Losing You (6 page)

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she yelled, pulling on the door as he tried to close it behind him. ‘Why have you changed so much?’

‘Go back inside.’

‘No, because this is not where I belong. You can’t leave me here. I have no one without you. My father is dead and my sister is in Cape Town. I have nowhere else to go.’

Forcing himself to ignore her, he ran swiftly down the stairs, expecting the other residents to appear at any moment, while praying she wouldn’t follow him in her dressing gown, praying she wouldn’t follow him at all.

‘Russell!’ she screamed, as he let himself out of the main door. ‘Russell, please.’

The door slammed, and his footsteps moved away.

‘Mum, you have to come in.’

She spun round in shock. ‘Oh, Oliver,’ she gasped through her sobs. ‘I forget you were there.’

‘Come on,’ he said, keeping his voice gentle as he reached for her in spite of wanting to shout like his father, and shake her back to her senses. ‘It’ll be all right.’

‘But how can it?’ she asked pathetically as he drew her inside. ‘Will you talk to him, Oliver? Will you make him let me come home?’

‘I’ll try,’ he said, knowing already that it would be a waste of time. When his father’s mind was made up about something, that was the way it stayed, and it was definitely made up over this.

‘You are such a good boy,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder. He was as tall as his father, and almost the same build; he looked like his father, too, with his deep-set brown eyes and mop of silky dark hair. In fact, he reminded her so much of Russ at twenty-one that sometimes when
she looked at him she almost felt young again. Perhaps it was why she loved him so much. She loved Charlie too, her adorable, brilliant, serious older son, who was more like her, at least in looks, with his fair hair, green eyes and delicate skin. They were so different, her boys, and so much a part of her that she knew she would be unable to carry on without them. She wouldn’t even want to try.

Needing a drink she went back across the sitting room, and around the breakfast bar into the kitchen. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, searching for the bottle she’d hidden somewhere, she just couldn’t remember where. ‘When did you come?’

‘Oh Mum,’ he groaned, angry with her for already forgetting how he’d practically run in through the door less than half an hour ago, desperate for the bathroom, but not forgetting to give her a big hug first. It was while he was drying his hands that his father had turned up, and knowing very well what had prompted the visit he’d decided to stay out of the firing line until the worst of it was over. He’d found, over the last few years, when the drinking had become so much worse, that it was the best way when his parents started laying into each other. ‘I got here just before Dad, don’t you remember?’ he said.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she mumbled, dashing a hand to her head. ‘I’m sorry, my mind is all over the place this morning.’ Finally finding the vodka in the bin she dropped to her knees, took a glass from a cupboard, quickly filled it, then went to run the tap, making out she was filling her glass with water. After downing the drink in one, she took a deep breath, wiped a hand across her face and turned back to find Oliver standing at the breakfast bar, watching her.

‘That’s better,’ she declared cheerily.

‘Mum.’

Her face started to crumple. ‘Please don’t tell Dad,’ she whispered shakily.

Seeing how defeated and vulnerable she looked, he was tempted to go and pull her into an embrace. At the same time he didn’t want her sobbing all over him the way she did when drunk, ranting on and on about his father, and
how she couldn’t live without him, so he turned away to go and pick up the glass and empty bottle she’d left next to the sofa.

‘What am I going to do with my life if I am all alone?’ she said sadly.

‘You’re not alone,’ he reminded her, unable to keep the edge from his voice. He hated it when she went all self-pitying, as though no one in the world cared about her when it patently wasn’t true. ‘You’ve got me and Charlie and all your friends and charities. You know how much you enjoy the fund-raising ...’

‘Oh,
chéri
, it cannot make up for your father. Nothing can ever do that.’

Unable to stop himself, he said, ‘Then for Christ’s sake quit drinking.’

‘I am trying, you know that, but ...’

‘No I don’t.’

‘... it is because your father says he no longer loves me that makes me want to drink.’

‘It’s not his fault, so stop trying to make out it is. You’re the only one who’s responsible for the way you are. We all know that, because we’ve all been to AlAnon to help us deal with
you
.’

Appearing shocked, and concerned, she came to put a finger over his lips. ‘Sssh, ssh,’ she whispered tenderly. ‘Please don’t be angry with me.’

‘I’m not angry, I’m just ...’

‘Afraid, I know, I understand. How much did you hear just now?’

‘How much do you think? All of it.’

‘Oh dear. So now you think that Charlie is Daddy’s favourite ...’

‘That’s not what he said,’ he growled, pushing her away. ‘Why do you always do that?’

‘Do what?’ she cried, seeming genuinely perplexed.

‘Try to make me think that I mean less to Dad.’

‘But that isn’t true. He loves you both equally.’

Reminded yet again of how impossible it was to talk to her, he decided the only sensible thing to do now was make her some coffee. Actually, he had a powerful
hangover himself thanks to all the booze he’d downed at a party last night about a mile from here, but he didn’t imagine it was anything like as bad as hers. Or did they get easier the more you drank?

Thinking about all the mates he’d left dossing about whoever’s flat it was on Pembroke Road, he could only wish he was still with them, sleeping it off, dragging themselves out for a hearty breakfast, rather than stumbling his way around the minefield of his parents’ marriage. He wouldn’t even know what his mother had done last night if he hadn’t been dumb enough to check his phone when he’d woken up. The first message had been from her, though he’d hardly been able to make out a word of what she was saying; the second had been from Charlie asking him if he knew what their mother had done to Angie Dickson’s car. Before Oliver had a chance to call back, Charlie had rung.

‘You have to go and make sure Mum’s all right,’ his brother had insisted. ‘She’s not answering her phone, so I don’t even know if she managed to get home after what she did.’

Well, apparently she had, and more or less in one piece, though he shuddered to think of the state she’d left Angie Dickson’s car in. It was no wonder his father was so furious. But yelling and screaming at her, throwing her out of the house – OK, she’d left of her own free will in the first place, but not letting her back – telling her he wanted a divorce ... Jesus Christ, she’d always been fragile, his father knew that, so what was he trying to do, send her right off the edge?

With a jolt he asked himself the question again. Was that what was happening to his mother? Was she really losing her mind, or was it the drink that was making her so irrational and violent and so goddamned pathetic?

Why couldn’t she just get her bloody act together and be more like other people’s mothers?

‘I am not sorry that I damaged that woman’s car,’ she said, as he started to fill the kettle. ‘She deserve it for what she is doing to me.’

‘But she’s not doing anything to you.’

‘She is sleeping with your father ...’

‘No, she isn’t. I’m living there, remember, so I would know.’

‘They are hiding it from you. He is very good at that. He always was, it is why my life has been so hard.’

Giving up the argument, he said, ‘What was that about threatening to go public? What’s he lying about and pretending he doesn’t know?’

Sylvie’s expression lost focus as her eyes drifted away.

‘Mum?’ he growled, suspecting she’d already forgotten what she’d said, never mind what it meant.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, going to stare out of the window. There was no sign of Russ now, only strangers coming and going, and traffic crossing the suspension bridge. ‘I will go public if I have to,’ she said, turning back to Oliver, ‘and then everyone will know what your father is really like, because what he does he only ever does for himself. He cares nothing for others. Tell him that when you see him, Oliver. Tell him I know everything,’ and grabbing the vodka bottle she took herself off to her bedroom and closed the door.

After leaving his wife’s flat Russ Lomax strode up over Sion Hill towards the Downs, his expression as grim as the misgivings in his heart, his impatience as biting as the wind. Though he hadn’t expected any good to come from confronting Sylvie with the outrageous,
criminal
act of taking a sharp object to his associate Angie’s car, he’d hardly been able to ignore it. Angie truly had been terrified, though perhaps more by the threats Sylvie had screamed from the street below Angie’s flat, than by what Sylvie had done to the Renault. It was fortunate, and amazing, that no one had called the police.

If it happened again, he’d meant what he’d said, he’d damned well do it himself.

Getting into his car, he started the engine and after waiting for the phone to connect with the hands-free he called up Angie’s number as he began to drive.

‘Hi, is everything all right?’ she asked when she answered.

‘I’d hardly put it like that,’ he retorted stiffly. ‘The important thing is, are you OK?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just sorry it happened.’

‘You have nothing to apologise for. You must let me pay for the car to be repaired.’

‘Oh, there’s no need ...’

‘Of course there is. Are you at home now? I’d like to see the damage for myself.’

‘Actually, I’m at Clyde Court,’ she replied. Clyde Court was the large, rambling old place he called home, set comfortably in the rolling countryside of the southern foothills of the Cotswolds. It was also from here, or more precisely the converted stables opposite the house, that he ran his business.

‘Are you on your way here now?’ Angie asked.

‘I am.’

‘And is she ... Is she coming with you?’

Keeping the irritation from his voice he said, ‘She isn’t. Have you seen Oliver since you arrived?’

‘No, but I haven’t been into the house. There’s a crisis going on here ...’

‘What sort of crisis?’

‘Nothing we can’t handle, and it’s over now anyway. We’ll expect you in half an hour?’

‘Slightly longer. I’ve got a couple more errands to run before I start heading back.’

‘It’s Sunday,’ she reminded him.

‘I know, but when did we ever allow a little thing like a day of rest to keep us from the grind? Can you get in touch with Paul Granger to let him know that I won’t be at the meeting this afternoon?’

‘OK. Can I ask why?’

He’d rather she didn’t, but since the suddenness of the decision required an explanation he said, ‘He can handle it without me and I need to catch up after losing this morning. Is Oliver’s car there?’

‘Hang on, I’ll have a look.’ A moment later she was back on the line saying, ‘No sign of it.’

Which meant his son still wasn’t home after staying out all night. ‘OK, I’ll try his mobile,’ and abruptly ringing off, he drove on to the lights at the bottom of Bridge Valley Road before connecting to Oliver.

‘It’s Dad,’ he said into the voicemail. ‘I know you’re old enough to come and go as you please, but a little respect wouldn’t go amiss. In other words I’d appreciate you telling me if you’re intending to stay out all night. Call me when you get this message.’

As the lights changed he accelerated on to the Portway where the towering cliffs of the Avon Gorge rose majestically either side of him, and the slick, brown sludge of the river was snaking its way to the estuary at Avonmouth. Within minutes he found himself at a complete standstill thanks to an accident, or roadworks, he had no idea which. Annoyed with himself for coming this way, since it was a ludicrous route to have taken anyway, he inhaled several deep breaths in an effort to ease some of his tension.

Damn Sylvie. Damn, damn, damn her. He detested the way she made him feel every time he saw her – strung out with guilt, anger, regret and even something he really didn’t want to feel about the mother of his children, disgust. What about love? Maybe, some, but certainly not of the kind he’d felt when he’d married her twenty-five years ago. The overriding, insatiable passion they’d shared then had long since died. Now, apart from gratitude for the home she’d created and admiration for how bravely she’d fought her cancer, the warmest feeling he could muster towards her was pity – and a kind of grief, he guessed. Yes, definitely grief for the loss of the woman she used to be.

She was right, her drinking had become worse following the death of her father, though she’d had wine or champagne with every meal, sometimes even breakfast, for as long as he’d known her. And many were the occasions when he’d had to usher her out of a reception, or dinner, or some sort of charity banquet before she disgraced herself. Maybe if he’d been around more when the boys were growing up she wouldn’t have been forced to seek refuge from her loneliness in a bottle, at least that was what she often threw at him. And maybe he was in some way to blame for her drinking, but not the jealousy, never that; because in all the years they’d been together he’d never once given her cause to doubt him.

She wouldn’t agree with that, of course. What she would
say was that he was pathologically incapable of keeping himself zipped up – and his answer to that, but only to himself, was if he’d thought he could get away with it then in more recent years he probably wouldn’t even have tried to hold back. It wasn’t as if opportunities hadn’t come his way, because plenty had. This wasn’t him being boastful, it was simply a truth occurring fleetingly to him, if at all.

Viagra?

Where the hell had that come from?

He wouldn’t even try to guess, because fathoming his wife and the way her mind worked had turned into as pointless a task as trying to make her see things the way most normal people did. She simply wasn’t capable of it any more, which was why he knew he should be concerned by her threat to go public with what she knew. Although with Sylvie that could mean almost anything, if she was planning something crazy like telling the world that he knew more than he was admitting to about the girl, Mandie Morgan, he was already sinking with dismay to think of the chaos that would bring down on them all.