Sutherland was one of the most respected lawyers in England. He warned that if, as William had admitted, he had occasionally used call-girls, then to bring a massive and costly lawsuit against someone as powerful as Humphrey Matlock, the proprietor of the newspapers, would end in catastrophe: ‘...the reason being, William, that any one of the girls you’ve known in an intimate way could be tracked down and offered money to refute these denials of yours. And as you have admitted, albeit in the privacy of my office, that you have occasionally used the services of certain illegal agencies for, ah, intimate massages and so on, you could not swear otherwise on oath.’
William interrupted, ‘But no more than any other man has, for fuck’s sake. Name me anyone you know who hasn’t,’ he snapped.
‘That, old fellow, is not the issue, because you are not “any other man” but Sir William Benedict. So I suggest, and this is my best advice, that you lie low and ignore the slanders. Look at Jeffrey Archer! For God’s sake, don’t antagonize them, just let it blow over.’
‘But it’s a bloody outrage,’ William stormed.
‘I admit that it is,’ said the suave Sutherland, in mellifluous tones as he wandered around his elegant Mayfair office, ‘but you must look at it in a logical way, old man. The fact is that you don’t want any of these women with whom you have had sexual relationships, albeit infrequently, to testify against you. And as they will want their fifteen minutes of fame while Humphrey Matlock is known for cheque-book journalism, I really do think you should just let it blow over.’
The meeting was at an end, and William knew he should heed Sutherland’s warning. He agreed angrily to do nothing, but he couldn’t help wishing for a minute alone with Humphrey Matlock so that he could swing a punch at him.
The final straw came the following weekend, when yet another Matlock-owned newspaper gave centre-page coverage to interviews with William’s children, who said they hated him for betraying their mother. He noted bitterly that neither made any reference to the substantial allowances he made to them, way over what he was obliged to pay, and that he maintained the entire family in a luxurious lifestyle.
Desperate to stem the flow, William tried to contact his ex-wives. Margaret refused to speak to him, and when he threatened Katherine with reducing his maintenance payments to the amount stipulated by the courts, he was met with screams of ‘Do that, you bastard, and I’ll make up the difference by selling the rest of our story to the highest bidder.’
For six weeks after Maynard’s death — six horrific weeks of humiliation and degradation — the country was privy to the personal details of his two marriages, his household costs, his earnings and even his children’s school fees. Now everyone thought he was an obsessive, sex-crazed man, hell-bent on personal gain and even using his own children to achieve it. However, in every single article, there was still a kernel of truth, no matter how distorted, which made his lawyers balk at legal action. Had Matlock got to them, William wondered. Was there no one he could trust? Was he really so despicable?
The answer came from his sixteen-year-old son, Charlie. William drove to the school to take his son to lunch. It was an awkward, strained occasion and Charlie was unable to look his father in the face. It was not until pudding was served that William asked, ‘Why, Charlie? Why have you said these terrible things about me?’ The boy shrugged, still refusing to meet his father’s eyes. ‘I’ve never stopped loving you, providing for you. You’ve wanted for nothing.’
Charlie looked up at last, and William noticed for the first time his son’s resemblance to himself. ‘You left us. You’ve never been a father. All you were ever interested in was making money. And now I think we should go back, Dad,’ he said. ‘My band’s got the music room booked this afternoon.’
William drove his son back to school in silence. When he leaned forward to embrace him, Charlie recoiled. ‘Bye,’ he said stiffly and got out, slamming the car door. He walked straight through the gates, hands clenched at his sides. He was hoping and praying that none of his friends had seen him. Even the car was embarrassing: no one who was anyone had a two-tone Rolls Royce with a gold Spirit of Ecstasy.
The following day William had an equally excruciating luncheon with his daughter, Sabrina. She was more aggressive than her brother, refusing to eat, and sitting with pursed lips — so like her mother’s. William had married Katherine because he wanted to be accepted in high society. She had bubbled with delight at the balls and at the races. She enjoyed posing for photos with William in the winner’s enclosure, and showing them to her friends when they appeared in the society columns. But the effervescent, giggling young socialite of courtship had vanished immediately after the wedding. She began to reprimand him as if he were a child for the way he held his knife and fork, the way he dressed. She made little jibes that exploded into huge rows. Eventually she had hired Miss Drumgoole to teach him etiquette. The truth was, William had needed to learn from Katherine so that he could feel at ease in the social circles to which she introduced him, but her scornful carping made him uncomfortable and afraid to open his mouth.
And here was Sabrina, his offspring, as like the whingeing Katherine as if she had been spat out of her mouth. She was pale, with straight blonde hair, heavy-lidded eyes with fair lashes and braces on her teeth. She might have been attractive but her long, thin nose and full lips made her face lack animation and she seemed loath even to attempt a smile. William had no one to blame but himself: it had been his choice to divorce one vacuous titled blonde and marry another. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
‘I can’t stay long,’ lisped Sabrina. ‘Besides, Mummy said I really shouldn’t have agreed to see you at all. We’ve had these press people everywhere.’
‘I am sorry,’ he said flatly. ‘Perhaps if your mother hadn’t been so eager to spill her vitriolic lies about me, this would all have blown over.’
‘I have been teased unmercifully because of you. The other girls do nothing but giggle about you, and mince around like willy woofters, pointing at me. It’s embarrassing having someone like you for a father. They call me “Rough Trade”, because of you and your boyfriend.’
‘I’ll take you back to school.’ William folded his napkin. He was too tired and too hurt to argue.
Had he brought all this vituperation upon himself? Surely there had to be someone he could call a friend. He went through lists of names, people who had stayed on one or other of his estates, all those he entertained regularly. But then it dawned on him that no one except his employees had made contact in the past few weeks. He kicked at the sofa in a drunken fury, as his father had when the bailiffs arrived to remove the family’s few possessions. Unlike his father, he had no woman on whom to take out his frustrations. At least his mother had always been there, even if it was only as a punch-bag.
His mother had scrimped and saved for him to stay at school for extra tuition, and it was she who had told him there was a way out. She always said, ‘Get your maths, Billy. You got to have maths.’ Why she had this fixation with maths he never discovered, but his high grade in that subject netted him a scholarship to Liverpool University. Sadly, she had not lived to see this and his father’s advice was that he should go out and work, rather than ‘loll around at university with a load of ponces’. Billy had rolled up his sleeves and punched his father — so hard that he sent him sprawling into the fireplace — and walked out. He never saw his father alive again.