Chapter 26: The Pursuit of Happiness

Eden

2049

"She's your daughter, too," Eden said into the phone pressed against his ear. "You got custody of her and you should bloody well come and take care of her."

"I'm miles away," Zara replied. "I can't be expected to drop everything I'm doing just to pick up my wayward daughter."

"I don't see why not," said Eden. "I can't look after her. I'm due back in the Med tomorrow. I've got meetings to go to. I've got things to organise. It seems that every time I return to London, our junkie daughter imposes herself on me."

"You've got responsibility for our daughter, too," said Zara. "It's not my fault she dumps herself on you. I guess you're more lenient about her jacking up..."

"Don't take the moral high ground with me. I know the exact extent of your ethics and propriety. Your escapades are well documented."

"I don't see that's remotely relevant. The divorce was years ago. You settled. Your private investigators might have trawled up dirt that you'd have dished out if I'd held out for a better deal, but you can't use that now."

"It's your bloody fault our daughter's the way she is. You set the example."

"And you haven't?"

"Be reasonable," said Eden with exasperation. "Your daughter's OD'd again. The doctors have pumped out her stomach and she's laid up sick in her childhood bedroom. She can't stay here when I fly back to the Med. You've got to take responsibility."

"No way," said Zara. "Last time she stayed at my place, she pawned one of those Liberian diamonds for heroin or cocaine or something. I'm not taking that risk again. She's a junkie. She can mainline in someone else's home not mine. You've got the money, you handle it. Why don't you just book her into rehab again?"

"It didn't do much good, did it?"

"Well, it's your problem this time," said Zara. "She's in one of your homes and I'm not prepared to take the risk of having the little bitch steal any more jewellery."

"I don't know why I thought you might have a more positive attitude."

"We're both her parents," said Zara. "She's with you now. Just deal with it."

With that, Eden heard her click off the phone.

"Fuck," said Eden. He put the phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket and gazed out of the window onto the leafy square below. He was in the top floor study of his Mayfair house and had a perfect view of the protest march that was wending its way through the plush streets. Undoubtedly it was concerned with something the bloody Americans had said or done to arouse the ire of the good-for-nothing layabouts. Was it something to do with petrol subsidies? Was it the nukes they'd sold to Kazakhstan? Was it the use of fire-arms to suppress protests in Detroit and Chicago? God knows. These greenies and lefties and bloody pooftahs just didn't know right from wrong.

Reluctantly, Eden strode out the study and descended a flight of stairs to Zoe's childhood bedroom. The decor hadn't changed for ten years and preserved a snapshot of his daughter's principal interests from a time before they'd transferred to boyfriends and drugs. There were teddy bears and dolls piled up on the shelves. The posters on the wall displayed fresh-faced boy bands many of whose fortunes had been propelled by Eden's money although his interest in them had never stretched as far as to actually listen to their music. And in the middle of all this was Zoe's huge bed that was large enough for three adults to sleep in rather than just one young girl. Even now, Zoe was dwarfed by her bed.

There wasn't much of her to be seen. Her head and arms were exposed while the rest of her was just a bump under the duvet. A clear plastic tube trailed from one nostril and was connected at the other end to the complex machinery left behind by the doctors after they'd pumped out her stomach. She was awake but looked almost as much like a zombie now as when she'd arrived at Eden's principal London address a couple of days ago. And that was before she'd injected herself with what she must have known was a dangerously high dose.

Eden didn't have much sympathy for this or any other kind of hysterical melodrama. It was obvious that his slutty junkie daughter was crying for help. You don't come to your father's London home on one of the few occasions he's in town and then OD on him if you didn't envisage yourself playing the tragic role in a crappy soap opera. Eden might give his daughter money and medical attention, he might stretch to paying for rehab and methadone, but he'd be damned if he'd extend her much sympathy. She didn't have to become a drug addict. It was she who'd have to come round to seeing the error of her ways.

He then noticed that Zoe's eyes were open and following him as he paced back and forth across the room.

"You're awake, I see."

"Hello, Dad," said Zoe weakly.

"So you've disgraced us again," said Zoe's father. "Or should I say: yet again? Your mother and I give you everything you want and more, and what do you do in return? Can't you do something with your money other than squander it on drugs?"

"I'm sorry, Dad."

"You're just saying that so I don't cut you off," said Eden as he stood by Zoe's bed and chose not to sit on the chair that was beside him. "How would you like it if I did that, then? You'd have to make a living like the rest of the scum..."

"The ones who're rioting and demanding higher wages?"

"Yes," said Eden. "The great unwashed masses."

"It's only because they're desperate," said Zoe. "They don't get a hearing in the media, at least not the media you own..."

"Part own," Eden automatically corrected.

" ... and the government doesn't care for them, either."

"You sound like a commie," said Eden. "Anyway, the point isn't about those troublemakers but you. And the trouble you make is right on my doorstep. In fact, it's right here in this bedroom. What should I do with you?"

"Book me into rehab."

"Again? Lot of bloody good that did. Cost a fortune."

"I was clean for ages afterwards."

"We want you off drugs for life. Not just for a few months. But I guess you're right. There's nothing else I can do for you."