Chapter 6
Chapter six
Ben
“You’ll never get laid with a face like that,” Amy says.
“What?” I heard what she said, but I’m sure I’m hallucinating.
“That tragic bottom lip. It’s practically on the floor.”
She laughs then, her face lighting up, thinking she’s got one over on me. My sister-in-law has perfected being a pain in the ass. Every year, she seems to get better at it. Her humor gets darker, her tone drier. I’m never sure whether to hug her or throw her out.
“Getting laid is not on my priority list,” I mutter. “Not even on the radar.”
“It should be, Bex wouldn’t—”
“Stop.” I hold up my hand, palm in her face. She snaps her teeth. “I know what you’re about to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
She picks up an apple from the fruit bowl on my island and throws it upward. It hits the ceiling light, which rattles as if ready to fall. Her shoulders rise to her ears; her eyes jump to the sky.
“Anyway, what’s wrong?” Her subject change is so damn obvious, not wanting to take responsibility for her near miss.
“Another rejection,” I say with a sigh.
“Who?”
“Brentwater Pharmaceuticals. They said it’s too niche,” I tell her. “Not scalable. Not commercially viable. Apparently, grief doesn’t generate substantial return.”
Her expression says it all; she doesn’t have to speak. She wants to launch into a lecture on ‘manning up’ and to stop whining. So, I double down.
“I can barely get past the reception desk to speak to anyone about Bex’s retreat. How can I see this through if no one will speak to me?”
Amy clears her throat, the way a teacher does when about to impart wisdom. I brace myself for impact.
“First of all, stop being a drama queen.” She walks over and sits down next to me on a stool. “You’ve achieved a lot in a few weeks. You have the plan, the premises, and the grants in process. Don’t fall down the rabbit hole.”
“I’ve sunk every penny I can into architects, lawyers. What if it’s all for nothing? If I’m just holding on to my grief because I can’t imagine life without her.”
The panic that visits in the night appears here, right now. A hot ball of dread burns in my chest that I won’t make this work.
“It’s for Bex,” she says, quietly. “It’s never for nothing. And it’s for you, for the kids. Don’t pretend this isn’t about saving yourself, too.”
“I’m beyond saving.”
“That I’ll ignore this time. Tell me again what you have in place.”
We sit for a few hours discussing everything I’ve achieved since I stepped off the plane from Chicago. My meetings in the past few weeks with the local government went well. They ate up my twelve-page business plan outlining how the retreat will support families with a terminal illness diagnosis.
My contact linked me up with relevant funding schemes for land grants, start-up funds, and anything that could help. They love that I’ve sunk my own money into the project. Money saved for a rainy day is now being gambled on something that matters.
More funds became possible after speaking to the National Health Service. There are pots of money there for the taking. What I’m proposing ticks boxes for so many, but with all of it, there is one caveat. One issue that could bring down the house of cards I was building. I need a major donor.
Without a corporate backer underwriting phase one, the land grant won’t release. Without the land, the rest collapses. The government agencies want collateral, someone else who can pick up an invoice if I can’t pay it.
Two rejections so far, straight out nos after the meetings.
Many others didn’t even bother to respond.
After working at lightning speed for weeks, seeing the plan that's been in my mind since I lost my wife start to come to life, hitting a brick wall has knocked me off center.
I thought everyone would be as excited as me.
That one meeting would prove how important it is that this facility opens.
I twist the band on my finger. Amy’s eyes drop to my hand.
She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking—it’s time to let her go.
But until I do this for her, I can’t. I let Bex down so many times in life, I won’t do the same in her death.
I’m going to see it through to the end. No matter what it costs me.
***
The next day, my shift in the oncology department of Guy’s Hospital in London comes to an end.
It’s been particularly taxing with more than one patient receiving bad news.
I’ve worked in the medical field for over twenty years now, and it never gets easier.
Sure, I’ve perfected my professional expression and tone, but every terminal diagnosis hurts.
It’s a failure to add to my list.
Back in my office, I fire up my computer.
One final check of my email. Now all my kids are away, I have plenty of time to work in the evenings.
As I type in my password, my phone rings.
Liam. I stop what I’m doing and focus on my son.
When I answer, both my boys stare out of the screen.
How alike they are still takes my breath away.
It’s so great when they call. I always look forward to it. A surprise is even better.
“Hey, Dad,” they say together as if rehearsed. “Just checking in.”
They’ve been in Chicago for over a month, nearer two, and the phone calls are becoming further apart. Any time I get them on the phone, it’s obvious they want to get off, always somewhere better to be.
I’m glad they’re thriving.
I still hate the quiet.
“Thanks for calling, boys,” I say, trying to be casual. “How’s things?”
It’s lame. But if I think too much, I may launch into a speech about how much I love them, and with teenage boys, it may make the wait for their next call longer. So, I just smile and hope for some sort of update.
“Liam’s got a girlfriend.” Ollie elbows his brother in the ribs.
Liam pinches his nose. “Ouch…Don’t be a dick.” His eyes pop. “Sorry, Dad.”
I laugh. I should scold him, but I don’t. This is a normal interaction between them, and right now, it doesn’t seem important.
“So, who is she?” I ask. Liam turns beetroot.
“Her name’s Jazz,” Ollie says. “She’s a cheerleader.”
Suddenly, visions of an American high school movie pops into my head. Cheerleaders throwing each other into the air while oversized teenage boys ram each other on the football field.
“Is she nice?” I try to keep the conversation on subjects I want to discuss. Ollie can’t be trusted not to say something inappropriate. He always likes to push the boundaries. Especially with his brother.
“Yeah,” Liam says. “We’ve gone on a couple of dates. I had fun.”
“That’s all that matters. So, Ollie, what about you?”
“Me?” He screws up his face. “Nah, Dad, girls are bad news. I’ll leave the falling in love to him.” He elbows Liam again. His brother’s brows knit even tighter. “He’s the romantic… like you.”
We chat for a few more minutes, about practice, people they’ve met, and plans for the week ahead. I love seeing them both so animated and enjoying life. It makes me even prouder. When they sign off, I return to my email.
At the top of my inbox is an email from a new contact: Opengate Limited.
It’s a corporation I’ve heard of but had no direct dealings with.
They’re seen as the Robin Hood of the medicine industry, finding access to treatments for those who can’t get approved.
Receiving an email from them makes no sense.
The subject line makes my heart stop. I click it open, and as I read, my jaw hangs a little lower.
Subject: Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat Proposal
Dear Dr. Jones,
I’ve recently been made aware of your plans to establish a retreat for families facing terminal illness. Having reviewed your outline and the early planning documents circulating within local funding channels, I would welcome the opportunity to learn more.
At Opengate, we are currently exploring partnerships with community-led initiatives that align with our wider commitment to patient access and long-term care support. Your proposal appears to intersect meaningfully with that objective.
If you are available, I would like to invite you to our London office on Tuesday, the 12th of July, to discuss whether there may be scope for collaboration.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind Regards
Julian Haversham
Head of Marketing and Communications
Opengate Ltd.
I read it once. Then again, slower.
They’ve heard about my cause. They’re inviting me in to discuss if we can work together. I didn’t approach them. They approached me.
Sure, it will most likely come to nothing, but it’s the most positive news I’ve had on this task. So, I’ll be positive as long as I can.
If they want a pitch, I’ll give them one.
For the first time in weeks, the knot in my chest loosens.