Losing You (17 page)

‘Earlier than nine, but not as early as I’d hoped,’ she murmured, drawing him into the warm as he kissed her.

‘It’s been a busy day,’ he responded, shrugging off his coat. ‘And Charlie called as I was about to leave.’

‘Is he all right?’ she asked, leading him from the stately entrance hall into the drawing room where an enormous log fire was roaring in the hearth, and casting flickering shadows around the antique furnishings and oak-panelled walls.

‘I think so,’ he replied, closing the door. ‘Worried about his mother, of course, but nothing new there.’

She made no response as she went to pour two generous measures of Scotch into a pair of matching hand-cut tumblers.

Taking one, he met her eyes for a moment, allowing himself to enjoy the unravelling of his tension, then after touching his glass to hers he turned to go and stand in front of the fire. Their affair, and he supposed that was what it
should be called, hadn’t begun until after Sylvie had moved out, but the attraction between them had been smouldering for considerably longer, and boy, had it been hard to resist at times. When they had finally got together, the heat, the tearing of clothes, the sheer force with which they’d made love to each other had left its mark on them both for days. It was still the same for them, that raw, unbridled desire appeasing its hunger in ways that took them on many erotic journeys to full satisfaction. Until this week he’d been looking forward to finding out how many more routes there were to explore, but with the way things were, he guessed he wasn’t going to find out now.

‘You need to relax,’ she told him softly.

She was right, he did, if only he could.

Going to the sofa she sat into the plush velvet cushions, crossing her legs in the slow, seductive way he loved, but though he felt the bite of desire, he forced himself to look away, focusing on his drink again. It was only fair that he should tell her what was on his mind before they became distracted by other things. God knew, though, he’d like nothing more than to go and sit with her now and lose himself in the excesses of passion they so enjoyed.

‘I’m going to take Sylvie back,’ he announced, keeping his eyes on his Scotch as though the real truth might be drowning in there. Even as he heard the words, he could feel himself trying to reject them.

It was a moment or two before she asked, ‘Is that wise?’

No
, was the answer, but what he said was, ‘I believe, and Charlie agrees, that if she’s with me we’ll stand a better chance of persuading her to get the help she needs.’ It wasn’t as though they hadn’t tried before, but just because they’d failed on numerous occasions didn’t mean they should give up altogether.

Fiona nodded slowly. Her hair was glinting in the firelight, the warm flush on her skin making it harder than ever to stand aloof from her. As soon as she understood why, when he left in the morning, he wouldn’t be coming back, he would go to her.

Chances were, she’d rather he left then.

‘Have you told her this yet?’ she asked.

His laugh was humourless. ‘I’ve tried, and she turned me down. She’ll change her mind, of course, when she’s sober – it’s just finding that time. She’ll realise then that I’m serious.’

‘Or maybe she won’t change her mind.’

He said nothing to that, because he could find nothing to say.

‘Have you considered the possibility that as desperate as she might be to come back to you, she knows that if she does, you won’t allow her to have a drink? It’ll be the alcoholic in her that’s resisting you, and you can’t fight that monster, Russ, at least not with reason, or kindness, or guilt, or any amount of good intent.’

He nodded and downed the last of his Scotch. It wasn’t as though she was telling him something he didn’t already know, but what the hell was he to do, entice Sylvie back with the promise of doing nothing to try and come between her and her addiction? She’d never believe it, and he’d never do it.

‘Have you spoken to her sister about the way she is?’

He shook his head.

‘Didn’t their mother have a similar problem?’

‘Yes, but she was dry long before she died.’

‘I don’t know if this problem is hereditary, because I don’t know enough about it, but I think you should speak to her sister.’

‘And what exactly do you think Olivia can do that I can’t?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I can tell you this, you shouldn’t be shouldering it alone.’

‘I’ve been to AlAnon, so have the boys ...’

‘Yes, but it’s not changing anything, is it? You’re still having to live with it, or I should say in fear of it, and frankly it’s no life for any of you. Maybe Olivia knows what their mother did to get over it.’

‘She went into rehab, and stayed there until she could handle being out again.’

‘Then maybe, as her sister, Olivia can get Sylvie to do the same. Is she aware of how much Sylvie drinks?’

‘I’m not sure. They haven’t seen one another in a while.’

‘Then you need to tell her.’

‘I can do that, but it won’t change the fact that Sylvie is still my responsibility.’

Fiona looked incredulous. ‘Why? She’s a grown woman, Russ. She makes her own decisions and if she wants to screw up her life, it’s her choice.’

‘She’s not capable of making rational decisions while she’s under the influence, and anyway, she’s the mother of my sons. They care about her, they love her, and even though they probably don’t know it, they’re looking to me to rescue her from herself.’

Though Fiona’s eyes showed understanding, she continued to push. ‘They’re grown ups too,’ she reminded him, sliding an arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Do they blame you for the way she is?’

Though he’d have preferred to be distracted by the prominence of her nipples showing through the smooth satin of her blouse, he said, ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think Charlie does, but Oliver is very mixed up. And let’s face it, if she’d been happy, if I’d been there more in the early years, she might not have felt the need to drink the way she does, so you could say that in some way I am to blame.’

Sighing, Fiona shook her head as she replied, ‘I have a one-word answer to that, but I don’t think you want to hear it.’

The flicker of a smile crossed his lips. ‘Probably not,’ he agreed, and was about to go and refill his glass when he remembered he might no longer be welcome to stay the night. If he wasn’t, he’d better quit drinking now.

Seeming to read his mind, she gestured for him to continue. ‘Go ahead,’ she said, ‘and top mine up while you’re at it. If this is going to be goodbye, I see no reason to hold back on anything now, do you?’

‘Will someone please shut that idiot up,’ Oliver complained, as he drove his friends through the winding country lanes of North Somerset towards the outskirts of Cheddar.

‘Yeah, gag him,’ Alfie shouted over his shoulder to Rob, who had the misfortune to be sitting next to a desperately rampant Jerome in the back seat.

‘You don’t even know if it is Kimberley Walsh in the video,’ Rob reminded Jerome as he grabbed him in a headlock.

‘Let me go, man.’ Jerome fought himself free. ‘I’m telling you, Sophie Ash told Mark Johnson, who told Nick Jersey, that it’s definitely her, and Sophie should know, because she’s the one who did the, you know, waxing thing.’

Wincing as he glanced in the rear-view mirror, Oliver said, ‘Fifty quid says they’re winding you up mate, and if they are, you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble if you ...’

‘Come on, you said yourself Kimberley’s the type
and
you agreed it looks like hers.’

‘I said it could be,’ Oliver protested, ‘because how would I know what hers looks like when I’ve never even seen it?’

‘I have,’ Alfie informed them, ‘and I’m telling you, I’m not convinced.’

‘Because you’ve probably never seen it bald,’ Jerome pointed out.

As all four of them burst into laughter, Oliver turned up the music – The Streets was one of his favourite bands.

‘Is Lara going to be there tonight?’ Alfie demanded.

‘Who?’ Oliver asked.

Alfie gulped a laugh.

‘Lara Patel’s been coming on to him,’ Jerome piped up from the back, ‘and she’s definitely going to be there. Lara Patel,’ he added dreamily. ‘Now that is one seriously hot babe.’

‘Is anyone not hot to you?’ Rob asked, meaning it.

Breaking into more laughter, Alfie began rocking to the music as Oliver drove on down over the hill knowing they were heading in the right direction, but no more than that. ‘Does anyone know where this place is?’ he shouted over the music.

‘Yeah, like that’s why you’re giving me a lift,’ Rob shouted back. ‘Lisa’s my ex, remember? It’s how come we’ve been invited.’

‘And what’s the deal?’ Alfie wanted to know, lowering the sound. ‘We’re all staying over, right?’

‘It’s cool. Her parents are away so she’s got the place to herself.’

‘So how many are supposed to be there?’ Jerome wanted to know.

‘Dunno, she never said, but I’m guessing about fifty, or a hundred. Who knows? Who cares?’

‘What’s the score with weed?’ Alfie asked. ‘Not that I’ve got any, but do you reckon someone else will?’

‘We won’t know till we get there. The big deal is booze.’

‘Well, we’ve got plenty of that,’ Jerome grinned, holding up his third can of beer since setting out from Alfie’s.

‘Christ, you lot are already half smashed,’ Oliver grumbled.

‘Keep cool. Not far to go now,’ Rob assured him, and flipping open another can he passed it over to Oliver. ‘Even if you manage to down the whole lot before we get there, you still won’t be over the limit,’ he assured him.

Raising the can and catching Jerome’s eye in the mirror, Oliver said, ‘Here’s to you mate, and finding the bald one.’

As Alfie and Rob howled with laughter, Jerome insisted, ‘You’re going to help me though, right? Promises are promises and I
cannot
leave that party without getting some action.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Oliver assured him, starting to get in the mood now, ‘we won’t send you to Durban a virgin, because we’re all going to get some action tonight, you just wait and see.’

Chapter Nine

SYLVIE WAS SITTING
in her car outside the tall iron gates of Fiona’s estate. She’d followed Russ here two, maybe even three hours ago. She didn’t know when; she’d lost track of time. She might even have fallen asleep. Sometimes sadness did that to her, robbed her of knowing, closed her down and didn’t release her again for a while.

She knew what was going on in inside, because it would be what went on with every woman he met. What a fool she’d been to trust Fiona. She was no different to the
putains
who threw themselves at her husband, just because he was famous – or used to be – and because he was so charming and good-looking and ready to satisfy all their cravings.

She had never been enough for him. Not once, in the entire twenty-five years they’d been married, had she as much as looked at another man – or not in the same way as he looked at other women. She’d never wanted anyone else, and she still didn’t. The men she slept with now, she didn’t set out for it to happen, and she didn’t know their names, but they were kind and fun and always left in the morning without making any fuss. Sometimes she wondered why she needed them, then she remembered they were a substitute for Russ.

She’d left her home for him, her family, her country. It was true, when they’d first come into each other’s lives she was already in England, working as an au pair in Kensington, but she’d never come intending to stay. Then she’d met him and from the first time they were together she’d known she would never go back. He’d loved her so much then that he’d had to see her morning, noon
and night. He’d wanted her in his bed, his world, the rest of his life. He’d married her less than six months after their first meeting. Their families had been shocked – they’d been so young, yet had felt so mature, as children always did at that age – but eventually everyone had come round.

Her parents had considered him the son they’d never had.

His parents had always seemed baffled by her, but she was sure they’d loved her in the end. She’d definitely loved them, gruff and boringly English though they were.

The boys had brought everyone together and had kept them that way – how could they not? Both families adored the boys. They were the centre of everyone’s world.

They still were, but they were starting to live their own lives now, the way they should. Charlie had already gone and Oliver had only returned for a while.

Her heart dissolved in the heat of pain and loss.

If she’d been able she’d have had more children, three, four, six, seven, but after Oliver it had not been possible. Strangely, Russ had seemed sorrier not to have had a daughter than she had. She loved her boys. They were everything to her and she’d have loved more.

Russ was devoted to their boys too, she’d never doubted that, but their innocent affection had never been enough for him, the way it had for her. It had taken her a long time to learn that, but she’d definitely learned it now.

He was in that house with her best friend.

Earlier, she’d tried to call her father, before remembering she couldn’t. It was funny how that still happened from time to time. He’d been dead for almost five years and yet in many ways it felt as though he was still there, going about his day in the small, leafy suburb of Paris where she and her sister had grown up. It was hard to believe that place no longer existed, bulldozed to make way for an autoroute. Perhaps it did still exist in another dimension.

She’d like to go to that dimension now. Somewhere, anywhere, as long as her father was there, and her mother,
the parents who’d loved her and whom she’d always been able to trust.

Rain trickled down her windscreen like tears, while grief poured into her heart like a storm. There was a bottle on the seat beside her, untouched, unopened. The need for it was clamouring, clawing, promising its guarantee of release. It would dull the pain, throw the cries of longing and despair into a distant, other domain. A domain that echoed with what might have been, with what could never be now.