The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

This is horrendous. Horrendous. It is a carefully worded article, with no mention of the footage being obtained without my consent, or my account being hacked. And then I read further and I freeze. This is it; this is the bit I’ve been terrified of seeing since Miles Cranford, whose by-line now sits under that hideous headline, rang me on Thursday.

Beth’s sizzling X-rated video has now been enjoyed by thousands of randy web surfers, but it’s not the first time she’s been in the spotlight. Back in her schooldays Beth was the focus of attention for a very different reason, after being linked to the suicide of a troubled pupil at a Bristol secondary school. No charges were brought, and Beth’s family moved away from the area after the scandal.

Her latest racy antics have plunged her into the spotlight again, and although she’s currently ‘on leave’ from work, patients are hoping she’ll make a return very soon. ‘Maybe they should put her on reception instead of hiding her away in the back office,’ said one horny chap. ‘That would cheer us up when we’re waiting to have our piles checked, wouldn’t it?’

Beth declined to comment when contacted earlier this week.

I stand there, staring at the page, and I realise that I’m whimpering; little involuntary noises are coming out of my mouth. I can’t even process what this means, what impact this story being printed in a newspaper is going to have on my life. I just know that it’s going to be enormous. Huge. Today is going to change everything. I take a deep, shuddering breath, then another, trying to quell the panic. I need to move, need to do something – call my solicitor maybe? – but it’s as if my mind has disconnected from my body and all I can do is stand there, eyes fixed on the newspaper, the words dancing in front of me, bouncing across the page.

‘Beth? Beth, what’s that? Are you OK?’

It’s Mum, crossing the kitchen towards me, hair still damp from her shower. A towel is draped across her shoulders, concern etched on her un-made-up face. I swallow.

‘The pictures. Someone sent them to the papers, Mum,’ I manage to say, and I push the newspaper along the counter towards her. She frowns, fumbling in her dressing-gown pocket for her glasses and starts to read, and I stand there numbly, watching her. When she reaches the last couple of paragraphs she looks up at me, eyes wide, and I know she’s read the bit about Lucy. A fresh wave of horror washes over me, because how do I explain that now? What do I say, to her, to Jacob, to everyone?

‘Mum …’

My voice is croaky, my throat tight and dry, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she shakes her head and then, to my surprise, picks up the newspaper and very slowly and deliberately begins to tear it up. She rips it into long strips, dropping each one on the floor as she completes it. When she’s finished, when the entire thing is in shreds, she bends down and scoops it up, marches to the recycling bin in the corner, lifts the lid, and stuffs the bundle of paper in. Then she turns to me.

‘There. That’s dealt with that load of nonsense,’ she says, sounding satisfied. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea?’

Stunned, I stare at her for a moment, and then, surprising even myself, I laugh.

‘But … don’t you want to talk about it? The article? What it said?’

She shrugs.

‘Maybe later. First, my darling, you need a hot drink and sustenance. One of your so-called friends has clearly been at it again, talking to the press. I’m furious and upset, but I’m more concerned about you. You look dreadful, and I want you to sit down and let me look after you, all right? We’re having tea and pain au chocolat because it’s Easter Saturday after all. And after that, if you still want to, we can talk. OK? Now sit.’

She gestures to the nearest stool and I stare at her for another few moments, marvelling, then do as I’m told. The tea is hot and strong, the pain au chocolat sweet and flaky and delicious, and as we sit there, the morning sun warming the room as it floods through the patio doors, I feel a strange sense of calm descending.

The very worst has happened, and yet maybe it’s not as bad as it could be after all, is it? Yes, there’s a mention of something bad happening in my past, a link to a suicide, but it’s vague, and it even says that no charges were brought. There’ll be questions, yes. But maybe, just maybe …

‘So. Do you want to talk about it now?’

Mum’s pushed her plate aside and she’s cupping her chin in her hands, waiting.

I nod and clear my throat. Since Thursday, since that phone call from that bloody bastard Miles Cranford, I’ve been in hell. I decided almost as soon as I put the phone down not to tell anyone about Miles and his story, hoping against hope that it might not materialise, that some massive incident – a terrorist attack or a Royal death … anything – might come along to fill the pages of the newspapers, that my story might be postponed or even forgotten about altogether. Then I spent an hour berating myself about wishing for a terrorist attack or a Royal death and felt more dreadful than ever. I say I told nobody but I did call Anna Reid. I thought I already knew the answer to this, but I wanted to check, just in case – was there any way I could stop a newspaper running a story about me?

‘Sadly, no,’ she said. ‘It’s called freedom of the press. At least they’ve contacted you, given you the chance to comment, to state your case, even if you’ve declined. They’re very careful, Beth; they police themselves really, to a degree. They don’t want to be