by Mandy Baggot
‘Make us some coffee, Clara. I’ve got this.’
And then he just stood, his hand on the door, listening to Clara’s dull footsteps on the carpet as she powered off to arrange the drinks. He was making far too much of this. It was his mother. He loved his mother, very much. He pushed the handle down and opened the door.
Stepping into the room, he watched her stand from the seat opposite his desk. He took in the black patent court shoes, the bright orange designer shift dress, the matching wool jacket over it, and her perfectly coiffured blonde hair. Nothing out of place. Cynthia Drummond was fifty-five but still looked mid-forties.
‘Mom,’ he greeted, striding across the floor towards her, arms open.
He embraced her fully, letting her hug his body to hers like she always did. He drew away first.
‘This is a surprise. You should have told me you were coming. I would have been more organised,’ Oliver said, moving behind his desk and sitting down. He picked up his pen and rubbed his thumb over the barrel.
‘Nonsense, Oliver, you would have found a reason not to be here,’ Cynthia said, sitting back down and picking her Gucci handbag up off the floor. She placed it on her lap.
He let out a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have done that.’ The words came out a little too quickly.
‘You’ve been avoiding my calls,’ Cynthia carried on.
The second she said the sentence all he could see were the pile of yellow notes Clara had been sticking to his desk for the past couple of weeks. He swallowed. ‘It’s been very full on here and …’
Cynthia cut him off. ‘I know what this is about, Oliver. It’s what it’s always about.’
It didn’t sound like she required him to give an answer. He sat still, his thumb working overtime on the pen until it started to hurt.
‘It’s December isn’t it. You’re always like this in December,’ Cynthia said. It didn’t sound like she wanted to be interrupted.
He put the pen down on the desk and picked up his baseball stress ball, squeezing it in his palm. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘One word.’ She paused for a breath before continuing. ‘Christmas.’
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise up like she’d said something really offensive. Why did he have such a problem with the word? How could nine letters make him want to crawl under his desk and not come out until it was all over?
‘I need to know if you’re coming home.’
His mother’s voice started to fracture just a little and it got to him. He squeezed the stress ball harder.
‘I thought you could spend some time at the house. Sophia and Pablo miss you.’ She stopped for a moment, as if to recollect. ‘And so do I.’
He squeezed the ball until it disappeared into his palm completely. Christmas wasn’t the same without his father and brother. The family home in Westchester wasn’t the same. It was cold, empty, bereft, despite his mother’s attempts to make it into some sort of stately show home. There were new drapes every second month, urns of flowers everywhere, any frill and frippery to fill the gaps. And he definitely wasn’t being blackmailed by her use of the housekeeper who had been around since he was a teen and her ten-year-old son who played a mean game of hockey.
‘Mom, it’s always difficult around Christmas, you know that.’ He put the ball down and laid the flats of his palms on the desk. ‘I’m in the middle of a hard negotiation right now that’s going to go right down to the wire.’
‘I know all about the Regis Software merger, I am a member of the board.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I’m not asking you to take the next two weeks off work, Oliver. I’m asking for one day, maybe a couple of nights.’ Cynthia unfastened her bag and removed a handkerchief. ‘Bring Tony if you have to.’
‘Tony’s going to Italy,’ he responded.
‘With his family?’
‘I guess.’
‘Because family’s important.’
‘Mom, don’t get upset,’ he said as she dabbed at her eyes.
‘You’re giving me no other option.’ She sniffed. ‘Since your father passed …’
‘Stop.’
It was one short word but he’d said it with enough power to call a halt to anything.
Oliver sprung from his chair. He headed towards the full-length windows, leaning one arm against the pane of glass, looking at the buildings surrounding the Drummond offices. The pain in his chest was making itself known again as he tried to concentrate on the metal and steel in his sightline. The Chrysler Building. Art Deco like the Empire State but completely unique with its ornate arches leading to the spire at its pinnacle. Spikes of industry, sharp shards of ironwork – the ache in his torso stabbed harder.
His mom had no idea how he felt. None whatsoever. It wasn’t just the memories, it was his future, or rather his lack of it. She may be living without a husband and her eldest son, but he was living with a ticking time bomb. He didn’t want to be her crutch. She had to get used to loneliness because it was going to happen to her again. And this time there would be no one left. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, blocking out the wintery cityscape.
‘Oliver, if we don’t ever speak about your father and your brother it will be like they didn’t even exist.’
He could hear her tears now but he couldn’t turn around and face her. He couldn’t have this conversation. He leaned his weight heavily against the window, letting it hold him up, bear his strain for just a moment. He kept his eyes closed and all his deepest memories, vivid pictures from the past, rushed his brain at once.
His father, Richard, tall, thickset, with a sweep of dark hair that had always taken some taming. Eyes that had constantly twinkled, in fun, or shining with a new idea or a triumph to share with the family. Heavy jowls that vibrated when he talked, and that smooth, commanding voice that had issued instructions to his employees as brilliantly as it had given praise and encouragement to his children. Richard had been comfortable in any role. Dressing up as one of Santa’s elves for charity, speaking at the funerals of their friends and family or negotiating million pound software contracts. He had been much loved and much admired.
Just like Ben. Oliver’s big brother. The tall, strong, dark-haired boy he’d grown up with and had looked up to. Ben wasn’t just the image of Richard, he had replicated their father’s professionalism and poise perfectly. He’d inherited that instinct and ability to adapt to any situation he found himself in. Or, sometimes, situations he’d found Oliver in. One time involved trespass and the police when their parents were out of town. Ben had cooled the police officer down as effectively as throwing a cold bucket of water over him. Nothing had fazed him.
They’d lost Richard just last year, right before Christmas, and Ben had died five years before that, just three days before his thirtieth birthday. Just like their paternal grandfather. And that was the Drummond curse, a genetic fault. Richard had made it to sixty-five. And that made him the exception. The lucky one. Which meant, to Oliver, that his days were numbered. He turned thirty in just a few months.
‘Come home for Christmas, Oliver. We’ll have turkey and I’ll arrange a tree.’
Now he’d let these memories in there was no stopping them. All he could see, cluttering up his mind, were images of his father, his brother and him from their last Christmas together. They’d had far too much turkey dinner then had wrapped up in four layers of clothing to descend upon the neighbourhood, throwing snowballs, sledging, and making snowmen with the kids. Not an agenda or an iPad in sight. Laughter, red cheeks, hot breath in the air and running until their toes went numb.
He couldn’t lose it here. He couldn’t let her know how it affected him. He was the one who had held the business together while the rest of the world gave in to their grief. And that’s why he was an emotionless stalwart. Because caring was pointless and would only do more damage in the end.
‘I can’t,’ he stated coolly.
‘Oliver …’ Cynthia started to counter.
He turned
then, facing her but not looking at her. ‘I really can’t, Mom. I’ll be working.’ He knew his voice was cold but that was what this situation required him to be. He clenched the muscles in his jaw.
‘On Christmas Day? Really?’
‘The business doesn’t ever switch off.’ He held his stance.
‘The offices have never opened on Christmas Day since your grandfather founded the business.’
‘And he dropped dead two weeks later.’
‘Oliver!’
The exclamation was shrill, the same tone she’d used on him when he was a kid getting into things he shouldn’t. He should apologise. His words were uncalled for. It was a low blow when she was already emotional. His mother was getting to her feet but he wasn’t going to stop her. This needed tough love. He had to be cruel to be kind
‘If you won’t spend Christmas Day with me then you leave me with no other choice,’ Cynthia said, slipping the handbag over her shoulder then rolling the tissue inside the sleeve of her jacket.
This didn’t sound like a better option. This sounded like she was about to launch a grenade his way. He met her gaze then and waited for her next words.
‘It’s the Christmas fundraiser for the McArthur Foundation coming up. As well as organising the whole event and sweet-talking the local dignitaries for donations, they’ve also asked me to speak this year.’ Cynthia took two steps towards the door. ‘Thank you for nominating yourself in my place. I’ll email you the details.’
She couldn’t do that to him. She wouldn’t.
‘Mom, I can’t,’ he said. He dug his hands down into the pockets of his trousers to hide the tremor.
A chill settled on his skin as what she’d said started to sink in. Talking in public was what he did. But about technology. About the company’s work, implementation and progress, lines of strategy. Not about anything personal. The McArthur Foundation fundraiser was a sparkling, twinkling, barrel of Christmas affair. There would be tables of notable Manhattan businessmen and women, probably the mayor and the police commissioner, but much worse than that, families of people affected by the cause the money was being raised for.
‘No, Oliver, you can. And you will.’ She put her hand on the door. ‘You might be able to let me down without a second thought, but you will not let down that charity or betray our connection to it.’
Cynthia whipped open the door and very nearly bowled into Clara carrying the tray of coffee.
‘Oh, Mrs Drummond I was …’ Clara started.
‘I can’t stay I’m afraid, Clara.’ Cynthia cast a look back Oliver’s way. ‘I don’t want to take up any more of Oliver’s precious time.’
He swallowed the pebble of emotion in his throat and dropped his eyes to the floor. Could this day get any worse?
8
Drummond Global Offices, Downtown Manhattan, USA
Oliver had been staring at the figures so hard they were all merging into one big numerical mess. He had structured and re-structured these figures for the Globe so many times. He strained his eyes, forcing them to look harder at the chart in front of him. They actually ached, hurting from overuse. He sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. If he was truthful to himself he’d had a headache ever since his mother had left the office that morning. He’d bumbled his way through a lunch meeting, Cole having to do most of the work to get the client onside, and then he’d spent the rest of the day holed up in his office looking at figures and proposals he should have looked at weeks ago. Now he was trying to direct his focus on the thing he cared about most at the moment, the launch of his tablet. He picked up his pen, held it over the report for a second then dropped it back to the desk. It was no good.
The only thing on his mind was the damn McArthur Foundation fundraiser. And how he was going to get out of it. Because that’s what he had to do. There was no way he was going to let his mother put him in that position. The charity stuff was her thing, not his. She liked it. She spent half her life doing it. He, on the other hand, detested the emotion of it all. If people wanted to donate money to a cause then good for them, but he didn’t see the need for dressing up in tuxedos and ball gowns to show how well-meaning you were. Blatant publicity seeking like that had never been his bag.
He grabbed up the baseball stress ball and squeezed it tight in his hand until his knuckles turned white. He released his grip just as the door swung open. Clara came in, almost dropping the files she was holding.
‘Oh, Oliver, you gave me a scare. I didn’t realise you were still here.’
He looked at his watch. ‘What are you still doing here? It’s almost seven.’
‘I had a couple of things to finish off while it’s quiet.’ She put the files into his in-tray. ‘These can all wait for the morning.’
‘Then you should go home,’ he said, putting the ball back on the table.
‘I will if you will,’ Clara said, folding her arms across her chest.
‘As fun as it is to play parlour games with you, I’m not really in the right frame of mind.’ He let out a breath and picked up one of the files she had just delivered.
‘The meeting with your mother didn’t go so well.’
‘It was fine. She was just being a mother and I was playing the son role very badly. Same old.’
‘She told me you’ve refused to go home for Christmas,’ Clara said, adjusting her stance. ‘That you said you were working.’
‘I will be.’
‘Why? We’re not open for business.’
‘Believe it or not, Clara, there’s a great deal of stuff that goes on in the background here.’
‘Nothing that can’t stop for Christmas Day.’
‘Maybe some of us don’t want to stop for a sentimental overdose of carols, candy canes and candles at midnight.’
‘You heard what the doctor said yesterday.’
Why wasn’t she giving up? He just wanted to be left alone. Wanting to spend one day in December doing something different to everyone else shouldn’t be a crime. And he shouldn’t be constantly judged for it. ‘The doctor saw the business suit and made a call based on that.’
‘Oliver, it was a bit more than that.’
He shook his head. ‘Is there a point to this conversation?’
‘Well, that depends.’
She was looking at him with an expression that said I’m going to treat you like a naughty schoolboy until you start listening.
‘On what?’ he asked.
‘Whether you want my help with the McArthur Foundation fundraiser.’
He stood up then, shaking his head and moving towards the bank of windows. ‘She told you that too.’
‘She’s worried about you, Oliver, and so am I,’ Clara continued.
He looked out at the Manhattan skyline, lights shining bright as the sky turned black. He could just see the inky tidal movement of the Hudson River, ferries creeping back to the docks. The snow was falling again, thick flurries settling over the thin layer left from the previous night. Here he was, viewing the most incredible scene, an enviable setting and all he felt was trapped.
‘Don’t waste your energy on me, Clara. I’m a lost cause.’ The words were out before he’d even thought about it. Did he really believe that? And if he did, did he really want Clara to know? She was his personal assistant not his counsellor.
‘Phooey!’
‘I’m twenty-nine, Clara. You do the math.’
‘If I thought you were going to drop dead so soon I would have left before you became the CEO.’
‘No you wouldn’t. There isn’t another employer in the city who pays more.’
He heard Clara’s exhalation and regretted not thinking again. He didn’t change position. If he kept focussing on the outside she might just leave.
‘And that’s why you think I work for Drummond Global? Why I work for you?’
There was definite resentment in her tone now. He’d done that. Just by making a stupid, flippant remark.
‘If that’s what you truly believe, Oliver, then you have even bigger problems than I thought.’
He nodded to himself. He didn’t need to be told that. He was just a screw-up waiting to die. He turned around just in time for the slam of his office door to tell him he was pretty much burning his bridges with everyone.
His phone vibrated in the pocket of his trousers. Pulling it free, he checked the display. He pressed to answer and put it to his ear. ‘Hey.’
‘Hey, Drummond, what’s happening in the financial sector? Gone into oil yet?’
Tony’s Italian-Brooklyn accent managed to get a smile from him.
‘Has papa started serving fries with those pizzas?’
‘That’s low, man.’
‘You started it.’ He looked out at the lights of the city, finally feeling an internal thaw.
‘Listen, you up for something tonight? I’m cooling my heels and fancy heating them up a little.’
‘Things not go so well with the Pole?’
‘Tonight’s a brand new adventure just waiting to happen, man.’
Oliver smiled, loosening off his tie. ‘Give me an hour.’
* * *
Brooklyn Bridge, New York
‘Can we stop? Please! Can we stop, Uncle Dean?’
Angel had had her face pressed against the darkened windows of the limo since they’d left JFK Airport. As predicted, Rita had called Dean, probably in the advert breaks of The Chase, and given him all the details of their flight. They’d been made to feel like felons having their photos and fingerprints taken before they were allowed into the country, then Dean had been waiting in the arrivals lounge, their names in Sharpie on a cardboard sign bordered in red tinsel. Why he’d thought he needed a sign Hayley didn’t know but it had made Angel squeal with excitement and Hayley’s stomach had fluttered with a mix of longing and love for her brother as he’d gathered her up in a hug befitting of a missing relative found on Surprise Surprise. After an almost eight hour flight and looking rough, the last thing she wanted was to be stood next to Holly Willoughby.