Chapter 29 Noah
Noah
Ibarely manage a couple of hours’ sleep on the emergency staff bed at Good Vibes, and the sleep I do get is restless.
Troubled. I didn’t dare go home last night, and since Honor’s text first thing this morning to let me know the photos have hit the web and that she’s working on a retraction, the whole of Avondale Park has been crawling with press.
That flash of white light last night, intruding on a relaxed, private moment between Honor and me, was the truest form of violation I’ve ever experienced.
I understand now what it’s like for her every day.
I thought the scene at Heathrow was bad, but at least that was set up.
Last night shook me to the core: this unacceptable idea that a private moment between two people can instantly become global news.
And the worst part was that I was powerless. I had to do what she said, had to let her walk out there alone in a blinding haze of flashes and shutter myself in the hospice like she asked. She knew best—and I’d do anything to diffuse the situation—but I felt fucking useless.
She messaged me last night to say she was dealing with the situation, but beyond that I had no colour. I was a caged animal, practically making tracks as I confined myself to pacing around the kitchen table so as not to wake the guests upstairs.
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I can’t tell anyone, ask anyone for advice.
There’s no one I can think of to call, except perhaps Mum, but I’m not sure what my official line should be.
Presumably, Honor’s going to go for an outright denial that there’s anything personal going on between us.
Until I have a chance to speak to her properly, I’m staying silent.
When I finally collapsed on the narrow bed upstairs, the smallest bud of a thought crept into my mind, tentative and fragile.
What if this was the push we needed? Would Honor ever consider using this betrayal of her privacy as a signal to reevaluate what she wants from life?
I’ve never asked her to, beyond my declaration of love the other day.
Any move would have to come from her. I’d be asking her to give up too much.
My rational mind batted the tiny bloom of hope right back down. She couldn’t even tell me she loved me the other day. She told me she wasn’t in a position to make any commitment to me. This doesn’t change that. If anything, it’ll send her running for the hills.
I gave up trying to sleep around five and showered and shaved.
Pointless gestures that gave me the smallest pretence of being in control.
By the time Honor’s text came through to say the story was live, I was sitting back at the kitchen table, head in my hands and an empty coffee mug in front of me.
And shortly after that, press started gathering on the street outside with cameras and even fucking TV crews.
I called the police and pleaded with them to get down here and clear the street, emphasising that the disturbance the reporters were making was threatening the health of my seriously ill patients, but there’s no sign of them yet.
Since the news broke, my phone has detonated.
Current friends, old friends, mates from uni, all WhatsApping me and sending me messages on FaceBook and LinkedIn and God knows what else.
I hold off from clicking into any of the messages—there’s only one person I want to hear from and that’s Honor—but the reading panes of my various apps suggest they’re all along the same lines: some variation on OMG or nice one mate or you jammy bastard.
I want nothing more than to turn off my phone, but I’m holding out that Honor will make contact.
It’s overwhelming, and the growing sense of dread and helplessness is even more overwhelming.
Sleep deprivation is not helping. The office phone rings off the hook from six.
I answer it the first couple of times before realising that every news outlet in the country seems to be trying to get through, then disconnect it.
Right now, my priority needs to be the wellbeing of my guests and staff. I send out a terse group WhatsApp to the whole Good Vibes team.
There’s some unfortunate press interest around Good Vibes this am thanks to a photo the Post has published of me and Stephanie Chapman’s daughter.
We are working on refuting their accusations but meanwhile please arrive via the rear entrance if you’re on duty today, and categorically do not speak to any press members. Thx.
The early part of the morning is spent in triage mode, managing the bewilderment and morbid curiosity of the staff members who turn up and reminding them of their duty of care. I refresh the Post homepage relentlessly. Around seven-thirty, there’s a breakthrough. I stare at the headline.
HONOR DENIES AFFAIR, CONFIRMS MOTHER ON DEATHBED.
For fuck’s sake. These people have no compassion.
But the paper’s turnaround is impressive.
The article goes on to explain that last night’s photos were taken at the Good Vibes Hospice, and that the mystery man pictured with Honor is Dr Noah Thierry, owner of the hospice and friend of the James-Chapman family.
They’ve lifted exterior shots of the building, and a smiling headshot of me, from the Good Vibes website and, while they fall short of an apology, they’ve appeared to drop all speculation that Honor and I are an item.
They’ve also resurrected some photos of Stephanie, and they have confirmed her illness as late-stage pancreatic cancer.
I exhale deeply—I must have been holding my breath. Honor’s team’s ability to twist the arm of national rags is both impressive and terrifying.
My phone rings. It’s her. I can’t answer it fast enough.
‘Hi, darling. Oh my God, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She sounds breathless. ‘Rollo, put your tie on. Here. Sorry, I’m trying to get the kids processed.’
‘No problem. What can I do? I saw the Post has changed its story. Well done.’
‘Yeah. We had to give them some stuff on Mum, which is the absolute worst, but it worked. Listen, I can’t talk right now, but I wanted to say—Rollo.
Your tie. Now. Sorry, I wanted to tell you to keep an eye on the Mail—we’ve fed them some stuff so they can make the Post a laughingstock and hopefully discredit the story once and for all.
But also, have the press turned up there yet? ’
‘Yep.’ I look grimly out the window. ‘TV crews too. It’s mayhem out there.’
‘Okay. Listen carefully. We’re sending over some security to help you.
They’ll keep the press off your property, stop them ringing your doorbell and making a nuisance of themselves.
They should be there by eight. Tell your team to stay away from the windows and not to engage with the press. I’ll be there by ten latest.’
‘Wait—you’re coming here?’ I assumed she’d want to stay miles away.
‘Yes. We need to underline that I’m a regular visitor there, that I’m prioritising Mum, and that it’s business as usual.
It’ll be powerful to have me photographed in the same doorway as those photos.
Hang on, Noah—what, Serena? Yes, Mummy’s just dealing with the very silly photos that newspaper published at Granny’s hospital.
Noah, I need to run. I’ll see you later. ’
I take the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen.
I’ve been a waste of space all night, pacing and spiralling and pining, and here Honor is in doing mode.
She’s foiled the efforts of a national newspaper to discredit her, she’s dealing with my security situation, she’s processing Serena and Rollo and all the while diffusing the power of the “very silly” photos to upset her children.
And it’s not even eight o’clock in the morning.
She’s amazing. And at this moment, the gulf between us feels infinite.
It’s the most unsatisfactory conversation, but I need to look no further than the Post’s update for my answer to where Honor and I are headed.
HONOR DENIES AFFAIR.
That’s my answer, right there.