Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Mase
George, my new receptionist.
I’m unsure as to whether Sal is screwing with me with this one. When I arrived this morning to find him eagerly waiting at the doors of my office, I had to do a double take. Wearing his suit and bow tie, and shoes shinier than his forehead—which shines bright in its own right—the man was glowing.
He managed to talk my ear off for the first half an hour, telling me about his mother who lives in Canterbury and his granny in the south.
“Mr Lowell, your coffee,” he says, placing a mug on my desk. “I familiarised myself with your system, but I think we should change it. Your clients aren’t even logged in alphabetical order. It’s…” He makes a face. “Truly offensive.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I lean back in my chair, a headache already forming. “Do whatever you need to do, okay? Follow me.” I stand, walking around the desk and out to reception.
“This here is a button you can press to feed me all important information. I prefer my employees to use it to avoid unnecessary interruptions.” I nod, hoping it reaffirms my point.
“I find that very impersonal, Mr Lowell.”
“Yes, exactly.” I pat his back, leaving him at the desk as I return to my office.
The intercom buzzes not thirty seconds later. “I think we are going to get along famously, Mr Lowell.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lip.
“Ahh, you fucker,” Lance shouts, chucking his cards at Elliot.
“Can you pricks go do that somewhere else? I’m trying to work here.”
“Don’t give us that bull, you were looking at hotels in Moscow just now.” Charlie smiles, calling me out.
The boys got here an hour ago, and the three of them are now sitting around my office sofas playing poker on the coffee table.
“I’m trying to find somewhere to take Nina to watch the ballet,” I mutter, squinting at the screen.
“In fucking Moscow?” Lance frowns, picking up the cards he threw after losing all his chips.
“Does she even do ballet?” Elliot asks.
“She told me last night that it was her dream to watch the ballet one day.”
“So, take her to The Royal Opera House to see Swan Lake,” Elliot suggests, coming to stand behind me.
“Oh, I’ve been to The Royal Opera House. Liam took me for my birthday.”
Why the fuck is he just walking into my office without knocking?
“What is it, George?”
“I’m just leaving for lunch. Hey!” He waves to the others.
“Actually, before you go, George. This is your boss, Elliot Montgomery. You should run all your queries through him from now on, and these are our friends, Charlie and Lance.”
He takes his time walking around the room, shaking their hands.
“Is that The Bolshoi?” George asks in surprise, moving to stand at my back. He peers down over my shoulder to get a better look at my screen.
“It is.” I look up at him. “Have you been?”
“Absolutely not. It’s in Russia. It’s one of the most prestigious ballets in the world.”
“Useful. Thank you, George.”
“Are you going? To Russia?” he asks, excited.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Of course, but if you’re trying to impress a lady.
Which I presume you are judging by the roses you had me send this morning.
” He brazenly leans over me, typing on my keyboard.
“Then it’s got to be Paris. The Palais Garnier,” he says, standing.
“It’s not got quite the allure that The Bolshoi has from the outside, but the interior, history and atmosphere is unbeatable.
” He smiles triumphantly. “I will see you after lunch. Anything you need whilst I’m out? ”
“No, George, that will be all.” I want to thank him, but then the little shit will think I’m going soft on him.
“So, Paris?” Charlie asks.
“I’ll be taking the jet on Friday; you won’t be using it?” I ask Elliot.
“Nope, all yours, mate.” He grins.
My finger taps on the steering wheel as I contemplate what to say to my dad. We’ve barely spoken a word on the drive and we’re now only a few minutes away from the hospital.
“I appreciate you taking the time today, son.”
“It’s Scar’s birthday, she shouldn’t have to go to the hospital,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road and not meaning to sound so harsh.
I don’t want to be angry at him.
“You’re right. Although you know how she is.”
I do. My sister would never allow my father to go to an appointment alone. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body.
Maybe I’m a coward, but the hospital brings back horrific memories of my mother. It’s funny—some memories I fight to remember. The best ones are so vague, yet others—the worst ones—remain so vivid.
I remember the clinical smell of my mother’s hospital room, the blue lid on her jug of water, and the board above her head—it had her doctor’s name on it. I was four years old, but I will never forget Dr Lucas Smith.
He only ever brought the worst news.
“You wait here. I won’t be long,” my father tells me as he climbs from the Bentley.
I sit for a moment, knowing his pride will have me wait in the car, but I also know this scan is important and if I don’t go in with him, Scar will have my ass for not getting all the information.
I watch as he struggles towards the doors, and I can tell he is fighting against the pain. I’m out of the car and opening the door before he can reach for it. He rolls his eyes at me, but I also catch the relief in them—realisation that he isn’t alone.
We stand at reception, side by side.
“Anthony Lowell, I have an appointment at two p.m.”
“Of course, have a seat, and Dr Sarnmer will be with you shortly. Can I get you any refreshments?” the receptionist asks us.
“No, thank you,” my father replies.
A nurse comes in not long after to take my father through to his appointment. I sit and scroll through my phone, checking in with Elliot at the office.
My phone pings with a message from Scarlet.
Scar
Thank you soooooo much! The girls are hilarious. I really am having an incredible day.
A photo is attached to the message, and my eyes widen when I see what they have done to my penthouse. It’s a sea of purple.
“Mason.” I look up from my phone to my father’s ashen face. “You can come in now.”
I swallow the bile that rises in my throat, push my phone back into my pocket, and follow my dad into the room.
“Mason, it’s good to finally meet you,” the doctor says, standing to shake my hand.
“Likewise, do you have the results?” I ask, eager to get on the road and back to the office.
His chin drops, and he looks to my father.
“Dad?”
“It’s as we expected, son.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I challenge.
What were we expecting?
“Mason, your father’s drinking has led to his liver not working as it should.
As he has continued to drink over the years despite that fact, he now has severe swelling of the liver.
He has excessive nerve damage in his body, which is a common side effect and explains why he is in such a great deal of pain.
The body’s ability to produce enough healthy red blood cells becomes affected, meaning not enough oxygen is being pumped around the body.
I’m concerned with the nosebleeds your father has been experiencing—how often have you been getting them, Anthony?
” he asks, turning to my father. I sit in a daze, trying to process the information he has just given me.
“Okay, you need to come in weekly for scans and stick to the treatment plan we have in place. In the meantime, I will have you placed on the waiting list as discussed. I’m sorry it wasn’t the news we wanted.”
“Waiting list?” I ask, only catching the end of what he said.
“Your father will need a liver transplant. I’m afraid all other treatments have been ineffective, and the next step would be a donor.”
“Thank you, Doc. Could you give us a minute, Mason?”
I snap out of my daze and stand in a rush to exit the room. “Of course, I’ll wait in the car,” I mutter as I leave the room, pulling at my tie as I lean my back against the closed door, trying to control my breathing.
I look around the corridor spotting a little boy on the row of five chairs. I move to sit beside him, leaning forward and running my fingers through my hair.
A liver transplant. What the fuck! Why didn’t I know this?
“Hey, mister, you like my cwar?”
The little boy pulls on my suit jacket, drawing my attention to the car in his hand. It’s blue, with oversized wheels—another insignificant piece of information that I know I’ll never forget.
“Yeah, it’s cool, mate.”
“You want it?” he offers.
I turn towards him. “No, that’s okay, it’s yours, you keep it.”
“My mummy said we can’t always keep the things that we wove. I should give it to you,” he says reluctantly.
“Is your mum sick?” I ask, giving him a sad smile.
“No, not Mummy, my big sister.” He looks up at me with big, innocent, brown eyes. “She gowes to the sky soon.”
Shit. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
The door opposite us opens in a rush, the woman freezing on the threshold as her face drops in relief. “Zander, in here now. You know you’re not to run off,” she says, her hand on her chest.
He looks back at me, rolling his eyes, and it takes me back to the days I spent at my mother’s bedside. I never knew how important those final months were, always in a rush to get to the Montgomerys to swim in the pool.
“My fault, sorry,” I say, standing to apologise to the boy’s mother. “Hey, thanks for showing me your car. It’s super cool, mate.” I put my knuckles out and he bumps his against them. “Good lad.” I give him a wink and leave the hospital.
The car is silent as we pull up to the estate.
It’s not an uncomfortable silence like before though, it’s just two men reflecting, unable to communicate the right words out loud.
Dr Sarnmer is optimistic that they’ll find a donor quickly, but it doesn’t take away the unease that roots itself in my gut.
“Come with me, son,” he says, waiting a beat before getting out of the car.
I rub my hand over my face before pulling open the door.