Losing You (3 page)

Emma shrugged. ‘Just a hunch.’ Yes, she definitely had someone in her sights. ‘Why not just ask him to stop texting because you’ve moved on and it’s time he did too?’

Lauren looked amazed. ‘That sounds a bit mean.’

‘Lauren, that halo of yours can be a real pain at times. Tell him to get over it and start looking for somebody else, because that’s what you’re doing.’

‘I so am not. And I’m starting to feel really sorry for the poor blokes you’re lining up on that dating website. I bet you haven’t said in your profile that you’ve got a sadistic streak with a penchant for shrivelling egos.’

With a choke of laughter, Emma said, ‘I don’t even belong to one of those websites ...’

‘Oh come on, don’t think I didn’t see the way you shut something down when I walked in, because I did.’

With a sigh to try and cover the fluttering of her nerves, Emma said, ‘You have a very fanciful imagination, young lady.’

‘I don’t think so. Anyway, it would be great if you met someone. I wouldn’t have to worry about leaving you here on your own all week ...’

‘I’m a grown-up, I can take care of myself and if you’re going to worry about me while you’re in London, then I’ll have to worry about you and frankly I think I’m going to be too busy for that.’

Getting to her feet, Lauren said, ‘Just my luck to have a mother who doesn’t worry about me.’

‘I know, life is so hard for you.’

‘You’re right, it is. I’m going upstairs to write in my journal.’

Emma’s eyes came up. ‘Secrets?’ she teased.

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ Lauren teased back.

‘I’m glad you’re keeping it up.’ She’d given Lauren the journal on her eighteenth in the hope of encouraging her to record some of her memories in her own hand, or, like so much that was done digitally, they would almost certainly end up being lost.

‘Actually, I quite love it,’ Lauren told her, taking a yoghurt from the fridge. ‘Are we still going to the cinema tonight?’

‘Is that what we’d planned? Aren’t you going clubbing with Melissa and her friends? You usually do on Saturdays.’

Lauren shrugged. ‘I don’t really feel like it tonight. I know, why don’t we get a DVD and curl up with a takeaway in front of the fire?’

Thinking longingly of the log fire they used to build at the cottage, Emma said, ‘Sounds good to me, but if we’re going out we’ll have to take your car because mine is short on petrol and my credit card is currently maxed out.’

‘No problem, but remember mine keeps cutting out. Did you book it into the garage, by the way?’

‘Yes, it’s in for Tuesday, so it should be sorted by next weekend. What time train are you getting tomorrow?’

‘Um, I’ll probably go about four, I think.’

Emma was about to say she might join Lauren in London for a few days and stay at Berry’s when she remembered the cost of the rail fare and quickly reined herself in. There was the expense of getting around to consider too, plus the price of the lunch she’d be sure to have with whichever friends might be free, and the shopping she probably wouldn’t be able to resist, plus little extras for Lauren that always seemed to pop up. There was no way she could allow herself to stretch to all that when she hadn’t even managed to get an interview yet, never mind a job.

Determined not to feel depressed about her current state of unemployment, or lonely without her friends around her, she returned to her computer, tensing as a plane thundered overhead on its way into Bristol airport. This was a jarring fact of her new life that was taking a while to get used to, the roar of jet engines that seemed to shake the house to its foundations. By way of trying to deal with it
she and Lauren had taken to deciding that it must be the ten thirty easyJet from Malaga, or the twelve o’clock KLM from Amsterdam. Occasionally, as a further distraction, Emma would go on to create little stories in her head about the passengers and crew and why they were on board that particular flight.

As the noise of what might have started out as the eleven fifteen from Cyprus faded into the distance it was replaced by the haunting melody of Lauren practising her flute upstairs – a single, hypnotic thread of beauty emerging from the heart of a hellish din. She was preparing for a performance she was giving as part of her A-level course at the end of the month, and though Emma knew she was biased she simply couldn’t imagine how Lauren was going to end up with anything less than an A star. She was on target to do just as well in English and humanities so there was every chance she’d find herself reading music at the university of her choice, London’s Guildhall School of Music and Drama.

This coming week was going to be the first since moving here that Emma would be in the house alone, as Lauren had already broken up for the Christmas holidays by the time they’d rented a van to transport their belongings from London. Prior to the move they’d been staying at Berry’s Chelsea apartment which was a bit of a squash when Berry was there, but fun all the same, simply because Berry usually managed to make everything fun. In fact, Emma had only moved into this house now, months before Lauren was due to sit her A2s, because it simply hadn’t been fair to carry on putting upon her grandmother the way she had since the house in Chiswick had been sold. Generous and welcoming as Berry always was, having her open-plan kitchen-cum-sitting room turned into a bedroom for Lauren every night must have been a royal pain in the proverbial.

It was lucky, Emma was musing to herself, as she resisted clicking back through to her email, that she wasn’t a complete stranger to these parts, or she and Lauren would have to be putting themselves out there to try and make new friends as well as a new life. At least she would,
because Lauren’s world wasn’t going to change all that much, with her being in London each week, and still at the same school. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be long before she started wanting to stay on for weekends, so she, Emma, had better start bracing herself for that.

Just in case any important emails had turned up in the last ten minutes inviting her for a job interview, or requesting more information than she’d provided with her CV, Emma decided she really ought to check her inbox. There was a new message waiting, though not from a potential employer, or from Philip Leesom whose name alone was causing her some disarray – it was from Polly Hunter who lived at the far end of the local village. She’d known Polly for over seventeen years now and was, in a way, possibly even closer to her than she had been to many of her friends in London. Maybe it was not living in each other’s pockets that had allowed their friendship to grow the way it had, or perhaps it was simply the natural affinity that had drawn them to each other in the first place. That had happened during a quiz night at the local pub when she and Will had found themselves teamed up with Polly and her adorable, unbelievably handsome husband Jack. Whatever the reasons, it was mainly because of Polly – and her daughter Melissa who Lauren had, in a long-distance fashion, more or less grown up with – that Emma had chosen to move to this part of the world when it had become clear that she could no longer afford to stay in London.

Disaster! Despair!
Polly had written.
At father-in-law’s in Devon right now. Back Tuesday. Please say we can get together. Does 6 work for you?

Not sure whether she should be concerned or amused, given Polly’s penchant for drama, Emma sent a message back assuring her she’d have a bottle ready and waiting. She and Polly had been through a lot together over the years, traumas and crises that had seen one or other of them dashing up or down the motorway desperate to be there for whichever one was in need. Fortunately there hadn’t been anything too disastrous since Emma’s divorce, and she could only hope that there would never again
be anything like the horrific shock of Jack’s sudden death. The illness and suicide that had taken him was a few years behind them now, but nothing could ever be as bad as that, Emma was thinking, simply nothing, unless of course anything happened to one of the girls, but that went without saying and wasn’t something any sane parent would ever allow themselves to dwell on.

Since there was still not a single response to her numerous job applications, she decided that perhaps she could allow herself to read Philip’s email again, if only to lift her spirits, and then she really must delete it.

Just want to wish you good luck in the new house and if you’re ever in London, please be in touch
.

That was all, quite simple and straightforward, nothing to get excited about, a polite, brief message that could have been sent by anyone, because he hadn’t even signed off. It was only his name in the address box that told her it was from him. What it also told her, if she allowed it to, and she probably ought not, was that he was thinking of her and would like to see her again.

Actually, it probably didn’t mean that at all. Why would it, when they didn’t even know each other that well, and had certainly never been out on a date, or anything even remotely like it. (Unless the Saturday afternoon just before the end of last term counted, when they’d run into each other at the library, got chatting and ended up going for a coffee.) Other than that they’d only ever met at the school where Lauren was in Philip’s English class and most of the girls, including Lauren, had a mega crush on him. It was hardly surprising when he was a Tom Ford/David Beckham lookalike, and so charming in an intense and interested way that it was impossible not to be drawn to him.

He was also single, which was probably what made him so irresistible as far as the girls were concerned, and Emma had to admit it worked for her too, even though he was a good ten years younger than her. Nevertheless, she wasn’t going to allow herself to respond to his email. OK, it might appear rude and unfriendly, but hopefully he’d put it down to how snowed under she was by the move and starting a new life.

Almost laughing to herself as she realised she was behaving more like a teenager than Lauren, she simply hit the delete key and was about to abandon the computer to go and finish off at least some of the unpacking when another message came through from Polly.

Make that two bottles with vodka chasers!

Chapter Two

‘I LOVE YOU,’
Polly sighed wearily as Emma passed her a brimming glass of Sauvignon Blanc on Tuesday evening at six. She was a petite, attractive woman with wispy blonde hair and large brown eyes, and had always managed to look much younger than her age (today, like Emma, she was fast approaching forty-two), until the loss of her husband had etched the sadness of its story into her creamy complexion. ‘You don’t know how much I need this. Honest to God, I swear I could be losing my mind along with everything else. Anyway, cheers,’ and after clinking Emma’s glass with her own she took an enormous, gratifying sip of the deliciously chilled wine before letting her head tip back against the sofa. This was a characterful item of furniture that Emma had brought from the cottage, and though unabashedly shabby, it still managed to exude a dignified sort of elegance with its fading claret stripes and hand-carved bowed legs.

‘Well come on, out with it,’ Emma prompted, sinking into her only armchair which, Polly had remarked when they were moving it in, looked as worn as an old tart, or as grand as a pissed-up duchess, she wasn’t sure which and anyway who cared? ‘What’s going on?’

Groaning loudly, Polly kept her eyes closed as she spoke. ‘Just give me a minute. I need to try and get my head round it all so I can work out where to begin. Actually, it’s more what’s
not
going on,’ she decided in the end, sounding unusually downbeat for her. ‘Oh God, listen to that phone. Is it yours or mine? If it’s mine it can go through to messages.’

‘One of us needs to change our ringtone,’ Emma told
her, heading off to the hall to check their coat pockets. ‘It’s yours,’ she called out. ‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’

‘Absolutely positive,’ Polly called back, and downing another generous mouthful of wine she helped herself to a handful of cheese and onion crisps from the bowl Emma had set on the table. ‘I don’t know how the heck I’m managing to eat when I feel so awful,’ she grumbled. ‘Maybe all this stress will help me to put on some weight.’

‘Will you please stop hedging, and tell me what on earth’s going on,’ Emma demanded, going to sit down again.

Polly’s eyes closed as she swallowed hard. ‘I have to shut down the nursery,’ she blurted, and then winced as though the words themselves were as painful as the reality.

Emma gaped in disbelief. ‘You’re kidding me,’ she cried. Polly had run the local nursery for as long as Emma could remember, and had turned it into as integral a part of the community as the village hall and the pub – the post office, too, before it had been forced to close down. What a royal pain it was trying to get by without that – however, one way or another, they were all managing, but it was hardly likely they would without Polly’s Playtime. In fact with no nursery hereabouts the world would very probably go straight to hell in a handcart. Everyone, but everyone, with small children depended on it; they couldn’t work if they weren’t able to leave their precious cargo at one of the best-run nurseries in Bristol (this was official, according to a survey carried out for a local magazine a couple of years ago). And what about Polly’s impressively capable staff? This was going to leave them without jobs. No, it simply couldn’t be happening. Then, suddenly suspecting the worst, Emma’s heart slowed horribly as she said, ‘Oh my God, please don’t tell me someone’s been caught doing things to one of the ...’

‘Oh Christ no!’ Polly jumped in quickly. ‘No, no, no. It’s nothing like that.’ She looked quite faint. ‘Just imagine ... No, we can’t even go there. In fact, I’m starting to feel a bit better now because no way is what’s happening as bad as that.’

Feeling awful for even suggesting it, Emma said, ‘That’s probably your phone again.’

Polly pulled a face. ‘I should go and turn it off, because they’re all calling to find out if the rumours are true. God knows how it’s got out there already, but obviously it has.’