Chasing Victory: A Romantic Comedy

by Beverley Watts

  ‘You can’t wear that,’ the Admiral spluttered when Jimmy tried the coat on in his friend’s room, ‘They’ll never let you anywhere near Luke Anderson’s room.’

  ‘It was all I could get,’ Jimmy responded firmly, hoping that his costume cock up would convince his friend to abort the mission. The Admiral sighed, and obviously reluctant to abandon his plan, stared thoughtfully at the small man in front of him. ‘Just pick up my chart at the end of the bed and hold it in front of you,’ he instructed at length.

  Unfortunately for Jimmy, when he held the clipboard close to his chest, the heart motive was almost completely covered up and the Admiral nodded in satisfaction. ‘That’ll do Jimmy lad, just keep that chart close to your chest, hang your stethoscope round your neck and Bob’s your Auntie - they won’t be able to tell you apart from the real thing.’ He glanced over at the door. ‘We’ll wait until they’re bringing round the tea and biscuits at fifteen hundred hours – I’ve noticed that’s when a lot of ‘em scarper for a crafty fag or whatever – then we’ll initiate the mission. Let’s synchronize watches Jimmy boy.’

  ‘I’m in the same room as you Sir,’ Jimmy responded tetchily, wondering for the umpteenth time, how the bloody hell he always let himself get involved in the Admiral’s harebrained schemes.

  The Admiral narrowed his eyes. If time hadn’t been of the essence, he would have been tempted to fine his former Master at Arms for insubordination. Instead he contented himself with The Look, which had the desired effect.

  ‘Fourteen fifty two, by my watch Sir,’ Jimmy said, saluting smartly. The Admiral looked down at his own watch. Unfortunately he wasn’t wearing his glasses so could just about make out the actual face. ‘Near enough,’ he muttered after a couple of seconds squinting. Then looking back up, he thought he’d better get on with the obligatory pep talk.

  ‘You’ve got just over five minutes to get yourself in character Jimmy. You’re Doctor Noon now if anybody asks. You need to stride down that corridor like you own the place. You can do it lad, you were always good at acting.’ Jimmy opened his mouth but before he could speak, the Admiral ploughed on, ‘Think about what you’re looking for Jimmy. We need to know who this bloke is, where he comes from, how old he is – all that malarkey.

  ‘If he wakes up, ask him a couple of questions.’ Jimmy raised his eyebrows, alarmed at the idea of actually having to speak to the patient. ‘What kind of questions Sir?’ he asked faintly.

  The Admiral sighed. Why was it he always ended up with lily livered subordinates with no bloody back bone? ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ he said at length, ‘Now stop bloody pussy footing around and get yourself out there.’

  Seeing that any further argument would be futile, and secretly a little worried about his friend’s pale drawn features, Jimmy capitulated with as much good grace as he could muster. Carefully clasping the chart to cover up most of the pink heart, he walked to the door and poked his head out into the corridor.

  He could that see the nurses’ station to the right was currently unoccupied. It was only a few yards, but it might as well have been a hundred. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out into the corridor and began walking purposefully, if slightly unsteadily, towards the station, and beyond that, his destination.

  In the end, it was much easier than he’d anticipated. There were a couple of hairy seconds when the tea trolley trundled past, but no one paid him any real attention. Emboldened by his success, he strode confidentially up to Mr. Anderson’s room and peered in through the window. All clear.

  Opening the door quietly, he tiptoed towards the bed. Despite the Admiral’s instructions, he really didn’t want to have to ask their quarry any questions. Laying his own clipboard carefully on the bottom of the bed, he picked up the patient’s chart and, heart thumping, glanced through it.

  Unfortunately, in the tradition of doctors everywhere, the information was completely illegible to anyone not familiar with this particular consultant’s short hand. Squinting, Jimmy tried turning the chart upside down to see if that made any difference. He thought he managed to decipher the man’s date of birth, which would make him about the right age, but that was about it. There appeared to be rather a lot of information underlined and in red, which Jimmy took to be less than positive and the patient himself didn’t look as though he was long for this world.

  Putting the chart back, Jimmy picked up his own clipboard and crept round the side of the bed. Feeling like a complete cad, he carefully opened the drawer of the bedside table, hoping to find some sort of clue in the patient’s belongings. However, there was nothing – just a pair of glasses and a couple of handkerchiefs.

  Sighing, he admitted defeat and silently closed the drawer. Turning towards the door, he took one last glance down at the still man in the bed.

  Whose eyes were now open and regarding him steadily.

  ~*~

  Despite Tory’s assurances that closure would be good for me, it doesn’t feel that way. To be fair, the ongoing problem with my absent father is currently vying for first place with ongoing visions of Jason in various states of undress with Aileen’s pretty red haired niece.

  In the last twenty four hours I can honestly say that there is no carnal position or situation that I haven’t imagined them in. Consequently I’m knackered, irritable, and filled with the most awful conviction that I’ve made the worst decision of my life. Then of course I go on to think about how much I owe my aunt, how much she loves and needs me, and I come full circle. It’s a never ending cycle of self torture and self loathing.

  I can’t help but compare my situation with that of Tory’s when she misguidedly ended her relationship with Noah. Am I the same kind of stupid? Do the pair of us have some kind of masochistic need to be miserable? I shake my head. If we do, then Tory’s managed to get over her addiction, and my reasoning for walking away from the man I’ve realized too late is the love of my life, is categorically different from hers – isn’t it?

  For the umpteenth time I glance down at my mobile phone. I’m not sure exactly what I’m hoping for. Jason did the smart thing when he walked away. Any contact now would just be prolonging the agony.

  Sighing, I look down at my filofax. Hopefully if I throw myself into my work, the pain will start to fade. Aunt Flo should be back next week, so my parental issues could well be sorted – especially if daddy dearest has popped his clogs already – that would solve a lot of problems…

  Sometimes I just hate my internal monologue. When did I become so bitter?

  Suddenly my mobile rings and unable to stop my heart from lurching hopefully, I pick it up and stare at the caller’s name, as hope slowly turns to confusion.

  It’s the Admiral.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jimmy stared back at the silent man on the bed, then did the only thing that came into his head. He scarpered.

  Once back out in the corridor, he stopped, sighing with relief. Any more of these close calls and they’d be putting him in the bed next door to the Admiral.

  ‘There you are.’ A strident voice cut into his reverie and he looked up in alarm to see a large woman dressed in green scrubs striding towards him. Staring at her mutely, it took a second to notice that she was pointing at the large pink heart on the front of his white coat. His heart stuttered in horror as he realized that he’d left the Admiral’s medical chart in Luke Anderson’s room.

  ‘I can’t say you’re exactly what we were expecting.’ She gazed at him, disapproval warring with disappointment. ‘Can’t believe they charged us a hundred quid, but then maybe older ladies nowadays like them small and dumpy.’ When Jimmy still didn’t speak, she shook her head and continued, ‘Oh well, as you’re all ready to go, we can head straight down to Mrs. Brown’s room.’

  Grabbing hold of Jimmy’s arm, she propelled him towards the lift at the end of the corridor. Wordlessly, Jimmy allowed himself to be manhandled into the large elevator which was mercifully empty apart from the two of them.

&
nbsp; As the doors closed, he shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable denunciation and a declaration to call the police for attempting to impersonate a doctor. After a couple of seconds when no words were spoken, condemnatory or otherwise, he opened his eyes cautiously to find the nurse regarding at him with a bemused frown.

  ‘How long have you been a stripper?’ she asked curiously, ‘I mean, do you still get a lot of business? Is it mostly from elderly women?’

  Struck dumb, Jimmy simply stared at the nurse. She was obviously waiting for an answer and the lift was taking forever to move between floors. Licking his lips, Jimmy coughed and wondered hysterically what the bloody hell he was going to say.

  ‘I..I…’ was all he managed to force out, and unexpectedly she smiled. ‘You know it’s actually a really good idea. Mature women don’t like to be intimidated by these young muscle men types. Employing cuddlier men who’re getting on in years is a pretty smart move I’d say.’ At her words, Jimmy shut his mouth again, and leaned back against the wall of the lift, trying to exude the charisma of a sexy pensioner. Unfortunately, resting his bottom on the handle bar played havoc with his piles, completely ruining his geriatric James Dean impression.

  Luckily, before the nurse could ask any more questions, the doors opened. ‘Here we are,’ she announced cheerfully, ‘Do you need to use the bathroom before you start?’ Jimmy nodded his head enthusiastically and the nurse chuckled as she pointed out the men’s loos.

  ‘I’ll go and make sure Mrs. Brown is ready for you. It’s the second room on the left. We wouldn’t want her to have a heart attack on her ninetieth birthday would we?’

  Jimmy joined in her ribald laughter, even giving his hips a little suggestive wiggle, which definitely encouraged her to hurry off up the corridor. Then, as soon as the nurse entered Mrs. Brown’s room, he turned and ran for the stairs.

  It took Jimmy another ten minutes to find his way back to the Admiral’s room after ditching his disguise in an unlocked storage cupboard. There was nothing he could do about the abandoned medical chart. Hopefully they’d think a nurse had mistakenly left it there.

  After a few wrong turns, he finally found the correct room and burst in, slamming the door behind him and panting against it with relief.

  The Admiral was so startled at his friend’s sudden appearance, he sloshed his tea down his pyjamas. ‘Bloody hell Jimmy,’ he muttered, ‘Are you trying to finish me off or what?’

  ‘Sorry Sir,’ Jimmy wheezed, glancing anxiously through the window in the door, ‘It’s just… well, I nearly got caught.’ The Admiral shook his head in exasperation, and raised his cup towards his mouth once more.

  ‘They mistook me for a stripper.’

  The rest of the tea ended up on his ham sandwich.

  By the time Jimmy had finished the whole story, he was unsure whether his old friend was silent because he couldn’t believe anyone could possibly mistake him for a stripper, or because he was busy formulating a business plan…

  In the end, however, the Admiral obviously remembered why Jimmy had been sneaking around in the first place, and gave a long sigh. ‘Bloody shame we couldn’t get to the bottom of the mystery Jimmy lad,’ he grumbled, leaning back against his pillows.

  ‘Oh no Sir, we’ve definitely solved the mystery,’ Jimmy disagreed, ‘When the chap opened his eyes and looked at me, I couldn’t help but notice his eyes were emerald green, exactly like his daughter’s.

  ‘Our Luke Anderson is unquestionably Kit’s father.’

  ~*~

  Somehow it doesn’t seem strange at all that the Admiral should be the one to unearth my father. Who needs private detectives when you’ve got Charles Shackleford and Jimmy Noon on the case?

  I wonder if Tory’s father will ever manage to actually get over his need to snoop. I can’t see it happening any time soon.

  So, if we backtrack slightly - somehow, the Admiral spotted that a very ill man on the same hospital floor as himself just happened to be related to his daughter’s best friend. A man who hitherto (we think) had been residing somewhere in Brighton, nearly fifty miles away. You’ve really got to hand it to Tory’s father, he never misses a trick.

  The question is of course, what to do about it? Do I actually want to see my father? This is the man who was responsible for my mother’s death and who tried to kill my aunt. But then, by all accounts he’s extremely ill. So much so, that if I don’t make a decision pretty soon, it’s going to be a moot point anyway.

  Has he changed at all? Does he regret his actions? These thoughts are going round and round in my head until I think I’ll go as bonkers as he is from it all.

  And then there’s the kicker – does my father actually want to see me?

  In the end, Tory convinces me to let Noah make some enquiries and it looks as though he’s found someone to do an initial investigation. It all feels a bit Mike Hammerish really and I’ve spent the last couple of hours on their sofa chewing my finger nails.

  I know I should be focusing on my business right now, but come on, the sudden discovery of a previously shadowy father, potentially on his last legs, doesn’t happen often. Anyone would be forgiven for finding it a little difficult to concentrate on the more mundane matters of putting food on the table.

  At least there’s one good thing – this has certainly put the whole Jason fiasco on the back burner.

  The front door bell rings and a few seconds later Freddy pops his head through the door. ‘I heard the whereabouts of your nutty parent has possibly been discovered. Now that’s something I couldn’t miss.’

  ‘You’re such a caring, sensitive soul Freddy, what on earth would I do without you?’ I mutter, barely looking up from a detailed inspection of my cuticles.

  ‘You’re right, I am,’ he pronounced, plonking himself next to me, ‘And better still, I’ve brought you a spot of wee fizz.’ He waves a bottle of Prosecco under my nose. ‘It’s chilled beautifully, and of course, it’s almost Champagne so you’re allowed to have it for breakfast.’

  Without asking if I actually want any, Tory goes to fetch glasses. I can’t help but notice she’s brought three. I guess I’m not the only one who’s had a difficult few days. She also brings in a large bowl of crisps – perfect brunch fodder…

  I take a handful of crisps and toss a couple on the floor for Dotty who’s practically standing on her head in an effort to be noticed. Then I glance over at Noah’s study. Tory’s husband has been closeted in there for the last half an hour and I can hear the murmur of voices, so he’s definitely speaking to someone.

  Of course it might be nothing to do with my family tree, seeing as he is the world’s most famous actor, but I’m having to fight the compulsion to go and listen at the door.

  A sudden noise from Isaac’s baby monitor causes us all to stop chomping for a second, but it’s a false alarm.

  Then suddenly the study door opens.

  ‘The ball’s in your court now Kit,’ Noah says solemnly, ‘Your father’s indicated he wants to see you.’

  ~*~

  My hands are clammy and my stomach is roiling uncomfortably as I stand outside my father’s hospital room. Part of me feels as though I’ve cheated my aunt by coming here, but then she’s been trying to trace him for months. Still, should I have told her I was coming?

  No. Suddenly I’m sure. This is something I need to do by myself.

  Tory came over to Portsmouth with me, but now I’ve left her and little Isaac to keep the Admiral out of trouble. Apparently, he was hauled over the coals when his medical chart was found in my father’s room. I haven’t asked how it actually got there.

  So now I’m alone. The doctor has given permission for me to see my dad, but with a warning not to stay too long. With trepidation, I pull down the handle and open the door.

  The air inside the room smells stale, the whole atmosphere permeated with the sickness of the man on the bed. For a second I think he’s asleep, and cowardly I want to use it as an excuse to run back out. But then I see h
is eyes are open. Eyes just like mine. Staring straight at me.

  Slowly, hesitantly, I walk towards the side of the bed. His eyes track me, but he doesn’t speak, and I can’t help but wonder if he can.

  Then I arrive at the head of the bed and I look down at his frail arms lying on top of the covers, spider like fingers clenching and unclenching the cotton sheet.

  ‘Hello dad.’ My whisper comes out more like a croak and I keep my eyes firmly on his hands scrunching the coverlet.

  ‘They tell me your name is Kit. Is that short for something?’ His voice when it finally comes is dry and papery, almost too low to hear. I force my gaze up to meet his and I shake my head. ‘It’s always been Kit.’

  Silence. I have no idea what to say. The man on the bed is a stranger to me. I realize that I thought there would be some kind of inherent recognition. Some sense of belonging – even if he had been the worst possible father anyone could ever wish for. How stupid is that?

  Then suddenly his hand moves, fingers grasping mine in a surprisingly strong grip. So strong in fact that I panic, abruptly afraid that I won’t be able to free myself. White hot fear shoots down my spine as I try unsuccessfully to pull my hand away.

  ‘Is Florence still alive?’ he rasps hoarsely. I nod my head and he relaxes his grip with a sigh. I snatch my hand away and ridiculously hold it behind my back. I know he can see my revulsion and I’m sorry for it. He closes his eyes with a low groan and I bend forward, abruptly afraid he might actually die here and now. As I lean closer, my heart flips as I see tears begin leaking from beneath his closed lids. I look around for a tissue, suddenly feeling as though I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole. His voice, when it comes, stops me in my tracks.