Book Four: Thirty Days, Book 4

by Bibi Paterson

  “How did he know what you would be wearing?” I ask the question that has continually frustrated me.

  “Detective Stanton and her team somehow managed to trace his steps via CCTV cameras and discovered that he had a flat no one knew about here in London this whole time. He had another identity that no one knew about, including a passport, which is how he was moving around. Turns out the whole migrant thing was just another ruse; he actually arrived in London on the Eurostar under his false name. At the flat, they found copies of my entire wardrobe which I guess he’d been using when he tried to pretend to be me at the office. The suit I chose that night was one I had had for a good few years so that’s why he had the same one.

  “Richard showed up on some of the hotel’s footage dressed as a waiter so we can only assume that he waited until he saw what I was wearing and then changed.”

  “But why on earth would he bother changing if he was planning on shooting you?” I ask, my thoughts in a whirl as I try to make sense of it all.

  “I have no idea, Abs,” Taylor says with a sigh. “I’ve been speaking to David about it and his thoughts on Richard were that he was a narcissist. That it was all about putting on a display to show how important he was, that he was the one with the power and control. The more I’ve read about it, the more his behaviour, since I was little, seems to make sense. Apparently people with the kind of narcissistic personality disorder Richard seemed to have had are generally characterised by exaggerated feelings of self-importance. The reading I’ve done seems to suggest that people like Richard appear to have a sense of entitlement and have a strong need for admiration, but lack feelings of empathy for others.” Listening to Taylor, it sounds like he’s parroting a textbook which he probably is if he’s been doing all this research.

  Wow, that pretty much seems to sum up Richard in a nutshell. “I guess we now know what was wrong with him but I’m so pissed off he ruined your party!” I exclaim as my anger suddenly rises to the surface.

  “Yeah, me too, Abs,” Taylor sighs. “It was a pretty awesome party.”

  “It was,” I say. “You never got to try your cakes. I never even got to dance and the band we got in was so good as well.”

  “Another time, Abs,” Taylor promises. “But first we need to get you back on your feet before you get to put on your dancing shoes.”

  “My dress,” I suddenly moan, covering my face.

  “Ruined, I’m afraid. They cut it off you,” Taylor responds. I know it’s stupid and only a dress but it truly made me feel beautiful and knowing that that fucker was the cause of its ruination makes my blood boil.

  “But he really is dead?” I ask, just for clarification.

  “As a doornail,” Taylor says seriously. “His funeral is tomorrow.”

  “Jeez, that’s fast,” I comment not sure what else to say.

  “Yeah, we thought it best to get it over and done with quickly so we can all start putting this behind us. When they told Mother, she completely lost it again. They’ve had her sedated for the last couple of days so it will just be Grandmother, Stix and myself there. It’s just going to be a simple service at the crematorium where we had my dad’s funeral. Seems kind of fitting.” Taylor lets out a hollow laugh and I can tell he is affected by all of this, no matter how much he tries to play it down.

  “And me,” I say firmly.

  “No way, Abs,” Taylor disagrees.

  “Yes way,” I say firmly. “No offence Taylor, but your brother has done his best to destroy us these last nine months. And has been like chasing fucking shadows. I want…no, I need to know for my own peace of mind that he is actually gone. And I’ll only really believe it if I watch him burn with my own two eyes.”

  “Abs, you are in no shape to go. Please, you need to rest!” Taylor insists.

  “If one more person tells me I need to rest…” I growl not finishing my sentence. “Please, Taylor, I need this, I really do.”

  Taylor lapses into silence and I can tell he is thinking about it, mulling over my mental health versus my physical one. “Fine, but it’s up to the doctors. If they say you are not up to going, then I’m not arguing with them.”

  “Alright,” I agree.

  The Twenty-Ninth

  “I’m really not sure about this, Abs,” Taylor says with frustration as he helps me into a simple navy wrap dress.

  “Zip it, Taylor. The doctor had said he would discharge me today. You’ve already hired a nurse to check on me at home so we are set. I want to go home, Taylor. This place is great, and they really have taken great care with us but I want to take Millie home. I want to sleep in my own bed. But first I want to make sure that Richard is well and truly gone.” I’m sincere in my feelings and I guess Taylor realises it for himself because he just sighs and bends down to help me slip my shoes on.

  Taylor was surprised when my surgeon signed me off. I think he was counting on the doctors refusing to let me leave but both my gunshot wound and C-section incision are healing nicely and now it is just a matter of time.

  My mum comes hurrying through the door into my room and greets us both with a quick kiss. “Sorry, we’re late, sweetie. Your dad couldn’t find his phone on the way out.”

  “It’s no problem, Mum. We’re just waiting for Dr Foster so give me my discharge papers and then we are ready to go. Are you sure you are okay with taking Millie back to the flat? We don’t anticipate the funeral taking too long.”

  When I had told my mother I was planning on attending the funeral, she had suggested babysitting saying that a funeral was no place for a baby. To be honest, I had been wondering how we were going to juggle me in the wheelchair that they are insisting I go home in and a baby carrier.

  “I still can’t get my head around calling her Millie,” my mum comments. “She is still Bean in my head.”

  “I know what you mean. I think she will always be my little Bean.” I tell her about Taylor’s idea to make it her middle name and Mum dissolves into a fit of giggles when I tell her that we might as well have called her Jelly.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask wondering where my father is.

  “He’s just waiting out the front.” Mum turns to Taylor, “Is my girl ready to go?”

  “Got her right here,” Taylor says holding up the baby carrier where Millie is fast asleep. He hands my mum her change bag and starts issuing instructions like a military commander.

  “Relax, Taylor. I have done this before you know,” my mum says with a chuckle.

  “I know, I know,” Taylor grins wryly. “It’s just the first time I’m not looking after my baby girl and it feels kind of weird.”

  “It’s all good, Taylor. I know how hard it letting go. But we’ll see you at your place in a couple of hours.”

  “Thanks so much, Gina. We really appreciate it,” Taylor responds. “Let me walk you out.”

  Mum leans down to where I’m sitting in the armchair and gives me a gentle hug before murmuring into my ear so that only I can hear, “I hope it goes okay today, Abs. We’ll be thinking of you sweetie.”

  “Thanks, Mum. It should be fine,” I murmur back, really hoping that things will be okay today.

  Taylor and Mum have just left when Dr Foster and a nurse enter the room with my discharge papers. I thank them profusely for everything they’ve done.

  “It’s our pleasure, Abby. You are healing up nicely but please try to take it easy and not do too much.” Dr Foster reaches out to shake my hand.

  “How much longer do I need to keep this on?” I ask indicating at the sling I am wearing to support my shoulder.

  “It will depend on how you get on with your physical therapy. I want you back in here in a couple of weeks. I’ll have my receptionist, Sally, give you a call and set up a time for you to come in.”

  “Thanks, Dr Foster, and you Annie,” I say turning to the nurse who has been looking after me for the last couple of days.

  Taylor returns and then it is time to go. I am loaded into a wheelchair and Taylor pu
shes me through the maze of hospital corridors until we come out of a side entrance where Taylor has a car ready and waiting for us. As if I’m precious cargo, Taylor loads me into the backseat, murmuring apologies when I wince with pain.

  “Are you ready for this?” I ask Taylor softly.

  “I have to be, Abs.” My heart breaks. I know Taylor thinks he has to be the strong one but I wish he would realise that he is not alone.

  By the time the car pulls up outside the crematorium, a terrible sense of déjà vu descends over me. I can’t believe in just under a month we are back here again. The weather has turned and a light drizzle is coming down from the skies. The driver hurries around to the boot and pulls out the folding wheelchair that we have been loaned. Taylor helps me into it before quickly pushing me into the entrance and under cover where Genevieve and Stix are waiting for us.

  “Hey,” I greet them both. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “Not at all, darling,” Genevieve says to me. “We have about five minutes before we need to go in. You are looking much better, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks so much,” I respond. “I am definitely feeling a lot better.”

  The hearse pulls up containing the coffin, a bare wooden affair that is a complete contrast to Harold’s elaborate final resting place. Genevieve has been the one to sort the funeral arrangements taking it upon herself to relieve Taylor of the responsibility.

  The service is short and perfunctory with even the minister struggling to find any kind words. Stix is sobbing into Taylor’s arms while Genevieve stares stoically ahead. And me…well, I’m just finding some kind of sick relief in the knowledge that Richard is no longer around to torment and harass us.

  Once the service is over Taylor insists that everyone comes back to the flat. Stix has been staying with Genevieve while I’ve been in the hospital but I’m not sure what the plans are now we are finally in a position to return home.

  It’s late in the afternoon when we all pull up outside the back entrance of Bread & Cake. The rain has not let up all day and has shifted from a gentle drizzle to a torrential downpour so that even in the short time it takes to enter the flat we are all drenched.

  A rich, delicious aroma permeates the air and I sniff it appreciatively. My dad has obviously heard us arrive and quickly comes down the stairs to give Taylor a hand getting me up them.

  “Come on people,” I complain. “I’m sure I can make it up a flight of stairs by myself. I’m not helpless you know.” Taylor gives me a look that says it all. “Well, not completely helpless anyway,” I grumble.

  They back off and give me some room and a few minutes later I’m at the top, out of breath but there under my own steam. I’m ridiculously proud of myself.

  “Hmm, something smells good,” Taylor comments as everyone else makes it to the top of the stairs.

  My mum is standing at the kitchen counter top tossing a salad. “Lasagne,” she says. “Thought you might be hungry by the time you all got back.”

  Genevieve goes into the kitchen and accepts the hug my mother offers. In the course of planning Taylor’s party over the last couple of months, they have gotten to know each other really well. I think my mum sees something of Nonna in Genevieve and Genevieve sees something of the daughter-in-law she always wished for in my mother. It really is a win-win situation.

  “Where’s my baby girl?” I ask out loud, not spotting her anywhere.

  “I popped her into her crib after her last bottle for a sleep. She’s been down for an hour so I would imagine she is probably going to wake up soon,” Dad responds smoothly like he’s an expert in all things ‘baby’ and I give him a grin as I try to imagine him with Millie.

  Taylor attempts to take my arm to help me but I shake him off. “Please, Taylor, I need to try and get some of my independence back. Just let me walk by myself. I’ll call you if I need a hand. I promise!”

  I can see him wrestling with his need to wrap me up in cotton wool but in the end he relents and gives me a brief nod. I slowly make my way through to Millie’s room, pausing at the doorway when I spot her in the crib. The sight brings a tear to my eye.

  The course of my pregnancy has been a rollercoaster ride of epic proportions. There were times when I couldn’t even imagine that she would be here. But seeing her tiny little chest rising and falling gently as she slumbers stirs a deep well of emotion that I struggle to choke back. I creep forward quietly, not wanting to disturb her sleep and bend over the crib leaning on the wooden railings for support. As if sensing my presence her little arms begin to move and then her eyes slowly open.

  “Hi, baby girl,” I murmur gently as I reach down to stroke her soft cheek. I sense rather than hear Taylor come up behind me and stare down into the crib.

  “She’s so beautiful,” he remarks. “Just like her mum.”

  “Ha ha,” I laugh. Beautiful is not exactly how I would describe myself at the moment. The last time I looked in the mirror my features were pale and pinched and, despite the rest I had been getting in the hospital, the dark circles surrounding them making my eyes look bruised.

  “Seriously, Abby. I know you don’t agree with me right now but to me you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Even more so since you brought our gorgeous little angel into the world.” Taylor runs his hand down my back and lingers on my waist as we stare down at our daughter as she begins to wriggle around in her crib. Millie begins to make little mewling sounds so Taylor reaches in and picks her up offering up soothing noises as he rocks her gently.

  “Aw, look who’s awake,” my mother comments as we make our way back through to the living area.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Taylor asks his grandmother and she smiles before telling him that she would love to. They move across to the sofa and settle down.

  I head across to the breakfast bar and ease myself onto a stool. I watch in contentment as my parents work together making up loaves of garlic bread to go with the lasagne currently bubbling away in the oven. Stix has reappeared from her bedroom and is currently painting her toenails while Taylor and Genevieve play with Millie. It’s a scene of gorgeous domesticity that fills me with a warm, fuzzy feeling; we really are home.

  The Thirtieth

  As I wake up, I move my good arm above my head, enjoying the feeling of the muscles and tendons stretching out. A night in my own bed was just the tonic I needed. Millie woke up a couple of times during the night for bottles so Taylor got her changed and prepped the bottles before laying her on a cushion beside me so that I could feed her one-handed. But despite the interrupted sleep I have woken up feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world.

  Taylor snores softly beside me and when I glance at the Moses basket beside me, I can see that Millie is still fast asleep. I am desperate for a coffee, some real extra-caffeinated coffee, so I slide as gracefully as possible from the bed, adjusting my sling and wincing a little as I feel a tug on the stitches of my C-section incision.

  I pad quietly through to the living room relishing the silence and the fact that no one is hovering over me. As lovely as it is having everyone around me wanting to help, after a while it does begin to wear a little thin. By the time I’ve managed to single-handedly make myself up a large latte, using my machine no less, I feel a strange sense of accomplishment. I may be down, but I’m certainly not out.

  The rain from yesterday has disappeared and sunlight streams through the skylights, brightening up the large space. I walk through to my little garden, cracking open the windows so that a refreshing breeze floats through the room. I set down my mug carefully, before lowering myself into my wicker chair. It’s still early in the morning, the breeze bringing with it a slight chill so I pull a soft blanket that’s draped across the back of the chair over my legs.

  As I sip my coffee slowly, I close my eyes and just simply enjoy the scents and the sounds surrounding me. The slap of bare feet on the slate tiles makes me aware of another presence and I open my eyes to find Stix looking
down at me with concern.

  While Genevieve had politely declined our offer to stay the night, Stix had insisted she wanted to be around to help with Millie. While Taylor had run his Grandmother home last night, Stix had asked my mother to teach her how to change Bean’s nappy and prepare a bottle for her. It was so sweet, watching the two of them, but I couldn’t help the pangs of jealousy that coursed through me; I should be the one doing it.

  “You okay, Abs?” Stix asks quietly.

  “I’m fine, lovely. Just enjoying an early morning coffee in the peace and quiet,” I respond with a smile.

  “Oh, do you want me to go?” Stix says suddenly looking unsure.

  “Not at all. It’s just in the hospital things never seemed to be still. There were always nurses popping in to check on me, even during the night, doctors doing rounds and the noise of other people. Believe me, even posh hospitals are noisy, despite the luxury,” I laugh. “It’s just nice to be, you know?”

  “I know what you mean,” Stix comments. “It always feels so peaceful in here.”

  “Pull up a pew,” I suggest.

  “Cool, just going to make a cuppa. Do you want a refill?” she asks. I tell her that I’m fine and she wanders back through to the kitchen to make herself some tea.

  Listening to the sounds of her banging around, I let out a sigh of contentment. I’m home at last. If someone had told me last week that Taylor’s party would have ended with me getting shot and Bean being born by C-section, I would have told them that they were barking mad. Even now the memories have taken on a kind of surreal quality, like the whole thing was just a bad dream. It’s only when I tweak my shoulder or sit funny or try to pick something up that’s a little too heavy that I’m reminded it was in fact very real.