by Susan Lewis
‘I’m just tired really,’ she said. ‘And a bit confused, I suppose.’
‘About what?’
Emma sighed. ‘I guess what I should tell Will about the missing blood sample, and Oliver Lomax’s mother ... It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to think about it tonight.’
‘Shall I make you a hot drink?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll be fine. Are you going in tomorrow morning, or am I? I can’t remember what we arranged now.’
‘We thought I should go in the morning, but if you’d like to change ...’
‘No, it’s fine. Let’s keep it like that.’
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see Lauren, she simply didn’t know at this point how easy she was going to find it to look at her and see the same daughter she’d always believed she’d known almost as well as she knew herself.
In order to be at the hospital for the start of visiting at ten, Phyllis had left the house just before nine, taking the two books Emma had given her to read to Lauren, A House is Built at Pooh Corner and Alice in Wonderland. Later, Phyllis would show Emma the chapters she’d read aloud, and Emma would settle down to pick up from where Phyllis had left off. This was the routine they’d fallen into, but today, inevitably, was going to be different.
A few minutes ago she’d spoken to Clive Andrews and had her worst fears confirmed – S was indeed who she thought he was. After the call, she’d gone upstairs to fetch the dreaded book, not sure what she was going to do with it – torment herself with more of the exploits?
Waves of nausea and despair came over her as she recalled some of the more lurid entries, so beautifully crafted in Lauren’s flamboyant prose; words carefully chosen, playful, charming, eloquent in their own right, but so appalling when their meaning formed the kind of scenes she was describing. Emma couldn’t read them again; she might even tear the book up and burn it. It wouldn’t erase the past, but at least it would prevent anyone finding it in the future.
She’d never dreamt, when she’d bought Lauren this expensive, leather-bound journal, that it would be used for something like this.
How had Lauren and Donna managed to keep it to themselves? What kind of mother was she that she had never even suspected? Had Ruth Corrigan? Surely not, or she’d certainly have said something to Emma by now. She recalled the guilt (and pride) she used to feel when her friends in London battled with their wayward teenage daughters, while Lauren – and Donna – had seemed almost perfect by comparison. If anyone had known – thank God they hadn’t, and if she had anything to do with it they never would.
Hearing a knock on the door, she quickly slipped the diary into a drawer and went to find out who it was. She was half expecting Mrs Dempster to come and remove more dead flowers from outside the house, but to her surprise, it was Polly. ‘What are you doing here?’ she cried, as she let her in. ‘Shouldn’t you be inundated with children at this hour?’
‘We’re not quite back up to capacity yet,’ Polly grimaced, planting a kiss on each of her cheeks, ‘so Jilly and Margaret can manage for a while. Is everything OK? Actually, straight to the point: your mum called to say she thought you might need to talk and as you won’t open up to her ...’ she tilted her head to one side, ‘maybe you will to me? Or has she got it wrong?’
Closing the door, Emma said, ‘No, she hasn’t got it wrong. In fact, she seems to be getting things amazingly right at the moment, for her. Would you like a coffee? I was about to make one.’
‘Look at me and you’ll see a person who’s gagging. I should have thought to bring some pastries. Anyway, on a more relevant note, it was a great relief to get your text yesterday saying that the op went well.’
Emma reached for the kettle, feeling slightly dizzied by the thought of Lauren’s compound fracture. It seemed so minimal when compared to everything else she was going through, and oddly comforting, since it was something that could be repaired. ‘Apparently all the rods and pins are in place now,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had the conversation yet about how her comatose state might affect its ability to heal, but obviously I’ll have to at some point.’
‘And what about Will? Did he put in an appearance?’
‘No, but he says he’s coming at the weekend, and he’s emailing and texting all the time to check how she is. Did you know this, have I already told you, no it was Harry and Jane I told ... Apparently, Will actually spoke to Yuri Nelson, the consultant intensivist, on the phone about organ donation. Just like that, not a word to me, he just rings up and has a little chat, giving his permission, as if he’s talking about a bloody church collection.’
Polly’s eyes dilated with shock. ‘Is he even allowed to do that without your agreement?’
It was a good question, and Emma wished she could give her a different answer. ‘Actually, it’s not relevant because Lauren registered herself a couple of years ago, and now she’s eighteen they don’t need anyone’s permission.’
‘Oh God,’ Polly groaned in sympathy. ‘But I’m sure it’s not going to come to that, in fact I know it won’t.’
Emma smiled her gratitude and tried to remember what she was supposed to be doing. Making coffee. Had she put the kettle on yet?
Watching her, Polly said, ‘I’m getting the impression your mother’s not worrying unnecessarily. You don’t seem yourself, at all.’
Emma tried to make a joke about being a bad actress, while dropping several spoonfuls of the fresh coffee her mother had bought at Sainsbury’s yesterday – Emma was down to Aldi instant now to try and reduce her budget.
‘Emma?’ Polly prompted gently.
‘Actually, before I answer, I need to ask if Melissa’s been any more forthcoming about Lauren’s big secret.’
Appearing surprised, but then regretful, Polly shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, but believe me, I haven’t given up trying.’
‘Well, you can now,’ Emma told her, ‘because I know what it is, and it’s not ... It won’t be ...’ She swallowed hard. She had to tell someone; she couldn’t go on carrying this alone, and she’d always trusted Polly before. Moreover, Polly wasn’t family, so for her the shock wouldn’t be quite so shattering. ‘The police found her diary,’ she said. ‘The things she’s written ... If it weren’t her handwriting, her book, I’d swear someone else had made the entries, but they’re definitely hers and now I’m not sure ... I can’t even think what to do about it.’
Looking confused and worried, Polly asked, ‘What sort of things is she saying?’
As she started to recall them, Emma’s insides turned rigid; she couldn’t speak the words aloud, she just couldn’t.
‘Oh my,’ Polly murmured, appearing more anxious than ever.
‘Don’t worry, I’m positive Melissa’s not a part of it,’ Emma said hastily, ‘but Donna is.’ Taking the diary from the drawer, she opened it, then closed it again, as if the horror of the entries was escaping the page like poison. ‘If you have the time,’ she said, ‘I can go through to pick out the less ... the sections that aren’t quite so ... Well, you’ll see what I mean.’
‘OK, that’s fine,’ Polly assured her. ‘I’ll carry on with the coffee and come and join you when you’re ready.’
The first entry Emma chose to show Polly, though less explicit than most, still left little to the imagination, and had, according to the date, been written with great exuberance about a week before the accident.
I’ve never felt this nervous – or excited – before. Or totally wicked in every sense of the word. Absolutely no one knows where I am right now, apart from Donna who was supposed to be coming too, but she’s gone down with flu. Mum thinks I’m babysitting at Dad’s; Dad thinks I’m at Mum’s for the weekend. Not even Melissa knows, but I’m thinking about telling her next time I’m down there.
Of course S knows where I am. This is his friend’s place. I so love it here.
Just thinking about his real name makes my insides flutter like a glorious capriccio. I can almost play its sound, lively, thrilling, utterly
and completely orgasmic.
I adore nothing more than orgasms with him. I want them to happen over and over and over again. In the dark of night, when no one else is awake, I sometimes use my fingers to revisit the places he’s touched on my body during blissful moments in the day when doors are closed and eyes are turned the other way. Playing solo is exquisite in so many ways, each note sounding perfectly, each phrase vibrating torrents of pleasure all the way through me, but nothing, simply nothing, can compare to the moment when the fugue of our desire soars pianissimo, scherzando, fortissimo, fortissimo, fortissimo ...
He always teases me about the musical terms I use, and yet he seems to embrace them as hungrily as he embraces me. I watch him in class, touch my tongue to my lips and know what is happening to him. He wants to take off all my clothes and spank me for being mischievous. Later he will.
This will be the first time we’ve spent a whole night together. He sent me a text earlier saying he was looking forward to the undoing of our inhibitions, the careless tossing of them to the winds, and the incredible journey to abandoned fulfilment. He wants to find me clothed only in the glow of the flames when he arrives, so I have already removed everything I was wearing. I feel beautiful and alive and daring almost beyond bearing.
I love you S; do as you will with me, and let me do as I will with you.
The second entry Emma decided on had been written only hours, perhaps even minutes, before the accident.
In spite of arriving in the dark, and never having been to this part of Somerset before, I managed to find the cottage and the keys with hardly any problems at all. This place is almost as cute as I imagined it to be, small, with only a kitchen-cum-living room downstairs and apparently only one bedroom upstairs, but I haven’t been up yet to investigate. I think it must have been a while since anyone was last here, because it smells a bit fusty and seems to have no heating that works. Thank goodness Mum made me bring a coat. Even so, I’ve wrapped myself in a throw from the back of this very lumpy sofa, and my feet are snuggled inside a bedspread that I found in an old chest under the stairs.
I wonder how many people he’s bringing, I think he said only two, which is good, because there aren’t many places to sit. I think I shall stand in front of the window to play, with the curtains pulled of course. I have to admit I’m a little nervous about performing on my own, without Donna. I’ve chosen three pieces: ‘Andante in C major’; ‘Syrinx’ and ‘Fantasie’. He said they should all be classical for tonight’s connoisseurs. I can’t wait to tell Donna about it tomorrow. She’s so mad with her dad for making her stay in London, but we had a really fab time just the three of us earlier in the week when he came to watch us rehearsing. I wrote about it the day it happened, so I won’t go into detail again here, even though I love thinking about it and can’t wait for it to happen again. Donna’s mad keen for it to happen again too. It’s funny, but we never undress in front of one another normally, only in front of S which is so unbelievably cool. In the summer he wants us to play our guitars in the middle of a field, naked, and we can hardly wait.
He should be here soon. He sent a text about an hour ago to say he was about to leave, which I read a thousand times before I erased it, because he also said that he’d be able to stay on for a while after the others have gone. I know it can’t be for the entire night, but that’s OK. I mean, it’s not, because I want to be with him every minute of every hour of every day, but as that can’t be possible I’m happy, delirious to know that he wants to see me so much that he’s making it happen again this weekend.
I can hear the sound of audience laughter coming from a TV next door, and every fifteen minutes the tinny chime of an old carriage clock on the mantelpiece whirrs into action. I’d love to call Donna or Melissa to while away some time. Melissa’s been dead cool about covering for me tonight. She was totally blown away when I told her who I was seeing. I know I can trust her, and she knows she can always trust me.
A car just pulled up outside, and a host of butterflies has taken off inside me. I’m so dying to see him. I’m going to fly into his arms and kiss him all over his face and he’ll laugh and scoop me up and twirl me round and around.
Disappointment reigns. Whoever it was has gone into another of the cottages, so I’m still waiting. He really should have been here by now, so I wonder what’s keeping him. Maybe one of his friends has let him down, but that shouldn’t really make a difference.
It’s almost one o’clock in the morning now and I’ve just received a text telling me that he’s really, really sorry, but he can’t get away after all. I feel so crushed that I want to cry, I feel foolish too, and angry and I wish I’d never come.
It was how Emma felt when she finished reading, that she wanted to cry too, and scream and rage against the pervert who’d led her daughter to write these words. The passages she’d chosen were bad enough, but Lauren’s graphic descriptions of the sex act itself, the size and rampancy of his penis, and what, on several occasions, he’d persuaded her to do with her flute were paragraphs she’d never show to anyone, or ever read again.
It took Polly no more than two minutes to read the selected entries. By the time she’d finished she looked every bit as horrified as Emma had expected.
‘So now we know why she took her flute,’ Emma said hoarsely.
Polly swallowed dryly. ‘So do you ... Do you know who this S person is?’ she asked.
Emma nodded. ‘Yes, I do. He’s her English teacher. His name’s Philip Leesom. The S stands for sir.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Polly muttered, not even wanting to imagine the more explicit details of the journal; what she’d read was lurid enough. ‘So that’s where she was, the night of the accident, waiting for him and ...’
Emma’s fury was barely containable. ‘She drove all the way to Glastonbury to meet him, to perform for him and God knows who else, and in the end he didn’t even bother to turn up. If he had, her path would never have crossed Oliver Lomax’s, but how can I wish that he had when this is what was going on?’
Polly had no answer to that.
‘If it weren’t for him,’ Emma raged on, ‘she’d have been out with Melissa that night, which is where she damned well should have been.’
Polly put the diary down; her expression was grave and full of sympathy. ‘So what are you going to do?’ she asked.
Emma threw out her hands. ‘I don’t know. If I tell Will ... He’ll want to kill him.’
‘Maybe you should let him.’
Emma didn’t argue. ‘Or maybe,’ she said fiercely, ‘I’d rather do it myself.’
Much later in the day Emma was sitting with Lauren, gazing down at her still bruised face, though the purple was fading to yellow now and the cuts were starting to heal. She was like the calm at the eye of a storm, with so much raging around her, tearing up truths, shattering trust, changing the shape of beliefs, yet nothing was able to reach her. It frightened Emma to sense an invisible barrier between them, one that left her on the outside looking in at someone she loved who seemed like a stranger.
That was absurd, she told herself. Whatever Lauren had done, no matter how deep her crush had been on that man, or brazen her actions, she was still the daughter who had made Emma’s heart sing, her life worth living. She must hold on to that truth, and never let that man’s corruption overshadow it. What he’d done was in the past, and could never happen again.
Since arriving she’d barely spoken to Lauren; had simply sat staring down at her, wishing there was a way to erase every word of what she’d read from her mind, scour out the appalling images that those heady, graphic descriptions conjured of her precious daughter as the sex object of a man who had the trust of every parent at the school. He had so grossly abused his position to seduce two silly, impressionable young girls, one of whom, Lauren, had been a virgin until she’d naively, joyously yielded to him.
What a heartbreaking entry that had been to read. Emma didn’t care that he’d been ‘tender and loving, passionate
, sweet, funny and touchingly emotional’ when it was over. The thought of his tears made her want to be sick. She kept wondering how much longer it would have taken him to persuade Lauren and Donna to become intimate with the friends he invited along to watch them perform. It had certainly seemed to be heading that way, from what Lauren had indicated.
It made her want to wrench out her hair and scream to recall the way he’d flirted with her. Worse was the way she, like one of his adoring ingénues, had responded. Had she been in line as one of his next conquests? Was that what the book recommendations and a coffee at the library had been about? Or did it just give him a kick to know that he could be on friendly terms with the parent of a girl he was sexually abusing? She shuddered with revulsion, and wondered how she could ever have found him attractive when, since reading the diary, she’d felt sullied by the mere thought of him, contaminated by his duplicity, his evil. If it weren’t for him and his arrogance, his manipulation and filthy lechery, Lauren would not be lying here plugged helplessly into a system of life support, while he, exhibiting no signs of a troubled conscience, remained free to continue his career of debauchery and violation.
Well, it was at an end now, that was for sure. Emma had decided what she was going to do. By this time tomorrow he would be fully aware of what the outrageous exploitation of his position was going to cost him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
EMMA HADN’T EXPECTED it to feel strange sitting on a train, but it did. It was like revisiting an old habit she’d picked up again after many years. It seemed startling to see the weather spreading out over the countryside too, as though it hadn’t been happening where she was, and was now doing its best to show how friendly it could be. She felt disconcerted watching busy people going about their day, apparently as familiar with their surroundings as they were with the language they spoke. This was the world outside the bubble she’d been in for the past three weeks: here sounds weren’t muted and the air seemed clearer, less clouded, a place where she could almost float.