Losing You

by Susan Lewis

  ‘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 nee
d 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.

  As if her addiction wasn’t causing them enough already.

  Just thank God the boys didn’t know about the men she’d started taking home at night; or the way she often didn’t make it to the bathroom. He knew it was common for drunks to become incontinent, but what he’d never imagined was it happening to the beautiful young girl he’d married. However, that girl was long gone now; in her place was a stranger, a victim drowning in her own dependence. He’d tried so many times and in so many ways to rescue her, but nothing he did or said ever seemed to make a difference. In the end, it was the cleaning up after her that had finally finished it for him; he never intended to go there again.

  ‘Hey Mrs B,’ Oliver said, as his friend’s mother opened the front door of the Brents’ large Edwardian semi in Redland. ‘Is Alfie back yet?’

  ‘In his room,’ Janet Brent answered. ‘Go on up.’

  ‘Thanks. Oh, is my car still OK on your drive? Do you need me to move it?’

  ‘My love, you’re welcome to leave it there all day if you can persuade my son to tidy up his room.’

  With a grin, Oliver said, ‘Best I go and move it now then?’

  Laughing, she closed the door and went back along the hall to the kitchen as Oliver took the wide staircase two at a time, to the second floor. ‘Hey,’ he said, crashing into Alfie’s bedroom and startling his friend so badly that Alfie almost fell off the bed.

  ‘Jesus, man,’ Alfie grumbled, picking up the girlie mag he’d leapt to shove out of sight. ‘I thought you were my old lady.’

  ‘Like she doesn’t know you read that stuff. What time did you get home?’

  ‘About half an hour ago. Where did you rush off to?’

  ‘Oh, I just had something to deal with. Can I use your computer?’

  ‘Sure, help yourself. Did you get laid last night?’

  ‘Did you?’

  Alfie threw out his hands. ‘Look at me man, what do you think?’

  Oliver laughed. Since Alfie was a dead ringer for the most recent X Factor winner whose name Oliver had already forgotten, mainly because he never watched the show, Alfie had been getting more than his fair share of action. Not that Oliver was ever short of girls himself, but he never allowed himself to get involved – he didn’t need the hassle, especially not while all this was going on with his mother.

  ‘You might want to take a look at Jerome’s Facebook page,’ Alfie told him, as he settled down at the computer. ‘Actually, he could be on his way over here.’

  In spite of having been to separate universities these past three years – Leeds in Oliver’s case, Nottingham in Alfie’s and Manchester in Jerome’s – the friendship between the three had remained strong, and now they were all living at home again while they looked for jobs, they’d taken up almost as though they’d never been apart.

  ‘Hey, this is amazing,’ Oliver declared as he read Jerome’s wall. ‘He’s only been shortlisted for the job in Durban.’

  Yawning, Alfie said, ‘Tell me something I don’t already know.’

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ Oliver muttered as he posted a message asking Jerome if he knew where Durban was. ‘Has he ever been to South Africa?’ he asked Alfie.

  ‘Not as far as I know. His first interview was in London. Got to widen my own search, ’cos I have to get out of this place. Not Bristol, or yeah, Bristol, but it’s more being back here, at home, that’s doing my head in.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Oliver muttered, clicking on to his own page. No big surprise to find that he’d been poked by a couple of girls he’d known at uni, they were regularly in touch, and Cara Jaymes, who was in the sixth form of his old school, Clifton College, had posted some photos of last night’s party. A mate, now back living in Reading with his parents, had sent him a link to a job he thought Oliver might be interested in as an analyst for a marketing company based in Blackheath. When Oliver clicked on to find more details he could only wonder what kind of degree his mate thought he’d taken, because for this position he needed either maths or computer science, or better still physics, neither of which, as a media studies grad, he’d come even close to.

  Still, it was good of the guy to think of him, so he got back to him saying thanks and they should get together soon, and was just about to click on to his brother’s page when he noticed that Thea Cox, a girl he quite liked and who, so all her mates said, had a mega crush on him, had posted on his wall last night.

  Didn’t realise you had a famous dad.

  Going off her in an instant, he reache
d for his mobile as it started to ring. Seeing who it was, he clicked on saying, ‘Hey, is that my famous dad?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Russ retorted. ‘Did you get my message?’

  ‘Yeah, and sorry, I should have texted last night.’

  ‘Don’t forget next time. Where are you now?’

  ‘At Alfie’s. Where are you?’

  ‘On my way home. I’ve just been to see your mother.’

  ‘I know, I was there, but I thought it was best to let the two of you get on with it.’

  ‘So you know what’s happened?’

  ‘I do. Is it going to be OK? Does Angie want to go to the police?’

  ‘Thankfully, no. I’ll pay for the repairs and we’ll just have to hope it doesn’t happen again.’

  Oliver’s expression became strained as he swivelled the chair away from his friend. ‘We have to do something about her, Dad. We can’t let her just go on you know ...’

  ‘I wish I knew what to tell you, son, but we’ve been to the meetings together, so you know as well as I do that until she’s ready to help herself there’s not much we can do.’

  ‘So why don’t you let her come home for a while? At least then we’d know where she is and what she’s doing.’ Did his dad know about the blokes his mum was picking up in bars and taking back to her flat at night? If not, Oliver didn’t want to be the one to tell him.

  With a sigh, Russ said, ‘It’s true, we would, but letting her come back to Clyde Court isn’t the answer. She needs professional help, at a clinic where people know how to handle her sort of problems. Much as I’d like to, I’m afraid I can’t force her to do that.’

  ‘But you can let her come back.’

  Sighing again, Russ said, ‘Look, I realise this is your mother we’re talking about, but she’s also my wife. The way I deal with what’s happening between us has to be between me and her.’

  ‘So what you’re actually saying is that you don’t really care what happens to her?’

  ‘No, Oliver, that isn’t what I’m saying at all, and you know it. Now let’s drop this till you get home, shall we? Can I expect to see you today?’