Loving Susie: The Heartlands series

by Harper, Jenny

Yes! ‘Tell me you want to be with me.’

  She thinks he isn’t going to say it, but then the words come, across an ocean and a continent. ‘I want to be with you, Mannie.’

  He says her name so sexily she wants to cry. ‘Oh God,’ she whispers. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘But Mannie, Mannie, Mannie – lovely girl – please, stop texting me, will you? Anyone could see these texts. At work. My wife. Just ease off. No texts. I’ll call you when I can. I’ll fix to see you when I get back.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘We can spend a night together?’

  ‘If I can fix that, I will. If you stop texting.’

  ‘I will stop.’ If I can. ‘Now that I know you care. Will you be back when Jonno starts?’

  ‘Hopefully. Mannie, someone’s at the door. I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch next week.’

  ‘All right.’ She longs to say I love you but the desire to say the words for the first time to his face is stronger. They will be her gift to him, the perfect gift for her perfect partner. The lump of unspoken words in her throat grows and becomes painful, so that she can hardly even say goodbye.

  ‘Bye Mannie.’ As suddenly as he made the call, he cuts it.

  Mannie holds the phone for a long time. It makes it feel as if the connection is still there.

  He wants me.

  He has feelings for me.

  He thinks I’m irresistible.

  He wants to be with me.

  It isn’t that she has stopped loving Callum, his absence still hurts like a nagging wound. But she can’t think about Callum now. She won’t allow herself to think about him. That’s over. It’s sad, but inevitable in the face of what she feels for Brian, and now that he has confirmed his feelings for her, the future has a very different shape to the one she has imagined – but it’s a glorious, shining, magnificent shape.

  She needs Jonno to be cool about it. There’s no way what she and Brian feel for each other should come in the way of Jonno’s career. They’re quite, quite separate, especially as (for the time being, at least) she will be keeping her affair with Brian quiet. Until he sorts himself out, of course, and decides to leave his wife and come and live with her. Which he will do, Mannie has absolutely no doubt of that.

  She sighs. That’s for the future. For now, she must deal with her brother.

  ‘Hi, Bro. How was your first day?’

  ‘Mannie! At last.’ He’s still cross, then. ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  She laughs, hoping it sounds nonchalant. ‘It’s him, what?’

  ‘Brian Henderson. He’s the man you’re having an affair with—’

  ‘Hey, hey, stop there, Jonno. I’m not having an affair.’ It’s true. Just.

  ‘Whatever. You’ve fallen “in love” with him.’

  He says it sneeringly, as if the words cover something demeaning. She smarts at his tone, but chooses not to pick at it. ‘Brian’s the man I met at the trade fair, yes,’ she says neutrally. ‘How is he? How was your day? You haven’t answered me yet.’

  ‘My day, Sis, was a revelation. You wangled the job for me.’ This time the voice is accusing.

  ‘You say that as if getting a start on the career you’ve waited for so long was a bad thing.’

  He starts to interrupt, but she cuts through him.

  ‘No, stop right there, Jonno. Whatever chip you’ve got on your shoulder, I suggest you remove it, right now.’

  She speaks authoritatively, the voice of a manager experienced at dealing with problem staff.

  ‘You got this job yourself. All I did was point you towards the opportunity. Brian played no part in it whatsoever. So stop being a big wuss and get on with your life. Okay?’

  ‘How the hell can I get on, as you put it, when I know my sister’s having an affair with my boss? My married boss. And he must be encouraging you, Mannie, because why else would you fall for a guy like that, instead of Cal McMaster?’

  He’s right, she’ll have to be careful – but she can play a long game. There’s plenty of time to get to know Brian and make their plans for the future. And in the meantime, anything might happen at work – Jonno might move on to another company, the landscape all around could look very different. ‘No, Jonno,’ she says circumspectly. ‘I haven’t even seen him since I told you about him.’

  ‘Really?’ The word is pregnant with doubt, but she hears hope there – hope that there’s something that can justify him staying at CommX.

  Obligingly, she gives it to him. ‘Really. I promise.’ I would have seen him, though, given half a chance. Oh God, I would have seen him.

  ‘Well—’

  ‘So. Tell me. How was the rest of the day?’

  ‘A bit bewildering, they have so many clients. Everyone’s very nice. I’m shadowing a guy called Stu. We went to the Castle.’

  ‘Edinburgh Castle?’

  ‘No, no, Stirling. It was brilliant.’

  She lets him run on for a few minutes, hearing the excitement in his voice, then she says gently, ‘So you will go back tomorrow.’

  There’s still hesitation. ‘You can see how difficult it would be for me? And I don’t like it, Mannie. Cal was the best. Tops. You’ve really shafted him and I don’t understand why.’

  ‘I don’t understand either, Bro.’ And that’s the truth.

  ‘You won’t pursue Brian Henderson?’

  Mannie sweeps back her dark hair with her hand and starts twisting it at the back of her neck. She frames her answer with care. ‘I promise I won’t embarrass you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Let me know how the rest of the week goes.’

  ‘Okay. Bye, Sis.’

  She lets go of the bun and her hair swishes forwards, shielding her eyes. There’s no-one looking at her, but if there had been, they might have seen a kind of dark joy, exhilaration – and pain, because deep inside, Mannie knows that she has pushed a button that is marked ‘Self Destruct’.

  But it glows brightly – and it opens a door labelled ‘Paradise’.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Susie is finding it odd not to see Jonno’s car in the courtyard when she comes down in the morning. Now that he leaves early for Stirling, she misses his presence, even though he used to be deep in slumber at this time of day.

  She misses Archie, too. She aches for him. Last night she heard the band leave the studio late, high on their music, and longed to be a part of that exhilaration, as she always was in the past. She even got out of bed and went down to the kitchen, hoping that Archie would come in for a drink or a mug of tea. Forlorn hope – he has all he needs in the studio. Even the dog has deserted her.

  She shakes her head in an effort to rid herself of negative thoughts.

  ‘Smile,’ her mother used to say, ‘and the world will smile with you.’

  Such a cliché, Mother, but worth a try. She smiles. Around her, the stillness of the kitchen seems like an insult to her endeavours. She picks up her briefcase and opens her diary. Petitions Committee at ten. Tick. Meeting with a constituent at twelve thirty. Tock. Briefing in the Committee Room Four – a theatre group aimed at disabled actors that has run into financial trouble. Tick. She sighs. It’s all money, money, money, at the end of the day. Most of her work ends up being about money. At three, another meeting with her mother, before getting back for the vote at five. Tock.

  She puts the thought of the meeting with Joyce Miles aside. Meet when you feel ready for it, Birthlink advised. Keep the meetings short at first. Have an agenda, if it helps – some questions you need answered, perhaps, or maybe bring some photographs of your own family to show, or of your house, or your pets.

  How was a picture of a guinea pig likely to bond mother and child? Or a fish? A stick insect?

  Silly. She’s creating ridiculous scenarios in order to push aside the real issue: she has not yet felt the flood of love and emotion for her birth mother that she thinks she should – and with that, comes guilt.

  Stop i
t. Smile. She opens a side drawer in her small desk in the front room and eases out a folder of photographs. Archie. Their wedding day. Margaret-Anne, at a week old, at three, at eight. Jonathan, the same. There. Homework done. And now she will put aside all thoughts of the meeting with Joyce, because her duties beckon.

  In the Parliament, the Lobby is already getting busy. Susie has developed a habit of peering past the security desk to check for lurking journalists before venturing in. It might look odd, but she can always find some excuse for ducking back out again if Justin Thorneloe is anywhere in sight. A detour might lose her ten minutes, but that’s better than allowing herself to get needled by the man and upsetting her equilibrium for the rest of the day.

  Thorneloe seems to bear a grudge against her. What has she done to merit that? In vain, Susie racks her brains for the answer to that riddle.

  Today the way is clear and she scuttles across to the office block unhindered. The sun is streaming down through the boat-like windows, casting sharp-cornered shadows at prow and stern. In the small courtyard garden on her left, a gardener is already at work, weeding. She pauses for a moment to watch him, envying his aura of peacefulness. Such satisfying work, gardening. So utterly tranquil.

  ‘Morning, Susie.’

  She turns, her short reverie broken. ‘Good morning, Tom.’

  Smile.

  She smiles, and is rewarded in return by a slight lifting of the lips at their outer edges that might – just – be described as a smile. From Tom Coop, it is a milestone.

  The brief feeling of elation doesn’t last. As she walks into her office, her telephone is ringing, and although Karen’s jacket is on the stand, her PA is nowhere in evidence. She reaches for it automatically. ‘Hello, Susie Wallace.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The throat-clearing tells her in an instant who is calling. Her heart sinks, because she suspects that the more than usually diffident start heralds bad news.

  ‘Morning, Susie, it’s Hugh Porteous here.’

  She makes herself sound bright. Smile. ‘Good morning, Hugh. What news is there?’

  ‘Hmm, mixed news, as a matter of fact. I’ve taken advice, but – well, the fact is, we’ve had to dismiss Ricky.’

  ‘Oh!’ Susie sits down on her chair heavily. ‘I see. Because?’

  ‘We uncovered, shall we say, shortcomings in his work.’

  ‘Dishonesty?’ She is deeply disappointed. Ricky Waring has always seemed so committed, and so straightforward.

  ‘Shall we just say, hmm, incompetence.’

  ‘Oh.’ It’s better, but not a lot. ‘We’re watertight, are we? On sacking him? I mean, we’re not going to end up at a tribunal.’ Her stomach is heavy at the thought – it’s not a scenario that would bring good publicity.

  ‘As I say, I’ve taken advice, so yes, I believe we are, as you put it, watertight.’

  ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. We have a shortfall of some twenty-five thousand in the short term, and to continue in operation, we’d need to find a similar sum, in the medium term.’

  ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’ The sum sounds huge. ‘And dare I ask ... the insurance?’

  ‘Ah well,’ the voice becomes almost jovial, ‘in that regard the news is better, I’m pleased to say. The insurance is valid until September.’

  Relief can be indefinable. Sometimes you don’t know how deeply worried you are about something until the pressure of it is lifted from you. ‘So the twenty-five thousand—’ she seeks clarification, unwilling to be falsely seduced into reassurance.

  ‘Won’t be recoverable from the Trustees, personally. However, we are still in the very awkward position of having to dredge that sum up from somewhere, or explain to the funding body that it has been misappropriated. Hugely embarrassing, hmm.’

  ‘Right. I’m with you. And where might we find such a sum?’

  ‘If you know, Susie, I’d be terribly grateful if you could tell me.’ He gives a small laugh. ‘For myself, I intend to pray.’

  ‘Ah. Excellent.’

  She has never been the praying sort. Sunday mornings spent in Bible classes in a chilly outbuilding while her parents worshipped at the cold, grey stone church near their home in Helensburgh have left only one legacy: a promise to herself that she will never voluntarily enter the gates of such a place again.

  ‘I’ll certainly give it some thought. Is the news being released? About Ricky?’

  ‘We’re going to try to sit on it for the moment. I don’t think he’ll be running to the press, so we may be all right. Of course, it’s not something we can hide for long, hmm. Nor would that be right. But we might just buy a little respite in order to come up with a solution.’

  ‘Solution. Of course.’

  It seems an impossibility. Starved of their usual sources of funding, many charities are being squeezed into closure, and Rivo’s work is seen by many as peripheral because it isn’t putting roofs over heads or food in mouths.

  ‘I’ll give it some thought, Hugh.’

  ‘Thank you, Susie. Hmm. Goodbye.’

  She puts the phone down heavily. What price saving my own skin, she thinks, if I can’t save those souls who can rebuild their future through Rivo’s work? She’s shaking – not with relief that she won’t after all, have to remortgage the cottage to cover the debts she has incurred as a Trustee, but with fury. Fury at Ricky Waring for covering up his feeble mismanagement instead of bringing the problems to the table so that they could all work towards a solution. Fury because it has made her unable to do what she pledged to do for the many souls who turn to Rivo for help. And above all, fury with herself, for failing in the duty of care she undertook.

  ‘Morning, Susie.’

  ‘Morning – oh, bless you, Karen,’ she exclaims, as Karen places a large carton of frothy latte in front of her. ‘How did you know I’d be in need?’

  Karen taps her forehead as she places her own coffee on her desk and slips her scarlet jacket onto the chair behind it. ‘Just had a feeling. Who was that?’ she indicates the phone.

  ‘Hugh Porteous.’

  ‘Rivo?’

  ‘They’ve sacked Ricky.’

  ‘Great. And?’

  ‘And I’m not personally liable.’

  Karen pulls out her chair and settles herself into it. ‘Good. You remembering your meeting with—’

  ‘My mother? Yes.’ Susie is momentarily irked at Karen’s easy dismissal of Rivo’s problems – because they are all still there – but the breakneck speed of Parliamentary business necessitates organisation and concentration. Her able assistant has launched with iron firmness into the business of the day, dragging her – willing or no – unbendingly in her wake.

  It’s almost half past two before she is able to give any further thought to the impending meeting with Joyce. They are to meet, on this occasion, in the Palm Room at the Balmoral Hotel on the corner of Princes Street and South Bridge. It’s an imposing place with soaring ceilings that lend it a cathedral-like feel, while at the same time offering niches created by swaying greenery and an almost architectural tracery of fronds and leaves.

  The sun, more delicate now than earlier in the day, lights the expanse between floor and cupola, while motes of dust swirl dimly in the air – stirred, no doubt, by the breath of gossiping guests.

  It’s a good place to meet. It has its own kind of anonymity. A public space, but more inhabited by foreigners drinking in atmosphere and tea than by Edinburgh locals, and handily located – just fifteen minutes’ brisk walk from the Parliament and a short taxi ride, if time necessitates, back again.

  She sees Joyce before her mother sees her. For a few seconds she stands motionless, observing. Her mother’s silver bob shines in the light from above as if burnished and buffed, the small features are alert, eager, searching – for what? For the love of a daughter? For the love, Susie thinks, biting her lip, that I’m not ready – or able – to give her?

  ‘Hello!’ She sees the greeting rather than hears it
, sees a slim hand raised in salutation. Sees it hesitate in the air, pause, drop to the lap in a gesture of apprehension. Her mother is scared about this meeting. Maybe she fears coolness.

  ‘Hello, Joyce.’

  Smile. You’re good at acting.

  She kisses her mother, senses the unfamiliar fragility of elderly skin under her lips.

  The thin hand grasps hers and holds it.

  ‘Susie.’

  That’s all – Susie. But the word is invested with a world of meaning, with love and longing, with hope and despair and humbleness.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Joyce.’ She can’t call her Mother.

  Her hand is released. ‘I’ve ordered tea. Is that right?’

  ‘Terrific.’

  Joyce’s rigid uprightness relaxes a fraction, and she feels rewarded. This is a journey. We have a long way to travel, this new mother and I, at least we can be comfortable on the way.

  ‘I’ve brought you some photographs.’

  Joyce revisits old ground. ‘How could I never have seen it before? Your likeness to your father, I mean?’

  Her father: Jimmy Scirocco. His name is a waft of wind – and a deceit. She knows his real name, everyone knows Jimmy’s story. He was born in Ireland, in a bothy in a heathery valley, so he told the world, though the story might have been as much a fiction as the rest of his life. ‘Sheamus Dhonnchadha was too much of a mouthful for anyone,’ he told an interviewer once, the gleam in his eye ferociously comical, ‘especially for a young illiterate like myself.’

  ‘Jimmy’ was self evident – but why Scirocco?

  ‘Sure, with Dean already taken, what was left for a young rebel but a wind that wreaks havoc?’

  It was an answer, and no answer, but it was like Jimmy himself, you could never pin him down or make a reality of him. He was actor incarnate, always inhabiting someone else’s skin, and so skilfully that you believed every breath of him.

  ‘On television, on film even, it’s not the same,’ Joyce is saying, ‘there’s something about the presence of you that reveals it.’

  ‘He never knew about me?’

  ‘No.’

  There it is, in a word. Two letters of finality and denial. Jimmy Scirocco never knew he had a daughter. Or – the thought strikes her forcibly – perhaps he had other children too, seeds of his faithless loin scattered into a dozen willing wombs. Jimmy Scirocco might have been a great many undesirable things, but his charm was legendary. She shakes her head – impossible to follow that thought. Here, Susie, is your mother, think about her.