by Adele Parks
Subhash waved to the driver and the cab pulled up next to them, he held open the back door for Stephanie. Before she bent to get in the car, she turned to him and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. ‘You’ve been an amazing friend, Subhash. Throughout this. Before this. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ he said, swallowing down the grief at hearing his love relegated to mere friendship. ‘Take care of yourself, Stephanie Blake.’
‘You too. Goodbye.’
Subhash stayed on the pavement until the cab was out of sight. The sun caught the wing mirror, causing a brief sparkle. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He called another cab. It was time to go home.
54
Kirsten told the police all about that night. They seemed more than happy to listen to every one of the details. They didn’t look shocked or deflated like Jake, or furious like that skinny woman. She just got to have her say.
Kirsten had been so sick. There was no other word for it. Her anger had started deep in the pit of her stomach and from there it had rushed through her bloodstream, into her mind, causing everything to go fuzzy and then blank. She’d tried to listen to Jules. Tried to concentrate on what he had to say but she didn’t agree with him.
No, she did not agree that they both had ‘always known it was just a bit of fun’. No, she did not think that ‘all good things had to come to an end’. No, she did not have ‘lots of great guys her own age queuing up to date her’. And no, no, bloody no, she did not agree that they had to ‘think about his wife and kids now’. Why the sudden attack of conscience? Wasn’t it a bit late in the day for that?
It hurt. Rejection was a nasty thing. She felt grubby and ugly. Used. He made her feel bad. Very, very bad about herself. Kirsten had somehow managed to fake a sense of serenity, that she was a million miles away from him as she’d pulled on her clothes and reached for her bag and car keys. Surely, once he realised she was going to leave him, he’d try to stop her, she’d reasoned to herself. Once he understood what he was losing, he’d regret all the things he’d just said, wouldn’t he? But then, she’d caught his reflection in the mirror hung on the hotel bedroom wall and he’d looked relieved, almost happy! It had been the final insult.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she’d said stiffly. ‘It is time you started doing the right thing by your family.’
‘I’m so glad you understand,’ Julian had replied. ‘No hard feelings, hey? We had fun, didn’t we?’
My God, it was as though he was about to offer his hand for her to shake! She’d smiled coldly and said, ‘I think the best thing to do is tell your wife exactly what’s been going on. Let’s make a fresh start and all that.’
The colour had flooded from Julian’s face. It was quite comical really, if you thought about it. ‘Oh no. No. I don’t think there’s any need for that.’ He’d laughed nervously and inappropriately.
‘Oh, I do,’ Kirsten had replied firmly, as she made for the door.
She’d quickly put some distance between then. She was younger and fitter than he was and he’d had to pause to find the room key. Jules probably hadn’t wanted to risk making a fool of himself in front of the night porter because he’d slowed down his run to a fast walk as he passed through reception. He needn’t have bothered, the night porter was nowhere to be seen, he’d been in the bathroom, otherwise the whole thing would have been witnessed.
Jules had followed her outside. She’d parked in the furthest extremity of the car park because she’d been nervous about reversing into any of the tighter but more convenient spots. She’d heard him charge along the gravel path, he was in such a state that he hadn’t even noticed his own wife’s car, neatly parked close to the reception. He’d run on and on, towards the headlamps of Kirsten’s car. Kirsten realised that all he cared about was stopping her. He had to! Of course he didn’t want his wife to know about any of this. It was clear that he thought it would be the worst thing in the world if she found out. He didn’t want to hurt his wife. He’d never planned to hurt her. Kirsten understood; Jules loved his wife.
That was clearly his only thought.
That was his last thought.
55
It was after 7 p.m. by the time Stephanie arrived at the hospital, visitors were swarming out of the wards and private rooms, rushing through the corridors. Some were dashing, secretly keen to leave the sickness and sorrow behind and get on with their weekend, others were reluctant to step away from their loved ones’ beds and walked while looking back over their shoulders. Steph felt like a trout swimming upstream.
‘Excuse me, excuse me, can I get past?’ she mumbled repeatedly. A few sensed her urgency and desperation and stepped aside for her, many were too wrapped up in their own dramas to make allowances.
All day in the police station, in the cab and as she wound her way through the labyrinth of corridors, hundreds of thoughts had tumbled around her mind. First and foremost she thought of Julian. Julian had chosen her? That’s what Subhash believed had happened that night. Was it true? Was it possible? Please, God, oh please, God. Steph was now certain that all that mattered was that she and Julian had the chance to patch this up, pick up the pieces and mend their marriage. If he loved her, if he’d chosen her then she could forgive him.
After he’d done a lot of grovelling of course.
A lot of grovelling.
But she knew she could. Fifteen years of marriage, three sons, weekends that bled into bank holidays that melted into weekdays. All those sunny days, wet days, happy days, sad days that she’d been remembering. The months and seasons, and their never-was baby meant more than Subhash’s sincere friendship and shimmering flirtation and so it certainly meant a damn sight more than a phone full of grubby texts and a bit of thoughtless sex in a hotel room.
She loved him. Right now she wasn’t proud of him or even pleased with him. But she still loved her husband and she was so desperately worried about him.
Stephanie also thought about her boys. Harry had Julian’s sporting ability and competitive spirit. Alfie’s beautiful eyes were his father’s gift, and darling Freddie already showed signs of inheriting Julian’s sense of humour. They were terrific boys. Wonderful. They were their boys. Julian’s and hers. They’d made them. Given them life.
Steph thought about Pip. Bloody Pip. Poor Pip. Sometimes selfish, sometimes perfect Pip. God, she’d tear a strip off her if she hadn’t managed to send that bloody sample to Selfridges yet. Pip must not muck up this chance at her new career. Pip was at the starting line again. She’d been around the block but now there were new chances, new possibilities. Please God this Robbie wasn’t a total waster like Dylan. Or Philippe or Jacob or any of the others. What had Pip said he did for a living? A fertility nurse? Well, it was different and somehow promising. Less flashy than the musicians and photographers and male models and such that Pip had dated in the past.
Even though her husband was in a coma, Steph felt hopeful. Although she’d only been detained by the police for the best part of a day, she suddenly valued her freedom so much more than she ever had. She wanted to celebrate or at least appreciate every single minute. She wanted time to count. She’d been bored and frustrated when she’d let Subhash into her life. She’d allowed time to become stale and sloppy. Once the boys were all at school, she’d lost her verve and focus. Never again. Finally, Steph could see her future quite clearly once more. Julian would get better. They’d go home. They’d have a day where they’d eat nothing other than cherries and chocolate and crisps and cashew nuts. Everything would be just fine.
Steph sped through the doors that said Intensive Care Unit. She heard someone call out her name.
‘Mrs Blake, Mrs Blake.’
But she didn’t pause. She just had to be with Julian. She pushed open the door to his room and ran in.
The bed was empty.
It had been stripped.
The room was bleak and blank. No sign of Harold or James or her parents. No sign of Julian.
‘Mrs
Blake, Mrs Blake.’ The nurse repeating her name was now at her side.
‘Where is he?’ asked Steph. But she knew.
The nurse put her hand on Steph’s arm. ‘You don’t know? You haven’t been told? I’m sorry, someone should have spoken to you. He’s gone.’ The nurse spoke with great tenderness and care but this news could not be anything other than annihilating.
Stephanie threw both her hands over her mouth to stop herself screaming. She understood. She was too late. Tears were in her eyes and nose in a moment. She felt the room wobble around her. She couldn’t take her eyes off his empty bed. There were no good luck cards, no throw, and no cushions. It had all been cleared out already. She’d been at the police station when she should have been here. She could have been here but Pip hadn’t given her an alibi. Or maybe she wasn’t here because she hadn’t told the truth – she’d been so ashamed about where she’d been on that night. It didn’t matter which way you looked at it. It was all over. Julian was dead. He was dead. He’d gone.
56
‘Somebody should have told you, Mrs Blake,’ said the nurse. She was a compact woman, with short brown hair that could only just be scraped back into a ponytail. She seemed kind, sensible and practical, all the things Steph normally loved in a person but Steph hated the woman for delivering this destroying news. The nurse was unaware that Steph loathed her and she gently guided Steph to a chair. ‘You poor woman. You’ve been through such a lot,’ she mumbled. She poured Steph some water from the jug on the bedside table and watched while she drank it.
‘I’m sorry, it must be such a shock. But it is good news. Finally.’
‘Sorry?’
‘He’s out of intensive care. He’s gone to a ward because he’s spoken a few words. First, he moved his foot, that was this morning, at about eleven. We’ve been trying to get in touch with you but we couldn’t reach you. Then, this afternoon, there was a rumpus with his colleagues, and he started to say a few words. All your family are with him now. Including your sons.’
‘What? Where?’ Steph couldn’t take it in. She’d thought he was dead. Gone. She’d said gone. ‘He’s not dead?’
‘No.’ Now the nurse looked confused. ‘He’s gone to a ward. Ward number thirty-two, I think. I’ll check for you. He’s spoken, Mrs Blake. There’s every sign that there’ll be a full recovery.’
‘What were his words? What did he say first?’ Steph asked excitedly.
‘I think he said shut up,’ said the nurse with a beam. ‘Then he said Stephanie.’
57
Stephanie thought there was a very good chance that she’d drop dead herself before she found ward thirty-two, her heart was beating so furiously. He was alive! His first word (after shut up) had been Stephanie. He was alive and coming out of his coma. Thankyouthankyouthankyou, God. Now, she’d have a chance to tell him what a total bastard he was and what hell he’d put her through.
And how much she loved him and what she was prepared to go through.
The ward was quite a small one, there were only four beds in it. Julian was in the one in the far right-hand corner. Even though it was against visiting rules (each patient was officially limited to two visitors at a time) he was surrounded by the people who loved him; the nurses had obviously decided to turn a blind eye. Steph paused in the doorway to gather her breath and her thoughts. She’d done the same thing just before she walked down the aisle to marry him all those years ago. In many ways she felt like she was making that decision all over again. She was committing to him. She was giving herself to him.
She had time to notice that there was no longer a tube in his neck, he was breathing through an oxygen mask. He was still lying down but he was smiling at something her mother had said. The colour had crept back into her mother’s cheeks, she was laughing unstintingly, the joke registered in her eyes. Freddie was sitting on his granny’s knee, he was walking a small Pokémon model up and down her arm, Alfie was on the end of his dad’s bed and Harry was standing so close that he was practically in the bed with Julian. All three boys were beaming and chatting and pretty soon they would be squabbling, the relief was palpable and overwhelming. They had been granted a reprieve too. They’d been allowed to re-enter their own lives.
Her father and Julian’s brother were chatting to one another. Their voices were ebullient and a little too loud for a hospital ward. Excitedly they cut across one another, simply too cheerful to be polite or proper. Harold, Julian’s father, was by contrast silent. He’d been strong and steadfast throughout the last few days but now he looked sapped. Now he knew his son was out of danger he no longer felt the need to sit upright and tense on the edge of the chair as though he was urging his son on, hoping against hope that he’d slice through the ribbon and make it to the end of the race to have a tickertape moment. Julian had won. Harold was now so relaxed he looked boneless. He was flopped in amongst the cushions on the visitor’s chair, not bothering to contribute to any of the conversations going on around him, simply happy to stare at his son – in gratitude and with love.
Pip and Chloe were at the foot of the bed, they were talking to a nurse, a male nurse. Well, not so much talking, more giggling, sort of flirting – even Chloe! Oh, a thought occurred to Steph, might he be the male nurse? Was that Robbie? Very possibly because he had gorgeous sparkling eyes and high cheekbones and while Pip didn’t usually fall for nurses, she often fell for sparkling eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Julian’s eyes flicked towards the doorway almost as though he sensed his wife, at least as though he was waiting for her. He saw that Steph was standing in a pool of grief and relief, regret and happiness. All the visitors followed his gaze and then the ward erupted into spontaneous shouts of glee and demands as to where she’d been and why wasn’t her phone charged up! What had taken her so long? They’d been so worried about her. Her family and friends swarmed, demanding and delivering hugs, beaming at her, congratulating her and then, as though they’d passed some telepathic signal, they melted away.
‘We’ll give you some peace and privacy.’
‘He’s been asking for you.’
‘We’ll take the boys home, get them put to bed.’
Steph stood next to her husband’s bed and they locked eyes. The silence spoke volumes and stretched for miles. Eventually she retreated into the obvious ice-breaker. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Good, good,’ muttered Julian. His voice was scratchy but then he had a hole in his throat so that was understandable. She raised her eyebrows, questioningly. ‘No really. I’m good, I’m so bloody grateful,’ he gasped.
‘Right.’ Steph nodded but found she couldn’t really say as much as she wanted. Tears had erupted from nowhere, again. The first she realised was when she noted the neck of her shirt was wet.
‘I’m grateful to be alive.’ Steph had to lean very close to her husband’s mouth to hear him properly, the oxygen mask and the hole in his throat were making things tricky. ‘Because I wanted to live—’
‘Well, of course.’
Julian moved his oxygen mask away from his mouth. He wanted to be clear. Steph gasped. ‘Put it back on.’
‘I’m OK,’ he assured her. ‘I wanted to live with you and the boys.’ He paused then scanned his wife’s face in order to ascertain exactly what she knew. He read her like a book. She knew everything. He would have told her anyhow and then said what he had to say; now he knew he just had to get to the crux. ‘I wanted to live so that I could say sorry, Steph. To say I’m really, completely and off the scale sorry.’
‘It doesn’t cover it,’ said Steph.
‘No, I know, absolutely. I’m just saying . . .’ Julian caught his wife’s grin. He’d seen that exact same grin many times in the past. She’d thrown him that particular grin over the student union bar, on the sidelines of rugby matches, when she accepted his proposal, when she handed him his newborns and on countless other occasions. But he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen that particular grin, he thought she’d forgotten how
to do it and so he was very glad to see it again. It was a grin that was full of promise and gladness and magnificent, unregulated excitement. It had a hint of the flirt too.
‘I am sorry. I was stupid and—’
Steph shook her head. ‘Don’t try and explain it all now, Julian. Just get better. We can talk later. We have plenty of time.’
‘Do we? Do we have plenty of time?’ He hadn’t been certain. Even getting well didn’t guarantee he’d still have plenty of time with Steph, not after what he’d done.
‘Oh God, don’t you start crying too. It’s like a tsunami in here,’ laughed Steph through her own tears.
‘It’s the drugs, not emotion,’ said Julian. ‘I’m a British man,’ he joked.
‘Yes, exactly.’
Julian stared at his wife with total gratitude and admiration. ‘So what’s next?’ he asked.
In that one sentence Julian acknowledged something that all partners know but occasionally forget. The truth is, sometimes one of you has no idea. One of you makes a mistake. One of you screws it all up. But it’s OK because there are two of you. That’s the point. So the other can pick up the reins for a while. Keep the wagons rolling. Until the one who has no idea and has screwed it all up finds a way back on to the track.
‘Like I said, first you have to get better. And then when you are, when there are no machine’s feeding you, or draining you, or monitoring your heart rate or your blood pressure or your oxygen levels, well, then we’re going to throw a big party.’
‘We will?’ Julian smiled.
‘Yes. A massive, alcohol-fuelled party with incredibly loud music and no seating plan, there might not be chairs at all, in fact. And we’re going to drag the rug into the middle of the sitting room and that will be our makeshift dance floor.’
