by Susan Lewis
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Susan Lewis
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
Two lives. Two families. One tragedy.
Lauren Scott is bright, talented and beautiful. At eighteen, she is the most precious gift in the world to her mother, and has a dazzling career ahead of her.
Oliver Lomax is a young man full of promise, despite the shadow his own, deeply troubled, mother casts over him.
Then one fateful night, Oliver makes a decision that tears their worlds apart.
Until then, Lauren and Oliver had never met, but now they become so closely bound together that their families are forced to confront truths they hoped they’d never have to face, secrets they’d never even imagined ...
About the Author
Susan Lewis is the bestselling author of twenty-six novels. She is also the author of Just One More Day and One Day at a Time, the moving memoirs of her childhood in Bristol. Having resided in France for many years she now lives in Gloucestershire. Her website address is www.susanlewis.com
Susan is a supporter of the childhood bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish: www.winstonswish.org.uk and of the breast cancer charity, BUST: www.bustbristol.co.uk
Also by Susan Lewis
Fiction
A Class Apart
Dance While You Can
Stolen Beginnings
Darkest Longings
Obsession
Vengeance
Summer Madness
Last Resort
Wildfire
Chasing Dreams
Taking Chances
Cruel Venus
Strange Allure
Silent Truths
Wicked Beauty
Intimate Strangers
The Hornbeam Tree
The Mill House
A French Affair
Missing
Out of the Shadows
Lost Innocence
The Choice
Forgotten
Stolen
No Turning Back
Memoir
Just One More Day
One Day at a Time
To my wonderful partner, James, with all my love.
And to my two endless sources of inspiration, Michael and Luke.
Chapter One
‘GUESS WHAT? I have had the most brilliant idea!’
Lauren Scott’s exquisite amber eyes were sparkling with mischief as she breezed into the kitchen, where her mother was engrossed on the computer.
‘Really?’ Emma Scott responded, quickly closing down the email she was reading to reveal a job-search website beneath.
‘Yeah, really.’ Unwinding a soft brown scarf as she slumped down at the table, all long, booted legs and clouds of icy air brought in from outside, Lauren said, ‘So don’t you want to know what it is?’
‘Mm?’ Emma clicked to open another page of the website.
Lauren ogled her patiently, her irrepressible good nature lighting her from inside, as it always did, and lending her fresh young complexion a deliciously warm glow in spite of her wind-rouged cheeks. As she removed her woollen hat the sumptuous waves of her honey-blonde hair tumbled randomly around her shoulders and halfway down her back, and caught the light overhead in a way that made it glint like gold. Her enthusiasm for life was as infectious to others as it was a surprise to her mother, who couldn’t claim to have passed on any such sunny gene herself. However, Emma was willing to accept that she’d played a part in the arresting shades of Lauren’s eyes, plus the high cheekbones and pixyish chin – and very probably Lauren’s inherent compassion for others, since Emma had always considered it important to be as supportive to friends and family as she would wish them to be to her. (Although Emma’s consideration hadn’t always been returned, particularly where her mother and ex-husband were concerned, she simply breezed on past the defaulters and felt thankful for those who did show up in her times of need.)
In most other ways such as height, hair colour and the dazzling smile that lit up Emma’s world, Lauren was just like her father, while Emma’s resemblance to her own father was equally striking, if photos were to be believed, and she saw no reason why they shouldn’t be. This meant that she was five foot six – a good two inches shorter than Lauren – with an olive complexion, lustrous raven-coloured hair, and could easily be passed by in the street, her attractiveness unnoticed. She had no problem with that, since, unlike her long-dead father who’d been a successful musician in his time, she’d never harboured any desire to stand out in a crowd. However, she couldn’t deny loving the little frissons of pleasure she experienced whenever a man she felt drawn to seemed to sense the connection.
She’d definitely chosen the wrong man for that lately, so the least said about him the better, and she certainly wasn’t going to answer his email.
‘Mu-um! You’re not listening to me.’
‘I am. I am,’ Emma insisted, finally tearing her eyes from the screen. ‘Oh God, Lauren, look at you, your lips are blue you’re so cold. Where have you been?’
‘Only over to Melissa’s and I helped some kids build a snowman on the way back. Anyhow, I’ve got to tell you about my idea because it’s totally sick and you are so going to love it.’
Understanding that sick was enjoying a temporary redefinition in teenage-speak as fantastic, or amazing, or totally brilliant, Emma sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘OK, you have my full attention,’ she declared, while reflecting (with fingers tightly crossed) how blessed she was to be able to call this golden child her own. So many of her friends back in London had been driven half out of their minds by the stress of teenage hormones, addictions and even, in two unlucky cases, hush-hush abortions. In fact, before moving away, Emma had reached a point where she’d started to feel almost embarrassed by Lauren’s comparatively problem-free journey through what were supposed to be the most turbulent adolescent years. ‘Still time for it all to kick in,’ she’d often heard herself saying to one mother or another, as if Lauren developing issues would somehow make them feel less singled out as the victims of the dreaded teenage revenge.
‘I have decided,’ Lauren pronounced, fixing her mother with the kind of look that told her there was to be no argument, ‘that you should come to India with me in September.’
Emma blinked, blinked again, and stumbled into an incredulous laugh.
‘You’ve always wanted to go,’ Lauren reminded her, ‘and ever since Donna and I started making our plans I’ve felt terrible about not including you ...’
‘Lauren, I’m your
mother! You’re not supposed to include me, especially not on your gap year.’
‘It’ll just be for the first couple of weeks, till Donna comes to join me. All right, I could easily delay my flight and go at the same time as her now she’s having to be bridesmaid for her sister, but then I thought, why don’t we – you and me – have a holiday together doing some of the things you want to do in India before I take off with Donna?’
Emma was shaking her head in amazement. ‘You and your crazy ideas,’ she chided, knowing Lauren meant it and wondering how many other girls her age would seriously want their mothers travelling India with them.
‘Isn’t it brill? I knew you’d love it. So shall we check to see if we can get you on the same flight as me, and then we can work out what we’ll do and where we’ll stay when we get there. I mean, I know you won’t want to do all the backpacking stuff, but I’m cool with five-star ...’
With a splutter of laughter, Emma said, ‘I’m sure you are, but I’m afraid the closest we’ll ever get to that is dreaming.’
‘That’s OK, we can find less expensive places to stay like ashrams or hostels. And we can get trains and rickshaws and go in search of ourselves, or enlightenment, or love ...’ Electrified by the theme, she went on, ‘Imagine if you found someone like what’s-his-name, you know the mega-zillionaire who that actress was married to?’
With dancing eyes, Emma said, ‘I suspect you mean Liz Hurley and Arun ... I’m blanking on his surname ...’
‘It doesn’t matter, he might still be free, and if he is, once he knows about you ... Actually, I’m starting to think the sooner we get out there the better, because we don’t want him being snapped up ...’
‘Stop it,’ Emma protested, getting up and squeezing past Lauren to go and put on the kettle.
‘No, come on, Mum, you’ve got to think out of the box here, not that this house is a box, exactly, well it is, but a lovely box and I’m totally happy in it if you are, but I definitely think we need a holiday and you need a man ...’
‘Lauren ...’
‘OK, Arun what’s-his-name might be a bit radical, but you have to admit that us going to India together is seriously cool.’
Emma couldn’t deny that if she allowed herself to she might easily become every bit as excited by the idea as Lauren seemed to be, since spending a fortnight living a lifelong dream, especially with her daughter whose company she adored, had even more appeal – in fact way, way more appeal – than becoming the future Mrs Nayar – that was his name – as if there was even a remote chance of that! She was getting as bad as Lauren with her flights of fancy.
‘You’ve got some money now you’ve sold the business,’ Lauren was running on. ‘OK, I know you’re going to say it isn’t much ...’
‘Because it isn’t. In fact, I was lucky to come out with anything at all, as you well know, and I need every penny now while I look for a job.’
‘Which you’ll find no problem, because who wouldn’t want you? You’re brilliant at everything and everyone likes you and ... oh Mum, please don’t tell me you’re going to say no. You can’t. It’s what you want, I know it is, and think about it this way, if you come with me you won’t have to worry about me being in a foreign country all on my own till Donna turns up.’
A very good point – a very good point indeed. Even so ... ‘I’m going to need some time to think about it.’
‘What’s to think about? Why don’t we just go ahead and book?’
‘Because we’ve hardly been in this house a month, we overspent at Christmas and if I do manage to find a job I don’t know if I’ll be able to get the time off.’
‘But it’s only January, September’s ages away yet, so if you tell them you’ve already booked something they’re sure to be all right about it.’
Dropping a kiss on Lauren’s head as she reached over her to take two mugs from a cupboard, Emma said, ‘I promise I’ll think about it, and if I find a job by, let’s say, the end of February and they’re willing to let me go, then we’ll get straight online to reserve the flight.’
‘Yay! I knew you’d go for it,’ Lauren cheered, grabbing her mother round the waist. ‘I reckon it’ll be brilliant for you after all the stress of packing up the business and selling the house ...’
‘Both houses,’ Emma reminded her, and immediately wished she hadn’t, since it was Lauren’s precious father and his crooked – yes, crooked – accounting and dubious investments and demanding new wife who’d virtually turned them out on the streets.
Looking dismal, Lauren said, ‘It’s a real pity Dad couldn’t let you hang on to the cottage. He really wanted to, well you know that, but with all the debts that had mounted up ...’
‘We don’t need to go over it all again,’ Emma interrupted, trying not to sound clipped or bitter and failing on both counts. Her feelings towards Will and Jemima Scott-Robbins (yes, he really had gone double-barrelled since marrying the wretched woman, pretentious, ludicrous, sad bastard that he was) were for her to deal with and not to be laid on Lauren. Not that Emma wasted any time harbouring the bitterness that most said she was totally entitled to after her ex had virtually destroyed the small, and until he got his hands on it, successful catering business she had started alone some fifteen years before. She’d never felt right about his insistence that he should resign from his job as an insurance assessor to help expand her company, and she could only wish now that she’d cleaved to her instincts. The debts they’d managed to accrue until he’d abandoned ship – and marriage – to take up with Jemmy, as he called his mistress-now-wife, had turned out to be so staggering that, with a recession upon her and banks fleeing from the rescue, there had been nothing Emma could do to save her dear little empire from crashing. Nor had she been able to hold on to their smart house in Chiswick, unless she’d wanted to declare bankruptcy and turn her back on the debts she owed people she’d known, and who’d trusted her, for years. And the tiny, two-bed cottage his father had left to both of them just after they were married, had also been liquidised in order for them to reach a settlement that would help Will to provide a decent home for his new, young family. (The fact that Jemmy was absolutely rolling in it hadn’t seem to count for anything at all.)
In the end Emma had come out of the ordeal with the grand sum of two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, which might sound massive, but almost all of it had gone towards the small, three-bed estate house she and Lauren had recently moved into; the rest – around fifteen thousand – she was counting on to get her through until she was earning again.
The really good part of it all was that she was mortgage-free – at least for now, and if she found a job soon there would be no reason for that to change.
The worst part was that she’d worked so hard to build her business, only to end up back where she’d started.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to age and enrage herself by focusing on the injustices she had suffered at Will Scott’s grabbing little hands; indeed, she did her level best never to think about the TBs (Thieving Bastards as her brother Harry liked to call them) at all. What was the point when they were no longer a part of her life? Nor, mercifully, were they enjoying their marital bliss in either of the homes Emma had created and loved with a passion. Instead, they were luxuriously shacked up in Jemmy-baby’s towering town house in Islington along with Ms Scott-Robbins’s twelve-year-old twins from a previous marriage and two- and three-year-old Chloe and Dirk (Dirk!) the adorable (according to Lauren) fruits of Jemima’s union with Will. So with the TBs fully ensconced in London where Jemima practised her sharkery – another of Harry’s little witticisms, Jemima being founder and head of some whizzo IT firm – and Emma now settled in only just affordable North Somerset, there was next to no chance of running into them.
Thank God.
In fact, the only contact Emma ever had with Will these days was the occasional text concerning Lauren, usually to ask what she might want for her birthday or Christmas, when he always went preposte
rously over the top with his gifts. He didn’t have to buy his daughter’s love, or try to absolve his guilt with five-hundred-pound cheques, or a brand-new car as he had for her eighteenth, because Lauren adored him anyway. Nor did he have to keep making pathetic excuses (another source of his irritating texts) about why it wouldn’t be convenient for him and Jemima to have Lauren living with them in London during the week while she finished her last year of school. Lauren was more than happy to stay with Donna and her family, who’d readily thrown open the double front doors of their massive house in Hammersmith, or with Emma’s mother, Phyllis, with whom Lauren had a far closer relationship than Emma had managed in her entire life. There was also Emma’s wonderfully eccentric and still outrageously flirtatious Granny Berry – her father’s mother – who lived some of the time in an airy riverside apartment in Chelsea, and the rest with Alfonso, a dashingly romantic Italian poet, in his rambling Tuscan retreat just outside Siena.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t know your mother before your darling father was so tragically taken from us,’ Berry often sighed tipsily to Emma. ‘She was a real beauty in her day, you know, and actually not a bad singer in spite of what the critics used to say. They were really quite cruel about her at times, claiming that it was only because of your daddy that she was in the band. That was probably true, I suppose, but none of the other members had a problem with it, and it was always Daddy who did the real vocals, she was only ever part of the backup.’ At this point Berry would usually smile mistily and take another sip of Chianti, before going on to say, ‘Everyone loved him. I don’t mean just his fans, I mean his friends and the people he met on tour, or in the recording studios. You should have seen the turnout for his funeral. Well, you and Harry were there of course, but you don’t remember it, do you?’
Emma always felt terrible that she didn’t, but since she’d only been three at the time it was hardly surprising. In fact, she had very few memories of her father, and since her mother would never talk about him, she had to rely on Harry’s hazy recollections, and the wonderful stories Berry often told about him. And of course there were the two Top Ten hits he’d had with his band, back in the sixties, the royalties from which still provided her mother with a modest income today.
