by Sarah Mason
“So how did it happen?”
I give lengthy explanations about the tree and now and again gesture to James, who is leaning against the far wall and still looking fairly bad-tempered. I am greatly relieved that Ben has put in an appearance. This may sway his critics a little.
“So how long are you in for?”
“They’re letting me out today, thank God!”
He frowns. “I’ve got a training session later but your folks could bring you home, couldn’t they?”
“Sure, no problem.”
A nurse bustles in. She has a kindly, motherly face that is creased with life, and bright red hair peeps out from underneath her cap like flames framing her face. She gives a cheerful “All right?” to everyone as a greeting. “Bit crowded in here, isn’t it? Why don’t you all go off and get a cup of tea and let the patient have her lunch in peace? Come back in half an hour.” Glory hallelujah! Hurray for the health service! James, Robin and Ben all make their goodbyes while my parents and Lizzie head off toward the canteen.
“Are you all right, love? All those people are likely to give you a headache!”
I smile and lie back on my pillows gratefully. The nurse bustles around, straightening my covers and picking up a stray pillow which has fallen on the floor.
“You’re the reporter, aren’t you? The Dick Tracy girl?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“I was on yesterday when they brought you in. That detective of yours was in a right state.” I involuntarily stiffen under the covers. Here we go. This woman is obviously a mole planted by my mother. “He was barely registering anything at all. After we got you settled in, I said to him, I said, ‘Jack! You look just like your photos!’ and he stared at me as if I were mad!”
I relax a little. Of course James would look at her as though she were mad. He wasn’t in a “right state”; he had just forgotten that his stage name was Jack.
“So which one is your boyfriend?” she continues chattily.
At last, someone who sees sense. Someone who understands that just because I write about a person doesn’t mean we’re engrossed in a passionate affair.
I grin at her, pleased at her question. “The really tall blond one. He’s a rugby player for Bristol.”
“Is he? He looks lovely.”
“Yes, yes, he is,” I say staunchly.
“You must love him an awful lot.”
“Yes, I . . .” I stop suddenly and frown. “Why do you say that?”
She looks over at me. “Because you were calling out all night for him. Ooh yes, all through the night. Getting yourself in a right little state, you were. I sat with you for a while until you quietened down but an hour later you started up again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say contritely.
“No problem, love. It’s what I’m here for; besides, it did my heart good to hear it.”
I really wish Lizzie and my mother could be here to witness all this. It would prove there is nothing in that silly notion of theirs . . . A nasty little thought occurs to me. I firmly squash it but a second later it comes wriggling back. My palms become sweaty and I just don’t know how to ask this lady what I need to know.
“Was I using his name or his nickname?” I say lightly. “Just so I can tease him later.”
“His name, love. Definitely his name.” There is a pause. “James doesn’t sound like much of a nickname, now does it?”
twenty-three
I stare down at the lunch tray she has left me, trying to grab hold of one of the thoughts that are rushing through my mind. James. I was saying James’ name. So what? He had just knocked me on the head; obviously I was thinking about him. Right. Yes, that must be it. I mean, he must have been one of the last people I saw before I was knocked out. It is only natural I was calling his name. It was probably in a “James, you complete git” sort of way.
I pick up my fork determinedly and look at the potato salad. It is on one of those little plastic trays that you have your meal out of on airplanes. I prod the ham. But what was it the nurse said? “It warmed my heart” or something. I gulp. She also mentioned how much I must love him. I drop my plastic fork, fall back on to my pillows and feel a slow blush coming right up from my toes. Oh turnips. What if he had been there, at my bedside, at that point? What if he had heard me?
And how do I feel about him? Really feel? I think intently for a second about the past few weeks together. Of his face, his eyes, his smile. And then I think about his wedding, and of Fleur. And I know. The force of it hits me squarely between the eyes. I can’t bear to even think about his wedding. I know that I love him.
My bottom lip starts to tremble a little. How on earth could this have happened? Another awful thought occurs to me. My God, it must be so obvious. My bottom lip is starting a lively new dance step now. Everyone, EVERYONE has picked up on the fact that something might be going on between us. My mother, Lizzie, Mrs. Murdoch from the village—even the hospital canteen lady. And how? BECAUSE I WROTE ABOUT IT, THAT’S HOW. Not him, me. Not his testimony to how he feels about me but mine to him. And simply because my feelings were transparently there, down in black and white for all to see, people have naturally presumed he may be romantically inclined that way too. Because I have gleefully related over the last couple of weeks the instances when we have been able to have a conversation without snarling at each other, which let’s face it has been quite a progression, people have presumed there is “something going on.” How embarrassing.
How I wish there was.
I clamp my hand over my mouth. How could I think that? How could I? When Fleur has been so nice to me?
The blood is burning my face now and tears fill my eyes. I feel like disappearing under my bed covers and not coming out until, ooh, shall we say Christmas? Do you think the hospital would notice if they lost a patient? Surely it happens all the time? I look wildly round the room; where is the oxygen kept? Better still, where’s that gas they give expectant mothers?
Seeing the room is sadly empty of mind-numbing drugs, I resort to chewing my fingernails instead, which is something I haven’t done for a good ten years. I concentrate on not crying because I know that once I start I won’t be able to stop. I try to think of non-passionate things. The Euro. The local by-elections. But my mind drags itself back to James Sabine.
My diaries must have practically been love letters for people to jump to these conclusions. Everyone is laughing at me. They must all be saying “There goes that reporter, the one with the thumping great crush on the detective who is getting married in a week’s time.” And although that alone is awful enough to contemplate, there is also James. James, who is getting married in a week’s time. To Fleur. I repeat those words again, trying to get them firmly lodged into my consciousness. And it becomes obvious to me that I have been deliberately avoiding thinking about his wedding. In a slow, tortuous fashion I play a video to myself of their wedding day—of Fleur walking down the aisle, looking beautiful in cream lace, James waiting for her at the altar—and I force myself to look at it. I’m going to lose him. Lose him as soon as I have found him.
Now I really am going to cry. A lone tear rolls down my cheek. That’s fine, I tell myself. Just limit it to that. No hysterical weeping.
Maybe this isn’t love, I think hopefully. Maybe this is just some sort of crush, an infatuation. Let’s face it, he’s a good-looking bloke and I have been practically locked up with him for the last few weeks. Don’t they say kidnapped girls sometimes fall in love with their kidnappers? Don’t they? Well, maybe it’s something like that. Absolutely, that must be it . . .
Whatever it is, there is one thing for sure. He doesn’t feel the same way about me. Definitely not. He is marrying someone else. Next week. Someone who is beautiful and kind and altogether way out of my league. Not to mention the fact that he is possibly having an affair with someone equally beautiful and way out of my league. Outmaneuvered on two counts.
Everyone is going to be back in a minute. And it
will be very obvious to my mother and my best friend that something is up. Quickly, think about something else. Ben. Complete mushy peas. Good choice, Holly, good choice. OK, let’s think about Ben. Why not? An infinitely less painful subject than James. No tears needed there. I purse my lips together, intent on thinking. Come on, Holly. Think about Ben. Nothing. I frown and push my head down into my neck. Think. How hard can thinking be? A minute ago I couldn’t breathe for all the thoughts rushing about, but now they seem to have staged a mutiny. I wait for a minute and then give up. There’s nothing there for him. Oh, I can picture him all right, and I can even agree he is tremendously good-looking in a detached sort of way, but nothing else. I can’t remember why I ever thought I might want to marry him. How could I have thought he was the real thing? I didn’t love him, the real him. I loved his looks, his position on the rugby team, the hordes of girls running after him, but take all of that away and there isn’t much left. And I thought he was the main event when he was clearly just the warm-up act. This new realization is another blow to my fast-disappearing morale. I sink further down into my bed and close my eyes, hoping the whole thing will just go away. I’ve been backing the wrong horse.
Well, Ben is obviously going to have to go. The lily-livered coward in me raises her weak little head. “But then you’ll be left alone,” she whispers. “James will be married in a week, will bugger off to the Maldives and you’ll be left by yourself.” I can see her point of view. I even prod it around for a bit. Rather to my surprise though, I can honestly say that I would rather be left alone than pretend with Ben. Besides, Lizzie will be around and I have a close, loving circle of family and friends. Speaking of which, where is my loving circle of family and friends? I frown and look at my watch. It’s been a good hour since they departed for the canteen. Why aren’t they, as I speak, huddled around my sick bed, mopping my fevered brow? Being loving and supportive?
A shriek echoes from the corridor. My frayed nerves are almost at the end of their tether. I sit bolt upright in bed. Probably some poor patient in the throes of kidney stones. It happens again. This time I recognize the voice.
My mother appears in the doorway, tears of laughter pouring down her face. My loving circle has returned. Lizzie follows her in, also in the throes of hysterics, with my father bringing up the rear and frantically rubbing his arm.
“Oh darling! It’s been the funniest thing! Your father got stuck in the lift doors!” My mother sits down in the chair, weak with laughter. “The doors were closing on some hapless patient on one of those trolleys and your father, in what was a thoroughly over-dramatic fashion, threw himself in front of them. I was desperately trying to open them by pressing the ‘open door’ button but the damn things kept opening up and then slamming closed again on your father! It turns out that I was pressing the ‘close door’ symbol instead!”
My father glares at her. “It must have been so confusing.”
“I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”
“That may just explain it.”
“Anyway, how are you, Holly? How are you feeling?” says Lizzie.
“Oh, great. I’m absolutely fine now,” say I, not feeling fine at all. How can so much change so quickly? Since they left this room an hour ago I feel as though I have been on some sort of emotional rollercoaster, and I have the nastiest suspicion the ride isn’t over yet. I am prevented from any further contemplation by the arrival of Vince.
“Ooh, ducks, are you all right?” he says from the doorway. He minces in and my mother’s eyes light up. She can recognize a fellow thespian from about one hundred paces.
“What a palaver! It’s all been just too, too thrilling! And the pictures! Well, I tell you, love, it’s the Pulitzer prize for me. Make no mistake about it.” He turns to my parents. “You must be Holly’s parents. You are the spitting image of each other,” he says to my mother. Then he turns to my father, who extends a hearty hand. Vince sort of limply strokes it, saying “And you! Well, you . . .”
“Vince! This is my best friend Lizzie!” I exclaim, before he says anything too outrageous to my father. Not that my father is a homophobe, you understand, it’s just that gay men make him nervous. Very nervous. I’m-just-going-to-stand-with-my-back-to-the-wall nervous.
“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.” Vince turns back to me. “How are you feeling, love? It was a hell of a knock! THWACK! Straight on the head! Of course, as soon as it happened, James came haring back over the fence. I almost wished it was me.” He gives an involuntary little shiver and stares off into the distance in his own private daydream. I really wouldn’t like to venture what it involved. I am in my own little fantasy world as well and am quite enjoying hearing about how James came running over to me. “Go on,” I urge, “what happened then?”
“Ooh, it was so manly! Very Rhett Butler. He just stopped chasing that woman and left the other officer to catch her. I, of course, started taking photos of you. Sorry about that. He pulled the tree off you and was shouting, ‘Holly! Holly!’ The photos are fantastic! And the light was just right! I didn’t need a filter or anything; I managed—”
“Vince?”
“Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, he was getting really panic-stricken and was trying to feel for a pulse. Then, when he found one, ooh! The relief on his face was obvious!” I know looks are passing between my mother and Lizzie but I simply do not care. I am leaning forward avidly, anxious for more. “He was kneeling next to you and then he sat back on his heels and just closed his eyes, murmuring to himself. It was wonderful! I nearly cried!”
“What was he murmuring?” I ask lightly and with an attempt at nonchalance.
“Hmm? Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t hear.” A little voice inside me says, “Maybe he does care about you.” Maybe he does. Maybe . . . But then wouldn’t I be quite relieved to learn I hadn’t killed someone? Wouldn’t I be quite reassured to find a pulse on the person I’d just brained with a dead tree? Wouldn’t I be quite thankful to know I wouldn’t be standing in the dock pleading “Not guilty”?
My thoughts continue to occupy me as Vince arranges me in various poses. Needless to say, he is quite happy with the morose-ness of my expression. No acting called for there. He swiftly snaps a few shots and then, with a bright “Toodle-doo!,” heads off back to the paper.
I pull myself together. “Well, I’d better get dressed, then we can be toodle-doo-ing off too!” I say brightly. I awkwardly gather my gown around me, anxious not to bare my essentials. My father takes to staring out of the window and my mother gathers my things and carries them for me into the bathroom. I quickly throw on yesterday’s clothes and emerge just in time to hear a phone ring. I look to see where the noise is coming from and notice there has been a phone sitting next to my bed the entire time I have been here and I hadn’t even spotted it.
We all look at each other. I gingerly pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello? Is that Holly?”
“Yes?”
“Holly, it’s Fleur!”
“Fleur!” I say slightly hysterically to the rest of the room. “Fleur! Fleur! It’s Fleur!” A cold hand of panic grips me. Is she calling to warn me off? To say, listen old thing, I know my husband-to-be is most fearfully attractive, but would you mind not making such obvious baby eyes at him?
“Fleur! How are you? Keeping well?”
She sounds slightly puzzled. “Er, I’m fine thanks, Holly. I was really calling to ask how you are?”
“Me? I’m just fine. Absolutely tip-top hole. I couldn’t be better!”
“Gosh, that’s good. I have to say I was really concerned when James told me. He said there was a number I could call you on.”
“No cause for concern! I’m fine! Just on my way home, in fact.”
“Oh, is James taking you?”
“James? JAMES?” I say with such a hysterical tone of surprise in my voice that she might as well have said Prince Charles. “No, no. My family are here to collect me.”
“Great! Well, I am g
lad you are feeling better.”
“Me too! Thank you for calling! I’m sure I will see you soon!”
“Well, you know we’re hosting this drinks party on Saturday, don’t you? The one your parents are invited to? I thought you might like to come too. You know, introduce them to everyone. I have to say I am looking forward to meeting them again.”
“Gosh, well, thanks,” I say, willing to agree to anything to get her off the phone at this particular moment of complete emotional confusion. “Saturday! See you then! Bye!”
I replace the receiver feeling slightly sick. Crappy cabbages. Saturday. Maybe I could have a relapse by then; it happens in these cases, doesn’t it? Not feeling well on Tuesday, dead by Saturday? I could possibly get out of going to the wedding that way too. But maybe it would be good for me to go to the wedding. What do the Americans call it? Closure. That’s why we have funerals. A sort of finality is needed. Her phone call is a fresh assault on my senses. James gave her my number and she was nice enough to call.
“That was Fleur! She called to see how I was; nice of her, wasn’t it? She says she’s looking forward to meeting you at the drinks party on Saturday. She invited me too.” I inwardly gulp and busy myself with gathering my things together. I am absolutely amazed no one can see how I am feeling. How can they not notice this huge shadow of emotion hanging over me? This huge pulsating cloud of mixed feelings that is threatening to envelop me.
The red-haired nurse pops her head around the door. “Are you off then?”
“Yes, we are.”
She comes fully into the room. “Are you the parents? I was just telling Holly earlier how troubled she was during the night. She was . . .”
“COME ON THEN!” I roar. This is one story I could do without them hearing. “We don’t want to overburden the NHS, do we?” I gabble as I hustle them all toward the door. “Poor old NHS, they are absolutely bursting at the seams! They don’t need us clogging up the system, do they? Probably need the bed for a liver transplant or something. Off we go!”
