Kiss

by Jill Mansell

  ‘You’re here,’ she whispered almost in disbelief when she turned her head and saw them. ‘Oh God, you’re both here . . .’

  ‘Of course we’re here,’ said Izzy, in a voice that sounded as if it didn’t belong to her. Appalled by Gina’s listlessness as much as by her dreadful pallor, she reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘And you mustn’t worry any more, because we’re going to get this sorted out. But Gina, what happened to you?’

  Gina knew only too well what had happened to her, but for a long moment she couldn’t speak. Gazing helplessly up at Sam, she raised her left arm - her good arm - and curled it around his neck as he bent to kiss her.

  ‘I tried to phone you,’ she croaked, her throat constricted and dry. ‘Oh Sam, I kept trying and trying, but you were never there . . .’

  The portable telephone-box-on-wheels was still there, pushed against the wall. Izzy said quickly, ‘I managed to get hold of him just after you rang me. I unplugged my phone last night because I wanted to get some sleep . . . oh Gina, I’m so sorry.’

  Realizing that Izzy was on the verge of tears, Sam took over. Pulling up an orange plastic chair, he said firmly, ‘Now, tell us everything. From the beginning. Don’t miss anything out.’

  He was so strong, so in-control. Now that Sam was here, thought Gina, it was almost possible to believe that everything would be all right.

  ‘Yesterday eve-evening, I was late home from the office,’ she began, licking parched lips and reaching once more for the security of his hand. ‘Doug’s away in Manchester for a couple of days, so there was a lot of extra work. Anyway, I got back at around eight o’clock, and fell asleep on the sofa. When I woke up a couple of hours later I thought I was dying - my head felt as if it was about to burst, I couldn’t see out of my right eye and I knew I was going to be sick. So I tried to stand up - to get to the bathroom - but it was as if the whole of my right side wasn’t there. I just fell on to the floor.’ She paused, then added wearily, ‘And was sick anyway.’

  To her horror, Izzy realised that the hand she had been holding - Gina’s right hand - was indeed as floppy and lifeless as a doll’s. ‘Then what?’ she asked, her voice hushed. ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘Dragged myself across the floor to the phone.’ Gina closed her eyes briefly. ‘I must have looked an idiot. And Jericho was no help, leaping around and thinking it was all some brilliant new game. Anyway, I managed to dial 999 and an ambulance brought me here. They’ve been poking and prodding me . . . I’ve got to have tests done today . . . but they won’t tell me what’s wrong with me . . .’

  ‘That’s because they haven’t carried out the tests yet,’ Sam admonished her gently. The smile he gave Gina was reassuring but Izzy sensed how concerned he really was.

  And Gina, it seemed, wasn’t falling for it either.

  ‘Come off it, Sam,’ she said wearily. ‘You met my mother how many times?You know how she died.’

  ‘How did she die?’ demanded Izzy, when a doctor had finally appeared on the scene. Drawing the curtains around Gina’s bed with a flourish, he had banished Izzy and Sam to the cheerless waiting room while he carried out yet another examination. Now, all thought of last night’s shared intimacies banished from her mind, she sat rigidly opposite him and searched his face for clues.

  Sam hesitated, then said brusquely, ‘She had a brain tumour. It was all pretty traumatic. Gina looked after her at home, almost until the end.’

  Izzy, stunned by his words, felt her heart begin to race. ‘A brain tumour? But what does that have to do with Gina? She can’t possibly have a tumour. She’s too . . . young!’

  ‘Yes, well.’ He didn’t bother to contradict her on that score; even Izzy had to recognise the absurdity of such a statement. ‘We don’t know what it is, yet. Until we do, the most important thing is to keep Gina’s spirits up as much as possible.’

  ‘In this hell-hole?’ As she gestured helplessly in the direction of the doorway, a fresh chorus of squawks greeted their ears. ‘What was it you had in mind, Sam? A quick song-and-dance routine?’

  ‘Miss Van Asch, I appreciate the fact that conditions here aren’t ideal, but when Mrs Lawrence was admitted last night, no beds were available on the neurological ward. I can assure you, however, that your friend is receiving the best possible care and attention.’

  The doctor was overworked, the hospital underfunded. It wasn’t his fault, thought Izzy, but that still didn’t make it all right.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ignoring the fact that Sam was giving her one of his what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’redoing stares, ‘but the best possible care isn’t good enough. What Gina needs is the best care, full stop. And she certainly isn’t getting it on this ward.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ said the doctor stiffly, ‘that as soon as a neuro bed does become free, Mrs Lawrence will be moved. In the mean time, however, we have no alternative but to keep her here.’

  He was trying to intimidate her. Izzy stood her ground. ‘We do have an alternative,’ she insisted. ‘Look, Gina needs treatment, I know that. But she should be comfortable as well. She needs peace and quiet . . . and good food . . . and nurses who aren’t permanently rushed off their feet . . .’

  ‘I asked her whether she had private medical insurance,’ intercepted the doctor, glancing at his watch. ‘She doesn’t.’

  ‘I know, but I want her moved to a private hospital anyway,’ said Izzy flatly. ‘I’ll pay.’

  He cast her a look of doubt. ‘We don’t know yet what the problem is with Mrs Lawrence. It could be extremely expensive.’

  Izzy was glad. At long last she had found something worthwhile to spend her money on. ‘I don’t care about the expense,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter how much it costs. I’ll pay.’

  Chapter 49

  When Gina had first learned that she was being transferred to Cullen Park Hospital in Westminster, she almost wept with gratitude. Not only was it famous for the unrivalled luxuries with which it cosseted its largely star-studded clientele, but also for its exceptional standards of medical care. The Cullen was a good hospital, equipped with all the very latest high-tech machinery. Wealthy patients from all over the world flew in to be treated there. Gina, who had only ever read about it in the newspapers before now, knew that if anyone could cure her, it would be the incomparable medical staff at the Cullen.

  If anyone could cure her. That, of course, was the stumbling block. Because it didn’t matter how brilliant the staff might be, or how space-age the technology; some illnesses were still incurable. And after two of the longest, most terrifying days of her entire life, nobody was giving her any clues either way. Nobody, it seemed, was prepared to tell her anything which might indicate whether she could expect to live or die. Everybody, on the other hand, smiled a great deal and chatted brightly about any subject under the sun. As long as it wasn’t related to her illness . . .

  It was, naturally enough, the subject which occupied Gina’s every waking thought. Her mother had been fifty-two when her own brain tumour had first manifested itself. The sudden onset of migrainous headaches - blinding pain and vomiting - had been treated with extra-strong painkillers and hearty reassurance from the family doctor, who had talked about the menopause and told her she needed to start taking things easier at her age.

  Over the course of the next few months, however, she had metamorphosed from an active, tennis-playing, smiling crossword enthusiast into a frightened, introverted woman at the mercy of bewildering mood changes and slowly deteriorating eyesight. By the time the tumour was finally discovered, it was beyond treatment. The headaches worsened, a creeping paralysis of the left side of her body made day-to-day living increasingly difficult, and the unpredictable changes of mood were replaced by a pathetic eagerness to please, and finally mild euphoria.

  It had been heartbreaking for Gina, having to witness the gradual destruction of the mother she adored, struggling to care for her during that last terrible summer. She had done everything she c
ould, bringing her home from the hospital and nursing her at Kingsley Grove, but love hadn’t been enough. The malignant growth had been unstoppable, eroding her mother’s memory until she was no longer able to understand that her husband had died three years earlier. Most heartbreaking of all, as far as Gina was concerned, had been having to listen to her mother crying out in endless bewilderment, ‘Thomas, where are you? Help me . . . don’t leave me here on my own . . . oh Thomas, I’m so afraid . . . please don’t leave me . . .’

  Deep down, Gina knew that the similarity between her own symptoms and those of her mother was too great to be merely a coincidence. The battery of tests continued in earnest, but during the breaks between them she was doing her best to prepare herself - mentally at least - for the realization that she, too, had developed a brain tumour.

  And she, too, was afraid . . . so terribly, desperately afraid . . . of being left to die on her own.

  ‘I’ve just been given a funny look by one of those nerve-wracking nurses outside,’ grumbled Doug, bursting into the room and thrusting a bunch of crumpled pink carnations into Gina’s lap. ‘I didn’t realise we were expected to dress for visiting hour, here.’

  Gina, glad of the diversion, smiled up at him. ‘Maybe she’s just never seen anyone wearing an orange shirt with a maroon suit before.’

  ‘Oh. Is it bad?’ Doug looked so crestfallen, she had to bury her nose in the carnations in order to hide her laughter.

  ‘Not bad, just . . . individual. Mmm, these flowers smell gorgeous.’

  Wanting to kiss her but unable to summon up the courage, he sat down beside her instead. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Her ability to keep up a cheerful front still amazed her. Being asked the same question maybe twenty times each day, she had become adept at telling people what they wanted to hear, rather than the less palatable truth. In a way, too, she was ensuring that they would continue to ask. Weeping and wailing, Gina now realised, would only frighten people away.

  ‘Much better,’ she replied, running the fingers of her good hand through her freshly shampooed blonde hair. ‘They did more tests this morning, stuck electrodes all over my head and took a recording of my brainwaves. One of the nurses washed my hair afterwards.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Doug, who had been frantic with worry since returning from Manchester, looked visibly relieved. ‘I expect you’ll be out of here soon. And you’ll need to convalesce for a while before we get you back to work . . .’

  Work, that was a joke. But she played along, glancing up at the clock on the wall and nodding as if in agreement. ‘You may have to get a temp in, though. For a few weeks or so. Is the office chaotic?’

  For a moment he looked flummoxed, having had neither the time nor the inclination to worry about the state of the office. Gina was all that mattered. ‘I don’t know. Probably. What did they say about the brain scan you had yesterday?’

  She swallowed, not wanting to think about it. The doctors, gathered in a cubicle adjacent to the scanning room itself, had conversed in whispers; all she had been able to make out were disjointed mentions of ventricles, white-matter and hemispheres, whatever they might be. As far as she was concerned, their unsmiling faces and covert sidelong glances were of far greater significance than any stupid words.

  The awful panic rose in her throat once more. She didn’t want to die, alone and unloved . . .

  ‘They didn’t say anything.’ Her gaze slipped past Doug once more, to the wall clock, which still said four-fifteen. ‘Not to me, anyway.’

  Her guard had slipped. Doug, glimpsing the bleak expression in her eyes, thought that if there was anything he could do to make her well again . . . anything at all . . . he would do it.

  I love you, he thought, willing her to be able to read his mind. He didn’t dare speak the words aloud. I love you so much . . .

  ‘Is there anything you need?’ he said instead, his forehead creasing with concern. ‘Anything I can get you?’

  Brightening slightly, Gina nodded. Pushing his flowers to one side, she said, ‘Thanks, Doug. On your way out, if you could ask Nurse Elson to come and give me a hand.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ He looked alarmed. ‘Are you feeling ill again?’

  ‘No, no.’ She was reaching into her bedside locker now, pulling out her make-up bag. ‘I just want her to help me change into a clean nightie. Sam’s coming to see me at five and I want to look nice for him. Oh, and if you could pass me that bottle of perfume on top of the chest of drawers over there . . .’

  The looks Sam received from the nurses upon his arrival forty minutes later were far from funny. Katerina, who had bumped into him in the plush foyer downstairs, noticed the effect he was having and grinned.

  ‘Don’t look now,’ she said, tucking the glossy copies of Vogue and Harpers under her arm and almost having to break into a trot in order to keep up, ‘but I think you’re about to be offered a bed bath.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Sam, unimpressed, quickened his pace.

  ‘Hmm?’ mimicked Katerina in admonishing tones.

  Having taken a break from studying and spent a long and enjoyable weekend visiting Simon up at Cambridge, she was in high spirits. ‘Whatever’s the matter with you, then? Now that you’ve got rid of Vivienne I thought you’d be making the most of being free again. Or,’ she added slyly, ‘have you realised you miss her, after all?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you how much I loathe smart-aleck teenagers?’ countered Sam equably. As far as he was concerned, there was no earthly reason why Kat shouldn’t know about Izzy and himself, but Izzy had come over all coy and born-again-virginal and begged him not to breathe a word of their relationship to anyone.

  The lift stopped at the third floor. Katerina pulled a face as they got out. ‘I’m only interested.’

  ‘You’re nosy. Maybe I like to keep my affairs private.’

  ‘And you think I’d run off to the News of the World,’ she said with good-humoured resignation. ‘Sam, I’m the soul of discretion. I’m my mother’s daughter, for heaven’s sake. I’ve had enough practice!’

  On entering Gina’s room they were almost knocked sideways by the overpowering scent of Miss Dior. Katerina observed with inward amusement the way Gina cried out, ‘Sam!’ before realizing he wasn’t alone. ‘Oh and you, Kat, how nice,’ she amended somewhat less effusively. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs and make yourselves comfortable. I can ring for coffee if you’d like some.’

  ‘Relax, you don’t have to play party hostess,’ Sam told her gently, as he gave her a brief kiss. ‘We’ve come to see how you are.’

  Katerina, settling back in a pink-and-green upholstered chair which exactly matched the flowery wallpaper, was further entertained by the sight of Gina blushing beneath her careful make-up. Surely there hadn’t been something clandestine going on between these two? Not Sam and Gina . . . ?

  Two days later, the consultant paid her the visit she’d been waiting for. The tests had all been carried out and now he was here to give her his verdict. With her heart pounding, Gina submitted to yet another neurological examination and braced herself for the news.

  But the tortuous game, it appeared, wasn’t over yet.

  ‘You’re a puzzle,’ he told her finally, when he’d finished testing what felt like every reflex in her body. ‘The good news, of course, is the fact that the paralysis on the right side is lessening, the headaches have stopped and your eyesight’s almost back to normal.’

  He was wearing an exceedingly well-cut grey suit and a pale pink Armani shirt. I’m a private patient, thought Gina; of course he’s going to smile and give me the good news first.

  ‘And the bad news?’ she asked, wishing she had Sam here with her now to give her the support she so badly needed.

  ‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you, Mrs Lawrence.’ The consultant sat on the edge of the bed in order to be frank. The smile was replaced by a professionally serious expression. ‘The tests we’ve been running have shown up an abnormality, but the precise nature
of that abnormality isn’t clear.’

  If she had been an NHS patient, Gina wondered, would he have simply come out with it and said, ‘You have a brain tumour and you’re going to die’? It was, after all, more or less what they had told her mother all those years ago.

  ‘So, what happens next?’ she persisted, having braced herself for the very worst.

  ‘Well, I think that poor old brain of yours needs a while to recuperate.’ He flashed dazzlingly white teeth at her and Gina winced. Such jocular remarks were all she needed. ‘There’s clearly some swelling in the left hemisphere’ - reaching across, he lightly tapped the left side of her head for emphasis - ‘and until that recedes, we can’t really come to any firm conclusions. So what I suggest is that we send you home for a week or two, then get you back here for another scan. By that time, hopefully, you’ll be as right as rain!’