Losing You (44 page)

‘Whereas you would rather keep her alive in any kind of state, just as long as you’re not left on your own. Haven’t you got how selfish that is yet?’

Feeling guilt and confusion spinning through her again, she said, ‘I’m not having this conversation now,’ and clicking off the line she let her head sink back as wave after wave of conflicting emotions sucked her into an impenetrable darkness.

She must have slept for a while, because the next thing she knew the train was stopping at Reading station and her phone was ringing again. In no doubt that she’d ignore it if it was Will, she tried to recognise the number, felt sure she should, but for some reason she couldn’t place it. At least it wasn’t the hospital, because their number began with 0117, and the one she was looking at was 0207. So clicking on, she said, ‘Hello, Emma Scott speaking.’

‘Mrs Scott. It’s Henry Gibbs.’

Surprised to hear from him so soon, she straightened up in her seat as he continued to speak.

‘I thought you’d like to know that I have contacted your family liaison officer who was most helpful, and as a result Philip Leesom is here in my office with me. He understands that there can be no possibility of him remaining at the school after this. He will be leaving immediately.’

Feeling thrown by such a rapid response, Emma tried to make herself think. In the end all she could manage was a whispered, ‘Thank you.’

‘There’s one other thing, before you go,’ Henry Gibbs said. ‘Though I am as keen as anyone to keep the number of people who know about this to an absolute minimum, I do feel that Donna Corrigan’s parents must be told. We can’t have them finding out some other way and then realising that the school has kept it from them. I am willing to speak to them myself, but if you’d rather do it ...’

‘If you don’t mind, I think you should,’ Emma told him. Knowing how devastated Ruth Corrigan was going to be, and how shaken she still was herself by it all, she simply didn’t feel able to cope with anything else.

‘As you wish,’ Gibbs concurred. ‘And do I have your permission to show Mrs Corrigan the entries from Lauren’s diary?’

Recoiling at the mere thought, since she felt that this would be far more damaging to Lauren than to Donna, Emma said, ‘Only if you consider it to be necessary, and then maybe you could limit what you show her to the sections that directly relate to Donna.’

‘Of course.’ Then he added, ‘I’d like to extend my sincere apologies for what’s happened, Mrs Scott, and all the distress it’s caused you. I hold myself as responsible as anyone – the girls’ moral welfare is every bit as important as their education, and I’m afraid we’ve let you down badly. I hope, at some point, we will be able to find a way to make some sort of reparation.’

Wondering how on earth that would ever be possible, Emma said, ‘Please tell Ruth Corrigan that I’m deeply sorry, and if she wants to speak to me she knows how to get hold of me.’

‘I will – and be assured that I’ll be in touch again soon to ask about Lauren, and of course to keep you informed of developments here, should there be anything further.’

After thanking him again, Emma rang off and closed her eyes. She’d have liked nothing more than to be able to sink back into a deep and dreamless sleep now, but someone had tried calling her while she was talking to Henry Gibbs, and it might have been her mother.

It turned out to be Clive Andrews, who presumably wanted to talk about his chat with the headmaster. Deciding that could wait, while news of Lauren couldn’t, she pressed in her mother’s number first. The chances were she wouldn’t get hold of her now if she was sitting with Lauren, since she’d have to switch off her phone. However, to Emma’s relief she answered on the second ring.

‘There’s good timing,’ Phyllis told her. ‘I’d just popped out to call you. Is everything all right?’

‘I guess so,’ Emma said, knowing her mother was baffled and worried by this impromptu visit to the school. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I get home.’ She wouldn’t have to go into any detail, or show Phyllis the diary. The fact that there
had been any kind of impropriety at all would be enough for her mother. ‘So how’s my girl today?’

‘Actually, that’s why I was about to call you,’ Phyllis replied. ‘Something happened that ...’

‘Oh my God,’ Emma gasped through a surge of panic. ‘Please tell me it wasn’t ...’

‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ Phyllis came in quickly. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’

‘Then what? Is she all right?’

‘She’s fine, or the same as she was yesterday. It turned out to be a false alarm, but I thought ... I was absolutely certain at the time that she squeezed my hand.’

Emma stopped breathing.

‘The doctor said it was possible,’ Phyllis rattled on, ‘but after he’d checked her over he said it was probably just a reflex action, because I was squeezing hers. It happens, apparently.’

‘But it might have been more,’ Emma cried, unable to let go of this tiny gift of hope so quickly. ‘Did he agree she could have been trying to communicate?’

‘Well, he didn’t exactly disagree, but it hasn’t happened again since, so maybe he was right, it was me getting overexcited by a muscle contraction.’

‘I’ll have Polly bring me straight to the hospital,’ Emma told her. ‘If she can’t do it, I’ll get a taxi.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘I DO NOT
need you to keep telling me this,’ Sylvie was protesting, as Russ topped up her glass of wine before screwing the top back on the bottle. ‘I am not stupid. I understand what you are saying.’

The sad truth was, she did understand him when she had a drink inside her, coupled with the promise of more; fully drunk she was virtually insensate, and sober – if she was ever completely that – she was too twitchy, or just plain wrecked, to be able to make much sense of anything. Russ had discovered this way of getting through to her on the day she’d given her affidavit, and Jolyon had confirmed that this was often the case with alcoholics; they simply couldn’t function properly unless they had a certain level of alcohol inside them.

So, luckily, Jolyon had accepted Sylvie’s statement in spite of her being under the influence of at least four large vodkas by then, but the point was she’d managed to sound perfectly coherent, even, to a degree, contrite, as she’d given her version of what had happened that night. Yes, she’d agreed, I’m afraid I did call my son, Oliver, at around one in the morning on the date you mentioned (she really didn’t remember either the time or the date, but fortunately hadn’t argued when Russ had told her). After insisting on adding why she’d got so drunk that night (because she’d just learned of her husband’s affair with her best friend), she’d gone on to admit that she really hadn’t felt it was worth carrying on. So her call to Oliver had been to say that it would be better if she left, which could, in most people’s books, be construed as a threat to commit suicide. This meant that Jolyon was going to find himself on firmer
ground when it came to the citation of special reasons in Oliver’s defence.

He was going to need it more than ever now that the wretched blood sample had turned up, and with the way Oliver seemed so determined to make himself culpable ...

That was for later; for now, Sylvie’s continued refusal to go into rehab was the big issue for Russ, since if she was available, she would probably be summoned to appear in court – a veritable disaster in the making. In her present state she didn’t see a problem with it, and there was a chance she could pull it off if called to the stand at the right time of day; however, the risk was too great. If she turned up drunk and started denying everything, or worse, accusing Russ of forcing her to sign the statement; or if she was too hung-over even to stagger out of bed, the consequences for Oliver could be dire.

So somehow Russ had to get her into a clinic, and since the only way of being able to hold a halfway reasonable conversation with her about this was to give her booze, that was what he was doing.

‘I have been thinking very hard,’ she told him, her hands cupped around her glass as she stared down at it.

He waited, willing her to surprise him with something along the lines of:
You’re right, I should do more to help Oliver out of the mess I’ve got him into
. What she said was, ‘I have decided that we should start doing the golden angels again.’

As his teeth clenched, he found himself longing to slap her.

Her eyes came to his, sunken and shadowed, but glowing with a peculiar sort of pride. ‘It was a very good thing,’ she went on, ‘which made people happy, and now that they know we are behind it, they will understand that Oliver is from a good family. It will help his reputation a lot, I think.’

Not bothering to remind her of the fatuous interview she’d given, he replied, ‘It’s completely out of the question. It’ll look as though we’re trying to buy sympathy for him ...’

‘But I would like to do it.’

Not wanting to get into a pointless fight, he said, ‘Perhaps,
when this is over. Now can we please go on with what we were discussing?’

A look of irritation crossed her blotchy face and she took another mouthful of wine. ‘Charlie told me that they will probably not be able to prosecute Oliver for the drinking and driving, because they have lost his sample of blood, and if they cannot do that then he will not be going to court.’

‘As a matter of fact they’ve located it,’ he told her. ‘Jolyon called me yesterday, so I’m afraid that little fantasy is over. If it proves positive, and Oliver’s certain it will, they will press ahead with all charges, including dangerous driving, which actually never went away. This means we are going to be even more dependent on your statement than before, which is why, in order to help Oliver, and yourself, you
must
check into a clinic.’

Waving a dismissive hand, she drained her glass and held it out for a refill.

Ignoring it, he said, ‘I’ve already spoken to someone at a place not far from here ... Where are you going?’

As though he wasn’t even there she walked behind the bar into the kitchen, pulled open a drawer, then turned around. ‘Do you see this?’ she said, brandishing a paring knife. ‘I could stab you to death with it right now and no one would blame me, because they would understand that you have driven me to do it. Eek! Eek! Eek!’ she squealed, imitating the
Psycho
violins as she stabbed the air.

Only too aware of how unstable she was, he got to his feet and moved to put the table between them. ‘Would you please put that thing down?’ he demanded.

She laughed, girlishly. ‘You are really afraid I will do it, aren’t you?’ she teased. ‘You think, my God, she is so crazy she will do anything.’

‘Exactly what is the point of this?’

She pouted as she screwed up her nose. ‘The point is, my dear husband, I want you to refill my glass, and then I will put this
petit couteau
back in the drawer. I think this is a very good deal,
non
?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Sylvie.’

‘I mean it,’ she warned, thrusting the knife forward. Her eyes were glittering meaningfully, but she was smiling as though amused by her own joke.

‘If you want more wine, you pour it,’ he told her, realising that it would be impossible to continue while she was waving a knife that she might even be prepared to use.

Sighing with satisfaction, she popped the parer back in the drawer and returned to the table.

Watching her pick up the wine he felt tempted to grab her hand, snatch the bottle away and make her buckle to his will, but why even bother when he knew very well that it would do no good? She was way past any amount of force he could exert, mentally or physically, probably wouldn’t even care if he turned the tables and actually tried to kill her – just as long as she had a drink in her hand when he did it.

For one awful moment he felt his emotions struggling to get the better of him: frustration, despair, fear for Oliver, disappointment with himself, concern about where this would end. Somehow he managed to hold them back. ‘I can’t talk to you any more,’ he told her. ‘I’ve threatened, I’ve begged, I’ve reminded you that you’re a mother, I’ve offered to let you come home ... I’ve done everything I can think of to try and help you, but you’re so past that that every word I utter, every attempt I make to get through to you, is nothing more than a waste of breath. None of us, neither me, nor Charlie, nor Oliver, even begin to matter in comparison to your need for a drink. It’s the centre of your world, the only reason you get up in the morning, and what puts you to bed at night. As long as you have your fix we can go straight to hell. Well that’s where you can go now, Sylvie, all on your own, because I don’t know what to do to try and save you any more, and I’m not prepared to let the boys go on trying either. If you haven’t already forgotten what you’ve done to Oliver ...’ He broke off as her landline started to ring.

She didn’t answer, only watched him as she took another sip of her drink, so he picked up instead, knowing it was likely to be Charlie.

‘
Allo? Sylvie? C’est toi?
’ a familiar voice asked at the other end.

‘Olivia,’ he said to his sister-in-law. ‘It’s Russ.’

‘Russ!
Comment tu vas? Qu’est-ce qu’il se passe?
I am at the airport, the plane has landed two hours ago, but I am still waiting.’

Confused, Russ said, ‘Which airport? Are you in England?’ Was he supposed to be picking her up and someone had forgotten to tell him, or an email hadn’t come through? Was Olivia here? Christ, what he wouldn’t give for Olivia to be here.

‘No, I am in Cape Town. I thought Sylvie was coming. Charlie called to tell me what has been happening ... Russ, I am so sorry ... If I had known, I would have come. She has the same problem as
Maman
, I think. Where is she? Please tell me she is not lost.’

‘No, she’s right here, Olivia,’ he said, pronouncing her name deliberately as he looked at Sylvie. He should have asked for Olivia’s help before, but he’d been unable to admit he couldn’t cope. He could now though, he had to, or Sylvie was going to end up taking them all down with her. ‘I hadn’t realised she’d arranged to come and see you.’ How freeing even the thought of that was.