Moving back to the window, he looked out, feeling deep loathing for the money-grabbing rabble outside who would revel in his humiliation. Human flotsam. Robert peeled his disgusted gaze away and went to attend to the necessary clearing up. Minutes later, he descended the stairs with his stained dressing gown and the duvet cover. It took him a while, but he managed to work out how to put the washing machine on. The newspaper plopped through the letterbox as he walked back. Tiredly, Robert bent to pick it up.

uk businessman named in #metoo scandal, blazed the headline.

His chest constricting painfully, Robert read on: ‘Robert Fenton – who grew his hugely successful plumbing and bespoke bathroom business from the basement of a bookshop and is now worth an estimated £50m – is reportedly seeking to obtain an interim injunction preventing the press from publishing allegations of sexual harassment and abuse of staff. Fenton, who has “categorically” denied the allegations, is accused of using non-disclosure agreements in an attempt to prevent staff speaking out…’

Robert folded the newspaper, placed it on the hall table, sucked in a deep breath and held it. He should clean the bedroom carpet, he decided, and then get dressed. The premium wool suit in blue or the grey tailored fit, he pondered, as he went back to the utility for whatever cleaning paraphernalia he might need. Impressions were important, after all.

All-important, to Robert. One of six kids, brought up on an estate notorious for petty crime and drug dealing, he’d fought hard to free himself of his roots. He’d built his business with nothing but the sweat of his brow, better than his competitors, bigger and infinitely more successful. Finally establishing himself as one of the UK’s leading businessmen, he’d made sure to leave poverty behind him. He’d worked equally hard on his image, dressing stylishly but not flashily. He commanded respect amongst his peers, and had been paid substantial amounts to head up seminars and give inspirational talks. He’d been someone. Yes, he’d made mistakes along the way. Might have misread one or two signals, but what’s a red-blooded man supposed to do when a lithe young thing smiles coquettishly and encourages him on? He would never have overstepped any boundaries had he not thought a little harmless flirtation was on offer. He’d had one or two women making silly noises after the event, forcing him to pay them off and remind them of the stipulations of their contracts. Overall, though, Robert considered he’d been more than reasonable. Generous, even.

Now it appeared that those who had benefitted from his generosity were determined to bring him down. Robert only had to look and see the great men falling around him to realise that eventually they would destroy him, too. He wouldn’t wait for the ignominy of that, for kiss-and-tell stories in the tacky tabloids. Lies. Unflattering photographs portraying him as a lecherous pervert.