Chapter twelve
Sylvia Ricci’s elegant black-and-white headshot beamed out of the glossy programme. There was no doubt that she was a stunningly attractive brunette who, at aged forty-one, appeared more in her early twenties than the middle-aged mother she was meant to be. Although the term mother had always been a loose one. Seb simply referred to her as the ‘Woman’ or his father’s ex-wife, if he had to refer to her at all.
Seb threw the programme detailing the latest production of the hit musical Chicago back at the usher behind the merchandise counter and sighed. Having raced to the Broadway theatre, after confirming that it was, indeed, his mother booked in to provide the pre-match entertainment at the Red Bull stadium later that night, he was now more than a little apprehensive about any sort of reunion. The last real memories Seb had of Sylvia Ricci, then Saunders, was when Seb had been nine and clinging on to the hem of her pristine white trench coat, begging her not to leave him behind. He couldn’t be sure that the memory hadn’t been tainted somewhat over the following years of maternal abandonment, but he still had visions of her swatting him off like a pesky fly as she stepped her stilettos into the black cab that had taken her away from him forever.
Smiling, the usher fanned the brochure out with the others on his pile and Seb shoved his hands in his pockets, wandering through the grand foyer toward the double entrance doors to the orchestra circle.
“Sir?” The usher rushed out from behind the counter. “You were told to wait. Rehearsal is still in full swing. The manager said he’d bring Sylvia out to you after.”
Seb paused. If he waited any longer, he’d chicken out on the whole thing. So, delving deep into his pockets, he pulled out the emergency wad of dollar bills. “You tell them I’ll be in there.” He shook the usher’s hand, making sure to tuck the notes into the man’s palm. There were a few tricks that Seb’s father had taught him over the years that had proved to come in handy once in a while.
The usher pocketed the money and, after a curt nod, Seb creaked open the doors, slipped back the velvet curtain and stepped into the orchestra circle. The heated discussion occurring on stage echoed around the vacant theatre, and Seb took the chance to slide unnoticed into the last row of seats. He needed to bide his time, still undecided if he could go through with the last-minute plan he’d concocted in the taxi ride over.
Wriggling in the uncomfortable seat, Seb took in the majestic set that was to be the new Broadway production of Chicago. His mother, in the lead role of Velma Kelly, seemed almost cruel to him. Seb knew the play, knew the songs and knew the characters. Sylvia Ricci fitted her part like a silk evening glove and it made Seb’s chest tighten with suppressed resentment. But as the trumpet and piano introduction tinkled out from the orchestra pit and the spotlights beamed onto a vibrant and confident woman flouncing onto the stage, Seb sat forward with implacable fascination. Sylvia had a dynamic presence that would make every gaze in a packed out theatre never falter from her. Even though a chorus of dancers surrounded her dazzling entrance, it was Seb’s mother who owned that stage.
Then she opened her mouth. Singing the first few lines to All That Jazz, her voice resonated along the walls with perfected ease and clarity. It was strong and deep, soulful and husky, and it propelled around the empty theatre, vibrating the cushions of Seb’s seat to burst through his skin and made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Her curvy but slender frame squeezed into a tight black vest accentuated her natural assets and her long, lean athletic legs were perfectly suited to the fishnet stockings that finished in the three-inch black stilettos that she was able to dance and high kick in just as well as a woman half her age.
Seb was in awe and, as the performance reached its climax, with Velma Kelly owning the centre stage with a full splits and jazz hands, declaring, “I’m no one’s wife, and I love my life!” Seb’s hatred for the woman grew exponentially. Especially now he had just recalled where his own musical talent had come from.
The music came to its abrupt ending and the dancers all scurried off left and right as a stagehand, dressed all in black, ran up to Sylvia and whispered something in her ear. She raised her hand, shielding her eyes, and laid astounded deep brown eyes on Seb. Open-mouthed, she drifted her hand down to splay at the place on her chest where her heart should have been. Now there’s a fucking performance.
Seb rolled his eyes, then held up a hand in a reluctant wave. Shaking her head at the director in the front row, Sylvia glided along the stage and down the front steps into the orchestra circle where her high-heeled deep thuds were masked slightly by the garish red carpet. She approached Seb, holding out her arms as if expecting him to launch into a dramatic reunited embrace. Shit out of luck there. Seb stood, hands tucked deep into his jeans pockets, and scooted out the side of the back row of seats.
“Sebastian!” Sylvia clasped her hands over her nose and mouth with a shallow gasp.
“Sylvia.” Seb kept his voice neutral.
Sylvia gripped the top of Seb’s arms and squeezed. “My, my, my. Aren’t you just the spitting image of your father?”
“There’s no need to start with insults.” This might have been a mistake. Seb wasn’t sure how he was going to be pleasant enough to the woman in order to get the required outcome of his impromptu visit.
Sylvia rested her hands on her hips. “Now, Sebastian, I’ll have you know that your father was a devastatingly handsome young man when he was your age.”
Seb snorted. Sylvia’s voice was smooth and well-rehearsed at hiding the brunt of the Brooklyn accent Seb supposed she should have, especially as she’d lived back in her birth city for more time than she’d spent in London as his supposed mother.
“Now what do I owe to have the pleasure of your company? You’ve been here half a year and only now you come see me?”
“You knew I was here?”
“Of course. You think I haven’t been following Saunders & Son with interest?”
“If you knew I was here, then why didn’t you come see me? Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?”
“I wouldn’t know, Sebastian.” Sylvia flicked her long almost jet-black hair over her shoulder. “I wasn’t allowed that right.”
“Because you left.”
“There are things you don’t know, Sebastian.” Sylvia sighed. “I’m sure your father painted the picture he wanted of me for his own benefit.”
“He didn’t really paint you at all. Barely drew a stickman.” He cocked his head. “Woman.”
“Well, that in itself is a portrait.”
Seb narrowed his eyes. His absent mother stood in front of him. All the questions that had burned inside him for fourteen years could finally be answered. She could explain. He could try to understand. Forgive, maybe?
But, more than any of that, he wanted Jay.
“I need your help.”
A smile formed on Sylvia’s cherry-red lips. “Well, I think that warrants a break.” Twisting, she waved a hand across her throat in a cutting motion over at the director, then angled her head for Seb to follow. “I’m rather parched and I think this little reunion requires a vodka martini, wouldn’t you say?”
Seb didn’t reply, but the idea of alcohol might well have been his mother’s best idea yet. So he followed her through the foyer and toward the empty basement VIP bar, thinking it surreal that he was not only in the same room as his estranged mother, but also that she made no attempt to cover up her scantily clad outfit of suspenders and high heels.
No one was behind the bar, so Silvia scooted behind and fixed her own drink. Adding a couple of olives to the cocktail glass, she raised her drawn-on eyebrows at Seb. “Can I tempt you with one of these?”
Seb sank onto one of the tall stools. “Beer?” Why the fuck not? Eleven in the morning was just about respectable enough to be drinking, and he needed it to get through the next half an hour—he wasn’t giving it any longer—of being civil to the heartless bitch who stood front of him.
Silvia pulled out a bottle from the back chillers, popped off the cap and handed it across. She looked like she belonged behind the bar, too, knowing where everything was. Perhaps she had started out as a waitress, much like many a star.
“So tell me, Sebastian. How is your father?”
“Rich, arrogant and a prick.” Seb wrapped his hands around the bottle and lifted it to his lips.
Sylvia laughed, her loud tone reverberating around the otherwise quiet bar. “He hasn’t changed much then.” She twisted the cocktail stick resting on the rim of the glass before picking it up and dragging the olive into her mouth. “Well, I do hope you haven’t turned out like that.”
“I’m rich by association, arrogant about certain things, but no, I’m not a prick.” Seb shrugged, taking a sip from his bottle. “Much of the time.”
Sylvia nodded and perched on the stool next to him. “And to what do you owe your arrogance? Apart from your obvious good looks.”
Seb snorted, then took another swig from his bottle. “Music.”
“Ah, yes. You did always love to make a noise.”
Gripping the bottle tighter, Seb wondered whether to launch it at her.
“I’m kidding, Sebastian.” She pushed his arm. “You played piano like a dream when you were seven. I’m glad to hear it continued and your father didn’t suck that out of you.” Suddenly Sylvia’s exuberant confidence diminished before Seb’s eyes. She bowed her head, running a finger along the rim of her glass. “Did you want to ask me why I left?”
“No. I know why you left. What I didn’t understand was why you refused to take me with you.” Seb slammed the bottle onto the wooden surface of the bar and the froth bubbled up the narrow neck to spurt over his clenched hand. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.” He licked the residue from his fingers.
“I wanted to,” Sylvia mumbled to the carpet.
“Bollocks.”
“Your father had money. He had a house. And a future all planned out for you.”
If Seb didn’t know how good an actress Sylvia was, he’d say she was almost hurt by the admission. But you don’t get high up on the Broadway billboards without knowing how to work your audience.
“I had to leave. I couldn’t be there anymore. Your father was…toxic for me. I wanted to go back onto the stage, he refused many times over, and so when I was offered a fantastic part in a new play here in New York, I told Will I wanted to go home. I’d left everything to marry him. But he wouldn’t give up anything to allow me to follow my dream. Not even you.”
Seb swallowed. That hit a nerve. Could it really have been his father’s refusal to allow Sebastian to go with his mother, rather than Sylvia not wanting him?
“I had nothing, Sebastian. Nothing. By leaving him, I was giving up everything. I had nowhere to live, no money to buy food.”
“Surely you were entitled to something in the divorce? Isn’t that how it works? Half of all assets?”
Sylvia chuckled. “Do you really not know your father at all? A pre-nuptial declared that should I end the marriage, I forgo any share in his wealth. I really was walking away from everything. And I promise you, it was not an easy decision.”
Sylvia’s words rang. Funny how that all sounded so familiar. Seb closed his eyes. Eight months ago, he hadn’t had the guts to do what his mother had done—leave the comfort of Will Saunders’ wealth to seek fame and fortune on his own. And perhaps if he had, he could have been with Jay. Seb shook his head, hating that there was some common ground shared with the woman sat opposite him, apart from the obvious DNA.
“You never once tried to contact me?” Seb ripped the label off the bottle and screwed the paper into a ball. “See how I was?”
“I did. Every birthday I sent you a card, my forwarding address on the envelope in the hope that one day I would get a letter from you, and not a cheque from your father.”
“What?”
Sylvia sighed. “He didn’t want you finding me, Sebastian. He wanted you. You are his son. And I think you know what that means in his family.”
“His heir.”
“Indeed.”
“So you pocketed his money for years to leave me alone?”
Sylvia downed the rest of her drink, held up a finger and stalked out of the bar area. Seb gawked after her, wondering if that was it. That she’d walked away again. After a few moments, Sylvia stormed back, handbag over her shoulder. She plonked it down on the bar and rifled through it. Eventually, she pulled out a leather-bound diary, opened it and rained a multitude of paper cheques onto the counter. Seb flicked through them, his father’s handwriting familiar.
“I didn’t cash a single one. Even when I had nothing.” Sylvia cupped Seb’s chin. “You were never a commodity to me. I don’t know if you can ever understand, but all I had, for as long as I can remember, was a voice and a dream.”
Seb inhaled. A voice and a dream. “Are you singing at the stadium tonight?”
Sylvia cocked her head. “Why, yes I am. Rather a silly thing, really.” She beamed, her confident demeanour on the stage tipping back to the surface. “The producers think it’s a good way to get new audiences interested in musicals and the visiting tourists a flavour of Broadway. If you ask me, a stadium full of soccer fans is not our target market. But what do I know, eh? I’m just the talent. Why?” She took a sip from her glass. “You want to come watch your mother in all her glory?”
“Aren’t you singing the national anthem?”
“No. Gerard managed to sway them into letting some of the orchestra in and doing a number from the production. I won’t tell you the figures involved in that kind of agreement.” She waved a hand. “From these questions, I am assuming this little visit today wasn’t a chance at renewing our maternal relationship?”
“Did we ever have one in the first place?”
“Of course we did, Sebastian,” Sylvia replied with slight exasperation. “We had nearly ten years of mother and son. That big house was ours once, your father rarely around. We used to play hide ‘n’ seek and it would take me hours to find you!” Sylvia chuckled.
Arching an eyebrow, Seb met his mother’s gaze. “Maybe I hid those memories in the same place.”
Sylvia bit her bottom lip. “Okay…who taught you to play Greensleeves on the piano when you were five? Who taught you to sing falsetto? Who came to watch you in the church choir when you sang your first solo? I’ll give you a clue—it wasn’t your father.”
Seb gripped the neck of the beer bottle and lifted it to his mouth. Suppressed memories tumbled forth, and he had to inhale a deep breath. He’d all but forgotten his mother had ever been part of his life. But, now, it all came back—their singing and dancing in the kitchen, their shared love of musical soundtracks, her voice. He could remember playing the piano whilst she sang beside him and his father returning home demanding he should be reciting the twelve times table and not the lyrics to Starlight Express. Seb had locked those memories away because they’d been too fucking painful to recount. The day Sylvia had left had been the last time Seb had felt any real love, care or affection.
Until Jay.
“I want in the stadium.” Seb slammed the bottle onto the bar counter. “I want your slot.”
Gulping the remains of her vodka martini, Sylvia choked and held the back of her hand up to her mouth. “Excuse me?”
“I need to be in that stadium. I need to sing and I want my band to accompany me.”
Sylvia shook her head. “If you want access to music producers, I can do that for you.”
“No. I want in the stadium. Tonight.”
“I simply cannot do that, darling.”
“Yes, you can. Just say we’re your band and when the time comes, we’ll take over.”
“Sebastian.” Sylvia waved a hand at the posters on the wall—of her, as Velma Kelly. “I have a reputation here. It may not mean anything to you, but I am a highly regarded Broadway actress. I can’t let anyone in and take the spotlight from me.”
“I’m not anyone, Sylvia. I’m your fucking son.”
Seb didn’t remove his fixed stare from Sylvia, challenging her. He’d lost many a stare-out with his father, but this one, he wouldn’t back down on.
“Why?” Sylvia broke first.
Seb sucked in a breath. Moment of truth. “I’m in love with someone.”
That had tumbled from his lips with more heartfelt honesty and conviction than Sebastian had ever uttered away from a microphone.
Sylvia smiled, radiance lifting her features. “And this someone happens to be at the game tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And is he a soccer player?”
Seb narrowed his eyes. “You know I’m gay.”
“Of course I know you’re gay, darling.” Sylvia chuckled. “I knew that the day you sang Maybe This Time from Cabaret.”
Seb furrowed his brow, searching the depths of his mind for the memory. “I was eight.”
“Yes. And you were a darling! I was understudying for a few of the West End shows. Cabaret being one. I used to take you along for rehearsals. I turned my back for one minute and you were on that stage singing your heart out better than that ridiculously cheap straight-out-of drama-school girl they had starring as Sally Bowles. Not a dry eye in the house. Had quite a few offers after that to allow you to tread the boards.” She glanced away. “Your father put a stop to that.”
Seb snorted. “How did you even end up with him?”
Sylvia chuckled, shoving her diary back into her bag. “He was a devilishly handsome man. Like I said earlier, you are the spitting image of him. Take away the tattoos and straighten your hair and it would be like sitting across from him twenty-two years ago.”
A flicker of sadness, perhaps even melancholy, danced across Sylvia’s face. But it was gone before Seb even had time to address it, and she straightened and smiled with her usual radiance.
“Anyway, how we met… I was playing the lead in a little off-West End Arts Theatre production. I was nineteen. It was a fantastic opportunity for me. I’d been in touring plays since leaving high school so to land a lead in London was pretty amazing. It was only a six-week run. But there I met your father. He had box seats. I believe he took a client along as his way of clinching a deal. His father—your grandfather—was still the owner of the business then, and Will was gradually taking over the client meetings. Well, I do believe he fell in love with me on that stage. I say me. He fell in love with the character I was playing. He paid the director good money to be able to come backstage and talk to me. He bought me drinks all night and ordered me a chauffeur-driven car home. He came to every show after that, matinee and evening. When the show’s run was up, he asked me to stay in London. He said I could live with him.”
“That’s a bit quick off the mark, isn’t it?”
“I was a nineteen-year-old from the high rises in Brooklyn. Your father was a handsome, rich Englishman. There was no question.” Sylvia ran a hand through her hair and bounced it up again. “I carried on acting. Got a few leads. Your father asked me to marry him. I did. Then I fell pregnant with you. Well, that put an end to all the parts. Your father wouldn’t have me on stage when I was carrying his child.”
Seb raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was hard to think of his father in any way protective of him. Perhaps it was just protecting his future assets.
“Now tell me about your man.” Sylvia smiled.
Seb shifted in the stool, wondering what he should say. He settled on the truth. “His name is Jay.”
“Nice name. American?”
“No. English. London. He’s playing for the other team, West Ham. I met him back home at university.”
“Oh.” Sylvia furrowed her brow, the cracks in her stage make-up seeping into the lines.
Seb sighed. “I left him to come here. I shouldn’t have. I need to rectify that.”
“Oh. And you think singing to him in front of a stadium full of soccer fans is going to do that?”
Seb shrugged. “It’s all I have.” He met his mother’s gaze. “A voice and a dream.”