by Kate Hewitt
Upstairs Owen swiped the key card and then stepped aside for Emily to enter before following her in and closing the door quietly behind him. She turned to him, startled.
“Don’t you have your own room?”
“They only had the one room left.” He felt no guilt about lying; he suspected Emily would want to insist on having her own space, and he had no intention of giving it to her. “There are two beds,” he pointed out, and she just nodded.
The room was small and utilitarian, with a window overlooking a ventilation shaft. Now that they were both inside, Owen could acknowledge it was going to be very close quarters. Even so he didn’t regret his decision.
Emily used the bathroom first, and emerged in a pair of leggings and a T-shirt that emphasised her slender form and reminded Owen that these were very close quarters indeed. As she walked by him, he smelled the light, floral scent of her perfume.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, self-consciously clad in a T-shirt and his boxers, Emily was already tucked up in bed, her knees to her chest, her back to him.
Owen climbed in the other bed and closed his eyes as he tried to relax. He didn’t think he’d ever been in a more surreal situation.
*
Emily didn’t think she’d sleep, not after everything. Even with her eyes shut, images danced across her agonised mind: her mother lying in the sterile-looking hospital bed, restraints on her wrists and ankles, doped up to the gills. Her face had been bloodied, her skinny arms covered in bruises. The nurse had explained as succinctly as possible what had happened—how the police had been called after Naomi, in the grip of a psychotic episode, had attacked someone in the street before trying to kill herself, dragging a broken bottle across her wrists.
Emily had listened, silent and dazed, taking in every detail even though it felt as if they were bouncing off her brain. They’d been here before. Not this room, not even this hospital, but this place, oh yes. Her mother having a psychotic episode, attempting suicide, needing to be restrained, drugged up and deadened. Yes, they’d been here before.
And it was a place Emily hated. Why hadn’t she seen the warning signs? Her mother going off her medication, and then insisting she was back on it… Emily should have known. Of course she should have. She’d chosen to believe her mum, to let it go, because it had been easier. Because she’d been both too scared and too tired to consider the agonising alternative. And now her mother was in intensive care, and she was here, and it felt as if her whole world had fallen apart. Again.
Her brain and body both ached as the images continued to flash through her mind—not just from the hospital but also from her childhood. A kitchen full of broken dishes. Her mother crying silently in the bath. Waking up to the manic movements of her mother deep cleaning their flat at two a.m.
At some point, mid-memory, she must have fallen asleep, deeply and dreamlessly, because the next thing she knew she was waking up to bright sunlight and the sound of the shower running. She was alone in the hotel room. Owen’s bed looked rumpled, the pillow possessing a dent from where his head had been. If she put her hand there, she thought it would still be warm. Not that she would do something so weird, of course.
Emily sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She felt tired and hungover even though she hadn’t had much to drink last night. Her head ached and her mouth was dry and as she sat there, listening to Owen humming quite tunefully in the shower, she remembered what an idiotic zombie she’d been last night, too dazed to take anything in, letting him lead her from pillar to post like she was ill or brainless or both. What must he have thought of her? What did he think of her now? Why did she care?
And yet she did care, even if she didn’t have the emotional head or heart space to dwell on it, or the kiss that had been interrupted by the call about her mother.
That kiss…
For a second Emily closed her eyes as she remembered how lovely it had felt to be in Owen’s arms, his mouth moving so surely over hers. It had felt both thrillingly exciting and wonderfully safe, which was a combination that didn’t make sense and threatened to do Emily’s head in. She couldn’t think about that kiss now.
The door to the bathroom opened while she was still sitting there, staring vacantly into space and sporting a serious case of bedhead.
Owen emerged from the steamy bathroom with a towel slung around his shoulders, his dark hair damp and curly. He was dressed in a fresh rugby shirt and a pair of jeans; he must have had spare clothes in the van, not that Emily had paid any attention. He gave her a concerned smile now.
“Did you sleep all right?”
“Erm…” Emily pushed a hand through her hair as she tried to make her brain feel less fuzzy. “Yes. I think so. Surprisingly.” Owen nodded, his sympathetic gaze scanning her face, making Emily realise how she looked. Sleepy and messy, in her pyjamas, exposed. More vulnerable than she ever wanted to be, and that wasn’t even thinking about last night and what Owen must have seen and surmised from the hospital…
“They have a breakfast buffet downstairs,” he said as he rubbed his hair with the towel, his dark hair springing into curls like the wool of a lamb. “And then we can head back to the hospital. Is there a certain time they’re expecting you?”
“The visiting hours start at ten.” Although what state her mother would be in then, Emily had no idea.
“All right. It’s only a little after eight now. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Okay. I’ll take a shower, then.” She grabbed her clothes and then sidled past him with an awkward smile; this whole situation really was incredibly weird. She’d never been in one like it before. It had always been just her and her mum, and when her mum was sick, it was just her.
Having someone else involved felt very different, and Emily wasn’t sure she even knew what to do with Owen. She wanted him to leave her alone, and yet at the same time she wanted him to stay. Clearly her emotions were all over the place.
A long, hot shower definitely made her feel better, though, and once she was dressed in one of her armour-like outfits, tailored trousers and a button-down blouse, with her hair and make-up done, she felt ready to face the day—and her mother.
Owen raised his eyebrows as she emerged from the bathroom in her polished state. “You look like you’re ready to chair a board meeting.”
“I might go into work later,” she said, which made her realise she hadn’t actually texted Henry to let him know she wouldn’t be showing up in less than an hour. When she reached for her phone to text him, though, she found the battery was dead. She’d forgotten to charge it last night, which was so unlike her.
“I’ll call Jace,” Owen told her easily. “And he can let Henry or Alice know.”
Emily knew she didn’t have much choice; she didn’t actually know Henry’s mobile off by heart. Still, she didn’t like feeling so out of control, even with such little things. Wordlessly she nodded, and then listened, cringing inwardly, as Owen spoke to Jace.
“Hey, mate, could you do me a favour? Emily’s in London to visit her mum in hospital and she’s not going to be able to get into work today. Could you let Alice or Henry know? Thanks.” As he disconnected the call, he raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?”
“Everyone’s going to be wondering,” she said, feeling as if she were squirming inside. “What’s wrong with my mum…why you were the one who was ringing…”
“Is that so bad?”
“Yes.” The word burst out of her. “I’m a very private person.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He gave her a measured look. “You don’t have to go into detail with everyone, but people want to help, Emily.” He paused. “I do.”
“You are helping.” She reached for her bag and began stuffing her pyjamas into it. “You drove me here, after all.” She kept her head lowered, her face averted from his as she zipped up the bag. “Why don’t we get some breakfast?”
Chapter Eleven
Owe
n watched as Emily sat down across from him, having just been to the breakfast buffet. She had a plate with some fresh fruit and little bowl of yoghurt, and a cup of coffee, which she placed precisely to the top right of her plate. Knife and fork were set in parallel lines on either side of the plate, and it wasn’t until she had everything arranged just so that she looked up and caught him staring. She frowned.
“What is it?”
He nodded towards her food. “You’ve got a little routine going there, don’t you?” He’d meant it teasingly, but colour flooded her face as she looked away.
“I like things a certain way.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He eyed her speculatively as she gave her fork one last tweak and then spread her napkin in her lap. Emily David was proving to be far more of a conundrum that he’d originally thought. The last twelve hours had certainly shown him that. Her mother…her vulnerability…their kiss.
Their kiss, Owen acknowledged, had been mind-blowing. Life-changing. He’d kissed a fair few women in his time, but no one, no one, had made him feel like that. As if the top of his head was coming off and his heart was expanding to fill up his body. It had been sweetness and fire and yearning and completion all at once, and it had just been a kiss. He didn’t know whether to be terrified or elated. He decided he was both, not that he was going to reveal either emotion to Emily anytime soon. He had a feeling she’d be completely freaked out, and he might be, too.
But that kiss certainly put today in perspective, because coming to London wasn’t so much about offering a favour to a friend, but supporting a woman he was already starting to care about. Which was something else he wasn’t going to be telling Emily anytime soon.
Because that really did freak him out.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked as he dug into his plateful of bacon and eggs. “Go to the hospital, see your mum…?”
“Yes.” She took a sip of her coffee, her gaze lowered. “I’ll need to meet with her care team and see what their thoughts are. I imagine…” She paused, her throat working. “I imagine she’ll have to stay in hospital for some time.”
Which begged all sorts of questions. What was wrong with her mum? What had happened? Owen decided not to ask. Emily clearly didn’t want to volunteer the information.
She lifted her gaze, her slate-coloured eyes wide, her expression direct and resolute. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, so it’s probably best if you return to Wychwood. I’ll catch a train back.”
So that was him told and sorted. Owen didn’t reply, just kept watching her thoughtfully. Unnerving her, clearly, because she put her coffee cup down and narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”
“I don’t have to be back to the pub anytime soon.” Darren, his second-in-command, had offered to open and man the bar this evening if needed. “I don’t mind staying with you until you know what’s going on.”
Emily pursed her lips, her expression setting into something intransigent. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s necessary.”
She was shutting him out and he didn’t want her to. Frustrated, Owen didn’t reply. He knew there was no point in pressing, but it still irritated him and hell, hurt him. What was happening here? They barely knew each other.
And yet already something bound them together, something deep and important, and it wasn’t just a kiss. Hell if he wanted to name it, though.
They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and then headed back up to the room to gather their things. Owen asked her if she wanted to book another night, but Emily shook her head.
“I do need to get back to work. And Wychwood is only an hour by train. I can come in as needed.”
At checkout, Emily insisted on paying, and annoyed, Owen said they’d split the bill.
“You wouldn’t have come if it hadn’t been for me,” she protested, and he shook his head.
“We both slept in that room. We’ll split it.” Even if he wanted to pay for the whole thing himself.
Emily’s heels clicked across the floor as she headed outside to the car park. Owen watched her unhappily; she seemed brittle and remote and a million miles from the tousle-headed woman, sleepy and warm, who had woken up this morning and looked at him with a dazed sort of sadness. That woman had been approachable, someone he could talk to and trust.
This woman, with her sleek, styled hair, her perfect make-up, her silk blouse and narrow trousers, was not. This Emily was like a model or a socialite, or perhaps a powerful businesswoman. Someone whose path he would never cross, and if it did, she wouldn’t spare him a second glance.
She certainly didn’t spare him one as she made her way to the van and then climbed inside, her face angled to the window as they drove back to the Huntley Centre in silence.
Once again Owen waited in the foyer while Emily disappeared into the ward. She’d thanked him for taking her there, and Owen suspected she meant it as a farewell but stubbornly, stupidly perhaps, he wasn’t ready to go. So he waited, goodness knew for how long, for Emily to come back. What would happen then, he had no idea. For now he was content enough simply to wait.
*
“Your mother is physically stable, but she is refusing treatment or medication.”
The consulting psychiatrist, a bearded man with a quiet yet no-nonsense manner, gave Emily a direct look as she nodded mechanically.
“As a result of this, we are intending to section her under section two of the Mental Health Act. She will remain in this facility for twenty-eight days, for observation. Fortunately, the woman your mother attacked has dropped charges, so she will not face any prosecution.”
Emily swallowed dryly. She hadn’t even thought about her mother being prosecuted. Last time something like this had happened, there had been no criminal charges and the twenty-eight days had been extended to six months, before her mother had agreed to take her meds and shown signs of being mentally stable enough to be released into Emily’s care.
“May I visit her now?”
“Yes, and our hope is that will be a positive experience for both her and you.” Emily swallowed again. Her throat felt tight and sore. She wasn’t sure about it being a pleasant experience. “It will be important to stay in communication with the nurses and ward manager, to make sure your visits continue to be helpful.”
“Yes.”
The psychiatrist cocked his head, his gaze turning sympathetic. “And it’s also important that you have the support you need.”
Fleetingly Emily thought of Owen. He was probably heading back to Wychwood by now, glad to be shot of her and her crazy mother. Why had she pushed him away? Yet what else could she have done?
“I’m fine,” she told the doctor firmly. It was what she always said, every time. There had never been the slightest chance of saying—or feeling—anything else. “But I’d like to see my mother now.”
Thankfully the restraints were off her mother’s wrists and ankles as Emily was let into her room, the door locked behind her. Naomi’s eyes fluttered open as she approached the bed, and then her mother stiffened before struggling upright.
“Emily. Emily.”
“Hello, Mum.” Emily tried to keep her voice incongruously cheerful as she stood next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Emily, darling, you’ve got to get me out of here.” Her mother’s hand scrabbled for her arm, fingers clenching around her wrist, ragged nails digging in painfully. “Please. I don’t belong here. You know I don’t. They’ve completely overreacted—it’s ridiculous. I might have to sue.”
Emily tried not to wince as she uncurled her mother’s fingers from around her wrist and tried to hold her hand instead. “The doctors here want you to get better, Mum, that’s all.”
“Better? Better?” Naomi snarled. “I’m fine. You know I’m fine. I don’t need to be chained up like some animal.” She held up her hands as if they had handcuffs on.
“You’re not chained—”
“But they won’t let me go. I’m being imprisoned.”
>
“It’s for the best, Mum. You were hurting yourself. You need to get better—”
“I don’t!” Naomi shrieked. “I don’t. You’re a liar, you’re all liars.”
Everything she said was wrong, and yet Emily kept trying. She always did, because the alternative was to give up, and the thought of doing that was unbearable. “Please, Mum, if you’d just—”
“I’m not listening to anything you say,” Naomi spat. “If you won’t help me get out of here, if you won’t even listen to me, then I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you. You’re not my daughter.”
Emily opened her mouth to protest, but then her mother reached for the plastic water jug on the table next to her and hurled it at Emily’s head. She didn’t duck fast enough, and it hit her cheek as water splattered over her hair and face. Within seconds the door was unlocked and a nurse bustled in.
“I’m sorry, Naomi, but we can’t have that kind of behaviour here.”
“Make her leave,” Naomi demanded. “Make her leave!”
The nurse gave Emily an apologetic look and, tucking her wet hair behind her ears, Emily headed for the door.
“I’m going,” she said quietly. “I’ll see you again, Mum—”
“No, you won’t. I don’t want you here.”
Pressure made Emily’s chest feel tight and heavy and she just nodded and left the room. What else could she do? She’d been here before, had faced her mother’s incandescent wrath. The nurse would sedate her, and then she’d wake up hopefully calmer, and eventually she’d want to see Emily again. And when she did, Emily would be there. She had to be.
“Why don’t you ring tomorrow?” the nurse suggested after she’d left Naomi. “See how she is? Visits are important.” She gave a quick, sympathetic smile. “I know they’re hard.”
“Yes, I’ll ring.”
Emily ducked into a bathroom to try to repair the worst of the wet, but her hair was sopping on one side and there wasn’t much she could do about it. It didn’t matter, anyway.
