Chapter Forty
Two years ago
Ollie
‘I like the sound of the turbot, but at forty pounds the price is a bit crazy,’ I tell Romy as we’re dining in a fish restaurant in central London.
It’s her birthday and I should probably have kept quiet about the price of the fish, seeing as I chose the restaurant.
I tack on to the end of my last sentence, ‘But you have what you want, obviously.’
‘I was going to have turbot, but not if it’s too expensive.’
‘It’s not. Have it – it’s your birthday. I’ll try a bite of yours. I might have …’ I cast my eyes up and down the menu, ‘seafood linguine. That sounds good.’ It’s also only twenty pounds.
‘I’ll have salmon. It’s in a lovely creamy dill sauce,’ Romy says, changing her mind and opting for a cheaper dish. ‘I’ve wanted to come here for ages,’ she continues after we place our order. ‘Thanks for remembering. And thanks for the gorgeous flowers and the earrings. It’s all too much.’
‘It’s not. You deserve it. Thanks for putting up with me and my unsociable work schedule. It’s only going to get worse, you know.’
‘You’ll be qualified soon enough. Then we’ll be able to afford the turbot.’
I pretend to play a tiny violin while I say, ‘I’ll never be able to afford turbot. It really will take me for ever to afford anything ever again. I’ve got used to being poor.’
‘Lucky one of us has a proper job then,’ Romy says with a humorous glint in her eye.
‘True.’
We share a bottle of house white and nibble some bread (because we were both financially savvy enough not to order starters) while waiting for our mains and then, when they arrive, they’re presented so nicely that I hope Romy can forgive me for not having enough money to order turbot.
The salmon looks pink and delicate with its dill sauce, and my linguine is swirled so beautifully in the bowl.
‘I’ve got food envy,’ I say. ‘I wish I’d ordered the salmon.’
‘We can share?’ she says and leans forward with her fork to put some tender salmon into my mouth.
‘Wow, that’s good. Like butter.’
She puts a forkful into her mouth and chews and gives me a look of bliss. ‘That is good.’ She puts a second forkful in while I’m selecting the juiciest prawn and a few strands of linguine to feed her, but when I look up, Romy’s blissful look has changed to something else entirely.
‘You all right?’ I ask, but she doesn’t reply.
Instead her eyes widen and she coughs. Then she drops her fork, one hand reaching for her throat, the other for her glass of water, which she knocks over. I grab mine and hand it to her, immediately throwing my napkin onto the water spreading over the table.
The couple at the next table look over, concerned, and I glance up to see Romy going red in the face as she tries, but fails, to cough.
‘Oh, shit,’ I say as I watch her. She’s choking.
I stand up and stare at Romy as her eyes find mine and she silently begs me to help.
I stare at her for what feels like for ever.
My girlfriend is having a medical emergency right in front of me.
Not again. This can’t be happening again.
I freeze. I expect medical emergencies at work, but this isn’t work.
It’s a restaurant and I’m caught off-guard.
‘Fuck,’ I say to no one. I flash back to Liv in the pool, lifeless.
I flash back to my inability to move, my inability to save her, which still haunts me.
Like then, I don’t know what to do now. And then it’s like an autopilot switch flicks inside my head and I move without thinking.
My chair falls over behind me as I dash round and grab Romy.
I pull her up out of her chair and find myself bending her over and thumping her hard, squarely in the back, between her shoulder blades. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
It hasn’t worked. It hasn’t bloody worked.
Panic races through me. Beads of fear-ridden sweat drip down my forehead.
I can’t let another girlfriend down like this.
I can’t. God, I’ve only ever practised this next bit – the Heimlich manoeuvre – on a dummy.
I pull Romy with her back against me and hold her around the waist. Then, with my clasped fists just below her ribcage, I quickly pull inwards and upwards, over and over again, until finally – finally – a piece of salmon bone flies out of her throat and onto the floor in front of us.
I hold Romy tight; her back is still against me and she cries big, gasping tears while coughing and coughing and coughing.
Waiters bluster around us asking if she’s all right, while fellow diners begin clapping, and the couple next to us says, ‘Well done’ and ‘Can we do anything else to help?’ and ‘Is she OK now?’
Romy turns towards me, the redness still in her cheeks. She looks at me as if she’s just looked death in the face, which she has.
‘I thought you were going to die,’ I say. ‘I thought you were going to die.’
She has the same wide-eyed, haunted look that Liv had when she nearly died. Romy looks the same – exactly the same. But this time I saved her. I saved my girlfriend. I really did it.