‘Your mother is in there,’ Clara whispered, pointing at the office door.
He creased up his face in the hope his ears were as dry and deficient as his throat. ‘Sorry, Clara, could you say that again?’
‘Your mother is in your office,’ she repeated.
It was his turn to perspire. He could feel the collar of his shirt getting a little tight, his body reacting to the statement in the way it always did where his mother was concerned lately. He wanted to run, or at least turn on his heel and head back down the corridor to the bank of elevators. He could call Tony. They could head out to play golf. Blast away his hangover and his worries on the fairway, spend a couple of hours in the nineteenth hole. He blinked, coming back into reality.
‘What do we do?’ The words were out of his mouth before he thought about how infantile he sounded.
‘What dowedo? Oliver, I told you this would happen if you kept ignoring her calls.’
Clara was gesticulating at him, her hands flying about to get her point across like a desperate shadow puppet act. And she was right, of course. She had warned him several times that if he didn’t call his mother back, she would turn up at his penthouse or here. And there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He might control the company but she was also a member of the board. This was as much her building as it was his. But he knew already her visit wasn’t about the business. No, this was definitely personal.
He inhaled a long breath and put his hand to the tie at his throat, straightening it, ensuring it gave away nothing about the night before. Straight away, the twinging in his chest began. He almost welcomed it. If the Grim Reaper took him now, he wouldn’t have to deal with this conversation. He closed his eyes, holding his form steady.
‘Make us some coffee, Clara. I’ve got this.’
And then he just stood, his hand on the door, listening to Clara’s dull footsteps on the carpet as she powered off to arrange the drinks. He was making far too much of this. It was his mother. He loved his mother, very much. He pushed the handle down and opened the door.
Stepping into the room, he watched her stand from the seat opposite his desk. He took in the black patent court shoes, the bright-orange, designer shift dress, the matching wool jacket over it, and her perfectly coiffured, blonde hair. Nothing out of place. Cynthia Drummond was fifty-five but still looked mid-forties.
‘Mom,’ he greeted, striding across the floor towards her, arms open.
He embraced her fully, letting her hug his body to hers like she always did. He drew away first.
‘This is a surprise. You should have told me you were coming. I would have been more organised,’ Oliver said, moving behind his desk and sitting down. He picked up his pen and rubbed his thumb over the barrel.
‘Nonsense, Oliver, you would have found a reason not to be here,’ Cynthia said, sitting back down and picking her Gucci handbag up off the floor. She placed it on her lap.
He let out a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have done that.’ The words came out a little too quickly.
‘You’ve been avoiding my calls,’ Cynthia carried on.
The second she said the sentence, all he could see were the pile of yellow notes Clara had been sticking to his desk for the past couple of weeks. He swallowed. ‘It’s been very full on here and?—’
Cynthia cut him off. ‘I know what this is about, Oliver. It’s what it’s always about.’
It didn’t sound like she required him to give an answer. He sat still, his thumb working overtime on the pen until it started to hurt.
‘It’s December, isn’t it. You’re always like this in December,’ Cynthia said. It didn’t sound like she wanted to be interrupted.
He put the pen down on the desk and picked up his baseball stress ball, squeezing it in his palm. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘One word.’ She paused for a breath before continuing. ‘Christmas.’
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise up like she’d said something really offensive. Why did he have such a problem with the word? How could nine letters make him want to crawl under his desk and not come out until it was all over?
‘I need to know if you’re coming home.’
His mother’s voice started to fracture just a little and it got to him. He squeezed the stress ball harder.
‘I thought you could spend some time at the house. Sophia and Pablo miss you.’ She stopped for a moment, as if to recollect. ‘And so do I.’
He squeezed the ball until it disappeared into his palm completely. Christmas wasn’t the same without his father and brother. The family home in Westchester wasn’t the same. It was cold, empty, bereft, despite his mother’s attempts to make it into some sort of stately show home. There were new drapes every second month, urns of flowers everywhere, any frill and frippery to fill the gaps. And he definitely wasn’t being blackmailed by her use of the housekeeper who had been around since he was a teen and her ten-year-old son who played a mean game of hockey.
‘Mom, it’s always difficult around Christmas, you know that.’ He put the ball down and laid the flats of his palms on the desk. ‘I’m in the middle of a hard negotiation right now that’s going to go right down to the wire.’
‘I know all about the Regis Software merger; Iama member of the board.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I’m not asking you to take the next two weeks off work, Oliver. I’m asking for one day, maybe a couple of nights.’ Cynthia unfastened her bag and removed a handkerchief. ‘Bring Tony if you have to.’
