It was the glamorous, black-haired woman who had so rudely bumped into her in the ladies’ room.
Something made Aisling halt in her tracks – and she stood for a few moments just watching them. Watching the way the elegant woman was now stretching a hand out to pat Jameson’s shoulder in a familiar manner. A too-familiar manner. Watching the way her dark head was now bent low – with her face almost touching his.
Very slowly, Aisling made her way back to the table, hoping all the while that the woman would move. But instead, she actually sat down in the chair next to Jameson. Then she dragged the chair in closer to him – until their knees must have been almost touching.
Aisling felt her throat tighten as she moved nearer the table, and neither Jameson or the woman seemed to notice her until she actually placed the tray down on in front of them.
“Oh, hi,” Jameson said. He first looked up at her, and then quickly glanced at the woman. “Aisling . . .” he said, kind of awkwardly, “this is Verity. Thomas’s mother.”
Aisling’s legs suddenly felt wobbly, and she sat down hurriedly in the metal chair, her heart sinking. Her intuition had been right. Now she knew why the woman had made her feel uneasy.
She forced herself to stretch out a hand towards the Jackie Kennedy-type woman. After just the tiniest pause, Verity offered a well-manicured hand.
Aisling noticed her nails were painted scarlet to match the suit.
“And
you
are?” Verity asked, arching her meticulously shaped eyebrows.
Aisling’s eyes darted in Jameson’s direction, wondering
who or what she should describe herself as. His girlfriend? His travelling companion?
Jameson reached over to take her hand. “Aisling is my friend,” he said quietly. He lifted her hand up, making sure that there was no mistake about their close relationship. “My very special friend.”
Verity sat back in her chair, her arms folded. “I see,” was all she said – but her tone was not warm.
“I’m also Thomas’s friend,” Aisling said. “That’s why I travelled down here to be with him.”
“That was real nice of you,” Verity said, her eyebrows lifting high again. She leaned forward now. “And just how long have you all been such good friends?”
“Since Aisling came over from Ireland . . . some time ago.” Jameson was deliberately vague, and Aisling noticed that his voice had now taken on the cool tone she’d heard him use when they first met. “Aisling’s staying in one of the houses up at Lake Savannah. She met Thomas out swimming in the lake . . . and they got along instantly. She’s a teacher, and I’m sure she has a wonderful instinct for all kind of kids.” He paused, obviously making a point. “Anyway, Thomas introduced us.”
“How touching,” Verity said, smiling. She looked from one to the other, her brow slightly furrowed. “So,” she said a few moments later, “what do you think after seeing him . . . do you think he’ll pull through?”
“Sure,” Jameson said, his eyes steely. “Sure he’ll make it.”
Verity nodded. “Good,” she said, her smile showing off a row of perfect, white teeth.
“I think he’ll make it, too.”
Aisling passed the coffee pot and breakfast plates across the table to Jameson, then she turned to Verity. “There’s enough coffee for three in the pot – shall I get another cup for you?”
Verity stooped to the floor to pick up her black patent handbag. “No, no,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt you guys.”
Jameson pushed his chair back. “You’re not interrupting
us, Verity,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll get the cup.”
She looked up at him, her head tilted slightly, and her eyes were bright this time. “Thank you, Jameson,” she said, “I guess I will have some coffee – it might help keep me awake.” She ran a hand through her sleek, bobbed hair, and when he moved away from the table she reached in her handbag for her compact to check her make-up and re-apply her lipstick.
“I look an absolute fright,” she told Aisling, surveying herself in the mirror. “Jameson is not at all used to seeing me like this.” She gave a little shrug and snapped the compact shut. “But, I suppose it is a crisis.”
“It certainly is,” Aisling replied curtly.
Verity put her compact away. Then, she leaned her elbows on the table with her hands tucked daintily under her chin and said: “You sure do surprise me.”
“In what way?” Aisling asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Because,” said the elegant Verity, “you’re not at all Jameson’s usual type.” She paused for a moment, waiting for Aisling to respond. When there was no response forthcoming, she said: “Well – you could hardly say that we two are alike. Could you?” Her eyebrows quivered.
“No . . .” Aisling said, wondering where this was going.
“You see, men are funny creatures . . . they usually go for similar types. And given the fact that we were man and wife for a number of years, you would imagine he would pick someone similar to me in some way. But then . . .” She broke off with a little smile, and lowered her head.
“But then?” Aisling prompted, curious to hear what was coming next.
“Well . . . Jameson did say you were particularly good with kids . . . I presume he meant handicapped or retarded kids like Thomas.”
“I like most children,” Aisling said, lifting a croissant she didn’t really want onto her plate. “Being handicapped or otherwise makes no difference.”
“Well,” Verity said, admiring her nails, “that probably explains the attraction. I would imagine that Jameson finds it difficult at times – you know – having complete responsibility for him . . . Thomas.” She threw back her hair. “Not that I haven’t offered to help out myself, God knows. But I refuse to bury myself in that glorified cabin in the wilds. And if Jameson is still too stubborn to move back here – what can I do?”
Aisling took a deep breath. “I would say that’s between you and Jameson – it’s not my business.”
Verity looked up with a dazzling white smile. Too dazzling for the circumstances. “Precisely,” she said. “I think . . . I rather presumed that there was more to your little friendship . . .”
Little friendship
? Aisling sucked in her breath, and willed herself to keep silent.
“How silly of me,” Verity rattled on. “There are so many different types of friendships, even between grown men and women. And there are so many obvious,
fundamental
differences between you. Even at first meeting I can see that.”
Aisling raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“The age difference for a start,” Verity stated. “Then of course the cultural differences. America must seem like another planet to someone like you . . . I believe Ireland is rather . . . how should I put it?
Different?
”
Then, before Aisling could respond, Jameson arrived back at the table.
“Thank you, darling,” Verity said, accepting the plain white cup. “I was just saying to your friend Aisling how
different
our American ways must seem to her. You know, compared to life in Ireland.”
“Yeah,” Jameson said, rather distractedly. “There’s boun
d to be a lot of differences.”
The piece of croissant in Aisling’s mouth suddenly seemed to swell until she felt it might choke her. Then, as she eventually swallowed it, a dreadful feeling of being in the way – of not
belonging
– engulfed her.
“Do you think we should go up to the ward soon?” Verity asked. She turned sideways in her chair, blocking Aisling from the conversation.
Jameson checked his watch and shrugged. “We’ll have our coffee, and by the time we head back up he might have started to come round.”
There was silence for a few moments as all three drank the hot, strong coffee. Then, Verity looked at Jameson again, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“D’you know what I was just thinking? When Thomas comes through all this – why don’t we take him on a trip to Disneyland? Christmas might be a good time.”
Jameson put his coffee cup down and looked at his ex-wife. “
Disneyland
?” he repeated in a stunned voice. He rolled his eyes in despair.
Verity tossed her hair in a manner reminiscent of a teenage girl, oblivious to – or ignoring – his reaction. “Why not? It would be livelier and more suitable for him than spending it up at that lake . . . or spending it at your folks’ place again.” She took a delicate sip of her coffee. “Anyway,” she said, “after what’s happened to him while he was staying with your parents . . . we’ll have to be more careful.”
“
We
?” Jameson looked as though he was going to explode. “Did you actually use the word ‘
we’
, Verity? Since when have you been interested in Thomas’s welfare?”
“Oh, come on, Jameson.” Verity narrowed her eyes. “We don’t need to rake over old arguments . . . not at a time like this.”
Jameson shrugged and gave a loud, annoyed sigh.
Aisling wished she were anywhere now – anywhere rather than stuck in between Jameson and this awful woman he had once been married to.
Apart from worry about poor Thomas, lack of sleep was beginning to catch up on her. And she was annoyed at herself for looking such a mess and not being able to do anything about it.
Verity suddenly stood up. “I’m going on ahead to the ward.” She took one last dainty sip of her black coffee. “I’ll see you later.” Then, without a glance in Aisling’s direction, she tapped her high-heeled shoes out of the canteen, as though she were a model on the catwalk.
“Christ!” Jameson’s voice was a low moan. “This is all we need – fucking Verity!”
Aisling stared at him without speaking, for she really did not know what to say. She was in very unfamiliar waters with this ex-wife who she had not bargained on meeting.
Jameson leaned across the table, his hand seeking hers. “I’m so sorry, Aisling . . . what a hellish mess I’ve brought you into.”
Aisling shook her head. “It’s nobody’s fault . . . poor Thomas didn’t ask to get knocked down.”
Jameson’s brow deepened. “I just feel everything is my fault . . .”
“But you weren’t even there,” Aisling told him. “It’s really silly blaming yourself.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have left him with my folks . . .” He shook his head. “They’re in their seventies . . . and maybe he was too much for them. But they always seemed so capable . . . and they love Thomas.”
Aisling squeezed his hand tightly. “It was an accident,” she said firmly. “It could have happened when he was with you.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. But the tone of his voice did not sound convinced. “You heard what Verity said – maybe other people will think the same thing.”
“People only have to see you and Thomas together to know how much you care for him.”
Jameson managed a shadow of a smile. “Thanks. You somehow make me feel okay about myself . . . even now.” And then, in the middle of the sterile, almost-empty café, he leaned over the formica table and kissed her tenderly. Then he looked into her eyes and said: “Aisling, I’m real sorry about Verity turning up. I should have realised, but with everything else – it never crossed my mind that we’d meet her. I should have known my parents would have given her name to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Aisling said. “You have enough real problems.”
“She’s such a bitch . . . and it’s more blatant when she’s compared to someone like you.” He took a gulp of his coffee then stood up. “Shall we go?”
“Are you okay?” Aisling checked.
“I’m not looking forward to it,” he said, his eyes misting over. “I’m not looking forward to seeing him again all strapped up with wires and everything.”
Aisling stood up and stretched a hand out to him, and then together they walked slowly out into the corridor to catch the elevator back to Thomas’s ward.
Chapter 31
There was little change in the boy, although his breathing did not seem quite so laboured. Verity stood at one side of the bed, and Jameson and Aisling at the other. Very little conversation passed between them. Everyone’s attention focussed on the fragile figure in the bed.
After a while one of the nurses appeared at the door. “There are hospitality rooms downstairs,” she told them. “I checked them out, and they’re not taken tonight. They’re basic, but it would give you a chance to have a rest and still be close to Thomas.”
“Not for me, thank you,” Verity said, giving the nurse a forced little smile. “I’m going back to my apartment for a few hours . . . I have to change and sort out some things.” She looked at Jameson. “There’s a spare room for you . . .”
“We’ll be OK here,” he replied curtly without even looking at her. Then, he turned to the nurse. “My parents will be back fairly early, I should think. Could you call me when they arrive at the hospital? I’m just a bit concerned about my father . . .”
“Of course,” the nurse told him, “and I’ll leave a message down at the reception desk just in case.”
“Your father’s sick, Jameson?” Verity’s ears had pricked up. “It’s not serious or anything?”
He shrugged, barely glancing at her. “No . . . but he’s not a young man, and the stress of the accident won’t be too good for him.” He turned to Aisling. “He takes medication at specific times, and with the accident and rushing to hospital – he had to go home to sort it all out.”