Whatever it is, there is one thing for sure. He doesn't feel the same way about me. Definitely not. He is marrying someone else. Next week. Someone who is beautiful and kind and altogether way out of my league. Not to mention the fact that he is possibly having an affair with someone equally beautiful and way out of my league. Outmanoeuvred on two counts.
Everyone is going to be back in a minute. And it will be very obvious to my mother and my best friend that something is up. Quickly, think about something else. Ben. Complete mushy peas. Good choice, Holly, good choice. OK, let's think about Ben. Why not? An infinitely less painful subject than James. No tears needed there. I purse my lips together, intent on thinking. Come on, Holly. Think about Ben. Nothing. I frown and push my head down into my neck. Think. How hard can thinking be? A minute ago I couldn't breathe for all the thoughts rushing about, but now they seem to have staged a mutiny. I wait for a minute and then give up. There's nothing there for him. Oh, I can picture him all right, and I can even agree he is tremendously good-looking in a detached sort of way, but nothing else. I can't remember why I ever thought I might want to marry him. How could I have thought he was the real thing? I didn't love him, the real him. I loved his looks, his position on the rugby team, the hordes of girls running after him, but take all of that away and there isn't much left. And I thought he was the main event when he was clearly just the warm-up act. This new realisation is another blow to my fast-disappearing morale. I sink further down into my bed and close my eyes, hoping the whole thing will just go away. I've been backing the wrong horse.
Well, Ben is obviously going to have to go. The lily-livered coward in me raises her weak little head. 'But then you'll be left alone,' she whispers. 'James will be married in a week, will bugger off to the Maldives and you'll be left by yourself.' I can see her point of view. I even prod it around for a bit. Rather to my surprise though, I can honestly say that I would rather be left alone than pretend with Ben. Besides, Lizzie will be around and I have a close, loving circle of family and friends. Speaking of which, where is my loving circle of family and friends? I frown and look at my watch. It's been a good hour since they departed for the canteen. Why aren't they, as I speak, huddled around my sick bed, mopping my fevered brow? Being loving and supportive?
A shriek echoes from the corridor. My frayed nerves are almost at the end of their tether. I sit bolt upright in bed. Probably some poor patient in the throes of kidney stones. It happens again. This time I recognise the voice.
My mother appears in the doorway, tears of laughter pouring down her face. My loving circle has returned. Lizzie follows her in, also in the throes of hysterics, with my father bringing up the rear and frantically rubbing his arm.
'Oh darling! It's been the funniest thing! Your father got stuck in the lift doors!' My mother sits down in the chair, weak with laughter. The doors were closing on some hapless patient on one of those trolleys and your father, in what was a thoroughly over-dramatic fashion, threw himself in front of them. I was desperately trying to open them by pressing the "open door" button but the damn things kept opening up and then slamming closed again on your father! It turns out that I was pressing the "close door" symbol instead!'
My father glares at her. 'It must have been so confusing.'
'I wasn't wearing my glasses.'
That may just explain it.'
'Anyway, how are you, Holly? How are you feeling?' says Lizzie.
'Oh, great. I'm absolutely fine now,' say I, not feeling fine at all. How can so much change so quickly? Since they left this room an hour ago I feel as though I have been on some sort of emotional rollercoaster, and I have the nastiest suspicion the ride isn't over yet. I am prevented from any further contemplation by the arrival of Vince.
'Ooh, ducks, are you all right?' he says from the doorway. He minces in and my mother's eyes light up. She can recognise a fellow thespian from about one hundred paces.
'What a palaver! It's all been just too, too thrilling! And the pictures! Well, I tell you, love, it's the Pulitzer prize for me. Make no mistake about it.' He turns to my parents. 'You must be Holly's parents. You are the spitting image of each other,' he says to my mother. Then he turns to my father, who extends a hearty hand. Vince sort of limply strokes it, saying 'And you! Well, you …'
'Vince! This is my best friend Lizzie!' I exclaim, before he says anything too outrageous to my father. Not that my father is a homophobe, you understand, it's just that gay men make him nervous. Very nervous. I'm-just-going-to-stand-with-my-back-to-the-wall nervous.
'Nice to meet you, Lizzie.' Vince turns back to me. 'How are you feeling, love? It was a hell of a knock! THWACK! Straight on the head! Of course, as soon as it happened, James came haring back over the fence. I almost wished it was me.' He gives an involuntary little shiver and stares off into the distance in his own private daydream. I really wouldn't like to venture what it involved. I am in my own little fantasy world as well and am quite enjoying hearing about how James came running over to me. 'Go on,' I urge, 'what happened then?'
'Ooh, it was so manly! Very Rhett Butler. He just stopped chasing that woman and left the other officer to catch her. I, of course, started taking photos of you. Sorry about that. He pulled the tree off you and was shouting, "Holly! Holly!" The photos are fantastic! And the light was just right! I didn't need a filter or anything; I managed—'
'Vince?'
'Sorry. Anyway, as I was saying, he was getting really panic-stricken and was trying to feel for a pulse. Then, when he found one, ooh! The relief on his face was obvious!' I know looks are passing between my mother and Lizzie but I simply do not care. I am leaning forward avidly, anxious for more. 'He was kneeling next to you and then he sat back on his heels and just closed his eyes, murmuring to himself. It was wonderful! I nearly cried!'
'What was he murmuring?' I ask lightly and with an attempt at nonchalance.
'Hmm? Oh, I don't know. Couldn't hear.' A little voice inside me says, 'Maybe he does care about you'. Maybe he does. Maybe … But then wouldn't I be quite relieved to learn I hadn't killed someone? Wouldn't I be quite reassured to find a pulse on the person I'd just brained with a dead tree? Wouldn't I be quite thankful to know I wouldn't be standing in the dock pleading 'Not guilty'?
My thoughts continue to occupy me as Vince arranges me in various poses. Needless to say, he is quite happy with the moroseness of my expression. No acting called for there. He swiftly snaps a few shots and then, with a bright 'Toodle-doo!', heads off back to the paper.
I pull myself together. 'Well, I'd better get dressed, then we can be toodle-doo-ing off too!' I say brightly. I awkwardly gather my gown around me, anxious not to bare my essentials. My father takes to staring out of the window and my mother gathers my things and carries them for me into the bathroom. I quickly throw on yesterday's clothes and emerge just in time to hear a phone ring. I look to see where the noise is coming from and notice there has been a phone sitting next to my bed the entire time I have been here and I hadn't even spotted it.
We all look at each other. I gingerly pick it up.
'Hello?'
'Hello? Is that Holly?'
'Yes?'
'Holly, it's Fleur!'
'Fleur!' I say slightly hysterically to the rest of the room. 'Fleur! Fleur! It's Fleur!' A cold hand of panic grips me. Is she calling to warn me off? To say, listen old thing, I know my husband-to-be is most fearfully attractive, but would you mind not making such obvious baby eyes at him?
'Fleur! How are you? Keeping well?'
She sounds slightly puzzled. 'Er, I'm fine thanks, Holly. I was really calling to ask how you are?'
'Me? I'm just fine. Absolutely tip-top hole. I couldn't be better!'
'Gosh, that's good. I have to say I was really concerned when James told me. He said there was a number I could call you on.
'No cause for concern! I'm fine! Just on my way home, in fact.'
'Oh, is James taking you?'
'James? JAMES?' I say with such a hysterical tone of surprise in my voice that she might as well have said Prince Charles. 'No, no. My family are here to collect me.'
'Great! Well, I
am
glad you are feeling better.'
'Me too! Thank you for calling! I'm sure I will see you soon!'
'Well, you know we're hosting this drinks party on Saturday, don't you? The one your parents are invited to? I thought you might like to come too. You know, introduce them to everyone. I have to say I am looking forward to meeting them again.'
'Gosh, well, thanks,' I say, willing to agree to anything to get her off the phone at this particular moment of complete emotional confusion. 'Saturday! See you then! Bye!'
I replace the receiver feeling slightly sick. Crappy cabbages. Saturday. Maybe I could have a relapse by then; it happens in these cases, doesn't it? Not feeling well on Tuesday, dead by Saturday? I could possibly get out of going to the wedding that way too. But maybe it would be good for me to go to the wedding. What do the Americans call it? Closure. That's why we have funerals. A sort of finality is needed. Her phone call is a fresh assault on my senses. James gave her my number and she was nice enough to call.
'That was Fleur! She called to see how I was; nice of her, wasn't it? She says she's looking forward to meeting you at the drinks party on Saturday. She invited me too.' I inwardly gulp and busy myself with gathering my things together. I am absolutely amazed no one can see how I am feeling. How can they not notice this huge shadow of emotion hanging over me? This huge pulsating cloud of mixed feelings that is threatening to envelop me.
The red-haired nurse pops her head around the door. 'Are you off then?'
'Yes, we are.'
She comes fully into the room. 'Are you the parents? I was just telling Holly earlier how troubled she was during the night. She was
'COME ON THEN!' I roar. This is one story I could do without them hearing. 'We don't want to overburden the NHS, do we?' I gabble as I hustle them all towards the door. 'Poor old NHS, they are absolutely bursting at the seams! They don't need us clogging up the system, do they? Probably need the bed for a liver transplant or something. Off we go!'
And with this I whisk them all out of the room and into the rabbit warren of corridors, all painted with gaudily coloured countryside scenes in a transparently obvious effort to try and disguise the fact that we are in a hospital. My mother amuses herself by reading all the ward names out to us as we go along. I feel decidedly ill with all the adrenalin whooshing about inside me.
Morgan the Pekinese is waiting for us in the car and for once I am pitifully glad to see him. He is something familiar and loves me unconditionally. Not as much as he loves my mother, admittedly. This he makes very obvious as once he has greeted me with a wagging tail and a few licks he then goes on to blatantly fawn over my mother.
Once at home, I flop on to the sofa. I'm not terribly impressed with this love thing so far. Not impressed at all. Where is Cupid, the music, the
A Room With a View-
esque cornfields? I've been misled, that's all I can say, because to be honest the whole experience is painful. Actually physically painful. A dull ache seems to have taken up permanent residence in my body.
'Can we get you anything, darling?' says my mother, hovering in front of me. 'Anything at all?' She puts Morgan down on the sofa. He immediately climbs on to my lap and lies down with a contented sigh. Normally Morgan and I share a tempestuous relationship but today he seems to sense my need for comfort. Peculiar how animals can do that.
I shake my head wearily. 'No, I'm fine.' Then I frown – she's got that floaty, 'I'm just off feel about her. 'Are you going anywhere? Are you going home?' I sit up suddenly, aghast at the thought.
'No, no, darling. We may as well stay here now and get some more stuff sent up. I'll just tell my director that I'm taking another week off to look after you. No point in going back before the wedding next Saturday. Only if it's OK with you though?'
'Yes. I would like you to stay.' She seems to relax at this and sits down opposite me. 'Where's Dad?' I ask as she lights up a cigarette.
'He's gone to Sainsbury's. Your fridge resembles the
Marie Celeste
.'
Lizzie comes out from the kitchen with a large tray. 'Tea!' she says brightly.
There is a huge pregnant pause as Lizzie slowly and deliberately pours the tea out. She sloshes it into the cups. More silence. The air seems to pulsate with unspoken words; it's charged with emotion.
'ALL RIGHT! I GIVE UP!' I yell.
My mother looks at me. 'So you admit it?' she breathes.
'Yes, I admit it.'
'We knew it! Didn't we, Lizzie? We knew it! I wish they had this category on
Countdown
! I'd clean them out.'
'He doesn't love me though, that's the problem,' I say in a small voice.
'How do you know?'
'I would imagine his marriage to another woman would be a small clue.'
They concede the point with a nod of their heads.
'But that was before he met you,' Lizzie points out.
'And he is still getting married.' We all pause for a minute, each occupied with our own thoughts. I fiddle with Morgan's ears. 'There's also somebody at work he might be involved with.'
'Was that before you too?'
I nod.
'Well, that's something, isn't it? Is it still going on?'
'I'm not sure.'
'What's Fleur really like?' asks my mother.
I look straight at her. 'Beautiful, kind and works in a bereavement charity.' She reels a bit at that. I think she was hoping I would say 'Spotty, mean and works part-time in an abattoir'. I then go on to tell them how James' brother was killed in an accident and how he met Fleur. 'He once said she saved him. So, you see, it's hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. What's her father like?'
'Miles? Oh, like practically every theatre backer I know. Adores being associated with the famous. Likes to drop names over the dinner table. They're all budding actors at heart; they thrive on being around the success of a first night, the smell of the grease paint, that sort of thing. Of course, when he wasn't chasing me around my dressing room, he could be a terrible old stick in the mud. Kicked up a huge fuss if the director went a penny over the budget.' She shrugs. 'But then that was his job and, more to the point, his money. I wouldn't say we were ever good friends.'