57. Brendan
CHAPTER 57
Brendan
I t’s stupid o’clock and I can’t sleep.
Not surprising, given this flat is like a furnace and every time I turn over, the cushions skid on the laminate floor and separate.
I should probably just sleep on the floor itself.
As soon as Marlowe took herself off to her room I called Yan to tell him to go home.
Then I called a mate of mine, Adrian, who runs a seriously hardcore private security firm.
I met him through the guards who patrol my apartment block and he now does quite a bit of work for us.
I smile to myself as I imagine one of his most badass guys turning up sometime tonight to kick off what will be a permanent security presence downstairs from now on.
While private security guards can’t carry weapons, Adrian’s guys don’t need them.
They’re all trained killers, former mercenaries who require nothing more than their wits and their bare hands to make short shrift of anyone.
Those little turds will have to find somewhere new to hang out.
This is useless. I kick off the sheet Marlowe gave me and get to my feet.
I’m only wearing boxers—my plan is to be up and out of here before Tabs wakes up.
Much as I’d like to see her, Marlowe wasn’t exactly thrilled about my “ridiculous caveman antics” (her words) and I can’t imagine she’ll want to see me in the morning.
I’m not here to earn brownie points.
I’m here because it’s the right thing to do, but I don’t want to undo the momentum we achieved last night.
I pad around her living area as quietly as I can.
There are no curtains at the kitchen window, so the street lamps provide adequate light for me to see.
What this place lacks in comforts and basic security requirements, it makes up for in love.
There may not be an Hermès throw in sight, but the fridge is covered in Tabby’s artwork and photos of the two of them.
It makes my heart hurt to think of what a special bond these two have, and how much pain and suffering that bond has caused Marlowe over the years as she fights so hard for Tabby’s health.
There’s a card spelling out I love you Mummy xx with a selfie of Marlowe and Tabs in a park somewhere, minus Tabby’s two front teeth.
Marlowe looks so beautiful.
Her hair is blowing around her face, her cheek squished against Tabby’s.
I drift towards the bookshelves.
They’re cheapo ones whose ability to hold the shitload of books Marlowe has doesn’t inspire confidence.
I glance through the books.
She really likes cookery.
There’s a lot of sheet music at the bottom, which I assume is left over from her degree.
I find myself wishing I could just drag her and Tabs and all this music over to my place and be done with it.
There are also some photo albums.
Bingo.
They’re the ones you compile online before receiving the printed version in the mail.
It looks like Marlowe does one each year.
I pull four or five out of the stack and return to my makeshift bed, opening the first book up.
I’m not great with kids’ ages, but Tabby looks to be two or three at a guess.
It’s amazing that Marlowe finds the time to put these mementos together amid the stress of working and parenting and dealing with hospital visits.
I drop down to one elbow and proceed to take a trip through the memories of the two people I’ve fallen for, memories I play no part in.
Right now, the best I can hope for is that they allow me to be a part of their future memories.
I may be the one with the ten-figure net worth, but there’s no denying that Marlowe is richer than me in the ways that count.
I must have passed out eventually, because when I wake, the sun is streaming through the room.
The floor beside me is strewn with photo albums, and my phone reads just after seven.
Shit. I sit up in a panic before realising that the sound that’s woken me is gentle crying.
Tabby’s crying, to be precise.
I pull my shirt and trousers on hurriedly and pad over to Tabby’s room.
Marlowe’s already in there, sitting on the edge of her bed.
‘Hey,’ I say as softly as possible so as not to startle Tabs.
‘What’s up, sunshine?
’
Tabs gapes at me through her tears.
‘Hi, Bren. What are you doing here?’
I glance at Marlowe.
She’s in shorts and a thin tank top and no bra, none of which is remotely helpful.
I avert my eyes and focus on Tabs.
‘I took your mum out last night, and I wanted to have a sleepover so I could see you this morning.’ There’s definitely no upside in mentioning any security issues to a kid her age.
‘What’s up with you?
You not feeling too good?
’
‘She’s got a fever,’ Marlowe says, sticking a little plastic cup on the end of a thermometer.
‘It doesn’t feel too bad, but let’s see…
’
She sticks the device in Tabby’s ear and it beeps.
’Thirty-eight-point-two.
’ She grimaces.
‘Is that bad, Mummy?’ Tabs asks with an adorable little hiccup-slash-sob.
‘It’s not too bad,’ Marlowe tells her with a kiss to her temple, ‘But it tells me your body is heating up so it can try to kill some germs.’ She chews the inside of her cheek.
‘I don’t know if the GP surgery is open on the weekend, though…
’
I immediately spot a way to add value.
‘Sod that. I’ll organise a house visit.
’
‘But…’ she begins, and I shake my head at her.
Now is not the time for pride.
‘Consider it sorted.’
I pull up the number for the private on-call GP service I use.
It’s part of the obscenely top-end health cover I have.
They guarantee house calls within the hour—in theory, anyway.
‘I need an urgent visit for an eight-year-old,’ I tell them.
‘She’s running a fever and she had a pulmonary valve replacement operation around three weeks ago.
How soon can you get someone here?
’
I hand the phone over to Marlowe to provide more medical and location details and run my hand through my hair as I blow out a breath.
How quickly these terrifying medical terms insert themselves into our vernacular.
Marlowe sounds like a cardiothoracic surgeon right now.
In the hour that we’re waiting for the doctor to show up, I call the concierge in my building and ask him to bike over a few bits and pieces for me to wear so I don’t have to spend the day in last night’s clothes.
I look like I’m about to do the walk of shame, which is very fucking ironic given I had precisely no action last night.
Tabs wanders out of her room as I’m putting the cushions back on the sofa.
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘On the floor. I was too big for the sofa.’ She smiles, and I consider it a win.
I scoop her up into my arms. That’s better.
She’s light as a feather.
‘How’s your tummy? Is that sick too?
Do you think you could eat some pancakes?
’
I have just enough time to make us all some pancakes, take a shower in Marlowe’s bathroom, which is spotlessly clean but has Third World levels of water pressure, and throw on the shorts and t-shirt my concierge team has delivered when the doctor shows up.
She sits at the kitchen table with Marlowe and Tabby while I hover uselessly, sipping on my cup of tea.
It was that or instant coffee.
‘How are you feeling, Tabby?’ she asks.
‘Yucky and shivery,’ Tabs says.
‘Everything hurts.’
The doctor hums sympathetically.
‘That’s no fun, is it?
And you had a big operation a few weeks ago, didn’t you?
How long ago, precisely?
’
‘Twenty days ago,’ Marlowe supplies.
She has Tabs on her lap.
She gives the doctor a brief, calm rundown on the details of the operation.
‘Okay, Tabby, I’m going to listen to your heart now,’ the doctor says.
She takes her stethoscope and listens for a few moments before frowning.
‘Can you show me your hands?’
The room is silent as she inspects Tabby’s fingernails—for what I don’t know.
‘I can’t be sure, but given Tabby has recently had a valve replacement, it could be endocarditis.
’ She pauses. ‘Did the surgical team mention this as something to watch out for in the weeks following the operation?’
Marlowe and I glance at each other.
I was with her and Tabs for the entire discharge process.
‘An infection?’ I recall.
‘Exactly.’ She pauses.
‘Her fever’s not too bad, but I’m detecting a slight murmur in her heart.
’
Marlowe lets out a strangled sigh and holds Tabby tighter.
‘She’s also showing some tiny splinter haemorrhages under her fingernails,’ the doctor explains.
‘There can be other reasons for them to appear, but given Tabby’s recent operation and this little murmur, they would indicate endocarditis.
’
‘Okay, so…’ Marlowe shifts Tabs on her knee and I step forward, bundling the little girl into my arms so Marlowe can talk to the doctor properly.
‘She has an infection. What now—antibiotics?’
‘I know this won’t be welcome news,’ the doctor says gently, ‘but if—and currently it’s an if —the new valve is infected, then it will need to be replaced.
I’m so sorry.’
‘But we had it in the US,’ Marlowe stutters.
‘We can’t—I can’t?—’
‘I know it’s a lot to take in.
The first thing you should do is get Tabby seen by her cardiologist immediately.
He or she will be able to take some blood cultures and evaluate further.
’
‘What does that do?’ I pipe up.
‘They’ll monitor the cultures for a day or two.
If they start to grow bacteria, that’s your sign that there’s an infection, in which case I’d expect them to push to replace the valve as soon as possible.
’
Marlowe stares at her, and I see every ounce of the grief and disbelief and shock in her beautiful face.
There’s defeat, too.
Because she has moved heaven and earth to get this little girl a new valve, and this doctor is telling us it could all have been for nothing.
Tabby might have to go through the exact same rigmarole again .
It’s unthinkable, but there’s one massive difference.
This time, I’ll be by Marlowe’s side every step of the way.