Chapter 25
25
I t was the next day. The night before, Cally, Logan, and Logan’s mum Anne had, in the end, left the hospital and made their way to the Henry-Hicks London house in Chelsea. Cally woke up and, for a second, couldn’t get her bearings. She turned to her left to see the bed empty. Laying back on the pillows, she looked around the room for a minute and thought about the day before. It had been stressful, tiring, horrible, and tense in every way. On top of that, there had been the repugnant smell, the awful bright lights, and the feeling of being in limbo, desperately waiting for news. Plus, she’d hated the driving and the traffic. Nothing about the day had been nice. It had most definitely not been a perfect day.
In direct contrast to that, now, however, Cally found herself so very far from the hospital waiting room, it was comical. She blinked as she looked around at the elegant, opulent, and beautifully decorated bedroom surrounding her. It was so luxurious that it made her feel as if she was having an out-of-body experience. Walls with stately golden-yellow wallpaper looked back at her, a heavy peach throw blanket draped the foot of the bed and to the left, in a window alcove, a plush loveseat upholstered in rich velvet, and a comfortable armchair sat nudged up to the curtains. Little decorative cushions were perched here and there, and between the loveseat and the armchair, a small round table with a vase of flowers looked as if someone had polished it for a long time. Cally wasn’t sure whether she wanted to get up or not. For a good few minutes, she just stared at the windows dressed in their swathes of luxurious, heavy cream-coloured curtains, and their elaborate draping and tassel details. On the far right, against the wall, a stylish cabinet with a glass front held two matching lamps with cream-coloured shades and a grandmother clock ticked in the corner.
Cally shook her head; she was a long, long way from the dreary rental house she’d lived in the last time she’d been anywhere near a hospital. In the guest room in Chelsea, the overall feeling swallowing her was like everything else to do with the Henry-Hicks lot: decadent yet understated luxury, and timeless elegance to the max.
Not sure whether to go downstairs or leave Logan alone and not really totally aware of where she was, she slipped out of bed, pushed the door open to the en-suite, and stood at the double sinks staring at her reflection. When she’d hastily shoved a few things in a bag in the cottage, she’d not bothered with anything from the bathroom – she needn’t have worried. The en-suite was stacked with all sorts of fancy high-end lotions and potions; Asprey soap and matching cream stood by both sinks, a white robe with its belt tied up neatly hung in a little cabinet, and a massive stack of white towels and flannels was perfectly folded underneath the sinks. Cally sat on the loo and peered at the rolltop bathtub, picked up a bottle of Kiehl’s soap, examined its ingredients and put it back down again.
She’d mused it many, many, many times since she’d met Logan, but the same thought again filtered through her brain: how the other half lived. The “London” house as the Henry-Hicks clan always referred to it, served as a base for when any of them were in London. Like Doreen at Lovely Manor and the housekeeper in Scotland, the London house had staff which explained how when they’d rocked up the night before exhausted, they’d found food in the fridge and fallen into freshly laundered beds.
On the side of the sink, Cally realised that clean clothes were neatly stacked and ready for her: a navy blue luxury top and matching casual bottoms together with clean undies and a plain white pressed t-shirt. She vaguely remembered Logan saying something to her about it the night before when she’d undressed. He’d whisked her underwear, tights, and shirt away saying he’d take everything downstairs to be sorted. Half asleep by that stage, she’d not really taken much notice. She shook her head and pondered what it was like to live in the lap of luxury. A glimpse into the life of the elite. When the going got tough, other people washed your underwear.
After showering and luxuriating in how even the showerhead and water felt like a whole other world from her tiny flat above the deli, Cally pulled on the clothes and admired how the fabric felt on her skin, not really understanding how a simple top could be so soft. Had a little fairy spun the top in silk? How was it screaming luxury at her? How did it make her feel as if she might float? She had no idea but wanted in on it somehow in her life. Logan was more and more a keeper every single day.
Once she got down a few sets of stairs and navigated her way through a large hall to a kitchen, she definitely wasn’t floating. The look on Logan’s face put paid to that. He was sitting at a large, long, ornate marble kitchen island looking at his phone. He looked worse than dreadful. He sighed and closed his eyes as Cally walked in. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning. Any news?’
‘Nothing really.’ Logan slipped off his stool. ‘Tea?’
‘Yep, please’
‘Toast?’
‘Don't worry I’ll make it.’
Logan gestured to the stools, ‘No, sit down. I’ll do it.’
A few minutes later, he passed Cally a mug of tea and a plate with buttered toast and proceeded to pace back and forth, the polished floor squeaking slightly with each turn. Cally didn’t know what to say or do for the best. There was a tension in the room she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. Not only that, she still had the feeling in her water that very bad news lurked just around the corner. She did know she’d be keeping that little morsel of knowledge under wraps. As she sat eating the toast and drinking her tea, minutes seemed to take hours.
About twenty minutes later, she’d gathered her jacket, been to the loo, and they were outside the house, walking across the road to Logan’s car. As he fumbled in his pocket for his keys, Cally peered over at four-storey Grade II listed Georgian properties and gulped at their magnificence. Tall, white, beautiful old houses stood on all four sides of central gardens and just behind where the car was parked, a huge iron gate with a lock led the way inside. Through wrought iron railings, lush well-kept lawns were maintained with crisscrossing gravel pathways. The paths divided the space into neat sections of greenery with benches strategically placed here and there surrounded by flower beds. The scene was completed with mature leafy trees, Victorian-style lamp posts, low boxwood hedges, and a statue in the middle. Very, very nice.
Logan didn’t even give it a second glance, clicked the remote control for the car, opened his door, leant over and pushed Cally’s from the inside. She hopped in, kept her mouth shut, and sat looking out the window as Logan slowly inched the car around the fancy London square. After navigating their way through the traffic, the same as the night before, they found themselves in the hospital car park and took the same route they’d hurried along the previous evening. Arriving in the ICU reception, Cally continued not to say much as Logan paced in the queue to speak to the staff behind the desk. Once through the main entrance, Logan opened the door to the inner waiting room and gestured for Cally to go in first. Seeing no one in the waiting area, Cally immediately felt as if something was very wrong. For a long time, no one walked past the door. There was no sign of Reg, Cecilia or Anne and no news via their phones.
Just as Cally was thinking about doing a coffee run, she peered down the corridor through the sliver of glass in the door and saw Reginald come out of a door with a doctor. Cally read the situation instantly; she could see by Reg’s body language that the news wasn’t good. His face was grave, as if every little part of him sagged and had gone grey. Cally remained where she was, didn’t pass on her observations to Logan, kept quiet, and watched as Reg and the doctor disappeared again. Half an hour or so later, the waiting room door opened. Reg stepped in, Cecilia behind him. Reginald's face was ashen, his eyes red-rimmed.
Logan was on his feet in a flash as Anne came in behind Cecilia. 'What's happened?'
Reg's voice was barely above a whisper. 'He's gone.'
Cecilia sobbed and Anne said nothing.
'What?' Logan’s voice cracked. 'What do you mean? It can’t be right! They said he was stable!'
Reg shook his head, his eyes unfocused, he mumbled, not very easy to understand. 'His brain. They couldn't... there was nothing they could do.'
Reginald and Cecilia looked shell-shocked. Anne's face was streaked with tears. Reg seemed to have aged years in the span of minutes. His whole face looked as if its skin had somehow deflated.
'Our dear, sweet boy.' Cecilia’s words dissolved into weeping as Reginald pulled her close.
Cally focused on Logan not quite sure what to do. He stood slightly apart from the others, his face a mask of shock and grief. Feeling somewhat detached, as if watching a particularly surreal and very unpleasant film, she stepped beside Logan. His face was stony as he looked down at the floor and gripped Cally’s hand. Anne began to sob.