by Jill Mansell
Anyway. Different ward, different staff, different patient now. Only the chairs remained the same. Erin sat on one—molded plastic, bright orange, bum-numbingly uncomfortable—and a young blonde nurse perched on the other while Stella occupied the bed. The nurse was filling out the information page of Stella's notes in careful loopy handwriting. Verrrry sloooowly indeeeed.
'Now, religion?'
'None,' said Stella.
'OK. Shall we just put Church of England then?' It took her thirty seconds to write it. 'That's great. And who's your next of kin?'
Stella was busy rolling and unrolling the edge of the hospital sheet between her fingers. She looked as if she was struggling to hold back tears.
'Mum? Dad?' the nurse prompted helpfully. 'Brother or sister?'
'I don't have any relatives.' As the rolling quickened, Stella glanced over at Erin and said brusquely, 'Can she put you down?'
The little nurse's tone was soothing. 'That's fine. Who are you?'
'She's my husband's girlfriend,' said Stella.
'Oh! Well, shouldn't he be your next of kin?'
'I don't know. He doesn't give a stuff about me. And he's rubbish at hospitals anyway.' Shaking her head, Stella said, 'Put Erin's name down. How long am I going to be in for?'
'Ooh well, that's all down to the doctors, isn't it?' The nurse had a cozy, avoid-awkward-questions-at-all-costs manner and a comfort ing smile. 'Dr Wilson will be along soon to take a look at you.'
Stella's tone was curt. 'And I need some more painkillers.'
'No problem. We'll sort that out for you too.'
Outside the hospital, Erin sat on a sunny bench and, knees juddering, tried Fergus's mobile again. This time he answered. 'Hi, angel, how's it going with the packing?' It was so odd to hear his voice sounding cheery and normal. 'Listen, do you have a three-pin adaptor, because I can't find mine—'
'Fergus, hang on, something's happened.' Too late, Erin realized she hadn't rehearsed what to say. 'It's about Stella.'
'Oh God, what's she done now? Right, that's it, I've had enough. Where are you?'
'I'm at the hospital.'
'What? Jesus, are you hurt? Did she attack you?'
'She's ill, Fergus. She didn't attack me. She's been admitted for tests.'
Clearly baffled, Fergus said, 'OK. But I don't get it, what are you doing there?'
Back on the ward, the orange and blue curtains had been drawn around Stella's bed. Then they were pulled back with a flourish and a tall, rather good-looking man emerged, white coat flying. Spotting Erin hovering, he pointed and said, 'Stella's friend?'
Of all the things she'd never imagined hearing herself described as. Erin nodded, dry-mouthed, and he beckoned her to follow him. 'Let's have a quick chat, shall we, while Stella's having her bloods taken. I'm Dr Wilson.'
He led her out of the ward, down a corridor, and into a small windowless office lined with textbooks and files, offered her a seat, sat down opposite her, and said, 'Well, I won't beat about the bush. Your friend Stella is going to need all your support. I'm very sorry, and of course we still have needle biopsies to carry out this afternoon, but from the MRI scan, the cancer appears to be significantly ad vanced. You're going to have to be strong too. I'm so sorry, I know this is a shock for you.'
Erin felt as if she were watching herself on TV. As if she'd somehow inadvertently ended up in an episode of Casualty. Now didn't seem an appropriate time to tell him that, actually, she wasn't Stella's friend at all, and what's more, she really needed to get home and finish her holiday packing.
'But you can treat it.' Unable to meet the doctor's gaze, she looked at his long, clever fingers instead.
'We'll check out every option, of course. But I have to warn you that it's not looking good. At all, I'm afraid. The cancer has metastasized. The scan shows evidence of spread to the bowel, the lungs, and the liver. It's a very aggressive form.'
Well, someone like Stella was hardly likely to have a shy retiring cancer, were they? Erin took a tissue from the box in front of her on the desk and wiped her perspiring palms. Horrible, shameful, unworthy thoughts were jostling for pole position in her brain. Because of course she felt desperately sorry for Stella, but Stella in turn had made her life a misery… and what about Venice and the fourteenth-century palazzo with the fabulous roof garden and unri valled views over the Grand Canal?
Oh God. Liver. Bowel. Lungs. Aggressive.
She felt sick.
Really, what choice did she have?
'Cancel?' Fergus, who knew how much she'd been looking forward to it, looked at Erin as if she were mad. 'Stella's ill, so you seriously want to cancel our holiday?'
They were outside the hospital. Erin clutched his hands; want didn't come into it. 'We have to. She's got no one else. I was with her this afternoon when she phoned a couple of her girlfriends. Deedee and Kirsten?'
Fergus's lip curled. 'Right, I know them.'
'Yes, well. They're too busy to come and visit her. Turns out that Deedee's put on a couple of pounds lately so she daren't miss her evening session at the gym. Kirsten's really busy at work and has to supervise the team fitting her new kitchen. And Amy's found herself a new man. So that's nice for her.' It was all Erin had been able to do to stop herself snatching the hospital phone from Stella's thin, French-manicured hand and yelling at the so-called friends to get off their selfish bony backsides and get down here now.
'Look, I'm shocked too. But this is our holiday. And Stella's always been vile to you.' Fergus frowned, bemused by her sudden change of attitude; after Erin's phone call, he'd driven straight over to the hospital. His stomach was rumbling and he was shattered. Stella had always been such a drama queen, the chances were that it would turn out to be something minor and easily treatable. He was touched by Erin's concern—crikey, how many women would do what she'd done after the way Stella had treated her?—but there was no need to go this far. 'Look, it's fantastic of you to offer, but it'll be fine. We'll only be away for a week. If she's still in here, we'll come and visit. But you never know, she might not be. She could be back home by then!'
But Erin didn't look relieved. Her face was drawn and pale, her whole body rigid. 'The consultant spoke to me. The cancer's really bad, Fergus.' Her voice cracking, she said, 'It's everywhere.'
Chapter 37
TALK ABOUT BEING THROWN in at the deep end. What had sounded so simple and straightforward the other day when Erin had run through what she'd need to learn, now seemed alarmingly compli cated. With Erin staying at the hospital with Stella, Kaye had found herself thrust into the job a day early and—as it turned out—woe fully unprepared. By midday, she had already managed to mortally offend a bossy middle-aged woman by not offering as much for her mannish tweed trousers as the woman felt they deserved.
'How much? That's not enough!' Her bushy eyebrows had prac tically quivered with indignation. 'I paid ninety pounds for those!'
In Savile Row, at a guess. The trousers were horrible. Nobody in their right mind would want to buy them. Kaye, watching as the woman stomped out of the shop, realized that Erin must be more skilled in the art of rejection, whereas she belonged more in the Simon Cowell camp. Maybe learning how to be a tad more diplo matic wouldn't go amiss.
God, but it was so hard not to offend people when they were trying on outfits that didn't suit them, or were blind to the faults of their own castoffs. By lunchtime, she had upset four more custom ers. When Tilly came through the door at one thirty she greeted her with relief.
'Hi! You look fantastic!'
Tilly gave her an odd look. 'I've been using a floor-sander. I'm covered in dust.'
'Oh, but I love your T-shirt! And your jeans fit you so well, although with a figure like that, you'd look great in anything! And the color of your top really sets off your eyes.'
'You're starting to scare me,' said Tilly. 'Is this one of those hidden camera shows?'
Kaye pulled a face. 'I'm practicing being nice. Paying compli ments. Customers don't l
ike it if they try something on and you tell them it makes them look like a hippo.'
'You have to say it in a nice way. Erin's great at that. She's honest but tactful.'
'Well, I'm not. If anyone else brings in stuff to sell, that's it. From now on, I'm going to tell them to leave it here for Erin to price.'
Tilly exhaled. 'I can't believe she's not going to Venice. Cancelling like that at the last minute.'
Kaye nodded in sympathy and handed her the key to Stella's house. 'I can't believe we're all taking it in turns to look after Scary Stella's cat.' Since Bing was so pampered, it had been decided that he should stay in his own home. Four or five times each day, one of them would drop in to check on him, keep him fed and watered and make sure his litter tray was scrupulously clean. Because Bing was Stella's baby, her number one priority, and keeping him in familiar surroundings was what she'd decreed he'd like best.
Plus, if the litter tray wasn't spotless, he'd just go on the carpet.
So Erin had gone ahead and organized it. And when Tilly had dared to suggest—purely hypothetically of course—that with Stella in hospital, they could put Bing into a cattery and she'd be none the wiser, Erin had said, 'Can we just do it, please? The last thing Stella needs is to be worrying about her cat.'
'Right,' said Tilly now, 'I'll get over there and check on Bing. Try not to bring the shop to its knees before five o'clock.' Wagging a finger, she said, 'Remember, honesty and tact.'
Kaye nodded. 'Absolutely. Like, it's lucky your nose is so huge, it really draws attention away from your double chin.'
'That's the way. Perfect.'
An hour later, a tall woman in her sixties came into the shop. She eyed Kaye with surprise. 'You're not the usual lady.'
'I'm the reserve team.'
'But you still know about fashion. I certainly hope so anyway, because I'm useless! Now, two things. I need a new evening dress, nothing frilly or flowery, size fourteen. But I also want to ask your advice.' As she rattled on, the woman plonked a carrier bag on to the counter. 'And I promise you, I feel dreadfully guilty doing this, but we're a bit desperate. You see, my son's mother-in-law gave me this for Christmas. I know it's designer and terribly expensive, because she's got pots of money and she kept banging on about how much it cost. But it's a bit too smart for me to actually use, and one of the big prizes in our charity auction has just fallen through, so I've decided to offer this instead.' She opened the carrier and looked hopefully at Kaye. 'And I wondered if you'd tell me roughly how much it's worth, then we can advertise it as Stunning Hermès Bag, retails at six million pounds. Well, maybe not six million, but a jolly good price anyway!'
Oh Lord. Honesty and tact. Stalling for time, Kaye examined the shoulder strap and tugged at a loose thread.
'Look, I'm sorry, but this isn't a Hermès bag. It's a copy.'
'Oh no! Really? So how much is it worth?'
Kaye shook her head, agonizing over having to say it whilst privately marveling at the woman's inability to tell real from fake. 'Nothing. It's one of those cheap market knock-offs. See the wonky stitching here? And the crooked side pocket. And this isn't leather; it's plastic.'
And it had so nearly been donated to a charity auction too. How awful.
'Right. Well, thanks. Bugger.' The woman heaved a sigh.
'I'm really sorry.'
'Oh, bless you, it isn't your fault. I dare say we'll sort something out. And on the bright side, it means I don't have to feel guilty about giving away a present! Between you and me, I can't stand my son's mother-in law anyway. She's always boasting about her millions. Ghastly woman. Oh well, let's forget her. We can at least find me a dress for the night.' Stopping and frowning, the woman looked more intently at Kaye. 'I keep thinking we've met before. But we haven't, have we?'
'I don't think so.'
'You're very familiar though. Have you worked in any other shops?'
'Um, no.' Kaye began searching through the evening dress rails, pulling out a stately midnight-blue taffeta. 'Now, how about this one? The color would really suit—'
'Hotels, then? Restaurants? The thing is, I know your voice too.' The woman shook her head, baffled. 'Please don't take this the wrong way, but… I think I've seen you crying.'
'Well, I've been living over in the States for the last few years.'
'We spent a month in Texas last year! Were you there too?'
'No, LA. I'm an actress,' said Kaye.
'Good heavens! Over the Rainbow!' The woman gave an excited yelp of recognition. 'We used to watch you on that show—you were the one whose husband ran off with your sister!'
'That's right.' Kaye smiled, because it hadn't occurred to her for one moment that this woman might have been a fan of the show.
'Oh, we loved Over the Rainbow. Fancy you being in that, then coming over here!' The woman clapped her hands in delight, not showing the remotest interest in the dress Kaye had picked out for her. 'You know what? This has to be fate!'
Fate. Really? 'Why?'
'Because you're a famous Hollywood actress! And if you wanted to do me a huge favor, you could.'
Kaye eyed her with caution. She only owned one really good designer bag and she loved it with a passion. Charity or no charity, having to hand it over to this woman would break her heart.
Warily, she said, 'What kind of favor?'
'Well, the whole reason I'm in such a flap is because this girl's just pulled out of our event. Antonella Beckwith? The singer? Have you heard of her?'
This was a bit like saying the Rolling Stones? They're a band? Ever heard of them? Because Antonella Beckwith was young, super glamorous, and in the last two years had sold about fifty million albums. Kaye nodded, anxiety unfurling in her stomach.
'Well, can't say I know much about her myself. But apparently we were jolly lucky to get her. One of her aunts is a friend of one of our organizers and they set it up. Except now, of course, the event's two weeks away and the wretched girl's gone and cancelled on us. Seems she's been offered something far more high-profile in London, so our little charity's been dropped like a stone. And we've been racking our brains to come up with another celebrity, but everyone we've approached has had other commitments. Which means we're now officially desperate!'
'OK, two things. One,' said Kaye, 'I'm not really a celebrity. Not over here anyway. Nobody would know who I am.'
'I know who you are! And so does my husband! We'd tell every one you're a Hollywood star!'
OK, so far, so toe-curlingly embarrassing.
'The other thing is, I had kind of an accident recently and there's been quite a lot of bad press about me.' Kaye grimaced. 'And I'm not working on Over the Rainbow anymore. They dropped me. That's why I'm living back here now.'
'But don't you see? Perfect!' As she spoke, the woman dug out a business card. 'If people don't know you, they won't know about that either, will they? So it won't be a problem!'
The woman was a whirlwind, an unstoppable force. Examining the card, Kaye saw that her name was Dorothy Summerskill.
'It's a week on Saturday at the Mallen Grange Hotel,' said Dorothy.
OK, this was the moment to look devastated and exclaim apologetically, 'Oh no, a week on Saturday? What a shame', and reel off an entirely plausible reason why she couldn't make it. But two things stopped her. She couldn't think of a plausible reason fast enough. And even if she could, she had a feeling Dorothy wouldn't believe her.
'It's for a very good cause,' Dorothy continued persuasively. 'The charity's called Help for Alzheimer's.'
'Oh! I've got a friend who supports them! Jack Lucas.'
'You know Jack? But how marvelous! And he's going to be there, so that makes it even more perfect!'
'OK, I'll do it.' Not that she'd ever had a choice, Kaye real ized. Still, it might be fun. And hadn't her agent said she should get involved in charity work in a bid to stop everyone hating her? 'What will I be doing, just opening the evening?'
'Oh yes,' Dorothy nodded blithely, 'that too. B
ut of course the main draw will be the auction.'
Auction? Uh oh, panic. Worried, Kaye said, 'The thing is, I know some people are brilliant at running charity auctions, but I don't think I could do that.'
'Oh, sweetheart, we wouldn't ask you to conduct the auction! You'd be taking Antonella's place as the star lot!'
What?
'The highlight of the evening,' Dorothy continued. 'People will be bidding for a dinner date with you. It'll be fabulous!'
'It won't be fabulous if nobody bids.' Oh God, the woman was deluded; compared with Antonella Beckwith she was going to attract as much excitement as… as an ant.
