Epilogue
Eighteen months later
‘I don’t think much of these chair skirts,’ I mutter. ‘Especially in such a posh hotel.’
‘What the hell’s a chair skirt?’ asks Mark.
‘I promise you, sweetie, you will never need to know.’
We’re in a swanky ballroom in Park Lane for Clive’s third wedding.
I was touched to receive an invitation and not a little surprised, especially when I saw the name of the bride – Mary, his first wife. They re-tied the knot in a small ceremony in Ireland and they’ve flown in to London for a fancy shindig.
Clive quit finance last year and found a new calling running an alpaca farm in rural Ireland. He’s still got a nine-figure investment portfolio, so I suspect he’s got other people shovelling alpaca poop every morning.
Charles is here, too, with his fiancée.
Yes, after sixty-one years on planet Earth, he’s finally found a woman to settle down with.
I’m not saying it’s not true love, but she’s Clive’s second wife – the one that got half his money in the divorce – and she’s now worth the equivalent of a small country’s GDP.
As a result, Charles has semi-retired from the clinic.
It’s all very weird on paper, but it seems to work. And Clive seems genuinely delighted for them.
Charles isn’t the only one who’s newly engaged.
I’m still not used to the ring on the third finger of my left hand.
My thumb is constantly playing with it to check it’s there.
I don’t dare wear it on the tube because I’m convinced I’m going to get mugged.
How can it ever be rational to wear diamonds on the London Underground? Married women are mad.
Mark and I were in Cyprus a couple of months ago.
Under the pretence of buying some galatoboureko from Mrs Evi at his favourite bakery and the scene of his fake proposal the year before, Mark got down on one knee – in front of the displays of cheesecakes and Black Forest gateaux – and asked me to marry him.
We haven’t set a date yet; we’re concentrating instead on getting our new flat nice and cosy.
We spent an inordinate amount of time looking at kitchen tables, and in the end, we commissioned someone to build one for us.
I got the name of the carpenter from Charles and gave him instructions to make it extra sturdy.
Charles joins us now at the table.
‘Nella, my love, you look exquisite.’ He leans in to kiss my cheek. ‘And this must be the famous Mr Marino. I’ve got a friend whose beating heart you once held in your hand. Terrible at bridge, but an excellent shot.’
‘I remember him,’ says Mark, deadpan.
‘Oh, I like him already,’ Charles says to me. ‘Remind me to talk to the filly at Tatler who compiles the Top Doctors lists.’
‘I don’t do much private work,’ Mark replies.
‘He prefers to volunteer in his free time,’ I explain.
It was Yan’s partner Spiros who suggested Mark volunteer at an Athens hospital for a month a year.
We hadn’t realised how overstretched the Greek healthcare system was because of the migrant crisis, and seeing as he speaks the language, it seemed like a no-brainer.
I’m considering volunteering, too. Therapists are always in demand.
‘Well, whenever you’re ready to focus on private practice, let me know.’
Charles has been very generous with his media contacts.
He’s lined up an interview in Harper’s Bazaar for me.
And he was tickled pink when I told him the moniker he’d dreamed up for me was being used by my publisher to promote my book.
There’s talk of me being on a couple of high-profile podcasts, and the book looks set to be reviewed in three national newspapers.
‘It’s so great to see you, Charles,’ I tell him. ‘And congratulations again on your engagement. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.’
He mock bows. ‘An endorsement from The Heart Doctor, I’m honoured.’ He stops. ‘Oh, I’ve just realised.’ He shakes his head and smiles. ‘Why didn’t I think of this before – it’s perfect!’
‘What is?’
‘The two of you. It’s like a fairy tale: The Heart Doctor finally gets her own Heart Doctor.’ He grins. ‘Oh, Tatler are going to love this.’
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