Page 6 of Scarred by You

But it stopped with Connie. I’ve never done the dirty on anyone, at least not knowingly, and I never will. I’ve got too much respect for myself, and I certainly had too much respect for Connie.

No. It wasn’t about other women at all. It was about one, devastating woman.

A reminder pops up on my screen for my ten-thirty. Good. A distraction. I dial in and receive an update from my site managers on notable sales and any issues. When I bring the call to a close shortly before twelve, I feel relatively happy with the reports; only a handful of matters require action.

The feeling is fleeting. As soon as I hear a commotion outside my office, I tune in to a familiar voice in the corridor. Fucking marvellous.

“I’m sorry, Clark; I couldn’t stop her. She just—”

My mother pushes Marcus’s shoulder unnecessarily as she passes him. “She has a name.”

I move around my desk and perch on the front, my ankles crossed, my fingers gripping the edge of the glass top. I knew this was coming. I’m only surprised it’s taken three days.

“It’s fine, Marcus. I know how she can be.” Marcus closes the door behind him. “Mother,” I say — the most polite greeting I can muster.

“Don’t you ‘Mother’ me. No son of mine would embarrass his family name like you did this weekend.”

The family name. Her number one concern above everything and everyone in her life.

“If you’ve come with a barrage of abuse, I’m going to let you rant and get it out of your system.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in her grey-blue eyes, which are an exact mirror of my own. She smooths her immaculate hair back into her French roll as if it had moved out of place, then adjusts her silk neck scarf.

“I’ve made a reservation for lunch. Get your things.”

To anyone else her manner might seem cold, patronising maybe, but to me, my mother just made a rare concession.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” I say with little enthusiasm.

I have Marcus rearrange my one-thirty call, knowing this lunch could drag on — my mother isn’t the type to let things drop — and pull on my navy blazer.

The Jaguar is already waiting by the kerb outside my office block. I incline my head towards my mother’s driver, and he returns the gesture. He’s been with the Laytons long enough to see me go from nappies to CEO. He throws me a glance that says “good luck”, and I slip into the back of the car with my mother.

She stares out of the window, her elbow resting on the ledge, her delicate manicured fingers propping up her chin. It’s not me who wants this conversation, so I won’t start it. Instead, I watch people going about their business — suits taking lunch, shoppers walking towards Oxford Street —as we head west. I needn’t enquire as to where we’re headed. There’s only one place my mother takes me for conversations of magnitude.

We pull up outside the Dorrington, one of London’s finest establishments, reserved for the wealthy and ladies who lunch. My mother is both.

“Mrs Layton, a pleasure to see you again so soon.” A concierge I recognise helps my mother out of her coat. “And you, Mr Layton. Welcome.”

My mother explains to the concierge that we have a reservation in a secluded area of the palatial dining room. She stresses “secluded” in a way that says Iwon’t be seen with my own son in public. Her concern is made more obvious when she flinches at the sight of Caroline Delaney, another lady who lunches. Like so many of my mother’s ‘friends’, Caroline is unbearably pretentious and unashamedly nosey.

“Oh dear, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry for your trouble,” Caroline says as she totters towards my mother indiscreetly, arms outstretched. “You must be utterly traumatised.”

Caroline shoots me a glare across my mother’s shoulder. “Clark.”

“Caroline.”

“It’s a terrible time, really, but we’ll try to get through it as best we can.” My mother speaks as if I’m not in the room, or even as if I’m dead, which she might prefer right now.

I drag my fingers down the sides of my stubbled cheeks and contemplate leaving.

“You know where I am, Elizabeth. Although I should perhaps meet with Penelope before we take lunch. You know, I wouldn’t want her to think I don’t sympathise with her Constance.”

My stomach churns with guilt at just the sound of Connie’s name, but I’m also thinking, Caroline Delaney, you are an incredible dick.

When we’re seated, my mother and I both order salad. My mother because she’s so concerned with maintaining a certain level of slim that tells people she can afford to eat well — high fat foods are cheap, apparently. I order salad because it will get this whole ordeal over with sooner than if I order a steak.

My mother takes a sip of Sancerre. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how disappointed we are with you, Clark. Your father is beside himself. It’s a wonder you haven’t caused him another heart attack.”

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