Cold Shoulder by Lynda La Plante

She read, made some calls, cooked lunch for herself. Food was one of the few pleasures she had left in life. At four o’clock the phone rang. She snatched it up, afraid it would wake Lorraine.
    ‘Hello, is this you, Mommy?’ The high-pitched voice tore at her heart. At last he had called. It was her son.
    ‘Yeah, it’s me. How you doin’, Joey? We gonna meet up? I kinda thought maybe this weekend?’
    ‘I can’t, I got a big game, I’m on the second division basketball team, and so I can’t. I gotta go now.’
    Rosie started to panic. He was going to put the phone down. She wanted to tell him she would drive across LA to see him play, but she stuttered, ‘Wait, Joey, what about you gettin’ a bus out here to me? I can meet you at the depot, Joey? You still there, Joey?’
    ‘I’m goin’ to Florida. Me and Dad are movin’ there, we got a place sorted and everything.’
    ‘Florida?’ Rosie screeched.
    There was an ominous silence. She could hear Joey whispering. ‘Is that woman goin’ with you, Joey? Is — put your dad on the phone, Joey, you hear me? I wanna speak to—’
    Rosie was shaking, she knew that cheap bitch was there, knew she must be putting her ten cents in. Her hand clenched round the receiver as she heard her son calling his father, and then the phone being put down. ‘Hello? Hello?’
    Her ex-husband came on the line — she could even hear his intake of breath as if he was preparing himself to speak to her. It always got her so mad, the way he talked to her, all calm and coming on like he was a shrink, or as if she was ten years old. ‘Rosie?’
    ‘What’s all this about Florida? You never said anythin’ to me about Florida, takin’ my kid to Florida.’
    ‘Rosie, just calm down.’
    ‘I’m calm, for chrissakes. I’m angry too.’
    ‘When we’re settled we’ll write. This is a good job for me, a lot more money.’ The voice was smooth, saying each word too slowly.
    ‘I wanna see Joey. I’m not interested in what you earn — you never paid a cent to me, anyway.’
    There was the sound of heavy breathing and then he repeated slowly and painstakingly that as Rosie had not been awarded visitation rights, never mind custody, she had little say in where her Joey lived. That was up to him and he was making the best decision for his son’s welfare and if she didn’t like it then she should hire a lawyer.
    ‘Oh, yeah? And where do I get that kind of money?’
    ‘You got it to buy booze, Rosie. Maybe you’re stewed right now — you usually have been in the past when you’ve called. It’s been six months since your last call and Joey doesn’t wanna know, Rosie. It’s not me and don’t think it’s Barbara either, he—’
    ‘You bastard.’
    Again the heavy breathing. ‘Rosie, I’m sorry, let’s not be like this. We’ll write, we’ll be in touch and I’m hanging up now because I don’t want to get into an argument. I’m hanging up, Rosie.’
    She looked at the receiver as she heard the line go dead and replaced it gently on the cradle. She patted the phone with the flat of her hand, wishing it was her boy’s head. She didn’t even know how big he was now, it had been such a long time… One day, she told herself, she’d hold him in her arms and he would forgive her. She felt so empty she wanted to cry, for all the lost years.
     
     
    Hours later, Lorraine woke up, heart pounding. There had been a violent crash, as if the front door had been knocked down. Music thumped out, the volume on maximum. She sat up, and eased herself off the bed. She didn’t recognize the screeching, confused voice, and the sound of breaking glass topped even the music.
    Lorraine pushed open the bedroom door, and gasped. Rosie was reeling around the room, falling into furniture, drinking from a quart bottle of bourbon. She leered at Lorraine, and waved the bottle. ‘You wanna drink? Come on in, sit down, have a drink with me!’
    Lorraine watched, incredulous, as Rosie crashed into the