Authors: Kate Eberlen
‘Who did you race with when you were little, Daddy?’ Bella asked.
She was a thoughtful child. I sometimes wondered if her early troubles had made her a more empathetic soul than her sister.
‘With my big brother, Ross.’
‘Uncle Ross who died?’ Flora asked.
‘Who told you about Uncle Ross?’ I tried to keep my tone light and neutral.
‘Granny did. He was supposed to marry Mummy, but he died, so Mummy had to marry you instead, so really we’re like his daughters as well,’ Flora said.
I felt the habitual rise of bile in my stomach.
It’s a beautiful day and you’re with your children
, I thought.
Let it go.
‘How old was Uncle Ross when he died?’ asked Bella.
‘He was twenty-two,’ I said.
Her little face puckered.
‘How old are people usually when they die?’ she asked.
‘Ross was very young. People die at all different ages, but mostly when they are very old.’
‘How old are you, Daddy?’
‘I’m thirty-four.’
‘That’s not very old for a grown-up, is it?’
‘No, my darling, it’s not very old for a grown-up,’ I reassured her.
‘I’m sad about Uncle Ross,’ said Bell.
‘You can’t spend your life being sad,’ said Flora. I could hear Charlotte’s brisk voice.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because it makes other people around you sad.’
‘When are you sad?’ I asked her, gently.
‘Sometimes after I talk to you on Skype,’ Flora admitted.
‘I’m usually a bit sad then too,’ I said.
‘It’s OK to be sad,’ Flora said. ‘As long as you’re happy most of the time.’
‘Quite right,’ I said.
The angle of the sun made the surface of the water pearly white; the air was gentle.
‘I like the Island of Wight,’ said Bell. ‘Can we come back here every holiday?’
We managed to get a table on the train home, and for a while the girls amused themselves with the puzzle magazines we’d bought at the station while I read a newspaper
that someone had left. When it went quiet, I looked across the table to see that Bell had fallen asleep against Flora, who was still reading, her arm protectively round her sister’s shoulder.
She put her finger to her lips when she saw me looking, taking her older-sister duties very seriously.
I texted Nash.
On train back from seaside. Brilliant suggestion. Are you on for shopping tomorrow?
A message pinged back immediately.
OK, but early. Major date with hairdresser 2pm. Final audition in LA!
Congrats!
I texted back.
Not holding breath.
The part she was auditioning for was Princess Margaret in a film about the romance with Group Captain Peter Townsend, called
The Choice
. It was perfect for her. Not only did she possess
the slightly blowsy sexiness of the Princess, but she also had a real talent for conveying the vulnerable side of arrogant or difficult people. It was the kind of role – royal, biopic, period
costumes – that often wins an Oscar. I didn’t say that, though. With Nash, you always have to tread a careful line between complimenting and tempting fate.
‘When are you leaving?’ I asked, when we met up the next morning outside Primark at Marble Arch.
‘Tonight. I have to miss the Stones,’ she said.
‘Still, how exciting!’ I tried to put more enthusiasm into my voice than I felt.
I’d taken three weeks off work. Now, after just one, my girls were leaving and my friend wasn’t going to be there to hang out with.
We emerged from the store with big brown-paper carrier bags stuffed with so many dresses, tops, leggings, bags, pots of glittery stuff and hair ornaments, I was grimly optimistic that Charlotte
would have to fork out for excess baggage on the return flight. The pavement was heaving with shoppers and Nash was already late for her appointment, so we didn’t have time for a proper
farewell. I gave her a hug and wished her luck, and she set off running, then suddenly, remembering something, delved about in her bag, and raced back with an envelope for me.
‘Enjoy!’ she said, and then she was off again.
‘Is Nash your girlfriend, Daddy?’ Bell asked.
‘Not my girlfriend. She’s a good friend.’
‘Is she your best friend?’ asked Flora.
‘Yes, I suppose she is,’ I said, looking fondly at the disappearing figure negotiating cracked London pavements in her heels.
‘I’m hungry!’ said Bell.
Looking around for inspiration I found myself staring at the familiar columns of Selfridges.
‘I know just the place for lunch,’ I said.
The Brass Rail had barely changed since my father used to take us there for salt-beef sandwiches when we came up to see the Christmas lights, but it was far too sweltering a day for fatty slabs
of brisket sandwiched between thick slices of rye bread. Instead, we sat on high stools in YO! Sushi, picking dishes we liked the look of as they passed on the conveyor belt. Afterwards, I let the
girls choose a cupcake each for dessert, and, since they insisted (and I knew there was almost nothing Charlotte would like less), a particularly garish rose-and-violet one with a towering swirl of
pink-and-purple icing to take back for Mummy.
In the cool, air-conditioned perfumery department, I encouraged the girls to test different colours of nail polish on their fingernails, and to spray themselves liberally with scent, delivering
them back to their mother on a sugar high in a cloud of Katy Perry’s
Purr
.
Charlotte had arranged tickets for
Matilda
, not including me because she didn’t think I’d want to come with my mother. Flora and Bella were to spend the final night at the
hotel there because they were on an early flight and Charlotte wouldn’t tolerate the stress of me bringing them to the airport. On their last visit, through no fault of my own, we’d
encountered delays on the Piccadilly line and I’d only just got them to Terminal 2 in time, where Charlotte was spitting fire because mobiles don’t work underground and she hadn’t
been able to contact me.
When the girls realized that I wouldn’t be spending the evening with them, they kicked up a gratifying fuss.
I bent down to give each of them a hug.
‘Thank you for all the clothes,’ said Flora.
‘I don’t want you to go, Daddy,’ Bell started sniffing.
I hugged her delicate little frame to my chest, her sad face damp against my cheek.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the airport,’ I promised.
‘If the Tube’s working,’ said Charlotte.
‘Why do you have to be such a bitch?’ I whispered in her ear, as we exchanged steely air-kisses for the benefit of the children.
Her expression went from furious to fair-enough in an instant. The thing about Charlotte is that she can give it out but she can take it too. I don’t know why I always forgot that and
tried to get what I wanted by being nice instead of nasty.
Hyde Park was submerged under a swarm of Rolling Stones fans. Straining to recognize the song, as I headed back home, I decided it must still be the warm-up band playing. There
were big fences around the ticketed area but the crowds were packed ten deep against the narrow gaps to steal a free show. The sun had been shining all day and the meltingly hot air seemed to
quiver with expectation.
‘I’ve never been a big Stones fan,’ I’d told Nash when she’d mooted the idea of getting tickets earlier in the year. ‘My father is. Won’t it be full of
sixty-somethings doing their Mick Jagger?’
‘It’s a bucket-list thing, isn’t it, seeing a Stones concert?’ she’d said.
‘Bucket list?’
‘Oh, do keep up, Gus! Things to do before you die.’
It had said in the paper that the gigs sold out in less than three minutes.
Now the atmosphere was so charged, I almost regretted my reluctance.
I took a side street, and was alone within a couple of hundred metres. I love the way London changes from frantic to peaceful. It’s something I’ve never experienced in other big
cities. In London, even a densely populated street can be as sleepily silent as the countryside.
Back at the house, I decided to freshen up with a shower.
Nash’s envelope fell from a pocket as I stepped out of my shorts.
The first ticket was for the Stones concert which she’d bought for herself after I’d been so unenthusiastic.
The second was for a holiday, booked in my name that morning, for a two-week cookery course in Tuscany starting in two days’ time.
The note she had scrawled on the printout of the booking read:
Even you can manage to check-in online?
I called her immediately, but her mobile was switched off, so I guessed she must already be in the air. In a way I was glad, because it’s hard to find the right words when you’re
overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to sound like a prat again.
By the time I arrived at the gig, the sun was beginning to go down and the Stones had started their set. The stage was a long way off, but there was a catwalk for Mick Jagger
to strut along, giving the impression that he was surfing the crowd. Huge screens showed video art moving with the music, interspersed with live close-ups of the band’s deeply etched
faces.
Halfway through ‘Honky Tonk Women’, I realized I was singing, my mouth forming the words as automatically as nursery rhymes. The communality of the experience was liberating, like
being part of something much bigger than just you. I’d never been to Glastonbury, or any other festival, but on a hot summer’s evening, in a crowd of a hundred and fifty thousand, I
suddenly understood what people loved about it. For the length of a song you could forget everything that had gone before and everything that might come, and live in the gloriously sunny present.
When each song ended, everyone cheered and shouted and smiled at each other, strangers united in the moment.
Darkness fell without me really noticing and as the band started playing ‘Miss You’, giant white butterflies appeared on the shimmering LED screens, giving the illusion of fluttering
over the crowds, briefly lighting up individual faces.
About six people in front of me, I noticed a tall woman tracking the ephemeral silvery-white image as it floated over her head, her expression as innocently delighted as a child gazing up at a
circus trapeze artist, her lips syncing with the words of the song. Almost as if she had sensed me watching her, our eyes met, her mouth stopped moving and time stood still. Then the butterfly flew
away and her face merged back into the darkness.
The sensation of déjà vu was so strong, the moment of recognition so tantalizingly brief, I couldn’t tell if she was someone I’d met or someone famous. Blinded by
bursts of pyrotechnics whooshing up from the stage, my eyes scoured the crowd for her in vain.
The encore of ‘Satisfaction’ went on so long, it was beginning to feel as if we were in a perpetual cycle of the chorus and then, quite suddenly, it was over. The applause peaked,
continued optimistically, then died with the realization that the band had already been whisked out of the park. People started moving towards the exits, exhausted and subdued, like children after
a birthday party.
The flow of the crowd was fairly orderly until someone collapsed a few yards in front of me and security guards had to step in to stem the tide of moving bodies.
Amid feverish whispers, a cry went out that I’d only ever heard in movies.
‘Is there a doctor here?’
‘I’m a doctor!’
The crowd parted to let me through.
Several people were kneeling around an unconscious woman, debating the correct first-aid procedure.
‘Shouldn’t you get her head between her knees?’
‘Put her in the recovery position?’
One security guard was trying to keep the crowd back, another was fanning the patient with his hat. Their walkie-talkies occasionally hissed and splurged incomprehensible messages through the
hum of anxiety.
There was no obvious head wound visible; she did not appear to be having a fit; she had not swallowed her tongue. She was wearing a vest, cut-off jeans and flip-flops, so there was no clothing
to loosen. Kneeling down beside her, I asked a security guard to sit with his back to her, then draped her long legs over his shoulders to get the blood supply moving towards her brain. She was
breathing, but she had a fairly slow and uneven pulse.
Around me, I could hear the murmur of amateur diagnoses.
‘She’s had a bit too much to drink, I reckon.’
‘It’s probably just the heat.’
‘You’ve called an ambulance, right?’ I checked with the security guard.
As if in answer to my question, a distant siren began to wail.
‘Is she going to be OK, Doc?’ he asked.
Her face was deathly pale.
‘Come on, wake up,’ I heard myself urging. ‘Wake up now!’
Suddenly, she opened both eyes and looked straight at me.
The butterfly woman!
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
‘I’m Gus,’ I said.
I could hear the paramedics pushing through the crowd. ‘Step aside. Give her some room, folks!’
The woman was sitting up now. The crowd began to move again with a slight air of disappointment that the drama was over.
‘We’re just going to take you to A&E, love,’ the paramedic said.
‘I’m OK, honestly,’ she was saying. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘What’s your name, love?’
‘Tess. Look, you really don’t need to—’
‘We just want to get you checked out, Tess,’ the paramedic continued. ‘Do you want us to stretcher you, or do you think you can walk?’
‘I can walk!’ she said, scrambling to her feet, then swaying slightly.
I stepped forward to catch her, but a paramedic got there first.
‘Let’s get you into the van, love,’ he said.
The bright face suddenly saddened. As our eyes met again, she made a silent plea for help, then, as if accepting defeat, sat obediently on the stretcher.
As the doors to the ambulance closed, she gave me a little wave.
The driver went round to the front. I chased him. ‘Can I go with her?’
‘Are you her partner?’
‘No!’
‘Relation?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But I am a doctor.’