Chapter 19
How quickly delirious happiness can fade into complete, utter helpless sadness.
I reluctantly let go of Gregory’s hand at the overhead blue-and-white sign pointing west to Paediatrics. He kisses my cheek then I continue alone to visit my dad.
I whisper, ‘How’s he doing today?’ as if I might wake him from a light sleep.
Sandy shrugs and offers with no conviction, ‘I think he has a little more colour in his cheeks.’
With a nod, I take a seat in the chair beside her.
‘Well?’ she asks, nudging me with her elbow.
‘Well, what?’
‘Well, how was your night?’
There’s no hiding my bright-red cheeks and beaming smile so I confess, ‘It was perfect.’
She chuckles, no doubt reading the details of last night, and maybe this morning, from the look on my face.
‘Your dress looks pretty,’ I say, acknowledging the effort she’s made in her lilac, wrap-over dress and small-heeled, nude shoes.
‘Pfft,’ she replies, rolling her eyes and wafting a hand in the air.
She offers me a chocolate from a packet in her bag and for a while, we eat the caramel-filled chocolate in silence, listening to the sound of my dad’s beeping machines. The stench of reheated food that makes visitors feel hollow.
On reflection, my intentions for last night got a little, or a lot, lost. I don’t know when closure turned to going to bed with my billionaire client but now the last thing I want is for that door to close.
Nor did I ask him about Jack Jones. I think my questions about Jack fled my mind the second I saw Gregory standing outside the theatre.
Or maybe when he sucked strawberry from my fingers, or when his tongue turned my clit to a quivering mess.
‘Did Jackson drop you off at the hospital?’ Sandy enquires in her best impression of nonchalant, breaking my mouthwatering daydream.
‘No, actually, Gregory drove. Why do you ask?’
In spite of my teasing, she keeps her gaze firm on Dad’s bed.
‘Oh, Scarlett, really, I’m just trying to make conversation,’ she snaps, still refusing to make eye contact with me.
‘Sure,’ I purr, taking another Rolo from the packet on her lap.
Sandy slips out to the ladies’ and I stand, watching my dad sleep. ‘Come on, Dad, wake up for me. I know you can get through this.’
I lift my hand to my lips, being careful not to tug on his intravenous drip.
I follow his bruises and marks from his hand, up his arm.
Glancing at the doorway to make sure Sandy isn’t headed back, I move my dad’s sheet and look at his black and blue ribs, his frail, purple chest. Then I check his back, as far as I can see without disturbing him and the machines keeping him alive. I check his neck.
This is ridiculous.
He’s bruised because he fell down the stairs. But there was enough doubt in my mind to look.
Stop overthinking.
‘Sandy!’ I jump when she comes back into the room and I hurry to place my dad’s sheets back around him, as though I’ve been tucking him in.
Two hours, eleven games of hangman, three games of noughts and crosses and no change from Dad pass before Doctor Jefferson makes his rounds. His obvious procrastination as he reads my dad’s charts is further confirmation that things aren’t looking up.
‘Please, can you just tell us,’ I say impatiently.
He hangs the clipboard back onto the end of Dad’s metal bedframe, puts his Biro back into the top pocket of his white coat and folds his arms across his chest.
‘I’m afraid your father’s condition hasn’t improved as we’d hoped. His brain function isn’t improving as the swelling reduces.’
‘Can’t you wake him up?’ Sandy pleads.
‘It’s really about whether he’s strong enough to come ’round. You must understand he suffered a heavy trauma.’
‘There’s a chance he won’t recover.’ I don’t know whether I’m telling Sandy, asking the doctor to confirm what I already know, or re-telling myself the truth of the situation.
‘But he might?’ Sandy almost begs.
Doctor Jefferson is visibly uncomfortable and rocks from one foot to the other, pushing his hands into the pockets of his white coat.
‘It would be sensible to prepare yourself for the worst. There’s still time but we need to see an improvement.
Doctor Heath’s body is weak and unresponsive but we’ll keep trying, waiting.
I’m not suggesting you give up hope but you need to be realistic. ’
Biting down on my gums, I see Sandy in my peripheral vision sink into her seat. ‘If it would help, I can arrange for someone to come and see you. We have an excellent counselling service here. Some people find it helpful.’
Sandy shakes her head, staring at her boss, her friend.
‘We’re fine,’ I say. He’ll come through, I know it. It’s not his time.
It’s there again, a small but repugnant sense of relief overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of hatred. For myself and everything bad in this world that happens to good people like my dad.
When the doctor leaves, I tell Sandy she really must get away from the hospital and do something for herself.
‘Where would I go?’ she asks.
‘Anywhere, Sandy. Go shopping, take a bath, bake, go to the cinema. I just don’t think it’s healthy for you to be here all day, every day. I want to be here too but Dad isn’t waking up.’
Moving to his bed, I stroke Dad’s cheek then place the most gentle of kisses on his warm forehead. ‘I love you. I always will and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Sandy and I walk the long corridor away from him arm in arm.
‘Let’s just grab Gregory and we’ll give you a lift to wherever you want to go. He’s visiting the children’s ward.’
Sandy follows whilst grumbling about putting us out. Like one lift is worth more than the twenty-odd years she’s spent running around after me.
Before we even see the children, the laughter and screams of delight are infectious.
Three nurses dressed in navy, two-piece uniforms chuckle and shake their heads as they watch the activities of the general ward unfold.
My feet move more quickly as my interest is piqued.
Just before I turn the corner to see what’s causing the commotion, the almighty roar of a man’s voice vibrates in my ears.
I glance at the three nurses; the tallest of the three, the most sensible looking, who wears her hair in a French chignon, says through her laughter, ‘Every time… every time we tell him not to get them too excited but does he listen?’
Turning the corner into the ward, Gregory comes into view, towering over a group of deliriously happy children. He’s wearing the fluffy, ginger head of a lion, his hands curled into stiff paws and held up to the sides of his mane.
Laughter unwittingly bellows from the depths of me.
A beautiful little girl of maybe five or six with the largest, most dazzling blue eyes I’ve ever seen, slowly raises a frail finger from where she stands in front of Gregory and points over his shoulder in the direction of Sandy and me.
As the lion slowly turns, lowering his hands one at a time, to see Sandy and me, our laughter becomes uncontrollable. Sandy leans on me for support.
Tears of sheer joy stream down my face as I hold my aching ribs in place.
‘Sandy, Scarlett, come and meet my friends,’ Gregory says.
He waves us over and relieves himself of the lion head, then whispers something to the little girl with sparkling eyes who nods exuberantly and flashes Gregory a toothy grin.
‘Thiiiiis is Isabella,’ he says, his voice straining slightly as he lifts her onto his knee.
‘Hi,’ I say, reaching out my hand to take hers, mesmerised by the innocence of her smile.
Gregory moves Isabella’s hand up and down and left and right as we try to make our hands meet for a shake. It makes Isabella chuckle, the most delightful sound.
‘Isabella is one of my faaavourite reasons to visit the hospital,’ Gregory declares, receiving a hug from the girl in return.
‘I have cancer,’ Isabella tells me in the same way she might tell me what she ate for her last meal or what time she got up in the morning.
I notice for the first time the dark clouds beneath her beautiful eyes. Her head is bald and her body under her rainbow-covered hospital gown is pale and boney.
I swallow the enormous lump of reality that has formed in my throat. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Isabella.’
‘It’s okay, Gregory says it means I get to have more fun than lots of people because I get to play with my friends every day,’ she says, very matter of fact.
‘Well, I guess that’s true.’
‘Scarlett?’ she sings. ‘Are you Gregory’s girlfriend?’
‘Oh, I, erm, well?—’
I cower under the weight of the enormous question from this little girl who’s less than half my height.
‘I don’t mind if you are,’ she continues. ‘He can just have two girlfriends.’
I chuckle. ‘Can he indeed?’
Gregory pulls his arm tighter around Isabella’s waist and offers her the most adorable smile. He looks me in the eye, tying my insides into knots then takes my hand and presses the base to his lips. ‘I’d like two girlfriends.’
* * *
‘Why do you keep looking at me like that?’ Gregory asks as we drive away from Borough Market.
Through my smirk, I ask as innocently as possible, ‘Looking at you like what?’
Glancing in my direction before checking his blind spot to change lanes, he raises one brow to me.
‘Okay, okay, it’s just, I would never have expected a man who drives a car like this…’ I gesture towards the magnificently complex dashboard and immaculate, black, leather interior. ‘What kind of car is this anyway?’
‘A Maserati GranTurismo.’
‘Right. I wouldn’t expect a man who drives a Maserati Gran Turismo, who smells divine, dresses like he just stepped off the front page of Forbes and who’s frankly more arrogant and aggressive than a wild cat at work, to be so…
so…’ I shake my head, struggling to articulate how I feel, ‘…wonderful and caring.’
‘You don’t know me as well as you might like to think, Scarlett.’
I want to know him. Everything there is to know. Though something tells me Gregory doesn’t share easily.