Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘The paramedics won’t be long.’

  ‘Where’s Kit?’ Fin asks.

  ‘Gone to arrange a boat to the mainland so we can get to the hospital. So we can follow.’

  I feel so fucking useless—why have I never completed an emergency first-aid course? What can I say? What can I do?

  The only thing I can. Comfort Nat. Be there for my friend as her watery gaze stares up at me. I place my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Her breathing is so awful. What can we do?’

  Wait. Pray. ‘Help will be here soon.’ I place my arms around her but can’t offer her anything else.

  A distraction at the end of the room pulls our attention as Kit strides in, full of self-assurance. Please God, let him know what to do.

  ‘It’s in the air, and a first aider is on the way.’ As he reaches the end of the bed, his poise drains away as he takes in the fragility of June.

  I don’t know Kit very well, but he very much seems the take-charge kind. He’s pleasant enough but reserved. He strikes me as the kind of man who’s a bit of a hard arse beneath the image he’s cultivated. Layers. The man has layers I can only guess at.

  ‘Let me . . . ’ His words trail away as he motions Natasha from the side of the bed, rolling June onto her side.

  The recovery position. Why didn’t any of us think of that?

  I wrap my arms around Nat’s back, rubbing small comforting circles. At least, I hope they are.

  ‘How long has she been like this,’ he asks his brother.

  ‘Fin found her a few minutes ago.’ Feels like hours ago.

  ‘She was conscious then but couldn’t seem to speak. I only left her to shout for help.’

  Fin begins to cry softly, Rory pulling her tear-stained face into his broad chest. ‘Hush now, you did the right thing.’

  ‘Fin, you’ll go with Rory on the boat once we determine which hospital she’ll be taken to.’ He glances at his watch, no doubt thinking the same as the rest of us.

  Please let it be a hospital and not a morgue.

  Nat turns in my arms and begins to sob. But then, Dylan appears, speaking softly to Kit. He rolls June on her back once again, taking her hand in his. I notice her fingertips are blue.

  Fingers under her chin, he tilts her unconscious head.

  One knee on the bed, he lays his sandwiched palms on the centre of her chest.

  Chest compressions. But she’s breathing, isn’t she?

  We stand.

  We watch.

  We don’t speak as Dylan pumps away hard enough to break a rib.

  ‘First-aid training prep for a movie.’ He catches my gaze, his mouth a sad half-smile. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead, running down his face. Without speaking or thinking, I step closer and use the sleeve of the robe to wipe his forehead. His gaze is grateful, his eyes moving almost circumspectly to the bump named Vlad.

  As though sensing the connection, Vlad kicks.

  How long do we wait? A minute? Thirty? An eternity? But eventually, paramedics—a doctor?—appear in a blur of high-viz clothing with their unfamiliar jargon and acronyms.

  Unresponsive.

  AF.

  Query thrombotic.

  Oxygen and CO2.

  CVA. Intubate.

  Respiratory distress.

  ICP.

  With the arrival of professionals, it’s like the air comes rushing back into the room and with the whoosh, comes action. It seems mere minutes pass before June is covered, secured, and on the move with Nat tagging behind.

  ‘We’ll be there as soon as we can,’ Fin says, catching Nat’s elbow as she passes. ‘She’s in good hands, and you need to stay strong.’ Nat doesn’t answer but nods, wiping the moisture from her tear-stained face.

  ‘And make sure,’ Rory says, leaning in and planting a kiss on her forehead as she pulls away, ‘that June doesn’t touch the doctor’s bum. They don’t like it and might start a sexual harassment case.’ She manages a watery smile before turning and quickly following the medical entourage.

  ‘You ready?’ Rory motions to Fin to take his hand, patting the back pocket of his pants in that universally male key-wallet-phone check.

  ‘Boat’s at the jetty,’ Kit says, turning to Fin. ‘Take a jacket. It’ll be choppy.’

  Fin dips her head. ‘I’ll grab it now. You coming?’ she asks me.

  I don’t miss the look that passes between Rory and his brother. Christ knows what kind of voodoo is going on there. Volumes are spoken in the blink of an eye yet remain unsaid as Rory’s gaze slides away to Dylan whose head in his hands as he’s hunched in a chair.

  ‘Ivy’s much closer to June than I am,’ Fin says, knowing before I do what’s passed between the pair. ‘June is practically her family. She needs to be there.’

  ‘June’s out of it, titch. Natasha will be the one who’ll need support.’ His eyes find mine. ‘You have to consider the crossing and the bairn. Can you not wait a while and drive over at low tide?’

  ‘We can’t leave her here!’ Fin protests, absolutely avoiding looking at Dylan.

  ‘Then you’d best get dressed quickly,’ Kit says, as though this finalises everything.

  ‘No,’ I answer quietly, my voice becoming stronger with each spoken word. ‘You go.’ I grab Fin’s hand in both of mine. ‘You look after Natasha for me. I’ll have to call Mum and let her know. I’ll . . .I’ll drive over as soon as I can.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Her eyes dart to where Dylan again.

  I nod. ‘I’ll be fine. Let me know . . . let me know what’s happening, as soon as you can.’

  The trio leaves, and Dylan and I are left alone.

  Chapter 36

  Ivy

  Dylan. Seated in a chair, in front of me. Holding out his arms.

  Did I hear right, or only what I wanted to? Am I going deaf or daft? Am I delusional? Suffering from a bout of desperate wishful thinking?

  ‘Don’t make me ask again.’

  I blink twice heavily and continue to stare blankly back because the tone isn’t right—not for that phrase. The words aren’t served as a demand but are rather heavy and raw with need.

  ‘Please.’ He swallows thickly, his expression so very solemn. ‘I’ll get down on my knees and embarrass myself if you want me to. I just need to hold you.’ The end of his words draw off in a husky whisper that clutches at my heart, and before I register I’m moving, I’m in front of him. He swallows again, and a beat later, his arms are clasped tightly around my waist, and his head barely rests on the swell of my belly.

  For once, I don’t complain about the unsolicited touch of my baby bump as my hands naturally fall to his shoulders, though I resist running them through his thick, dark hair because memories can be so treacherous.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ivy,’ he murmurs, his arms banding across the dip of my back. I lift my hand and place it tentatively on his head because it seems we’re both sorry. For so many things. ‘She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?’ It takes me a moment to realise he’s talking about June.

  ‘Yes.’ My voice is hoarse from swallowing back tears. ‘She was my grandmother’s best friend. I don’t remember a time when she wasn’t around. She sort of stepped in when Gran died.’ Like my surrogate grandmother, I realise for the first time. She’s always been around to hand out love and comfort with a touch of wisdom and sometimes daftness. ‘She’s just the best person.’ Tears fill my eyes; my words wavering at the end. ‘Do . . . do you think she’ll be okay?’

  Dylan’s shoulders tighten, his arms doing the same. ‘I don’t know. I hope so, Edera.’ Eyes full and watery, my tears begin to fall. His use of my name like that—the soft tone?—is like a glimpse into the past. ‘I’ll drive you to the hospital as soon as we can leave.’

  ‘That’s okay. I-I’m okay to drive. I drove over myself this morning. I can drive.’

  ‘You’ve had a tough day.’ His tone is rueful, though not quite contrite. ‘You should rest while you can.’

  ‘I
’m sure I can get Kit to take me,’ I reply. Toying with a strand of his dark hair, I barely resist the urge to run my fingers through it when his shoulders stiffen further.

  ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’ He doesn’t articulate his feelings further. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. It’s more in what he doesn’t say as his hands band tighter at the base of my spine.

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper, resting my cheek against his head. His soft hair tickles my face in an echo of the past. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ He doesn’t answer and doesn’t let go. ‘You don’t have to worry or take care of me. This baby; it doesn’t have to change anything.’

  Because it certainly doesn’t change how I love you. Doesn’t make it go away. More the opposite; the thoughts of growing a tiny piece of you inside me brings me comfort, I don’t say.

  ‘Doesn’t change anything,’ he repeats, his tone gravelly. ‘I suppose that’s why you didn’t say? Didn’t tell me, I mean. Kit, did you say?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ I answer, puzzled. ‘Kit is . . . Rory’s brother.’

  ‘And you and Kit.’ A statement, not quite a question. Quite the concession. I laugh—snort—something.

  ‘What’s funny?’ he asks, the lilt of his accent stronger suddenly. He sits straighter, and my arms fall away, though his arms don’t leave my waist. At least, what’s left of my waistline, which these days is barely a dip above my hips.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m Kit’s type,’ I answer, a touch sardonically, even as I recall Fin’s earlier words. Still, whatever floats Kit’s boat, it isn’t me. And for that, I’m glad.

  ‘Then he’s a fool.’ Stormy eyes stare back at me through thick, black lashes, honest and true. I don’t mean to respond, but somehow, I do, words just spilling.

  ‘Says the man who let me go. Oh, God—I’m sorry!’ I make to pull away, mortified at what I’ve said—what I’ve revealed—when his arms bind me tighter to him.

  ‘No, you’re right. I am a fool.’ He huffs a bitter laugh but doesn’t speak again. But this affection—his arms wrapped around me—this must be an olive branch, right? We might never be what we once were, but maybe this is the start of how we can be? How we can be together yet apart. People raising a child. Co-parents. Maybe even friends?

  Only, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over loving him, which will make me a really shitty friend.

  ‘I just don’t want you to feel like you’re obligated now.’ I resist moving, realising he’s about to protest. ‘Please, just listen,’ I add, ‘because I know why you’re here—why you needed to see me.’ I sigh, wishing for a dozen things. A dozen things that I won’t ever have. ‘At least, I think I know, and it’s okay. We were asking for trouble, making those videos, so we’re both to blame. I . . . I think I might have to go and live on Lewis or one of the other outer Hebridean islands—people have hair there, so I’m sure I can make a living. I just don’t think I can face being chased by the tabloids. It was bad enough watching those vultures attacking Fin, and I’m not as strong as she is. Besides, I can probably hide from my family up there. I’ll live in a yurt or something but for no more than a dozen years or so.’

  His laugh is deep and painful. At least, for me. I don’t remember the last time I heard him laugh spontaneously. Sincerely. For me.

  Knickers. I’m going to cry again.

  ‘What about me? Where am I gonna hide?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, pulling away to look at him. ‘Your life is already plastered over the internet all the time.’

  ‘You think it won’t hurt me to know people are watching you—stealing you from me? Knowing I can’t protect you from this?’

  ‘Dylan,’ I say softly. ‘You were going to do this to me if I didn’t show up in LA.’

  ‘Fuck!’ His hands fall away as he pushes to stand, stalking to the other side of the room.

  ‘I was hurt and wanting to hurt. Do you really think I could do that to you?’ I don’t answer, despite the demand in his gaze. My answer wouldn’t be helpful because my answer would be yes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ I say eventually. ‘What matters is moving on, and I’m trying to apologise for not telling you.’ I place my hands on my stomach, an action that still doesn’t feel natural. ‘I would have, I promise you. I was trying to do the right thing, for once, only I wasn’t sure what that was.’

  He steps towards me, reaching for my hands and bowing his head over them. ‘Georgia and I aren’t together.’ I make to pull away, but he manacles my wrists in his long fingers. His head rises, his green gaze solemn and intent on my own. ‘We weren’t ever together, not like you think. She was nothing but a smoke screen.’ My brow furrows as he carries on. ‘I may not always make the best decisions, but believe it or not, I’ve been seeing more of her because of you.’

  ‘Because you know how much I don’t like her?’ I say suddenly, my tone betraying my hurt.

  ‘To hide you. Some calls were made, referencing a relationship I’d had with a hairstylist. Someone was asking questions, digging, and I didn’t want them to find you. There’ve been rumours about this video for a while now even though we’ve tried to keep it under wraps. I got it in my mind I’d give then something else to talk about.’

  ‘So you proposed?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘Fuck, no.’

  ‘But why? Why would you do any of this?’

  ‘Because it’s the one thing you’ve made clear; you didn’t want people to know about me. About our marriage.’ His gaze clearly says what his words don’t. That I hid him from the people I love.

  ‘I’ll do what I have to do to protect you. To protect you both now.’

  ‘I’m sorry I hurt you,’ I answer quietly. ‘But I needed to tell my family first.’ The words seem so pathetic, so juvenile, and like the same old excuse.

  ‘And this?’ He places one hand on the swell of my stomach again. ‘What are you going to tell them about this?’

  Time trickles by as he waits for my answer; an answer I have but am hesitant to give. What if he doesn’t want to be part of this? He doesn’t speak further, and he doesn’t move, but he watches me, his gaze guarded. His feelings unclear.

  ‘The truth,’ I eventually answer, silently willing the baby to move—to give Dylan some sign of his presence. Manipulative or what? ‘If you want me to, that is.’

  ‘Is this you giving me an out?’ From one hand to two, he covers the bump named Vlad.

  ‘If that’s what you want.’ I affect a small shrug, every nerve ending coming alive as his hands slide to my hips. I daren’t look up for fear of what I’ll see on his face, or for what he’ll see on mine. I’m so afraid—afraid of his answer. Of rejection.

  Thump . . . thump . . . thump. Time seems to slow to the rhythm of my heart; each of my nerve endings electric—alive—as his hands lift from my hips and drift up to cradle my face. My eyes fall closed as I sense his tall frame leaning toward me, his soft breath reaching my skin a moment before his lips brush my head.

  ‘I want it. I want it all.’

  My throat closes as I slide my hands around his waist. I hug him hard. Tight. I clasp him to me like he’s the anchor to my life.

  Chapter 37

  Dylan

  It was late by the time we arrived at the hospital in Edinburgh. Travelling and time zones have caught up with me, but powered by espresso these past few hours, I still managed to drive. Carefully. Tired or not, I find I just want to be near Ivy. Want to lighten her load however I can.

  I stayed in the waiting room while Ivy and her friends took turns sitting with Natasha in the room assigned to her grandmother. It seems June suffered a severe stroke and, at one point, went into respiratory arrest. From what I can gather, the medical staff has been reluctant to offer any assurances except to say that she’s stable for now.

  Ivy has a good bunch of friends, and they’re obviously very supportive of each other. Protective, too. I spoke more with Rory in the waiting room, and he’d helped me ward off the nurs
ing staff when I’d been recognised. Ball cap pulled low, I’d used the thick heavy accent again, and he’d appropriately set off laughing at the ridiculousness of being asked for my autograph. An arm slung around the junior nurse’s shoulder, he’d told her I was a computer repairman from Turkmenistan. Good job she wasn’t overly bright. He’s a pretty solid guy, and while his brother may be his double, I’ve found it hard to warm to him. Something’s just a little too perfect to be true about him. He’s too calm. Too reserved. And emotionless doesn’t equal a lack of passion, as far as I’m concerned, but hidden feelings. Emotion simmering beneath the surface. My concern is those feelings might be for Ivy.

  For all our sakes, I hope that’s not the case.

  Ivy’s asleep by the time I pull the rental to a stop outside her salon. Despite protesting she was fine to stay, her pals insisted she go home and rest. I didn’t need to say anything—didn’t need to interject—but was still the recipient of her resentment in the car on the way home. She obviously hates having the pregnancy card pulled and wasn’t at all fooled when house keys were folded into her hand in the waiting room. Get Nat some clothes and stuff. Bring them back tomorrow.

  Yeah, she wasn’t a bit impressed.

  So I got the silent treatment, but I didn’t mind. It’s better than fighting, and it led to her falling asleep. She obviously needed it because it was like someone took her batteries out; she just went out like a light. In the resulting silence, I got to watch her fleetingly and listen to the evenness of her light breaths while I drove. And now, turned fully toward her and sat in the darkened interior, I get to study how she has her hands folded in protection around her stomach. Around our child. I get to watch her without causing her heartache or concern. Without making her wonder about the meaning behind my gaze.

  Angry, happy, sad—she’s always beautiful, but in sleep, something breathtaking about her.

  Because she isn’t trying to be, she just is.

  Her heart-shaped face relaxed and her cupid’s bow mouth slightly open, the dark half-moon of her lashes flutter as she dreams.