But I’ve never seen him the way he is now.
His eyes rest on me for a second, then another, and I take a slow step back because I can’t tell what’s going to happen. But to my surprise, Dad walks away and leaves my room without another word.
He slams the door so violently that I can’t help jumping. I press a hand to my ribs and take a deep breath. My pulse is racing. I can feel my heart hammering under my hand.
Less than ten seconds later, the door suddenly opens again—with such a flourish that the handle flies into the wall and must surely have left a dent. My father comes back into the room and looms over me.
“Does he know?” he asks, so quietly that I can hardly hear him.
The question takes me by complete surprise, and it takes me several seconds before I’m able to shake my head. “No, I—”
“Good,” Dad interrupts. Without deigning to look at me again, he strides across my room. He pulls open the door to my wardrobe and walks in. I hear a loud crash.
I hurry over and stare at my dad, who has clearly just pulled one of my big suitcases down from the top shelf. He’s now reaching for a travel bag, which he flings loudly to the floor beside it. He kicks the case open and starts pulling clothes at random off the shelves and hangers and throwing them in.
“What are you doing?”
Dad doesn’t react. It’s as if he’s delirious as he snatches T-shirts, blouses, trousers, underwear, bags, and shoes. His hair is flying up with all his sudden movements, and the blotches on his face and neck are darkening. He doesn’t stop even when the case is full, and more things land in a messy heap on top of the bag and the floor beside it.
“Dad, what are you doing?” I scream, taking a step forward to make him stop. I reach for his arm, but he snatches it away. The force of his movement sends me stumbling back, and I only just manage to catch hold of the doorframe with one hand.
At that moment, James bursts into the room.
“What’s going on in here?” he asks. He looks me over from head to toe, his eyes concerned as he checks that everything is OK. Then he sees Dad in my wardrobe and his eyes widen.
“What are you doing, Dad?” he asks.
Dad whirls around and points at James.
“You knew about this?” he demands.
James frowns. “About what?”
“What am I even asking? Of course he knew,” Dad mutters to himself. For a moment, he stares at the chaos he’s wreaked around himself, then he bends down and starts stuffing the clothes that landed next to the case into the travel bag.
“Why are you packing my things, Dad?” I ask hoarsely.
“You’re moving out.”
A wave of nausea rolls over me. “What?” I gasp.
James puts a hand on my back, as if to show me that he’s with me.
“We’ve had enough headlines to deal with for one year. I’mnot letting you damage my company just because you’re stupid enough to get knocked up by a teacher!” Dad roars those last words at me.
I sidle closer to James, and his hand clenches against my back. I can feel the effort it’s costing him to hold back now.
His voice is deliberately calm as he tries to reason with our father. “You can’t just pretend that nothing has happened.”
Dad pulls on the zip. There’s a scrap of fabric caught in it and then a nasty ripping sound. I flinch.
“Of course I can,” he snaps, pulling the bag closed. Then he turns to the suitcase. He jams a knee on the top as he pulls at the zip. “You’re going to your aunt’s. Right now. Nobody is to hear about your…condition.”
I gasp for breath. “W-what?”
“You can’t do that,” says James.
Dad stops and looks at us. It’s a grotesque image as he kneels there on my silver suitcase, breathing hard, with messed-up hair and a sweat-stained shirt. “I seem to be the only person in this house still in his right mind. Do you really think that I’ll permit you to keep on representing our family, like”—he gestures at my belly—“like this? Do you have any idea how it makes us look? Makes Beauforts look?”
