by Ruth Mancini
“You want to know why I left the country and didn’t tell him about Helena?” I asked him, angrily. “Because he’s crazy. That’s why. If he thinks that it’s okay to force himself on every woman that’s nice to him, then...”
“But he didn’t force himself, did he? You let him into your flat...”
“My friend Shelley let him in,” I interrupted.
“...and then you told everyone to go home.”
“That’s not true!” I yelled. “This has obviously come from your father, one way or another, but Shelley will tell you – it’s not true.” Would she? I hadn’t seen Shelley for eighteen years, although she was still in touch with Zara, as far as I knew. I looked him in the eye. “Is this what you’ve been telling Helena? Is this what you’ve been filling her head with? You weren’t there! You weren’t even born!”
Helena appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”
Catherine appeared behind her, wrapped in a bathrobe.
“Helena...” I began.
“Mum, why are you shouting at Sky?”
I looked at Sky. “It’s nothing.”
Sky shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he agreed.
I got up and walked out of the room. Helena followed me.
“Can you get my suitcase?” I asked her.
“Why? Where are you going?”
“There’s not enough room here for us all,” I said. “I’m going to stay at Zara’s. It’s time I was going, if I’m going.”
“Mum! We said we would share Sky’s room. What’s happened between you? What’s going on?”
I sighed and shook my head. My stomach was churning and I felt as though I was going to be sick. The intimate details of my personal life, of the horrible, twisted thing that Martin had done to me, appeared to be public knowledge and public property, and yet nobody would hear my side. I was overwhelmed with shame, anger, humiliation. I needed to get out of this house.
I needed to be with Zara.
“I’m sorry, love. But I’ve got to go.” I bent to pick up my suitcase, my hand visibly shaking as I grabbed it. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Helena followed me back through the living room, past Catherine and Sky, who were sitting, silently, on the sofa.
I looked at Catherine. “Thank you,” I said. “For the tea. It was good to see you again.”
Catherine nodded and said, “You too. Do you want me to call you a...?”
“No.” I shook my head. I couldn’t stay in the flat any longer. I needed fresh air. It felt as though I’d been suffocating.
I stepped down on to the pavement and looked up at Helena, who was standing in the open doorway, looking hurt and confused.
“I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” I repeated to her, my voice sounding thin and reedy in the empty street.
I turned and walked down the road, my suitcase trundling along behind me.
8
It was raining hard, and I was soaked to the skin by the time I turned the corner from Great Ormond Street into Queen Square. I quickly ran up the steps and through the arched doorway of the red brick building that housed the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery. I smoothed back my hair, which was plastered to my face, and took off my coat, shaking it out in the doorway before going inside. I’d decided to walk there from Zara’s and it had been a bright, sunny morning when I’d set out along the Clerkenwell Road, but I’d been rained on, pelted with hailstones and splashed by several passing buses since then.
I stood in the entrance hall and glanced round the building. Up some stairs ahead was a beautiful stained glass window. To my left and right were corridors leading to the various wings. I followed a signpost to the left, hopping to one side as a determined young man wearing a head brace narrowly missed my feet with his wheelchair. I watched him as he steered himself rapidly up and down the corridor, back and forth, first one way, then the next, oblivious to my presence. I waited for the right moment to slip past him, whilst wondering what terrible misfortune had brought him here.
“Next door. Institute of Neurology,” said the receptionist on the Chandler Wing. As I turned and headed back out of the building again, my phone whistled. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Helena.
“Heading back now. Be at Kings X in 30 mins. Can we meet?”
I stood in the arched doorway again and texted back. “Ok. Just going into interview. Wait for me at Costa in station?”
Her text came straight back. “Okay. Good luck.”
I put my coat over my head and ran out into the wet street. As I entered the building next door, my phone whistled again. I dropped my bag as I tried to pull it back out of my pocket. My coat fell forwards over my face and my bag landed in a heap on the ground. My purse fell out and coins started to roll across the floor. As I bent down to retrieve my belongings, I could see a man in a white jacket bending down to help me. I stood up and whipped my coat off my head. The man stood in front of me, cradling his right cheek in his hand.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I stood back and looked up at him. “Are you okay?”
The man took his hand away and held out a pound coin, which I took. He rubbed the side of his cheek, where a two inch-long red welt was appearing. “Yes. Yes. I think so.”
“Oh no! Your face. I’ve hurt you.”
He nodded at my coat. “I think it was the zip. But it’s fine.” His accent was unmistakeably French. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he added, smiling and smoothing back his dark hair. “I’ve had worse.”
I grinned at the reference to one of my favourite Monty Python films. I studied his face. His eyes were the deepest brown and he had an attractive dimple on his chin. “You are very brave, Sir Knight,” I said.
“Thank you,” he smiled. “But you can call me Oli.”
I held out my hand. “I think it might be you I’m here to see. Dr Ducasse? I’m Lizzie. Lizzie Taylor.”
Oli nodded and took my hand, holding it tight. “Ah. Très bien. I was just coming to find you. I thought you may have got lost.”
“Oh no. Am I late?”
“No, you’re not late. It’s fine. But it’s so wet, and I was meant to be in clinic this morning. In the other building.”
I nodded. “I think that’s where Juliana sent me. Never mind.”
“Never mind,” Oli agreed. “We found each other. That’s all that matters.”
I looked up at him and felt a flutter of excitement inside me. He was lovely. Tall, dark, and handsome, as the cliché went, with a disarming smile. He looked as though he was in his late thirties or early forties, although he had a full head of hair and he was in good shape. He was younger than me, without a doubt. I felt a small stab of disloyalty to Christian. Stop it, I told myself. What was I thinking?
“So. You want to stay here?” He waved his arm expansively around the foyer, where two porters were observing us from behind a desk. “Or shall we talk in my office?”
“Your office. Please,” I laughed.
“That’s a good choice. It’s this way.”
I followed him up a set of stairs to a landing above. He pushed open a door to a small room overlooking the street and waved me into an armchair near the window. The rain had eased off a little and was now trickling gently down the panes. I looked down to the pavement below, where a collection of bicycles was chained up beside the entrance. Across the road, a woman was taking shelter under the leafy branches that overhung the iron railings of the park.
Oli disappeared into a closet and emerged with a towel. “Do you want to dry your hair?” he asked. “You look a bit wet.”
“Thanks.” I took the towel and wrapped it round my head and neck for a moment, squeezing out the damp. Oli moved a pile of papers from another chair and sat down opposite me.
“I’m in a bit of a muddle, as you can see,” he said. “The truth is, I don’t have enough time for everything. I’m in clinic at least four days a week and I’m writing the rest of the time. I have this commissio
n from Elsevier – that’s my publisher – which you have been told about, but I also write for several journals – the British Journal of Radiology, the Journal of Neuroradiology, which is the publication of the SFNR – the French Societé...”
“How many?” I asked. I lay the towel across my lap.
Oli smoothed back his hair and sat forward in his chair so that his face was not far from mine. There was a clear red scratch on his right cheek. Talk about making your mark. “There are around six or seven that I write for regularly, all English publications. My conversational English is okay, as you can tell, but the language is quite technical, and I don’t have the time to translate. It slows me down... so I need some help with that, though you may find it a little boring.”
“No. I won’t. It’s what I’ve been doing for the last eighteen years. It’s mostly been medical writing. I find it interesting. I’ve been working on articles from journals such as the ones you mentioned, translating them for our French clients. Obviously this is a sub-specialism, but French into English will be much easier for me and I know a fair bit about radiology. I can learn the rest...”
“I’m sure you can.”
“...and I’m very interested in how the brain works. Or doesn’t work, I suppose.”
Oli’s face broke into a huge beam and the dimple on his chin danced as he spoke. “It is exciting. This hospital provides leading-edge neuro-radiological services. We perform around fifty thousand procedures every year, and we’ve developed advanced neuro-imaging techniques. The development in this area has been incredible, to tell the truth, and I’m excited to document it for the world to see. But I need some help. Quite a lot of help, in fact. You’re a journalist, I’m told. Is that right?”
I nodded. “Yes. I worked for a radio station before I started translating. Producing. Writing. Researching. Getting the programme on air, basically.”
“You must be well organised.”
“Well, I’ve been working from home for a long time now. I just organise myself. And my daughter. And the dog,” I added and laughed.
“Really? You are disciplined enough to do that?”
“To work from home?” I nodded. “It’s no problem. I just work when I have work. I’m good at compartmentalising things. I don’t take time off to sunbathe and play computer games, if that’s what you mean.”
He laughed. “I can’t imagine that you do that.”
“No. I don’t even know why I said that. I never play computer games! I prefer to read, if I have any spare time.”
“What do you read?”
“Everything,” I smiled. “The news. Books. Articles.”
“Do you ever write them?”
“Not really,” I said. “Though translating crosses over into ghostwriting to some extent at times.”
He nodded. “What about research? Do you enjoy that aspect of journalism?”
I nodded. “I love research.”
Oli smiled. “That’s very good for me. Very good indeed.” He stood up and picked up a pack of mint polos from his desk and offered me one. I shook my head and he popped one into his mouth. “So,” he continued, crunching his sweet. “You live in London?”
I shook my head. “No. I live in France. Just north of Paris. Is that a problem? I was assuming I could work electronically. From home.”
Oli looked at me for several moments, then swallowed and scratched his chin. He sat back. “I didn’t make it clear. It’s my fault.”
“Is that not going to be possible?”
“Well. Some of it could be done electronically. I could certainly give you some of the work to do. But the truth is, I am so disorganised. I really need some assistance, here.”
“You want a PA?”
Oli looked at me sheepishly and glanced feebly round the room. “More of a manager. I was hoping that you could work here with me and keep things organised, undertake some research as well as translation for the English journals and maybe assist with some of the clinical work, too. I wouldn’t get under your feet. I’m still in clinic 60 per cent of the time. You could spread yourself out, make yourself at home, reorganise everything if you wish, get rid of all my mess.” He laughed, then stopped and shook his head. “But you have a life in France. What am I saying? I can’t expect you to change your life for me.”
I sat and looked at him for a moment. “Maybe you can.”
Oli looked surprised. That made two of us; I’d surprised myself. “You would consider moving abroad?”
“Well, it’s not really ‘abroad’ for me. England’s my home,” I found myself saying. “I mean, it was. Originally.”
“Of course. Of course it is. So... maybe you want to have a think about this? Talk to your family?”
I nodded. “Yes. I will. But, you see, my daughter’s just about to move to London to study. And I’ve friends here.” You’ve friends in France, I told myself. Not to mention a boyfriend. “I mean, I could maybe come for a few months. Well, you know. We could see how it goes. We could at least get the book finished. And then, if you have more work...”
Oli smiled. “Exactly. I think there will be plenty to keep you busy for a few months. And then we can review? Although there is funding for this work for at least a year. You will be paid well.”
“Thank you. Juliana gave me an idea of the terms...”
“That’s what my publisher will pay. For the book. But you will be paid more here, for helping me. We can discuss. This research we do, it’s well funded.”
I nodded and smiled, excitement rising inside me. The work sounded fascinating. I was thrilled to think that I might be part of these cutting-edge developments in medical treatment, designed to help people like that poor man I’d seen in the wheelchair downstairs. I was going to do something new and interesting in helping to document Oli’s clinical results, as well as using my research and linguistic skills to help write a book about it! The job spec went way beyond what I’d expected when I’d run up the steps in the rain just under an hour ago. I could picture myself already in this office, coming here to work each day. But I was acutely aware of what else this would mean: I could live here in London and keep an eye on Helena. I’d have the best of excuses.
Besides, I needed the money. That wasn’t an excuse; it was a fact. Christian would understand. Zara would be delighted, I knew, to have me here in London again. It would be a little cramped in her flat if I were to stay there, with Helena too, for more than a few weeks, so we would have to work something out. And then there was Lily to think of, of course. Maybe I could rent my house out for a while, to people who liked dogs?
“I’ll talk to my daughter and my... my friends.” I said. “I need to work a few things out. But it’s a good opportunity for me. I’d really like to do this, if I can.”
Oli stood up. “I’m delighted. Really. You know what I think? I think we will work really well together. I can tell that already. But, there’s no rush. You must be sure that it’s the right thing for you, to leave your home.” He looked at his watch. “And you know, I’m afraid I must get back to clinic. So we can talk again? Tomorrow, maybe. Or the next day?”
“Of course.” I stood up. “I’ll email you. As soon as I’ve worked things out.”
*
Helena was sitting on the platform outside the coffee shop when I arrived. She was wearing a peaked royal blue baseball cap and a matching sweatshirt with an Olympic Team GB logo on the back. I moved her bulging rucksack to one side and slipped into the seat opposite her.
“I ordered for you,” she said, as I sat down. She pushed a large latte towards me. “I’m booked onto the twelve forty-five, so we’ve got a bit of time.”
“Thanks.”
“So, how did it go?”
“Well,” I smiled. “Really well.”
“You got the job?”
“Yes... I think so.”
“Didn’t they say?”
“Well, yes. He – Oli, that is—”
“Oli?” Helena frowned.
“Dr Ducasse. Olivier Ducasse. He’s the consultant who I went to see. He said he’d like to work with me...”
“And?” Helena persisted.
“And... and so I agreed to think about it.”
“Think about it? Why didn’t you just take it? Don’t you want it?”
“Yes. I do. Very much. The money’s good... and it looks like it’s going to be really interesting work.”
Helena looked at me as if I was crazy. “Well then, why didn’t you just say ‘yes’?”
“The job’s here. In London. I’d need to relocate for a while. For a few months, at least. Maybe more.”
I glanced up my daughter, waiting for her reaction. Would she think I was following her? That I’d set this up deliberately? That I didn’t trust her in London on her own? When she’d found her course on the Internet, and suggested that I come to stay in London for a bit too, she hadn’t meant that I should move here. I’d dismissed her suggestion, of course, joking that I wasn’t going to go away to Uni with her. But now, after all this business with Sky and Catherine, she might think that’s exactly what I was trying to do. And she wouldn’t be far wrong, after all, although you could hardly say that I’d planned any of it.
Helena looked confused for a moment, but then her face broke into a huge grin. “You’d be coming to live here too?”
“Well, yes. For a few months, anyway. At least until the work on his book was completed. I mean, I haven’t said yes,” I added quickly. “There are things to think about. Lily, Christian...”
Helena shrugged. “Well, Christian loves Lily. And our house is nearer his work, anyway. He can stay at ours and rent out his flat. It’s no big deal.”
I laughed. “Well, that’s all settled then.”
“What? What’s wrong with that idea?”
“Nothing. But I thought you’d feel cornered,” I said. “You might think I was cramping your style; following you away to Uni.”
“Don’t be silly, Mummy.” Helena patted my hand. “I love you. It’ll be nice to have you here in London too. And if you want to stay with Zara, I can check out the student residences. Two of my friends are at McLaren House and it’s totally cool. You get a room of your own and there’s a kitchen for, like, eight people, and there’s a common room, and stuff. It’s not that expensive either. A hundred and thirty pounds per week or something.”
