by JC Harroway
‘I thought when you travelled to New Zealand with Jess that you’d finally have some wild times, be young, carefree, but now I can see the damage we did with you.’
I flew to her, accepting the solace of her hug as I’d done so many times as a child. I was rendered speechless, my throat closing until I feared I’d suffocate.
Her hand rubbed my back in comforting strokes. ‘I want you to know Dad and I have set up a trust for Matty and arranged legal guardianship, so you never have to worry about him—he’ll always be taken care of.’
‘He’s my brother. I want to take care of him.’
‘Yes, of course, and you can be added to the guardianship agreement if you want. But you mustn’t sacrifice your own life, your own happiness. Live your life, Soph; enjoy every moment, because from where I’m standing, the years slip by so quickly and you never know when that happiness will be snatched away from you.’ She stopped, sucking in a deep breath, no doubt thinking of her life partner in a coma across the hall.
‘I love him, Mum.’ The words slipped from my lips and the relief of speaking them was so immense, my knees almost buckled.
Her hand stroked my hair. ‘I know you do.’ She held me for a long time, both of us lost to our own thoughts until the door swung open and the cardiologist in charge of my father’s care entered the room.
We broke apart, still clinging to each other’s hands as we faced him, eager for news and praying it was good.
‘Mrs King, Dr King—the CT scan shows a small stroke in the occipital lobe. The brain swelling is minimal and Paul has made some responses to pain stimuli this morning. I’m hopeful that means he’ll wake from his coma soon and then we can properly assess the extent of the stroke.’
We spoke for a few more minutes on the long-term prognosis, the treatment options and further tests required if and when my father woke up, then we parted ways, Mum and I heading back to the ward to resume our bedside vigil.
Jess arrived later that evening to take me to my parents’ house. Mum insisted I have a night away from the hospital, a decent meal and a proper sleep in a bed. Jess had cooked one of her feasts, and brought a bottle of wine and a movie for us to watch. Leaving the ward, we passed the nurses’ station and one of the evening shift nurses called out my name.
‘Dr King? The ward receptionist found this note for you—I think it’s been here for days. It was buried under a pile of lab results.’ She smiled, apology flushing her cheeks, handed me a slip of paper and rushed off to answer a patient call buzzer.
I followed Jess to the lifts, my fingers unfolding the square of white paper. My steps faltered, my hand flying to cover my mouth as my eyes burned. The note was from Nathan. He’d come.
Soph,
They won’t let me onto the ward—family only. I came as soon as I could, but I’m sorry if I let you down. I know you need to focus on your father right now, but we left things unresolved between us and when you are ready, I’d welcome an opportunity to discuss what happened face to face.
I’m heading back to LA tomorrow—work commitments—but I want you to know I’m thinking of you and am here if you need anything.
Nate
Under the note, he’d drawn a stick man with a speech bubble attached to his head and the words call me written inside.
He’d been here. Come all the way from LA and I’d been too grief-stricken and too scared to listen to his messages or answer his texts. I handed the note to a watchful Jess, my emotions so distorted I doubted my ability to make even the most basic of decisions. The lift sank to the ground floor and I clasped the handrail, steadying myself against the plummet as my heart was torn between soaring and sinking.
‘Are you going to call him?’ Jess’s voice was a cautious whisper, as if anything above thirty decibels would shatter me into a million shards. It might.
I shrugged, pushing away from the handrail as the lift juddered to a halt, depositing us on the ground floor.
My legs operated on autopilot as I followed Jess to her car, requiring no conscious input from my brain, freeing it to ruminate on Nathan’s note. During the short walk across the car park, I dissected every possible meaning of his words, desperate to calm my thundering heart and my stomach’s nervous fluttering.
He’d travelled a ten-thousand-mile round trip to see me and regardless of his intentions—to end this face to face or to support me in my time of need—I owed him the courtesy of a phone call.
The temperatures were mild, but as I settled into the passenger seat of Jess’s beat-up Toyota, I shivered, my limbs jerking and my teeth clattering inside my head. Jess started the engine and cranked up the heater, removing her jacket and laying it over my lap. Before she pulled out of her parking space, she retrieved her headphones from her bag and plugged them into her phone. ‘Call him—I won’t listen.’
My fingers moved over the screen of my phone and it took me three attempts to dial, my fingers clumsy with trembles. I pressed the phone to my face as Jess negotiated rush hour, and I waited for the call to connect. Running a quick mental calculation of the time difference between London and LA, I pictured what Nathan might be doing at ten in the morning. Had he been up for hours, fitting in a morning run before heading to some interview or press conference? Was he swimming in his pool, his spectacular back flexing as his lithe body carved up the pristine blue water? Was he at a breakfast meeting, Jake at his side, matching phones in their hands?
My insides twisted as doubts assailed me. Was I too late? Yes, if the pictures spoke the truth. What other explanation could there be?
The phone clicked, startling me as it connected, the slight crackle reminding me Nathan was on the other side of the world, physically and metaphorically. I sucked air into my lungs, my chest expanding until my ribs protested and my hearing acutely attuned for the first sound of his voice. It didn’t come.
A tinkle of feminine laughter. ‘Hello?’
I pulled the phone away from my head, checking the screen in case I’d misdialled. No—Nathan’s name and a clapperboard emoji I’d added displayed at the top of the screen. Someone had answered his phone.
Claudia.
‘Hello?’ Her clipped tone and impatient huff pulled me from my stupor. Should I hang up? Brazen it out? Pretend to be selling something?
‘Could I speak to Nathan, please?’ My voice was a rusty croak, so meek and uncertain, I winced.
‘Sorry, he’s … indisposed.’ She disconnected, but not before I heard another peel of her laughter.
Bile filled my mouth and I lowered the window, allowing the rush of air to blow away the heat scalding me. I’d been right—he’d moved on, and I couldn’t blame him. Claudia was his type—she understood his world, she was startlingly attractive, and she was savvy enough to know when she was being duped by a celebrity blogger.
Jess reached for my hand, her sympathetic gaze flicking to mine before settling on the road ahead. I returned the tight grip she had on my fingers, wordlessly transmitting my thanks for her silent support while willing myself to hold it together in front of my friend. Soon, I’d be alone and I could disintegrate in private.
Chapter Twenty-Two
MY father awoke from his coma later that week—I’d lost track of the days, misery infecting every cell of my body until I was an automaton—barely functioning. I adjusted the waist of my grey pencil skirt and tried to ignore the fact that I’d lost weight. I hadn’t been able to eat more than a few pieces of fruit this week. My stomach rebelled at everything as if it, like the rest of me, craved only Nathan.
I fidgeted in the hard plastic seat of the waiting room, distracted by the ancient exposed pipes traversing the ceiling, painted the same insipid beige as the walls.
‘Dr King? Please come in.’ Professor Everett, my soon-to-be boss, loomed above me, and I pulled myself to my feet, adjusting my balance in my heels and holding out my hand in a professional handshake.
‘Thanks for coming in.’ He led me into his office, turning kind grey eyes on me
as he closed the door behind us and indicated I take a seat. ‘This is Daryl Beckwith from the hospital’s media centre.’
The younger man stood, appraising me with a cool stare, and reached for my hand. I recoiled at his limp, slightly sweaty handshake, covering my reaction with an elaborate display of taking my seat.
Professor Everett cleared his throat, his irritation at having to deal with something so trivial as hospital publicity evident in the tightening of his mouth. ‘Dr King, I understand your father has been ill? How is he?’
‘He’s improving, thank you—he left ICU yesterday and is now on the cardiology ward.’ I forced the image of my dad’s pale sunken features from my mind, focusing my energies on surviving this interview.
‘You are due to commence your position with us next week, but if you need more time, I’m happy to sign off on some compassionate leave for you.’
‘Thank you—I’ll let you know.’ I wouldn’t come to work until I felt ready—I could barely take care of myself currently, and I needed to be fighting fit when other’s lives were in my hands.
Professor Everett glanced at Beckwith, his mouth tightening farther until his lips disappeared. ‘We’ve asked you come in to discuss procedures around the safety and privacy of all patients and staff at St Mildred’s Hospital. I understand you have recently attracted a lot of media attention in your private life.’ He glanced away at some notes on his desk, his discomfort evident by the repetitive glide of his fingers across the top sheet of paper.
Beckwith interrupted, his tone impatient. ‘Dr King, whilst your private life is exactly that, there is concern amongst senior hospital management that your activities outside of work may adversely affect the smooth running of the hospital and endanger patient confidentiality.’
I nodded, showing I understood.
‘We can’t have paparazzi lurking in the ambulance bays and cluttering up the cafeteria.’
I tore my eyes away from the dubious stain on Beckwith’s tie, struggling to muster enough enthusiasm to fight for my career. The last few days had brought a return of the paparazzi to mine and my parents’ doors, albeit fewer in number, searching for my reaction to the stories of Nathan and Claudia, and I was more concerned with protecting my family than the theoretical invasion of the hospital canteen.
‘I understand your concerns. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any potential breach in hospital security.’ I wasn’t going to make it easy for them—they’d have to fire me and they had no grounds. Yet. I sighed, my tepid reaction to the thought of losing my job a telling indication of my mental state.
Professor Everett found his voice. ‘Dr King, your CV is impeccable and your references commendable—you are an asset to our team.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I will relay to management that you are aware of the hospital’s position and assure them you will take all necessary precautions to ensure your personal life does not influence patient safety.’
‘Of course. Thank you, Professor.’
Interrogation over, I stood, shaking both gentlemen’s hands and leaving the office. My heels clicked on the worn linoleum, a steady rhythm of background music to the cacophony of thoughts bombarding my sluggish brain. It was decision time. I had a fight ahead of me, the prize slipping further away and into the distance. Did I fight for my job, a move destined to remove Nathan from my life for good, or did I fight for the man I loved, against all odds and jeopardise my burgeoning career?
***
The studio was packed with excited audience members, their upbeat chatter grating on my frayed nerves until the urge to flee almost overpowered me. I took in a steadying lungful of air, willing myself to remain seated. This was my last chance. I didn’t know how she’d done it, but Jess had likely pulled many strings and called in favours to acquire me a ticket for Britain’s most popular chat show at such late notice. I wondered if Tyler had a hand in it, but I hadn’t asked, too focused on my plan.
However tempted I was to leave before the guests arrived, I figured my legs would fail me, their trembling only matched by the rampant fluttering of my heart in my chest. I was going to see him. I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t vomit my lunch all over the woman in front of me or completely pass out from sheer adrenaline overdose, but I was certain of one thing. I was going to see Nathan Banks one more time in the flesh, and my eyes burned with the intensity of staring at the set, waiting for him to materialise.
My heart skipped several beats as the warm-up guy finished his spiel and introduced the host of the show, Eddy Miller. I closed my eyes, my fingernails digging into my palms as I tried to control my erratic breathing.
The gamble was huge and could end with the most spectacular fail or worse, the type of public humiliation that the old me would have done almost anything to avoid.
Before I could regulate my sympathetic nervous system, the studio lights dimmed and the crowds cheered as the cameras rolled and the show began. The minutes stretched as Eddy performed his opening lines into the camera, the people seated around me laughing on cue at his risqué jokes. Then he was introducing his guests who strode onto the stage one by one amid the rapturous applause of the audience.
As Nathan walked on stage, the last of the air in my lungs evaporated and my vision tunnelled, his breathtaking appearance far too powerful for my battered psyche to comprehend.
He looked edible, the sophistication of the suit he wore softened by the flop of his dishevelled hair. A scruff of stubble covered his jaw, disguising the dimple that flashed as he beamed at the audience and shook hands with the host. Nathan sat with the other guests, a TV chef and a well-known comedienne, and reached for a sip of water as the jeering from the audience settled down.
My eyes burned as I stared at him, free to get my fill of his magnificence, unobserved. I tracked every small movement he made with avid scrutiny—the tilt of his head, the set of his broad shoulders and the way he talked with his hands. He was the sun and I’d been living through an ice age.
I zoned back in to the conversation to hear Eddy congratulate Nathan on his Emmy and on the release of Daddy Date. Nathan thanked the fans, a self-deprecating half-smile on his beautiful face. Eddy introduced a clip of Daddy Date and I held my breath, hoping that the rating of this show would prevent them from showing the Nathan-Claudia sex scene, uneasy with the memory of it from the premiere.
‘So, what’s next for you?’ said Eddy, leaning back in his chair. ‘Tell us about your current projects.’
Nathan straightened, shifting his weight on the guest sofa. ‘Well, I’ve been shooting a film in New Zealand which comes out in the spring.’ Another round of cheering and applause. He could say I blew my nose and they’d cheer—and I’d be right there with them.
‘And you’re back working in the UK at the moment?’
This was news. My pulse pounded a dangerous gallop.
‘That’s right.’
‘In fact, ladies and gentlemen, Nathan Banks is in a West End play.’ The audience oohed and ahhed. Nathan smiled at them from under his lashes, nodding and reaching up to give his hair a quick ruffle. My fingers twitched in my lap and I curled my toes inside my shoes to stop me from running on stage to do that.
‘But it’s not a big production as we’d expect, is it?’ Eddy continued.
‘No, it’s an independent production, written by Andrew Bishop and Fiona Langdon, and it’s called Servitude.’
‘But this is a massive shift for you. We’re used to seeing you play romantic heroes. Are you breaking away from your roots?’
Nathan’s smile was controlled, confident despite the question being close to the bone for him. ‘No, not at all. I’ve been lucky to play so many awesome roles and I’ll continue to do that as long as I keep being offered them. But I want to spend some time in the UK, particularly London.’
‘Does this mean we won’t be seeing you in any more films?’ The audience booed and gasped and Nathan’s dimpled smile floored me again.
‘I’m
just taking a break from LA. There are … personal reasons for staying in London, and when I was offered the role in Servitude, I couldn’t refuse—it’s an excellent play.’
Personal reasons? Nausea churned my stomach. Was I too late?
Eddy wrapped up this part of the interview with a plug for Nathan’s play, which would be running in the West End for the next three months.
I missed the conversation with the other guests as I tuned out, my senses gorging themselves on Nathan. As the time drew nearer, I feared the producers of the show had changed their plans and my throat dried. When Eddy reached for a handful of green slips of paper I almost fell from the edge of my chair as the thrill of butterflies and the dread of cold hard stones settled in my stomach, battling for dominance over my tattered emotions.
‘Now then ladies and gentleman, this is the part of the show where we often ask for questions from the audience, but we thought we’d do things a little differently tonight. I know many of you have travelled from far and wide to see our beloved home-grown hero fresh from the USA.’
Nathan dropped his head, his sexy half-smile doing more to rile up the fans dotted through the audience than if he’d shrugged off his shirt and treated them to a lap dance.
‘Audience members were asked to write down their questions, ones perhaps they’d be too shy to ask you out loud. We’ve selected a few and you can totally choose to answer them or not. But be warned.’ He turned his roguish smile to the crowd. ‘The questioners will be named and shamed—I hope you kept it clean, people.’
I couldn’t join in the laughter, too terrified to discover if my question had been chosen.
‘Okay, okay.’ Eddy silenced the crowd, flapping the first piece of paper in Nathan’s direction. ‘This is a good one.’
Nathan played along, reading the question to himself first before dropping his face into his hands and groaning.
‘Read it out or not, Nathan, it’s up to you. But if you read it, you have to answer it.’
I cringed for him, my imagination flying as I guessed what some fan had asked. But his smile to the audience consoled me as he began to read. ‘Have you ever made a sex tape and can you post it online?’ He shook his head, his grin widening as the audience cheered. A pink flush stained his cheeks. I didn’t know the answer and wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it now.
