‘What’s wrong with the buildings?’ asks Mum wearily, clearly used to this kind of rant.
‘This is a lovely home, Caroline, but it’s so . . . old,’ he says, as if the word is interchangeable with the phrase, ‘rife with infectious diseases’. ‘If I have to duck to avoid another doorframe I think I might just die.’
Mum finishes off her dinner and resists the temptation to invite him through to the sitting room, which would involve passing through a doorframe several inches lower than his forehead.
‘The big city is where it’s all at and it is calling me. The cocktails. The parties. The glamour and energy, the sheer thrill of it all!’
‘So did you manage to get that bedsit in Streatham you were after?’ Barry asks.
‘Um . . . yes.’
‘The two ladies sound nice you’re moving in with. How old are they again?’ Mum asks.
‘Early eighties,’ he coughs. ‘That’s just a stop-gap though.’
‘Of course,’ Mum says.
‘Well, we’ll miss you, Jeremy,’ Barry says heroically, as he dishes up the Ice Hotel cake. ‘And you’re always welcome back here, whenever you like.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Jeremy mutters, before taking a bite of his cake as Barry awaits his verdict.
Instead of murmuring his approval – or more likely turning his nose up – my mum’s second cousin’s son instead launches into a cataclysmic coughing fit, turns the colour of a varicose vein, sprays marshmallow halfway across the kitchen and, most disconcertingly, seems unable to breathe.
We are collectively stunned into inaction, at least for a moment, until Mum leaps up.
Just as he looks as though his vital organs are about to burst out of his belly, she grabs him round the waist and gives him several sharp thumps, before a shard of glacier mint torpedoes out of Jeremy’s mouth.
‘Oh. My. GOD.’ Jeremy’s chest trampolines up and down, as he clutches the side of the chair. ‘Your cake nearly killed me!’ he shrieks at Barry.
Barry stands there, unable to speak. But I’m afraid I’m not. Something rises up in me as I fix my glare on him.
‘Jeremy,’ I say tightly. ‘Barry and Mum have shown you nothing but kindness and hospitality – you’d do well to remember that. You might not have enjoyed your time here, but it’s not their fault if you come out in a rash every time you approach so much as a tree.’
‘Don’t give me that, Lauren,’ he splutters. ‘You’re as desperate to get out of this place as I am. It’s written all over your face.’
‘That’s not true.’ I stand there, mute for a moment, and wishing I could fire back the real explanation: that my desire to leave is far more complicated than he – or anyone else here – realises.
But of course I can’t say that. So I am left to slink back into my chair and simply watch as Jeremy spins on his heels and attempts to flounce out of the room. It’d be a good flounce too – with big, theatrical strides – if he didn’t come undone at the kitchen door. As his forehead smacks on the beam between the kitchen and the living room, it nearly shakes the foundations of the house.
Then he stumbles backwards and lands on the floor. He is out cold for a second or two, before his eyes flutter open. Mum turns to me and lets out the long sigh of a woman in whose vocabulary ‘panic’ does not exist. ‘I think one of us had better drive him to hospital,’ she says. Her eyes flick up at me. ‘Assuming they’ll have him.’
Chapter 50
The hospital is forty minutes’ drive away and I’m sorry to say that I’m the one doing the driving. Mum and Barry had both had a couple of glasses of wine, but I’d abstained because I wasn’t staying over.
Jeremy is appalled by the fact that we didn’t call the air ambulance for a full-scale rescue involving ropes and stretchers and frantic shouting. Instead, he sits groaning like a burst radiator valve in the back of my car, a bag of frozen peas pressed against his temple.
‘Because I’ve had a head injury, it’s very likely that they’ll consult with you to find out what’s happened,’ he tells me. ‘In case I’m delirious or something. So, can I just say now that it’s important we present a united front and do not accept anything less than an MRI scan.’
‘Hadn’t you better see what the doctors say first?’ I suggest, glancing in the mirror.
‘I don’t like doctors,’ he declares. I wonder if there’s anyone Jeremy does like. ‘They’ll fob you off with anything, particularly in some small cottage hospital like the ones around here.’
‘The hospitals around here are fine,’ I tell him. ‘Once you get used to the rusty pliers or neat whiskey they use as anaesthetic.’
‘I’m not the being-fobbed-off kind,’ he continues, ignoring me. ‘I’ve read about this sort of head injury. About people getting a bang to the head and on the surface feeling completely fine. But in reality internal bleeding is going on and hours – literally hours – later, they wake up DEAD.’
‘I promise I won’t let you wake up dead,’ I tell him, as I turn on to the A road. ‘Although don’t be too disappointed if they send you away with two Paracetamol and tell you to go and get some rest, will you?’
‘There is absolutely no way they’re going to do that, Lauren. Absolutely no way. LOOK.’
He thrusts his head between the two seats like that alien that burst out of Sigourney Weaver’s torso and points at a massive purple egg between his eyes, apparently unconcerned at nearly forcing me off the road.
We pull up in the hospital’s car park and, as I rustle round for some change for the Pay and Display, Jeremy staggers to the front door of A&E, convinced there is no time to waste. I follow him in a minute later and find him at reception, where he is laying on his injuries thicker than Cara Delevingne’s eyebrows.
‘I do feel I’m facing a life-or-death situation here,’ he tells a receptionist who, despite the pleasant expression, looks distinctly unmoved. ‘I’d hate you to get in trouble or end up in some sort of terrible litigation situation. Seconds could count.’
‘OK, lovely,’ she replies, with a sunny smile. ‘No probs at all. Take a seat and the triage nurse will be with you shortly.’
He fails to move. ‘The fact that we’ve driven here ourselves might give the impression that I’m in a better physical state than the reality is,’ he continues. ‘I did explain to my hosts how dangerous head injuries can be. How they can go from seeming innocuous one minute to DEATH the next. But they’re not trained medical professionals, so—’
‘There’s a drinks machine over to your right if you’d like to take a seat,’ the lady adds.
‘A drinks machine?’
‘In case you fancied a brew while you’re waiting.’
‘I don’t think you’re quite grasping this . . .’
As Jeremy continues explaining to the receptionist how his situation is ten times more pressing than absolutely anyone else’s here, I take a seat and settle down to what I suspect is a lengthy night. I’ve just taken my phone out of my bag to see if I can get enough of a reception to log on to Facebook, when a text arrives from Cate.
Cash handed over. All pics deleted from his files and the websites – he did it in front of me. He’s going to be out of my life for ever, Lauren. Can’t tell you how relieved I am – but more importantly, how grateful. I will pay every penny back to you, I swear. xxx
I text her back.
Glad it’s sorted. Now put that arsehole out of your head immediately and go and see your gorgeous boyfriend x
She responds.
R really is an arsehole: The first thing he said was, ‘this money means nothing, not compared with how much I want you’. He still took it though – bloody loser. Anyway, am so lucky to have a friend like you – don’t know how to thank you, sweetheart. xxx
I close my eyes, feeling an uneasy sense of relief.
Belatedly, I realise that I’m not as convinced as she is that this will be the end of it. What happens when the money runs out and Robby decides he wants
more? He could easily have backed up those photos somewhere else. And even if he has deleted them, the nature of this particular beast is that copies of it will still be out there, ready to emerge at some point on some dodgy website.
But, if it makes Cate feel well enough to start rebuilding her life, and it’s enough to get Robby to move to France, then it’ll have been worth it.
‘This place is run by a bunch of yokels!’ Jeremy says loudly, stomping over and plonking himself next to me. This has the unfortunate effect of making it impossible to pretend I’m not with him.
I spend the next hour and a half trying to get a signal so I can log on to Facebook and ignore Jeremy, which unfortunately – after the triage nurse has made some rudimentary tests – is exactly what the emergency team have to do after we’re told they’ve admitted two climbers in a far more serious condition.
When Jeremy is finally called in, he musters up a brave face and tells me graciously that I can wait in reception.
So I wait . . . with nothing but my thoughts for company.
It is saying something, but after twenty minutes, even being with Jeremy is suddenly looking like an attractive alternative. I decide to head out into my car to find a magazine I think I might have left in the boot, when the double doors open and a figure shuffles in, huddled in a massive coat, head down. I barely give them a second glance; indeed, am about to stride out into the car park when I hear my name spoken in a low whisper.
‘Lauren?’
When I look up, it takes a moment for me to realise who it is.
‘Emily?’ I reply. ‘What are you doing here? Has something happened?’
The fear on Emily’s face is stark as she nods her head. I put my arm around her shoulders and usher her in through the door, out of the cold.
‘I’ve been bleeding,’ she confides, her bottom lip trembling. ‘I think it’s the baby.’
She looks to be in shock. ‘Come on, let’s go and see the receptionist,’ I say.
Emily gives her details before we take a seat. ‘What happened?’
She swallows. ‘I’d been feeling really ropey all day but put it down to nothing more than the pregnancy in general. So I thought I’d just, you know, go for a walk, take it easy. I didn’t overdo anything, I swear.’
‘Of course not,’ I reassure her, clutching her hand.
‘Then tonight . . . we’d had dinner and, obviously, I wasn’t drinking and all we were doing was watching a film, but I got up to go to the loo, and that’s when I felt it – this pain in my belly. It wasn’t even that bad – just like period pains. I went to the bathroom and it was then that I realised I was bleeding. Not just a little bit, either.’
‘Is it still happening now?’ I ask quietly, glancing round, wishing the triage nurse would come.
‘No. Maybe,’ she says, shrugging. ‘Not as much. The thing is, Lauren, I know I wasn’t sure about the baby at first but that was because it was all so unexpected. I couldn’t get my head around the whole thing. But now I have. Now I really want it. I hadn’t realised how much.’
‘I’m no expert but I’m sure I heard that this can happen in early pregnancy and it doesn’t necessarily mean anything bad has happened,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t leap to any conclusions.’
She nods. ‘Part of me doesn’t know why I’m here. They’re not going to be able to do a foetal scan or anything tonight. I just . . . I was scared. I didn’t know where else to go.’
‘You’ve done the right thing.’
The triage door opens and a nurse comes out and calls Emily’s name.
Em nods and stands up. ‘I’m coming with you,’ I tell her.
But she hesitates. ‘What is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s OK, Lauren, I don’t need you to come with me. I’m not by myself. He’s just parking the car.’
My stomach sinks as I realise Joe is about to follow her in.
‘Then you’re in good hands,’ I say quietly. ‘I know Joe will look after you.’
She doesn’t move. She just looks me in the eyes and says a series of words that are laden with meaning – a meaning I don’t grasp.
‘My baby’s father brought me, Lauren,’ she says.
‘That’s what I said, Joe brought you.’
She looks at her hands and whispers her reply. ‘Not Joe.’
The double doors slide open and we both look up.
And standing there, with panic in his eyes, is a man I recognise instantly but never in a million years expected to see in this scenario.
He walks over, barely registers my presence, before slipping his hand in Emily’s and walking towards the door with her, as incredulity sweeps over me and I attempt to put together the pieces of the jigsaw in my head.
The man who Emily has just told me is the father of her baby is not Joe. It’s Nick Goodwin. Little Tom’s dad.
Chapter 51
Emily and Nick Goodwin are only in with the triage nurse for a matter of minutes. When the door re-opens, Emily shuffles over to me immediately. ‘I’ve been sent straight in. I can’t really explain.’
I nod, then my eyes flick up spontaneously to Nick. But he can’t bring himself to look at me. ‘I’m going to get your bag out of the car,’ he says, and squeezes Emily on the arm. She nods and he heads outside.
When we’re alone, Emily turns to me, a glaze on her eyes. ‘Don’t hate me, Lauren.’
‘Of course not,’ I say, though I can’t deny I’m completely bewildered by all this; by when Nick came into this equation – and where Joe fits in. If he fits in anywhere . . .
She lowers herself on to the seat next to me. ‘You and Cate assumed so much about Joe and me, but we were never serious,’ she says, as if reading my thoughts. ‘I liked him a lot – fancied him at the beginning . . . but we went on a few dates, went walking a lot and became friends. Friends who both enjoyed the mountains and each other’s company, but nothing more than that.’ She pauses to think.
‘Then I met Nick – he’s friends with one of the other guys at Windermere Adventures and came on a couple of nights out at the Golden Rule. We just kind of clicked and got to know each other and . . .’ She looks up at me, trying to read my face. ‘It all happened so quickly. I fell completely in love with him.’
I am speechless, there’s no other word for it.
‘I let you believe there was more to Joe and me simply because I couldn’t tell you about Nick. I felt ashamed,’ she says, lowering her head miserably. ‘I feel ashamed. Not just because of the affair, but because I know Tom is in your class. I know how fond you are of him – I remember you telling me that story about his cousin calling him a ‘brat’ and he thought it meant some little animal . . .’
I didn’t even remember telling Emily about that.
‘It became impossible to tell you, Lauren,’ she goes on. ‘And I knew that if I’d told Cate she couldn’t have kept it from you. She’s never been any good at keeping secrets, not like you.’
‘So you and Joe . . .’
‘There isn’t a me and Joe. Like I say, we went out on dates at first, then became friends. We carried on with some climbing every so often, but it’s nothing like the big romance I let you think it was. I didn’t mean to lie to you. I just never corrected you because it became so much easier not to. I’m sorry.’
‘I . . . God . . .’ A dozen questions are bubbling up to my lips. ‘But Jenny – Nick’s wife . . . ’
‘Nick’s leaving her,’ she finishes.
‘What? But he can’t.’
Defiance shines in her eyes as she hisses, ‘He’s about to become a father with me, Lauren. And more to the point, he loves me.’
I can feel my jaw clench as I think about Tom’s sad little face, how upset and quiet this gorgeous, bright little boy has been lately. If Emily had any idea what this would do to him . . .
‘I know it won’t be easy for Tom,’ she adds. The words trip off her tongue so effortlessly I have a feeling that the truth is, she doesn’t. ‘Kids get over it though, don�
��t they? People divorce all the time. And their marriage is over. It was over long before I came on the scene.’
It strikes me that now might not be the time to remind her that they all say that.
‘Even before Nick found out about the baby, he knew that was what he had to do. The baby just makes everything clear. But even if . . .’ she looks around, remembering where she is. ‘Even if something awful happened, he’s leaving her – to be with me.’
I am mute, unable to know what to do or say, entirely unable to share the triumph in her voice.
‘Emily Costa?’ The doctor pops her head round the door again.
‘I need to go,’ she says urgently. Nick appears, skulking at the door, glancing at me with shifty eyes, suddenly looking far less of the man he was.
I look back at her. ‘I hope everything’s all right,’ I manage.
She nods, takes Nick by the hand, and they disappear into the emergency room.
Chapter 52
Jeremy is dispatched from the A&E clutching two Paracetamol and an ice pack. The only thing missing is a Mr Bump sticker and a lollipop. By the time I’ve driven to his temporary hovel i.e. Mum’s house, then home, I’m too wired to sleep.
The events of the last twenty-four hours ricochet around my head, making me toss and turn, with I can do nothing except sit up and switch the light on. First there’s Emily and the fact that she’s been having an affair with Nick Goodwin. An actual affair, with lies and secrets and clandestine meetings . . . all of which is about to add up to the destruction of Tom Goodwin’s world.
I’ve never considered myself the judgemental type. And I’m trying not to judge Emily. But it bothers me how flippant she sounded about Nick and Jenny’s marriage break-up and its effect on Tom. Perhaps it’s because I’m Tom’s teacher, but I can’t feel anything other than distaste for what Emily and Nick are doing, no matter how in love they say they are.
Summer Nights at the Moonlight Hotel Page 27
