Bounding up the stairs, two at a time, in the direction of Robbie’s bedroom, Peter ran into the housekeeper, Mrs Carter. She was standing on the landing. She looked apologetic.
‘I’m afraid Master Robert’s not here, sir. We haven’t seen him since he left for school this morning. Is something wrong?’
Peter scowled. ‘Damn right something’s wrong. He’s gone and got himself kicked out of St Bede’s. I doubt there’s a school left in the state of New York that would take him now. Frankly, I can’t say I blame them.’
‘Oh dear.’
Mrs Carter wrung her hands despairingly. She adored Robbie, but he did seem to be getting himself into an awful lot of scrapes lately.
‘Robbie? Is that you?’
Lexi had heard the front door slam and come running out of the nursery in her nightgown, eager to see her brother. As always, Peter’s heart lifted at the sight of her.
She looked more like her mother every day. She had Alex’s eyes and lips and hair. Alex’s smile, half coy, half knowing, top lip slightly curled. She even walked like her mother. But in temperament she was quite different. Where Alex had been gentle and soft, Lexi was fiery and energetic. Mrs Carter affectionately referred to her as ‘our little piranha.’ Even Peter, with his chronically rose-tinted paternal vision, could see that Lexi was not perhaps the model of a decorous young lady. ‘Spirited’ was the word he used. Less partial observers tended towards ‘spoiled’. ‘Willful’ was another favorite. ‘Totally out of control’ was not unheard of.
‘There’s my princess.’ Peter kissed the top of Lexi’s head. She smelt of warm cookies and talcum powder. He felt his anger melting away. ‘What are you doing out of bed so late?’
Lexi frowned, then pouted, her deep gray eyes welling with tears.
‘Robbie!’ she wailed. ‘I want Robbie! Where’s Robbie? Where is he?’
Peter felt the bitterness choking him. First Alex, now Lexi. Robert had sucked away their love like a vampire, leaving Peter with nothing. Only with immense effort did he keep the emotion out of his voice.
‘Robbie’s not here right now, sweetie. Would you like daddy to tuck you in? I could read that story you like. The one about Squirrel Nutkin?’
‘NO!’ It was a yell. ‘NOT Daddy! Rooobiiieee!’
Mrs Carter appeared, brusquely ushering Lexi back into her bedroom. Poor Mr Templeton. He looked like he’d just had acid thrown in his face. He had to learn not to take things so much to heart. Mrs Carter had four kids of her own. Like every mother, she knew that children could be spiteful and thoughtless, especially at Lexi’s age. You couldn’t take it personally.
Once Lexi was settled back in bed, Mrs Carter came downstairs. She found her boss in the study.
‘Is she asleep?’
Peter’s voice sounded odd. Deadened and dull. Mrs Carter noticed the tumbler of whisky in his hand, and the open bottle on the desk. The hairs on her arms began to tingle with foreboding.
‘Yes, sir. Sound asleep.’
Peter took a big slug of his drink. When he looked up, his eyes were glassy.
‘Good. Thank you. You can go.’
Suddenly, Mrs Carter didn’t feel right leaving Lexi alone in the house with her father. What if Mr Templeton passed out cold, and something happened to Lexi? She’d never forgive herself.
‘It’s all right, sir. I can stay for a while. At least until Master Robert gets home safely.’
Her husband, Mike, would be at home expecting his dinner. He was bound to make a fuss, but it couldn’t be helped.
‘I can fix you some supper if you like. There’s leftover beef in the pantry. I could whip you up a Stroganoff.’
‘No. Thank you.’
Peter drained his glass and immediately poured himself another.
‘Go home, Mrs Carter. I’ll see you in the morning.’
The words were polite, but the tone was liquid steel. The housekeeper hesitated.
She thought about Lexi, and poor Master Robert. Should she leave them here, alone, with their drunken father? Probably not. But if she forced the issue and demanded to stay, she might lose her position. Where would that leave her own kids? With Mike out of work, her salary was all they had.
She reached a decision.
‘Very good, sir. As long as you’re sure.’
The children would be all right. Course they would. She was blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Mike would get his precious dinner on time, and all would be right with the world.
Far