by Anita Notaro
‘Your husband was admitted as an emergency at about one forty-five. Apparently, he collapsed in a restaurant and they called an ambulance.’
‘But, was it something he ate, did he choke, what?’
‘We believe it may have been a heart attack.’ The nurse knew exactly what it was but was drip-feeding the information.
It was the worst possible news and Libby wasn’t prepared. She stared at the woman with a puzzled expression on her face.
‘How bad is it?’ a voice she recognized as her own asked calmly. The lights were hurting her eyes and making her head feel dizzy, on top of an already queasy stomach.
‘I’m afraid it’s serious.’ The brown eyes were solemn. ‘Maybe you’d like to sit down over here. Can I get you anything – cup of tea, glass of water?’
Libby shook her head and silently did as she was told. She wished this had happened to her: David would have been much better able to cope. She had a sudden aching longing to be close to him at this awful moment.
‘Is there any way I could just look at him? Please?’ she begged the older woman.
‘I’ll let the doctor know you’re here,’ the woman said. She moved off quickly.
The young policeman moved over and knelt down beside her. ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact? One of your family, a sister or brother maybe?’
She shook her head.
‘A friend then, someone who would be able to come and sit with you while you wait.’
‘I’m an only child,’ she murmured as if that explained everything.
‘Are your parents alive?’
‘Only my mum, but she’d have a heart attack if anyone called or telephoned at this time of night.’ Libby smiled sadly at the irony. All her earlier arrogance had gone. She felt helpless and the feeling was unusual for her, as was the sensation of being utterly alone that hit her then, as she realized there really was no-one she could call on. There were loads of people in her life, in their lives, a telephone book of couples to have dinner with or go on holiday with, but no-one close enough. Maybe Carrie, if she lived in Dublin. Not Moya though, she’d be irritating. Strange to think that she could have called the wife of a government minister, or the girlfriend of one of the leading rock bands in the world, or pull any amount of strings to get the attention she required, but she couldn’t think of one person she really wanted now.
‘What about your husband’s family?’
‘His parents live in Dubai and his two brothers live abroad as well, I’ll have to ring and get them over.’ She fished in her bag for her phone, anything to stop her mind playing the cruel tricks it was playing at this minute.
‘Don’t worry about that for now, wait until you’ve seen the doctors first,’ the garda said reassuringly, wishing he could be of more help. He’d known who she was the minute he’d heard the name, but she looked much more vulnerable than he’d imagined. He knew it was shock, she’d crumpled when the nurse had told her, and now she was like a child with her tousled fair hair and china blue, saucer eyes, innocent of the scourge of sickness and accidents and obviously unused to dealing with this kind of authority.
The nurse with the kind face returned with a mug of strong tea, ‘to keep you going’. She smiled gently. ‘Doctor Noonan is on his way to see you.’ It sounded deadly serious.
‘I should have you call his own doctor, he’ll want to be informed . . .’ Libby went fishing again.
‘Fine, we can do that.’ She moved aside as a tall man came slowly down the corridor, looking as if he’d stepped off the set of a hospital drama, white coat flapping and leads dangling, although as he got nearer Libby knew he was too tired and worn out for a romantic lead.
John Reynolds stood up immediately. ‘I’ll leave you to talk. I’d better get back to the station. I wish you the best of luck and hope things will be OK.’ He was anxious not to intrude, in view of her celebrity status. Libby barely heard him, so intent was she on trying to read the approaching doctor’s face.
‘Miss Marlowe, I’m Donal Noonan. Perhaps we could talk in here.’ She wished he’d called her Mrs English too, because at this moment that’s all she was, somebody’s demented wife.
She’d stood up the minute she saw him approach, searching his face for clues. There were none.
People stared openly at her as he led the way to a quiet waiting room with comfortable chairs and took her cup away as she almost sent it flying in her haste to hear what he had to say.
‘Is there anyone with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Please tell me.’
‘I’m afraid your husband suffered a massive heart attack in the restaurant tonight.’
‘How is he?’ It was all she wanted to know. She wondered why he wasn’t smiling at her; people were usually kind once they realized who she was.
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’
‘He is going to be OK, though?’
He tried again, this time more slowly.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Miss Marlowe, but I’m afraid it was too late . . .’ He paused for only the slightest moment, putting off what he knew she didn’t want to hear. ‘I’m afraid we couldn’t save him.’ Her navy eyes flickered with fear.
‘What does that mean?’ She knew what it meant but she had to believe she was hearing him wrong.
He swallowed and looked at her with the eyes of someone who’d done this before. ‘He was dead on arrival at the hospital.’
Libby made the smallest movement of her head, almost afraid to shake it and communicate a sign that she had accepted what he’d just told her. She tried to scream but nothing came out and she struggled to keep him in focus as she felt a lightness wash over her. After a long time she spoke and her voice was barely audible.
‘No.’
She grabbed his hands and never took her tormented eyes off his face, just in case he tried to leave it like this. She couldn’t let him do that to her.
‘Please.’
‘I’m very, very sorry, Miss Marlowe, there wasn’t anything we could do.’
‘No. Please God, no.’ She shook her head wildly from side to side. She closed her eyes and screamed, ‘Nooooooooo.’
There was nothing else to say after that so they simply stayed as they were, holding hands for a few more endless seconds, the doctor looking at her bowed head, Libby staring at the floor, silently willing him not to take away all her hope. And normal life went on all around them, if the sounds were anything to go by. After a few moments she looked at him with tortured eyes and spoke softly.
‘He can’t be, he’s only thirty-nine . . .’
The doctor nodded silently, his eyes telling her he’d seen far worse.
‘He’s always been so healthy.’ She was begging him.
‘I’m very sorry. There was nothing we could do.’ He was repeating himself, new words were scarce. ‘Will you let me call someone?’
She shook her head and went back to staring at the floor. ‘Can I see him?’ It was very important all of a sudden. It wasn’t definite yet, not until she saw him. She clung to the ridiculous hope that they’d made a mistake.
‘Of course.’
‘Now?’
‘Perhaps you’d like someone with you?’
‘There’s no-one, honestly.’ The truth was, there was no-one she wanted.
He wondered how someone so sought after could seem so alone. He stood up, disentangling their hands, then he opened the door and led her gently, like a much older woman or an invalid, down a never-ending blank corridor, slowing down to her pace. She sensed his hand at her back, guiding her.
‘Would you like me to wait outside?’ He was always unsure at this moment. Everyone seemed to handle it differently. Some were scared, others wanted to ask questions, a good few needed his support and more simply wanted to be alone with their loved ones and hold onto them.
Libby nodded and he held open the door. She saw David, lying quite still, but otherwise looking exactly a
s she’d last seen him, except that his hair was tousled. He looked healthy, relaxed even. He looked alive.
‘Was he in any pain?’ She’d only just thought of it.
He shook his head quietly. ‘No.’ She left him then.
* * *
Just for a brief second she thought that maybe her husband was playing a trick on her and her heart started pounding with anticipation. Until she touched him.
And then she knew and she simply lay down beside him and tried to get him, and herself, warm again.
She stayed with him for hours, talking and pleading and fixing his hair and telling him how much she loved him, how desperately she needed him in her life, and it was a cold bright morning when she finally left him – refusing all offers of help – to make her way home to a life that no longer existed.
Chapter Seven
ANNIE WOKE TO the shrill of the telephone. She got a fright as she always did when forced alive. Usually it was the doorbell ringing: every kid in the neighbourhood seemed to enjoy playing chasing at her expense. Groggy and bad tempered, she skidded across the cold, hard floorboards and grabbed the offending article.
She offered a muffled greeting and waited, expecting to hear the usual ‘Is that the maternity hospital?’ It happened to her several times a day. The numbers were almost identical and she’d had more than her fair share of irate or scared or drunken husbands over the years. But not today.
‘Hello, is that Annie?’
She came to very fast. ‘It is, yes.’
‘Oh hi, Annie, this is Max Donaldson from Southside here. Sorry to ring you so early, I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘Oh hi Max, no not at all.’ Disturb me any time you like, was what she wanted to say, just as long as it’s not the electronic equivalent of a Dear John letter. Surely they didn’t ring people with bad news? The thought was just too depressing to even contemplate.
‘. . . just calling to let you know we’d love you to play Bobby, we all agreed you were terrific yesterday.’ Her head started buzzing. ‘We really enjoyed your performance . . . not to mention the outfit . . .’ She could hear laughter in his voice and knew he was teasing ‘. . . and Stephen said he felt very comfortable playing opposite you.’
Just like that. A couple of short sentences and everything changed.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it, that is just fantastic. Thank you so much.’ She knew she was supposed to play it cool but she was hopping around in a skimpy T-shirt with numb fingers and a toe that was slowly turning gangrenous with cold. Acting cool was out of the question.
He laughed and she liked the sound. ‘I take it you accept?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I’m absolutely thrilled and eh . . . honoured,’ she felt she should add.
‘Well, wait till you hear the terms first. I know you’ve no agent, so I’ll ask one of the assistant producers to call you later today with dates and a proposed fee. As I think I mentioned yesterday, it’s only for four episodes at the moment, but we do think the character has a future, depending on how this session goes. I don’t want to get your hopes up though, you know what this business is like.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her voice still sounded two octaves too high.
‘OK then, that’s it, congratulations. You had some stiff competition there yesterday, by the way. We’re really looking forward to having you on board and one of the others will explain it all in more detail later, OK?’
‘Yes, fine and thanks again.’
‘Pleasure. Talk to you soon.’
‘Bye, thank you. Bye-bye.’ Shut up, Annie before you blow it.
She hung up, shouted ‘yes!’ and threw a victory punch, then slid down the wall and hugged her knees to her chest and rocked back and forth screaming in delight, eventually sticking her fist in her mouth in case the screams brought her next-door neighbours running with a hatchet. She could hardly believe that she’d finally been given a break. Her first TV part, and what a one to start on. She was scared then for a split second, knowing that if this didn’t work it was definitely the end of the line.
Annie jumped up again quickly, realizing she was about to have icicles dangling prettily from her nose, grabbed her ancient woollen dressing-gown and faded slippers and made for the kitchenette and the kettle, turning on the heat to celebrate. She stretched lazily on the couch and sipped the scalding tea, enjoying the indulgence of morning TV as only someone with a proper job can. She didn’t see or hear anything. She was dreaming with her eyes open, picking a new outfit, maybe a good bottle of wine, perhaps a moisturizer not from the supermarket, definitely some mugs so that she could throw away her brown-ringed ones and maybe even a few fresh flowers that weren’t a guilty garage impulse buy. The day now seemed filled with possibilities and she felt giddy.
*
The morning rush was almost over as Libby walked along a quiet road near the hospital on the outskirts of Dublin. She swayed slightly as if she’d been drinking. A car pulled up beside her. John Reynolds jumped out, looking tired and dishevelled and slightly embarrassed.
‘I just called to the hospital. They said you’d left but that you wouldn’t let them call anyone. Are you OK?’
It took her a second to recognize him. She shook her head silently.
‘You’re miles from home. Let me drive you.’ She nodded and he opened the passenger door. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own at a time like this.’ His face was full of concern.
‘I was just thinking about that.’ She spoke more to herself than to him. ‘I am on my own, actually. Oh, there are hundreds of people who’ll come rushing round as soon as they hear. But they’re all social acquaintances, or business friends of David’s.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘At our level people use each other and he always warned me of that. When they want us to go to a dinner party, or a launch, it’s mostly not us they want at all, it’s who we are. The entrepreneur and the celebrity chef. We’re a much sought-after duo,’ she snorted. ‘Guaranteed to make the papers. Top of everyone’s list. Or at least we were,’ she corrected herself and continued to stare straight ahead like a zombie. ‘In a way, though, it suited us. We liked keeping people at a distance. We only wanted each other. And David was always slow to trust people, so I never really let my guard down in public.’ Her face distorted. ‘Look at me now.’
They drove for several miles in silence. When they eventually reached the house Libby got out in slow motion to punch in the code and open the gates to let the car through, but made no move to get back in. The garda drove on ahead, sensing she needed to be alone, but kept his eye on her in the mirror as she walked up the drive behind the slightly battered Ford Focus, head bowed as if practising for walking behind her husband’s coffin.
His gorgeous silver Jag was where it always was, his pride and joy, and she ran her fingers over it tenderly, hoping to magically spirit him home. She could picture the two of them standing there beside it as they had many times, she teasing him about loving his car more than her. He simply could not be gone from her for ever. He just couldn’t.
‘Thank you,’ she said, turning to the young man who’d been a stranger until a couple of hours ago. ‘You’re very kind.’
‘Let me see you inside, make sure you’re all right.’
‘Where’s your police car?’ It seemed important, the sort of trivial detail that meant your brain was still functioning.
‘I’m actually off duty now. I was on my way home to sleep. I just wondered what had happened.’ He looked at her half apologetically, as a pink tinge stained his face. ‘My mother loves you, she watches everything you do, so I felt I should make sure you were OK.’
She gave him the ghost of a sad smile. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be really OK again.’
‘You will, I promise. Now, let me get you inside and make you a cup of tea.’
‘Mrs O’Connell will be . . . Oh God, I don’t think I can face anyone right now, I don’t want to have to . . .’
‘I’ll deal with it, just show me wher
e the kitchen is.’ He was much better at the practical details.
Mrs O’C. came bustling out as soon as she heard the door. ‘I wondered where everyone had got to.’
‘Good morning, Mrs O’Connell, I’m John Reynolds, I wonder if you’d be good enough to make Miss Marlowe a cup of tea and perhaps some toast, please.’ He was glad he’d changed out of uniform, it was less frightening for the older woman.
‘Yes, of course.’ She came to an abrupt stop, wanting to say something but too well trained, or maybe too used to being discreet in a house where she’d gleaned many nuggets of information over the years.
Libby led the way to the breakfast lobby, a warm, sunny, Victorian garden room filled with plants and flowers and oversized chairs. She plonked down woodenly in the nearest one, as if someone had pushed her.
Garda Reynolds simply stood facing the window, seeming to admire the exotic vista of tree ferns, huge palms and fat-leaved castor oil plants. In reality he didn’t see any of it, he was simply giving her space and time to regain her composure.
Minutes later Mrs O’Connell entered silently, sensing the mood. She left a silver tea service with a pot of fragrant coffee and strong tea and a silver rack with slivers of white and brown toast. There was strawberry jam and bright yellow butter along with a small porcelain plate of handmade biscuits, Libby’s favourite.
‘You should try and eat something,’ John Reynolds urged as he brought her a cup of strong, sweet tea.
She simply shook her head again. ‘What time is it?’
‘Shortly after nine.’
‘There are so many things to do, people to tell. I don’t know where to start. How am I going to tell his parents?’
‘Is there someone who could help you with all of this?’
Another fringed-lash look that tugged at his heartstrings. Then, after a moment or two, ‘My mother, I suppose.’
‘Would you like me to call her?’
‘No, it’s a bit too early, she lives alone and I don’t want to frighten her. Her housekeeper will be there at nine-thirty, I’ll call then. I wonder what time it is in Dubai?’
