by Jill Mansell
Jake popped his head around the bedroom door an hour later.
“Maddy just told me about Tiff. How is he?”
Juliet, on her knees in the darkened bedroom stroking Tiff’s forehead, said, “Feeling lousy. He’s been sick a few times. You know the routine.”
Jake nodded. Sophie had succumbed to a similar bug at Easter. “Anything I can do?”
“Thanks, but I’m OK. I’ll have Maddy and Nuala downstairs. They can bring me cups of tea.”
Drowsily Tiff said, “Is that Jake?”
“Hey, look at you.” Crossing the bedroom, Jake gazed down at him. “Not feeling so good, eh?”
“I won’t be able to play with Sophie today,” Tiff whispered feebly. “Mum, will I be better tomorrow?”
“Of course you will. Full of beans.” Juliet’s tone was consoling.
Tiff summoned a ghost of a smile. “Might have been the beans I ate yesterday that made me ill.”
At nine o’clock, Juliet rang the doctor. As soon as he finished his morning clinic, the receptionist assured her, he’d be over to take a look at Tiff.
At ten o’clock Nuala delivered a handmade get-well card from Sophie, featuring a large and ferocious bug with pointed fangs and many legs. Inside it she’d written, This is what you cort. Love, Sophie XXX.
At ten thirty Tiff woke up and was sick again, this time retching into the bowl Juliet held under his chin. Trembling violently with the effort, he clung to her and moaned, “My head hurts, my head hurts.” Then, when Juliet moved to switch on the bedside light, he flinched and wailed, “Turn it off. It hurts my eyes. I want it dark…”
It was at ten past eleven that what up until then had been an unlovely but ordinary enough day abruptly turned into a nightmare. All morning, at regular intervals, Juliet had been checking Tiff’s body for a rash. Each time, encountering nothing, she had felt vaguely foolish for even allowing the thought that Tiff might have meningitis to cross her mind.
Her heart turned over and her hands began to shake as she took in the dark red spots on his stomach. Where had they come from? What did they mean? Did they have to mean what she thought they meant, or could there be other causes? The glass test…
Slowly, Juliet reached for the tumbler of water she’d been sipping from, tipped the contents clumsily into Tiff’s sick bowl, and pressed the side of the glass against Tiff’s skin, his precious baby-boy skin…Oh God. Oh no. Please don’t let this be happening.
“’S cold,” mumbled Tiff, flinching away from the coolness of the glass.
Still kneeling next to his bed, Juliet ran feverishly through the options. Maddy was out on her delivery around in Bath. Nuala was downstairs running the shop. The doctor was still seeing patients in his office. Stumbling to her feet, she headed across the darkened bedroom and flung open the window.
“Jake! Jake!”
Within seconds, she saw Jake heading up the road, shielding his eyes from the late-morning sun as he gazed up at her. One look at Juliet’s face told him all he needed to know.
“OK,” he called out. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the car.”
Too terrified to cry, Juliet watched Jake carry her son downstairs in his arms. When she was settled in the backseat of the car, he carefully laid Tiff, by now floppy and pale, across her lap. Juliet cradled him, reassured him, and sang to him while Jake drove like a demon into Bath. Finally reaching the Royal United Hospital, they screeched to a halt outside the emergency room.
“Will he be all right?” Juliet whispered fearfully as Jake lifted Tiff off her.
“Come on. Let’s get him inside.” Glancing down at the ominous red rash spreading over Tiff’s thin legs, Jake added automatically, “He’ll be fine.”
It was nothing like turning up with a cut finger, thank God. No hanging around for hours on end, playing spot the doctor. Within seconds of their arrival, Tiff had been whisked away into a cubicle to be thoroughly examined by a young intern. The pediatric consultant was paged and arrived minutes later. By the time Jake returned from moving the car to the parking lot, the consultant was on the phone arranging for Tiff to be admitted to ICU.
“As soon as he’s settled down there, we’ll perform a lumbar puncture,” the consultant told them as Jake gave Juliet’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “That’ll tell us what’s going on. But I have to say, it’s looking like meningococcal meningitis. We’re starting Tiff on IV antibiotics now. You’ll be asked to sign a consent form for the lumbar puncture.” He glanced at Jake as he said this, and Jake shook his head.
“I’m not Tiff’s dad. Just a friend.”
“I see.” The consultant, nodding briefly in acknowledgment, turned to Juliet. “You may want to let his father know.”
Gripped with terror, Juliet gasped, “How serious is this?”
“If it’s bacterial meningitis,” the consultant replied, his tone matter-of-fact, “it’s a serious illness. We’re going to do our very best for Tiff.”
By the time Jake arrived back in Ashcombe, everyone in the village had heard the news.
“Poor little boy. What a dreadful thing to happen.” Estelle, who was in the Peach Tree buying croissants and greengage jam, had tears in her eyes as Jake emerged from the apartment upstairs with an overnight bag for Juliet.
“Right, I’ll head back to the hospital. You stay here with Maddy and Nuala,” Jake told Sophie, who was sitting behind the counter looking utterly miserable. “I’ll ring you later, I promise.”
“She’ll be fine with us.” Maddy gave Sophie a hug.
Sophie nodded. She didn’t know what meningitis was, but she definitely didn’t like the sound of it. “Tell Tiff to get better and come home. Does he want some Smarties?”
Tiff was currently semicomatose and connected up to a forest of machines and drips. Reaching over to kiss Sophie, Jake shook his head.
“Not right now, darling. But he loved your card.”
“Give them both our love,” said Maddy, stroking Sophie’s unbraided candy-floss hair.
“Can’t I go with Dad? I want to go,” Sophie whispered.
“I know, sweetheart, but we can’t.” As Jake left, Maddy realized she’d never seen him look so somber.
“Tiff ’s my best friend.” Sophie’s bottom lip began to wobble. “I don’t want him to die.”
* * *
In the ICU, Tiff occupied the bed in the far left-hand corner of the ward. Jake, holding his fragile hand and stroking his fingers, watched Juliet asleep in the chair next to him. Exhaustion had caught up with her. It was midnight and she’d fallen into a fitful doze twenty minutes earlier. As a plump nurse silently approached them, he slid his hand away from Tiff’s and rose to his feet.
“Tiff’s father just phoned,” whispered the nurse, causing Jake’s eyebrows to shoot up.
“And?”
“He wanted to know how Tiff was doing. I told him.”
Curious, Jake asked, “Did he say where he was calling from?”
The plump nurse shook her head. “No, just that he was on his way.”
Interesting, thought Jake. So he was about to meet Tiff’s mysterious father at last.
Still dozing in her hard chair two hours later, Juliet felt a hand on her arm.
“Juliet? Tiff’s father’s arrived.”
“What?” Bewildered, Juliet stared up at the nurse. “But he can’t have. I didn’t call him.”
“He’s here now, in the waiting room.” The plump nurse glanced at Jake, who shrugged.
“He’s not in this country,” said Juliet.
“Well, do you want to come see who’s in the waiting room?” Diplomatically the nurse added, “If it is Tiff’s dad, we do prefer only two visitors for each patient at any one time.” This was addressed to Jake, who guessed it was ward policy to avoid potentially awkward encounters between parents and stepparents, which was p
resumably what they thought he was.
“Don’t worry.” Standing up, Jake said, “I’ll go find a coffee machine.” Looking down at Juliet, hollow eyed with concern for Tiff, he murmured, “Will you be OK?”
Wordlessly, Juliet nodded.
As he left the unit, it occurred to Jake that the field had just narrowed dramatically. Juliet hadn’t told Tiff’s father. But somehow he’d heard about Tiff’s illness. While he was out of the country…
The waiting room was ahead of him, to the left.
Without pausing, he pushed open the door and came face-to-face with Oliver Taylor-Trent.
“Thought so,” said Jake.
Chapter 39
Juliet watched Oliver make his way down the darkened ward toward her. He looked terrible—business suit crumpled, graying hair uncombed, the lines around his mouth grown deeper than usual like cracks in parched ground. Then again, she probably wasn’t looking that spectacular herself.
Too shattered to move, Juliet sat and listened to the night nurse patiently explaining to him the functions of the various bits of machinery surrounding the bed. Being Oliver, he demanded to speak to the consultant in charge of the unit and threatened to become difficult when it was explained to him that the consultant was at home, asleep.
Finally, Juliet intervened. “Tiff’s getting the best care. Losing your temper isn’t going to help him. Oliver, sit down.”
“I can’t bear it.” Oliver’s gaze was fixed on his son’s fragile, immobile body. “I just want to make him better.” Turning abruptly to the nurse, he said, “Would a private hospital be able to do more? If it’s a question of money, I don’t care how much it costs—”
“They’re doing everything possible,” said Juliet. “It’s OK,” she told the hovering nurse. “I’ll speak to him.”
“He was fine the other day. I saw him playing outside the shop with Sophie… Absolutely fine…”
“He was fine twenty-four hours ago. That’s the thing about meningitis.”
Oliver was shaking his head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you phone me? You should have phoned me as soon as it happened.”
Juliet shrugged. “I knew you were in Switzerland. It would have made it more serious. I just kept hoping they’d say he was getting better. How did you find out?” she asked, although it was fairly obvious.
“I rang Estelle. She told me what had happened. I was about to go into a meeting.” Oliver gazed blankly down at Tiff. “I walked out of the building, flagged down a taxi, and caught the first flight out of Zurich. When I was growing up in Bradford,” he went on in a low voice, “there was a boy who lived opposite me. Billy Kennedy, his name was. We used to play on the same soccer team. He got meningitis.”
“What happened to him?” The moment the words were out of her mouth, Juliet regretted them. Oliver didn’t reply.
Juliet rubbed her dry, aching eyes. “I need to change my clothes.” Both her blue shirt and long, white cotton skirt were spotted with sick and there were bloodstains on her sleeve where she had helped to hold Tiff while the doctor had been setting up an intravenous drip. The bag of things Jake had brought from home was in the waiting room outside.
“You go. I’ll stay here,” said Oliver, and for a second she hesitated, because if Tiff were to open his eyes and she wasn’t there for him, what would he think?
Except she knew Tiff wasn’t about to open his eyes. He was in a coma now, unaware of anything at all, mercifully, and clinging to life by a thread. Wondering how she could bear to be going through this, yet aware that come what may she simply had to, Juliet rose slowly to her feet.
“I’ll be two minutes.” She felt older than she’d imagined possible.
“Take as long as you want,” said Oliver.
“I don’t want to take any longer than two minutes.” Aware of the smell of sick rising from her skirt, Juliet said, “Did Jake see you?”
Oliver nodded.
“OK.”
The waiting room was cool and deserted. Taking her shopping bag into the bathroom, Juliet changed into the clean silvery gray V-neck top and darker gray crinkle skirt Jake had found in her wardrobe. She’d never been a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, preferring stretchy, ultra-comfortable clothes that didn’t constrict.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn’t comforting, but Juliet didn’t care. Without the customary crimson lipstick, her mouth was far too pale. Since dragging a comb through her hair was too much to contemplate, she forced herself to brush her teeth instead, then sluiced her face with cold water. Even that felt as arduous as wading waist high through molasses.
“Hi.”
Emerging from the bathroom, Juliet was not surprised to find Jake waiting for her.
“I’ve brought you a coffee.” He held one of the steaming Styrofoam cups toward her. “Pretty vile, I’m afraid. But better than nothing.”
“Thanks.” Juliet took the cup, knowing she wouldn’t drink it.
“So.” Jake paused. “Oliver Taylor-Trent.”
“Don’t lecture me,” she said wearily. “This isn’t a good time.”
“I’m not going to lecture you.” Jake shook his head. “Who else knows?”
“No one. No one else.”
“Not Estelle?”
“No.”
“Tiff?”
“Of course Tiff doesn’t know.” Juliet gave him a how-can-you-even-ask look. “He’s seven years old. Do you seriously imagine he’d be able to keep quiet about something like that?”
“OK, that’s all.” Jake held up his hands. “No more questions. I just needed to know for practical reasons.”
“Sorry.” Of course he did. He would be heading back to Ashcombe now. “Anyway, thanks for everything.” Juliet moved toward the door, beginning to panic at the thought that she’d been away from Tiff for longer than five minutes.
“No problem.” Jake waited, looking as if he wanted to say something else. Then he shook his head and smiled briefly at Juliet, so clearly desperate to get back to the ward. “Off you go.”
* * *
“You look shattered,” said Juliet. “Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”
It was eight thirty in the morning, gray and overcast outside. Oliver, looking more crumpled than ever, rubbed his eyes.
“Not before I’ve spoken to the consultant. He’s on his way in now.” Straightening up on his chair he said, “Who’s that over there?”
Juliet twisted around. At the nurses’ station behind them, a lanky youth in a porter’s uniform was leaning against the desk glancing over at them and whispering to one of the nurses.
“His name’s Phil. He lives in Ashcombe.” Aware that her heart should be plummeting but quite unable to summon up the energy to care, Juliet said, “He works part-time in the kitchen at the Fallen Angel. Looks like he’s recognized you.”
“Here’s someone now,” said Oliver as the swing doors crashed open and a middle-aged man with an unmistakable air of authority burst into the unit, trailing assorted minions in his wake. “Is that him?”
“That’s him.” Juliet nodded, her throat tightening with trepidation.
Oliver was already out of his chair. “About time too. Right, now we’ll find out what’s going on. How d’you do? I’m Oliver Taylor-Trent.” Oliver stuck out his hand as the consultant, followed by his entourage, reached them. “I’m the boy’s father. I want to know exactly where we stand here,” he announced brusquely. “No holding back.”
Juliet, her fingers closing helplessly around Tiff’s immobile hand, prayed that Oliver wouldn’t start going on again about money. She also prayed that the consultant wouldn’t be as brusque as Oliver; she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength to hear what he might be about to say.
* * *
“Pickled walnuts, would you credit it?” Marcella shook her head in disbelief, mystified
by her own weirdness. “I always thought those food cravings were made up, just to get pregnant women a bit of attention, but I swear to God I’m dreaming of pickled walnuts. The moment I wake up I have to have them. Nothing else will do. And when I’m not eating them, I like to look at them, bobbing about in their jar like dear little shriveled brains—”
“Whoa,” Estelle spluttered, waving her hands and struggling to swallow her mouthful of Marmite on toast. “Too much information.”
“Oh, sorry.” Marcella carried on polishing the silver, spread out over the far end of the oak kitchen table. Peering over at Norris, noisily chomping away at his bowl of food, she said, “Hasn’t put this one off.”
“Nothing could put Norris off his food.” Kate, finishing her coffee, rose to her feet. “Anyway, I’d better be getting ready for work.” Tilting her head to one side, she said, “Sounds like a car coming up the drive.”
“That’ll be the delivery man,” Marcella joked, “bringing me my next crate of pickled walnuts.”
Estelle felt her heart begin to race. It couldn’t be Will, could it? Had he been overcome by a sudden wild urge to see her again? Oh Lord, if it was him, would she be able to act normally in front of Marcella?
At the sound of the front door being opened, Marcella stopped polishing. All eyes were fixed on the kitchen door now. Estelle did her level best to look as utterly confounded as Kate and Marcella. Only Norris, blithely ignoring the intruder, continued to crunch away at his food.
Estelle couldn’t have been more astounded if it had been David Attenborough himself complete with beige safari jacket who had pushed open the kitchen door.
Not Will, but Oliver.
Oliver, mystifyingly looking every bit as disheveled and ungroomed as Will habitually did.
“Oliver? What’s wrong?” Guiltily, Estelle prayed he hadn’t somehow found out. “I don’t understand. You’re supposed to be in Zurich.”
Oliver barely seemed to notice them. He shook his head.
“I was in Zurich. I came back.”
