Losing You

by Susan Lewis

  Not entirely unsympathetic to the situation his son had found himself in, nor impressed either, Russ decided to let the matter go, already half-regretting even bringing it up. He’d seen the woman and though she was easily old enough to be Oliver’s mother, there weren’t many lads his age, or any other, who’d have been able to turn her down. ‘There is someone I’ve been thinking about who might be able to help,’ he said deliberately. ‘He’s not actually in advertising, but ...’

  ‘I can do this, Dad. OK?’

  Russ’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Oliver demanded. ‘I told you, I can do it.’

  ‘Frankly, I’d find that easier to believe if I saw some energy going into the search.’

  Oliver’s eyes turned flinty. ‘You don’t know what I’m doing, or who I’m talking to.’

  ‘Then tell me. If nothing else it might put my mind at rest.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Oliver seethed, throwing out his arms. ‘Why do you always have to do this?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Make an issue out of everything?’

  ‘My son’s future happens to be a very big issue for me, I just wish I could believe it was one for him too.’

  Oliver flushed with fury. ‘I don’t have to stick around here putting up with this shit,’ he growled.

  ‘Don’t go any further than that door,’ Russ warned him quietly.

  Spinning round, Oliver shouted, ‘When do you get off treating me like a kid? I’m twenty-one ...’

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of how old you are, and when you start acting your age I’m sure I won’t have any problem ...’

  ‘Wrong! You always have a problem with me. Just because I’m not like Charlie, top of everything, always going out of his way to make Daddy proud ...’

  ‘Stop being ridiculous,’ Russ interrupted. ‘You’re totally different characters, and I for one am glad of it. But you, young man, have got to start facing up to the fact that we don’t get anything in this life unless we work for it, and the work doesn’t stop when university is over. In fact, it’s just the beginning, because this is where the really hard part comes in, and so far I’m not seeing you grasping that.’

  Furious, Oliver shouted, ‘I don’t want to spend the next six months working as a fucking gofer on those shit little dramas that no one ever watches anyway. It’ll screw up everything. I won’t be free for interviews, or for other temp jobs that’d be ten times more relevant ...’

  ‘If you could show me some evidence of these jobs, maybe I’d have more sympathy. Until then you can try to show a little more respect for me and the producer who’s good enough to offer you a position that a thousand grads out there would give their eye teeth for.’

  ‘Then let them have it, because no way do I want it, and just because you’re my dad doesn’t mean I have to do it.’

  Russ’s eyes were boring into his. ‘As long as you’re living in this house and I’m picking up all your bills, you’ll do as you’re told ... Get back here now!’

  ‘No way. I’m done listening to your crap, OK? I don’t need your money, or your help. So tell Paul, thanks but no thanks, I can take care of myself.’

  As the front door slammed Russ was sorely tempted to go after him, if only to stop his son driving while in a temper. However, it was probably best to let things simmer down in their own time, because Oliver’s frustration had been building for a while. He’d needed to let rip, and they also needed some time out from each other – at least Oliver clearly needed some from him, and this blow-up might turn out to be exactly the kick up the pants that would motivate his extremely bright but overindulged and mixed-up younger son towards the battle zones of the future.

  Taking out his mobile as it rang, Russ groaned aloud to see Sylvie’s name on the screen. He might have let the call go through to voicemail were it not for the fact that he needed to speak to her anyway.

  ‘Sylvie,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Russell, I want you to know ... Are you alone? Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes, I’m alone, go ahead.’

  ‘I want you to know that I have not had a drink since last weekend and it is now Thursday. I hope that pleases you.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ he told her, knowing she was lying. ‘I hope it pleases you too.’

  ‘Yes, but I admit it is hard, especially while I am here on my own. If I was at home, where I should be, and I could show you ...’

  ‘Sylvie, you have to give up drinking for yourself, not for me.’

  ‘But you keep saying it is what has caused the problems between us, so I am telling myself that if I stop you will give me another chance.’

  Closing his eyes as he tried not to drop his head in despair, he said, ‘Listen, I need to talk to you about Oliver. I’ve just had words with him and I think he’s probably on his way to you.’

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll tell you, but I don’t want you cosseting him and giving him money every time he asks. He has to start coming to terms with the fact that he probably won’t get the kind of job he wants right away, so like everyone else, he has to earn a living doing things that he might be overqualified for, or has no interest in.’

  ‘You have been bullying him again.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, someone has to, because I haven’t seen any signs of him getting it together at all since he came down.’

  ‘You need to give him more time. This country is going to the dogs; the jobs are not there ...’

  ‘Maybe not the ones he wants, but there are plenty of others.’ Boy, was his son going to the wrong place if he was on his way to his mother’s, because no way in the world was she going to start pushing him.

  ‘You realise, I am sure,’ she said, ‘that you are the cause of his problems. He is very upset about us breaking up ...’

  ‘He’s upset about a lot of things, and one of them is most definitely your drinking.’

  ‘But I just told you, I have stopped so there is no need for him to worry now, and if you would let me come home I am sure you will see a very big improvement in him.’

  Russ was barely able to disguise his annoyance. ‘I’m not letting you use him like this. Five days without alcohol isn’t convincing me of anything where you’re concerned, and even if it did, I’ve already told you, we’ve reached the end. There is no going back for us ...’

  ‘But there can be if you would let it,’ she cried.

  ‘We were talking about Oliver, and I agree, us breaking up probably is having an effect on him. So please keep me in touch with what he’s doing if he does come to you, and if you can talk him into taking the job Paul Granger’s offered him, then all the better.’

  ‘And what about us? When are we going to talk about us?’

  Biting back his frustration he said, ‘I have to go now. Please text me when Oliver gets there so I know he’s arrived safely.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t come straight here?’

  ‘Then I’ll find him.’

  ‘Are you still seeing that whore?’

  ‘Have you written a cheque to pay for the damage you did to my associate’s car?’

  ‘She deserved it ...’

  ‘She’s barely more than a kid, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘That has never stopped you before.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This call is over. Let me know if Oliver turns up,’ and before she could say any more he cut the connection.

  An hour later, after a helpful chat with Charlie who’d been to see his mother earlier in the week, and who’d promised to keep in close touch with his younger brother over the next few days while Oliver calmed down, Russ was on his way to Fiona’s when he found himself recalling, with some discomfort, the threat Sylvie had made the last time he’d seen her. ‘If you go now I will tell everyone what I know about you. You are lying, pretending you don’t know things when you do ...’

  She hadn’t mentioned it again since, and there was a g
ood chance she’d forgotten she’d even said it. However, there was never any telling when the threat might pop back into her mind, or indeed what she might do with it if it did. It wasn’t that he had anything to hide, or certainly not where the murdered girl, Mandie Morgan, was concerned – his only connection with her was the fact that he’d interviewed her for the job he’d eventually given to Angie, a couple of hours before she was killed. The trouble was, Sylvie had already, in an inebriated and vengeful state, threatened to tell the police that he hadn’t been completely straight with them when they’d questioned him about the interview. She’d even accused him outright of trying to seduce the girl and then not offering her the job because she’d refused to succumb.

  His wife was delusional, there was no doubt about that, but she only had to whisper a few well-chosen words in a sympathetic journalist’s ear and within minutes it would be headline news: Russ Lomax Linked to Murder of Mandie Morgan. It would soon die down, of course, since he’d already told the police everything he knew, and they’d never had any reason to suspect him anyway, since he hadn’t been the last person to see her alive. However, he didn’t much relish the thought of the tabloid press seizing the opportunity to haul him on to their front pages, because that kind of mud had a habit of sticking, and even being dug up again if at some point it might suit them to say he’d once been linked to a murder inquiry.

  These were the kinds of things Sylvie didn’t have the common sense to think about when she was drunk, or even, half the time, when she was sober, and no matter how many days she spent on the wagon, if she was indeed even on it, he knew already that it was only a matter of time before she fell off again. Which was why he was now wondering if he should, for his own sake as well as hers, consider giving in to her demands and letting her come home for a while. If he didn’t, then there was a good chance she’d end up doing something that no one, least of all him, would be able to put right.

  Chapter Six

  Dear Emma,

  Wishing You Good Luck in your New Home with love and best wishes your mother, Phyllis

  WERE SHE NOT in such a good mood Emma might have been irritated by the card and its ludicrously perfunctory greeting – not to mention the fact that it had come via the Internet greetings-card company Moonpig, so wasn’t even personalised by her mother’s own hand. Today, because she’d just found out that she’d been selected for an interview as Events Organiser at the exclusive Avon Valley Manor Hotel, she simply stood the card on the mantelpiece along with the others to let it blend and be forgotten. Nothing was going to bring her down today, especially not the resentment that formed most of the bond she shared with the woman who sent cards as a duty, with words like love inserted as an afterthought.

  Hearing her mobile ringing she ran into the kitchen, and seeing it was Lauren she quickly clicked on.

  ‘Mum! I just got your text. This is such brilliant news. I knew they’d choose you. They just had to.’

  Laughing, Emma said, ‘It’s only an interview, remember, not the actual job, but honestly, even getting this far feels fantastic.’

  ‘You so deserve it. They’ll be mad if they don’t give it to you. Do you have a date and time yet?’

  Trying not to panic, Emma told her, ‘It’s this coming Thursday at two, so I’ve only got a couple of days to get my act together.’

  ‘You’ll be amazing, I know it.’

  Loving her for such unquestioning loyalty, Emma said, ‘That’s it, keep boosting my confidence, I need it. How come you’re ringing now? I thought you’d be in lessons.’

  ‘I’m in English but when I told Mr Leesom about your text he said it was OK to come and give you a quick call. He said to tell you he’s glad for your good news.’

  Embarrassed for him to know her business, Emma said, ‘That’s very kind of him.’

  ‘He’s so cool, isn’t he?’ Lauren gushed. ‘He’s like totally different to all the other teachers. Anyway, I ought to go back, I don’t want to miss anything. I’ll call again tonight, OK?’

  Emma was given no time to ponder Philip Leesom’s message, since moments after she’d spoken to Lauren the landline livened up with a call from Berry congratulating her on getting this far and assuring her she couldn’t fail. By the time their call ended she’d received a text from Polly saying she’d be over to celebrate that evening straight after her meeting with Alistair Wood; and another from her brother Harry who’d made an impromptu visit with his wife on Sunday, saying he’d be rooting for her all the way.

  Refraining from emailing her entire contact list with the exciting news just in case it jinxed her chances, she sat down at her computer to have another quick look at the hotel’s website before going to collect Mrs Dempster for their prearranged trip to the supermarket. Tomorrow she was taking another elderly neighbour to do his shopping and on Friday she’d invited a few more people in from the cul de sac for a coffee in an effort to get to know them.

  Much as she’d missed Lauren at the weekend, and she really had, it hadn’t turned out to be as lonely as she’d feared, since she actually hadn’t had much time to herself. Saturday morning hadn’t started off too well however, when she’d woken to the sound of a slew of bills cascading through the letter box, and after making herself open them she’d started to despair of when, or how, her fortunes were ever going to turn around. Thankfully, an evening at the pub with Polly and the interview they’d done afterwards at Polly’s house had helped put her own life in perspective, given the wrenching sadness of Polly’s story. Not that Polly ever felt sorry for herself, to the contrary, she was probably the only person Emma knew who could talk about her misfortunes as though they were no more than mishaps. They’d even found themselves rolling around with laughter at some point, though what had triggered it, apart from too much wine and two very black senses of humour, Emma wouldn’t be sure until she came to write it all up.

  It had been lovely to see her brother on Sunday too, and Jane, her sister-in-law, who’d brought armfuls of house-warming gifts which had included, most generously, a very smart little Nespresso machine and an exquisite Japanese-style coffee set.

  No gift from her mother, but no surprise there. Phyllis never had been big on gifts, at least not for her. She was always very generous with Lauren, the musical prodigy, the follower in her sainted grandfather’s footsteps. Emma couldn’t help softening whenever she thought of her father who, thanks to old footage, photographs too of course, would always be young and cool in her mind: the lean, handsome rocker who’d swept his children off their feet and allowed them to strum and dance and sing along with him and the band. In just about every frame showing her mother, she looked so radiant and happy and in love that it felt almost impossible for Emma to equate her with the woman she knew now. Not that Phyllis had lost her beauty, though it had faded over the years, and she did little to disguise the greying streaks in her once lustrous long hair that she now generally wore in a tight, single plait. But there was a sternness about her, and a remoteness, even a kind of nervousness that made her virtually impossible to approach, as far as Emma was concerned. She didn’t seem to have the same effect on Harry or his children, and certainly not on Lauren, who only had to walk into a room to make her grandmother’s sad or bad-tempered face light up in a way that seemed to melt away the years. Emma had never brought that look to her face, or not that she could remember.

  ‘You don’t even like me, so I don’t know why you bother coming here,’ she’d yelled at her mother the Christmas before last, when Phyllis had started to compare Emma’s hospitality with Harry and Jane’s.

  ‘I sometimes wonder myself, the way you carry on,’ Phyllis had shot back. ‘Always the drama queen. It’s high time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself and grew up.’

  Emma still wasn’t sure how she’d managed to stop herself throwing her mother out at that point, but somehow she had. Really though, Phyllis Stevens had to be the most infuriating person on the planet, and so emotionally detached from her only daughter
that Emma wouldn’t have felt at all surprised to learn that Phyllis wasn’t her real mother. ‘You adopted me, didn’t you?’ she’d shouted at her many times over the years. ‘Or maybe you stole me, well it’s time to give me back.’

  ‘I know you like to think you belong to another family,’ her mother would say coolly, ‘but I’m afraid this is the one you were born into, and if you think you aren’t wanted perhaps you should ask yourself why I work so hard to keep us all together.’

  Work, huh, it was her father’s royalties that had supported them over the years, much boosted by one of his lesser-known hits being adapted for a commercial back in the eighties. Her mother had only agreed to it because the rest of the band, who’d dispersed and followed different career paths by then, had persuaded her into it. That had been an enjoyable time, when they’d come to visit with their wives and children, talking about the old days and sharing their memories with Alan’s kids who were ‘so grown up now’. That was more or less the only time Harry and Emma had ever seen their father’s old friends; Phyllis had felt it best to break with the past and not give themselves airs and graces just because they were Alan Stevens’s family. They needed to be their own people, and she’d rather lead a quiet, ordinary life pottering about her little jobs in the local garden centre or driving the mobile library, or visiting the lonely elderly on Sundays. She took flowers to her husband’s grave every birthday, anniversary and public holiday, but always alone. She didn’t want the children with her because this was her private time with Alan, she’d inform Berry, who invariably replied that it was selfish and inconsiderate to leave them behind. Berry had regularly taken them herself of course, never failing to make the visit part of a fun day out, which was what, she’d vigorously claim, their father would have wanted.

  If Phyllis had ever been involved with another man since the awful accident that had made her a young widow, then Emma knew nothing about it, and nor did Berry who was confident that ever since that fateful day poor Phyllis had remained as celibate as a cream cracker.