Loving Susie (22 page)

‘Brother and sister? In love?’

‘Nothing would stop them, nothing anyone said could change their minds. They had different surnames, they didn’t tell anyone outside the family, they just went off together.’

‘Christ Almighty.’

‘When you told me yesterday about your sister, I remembered the story and wondered whether there might be any kind of similarities. I did some research on the net to see if there were any case studies, and there are. There’s some theories about why this kind of thing happens.’

‘Theories? Justifications, you mean?’

‘No, just attempts to get under the surface in an objective way. Apparently, when you grow up with someone – a parent, a brother or sister, whatever – they reckon there’s some kind of built in inhibitors that stop you being attracted to them sexually. The old familiarity breeds contempt thing. You know they pick their noses, fart when they eat sprouts, whatever.’

‘And if they don’t grow up together—’

‘The inhibitor doesn’t kick in. You meet someone and maybe recognise something in them that’s really familiar and nice, maybe because you’re like that too or something, and you think, wow, this person’s like, the half of me I never knew I had. It’s strong stuff.’

‘And it can convert into sexual attraction?’

‘Yup. Not with everyone, of course. But yes. Mothers often feel an overpowering need to feel the skin of their son next to theirs, maybe something they never felt when the guy was a baby.’

‘Mothers sleep with their sons?’

‘There’s plenty of case studies, yes.’

‘Gross.’

‘That’s what I thought. But they can’t help it. Don’t you see, Jon, maybe Mannie can’t help it.’

Jon’s tea sits on the desk next to him, untouched. Alex’s explanation is startling, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Why else would she give up a guy like Cal for Brian Henderson? What was it she said, the day she confessed?
It’s a mess, Jonno. A complete mess.
He says slowly, ‘You might be on to something.’

‘So – next steps?’

‘No idea. How do you deal with something like that?’

‘Well for one, you go to the boss and tell him he’s her uncle – or does he know already?’

‘I don’t think so. Mum’s only told the family.’

‘That’s probably a good thing. Maybe when Brian realises, he’ll back off.’

‘That depends, doesn’t it? What if he’s got it too? This genetic whatsit.’

‘Then it’ll be harder. But it’s not always reciprocated, apparently. We have to hope it’s just Mannie. That way it’ll be easier to break.’

Jonno’s shoulders sag. ‘Jesus,’ he says, appalled. Then, ‘Jesus,’ he repeats lamely.

The door bursts open and half a dozen staff appear, chatting and laughing. The day is about to begin.

‘I need to think about this,’ Jonno says quickly.

‘Sure.’

‘And Alex—’

‘Yes?’

‘Thanks.’

It was all he has time to say, but the look she gives him buoys him up all day.

Chapter Twenty-five

Susie is in trouble again. Maureen Armstrong is fizzing with rage. ‘I thought we agreed, Susie. No off-message interviews.’

‘You agreed, Mo,’ Susie says with every outward appearance of calm. Frankly, in the scheme of what’s happening at home, Mo’s rages seem insignificant.

‘Tom’s incandescent.’

‘I imagine he is.’

‘Don’t you get it, Susie? You’re making our education policy look ridiculous.’

‘That’s because it is ridiculous.’

‘Susie, you can’t head off unilaterally in your own blessed direction, not if you want to be a member of this Party. Your constant criticising is doing us no good at all. I’m going to have to forbid you to talk to the media.’

Susie smiles sweetly. ‘That’s going to look great, isn’t it? I can see the headlines now. “Party gag on Scotland’s National Treasure”.’

It’s an unfair trick, but she’s quoting an article that appeared in one of the Sundays, where she was – amazingly, in her opinion – featured in a list of ‘National Living Treasures’. 

She can almost hear Mo growl in frustration. ‘Susie, how can I put this any more clearly? Joe Shearer’s job as Education Minister is seriously at risk. I’ve heard rumours that the opposition is going to force a vote of no confidence next week. It could bring down the government. We’ll need every vote to save the day – including yours.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Mo, and I do understand the concepts of collective responsibility and Party unity. But arts education matters to me. Really matters. I’m not simply spouting words and I’m not just being awkward about this. I care.’ She sighs. ‘Actually, I’m not sure I
can
vote with the Party on this one.’

Mo runs her hands through her crop of flaming hair and back again, leaving it standing up like a cockscomb. ‘I know you care. Joe knows you care. The First Minister knows you care. But there’s such a thing as the greater good.’

‘And what, pray, is the greater good in this instance?’

That silences Mo, as she knew it would. The Media Manager turns on her heel and stalks off, frustrated.

‘That was something to behold,’ Karen says cheerfully.

The day she was elected to the Parliament was one of the greatest days in Susie’s life. Politics isn’t a career she prepared herself for, or trained in, or really gave very much thought to until passion for her cause drove her here. It’s been fun – but the best part has always been getting home from work each day and talking it all over with Archie. No matter how late the hour, he has always been there, waiting for her, eager to learn about who she has met, what she said in the Chamber, the ideas she has had, who she’s been able to help.

Today, steering the car the last couple of miles from Hailesbank to the cottage, weariness seeps through her bones. The Rivo debacle is still troubling her deeply. It’s all very well sacking Ricky Waring, but that won’t solve their problems, not by a long way. The challenge, as always, is money.

The best way to make amends for only half keeping an eye on the job she committed herself to do by joining the Board is to raise fifty or sixty thousand pounds, and quickly – but who does she know who can flash around that kind of money?

Jonno has retired to bed. Archie, presumably, is in the studio, because he’s not in evidence in the cottage. Susie opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of white wine and squints at the level. Not bad. Jonno’s drinking has dropped since he started working and that, at least, is something to be thankful for.

She pours herself a glass and goes through to the sitting room. She has just flopped down on the sofa when the phone rings. She’s tempted to leave it, but thinking that perhaps Jonno is sleeping already, she heaves herself up again and goes across to her desk to take the call.

‘Susie? That you?’ The Scottish accent tinged with American is unmistakeable.

‘Maitland? Hi! Are you in Scotland?’

‘Sadly, no. This a good time to talk?’

‘Excellent. It’s great to hear you. What’s new?’

‘I’ve made a bit of a breakthrough, actually. Did I tell you about the movie I wanted to make? The historical based on the final days of the Jacobite rebellion?’

‘No. Tell me now.’

‘It’s by a young playwright, a girl. I saw her work a few years ago at the Fringe in Edinburgh, a short drama about Bonnie Prince Charlie. It made him out to be a bit of a fool.’

Susie laughed. ‘Well, he was in many ways, though you might make a few enemies by showing him in that light.’

‘He was idealistic too, I guess. But what I really liked about her interpretation was the way she’d done Flora MacDonald, really challenging, a teenager who spoke her mind, even in front of the Prince. She wasn’t cowed or intimidated. So I asked the playwright for a treatment with Flora at the heart of the story, not as an add-on, and took an option. And the funding’s come through to make the movie! I’m so excited.’

‘That’s fantastic, Maitland. Are you going to star?’ She couldn’t see Maitland as Charles Edward Stuart and besides, he was too old by far.

‘No, no, darling, I’m going to direct. My debut.’

‘I’m so excited for you.’

‘Thing is, Susie, I’d love you to be in it.’

‘Me? Really? I’m way too old for Flora.’

‘Sure. But there’ll be something else. Her mother, perhaps, or a lady at Court. Not a big part, maybe, but a return to the screen. It’s long overdue, honey.’

‘Maitland, that sounds delicious. But I have a career.’

‘Politics? Call that a career? Darling, you’re an actor, born and bred.’ The sound of coughing splutters down the line. ‘Maybe that wasn’t the best choice of phrase, huh? But you know what I mean. It wouldn’t take long. We could fit your shooting round your schedules.’

‘I’ll give it some thought, I promise. It’s certainly a very attractive idea.’

‘Good. Do that. Anything else new, darling?’

Maitland is one of the few people she has confided in. She’s tempted to tell him about the latest developments, but the line isn’t great and the complexities are too major to convey properly in a long-distance call. ‘Too much to talk about. But Maitland—’ she hesitates. She’s had an idea but it’s a bit cheeky.

‘What is it, honey?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No, there is something, do tell.’

‘Well—’ Nothing ventured ... ‘You know you were saying you wanted to do something in Scotland. For Scotland, I mean? There is something that might appeal.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Remember we talked about community arts, schools, all that stuff?’

‘Sure. You were pretty passionate about it. Converted me. Not that I really needed converting.’

‘There’s a small community-based organisation I’m on the Board of. It helps young people who’ve lost their way to find meaning and purpose through the arts. But there’s been a problem with the Director, he mismanaged funds, I won’t bore you with it, but the upshot is we need to find some money. Rather quickly.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty thousand. Pounds. Minimum.’ The whistle down the line tells her all she needs to know. ‘I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It was just an idea.’

‘No, hold on, darling, I was just a bit surprised is all. Tell me more.’

She fills him in on the details and plays her rapidly improvised masterstroke at the end. ‘I could perhaps persuade the Board that we could rename it. After you, I mean. The Maitland Forbes Foundation, something like that—?’

He chuckles. ‘It’s got a certain ring, hasn't it? You clever thing, you know how to tempt a guy. Listen honey, I’ve gotta go. I’m not saying yes, but I’m not saying no either. I’ll get back to you in the next couple of days. Is that okay?’

‘I can’t ask any fairer than that. Thanks, Maitland.’

‘You’ll think about the film?’

‘Likewise.’

‘Bye, sweetie. Take care of yourself now.’

‘Bye.’

She replaces the receiver thoughtfully.

‘Who was that?’

‘Mannie!’ She swivels round to see her daughter hunched in the doorway. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I heard you on the phone, so I tried to keep quiet.’

‘Are you all right? You look terrible.’

‘Oh Mum—’ It comes out as a wail, and then her daughter is in her arms, wracked by sobs.

‘Goodness, Mannie. Here, come and sit down.’

It’s all she can do to calm her. It takes ten minutes, perhaps more, for the hysteria to subside and to make any sense of the incoherent words that are stumbling out of her daughter’s mouth.

Hate myself ...

Callum ...

Can’t understand ...

Falling apart ...

Work’s a disaster ...

‘Shhh. Shhh. There, child. Hush now.’ She cradles her like a baby, rocks her to and fro, holds her close so that her warmth and nearness might lend solace and comfort. ‘You drove all the way here? Darling child, you look exhausted. Now,’ she commands more authoritatively as Mannie gradually gains some semblance of control over herself, ‘tell me everything.’

She knows most of it already. The chance encounter with Brian Henderson in London, the feelings that were aroused even then. Meeting him again – while they were both waiting, Mannie has worked out now, for their mothers. ‘It was that day I waited for you in the café in Princes Street, Mum. He said he was waiting for his mother, too. I didn’t know, then, that his mother was Joyce Henderson. How could I?’ Her voice is beginning to rise again, the hysteria threatening to return.

‘You couldn’t have known.’

‘I really fell for him. I couldn’t help it.’ The tear-stained face is turned up to hers pleadingly. ‘I didn’t want to. Everything was going so well with Callum. But I couldn’t leave it alone. My feelings for Brian were like a scab that just had to be picked at. I started to text him, like, all the time? Then I met him for dinner and that just made it worse.’

Her fists are balled tightly and she thumps them down on her thighs. ‘I made him fall for me, Mum. I know I was bad and that it was wrong, but he did encourage me.’

‘You haven’t – Mannie, tell me you two haven’t—’

‘We haven’t slept together, no, if that’s what you’re asking.’ She turns her face up desperately. ‘But I would if he asked me to. I’d do anything he wanted.’

‘But he’s your uncle! And now that you know—’

‘I know that in my head, but here,’ she places her hands over her heart, ‘it doesn’t make any difference. I know it should, but it doesn’t. None at all.’

‘Mannie—’

‘Don’t preach at me. Everything’s bad enough already. I know it’s not going to be possible, I just want it to be so badly. My life’s falling apart, Mum.’ She shoves her sleek, dark hair back over one ear. Susie watches it slide forward, as it always does. ‘I missed my targets this month.’

‘Really?’

‘I can’t seem to keep my mind on things long enough. If I miss them next month too, they say they’ll have to consider my position.’ The face turned to her is tragic. ‘I can’t seem to cope, Mum. What am I going to do? I just want to be with him.’

‘I don’t know, pet. I don’t know. We’ll get through it.’ Feeling inadequate, she brews tea and makes sure that Mannie drinks it. ‘Will you stay over?’

Mannie, a little calmer, shakes her head. ‘No. Thanks, Mum, but I’ll have to get in to work really early. I need to start impressing again, and it might take my mind off things.’

‘Sure? Are you all right to drive?’

‘Certain sure. Thanks for listening. And for not laughing at me.’

‘No-one’s laughing, Mannie.’

Susie stands in the doorway until the red of the tail lights have disappeared behind the contours of the garden.

How has everything fallen apart so badly? A few months ago she was riding high, confident in her beliefs, secure in the love of her husband, proud of her two children. Her stock in the country was good. ‘Home, Where My Heart Is’ was back on the small screen and was boosting her popularity. National Living Treasure. More in demand by the media than the First Minister. She could do no wrong – and now look at her.

She closes the cottage door and climbs tiredly upstairs to her empty bedroom. On her dressing table, a family photograph thrusts at her like a jibe. They’re all there: Jonathan and Margaret-Anne, Archie and herself – even Prince, looking deceptively loyal – hugging and laughing, a loving family. Frustration, anger, loneliness, and self-pity flood through her. She spends her life caring for others, but does anyone care about her?

The generous curves of her lips pinch into a hard, straight line.

‘Loving?’ she cries to the ceiling. ‘In all this mess, who the hell is loving Susie?’

She sweeps her arm across the dressing table in a vicious, jabbing movement. The photograph flies off the dressing table amid a meteor shower of lipsticks and brushes, mascara and jewellery. The earrings Archie gave to her one Christmas jet across the carpet and the eternity ring he bought her when Mannie was born arcs towards the wall and slithers down to the skirting board.

She stares at the mess blindly.

I can’t stand this any more. I can’t stand it!

She runs downstairs, unlocks the door, and hurtles into the courtyard. Above her, the stars have clouded over and she feels the first drops of rain splash on her hands. She lifts them to the skies as the shower gathers momentum.

How can I protect my daughter?

Rain soaks into her hair and runs down her face.

How can I be true to my Party as well as everyone else who has put their faith in me?

Water courses down the back of her neck, saturating her blouse.

How can I salvage the wreck of my marriage?

Puddles have formed in the courtyard but Susie splashes through them heedlessly. There’s a simple answer to all her problems. How could she not have seen it? How could she have so resolutely, so stupidly, turned her back on it all these weeks? Her feet, now, are as wet as her clothes, but it doesn’t matter. Her mind is filled with a kind of blinding joy and it’s focused on one thing, and one thing alone.

I need to talk to Archie.