Chapter 10
Honor
We move Mum into The Good Vibes Hospice the following Monday.
Di takes us, driving so slowly over the million speed bumps we pass between Wimbledon and Notting Hill that it breaks my heart a little.
We’ve sandwiched Mum and her oxygen tank in the middle of the backseat between me and Ally.
Each of us has one of her hands in ours.
‘This is one of the oddest journeys I’ve ever taken.’ Mum’s head lolls back against the headrest and she sighs.
‘I know, Mum.’ I squeeze her hand. This woman fading away before our eyes is not Mum.
This is not who Stephanie Chapman is. She’s an academic, an award-winning writer of several books, a woman who broke glass ceilings before they even had a name, and one who has the ability to be a total bitch when circumstances (usually a man who made the mistake of underestimating her) demand it. At least, that’s who she was.
‘It’s got to be as odd as following your father’s hearse to the crematorium.’
‘Jesus, Mum.’ Ally lets out a humourless half laugh. ‘You’re not dead and buried yet.’
‘I know that, Alison. But it just feels… ominous. Portentous. Final.’
I squeeze her hand again. ‘Don’t be a drama queen. This isn’t the end of the road for you. Good Vibes is a lovely place where highly trained people will make you as comfortable as possible.’
Mum sniffs. ‘Comfortable. That’s a ghastly phrase. What are they going to do—give me a hot toddy and then put a pillow over my face when I’ve passed out?’
‘Mother.’ Ally rolls her eyes. ‘What Duck Face said. Drama queen.’
‘I don’t think euthanasia’s their business model.’ I keep my tone light. ‘They’re more about mani-pedis and string quartets.’
‘That I can manage. And martinis, I hope. As long as they’re not as hippy as their name.’
‘Not hippy at all,’ Ally tells her. ‘It’s very impressive. The delectable Dr Noah runs a tight ship. And he’s madly in lust, or in love, with Duck Face. For some unknown reason.’
‘You should have married a doctor.’ Even in her weakened state, Mum can pull off a theatrical sigh.
‘They all have God complexes, don’t they?’
‘Seriously?’ Ally leans around Mum to look at me. ‘Newsflash: you’re married to Jackson James. I would have thought God complexes were your kink.’
And we both lurch forward in alarm as Mum lets out a huge honk of laughter and rapidly clutches her abdomen.
NOAH
When Honor’s sister—Ally—comes to the door of Good Vibes to tell me they’ve arrived, I leap into action.
One of the nurses, Will, grabs a wheelchair, and we go to meet the car.
The security guard I clocked outside Mum’s house last week helps Honor out of the car and she exits it like the A-lister she is: feet out first, encased in some painful looking heels, ankles neatly together.
I make a supreme effort to drag my gaze up her endless legs to her face as she appears.
She’s in a silky sleeveless top and matching shorts, and I have the oddest flashback to Julia Roberts at the polo in Pretty Woman.
Honor’s channelling the same effect: ultra-feminine, super classy and hot as hell.
I grin and hold my hand out to her, but she turns around and sticks her head back in the car, the security guard hovering by her side. I quickly avert my gaze from this unexpected glimpse of her shapely arse in those silky shorts, and turn jerkily to Ally.
‘Was the journey okay?’
‘It was, surprisingly. Mum was a bit morose when we left the house, but once we started taking the piss out of Honor’s husband, Jackson, she got surprisingly chipper.’
‘Ah. Excellent.’ I’m stuck for words. There it is again: a clue that Jackson James is a figure of fun for the Chapman women rather than a screen idol made flesh. ‘Well, it’s good that she’s cheered up,’ I manage. ‘Will, see if they need help transferring Mrs Chapman, will you?’
Will scoots forward with the wheelchair and Honor backs away from the car to make room for him.
In the end, he and the security guard assist the older woman in her surprisingly elegant exit.
She’s skeletal, but beautifully groomed, with silver hair in a bob and a colourful silk scarf around her neck despite the warmth of the day.
It’s impressive she’s made it here in one piece in her own—or her daughter’s—car.
Most of our guests require an ambulance transfer.
It’s important not to fluster guests at these stressful moments of transition. I wait until Honor’s mother is comfortable in her wheelchair, Will at the handles, before I stroll over, a broad grin on my face, and extend my hand.
‘Mrs Chapman. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr Noah Thierry, but please call me Noah. I hope you’ll be very comfortable here at Good Vibes.’
She fixes me with her steely gaze, and I immediately see where Honor gets her flintiness from.
‘I don’t like that word. Comfortable. It suggests you’re intending to drug me up to the eyeballs.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ This is all par for the course.
‘I hope you allow alcohol, though.’
I pretend to look horrified. ‘Of course. God, what kind of hell-hole do you think I run?’
‘Excellent.’ There’s a twist of amusement at her mouth. ‘My poison is a very dry vodka martini.’
‘Great choice. I may join you on occasion, if you’re partial.’
She twinkles at me, and I can see how beautiful she must have been a couple of decades ago. Honor has her bone structure.
‘He’s a keeper,’ she announces, keeping her eyes on me. ‘You were right, girls. He’s delectable.’
My splutter comes at the same time as Honor’s look of abject horror and Ally’s hiss of Jesus Christ. Delectable. Interesting. I go to take the wheelchair off Will.
‘I look after the feisty ones myself,’ I tell her, as I wheel her up the ramp.
Half an hour later, we have her settled into her room, though she’s refused to get into bed yet. Honor fusses around with what are apparently her own silk-covered pillows and puts a pale pink quilt on the bed. This is good. Things like this are important.
When Stephanie (as she’s commanded me to call her) is tucked up in an armchair by the window, I call on Elena to come in.
I’ve already explained that I won’t be the doctor assigned to Stephanie because I’m in a supervisory capacity at the hospice and don’t take on my own patients.
It’s true, but it’s also so I can retain an arms-length relationship with Stephanie and her daughters.
I’m well aware that Honor’s not only married, but that she shares her marital bed with one of the finest male specimens on the planet.
So I’d be smoking crack to think that anything could ever happen between us.
Still, the combination of my years of pining over her when she was on Sunrise and the strength of my reaction to her these past few occasions we’ve met is enough to trigger serious alarm bells.
I cannot ethically care for her mother if I have feelings for her.
Elena will be a good match for Stephanie.
She’s warm and empathetic and has a steely core that she may need with this trouble-maker.
I’ve known Elena for years, since we were residents together on a palliative care ward—a residency that prompted us both to pursue a lifetime career of end-of-life care.
We may or may not have history, in the shape of the occasional night together when we were both lonely and frustrated and privy to the unspoken codes of junior doctors that dictated you shag each other because you all understand the difficulties of the job, and because none of you has any time to actually go out on the pull.
Elena’s made it clear in the past that she’d like to take things up a notch between us.
Like me, she’s in her thirties and unattached.
But I’ve made it equally clear that my feelings for her aren’t sufficient to take that leap.
She seems to have accepted my stance and, most importantly, we’re a great team at work, with a common vision for how we want to mould the future of palliative care.
I leave Elena to it and head down to my office at the back of the ground floor. About half an hour later, there’s a tap at the door. It’s Honor standing in the doorway.
‘Am I interrupting?’
‘Of course not.’ Never.
She takes a tentative step in, hovering just inside the door frame as I jump up and usher her to the free chair.
The office is tiny; she’s less than a metre away from me when she’s sitting down beside my desk, one bare arm resting on the desktop, two bare legs crossed right next to me.
I swallow. She’s brought the most incredible floral scent with her into this little room, which would be stuffy if I didn’t have the sash window wide open.
‘I just wanted to say thank you before I go.’ She leans forward and drops her phone in her bag. Straightens up and looks at me. ‘I need to head into the office. Ally’s going to stay here and keep Mum company for a bit.’
‘Is your mother doing okay?’
‘She seems to be handling it pretty well. I think having you greet us helped. You’ve got her hot under the collar. She’s been behaving more like a One Direction fan than a woman who’s arrived at the place where she’ll die.’
‘Excellent. Do I get to be Harry?’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘If he’s the one who floats your boat.’
‘His success rate floats my boat. Unfortunately, my success rate with older women is much better than with women my own age.’
I grin self-deprecatingly and she smiles back. Narrows her eyes. Assessing me.
‘Not unlike Mr Styles. But something tells me you do just fine for yourself.’
‘If you’re generous enough to assume that, I won’t dissuade you. At least, thanks to Stephanie, I have a martini date for this evening.’
‘Don’t let her get you drunk. She’s an enabler. But thank you. She feels like herself today, which’—she drums her fingers on the desk—‘none of us were expecting. It’s been far easier on all of us than we expected, to be honest.’
Her smile is open and I drink her in. That her hair is pulled off her face in a low bun isn’t helping with the Julia Roberts comparisons.
Her skin is improbably dewy and youthful looking.
Her extraordinary beauty has always led to the press dubbing her decorative, but I remember this woman interviewing world leaders on that sofa, and not giving an inch.
She may be decorative, but she’s far from fluffy.
She shifts. Uncrosses and recrosses her glossy legs. It’s getting harder not to look.
‘I’m really glad you’ve had a good start,’ I say now.
‘It won’t be a totally smooth ride, but we’ve got a good team here to help you through the ups and downs.
And you noticing that she’s being herself here is the biggest reassurance you could give me right now.
That’s a wonderful sign. We really don’t want any of our guests to feel like they’re on a conveyor belt to death.
This should be a place where they can relax and embrace who they are. ’
‘Hashtag live your best end-of-life? I think you’re missing a t-shirt opportunity there.’
She’s funny. And stunning. And married to a celebrity god. Jesus, Noah. Get a grip.
‘Stephanie would look great in that t-shirt,’ I quip.
‘She’d certainly rock it. I like the questionnaire, by the way. We’re working through it with Elena.’
‘The goals of care?’
‘Yes, but also the questions about her values. It’s a brilliant way to approach this period in… I guess, a mindful way. Like, how does she want to be remembered? And what are the things that are most important to her from here on in, and what can she live without? It’s a helpful way to focus in.’
‘It is. The thing I’ve found about palliative care is that this stage is about letting go of all the stuff that doesn’t serve you.
Your family’s already relinquished the physical care and logistics just by coming here, and now you and Stephanie hopefully have the headspace to relinquish some other stuff, too. ’
‘Yeah.’ She bows her head, avoiding eye contact. ‘Can I ask you and the team another favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘Would you mind just being careful what newspapers you give her, please? I saw you have a table of papers outside the bedrooms. There’s a lot of shit hitting the fan about my husband in the tabloids right now, and I don’t want Mum to see that kind of stuff.
It’ll just upset her. We’re dealing with it, but I don’t know how long it’ll be before the press gets bored with us and moves on. ’
Jesus. I stare at the top of her head for a moment. For her to have to deal with this crap, on top of everything else, makes my blood boil. It’s clear she’s uncomfortable having to bring it up with me. I grit my jaw and only realise I haven’t answered when she looks up at me.
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. ‘Consider it dealt with—I’ll let the others know.’
‘Thanks.’ She gives me a weak smile. ‘I’m looking forward to getting away from all this.’
‘You coming to France, then?’
‘Yep. Ally’s going to hold the fort here—she’s a university professor, so she has the summer off. The kids deserve a bit of fun, and I need to lie by a pool for a few days and drink rosé and turn off my phone.’
I swallow as a crystal-clear mental image of Honor lying by the Chateau des Anges pool in a bikini hits me.
France is looking up.