Losing You (41 page)

‘Emma, what is it?’ her mother said softly. ‘I can tell there’s something.’

Surprised, even unsettled by how easily her mother seemed to read her, when they were hardly close, had never even confided in one another before, Emma turned back. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I just ...’ Tears started in her eyes and she put a hand to her head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t discuss it. I ...’

‘Yes you can,’ Phyllis told her, firmly. ‘Whatever it is, I might not be able to make it better, but we won’t know unless you let me try.’

Emma’s eyes went to hers, unsure of this woman who’d always shut her out before. She was inviting her in now, but Emma was afraid to take a step forward. She’d done it in the past, only for her mother to turn suddenly cold or dismissive. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if she did that now.

‘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.