The Unpredictable Consequences of Love

by Jill Mansell

  A taxi twenty yards away was disgorging a gaggle of excitable Japanese occupants. Dot hailed it and hurried over. Antoine jumped in after her.

  ‘Please don’t go.’ He clutched her arm. ‘OK, we’ll fly back tomorrow, how about that? But we have to stay here tonight. Truly, the Jules Verne … it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Chérie, you can’t miss it.’

  Dot looked at him and knew at once what was going on. Antoine might be a gourmand, but even he couldn’t be that desperate to eat a nice bit of food. He’d arranged practically every minute of this trip with characteristically immaculate attention to detail. There had also been a declaration of love last week during which he’d hinted that although they’d only known each other a few weeks, when you met someone and knew they were The One, what would be the point in hanging around? Just because a romance was whirlwind didn’t mean it wasn’t real and couldn’t last.

  Antoine had evidently had Very Big Plans for this evening’s trip to the Eiffel Tower. No wonder he was looking put out.

  ‘Please.’ He tried again.

  Dot shook her head slightly. ‘I’m going home.’

  They arrived back at their hotel in the Latin Quarter and she began throwing everything into her case.

  ‘He could be better by the time you get back.’ Antoine was pacing the room like a supercilious panther.

  ‘I hope he is.’ As if her mind wasn’t bursting with fear and anxiety and mental pictures of Lawrence being taken ill, wondering if he was about to die, being rushed into hospital then lying in bed facing his worst fears.

  It was, of course, her own worst fear too. Lawrence could die.

  ‘He doesn’t deserve this.’ Antoine indicated the open suitcase with irritation. ‘Not after what he did to you.’

  ‘Antoine, if you were going to ask me to marry you tonight …’ Dot paused with a dove-grey silk dress in her hands. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I would have said no.’

  He reacted as if she’d slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes.’ She dropped the dress – ironically, the one she would have worn tonight – into her case.

  ‘Why?’

  Why? What could she tell him? That he was too perfect? Like a cut-out-and-keep version of the ideal partner?

  ‘It’s no good, I can’t go into all this now.’ Blindly, Dot shook her head. ‘I just have to get to the airport. What’s the number for the safe, please? I need my passport.’

  Antoine had been the one to set the code. He crossed the room, pressed the buttons on the safe’s digital display and opened it. From the other side of the bed, Dot glimpsed a small package wrapped in a distinctive – and instantly recognisable – shade of duck-egg blue. It was at the back, behind the other items. Then he closed the safe once more and held out her passport.

  So he’d already selected her engagement ring from Tiffany & Co. Of course he would have gone to Tiffany’s; where else?

  The rest of the packing was finished in a matter of minutes and in a silence that wasn’t exactly comfortable. Flipping the case on to its wheels, Dot said again, ‘I really am sorry.’

  ‘You haven’t even booked a flight.’ Antoine’s shoulders were stiff, his jaw taut.

  ‘I know. I’m just going to catch the first one I can.’ She’d kept the taxi waiting while she packed; it was time to head off to Charles de Gaulle airport. Waiting there would be less unbearable than this. ‘Thanks for … everything.’ Dot hesitated; a kiss on the cheek probably wasn’t appropriate under the circumstances. ‘And I’ll pay my half of all this, I promise.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you’re going. I would have given you everything you’d ever wanted.’ Antoine’s voice registered frostiness tinged with regret.

  It was no use; her brain was filling up again with images of Lawrence and what he was going through. Tightly clutching her phone, Dot prayed he was still alive. As soon as she was safely in the taxi she would call Josh back.

  Aloud she said, ‘I know you would.’

  Chapter 47

  Tubes.

  Tubes everywhere, so many of them, coming out of Lawrence’s mouth, disappearing into his veins, delivering oxygen and liquids and medication and monitoring his vital signs.

  Dot’s legs began to tremble again at the sight of him. Josh dragged a chair up behind her and she collapsed on to it, her heart hammering with terror at the sight of so much technology.

  But Lawrence was still breathing, still alive. He’d been rushed here this morning, to the Terence Lewis Building at Derriford Hospital in Plymouth. It was the cardiothoracic centre of excellence for the south-west, and if anyone could get him through this, it was the staff here.

  ‘You OK?’ Josh murmured, keeping his arm around her.

  Dot nodded, her mouth dry. At midday she’d been standing on the steps of the Sacré Coeur, gazing out over the city and thinking how happy she was with Antoine. Since then, she’d flown from Paris into Heathrow and travelled by train down to the south coast of Cornwall, to be met at the station by Josh. It had felt like the longest journey of her life, from sunny Montmartre to the cardiac surgery intensive care unit in grey, rain-soaked Plymouth.

  ‘He’s very poorly,’ the doctor told them, ‘but we’re doing everything we can. And he’s through the surgery, which is good.’

  It was good. It was also a pretty idiotic thing to say. The doctor looked too young to be allowed anywhere near a patient on his own; he hardly looked old enough to ride a moped.

  Oh well, hopefully he knew what he was doing, had a few qualifications under his belt.

  ‘A quadruple bypass,’ said Dot. ‘It just sounds so terrifying, so … major.’

  ‘At least he got to us in time.’ The doctor – a surgeon, presumably – nodded at Josh. ‘Thanks to this one here.’

  Dot nodded helplessly; Josh had already told her about Lawrence’s call this morning, asking him to phone the surgery when he had a moment and see if he could be seen at some stage today. The moment Josh had heard the words chest pain, he’d hung up, dialled 999, jumped into his car and raced over to Lawrence’s flat. With Lawrence unable to get out of bed, Josh had kicked down the door just in time to let the paramedics pile in.

  Another couple of minutes, apparently, and Lawrence would have been dead.

  Dot closed her eyes. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Then again, the other thing that didn’t bear thinking about was the fact that it could still happen.

  He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  It had been eight days since Lawrence’s heart attack and subsequent surgery, but it was Marguerite’s first visit. She paused at the entrance to the open-plan, state-of-the-art ward. This was exactly the kind of scene that could have featured in one of her books.

  The once-philandering husband lying in his hospital bed.

  The once-abandoned ex-wife sitting beside him, leaning forward and touching his arm. After more than ten years apart, they looked like a couple again.

  And now: enter the new woman in this man’s life, tall and striking, madly in love with him and furiously jealous of the ex-wife now threatening to steal back his affections.

  You could turn it into one of those Fatal Attraction scenarios: Threatened and spurned, the new woman in his life walks the length of the ward, managing a tight, polite smile for the benefit of the nursing staff as she passes them … then suddenly produces a kitchen knife from the depths of her Mulberry handbag …

  Oh well, you got the idea. Something like that.

  Anyway, best get this over with. Bracing herself, Marguerite moved away from the door and headed over to join them. God, how she hated hospitals: that nasty disinfectanty smell, the unattractive decor, all the ill people needing constant looking after. So alien and uncomfortable and reminiscent of death.

  The moment they spotted her, Dot guiltily slid her hand away from Lawrence’s forearm and sat back in her chair. Lawrence nodded with a wary expression on his face and said, ‘Hello!’


  ‘Well look at you!’ Marguerite cheerily dropped her Mulberry bag on to the other chair and manoeuvred her way past a drip stand. She greeted him with a kiss on each cheek, holding her breath in order to avoid the hospitaliness of his skin. ‘I hear you’re on the mend, which is excellent. Now, I did buy you flowers but apparently they aren’t allowed on the ward so I’ve had to leave them in the car. I’ll take them back home with me. But just so you know, the thought was there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’m sure they’re lovely.’

  ‘Well they weren’t cheap!’ Oh dear, Riley was always telling her off for saying things like that, but she really couldn’t help herself; sometimes these things just popped out. ‘And I’ve brought you one of my books, seeing as you’ve never read any of them.’ She took a hefty hardback out of the bag and placed it on the Formica cabinet alongside his bed. ‘You really should give one a go.’

  ‘Great.’ He said it like a teenager being presented with a hand-knitted bobble hat by his gran. Honestly, some men.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been able to get here before now, but I’ve been away on a book tour of South Africa.’

  Lawrence nodded. ‘Yes, I remember. You told me you were going.’

  ‘It went very well.’ Marguerite realised she was talking about herself rather than asking him how he was, partly out of guilt, because she’d actually arrived back from Cape Town three days ago. ‘So anyway, how are you feeling?’

  Lawrence shifted against the propped-up pillows. ‘Well, not wonderful. But I guess things could be a lot worse.’ He glanced over at Dot, who was apparently engrossed in reading the get-well-soon cards on the wall behind his bed.

  ‘Must have given you a scare when it happened,’ said Marguerite.

  ‘It did. I thought I was a goner.’ He shrugged and briefly touched his chest, bruised and scarred but healing after the surgery. ‘Lucky to be here, I know that.’

  Over a week had passed since it had happened. From her discussions with a doctor friend, Marguerite had learned that the danger period was now over; barring setbacks due to infection or clots, the prognosis should be good.

  ‘Actually,’ she looked at Lawrence, ‘would you mind if we left you for a few minutes? I’d really like a word with Dot, if that’s OK. In private.’

  Together they took the lift down to the ground floor and sat on a bench outside in the courtyard garden. Dot looked like a captured spy preparing to be interrogated and possibly shot.

  ‘Have you been coming here every day?’ Marguerite opened the proceedings.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Travelling down or staying here in Plymouth?’ She already knew the answer to this one.

  Dot’s spine was as straight as a debutante’s, her hands clasped together in her lap. ‘Staying. In a small B and B not far from here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can’t bear not to be near him. Marguerite, I’m sorry if you’re furious with me. I know you two were seeing each other and you probably think I have a damn nerve being here like this … but I can’t help it.’ Dot shook her head. ‘I just can’t.’

  After a pause, Marguerite said, ‘I hear you cut short your Paris trip.’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘And how did the glamorous Antoine feel about that?’

  ‘He wasn’t tremendously impressed,’ said Dot.

  Nor had he returned to Cornwall, Marguerite knew that too.

  ‘Is it over between the two of you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how about Lawrence? Do you love him?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ This time Dot didn’t flinch. ‘With all my heart.’ She exhaled and said again, ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Marguerite shook her head. ‘Don’t be. It’s fine. Lawrence and I did our best to make it more, but we were only ever friends. If anything, I’m relieved to be off the hook. Looking after someone who’s ill isn’t my thing. Just don’t have the patience. And I can’t stand hospitals.’ She smiled briefly. ‘So all in all, I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Oh thank goodness.’ Dot clapped a hand to her throat. ‘Thank you. You’ll never know how guilty I’ve been feeling. I didn’t want you to feel … you know …’

  ‘It’s OK. Really. I’m happy for you.’ Marguerite tilted her head. ‘But I have to admit, also a bit puzzled. Lawrence has been in love with you all along. Everyone knows that. You could have had him back any time you wanted.’

  ‘I know.’ Dot carefully smoothed her skirt over her knees. ‘But he broke my heart when he left. I was devastated, and there was Lawrence, madly in love and as happy as anything with Aurora. If she hadn’t died, he might still be happy with her. But she did die. And it was Lawrence’s turn to be devastated. Then, once he’d recovered from losing her, I saw the way his mind was heading. But I didn’t want to be second best, option number two. And I still wanted to hurt him for doing what he’d done to me. Why should I make life easy for him? So I decided to punish him instead.’ She paused, tipping her head back as if searching the sky for birds. Marguerite saw the glistening in her clear blue eyes and knew she was employing the tilt trick to stop the tears spilling out.

  ‘Without realising how much you were punishing yourself,’ she said gently.

  Unable to speak for a moment, Dot nodded. Then she swallowed and said, ‘Well, I did kind of know. But somehow it seemed worth it. Lawrence was always there, wanting me back and unable to have me. But then something like this happens,’ she indicated the hospital, ‘and it just hits you, out of nowhere. He’s the only man I’ve ever loved. What if he wasn’t around any longer? We so nearly lost him. And the thought of that … well, it would just be unbearable.’ She managed a smile and a shrug. ‘So that’s how it happened. I realised I couldn’t punish him, or myself, any more.’

  ‘Well,’ said Marguerite. ‘What can I say? I should put the two of you in a book.’ Her gaze softened. ‘Lawrence must be happy about it.’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet. I haven’t told him.’

  ‘But you’re staying here in Plymouth, visiting him every day. You left Antoine behind in Paris. He must have some sort of idea.’

  ‘Who knows? He’s a man; you can never be sure with them.’ Dot looked mischievous. ‘If he does suspect, he’s far too scared to ask.’

  Marguerite made her way across the car park, wearing wraparound Dior dark glasses. Dot had headed back to Lawrence in his ward on the sixth floor. There had been no reason to go with her; the deed was done now. And she hadn’t been lying when she’d told Dot she was happy for her. Because she was.

  Thank God, here was the car, tucked out of the way in a corner. Marguerite’s hand trembled slightly as she pressed the key to unlock the door.

  It wasn’t until she was in the driver’s seat of the Mercedes that she felt safe enough to take off the sunglasses and bury her face in her hands. Hot tears dripped through her fingers, and her shoulders shook with the effort of not honking like a goose.

  So much for having allowed herself to think that maybe, just maybe, she and Lawrence might have stood a chance of happiness together.

  It was never going to happen now. She’d known it the moment Riley had told her about Dot flying back from Paris.

  When the outburst was over, Marguerite carefully wiped her face with a succession of tissues, cleaning away the mascara that had run into the wrinkles around her eyes, giving her the look of a centuries-old witch. Then she took out her make-up bag and painstakingly reapplied everything that had come off.

  She might not have a man in her life – again – but there were still standards to maintain.

  No more Lawrence, with whom she’d had such high hopes of building a proper relationship. It wasn’t to be. Marguerite gave her mouth a final defiant slick of take-no-prisoners crimson lipstick.

  Oh well, at least she still had her career, her fans and her dignity. She’d wanted Lawrence and been found wanting in return. But no one would ever know.

  Chapter 48

>   ‘What are you thinking about now?’

  It was evening, and visiting time was almost over. Dot looked at Lawrence and said, ‘Why?’

  ‘That little smile on your face. I like it. I want to know what made you smile like that.’

  ‘OK, do I make something up or tell you the truth?’

  ‘The truth.’ Lawrence paused. ‘Although now you’ve said that, I’m a bit worried I might not like the answer.’

  What the hell, go for it. ‘I was thinking about the time you asked me to marry you.’ As she said it, one of the nurses arrived to check on Lawrence’s drip.

  ‘Ooh, marriage proposals, lovely!’ Rose was a cheery soul who loved to chat. ‘Was it wonderfully romantic?’

  ‘He probably doesn’t remember it,’ said Dot. ‘It was over half a century ago.’

  The nurse feigned dismay. ‘Oh Lawrence, surely you haven’t forgotten! Have you?’

  ‘I remember,’ said Lawrence. ‘I’m not that decrepit.’

  ‘Go on then, tell me.’ Rose beamed. ‘I’m all ears!’

  Her ears were actually quite large and sticky-outy. For a split second Dot and Lawrence exchanged a glance, silently daring each other to smile.

  ‘It was a Saturday evening.’ Lawrence held up his arm, allowing Rose to get on with the task of unpeeling the tape holding one of the drip lines in place. ‘Started off sunny, then the sky clouded over as we were setting out. We’d been invited to a party at a friend’s house and my car had broken down the day before, so we had to walk there instead. It was about five miles away, but that was OK. We could manage it, no problem.’ Drily he added, ‘Back when we were young.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Rose. ‘I need to know. Had you planned the whole thing? I mean, did you have the ring with you?’

  ‘No.’ Lawrence shook his head. ‘We’d only known each other a few weeks. I knew I loved her, but that was as far as I’d got. So anyway, we’d walked a couple of miles along the cliff path when it started to rain. And Dot was wearing a new dress. A yellow one.’