Losing You (24 page)

Coming reluctantly to the conclusion that he had to break things to her in person, he was about to go and check on Oliver before driving back into town when his mobile rang, and seeing it was Charlie he immediately clicked on.

‘Dad, Oliver just told me,’ Charlie cried in a rush. ‘This is terrible. We have to do something. I’m coming home ...’

‘Charlie! Stop!’ Russell barked. ‘There’s nothing you can
do, at least not for the moment, so please stay where you are. You can’t miss these exams ...’

‘But Dad ...’

‘No buts, son. You heard what I said, now please, I’ve got enough to be dealing with without worrying about you too.’

‘OK, I get that, but what about Mum? Does she know? Have you spoken to her?’

‘I’m about to go over there. Has she rung you today?’

‘She left a message earlier saying ... I don’t know, she was rambling on about finding you with her friend Fiona ...’

‘What time did she call?’

‘Uh – I guess it must have been after eight o’clock, because Freddy, one of my flatmates, left a message then asking if I was in because he’d lost his keys. And her message was later than that. I haven’t rung her back, I’m afraid. Do you think I should?’

‘No. I’ll deal with it from here. Just be there for Oliver if he wants to talk again, but most importantly, stay focused on getting through those exams. Everything else you can leave to me.’

It hardly looked like Lauren. For a moment, when she’d first seen her, Emma had dared to hope they had the wrong person. It was her hands that had crushed the doubt: the polish on her nails was the colour Lauren had painted on last night. Her head was swathed in so many bandages it was almost twice its size, the tender skin around her eyes was bruised black and swollen, her cheeks and lips were badly cut and grazed. Sutures stood out against her deathly pale skin like tiny wings. So many tubes were running into her nose, mouth, neck and arms that it was impossible to remember what they were all for. The doctor had told them, when they’d finally been allowed to see her. Nigel Farraday himself had explained in as simple language as he could what was happening to her.

Though he hadn’t actually put it this way, it was clear she was being kept alive by these tubes and the battery of machines that were making her breathe, or monitoring her
heart, or keeping a check on her intracranial pressure. Drugs and fluids were flowing into her, a sats probe, which Emma thought had something to do with measuring oxygen, was attached to her finger, and a number of catheters were providing drains and infusions and possibly something else Emma might have forgotten for now.

Her leg was in a temporary splint. Nothing more would be done about it until Nigel Farraday gave the go-ahead to the orthopaedic surgeon. The brain always comes first, Emma had been told, but when the time was right Lauren would have to undergo more surgery to repair her leg.

Emma knew she could ask Mr Farraday to go through things with her again, if necessary, and maybe in the coming hours or days she would need him to, but right now all she wanted was to sit with her angel and will her with all her heart not to let go.

‘Keep talking to her,’ Nigel Farraday had said. ‘I can’t promise that she’s able to hear you, but if she can I’m sure it’ll be a great comfort to her.’

So between them Emma and Will were keeping up a flow of soothing words, never taking their eyes from Lauren’s face in case there was the tiniest flicker of an eyelid or a murmur of response. Many hours had passed now and the only sounds they’d heard were the heavy sucking and puffing of the ventilator and bleeping of the monitors; the only movements came from the wave forms on the screens and the attendant nurse who was never more than a few feet away.

The lights were low; the other bed in this small section of the ward was empty. Somewhere at a distance, perhaps in another world, the wail of sirens came and went. It was warm, so warm that Emma could feel sweat trickling between her breasts and down her back. She found herself wondering what had happened to Lauren’s clothes, that beautiful gold dress that had been so exquisitely shocking. Had they been forced to cut it from her? Had they shaved off her hair to get to her skull? They must have.

‘... And when we get you out of here,’ Will was saying, ‘we’re going to throw you a great big party and invite all your friends. They’re all ringing up to find out how
you are. Donna, Selina, Melissa, Lucy ... and they send their love. They’ll be coming to see you when you’re strong enough to have visitors. For now it’ll be just me and Mum ...’

‘And Granny,’ Emma came in. ‘She was here earlier, I expect you heard her, didn’t you. She’s in the waiting room now with Polly and Berry. Uncle Harry and Aunt Jane have popped out to find a coffee shop to pick up some drinks for us all. They’re very worried about you too and came as soon as they heard. Dad and I are going to spend the night here, so we’ll be close at hand if you want to speak to us. They won’t let us stay by the bed all that time, in case we wear you out.’

‘I know you’re listening,’ Will resumed, his voice starting to falter, ‘and I expect you want to tell us to shut up, but until you actually say it, I’m afraid it’s not going to happen. We’re just going to keep on going ...’

Emma wished he’d go away. She wanted Lauren all to herself, to do what only a mother could, reconnect to her child in a way that didn’t need tubes or syringes or anything tangible. As Lauren’s mother she could reach her through the unbreakable bond they shared, the bond that would never allow them to be anything but a part of one another. Through it she could transfer all her energy and willpower, her love, her courage and every ounce of determination she possessed for Lauren to use as her own. These things would need no words or even touch to be transmitted, but would simply flow straight from her into Lauren, as vitally and as restoratively as any medicine, or air, or surgeon’s skill.

‘Mr and Mrs Scott?’ someone said softly behind them.

It was Anna, the large, sweet-faced Polish nurse who’d been assigned to Lauren.

‘I think you both need to take little break now,’ she said kindly. ‘I will stay with her. Doctor will be coming back shortly.’

Though Emma found it almost impossible to tear herself away, she was willing to do whatever she was told if she thought it would help Lauren, so pressing a kiss to her fingers and touching them gently to Lauren’s bloodied
cheek, she started to step away. It was a moment before she realised what was happening, but as Anna’s strong arms caught her, she swiftly came to again.

‘You are exhausted,’ Anna told her. ‘And I expect you have not eaten for all of the day.’

‘I’m fine,’ Emma whispered. ‘Sorry, I ... I ...’

‘Come on,’ Will said, putting an arm around her. ‘Lean on me.’

Emma moved away. She didn’t want to get close to him, or depend on him in any way, because she knew from experience how unreliable he was. All that had ever been constant about him was his love for Lauren, and belief that he was destined to become the father of a truly great musician, but even that hadn’t been enough to persuade him to keep their family together – or to make him offer his beloved daughter a weekday home in London.

He was here now though, which was what really mattered, certainly as far as Lauren was concerned, and Emma guessed it mattered to her too, because she simply wouldn’t have been able to bear it if he’d allowed anything to prevent him from coming.

Outside the waiting-room door Will took Emma’s arm and held her back. ‘We need to talk,’ he said in a growl. ‘I need some answers.’

Deciding not to get into whatever he was talking about, she pulled her arm away and continued on through the door.

‘Something’s not right about this,’ he hissed from behind her.

Emma stiffened.
Had he actually just said that? Had those words really passed his lips? What the hell was supposed to be right about it?

Realising all she could do was ignore him, she walked on into the room and allowed Berry’s ready embrace to enfold her in wave after wave of trust, loyalty and years of just being there when she was needed. Over Berry’s shoulder she saw her mother watching, embarrassed, anxious, seeming lost, even afraid.

Not knowing what to say to anyone, Emma turned to her brother whose strong arms were already opening to hold
her, but as she moved towards him an alarm suddenly sounded outside.

With terror slicing her very soul, Emma barged past Will to the doors of the ICU. Through the windows she could see nurses and intensivists running in Lauren’s direction. ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What’s happening?
What’s happening?
’

‘Clear the way,’ someone shouted, as the doors flew open.

Seconds later Lauren was rushed past.

‘Oh my God, no!
Nooooo!
’ Emma screamed, going after them.

‘Please wait there,’ someone said sharply.

Anna the nurse put an arm around her.

‘What is it? Where are they taking her?’ Emma demanded, wild-eyed with fear.

‘For another CT scan,’ Anna answered. ‘She has experienced a surge in intracranial pressure.’

‘What does that mean?’

Anna’s pale blue eyes were full of compassion as she said, ‘I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see.’

Chapter Thirteen

RUSS HAD NO
idea how Jolyon had got hold of the information about the girl last night; all he knew was that at the time Jolyon had called he’d wished he hadn’t. Being told that she’d been rushed back into surgery had been almost as bad as hearing that it had happened to one of his own – in some ways he couldn’t help wondering if that might have been easier. Less guilt, blame, shame – a full due of sympathy for Oliver that he would never get now, even though in some small way he deserved it. At least to Russ’s mind he did, from the rest of the world – and the judicial system – he was hardly likely to get it.

According to the news this morning the girl, Lauren, had come through the night, but the twenty-four-hour watch continued, and if she’d made any contact with anyone at all since the surgery it hadn’t yet been reported. But the fact that the drunk driver who’d struck down this beautiful, gifted girl with a dazzling future ahead of her belonged to the family behind the golden angels was now widely known. One local headline had already labelled Oliver the ‘demon son of an angel’, and Russ could only imagine that worse was to come.

When he’d turned up at Sylvie’s apartment last evening he’d been in such a rage that perhaps it was no bad thing that she’d refused to let him in. He needed to break this to her in a way that was going to leave her in no doubt of the part she had played in this tragedy, and he couldn’t do that if they were shouting and she was drunk.

Before leaving he’d rung Connie Wilkes, one of Sylvie’s old secretaries who lived close by, to ask her to come and stay the night at the flat to make sure Sylvie didn’t overdo
the booze, or turn on the news before he returned today. The latter wouldn’t be a difficult task, since Sylvie had little interest in the world beyond herself these days. The former, however, was likely to have proved much more of a challenge.

One look at his wife as the redoubtable Connie let him into the apartment was enough to suggest that Connie might have had some success. Dishevelled and red-eyed though Sylvie was, and not yet dressed, he’d seen her looking a great deal worse at ten in the morning – and in spite of the way she bristled when she saw him, she didn’t seem entirely surprised that he was there.

‘I told you,’ she said to Connie, ‘that if it was my husband you must not let him in. He has no right to be here when all he does is shout at me, and I do not want to see him now he is sleeping with another woman.’

As she reached for a tissue to blot more tears from her eyes, Russ turned to Connie.

‘Thanks very much for staying,’ he said warmly. ‘I’m sorry to have called on you at such short notice ...’

‘It wasn’t a problem,’ Connie assured him, picking up her purse. After giving Sylvie a hug and promising to drop in again later, she followed Russ to the door, where he unhooked her coat.

Keeping her voice low as she slipped her arms into the sleeves, she said, ‘How’s Oliver?’

Tensing at the question, but reminding himself that she wasn’t only genuinely kind, but discreet, he said, ‘Frankly, not great.’

Looking deeply sorry, she squeezed his hand as she said, ‘You know where I am. If there’s anything I can do you only have to pick up the phone.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, touched by the offer. ‘I’ll call you later and settle up for last night.’

Her eyes widened in protest. ‘I don’t need paying,’ she told him. ‘You’ve always been good to me, you and Sylvie, so I’m more than happy to be there for you in any way I can.’

Remembering how she’d lost a grandchild to meningitis, and her daughter a year later to suicide, seemed to make
his own problems fade a little. At least Oliver was healthy and safe and had, eventually, some chance of rebuilding his life. That could never happen for Connie’s daughter and grandson – and it might not for Lauren Scott, either.

After seeing Connie out he turned back to the kitchen where Sylvie was still seated at the breakfast bar, a wad of ragged Kleenex clutched in one hand, the neck of her dressing gown bunched in the other.

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ she informed him tearfully.

‘Good, because for the moment I’m the one who needs to do the talking.’

Appearing unnerved by his tone she started to get up, but catching her arm he sat her back down again.

‘You are being very rough with me,’ she protested, ‘and it is I who should be upset, not you. You have not the right ...’

‘Just listen,’ he said quietly. ‘You need to hear what I’m about to tell you.’

‘I do not want to. You are having an affair with my friend ...’

Slamming a hand on the table he watched her jump, then keeping his voice low, he said, ‘Something very serious has happened and I’m afraid you do need to hear it.’

As she paled he realised his mistake.

‘The boys are fine,’ he told her quickly. ‘At least Charlie is, but on Saturday night when you rang Oliver threatening to commit suicide ...’