Chapter 30 #2
Julian laughs loudly, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’ve got much option. They’re here. They expect to be spoken to. That’s how we keep the dialogue open. That’s how we manage the articles.”
“You don’t seem to be doing a great job,” Ben says evenly. “Friends are sending me articles every other day. The narrative seems to be getting worse, not better.” He pauses. “And surely that’s the communications director’s problem.”
Julian’s lips snap shut, clearly pissed at being called out again. Ben stares him down for a moment before moving to stand beside me.
I step away.
He stiffens.
What does he expect? This is work. Before the door opened, we were us; now we’re business partners. Julian’s eyes narrow, and he looks between Ben and me, but doesn’t comment.
The door opens again. The rest of the board and the shareholders walk in.
Five men. Smart suits. Big egos.
“Good morning,” Edwin, our finance director, says. “Another busy day ahead.”
“Interesting day,” someone mutters.
Everyone nods, but the mood is solemn. The discourse is tiring for everyone. Shareholders are getting nervous, and with Edwin in charge of the finances, he’s the edgiest of them all.
“So,” Julian says, turning to me, “Antonia, do you want to update everyone on the progress of the retreat?”
I give a short summary of the build, the next few weeks’ schedule, and confirm the opening is planned for June. They nod along. Every so often, one of them glances out the window at whoever’s shouting the loudest.
“The gap in funding has now been covered,” I add. “We’ve secured outside investment from Chase, Chase and Waite Law Associates in Canary Wharf.”
The men exchange looks.
Ben steps forward.
“I spoke to Harrison Waite directly,” he says. “He’s backing the project.”
A few eyebrows lift around the room. Ben shrugs slightly. No one asks any questions to my relief.
I catch my reflection in one of the windows. Rain patters against the glass. My eyes are heavy. My complexion worn. Not the composed, unshakeable woman I pride myself on being.
Then I see Ben. Tall with dark hair and perfectly pressed shirt. Even the cut of his jaw bone is edged perfectly. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
I straighten my spine, then step forward so I’m shoulder to shoulder with Julian. One by one, I meet each man’s eyes.
“Shall we?” I say, taking control.
They fall into line behind me. I open the door and step out into the chaos. The chants swell immediately.
“Antonia! Antonia!” someone shouts above the noise. “Do you have any comment on the latest patient to come forward and allege you personally blocked medical care?”
I look straight at him. He’s small, weedy, wearing a tracksuit and a baseball cap.
“Every decision made at Opengate is made with empathy, understanding, and knowledge. No one is denied care who is eligible for it.”
I stare back at the protesters, banners raised high, hatred burning bright.
“Thank you all for coming,” I say. “I’m glad you accepted our invitation to visit today and take part in this site meeting.”
I glance at Julian, who looks nervous.
“I understand we have differences in opinion,” I continue, “but I would love for you to join us on our walk around.”
Julian coughs. Edwin hisses through his teeth.
Ben chuckles quietly under his breath.
I appreciate that. Hopefully, he sees where I’m going with this. I don’t want to admit how critical it is that he does. Like it or not, his opinion has weight, not only to the retreat, but to me. I trust him. And that for me is hard to acknowledge, having been on my own for so long.
“I think one of the most important things we can do when we disagree is communicate, so instead of standing here shouting at me and telling me how terrible I am, why don’t you join me?
Walk through Bex Corrigan-Jones’s retreat and see what we’re offering families dealing with this terrible disease. ”
I pause.
“Ask us questions. Ask why we’re building what we’re building. Ask what positive impact we expect this place to have.”
A woman steps forward. I recognize her from before. She moves around the silver barrier. Security starts to intervene, but I raise a hand.
“I’ll join you,” she says. “My son was denied a clinical trial through Opengate, but I’ll join you.” She looks straight at me. “Show me what you want me to see.”
Surprisingly, four more step forward. Four protesters. Faces grim, banners lowered. They move to stand beside the first woman. There’s a light reassurance in that, that maybe they’re willing to discuss what could be.
“What’s your name?” I ask the first woman.
“Bev,” she says. “Lead the way.”
Bev and her companions walk behind me, and then come the board and shareholders. Far enough back, I think, that they could run if the crowd turned lethal.
We take each building one at a time.
I talk through our plans for the retreat—what we’re building, what it will offer. I show them the rooms, the dining space, the communal areas. “Use your imagination,” I tell them.
I explain the medical equipment that will be on site. Then I turn to Ben. “Is there anything you want to add?”
He shakes his head. “I think you’ve covered most of it,” he says.
His lips curl upward, and I get a flash of the night before. I hold his gaze a fraction longer than I should.
“But speaking from an oncologist’s point of view, the biggest thing I see families struggle with is time.
” He pauses. My heart drops; I know this too well.
“There’s such a lack of time in the end.
But there’s also an abundance of it. Most of that time is spent caring for the person you love.
” He gestures around the communal space.
“What we want to do here is give families time to cherish together, while the medical care is taken care of for them. In a place that isn’t tainted by hospital memories.
“Bex Corrigan-Jones’s retreat will be a happy place,” he says. “Somewhere families can remember the good times, not just the sadness.”
There are murmurs of agreement, especially from the protesters. I think they understand. I can see it in their eyes. People who have lost are broken even when they appear whole. Stitched together, rather than smooth.
“Who have you lost?” Bev asks.
I hesitate. This is professional, not personal, I want to say. But this is also the moment to be honest. My chest tightens.
There’s always a memory that arrives when someone asks why. Why I do what I do.
A cold bathroom floor. A wet bathmat beneath my knees. The knowledge that we were near the end.
I swallow. My throat aching, I’ve never mentioned Mikey. Not ever.
Ben takes a step forward, then stops halfway. I wish he’d come closer. But I set the boundary earlier. I did that.
“My son,” I say. “I lost my son.” The words land heavier than I expect, and for a moment, no one speaks.
Bev’s shoulders soften, and somewhere behind me, Julian swears under his breath.
Ben doesn’t move. But I can feel his attention on me like heat. The heat, low in my stomach, returns. I have to remind myself to breathe normally.
“I thought so,” Bev says. “I didn’t know who—but I recognize a healing woman when I see one.”
Our eyes lock. Woman to woman. She sees me. And in that moment, mentioning Mikey’s name is right, not publicity. I was proud to call him my son in life. And naming him in death, here and now, fills me with a feeling I can’t quite name.
But I know the woman I am now can live with it.
***
Later, back in the site office, after everyone has left, Julian had been crowing about how well the site visit had gone—how it turned the tables, how things were finally moving in the right direction, how we were finding common ground with the protesters.
I just feel empty.
Ravished, actually, in some ways. They saw me today. Every part of me. And as right as it felt then, it’s exhausting to replay now.
I sit at the desk, staring at my fingers. Tired. Withdrawn. Seen.
I don’t like being seen.
The door opens and closes again. I thought everyone had gone.
But there he is.
Ben.
I don’t like how aware of him I am.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
I hold his gaze, my heart aching. Wanting a hug but not wanting to go to him.
Wanting to go to him, but not wanting him to touch me.
“It’s not the time,” I say quietly. “Here and now is not the time.”