The Divorce Club (21 page)

Jamie points down the path where Sam's
strolling out of view. "I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty.
There's this café that serves the best café au lait and Pain au
chocolat in the world."

"You're spoiling me." It was meant as a joke.
I doubt he took it that way though. Jamie's mouth stretches into a
wide grin.

"I try my best."

I peer at him, considering his words, as he
hurries after Sam. The path leads straight into the busy town
center. The cobblestones are slick with the remnants of morning
dew. In spite of the cloudy sky and the thick clothes covering
almost every inch of skin, the villagers seem surprisingly
good-humored, going about their activities with a smile. It stands
so much in contrast to the sour attitude of most Londoners that for
a moment I feel surreal as though I've just crossed the threshold
to another world.

Jamie starts greeting people in French like
he knows them personally. I wrap my arm around Sam's middle and
pull her close, nodding as I go along because I've no idea what to
say. We slip through the narrow streets between old stone buildings
until we reach the café with its glass exterior and a blackboard
advertising the meal in French.

As we enter, a bell rings over our heads. We
strip off our coats and sit near the back overlooking the other
empty tables. A grey-haired woman records our order while I take in
the romantic interior: a large candelabra that looks as though it
could drop any minute taking down the whole ceiling with it,
candles and a single rose in the middle of every table, the
intricate curtain covering half the window.
This
is what
Jamie likes? He's even harder to figure out than I imagined.

I stir my coffee and relax as I glance out
the window. We stay at least an hour, lingering over our food
because there's no need to hurry. Even the locals outside seem to
stroll as though they have all the time in the world. There's no
sightseeing, nothing that would attract tourists except for the
vineyards a few miles away, so we spend another hour walking
through the streets with no specific purpose or direction. By the
time we decide to return to the cottage it's midday. We have a
quick sandwich in the kitchen and then pack. I'm sad to turn my
back on this tranquil world with its lack of haste and
commercialism, but Jamie promises we'll be back and next time we'll
arrange to stay a little longer.

"We could come over for Christmas," Sam says.
"I can help you decorate the Christmas tree."

Jamie's extended his invitation only because
it's the polite thing to do, which doesn't mean he plans to carry
it through. I make a mental note to talk to her and set things
straight later when Jamie says, "I'm up for it. Hopefully, your mum
doesn't have other plans. I make the best cookies ever and don't
have anyone to share them with."

They peer at me now. I'm outnumbered, but I
can still try. "Maybe we can have a bake off since I make a pretty
mean batch of cookies myself. I'll let you know." There's no doubt
I'll give in if Sam persists. I haven't seen this sort of
enthusiasm in her in months, and it's only right to nourish it.

"I'll make it the most magical week of your
life." Jamie starts the car and we head down the narrow street.
"We'll string up lights, hang up Christmas stockings and chop down
our own Christmas tree."

"Can I pick the tree?" Sam asks.

"Why not?" Jamie shrugs. "Just make sure it's
no scrawny Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Then again, we could put
up one red star just like Charlie. That might be cute."

"Yeah." She laughs. "We'll look for a tree
nobody loves."

I snort. "What a better way to show our love
and caring spirit." A week with Jamie? Sam's not the only keen one
here. From the corner of my eye, I glance at her, making sure she's
busy with her iPod, then turn back to him. "Why are you doing
this?"

"What?"

We reach the village and drive through before
I've decided how to put it. "Spending time with us. This bonding
with Sam."

Jamie hesitates, probably considering his
words. The way we tread around each other reminds me of two
predators circling each other as they establish their
territory.

"It's fun being around you," Jamie says.

I shake my head. "Men define frequenting
strip clubs as fun, not hanging out with a thirty-something
divorcee and her moody teen."

"If you honestly believe that, I'm sorry for
you. I don't deny some men are jerks, but you can't categorize
everyone based on a few bad experiences."

The way he says it seems so earnest I almost
believe him, until I think back to Greg and the many times he lied
to me to get away and meet his mistress.

"I like spending time with you," Jamie
continues. "You almost make it sound like it's a crime."

"There was a time when I trusted people." I
stop myself before I reveal more. Jamie doesn't need to know about
the pain and humiliation still lingering in my heart. I'm over
Greg, however, being betrayed by a loved one leaves scars behind.
What hurts even more is the knowledge that he knew I was hurting
and didn't care enough to either walk out on us straight away or
stop his selfish behavior.

"It's still there. You just need to let it
out again."

I cock my head and smile at him. "Maybe."

"Why do you spend time with me?"

Jamie's question takes me by surprise, but I
regain my composure quickly. "That's an easy one. You're my client.
It's my job to make sure I get you back on track."

He remains quiet; his jaw sets. Did I say
something wrong? I wish he'd just tell me instead of giving me the
silent treatment.

"You wanted to hear something else," I
say.

"Not really. I enjoy lavishing my platonic
friends with attention." Grimacing, he shakes his head. "It's just,
I was wondering do you always introduce your clients to your
daughter? Go with them on trips to France and hold their hands?"
His gaze narrows. "Do they get the same VIP treatment?"

The frostiness in his voice doesn't go
unnoticed. He didn't mean what he just said. He's trying to
manipulate me into thinking I might be more than a booty call. I
turn back to the window, weary of starting an argument. We're not
even dating and already I can see our personalities clash. What
would it be like after twenty years of marriage? The villages pass
by and we reach the highway. From here, it's a direct line to
Britain. I'm not tired, but I close my eyes nonetheless, pretending
I'm asleep so I don't have to deal with the silence.

We drive for a while before Jamie asks, "Do
you mind if I switch on the radio?"

So, he must know I'm awake. I straighten my
back. "Go ahead."

Sam's head emerges between the front seats.
"Can we stop somewhere? I really need to use the loo."

"Sure. There must be a petrol station around
here." Jamie turns on the music when a van cuts in front of us.

"Watch out!" I shout, grabbing hold of the
steering wheel. Jamie hits the brakes. The van brushes us, sending
the car against the railing. At the same time, the vehicle behind
hits us full force. My head crashes against something hard and
waves of pain wash over the right side of my body. I feel something
hot and sticky trickle down my temple before I black out.

A loud whir bashes against the barrier of my
mind. I want to block out the sense of dread telling me something's
happened and that it's time to wake up, so I try to press my palm
against my ears. The noise continues, coming from too many
directions at once. My scattered thoughts seem to take shape,
slowly turning into something vague like a blurry picture. The
piercing scream of someone echoes in my memory, haunting me until I
open my eyes just to escape it.

A young nurse leans over me whispering,
"She's awake."

I peer from her to the white-clad man
standing at my feet. He's holding a chart and for a moment I harbor
the ridiculous thought that I'm at the dentist's because the room's
so white and bright. I know this can't be the case when I throw my
hand to my chest and feel patches on my skin with wires running out
of them straight to a beeping monitor. Something squeezes my left
arm and I wince. "What the—"

"No, don't move," the nurse says. "It's an
automatic blood pressure cuff. We're just monitoring your vitals,
that's all."

The smell of disinfectant invades my
nostrils, but that's the least of my worries. I've got so many
wires coming out of me I might as well be a robot or something. I
tug at one. "What's with this?"

The nurse smiles, patiently. "You're also
hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. The thing attached to your
finger is a pulse oximeter. It measures the oxygen saturation of
your blood."

So, I'm not at the dentist's but in a
hospital. How did I end up here? My nose tickles and I realize
something's irritating the heck out of it. I pull the plastic
tubing out. "I don't need this. I'm breathing just fine."

"We put the oxygen on when your pulse ox
reading dropped to seventy-five percent. Normal is ninety-six to
one hundred." The nurse squints at the monitor, then nods. "It's
ninety-seven now. I guess you can leave the oxygen off."

"Good to see you back, Sarah. I'm Dr.
Morris." The man at my feet smiles. I almost expect him to hold out
his hand, but he doesn't.

"Here, you must be thirsty." The nurse holds
a glass of water to my lips and I take a few sips.

"What happened?" I croak, wondering why my
voice sounds so off. My head hurts so much I can barely
breathe.

Dr. Morris inches nearer and flashes a light
into my eyes as he talks, "You were involved in a car
accident."

A car accident? I try to remember, but it
doesn't ring a bell. Surely, if something this dreadful happened,
then I could at least recall it.

The doctor frowns as he continues, "Do you
know who you are?"

I nod, flinching at the throbbing pressure in
my right temple. "Sarah Davis."

"Age?"

"Thirty-four."

"Do you remember anything about the last
twenty-four hours?"

That blank feeling returns again as I try to
make sense of the flood of pictures invading my mind. "I did the
shopping and packed our bags. We were about to leave for France. I
think we did, but I'm not sure."

The doctor scribbles on his chart.

"What's wrong with me?" Something
must
be wrong because I've never felt this alien as though there's
something else inside my body, something lingering at the back of
my mind, pushing me into a dark abyss from which I can't
escape.

"Temporal amnesia. You'll remember everything
eventually, but it might take a while. We still have to run some
more tests just to make sure there's no brain damage, but at this
point it doesn't look like it." He says this all with a smile as
though he's talking about the charming weather, or the delicious
bagel he had for breakfast.

"It happened in France, didn't it?" My throat
tightens.

"Actually, you crossed over to Britain which
is why you're in a NHS hospital."

"What happened to—" My voice breaks. I take a
deep breath, but my emotions are choking me. The sudden onset of
dread makes my insides churn.

"Your daughter's fine. She got away with a
broken leg and some superficial cuts," Dr. Morris says.

A broken leg? Guilt floods my body. This is
my fault. If I didn't accept Jamie's invitation, we wouldn't be
here. I need to hold my baby, stroke her hair and tell her
everything's going to be okay. "I want to see my daughter right
now."

The doctor shakes his head. "Maybe once
you're well enough to stand and walk."

"Ever hear of this invention called a
wheelchair? Why don't you just get me one of those?" I ask.

"Please, you know I can't keep you here
against your will, but I honestly hope you'll follow my advice."
His smile freezes. "Let's say later today after we've finished all
tests."

"No." I cross my arms over my chest, ignoring
the pain in my arm where something cuts into my skin.

"How about sleeping that headache off?" the
nurse says.

Dr. Morris reaches for his beeping pager and
sighs. "I've got to go. We'll discuss this after getting you out of
the emergency department and into a nice room."

"Wait. What about Jamie?" I ask.

"The gentleman who drove the car was released
on his own request," Dr. Morris says. "I wasn't here at the time of
your arrival so I don't know the specifics."

There's a brief knock and another nurse
enters. She peers at the doctor before she addresses me as though
she awaits his approval. "A friend's here to see you."

"Please let them in." I sit up as straight as
I can. Another pill against my headache would be great, but I
daren't ask in case the doctor thinks I might not be well enough
for a visit after all. Once he's gone I'll ask the nurse.

Dr. Morris attaches the chart to the bed and
turns toward the door. "If there's nothing else I'll—"

"Thank you so much," I hurry to say.

He nods and disappears through the open door
a moment before Mel's head pops in. Dark rims frame her eyes. The
huge smile on her lips looks fake, plastered there only for the
benefit of the ill. She probably thinks if she's cheerful enough
it'll make me instantly better.

"Mel, I'm so happy to see you," I say. "How
did you know where I was?"

She inches closer and tosses a huge bag on
the nightstand, then plants a kiss on my cheek. I wince at the
sudden wave of pain surging through my skin.

"The hospital called. You have my number
registered in the case of an emergency."

"Oh, I completely forgot," I say.

A fleeting frown crosses her forehead. "How
are you?" She drags the words out as though she's talking to a
three-year-old.