51. Brendan
I f I say so myself, the LEGO Friends villa was a genius move, and, as I predicted, a great way for me and Tabby to spend the day.
It’s the perfect project for someone stuck in hospital: fun; clear end goal; lots of smaller satisfying milestones along the way.
Something Marlowe doesn’t know—or need to know—about me is that I adore LEGO to the point of having an actual LEGO room at home.
It has a big square table for building and solid glass shelves for displaying the finished items.
Unsurprisingly, my main focus is on the really cool, expensive pieces of kit—the Millennium Falcon, the Eiffel Tower, the Titanic.
You get the idea. I can get really, really obsessive about it and find it impossible to step away.
My LEGO room is where I get a lot of solutions to my most vexing business problems. I’ve even had my marketing team reach out to LEGO several times to suggest they create a version of some of Sullivan’s more iconic buildings, and I couldn’t be more peeved that they’ve yet to take me up on my offers.
I rock up at the hospital after breakfast with a big box containing the LEGO Friends villa.
I slept great, hugging the pillow that Marls had slept on that afternoon and revelling in the faint scent of her.
This morning was an early start—thanks, jet lag—but it gave me a chance to get out for a run and clear my inbox in preparation for being laser-focused on Tabby.
There were several passive-aggressive messages from competitors saying what a shame it was that I couldn’t make the summit.
Who fucking cares. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
Athena flew home this morning.
She and I had a quick chat last night when I got back from the hospital.
She understands that, rather than using her as a childminder while I try to get Marlowe to sneak around with me, I’m intent on putting in the hours with Tabs this week.
I’d go so far as to say she approves.
So she’s got out of my hair and gone back to my brother.
When I get to the hospital, my girls seem in good shape.
Marlowe is in yoga pants and a simple white vest and looks good enough to eat.
While she still seems tired, she’s lost that awful, pinched look of exhaustion.
Tabby has her hair in two very tidy French plaits with little green bows at the bottom of them, and I find myself wishing I’d been a fly on the wall for that quiet mother-daughter moment.
I wonder if Marls has any idea how beautiful each and every act of service she performs for Tabs is.
I bet she does the vast majority of them privately, with no recognition, no validation at all, which is pretty alien in my book.
‘How’d you both sleep?’
I ask her.
‘Like a dream. You know, they still come in every hour to check on Tabs’ vitals, which is disruptive for her, but the private room and the amazing bed made all the difference in the world.’
‘I had pancakes,’ Tabs pipes up cheerfully, and I turn the full wattage of my smile on her.
‘Pancakes? Is that what you ordered from the chef? Did you leave any for me?’
‘Nope, all gone,’ she tells me in delight, patting her stomach.
‘Right, well I’m glad you got some fuel into you, because we have some hard labour to accomplish this morning.’
I set the box carefully on her overbed table so she can get a good look at it.
Poring over the photos of the tiny details is always one of the most fun parts of a new LEGO set.
I turn to Marlowe. ‘And you, missy, have a date with my hotel’s rooftop pool.’
She gapes at me.
‘I can’t. I need to stay here.’
‘No offence, but there’s no way you’re better at LEGO than me.
I’ve worked in construction my whole life.
And we have a fleet of medical experts just a button away, all of which makes you officially redundant.
Go on, go. You need some vitamin D badly.
You’re still white as a sheet.’
‘Tabs isn’t ready to be left with a stranger, are you, Tabs?’
‘I want to make it with Brendan,’ Tabby replies, and I swallow a smile.
Kids are such disloyal little shits.
So easily bought.
‘But I don’t have a swimming costume with me,’ Marlowe protests.
‘All sorted. The concierge had a bikini delivered to the room for you.’ I lean right in.
‘Make sure you send me a selfie. It’s the least you can do.’
When I pull away again, I see with immense satisfaction that her attempt at looking outraged has flat-out failed.
She looks a mix of pleased and flustered.
I wink at her.
I promised I wouldn’t lay a finger on her at work.
I never said I wouldn’t play dirty while we weren’t at work.
‘ S o which bit do you want to build first?’ I ask, laying out the two main instruction booklets between us.
‘The swimming pool or the main house?’ I’m hoping she opts for the pool.
The transparent blue bricks are begging to be assembled.
Tabby studies the booklets with the seriousness of a structural engineer.
‘The house book says number one. The swimming pool is number two. I think we should do them in order.’
Such a good little rule follower, just like her mum.
‘That’s a good point, but it’s just us.
Sometimes you need to build LEGO stuff in order, but not with this one, because they’re both separate.
So you should choose whichever one you’re most excited about.
Life’s too short to leave the good stuff for last.’
She purses her lips as she focuses on her decision, then nods.
‘Then the swimming pool. Definitely.’
‘Excellent choice. Swimming pools are my speciality.’ I wink at her as I rip the first bag open and shower the table with bricks.
‘You know, I've probably built at least ten LEGO pools in my life, and God knows how many real ones.’
‘Ten?’ Her eyes widen. ‘That's a lot.’
‘Well, I'm practically ancient compared to you.’ I start sorting the blue pieces while she organises the tiny deck chairs. ‘Hey, when you're all better, I'll show you my LEGO room. It's my secret happy place.’
‘You have a whole room just for LEGO?’ She looks genuinely impressed.
‘Yep. Some people think grown-ups shouldn't play with toys.’ I lower my voice conspiratorially. ‘Those people are very boring.’
She giggles, and I notice her laugh has the same musical quality as her mother's.
‘My friend Emma says her dad doesn't play anymore. He just works and sleeps.’ She’s making quick work of sorting the blue, transparent pieces away from the others. ‘I think that's sad.’
‘Super sad,’ I agree, handing her another one. ‘What's the point of being a grown-up if you can't buy all the cool toys you want?’
‘I can’t wait,’ she says. It’s funny and wise and sad, because if feeling powerless is a pretty fundamental part of being a kid, God knows how powerless her health and financial woes have made her feel.
We work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I'm surprised by how patient she is—no rushing ahead, carefully following each step.
‘You're really good at this,’ I tell her. ‘Most people get the steps mixed up, or they rush and then they get in a mess.’
‘Mum says I'm mef-od-ical.’ She pronounces the word carefully. ‘It means I do things in the right order.’
‘That's a big word for someone your age.’
She shrugs. ‘I learn lots of big words in hospital. Like “pulmonary” and “cardiothoracic”.’
Something catches in my chest. She shouldn't have to know those words.
‘You know what I think?’ I say, connecting the pool filter piece. ‘I think you're the toughest person I've ever met.’
She looks up, surprised. ‘Tougher than you?’
‘Way tougher. Look at these muscles.’ I flex my arm, making her giggle again. She’s so tiny. So slight. Way smaller than Elsie, who’s the same age as her and sturdy as fuck. ‘But you? You've dealt with more hard stuff than most adults I know, but look at that smile! That takes real strength of character.’
Her small fingers pause on a LEGO brick. ‘Sometimes I get scared though.’
‘Of course you do. Being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means doing what you need to even when you're terrified.’
‘Like Mummy,’ she says quietly. ‘She gets scared a lot that the doctors won’t be able to help me. When I waked up after my operation she cried. But she always pretends she’s happy.’
I swallow hard. ‘Your mum is the second toughest person I've ever met.’
‘Is she going to go swimming at your hotel?’
‘I hope so. She definitely deserves a swim, doesn’t she?’
‘I wish I could go swimming,’ she says idly, like it’s a faraway dream.
I frown. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Yeah, but it’s really tiring, so I’m not allowed to do it,’ she says. My heart bleeds afresh for the basic fucking parts of childhood that she’s missed out on.
‘Well, my apartment block has a pool, so you can definitely come swimming any time you like.’ Her smile of astonishment is like crack, and it has me forging on impulsively. Fuck me, she’s so like her mother. They’re peas in a pod. And, just like her mother, her smile makes me want to jump through every hoop there is. ‘And my sister and parents live in the countryside, and they have outdoor pools and lots of ponies, so maybe you can come out and have some fun before the summer holidays are over. You have to put that swanky new valve of yours to good use, after all.’
In the back of my mind there’s a niggling worry that Marlowe would call promises of pools and ponies “buying Tabby’s affection”, but she can go take a running jump.
This isn’t about me playing games or using my money to worm my way into her or her daughter’s hearts.
It’s about the privilege of helping an incredible little girl play catch up on all the shit she’s missed.
It’s about doing the right thing.