Losing You

by Susan Lewis

  ‘Your daddy absolutely adored Phyllis,’ Berry would insist. ‘It was after he died that she changed. Such a terrible tragedy. It broke all our hearts, and I don’t think she’s ever got over it. It’s hard to know though, isn’t it, when she won’t ever discuss it.’

  A part of Emma actually detested her mother for the way she’d so stubbornly and selfishly refused to talk about her father; it made the dozens of silver-framed photographs around her mother’s house of a man clearly besotted with his children seem more of a punishment than a kind and loving way of remembering him. She wouldn’t even allow Emma to play his records, which was unbelievably mean, Emma always thought, when she never used to tell Harry off if he put them on. Since Harry had been almost eight when the terrible accident had occurred, he had his own memories of their father, which he readily shared with Emma when she was small, though never when their mother was around. What he didn’t remember very clearly, however, was their father going out into the garden after an almighty storm to start tidying up, according to Berry. He hadn’t realised until it was too late that the broken cables he’d grabbed hold of were live power lines brought down by the wind. Apparently her mother had seen it happen, the frenzied jolting of his body as thousands of volts pumped their lethal energy through him, burning him to death from the inside out.

  It was when she considered how horrendous that day must have been for her mother, aged only twenty-eight at the time, that Emma found herself able to feel some sympathy and even tenderness towards her. Not that she ever showed it, she’d learned long ago that her mother wouldn’t welcome it if she did – in fact there had even been occasions when her mother had managed to make her feel as though she was in some way to blame for what had happened.

  ‘Ah no,’ Berry had assured her, ‘it’s not just you. In her way she blames everyone, especially God, which makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what’s going on in her prayers when she rocks up to His place on a Sunday.’

  Emma was sure she’d never made Harry feel to blame, in fact she knew that her mother loved Harry much more than she’d ever loved her, mainly because she’d never tried to hide it. Emma would go as far as to say that her mother seemed to like everyone much more than she liked her own daughter, including Will when he’d come into the family. She’d even stayed in touch with Will during and after the divorce, and had gone with Lauren several times to visit the new family in Islington.

  How disloyal could a mother get? She’d even seemed to take some pleasure in remarking to Emma, after one of her visits, how well Will seemed to be doing for himself now, as if up to then she, Emma, had been responsible for holding the lying, swindling, double-crossing swine back. Life was looking blindingly rosy for Will since he’d made a meteoric rise through the ranks of Jemima’s company to the position of vice president, whatever that overblown catch-all of a title was supposed to mean. What it meant to Emma was a) he could afford to provide very generously for Lauren, which indeed he did; and b) the sly-witted, money-grubbing Jemima was stupid enough to be setting herself up for the exact same fall that had left her, Emma, face down in the muck after she’d promoted her husband beyond his capabilities.

  What a fool she had been! And what a salutary, and expensive, lesson in love and how never to trust yourself when in it!

  ‘So what are you doing on the computer?’ Lauren wanted to know, turning the laptop round so she could see the screen. She read aloud, ‘“The Rainbow Centre for Children affected by cancer, life-threatening illness and bereavement.”’ Her eyes were both questioning and knowing as she turned them to her mother.

  ‘It’s a local charity,’ Emma explained as she set two mugs of coffee on the table and squeezed back into her chair. She was actually becoming quite fond of this new build they’d recently moved into, with its mock Georgian windows and shiny front door, but she had to admit that its bijou interior, after the space they’d had in Chiswick, was taking some getting used to. The kitchen table, not much bigger than a dartboard, was set up against the wall beneath a row of fake-ash cupboards, and had just about enough space in front and to one side of it to accommodate two chairs. The back door, which was at the end of a small hall outside the kitchen, opened out on to a brave little patio (brave for claiming such a lofty status when it consisted of no more than a three-by-three layout of paving stones) and a boxed-in cabinet for the bins was around the corner, next to the side gate. Beyond the patio was a largish dirt patch that constituted the back garden, which Emma intended to turn into a lawn and vegetable patch when the weather improved. At the front of the house were two gravelled areas, four-by-six, fenced in by some fancy black wrought-iron work, and home to a pair of ornate stone pots (currently empty). A jaunty crazy-paved path connected the pavement outside to the front door – no gate yet, but it was due to be fitted by the end of the week.

  From the kitchen window, which was above the gleaming new stainless steel sink with single drainer, they could, if so inclined, chart the progress of cars coming and going from their loosely laid-out cul de sac that looped around a central green with Victorian-style lamp posts and a couple of carved wooden benches; or wave hello to a friendly neighbour who might be ambling past with a pushchair, or a dog, or an ageing relative with a Zimmer. (Not much activity going on out there today given the weather, but Emma imagined that would change come spring.)

  Since the cottage Will’s father had left them was less than a mile away this was an area Emma and Lauren already knew quite well, having spent most summers and school holidays over the past eighteen years enjoying their picture-book country abode and the village nearby. This shining new estate had only been completed in the last year, making many of their neighbours either first-time buyers, or older couples downsizing because their children had left home – or because the recession had done for their larger incomes or businesses. Already Emma had found herself commiserating with a hairdresser who’d been forced to close down the salon he’d opened with a five-hundred-pound loan from his dad almost twenty years ago; a PR executive who’d lost so many clients he’d had to wind up the company that he too had built from scratch; and even a lawyer whose firm had laid off more than half its staff. (She wasn’t sure why, but she’d never imagined lawyers being subjected to the devastatingly brutal blow of redundancy.) Finding new positions wasn’t proving anywhere near as easy for any of them as this new coalition government had promised when it had started making all the cuts, and as the unemployment lines lengthened it was becoming clear that hope was turning into as rare a commodity as cash.

  ‘So do they have any jobs going at this charity?’ Lauren wondered as she sipped her coffee.

  ‘None that pay,’ Emma replied, turning the computer back to carry on reading the website, ‘but once I’ve found a job I think I’d like to be involved in some capacity anyway.’

  Taking out her mobile as it bleeped with a text, Lauren appeared faintly flustered as she checked to see who it was from.

  Amused, Emma said nothing, while guessing it was a new boyfriend, or at least someone she had her eye on.

  Seeming to sink with disappointment, Lauren gave a groan of frustration. ‘It’s Parker Jenkins again. Mum, what am I going to do? How do I get him to accept that it’s over between us? It’s been nearly three months now and he’s still asking if we can get together to talk things through, but there’s nothing to talk about. I just don’t want to go out with him any more.’

  Remembering a time, barely eight months ago, when all Lauren had been able to think about was how to get Parker Jenkins to notice her, Emma said, ‘Why don’t you tell him you’ve met someone else? That should get the message across.’

  Two vivid spots of colour flew to Lauren’s cheeks. ‘Because I haven’t,’ she protested. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘Just a hunch.’ Yes, she definitely had someone in her sights. ‘Why not just ask him to stop texting because you’ve moved on and it’s time he did too?’

  Lauren looked amazed. ‘That sounds
a bit mean.’

  ‘Lauren, that halo of yours can be a real pain at times. Tell him to get over it and start looking for somebody else, because that’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘I so am not. And I’m starting to feel really sorry for the poor blokes you’re lining up on that dating website. I bet you haven’t said in your profile that you’ve got a sadistic streak with a penchant for shrivelling egos.’

  With a choke of laughter, Emma said, ‘I don’t even belong to one of those websites ...’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t think I didn’t see the way you shut something down when I walked in, because I did.’

  With a sigh to try and cover the fluttering of her nerves, Emma said, ‘You have a very fanciful imagination, young lady.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Anyway, it would be great if you met someone. I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving you here on your own all week ...’

  ‘I’m a grown-up, I can take care of myself and if you’re going to worry about me while you’re in London, then I’ll have to worry about you and frankly I think I’m going to be too busy for that.’

  Getting to her feet, Lauren said, ‘Just my luck to have a mother who doesn’t worry about me.’

  ‘I know, life is so hard for you.’

  ‘You’re right, it is. I’m going upstairs to write in my journal.’

  Emma’s eyes came up. ‘Secrets?’ she teased.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Lauren teased back.

  ‘I’m glad you’re keeping it up.’ She’d given Lauren the journal on her eighteenth in the hope of encouraging her to record some of her memories in her own hand, or, like so much that was done digitally, they would almost certainly end up being lost.

  ‘Actually, I quite love it,’ Lauren told her, taking a yoghurt from the fridge. ‘Are we still going to the cinema tonight?’

  ‘Is that what we’d planned? Aren’t you going clubbing with Melissa and her friends? You usually do on Saturdays.’

  Lauren shrugged. ‘I don’t really feel like it tonight. I know, why don’t we get a DVD and curl up with a takeaway in front of the fire?’

  Thinking longingly of the log fire they used to build at the cottage, Emma said, ‘Sounds good to me, but if we’re going out we’ll have to take your car because mine is short on petrol and my credit card is currently maxed out.’

  ‘No problem, but remember mine keeps cutting out. Did you book it into the garage, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, it’s in for Tuesday, so it should be sorted by next weekend. What time train are you getting tomorrow?’

  ‘Um, I’ll probably go about four, I think.’

  Emma was about to say she might join Lauren in London for a few days and stay at Berry’s when she remembered the cost of the rail fare and quickly reined herself in. There was the expense of getting around to consider too, plus the price of the lunch she’d be sure to have with whichever friends might be free, and the shopping she probably wouldn’t be able to resist, plus little extras for Lauren that always seemed to pop up. There was no way she could allow herself to stretch to all that when she hadn’t even managed to get an interview yet, never mind a job.

  Determined not to feel depressed about her current state of unemployment, or lonely without her friends around her, she returned to her computer, tensing as a plane thundered overhead on its way into Bristol airport. This was a jarring fact of her new life that was taking a while to get used to, the roar of jet engines that seemed to shake the house to its foundations. By way of trying to deal with it she and Lauren had taken to deciding that it must be the ten thirty easyJet from Malaga, or the twelve o’clock KLM from Amsterdam. Occasionally, as a further distraction, Emma would go on to create little stories in her head about the passengers and crew and why they were on board that particular flight.

  As the noise of what might have started out as the eleven fifteen from Cyprus faded into the distance it was replaced by the haunting melody of Lauren practising her flute upstairs – a single, hypnotic thread of beauty emerging from the heart of a hellish din. She was preparing for a performance she was giving as part of her A-level course at the end of the month, and though Emma knew she was biased she simply couldn’t imagine how Lauren was going to end up with anything less than an A star. She was on target to do just as well in English and humanities so there was every chance she’d find herself reading music at the university of her choice, London’s Guildhall School of Music and Drama.

  This coming week was going to be the first since moving here that Emma would be in the house alone, as Lauren had already broken up for the Christmas holidays by the time they’d rented a van to transport their belongings from London. Prior to the move they’d been staying at Berry’s Chelsea apartment which was a bit of a squash when Berry was there, but fun all the same, simply because Berry usually managed to make everything fun. In fact, Emma had only moved into this house now, months before Lauren was due to sit her A2s, because it simply hadn’t been fair to carry on putting upon her grandmother the way she had since the house in Chiswick had been sold. Generous and welcoming as Berry always was, having her open-plan kitchen-cum-sitting room turned into a bedroom for Lauren every night must have been a royal pain in the proverbial.

  It was lucky, Emma was musing to herself, as she resisted clicking back through to her email, that she wasn’t a complete stranger to these parts, or she and Lauren would have to be putting themselves out there to try and make new friends as well as a new life. At least she would, because Lauren’s world wasn’t going to change all that much, with her being in London each week, and still at the same school. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be long before she started wanting to stay on for weekends, so she, Emma, had better start bracing herself for that.

  Just in case any important emails had turned up in the last ten minutes inviting her for a job interview, or requesting more information than she’d provided with her CV, Emma decided she really ought to check her inbox. There was a new message waiting, though not from a potential employer, or from Philip Leesom whose name alone was causing her some disarray – it was from Polly Hunter who lived at the far end of the local village. She’d known Polly for over seventeen years now and was, in a way, possibly even closer to her than she had been to many of her friends in London. Maybe it was not living in each other’s pockets that had allowed their friendship to grow the way it had, or perhaps it was simply the natural affinity that had drawn them to each other in the first place. That had happened during a quiz night at the local pub when she and Will had found themselves teamed up with Polly and her adorable, unbelievably handsome husband Jack. Whatever the reasons, it was mainly because of Polly – and her daughter Melissa who Lauren had, in a long-distance fashion, more or less grown up with – that Emma had chosen to move to this part of the world when it had become clear that she could no longer afford to stay in London.

  Disaster! Despair! Polly had written. At father-in-law’s in Devon right now. Back Tuesday. Please say we can get together. Does 6 work for you?

  Not sure whether she should be concerned or amused, given Polly’s penchant for drama, Emma sent a message back assuring her she’d have a bottle ready and waiting. She and Polly had been through a lot together over the years, traumas and crises that had seen one or other of them dashing up or down the motorway desperate to be there for whichever one was in need. Fortunately there hadn’t been anything too disastrous since Emma’s divorce, and she could only hope that there would never again be anything like the horrific shock of Jack’s sudden death. The illness and suicide that had taken him was a few years behind them now, but nothing could ever be as bad as that, Emma was thinking, simply nothing, unless of course anything happened to one of the girls, but that went without saying and wasn’t something any sane parent would ever allow themselves to dwell on.

  Since there was still not a single response to her numerous job applications, she decided that perhaps she could allow herself to read Philip’s email again, if only to lift her spi
rits, and then she really must delete it.

  Just want to wish you good luck in the new house and if you’re ever in London, please be in touch.

  That was all, quite simple and straightforward, nothing to get excited about, a polite, brief message that could have been sent by anyone, because he hadn’t even signed off. It was only his name in the address box that told her it was from him. What it also told her, if she allowed it to, and she probably ought not, was that he was thinking of her and would like to see her again.

  Actually, it probably didn’t mean that at all. Why would it, when they didn’t even know each other that well, and had certainly never been out on a date, or anything even remotely like it. (Unless the Saturday afternoon just before the end of last term counted, when they’d run into each other at the library, got chatting and ended up going for a coffee.) Other than that they’d only ever met at the school where Lauren was in Philip’s English class and most of the girls, including Lauren, had a mega crush on him. It was hardly surprising when he was a Tom Ford/David Beckham lookalike, and so charming in an intense and interested way that it was impossible not to be drawn to him.

  He was also single, which was probably what made him so irresistible as far as the girls were concerned, and Emma had to admit it worked for her too, even though he was a good ten years younger than her. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to allow herself to respond to his email. OK, it might appear rude and unfriendly, but hopefully he’d put it down to how snowed under she was by the move and starting a new life.

  Almost laughing to herself as she realised she was behaving more like a teenager than Lauren, she simply hit the delete key and was about to abandon the computer to go and finish off at least some of the unpacking when another message came through from Polly.