When I Lost You: A Gripping, Heart Breaking Novel of Lost Love.(3)
His funeral was the first time I’d seen her look sad and the depth of misery in her eyes that day made me wonder if the sheer size and shape of this sudden grief would change her; maybe she would never wear that same brilliantly easy smile again? In this unexpected email all these years later the lingering grief in her words suggested that I’d been right.
I’d seen her in the press at times – including the cover of a finance magazine only a year or two earlier when she was promoted to VP of something or other at Torrington Media. I remember spotting the magazine in a newsagent at Dubai airport and doing a double take – surely she was too young to be working for her father? I’d calculated the years and realised with some shock that she was in her late twenties. To me it seemed unfathomable that cheerful Molly Torrington would one day lead a global media empire, but in the article she was already touted as the logical successor to her father.
Molly was doing what Declan could not: forging a path from childhood to adulthood in the immense shadow of Laith Torrington’s expectations and legacy. But judging by that studio-shot cover photo, the carefree kid I’d once known had altogether gone. She had cut off the caramel hair that she’d worn to her waist in her younger years and what was left was now a stark blonde. In the photo she was smiling, but the smile stopped dead at her lips. Her blue eyes were hard and her gaze was sharp as she met the camera, almost issuing a challenge – you want to mess with me? If I hadn’t seen her new look evolve via the media, I’d never have recognised her – she had morphed from a fun-loving kid to a very grown-up corporate shark.
I wondered how much of that transformation was the result of the loss of her brother. Then I wondered what Declan would make of it all and what he would have me do. I’d never been a fan of leaving skeletons to rest – it went against my nature and even my training – but I’d also made a point of not applying that philosophy to personal matters. Deeply held moments should definitely be left to fade into history. Still, I accepted that I couldn’t make that decision for Molly and I recovered her email from the trash folder. As I dialled her mobile phone, I ignored the sensation of dread in my gut. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable call, but I was fairly sure I was doing the right thing.
‘Molly Torrington.’ Her greeting was abrupt.
‘Hi – Molly – it’s Leo.’ When she didn’t respond, I clarified carefully, ‘Leo Stephens.’
‘I know, sorry… I just… I didn’t think you were going to call,’ she said. I glanced at the email and realised it had been over month since she’d sent it.
‘Sorry it’s taken so long,’ I said. ‘I was on an assignment and then I was injured.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing.’
‘Right, well…’ she paused a little awkwardly. ‘God, Leo, sorry to hear that, anyway.’
I tapped my toes against the carpet to expend the strange nervous energy I felt. The small talk felt unnatural and it was only prolonging the inevitable. ‘You wanted to talk about Declan?’ I said.
‘Yes, I really did – do. Can we meet?’
‘Meet?’ This was unexpected, but as soon as she said the word, I realised it shouldn’t have been.
‘Uh, I’m…’
‘Please,’ she said quietly. The rhythmic tapping of my toes against the floor stopped. ‘I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.’
‘Okay.’
‘When suits?’
‘I’m on sick leave. I can meet whenever you want to.’
‘Now?’
‘Now? But…’
‘Later today then?’
‘No, now is okay.’ I sighed, then cautioned, ‘I don’t know what you think I can tell you, Molly.’
‘But you found him, didn’t you?’
At the memory I felt my chest contract. I could still see him in my mind’s eye – Declan, lying limp on the filthy, threadbare carpet in a storage room in the basement of my cousin’s building.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then…’ she let the word hang.
I waited for her to finish the thought, but when it became clear that she wasn’t going to, I said, ‘Okay, where do you want to meet?’
Declan and I met in the first few weeks of our course at Sydney Uni in the mid-1990s. We were paired together in a tutorial group to complete a joint assessment that in hindsight was most likely a cruel joke on the professor’s part; the kid who still lived in a public housing unit with his unemployed mother partnered with the son of a billionaire who had been raised in a mansion on Sydney Harbour.
I was rough around the edges in those days, and I knew it. I remember sitting down next to Declan and feeling so intimidated I could barely bring myself to speak. Fortunately, I soon realised I wasn’t the only person feeling out of my depth; Declan looked confident, with his uppity clothing and his carefully enunciated speech. The fa?ade didn’t last long – within one study session it was pretty apparent to me that he was going to need me to pass that assignment much more than I needed him.
Dec and I bonded deeply and quickly as only teenagers can, collectively stewing over a shared sense of injustice about our individual situations. As a young Aboriginal man in the sea of mostly white students in our class, I was an outsider and I was only there because of a special entry programme and my ability to write a convincing essay. But even as an exceedingly wealthy white kid, Declan did not belong in that group of students either – at high school he’d failed his final exams miserably. Were it not for his father’s deep pockets, Declan would never have made it to university at all, let alone gained entry to a highly sought-after course at a prestigious institution like Sydney Uni.