‘No, it never existed in the first place. It was a phantom pregnancy.’
He stared at her as if she was mad. ‘Can that happen?’ he asked.
‘Occasionally, yes.’
‘So I didn’t get her pregnant?’
‘No.’
‘So even the headline is a lie?’
‘Well, I suppose so, yes.’
‘There’s no suppose about it! It says Cleverley got me preggers, when I did no such thing.’
Denise looked around, feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t like the scene that was being played out. This was Soho House, after all. Not the Groucho.
‘You could be accused of splitting hairs there,’ she said. ‘I mean, you were obviously having an affair with the woman.’
‘But I didn’t get her pregnant! And I guarantee that if you go on Twitter now, you’ll find a load of people all saying that I forced a woman to have an abortion.’ He downed the rest of his beer, knocked back the whisky, then ordered seconds of both, which arrived promptly, along with a suggestion by the young Adonis that Sir might want to lower his voice.
‘Sir will keep his fucking voice at the exact fucking level that Sir wants it to be,’ he shouted, dismissing the boy by shooing him away with both hands. ‘Fuckity bye now! Fuckity bye!’
‘George, you have to calm down. Everyone is—’
‘I tell you what, Denise. I’m not going to take this lying down. I’m going to stand up for myself.’
‘I honestly don’t know what you can do about it. It might just be better to enter a period of self-isolation.’
‘That’s what I am now, is it? A virus?’
‘No, of course not, but—’
‘I can sue Twitter, that’s what I can do.’
‘For what?’
‘For allowing any moron with opposable thumbs to access its service.’
‘I’m not sure the courts will entertain something so frivolous.’
‘Then I’ll sue everyone who made allegations about me online. I’ll take every one of them down.’
‘I don’t think that will work either. There’s such a thing as free speech, you know.’
‘Free speech doesn’t give you the right to lie!’
‘It does, actually.’
‘Fine, but then there are consequences to lying. I’ll make them post apologies, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll get them to admit that they made all this up because they’re so bloody deranged.’
‘These people will only harass you even further if you provoke them.’
‘People?’ he shouted, spitting the word out as he drank half his beer in one go. ‘They’re not people. They’re thugs! Miscreants! Scoundrels! Villains! Reprobates! Lowlifes!’
‘That’s just a list of synonyms, darling.’
‘Oh, fuck off, Denise.’
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she said.
‘Could we sue the BBC?’
‘You could, I suppose. But I don’t think it would get you very far. What can they do other than give you more money? They’re not going to give you your show back. That’s off the table.’
‘Do you want to know what my real mistake was here?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘Signing up for those ridiculous social media sites in the first place. I said they were created for morons, but Elizabeth said I needed to build my brand. Really, all of this starts with her.’
‘Perhaps you could sue her?’
‘I’m not going to sue my own daughter,’ he replied, rolling his eyes in exasperation. ‘If I won, I’d only end up having to pay the compensation myself, since she doesn’t have a bean and refuses to get a job. Why doesn’t someone put that on Twitter? George Cleverley is something of a latter-day saint because he takes care of his family, allows all of his children to live at home, and gives them a substantial monthly allowance, even though the oldest boy has a wardrobe full of inappropriate uniforms, his daughter is a sloth and his youngest son is an idiot.’
‘Darling, I really think you need to compose yourself. Your every word is carrying and people are staring.’
‘Fuck them.’ He turned around and looked at the dozen or so people gathered in the courtyard, three of whom had won Oscars, two of whom were famous musicians, and the rest were unknown to him. ‘That’s right, you lot!’ he shouted. ‘You can all fuck off. Did you hear me? Fuck. Right. Off. Go on. Fuckity bye!’ he said again. He waved them all away, as if they were pigeons.
As the perspiration began to break out on his forehead, he noticed a young man sitting in the corner dressed in the style of a contemporary hipster and sporting an extravagant moustache, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he tapped away on his phone.
‘Hey! Salvador Dalí!’ shouted George. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Excuse me?’ said the man, looking up with an innocent expression on his face.
‘You heard me, you little shit. I said, what are you doing? Are you posting everything I’m saying online?’
The man shrugged. ‘Might be,’ he said. ‘What’s it to you?’
With the speed and agility of a twelve-year-old Russian gymnast running away from her father-slash-coach, George leapt from his chair, charged across the courtyard and grabbed the phone from the man’s hand.
‘Hey!’ he shouted in outrage. ‘Give that back!’
‘I want to see what you’ve written.’ George stared at the screen before turning around to glare at all the startled faces that surrounded him. ‘Every single word!’ he roared. ‘He’s posted every single word I’ve said in a long thread. And look, the likes and retweets are flowing in.’
‘How many am I up to?’ asked the man.
‘You little prick,’ snarled George. ‘Hold on.’ He started tapping away at the phone himself and, while the younger man tried to grab it back, George spun around in circles, ensuring that he kept a firm hold of it. ‘Now,’ he said finally in triumph. ‘Guess what I’ve just done? I’ve deleted your account. No deactivation, a simple deletion. It said this action cannot be reversed and I said, good, that’s what I want. You are no longer on Twitter. You have no more followers. You are voiceless. So you won’t need this, will you?’ He raised the phone above his head now and flung it to the ground, where it smashed into a dozen or more pieces. The man screamed and slumped back in his chair, his eyes closed, a faint line of drool seeping from the left corner of his mouth.
‘I think he’s fainted,’ said one of the actresses. ‘He has. Look. He’s fainted.’
‘You’re an animal!’ cried a man that George had never seen before in his life.
‘And who the fuck are you?’ George asked, turning on him. ‘You’re not even famous, so what are you doing here? At least she’s famous,’ he added, pointing to the actress. ‘And he’s famous,’ he said, pointing to the musician. ‘And I’m famous. But who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m up and coming,’ said the man in a dignified voice. ‘If you must know, I had a recurring role in Season Three of Downton Abbey.’