Losing You (13 page)

Russ looked into his son’s kind, intelligent eyes and felt a rush of fatherly love mingle with gratitude and pride. ‘You’ve got enough going on with your exams coming up without having to deal with all this,’ he sighed.

Charlie shrugged. ‘Well, I kind of got that you weren’t managing without me, so I thought I’d better take a couple of days out.’

Russ’s eyes shone with humour as he said, ‘So how did
you find your mother while you were there? Is she really on the wagon?’

Charlie frowned as he stared down at his empty coffee cup. ‘Hard to tell,’ he answered. ‘I didn’t see her actually having a drink, but we all know how good she is at hiding it in tea or coffee, or whatever else she’s got in her mug. What really got me was the way she keeps coming out with the weirdest stuff, like you’re having two conversations at once, and neither one of them makes much sense. She does it on the phone, and she wasn’t any better when I was there.’

Worried too, Russ picked up their cups and went to refill them from the machine. ‘I’ve been thinking about letting her come home for a while,’ he admitted, feeling horribly weighted by the words since they were taking him a step closer to committing to the very thing he didn’t want to do. ‘I don’t know how much good it’ll do in the long run, but I guess we can’t let her go on like this. It’s got a lot worse since she moved out.’

Watching his father return to the bar, Charlie said, ‘If she weren’t my mother I’d tell you to forget it. It’s time you had a life without her drunken rampages wearing you down, and the way she accuses you of stuff you’ve never even thought about doing, never mind done. I bet this time on your own has felt a bit like coming out of prison, you’re free to be you, do what you want, speak to whoever you want ... The trouble is, she is my mother and like you, I can’t just ignore the way she is.’

Understanding that perfectly, while appreciating the empathy, Russ said, ‘So basically you’re agreeing, I should let her come back?’

Charlie pulled a face. ‘It has to be your decision.’

‘Does Oliver have an opinion on it?’

Charlie sighed. ‘I think he’s with me in that for her sake he’d rather she was here, but for yours ... Well, he knows what it’s like for you.’

Hating the fact that his boys were having to deal with their parents struggling like this, when they needed to be concentrating on their own futures, Russ said, ‘Does she still think I’m having an affair with Angie?’

Charlie shook his head. ‘She didn’t mention it specifically, but she seems to have convinced herself you’re seeing someone – but, as Oliver said, nothing new there.’

No, definitely nothing new there, and feeling thankful all over again that Sylvie knew nothing about Fiona, he was about to offer to buy Charlie some lunch at the pub when the front door opened and Toyah, the office manager, came surging into the kitchen. She was short, sporty-looking, with huge apple cheeks, black-rimmed glasses and raven-coloured hair that was styled in what Sylvie unkindly described as a pudding cut.

‘Hey, Charlie,’ she said busily. ‘Saw your car. How’s things?’

‘Great, thanks. You?’

‘Yeah, cool. Russ, sorry to butt in, but loads going on. First up, I transferred five grand to the GA account, like you said, and everyone was primed for the next round, but then the local news came on and I thought I’d better pull it.’

Baffled, and slightly alarmed, Russ said, ‘Go on.’

‘Graham’s rewinding now ready for you to watch. You’d better come over.’

‘This is sounding ominous,’ Charlie commented, getting up to follow.

‘Is it?’ Russ asked Toyah.

Looking awkward, she said, ‘Yeah and no. I guess you’ll have to decide, but I don’t think you’re going to like it too much. Or you,’ she added to Charlie.

Minutes later Russ and Charlie were standing in front of a large HD monitor in the stable-block offices watching a playback of Sylvie, sitting on the sofa in her Clifton apartment, looking not entirely sober and sounding even less so as she confided her secret to a rapt reporter.

As he listened Russ could feel the heat of embarrassment spreading through him, along with anger and a growing concern for her mental health. Mercifully she wasn’t accusing him of hiding something about Mandie Morgan, instead she was ranting on about how he was financing the mysterious golden angels who were swooping on supermarkets paying people’s grocery bills.

‘But you are not to think he is doing this out of kindness for anyone,’ she was almost slurring, ‘he is doing it because it will give him good publicity when he is launching a major new programme.’

Charlie glanced at his father, as Russ said, ‘She doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.’

‘So you see,’ Sylvie continued, ‘my husband is not the great benefactor everyone thinks is behind the golden angels, he is doing this only for selfish motives and I think it is important for people to know that.’

‘Is she going to tell them that it was Granny Lomax’s idea?’ Charlie demanded. ‘And that Dad’s using the money she left him to make it happen?’

‘No, she doesn’t say that,’ Graham responded.

Russ signalled for Toyah to switch it off.

‘All calls are going through to voicemail at the moment,’ Graham informed him, ‘but there have already been a few concerning this.’

‘I can’t work out what she hopes to gain by it,’ Toyah commented, glancing at Angie, who shook her head, showing she was equally mystified.

‘I don’t expect she can either,’ Russ told them, ‘except the sweet revenge of trying to paint me in a bad light.’

‘But how on earth is it going to do that?’ Toyah wanted to know. ‘I mean, so what if you were doing it for publicity reasons, which you’re not, people are still getting their bills paid and that’s all they’ll care about.’

‘Charlie’s just pointed out the reason I’m doing it,’ Russ declared, ‘but you all know it anyway, so I can’t take credit for anything. My mother even came up with the name.’

‘So how do you want to handle it?’ Graham asked. ‘The press are obviously going to expect some sort of statement.’

After giving it some thought, Russ turned to Charlie. ‘Do you want to take it?’ he offered.

Surprised, Charlie said, ‘What, you mean speak on your behalf? Sure, I can do that, if you want me to.’

‘OK, then let’s rough something out that tells Granny’s story, and says that we’re sorry it’s come out, because she
always thought that the mystery element of it was part of what people would find so enjoyable.’

‘What do you want me to say about Mum?’ Charlie asked.

Russ pulled a hand over his chin as he thought. ‘If at all possible, don’t mention her at all, which I appreciate is going to be difficult, but the last thing we want is to turn this into some sort of public slanging match.’

Chapter Seven

IN A HURRY
to leave for her interview, Emma quickly shut down her computer, checked she’d put the iron away, locked the back door, gave up the search for her gloves and ran into the sitting room to turn off the TV. Having missed the first part of the lunchtime news, she still wasn’t any wiser about who was behind the golden angels scheme. She had gathered that the benefactor had been revealed, but since the names probably wouldn’t have meant anything to her anyway, she wasn’t going to waste any time on it.

Nothing mattered right now, apart from getting this job.

Grabbing her attaché case from the foot of the stairs, an item she hadn’t used in almost a year, and that had required rescuing from a coating of cobwebs when she’d retrieved it from a box yet to be unpacked, she zipped it up and jammed it comfortably under her arm. Being of a high-end designer brand it had been easily restored to its former glory and was able, she hoped, to lend her a professional and successful air, in spite of having next to nothing in it. Maybe she should pop in her laptop. Come to think of it, she probably ought to be wowing them with a PowerPoint presentation – it was what people did these days. Oh God, she was so out of date, but it was a bit late to be thinking about it now. How could this not have occurred to her before? However, no one from the agency had mentioned it, so presumably, hopefully, it wasn’t necessary. Nor was the iPad she longed to own, though it might have made her seem a little more impressive if she had one.

Deciding to take Lauren’s car instead of her older and slightly dented Honda (not her fault, white-van man had
pulled out straight in front of her so she hadn’t stood a chance), she buttoned up her coat, unhooked the keys and took an enormous, steadying breath to set herself on her way. Fortunately there should be no question of getting lost, since she’d already driven the route twice to be sure of the way, and if there were any hold-ups such as roadworks or accidents, that shouldn’t be a problem either, because she was allowing an hour for a journey that shouldn’t really take much more than twenty minutes.

After settling herself in the driver’s seat she turned on the engine, belted up and was about to pull away when she heard a text drop into her inbox. Deciding she ought to read it in case someone from the agency was trying to inform her of a change of plan, she put the car back in neutral and fished the phone from her bag.

It was from Lauren.
Thinking of you. You’ll be brilliant. Don’t forget to ask about holidays! Remember, we’re going to India! Love you xxx

Smiling to herself, Emma sent a quick
love you
back, and deciding now wasn’t the time to fuss herself about India, or Berry’s exhibition, or Lauren’s performance exam, she put the car back into first and pulled away. It would be awful if she did have to miss Lauren’s big night, she was thinking as she drove to the end of the street. She’d absolutely hate it, especially when she knew how much it meant to Lauren to have her there. Of course Will would turn up, was there a father alive more convinced that his daughter was going to be even bigger than Norah Jones, or Alicia Keys, or more boastful of the fact? He’d no doubt bring Jemima and their little brood – what a treat it would be for Emma to see them! Berry would certainly make it, so would Phyllis. Harry and Jane would definitely be there, along with all Lauren’s friends and probably most of the teachers. Emma was already experiencing tremors of excitement and nerves on Lauren’s behalf, and ready to burst with pride at the mere thought of her standing up in front of all those people not only to play her flute and guitar solos, but then to provide accompaniment on the piano for Donna while she made her violin sing, and for Emily Brooking who was so gifted on the clarinet that the London
Philharmonic had already approached her. Come what may, Emma had to get herself to London that night, it simply wasn’t an option not to be there, and for all she knew there wouldn’t be a problem, so she couldn’t think why she was getting herself all worked up about it now when she ought to be channelling her entire focus on the personal statement she’d had to submit with her CV.

How excruciating that had been, and remained so, never having had to sing her own praises before. Though she’d read her self-glorification through several times that morning, still cringing in spite of the congratulations she’d received for it from Helen at the agency, for some reason she was totally blanking on it now. Why was she any good? What the heck did she have to offer that would set her apart from everyone else? And whatever great ideas for events, both corporate and private, that she’d managed to come up with this past week had apparently vaporised, along with the reasons why her own business folding wouldn’t, shouldn’t, impact on the magnificence she had to bring to the Avon Valley Manor Hotel.

It would all come back, she assured herself, as she wove a little too fast through the country lanes. Once she was sitting opposite the three managers who were apparently interviewing her – HR, Catering and General – she would start to sparkle and impress in exactly the captivating manner Berry had assured her she’d have no problem conjuring at will. She better had, because everything,
everything
depended on her getting this job, or that was certainly how it felt, so she wasn’t even going to allow herself to consider the fact that she might not.

However, if she wasn’t successful, it would only be because she was destined for greater things, and though she couldn’t begin to imagine what greater job there might be than this one, she would try to hang on to that cheery little nugget in order to help herself over the crushing, bruising disappointment when it came – if it did.

And it might not.

‘I believe they have selected twenty people for interview out of over two hundred applicants,’ Helen had told her – and Emma really wished she hadn’t.

She was up against
nineteen
other people, all of whom would no doubt have full-on, flashy degrees from hotel schools, top universities or catering colleges, plus years of experience under their belts, references from such prestigious establishments as the Ritz, or the Dorchester, and they probably weren’t yet thirty.

Why was she going, again?

Because they had been sufficiently impressed with her application to want to see her.

With so much chaos going round and round in her mind she almost missed a red light and had to pull up so fast that she went into a mini-skid.

No harm done. She could cope with the moron behind who was beeping her, and the bloke crossing the road giving her the evil eye. They were not in her sphere and in less than two minutes they would disappear for ever.

Her mobile was ringing. She could see it was Berry, probably to wish her luck, but dared not answer it, because the lights were turning green and the last thing she needed was to find herself being pulled over by the police.

She had to think about something else. Maybe she should put the radio on, listen to some music, or the news. There might be more about the golden angels. Did she care? Not right now.

Forty minutes later, after an uncomfortable spell in the hotel’s plush reception watching two rival candidates (both under thirty) go in ahead of her and come out looking taller and smug, it was her turn to be called into the River Room. It proved to be a rather typical conference suite with an enormous TV on one wall, a long oval table down the centre with a dozen chairs in haphazard arrangement around it and large, sliding glass doors that in better weather would open on to a stately veranda and the (currently winter-torn) gardens beyond. The people sitting at one end of the table were something of a surprise, not for the way they looked, but for how warmly they greeted her. Hamish Gallagher, the general manager, even poured her a coffee himself, which she didn’t drink for fear of spilling it, or burning her mouth and dribbling.