‘Where, Nancy? Where are you? You must know where you are!’ I say, fear engulfing me, and making my voice sound hideously shrill and accusatory.
‘I don’t know. We stopped to paddle in the stream … It’s so beautiful and tranquil here. But where’s the ambulance, they called an ambulance, the people here …’ she babbles, incoherently. Oh God. I’m going to faint. I wobble and the security man grips my elbow to steady me.
‘What country?’
‘Andorra.’
‘Andorra!’ I breathe in relief. ‘I’m on my way.’ And I end the call.
‘There isn’t an airport in Andorra!’ It’s the moody check-in woman.
‘What do you mean? Every country has an airport!’ I say, desperately resisting the urge to launch myself across the counter and head-butt her smug face.
‘Well, Andorra doesn’t,’ she snaps before doing a sarcastic smile. ‘Too mountainous, can’t land aeroplanes there.’
And this tips me over the edge – I sink to my knees and big, gulping, heaving sobs roar from me while I slap the floor with my left hand. I knew I should have stopped them going. I should have been more insistent. I should have pointed out all the dangers of visiting remote places that I’ve never even heard of. Places that don’t even have an airport! Who even decided that was ever an acceptable thing? But I was so wrapped up in myself, worrying about how I felt about them ‘doing flaming Europe’ – I should have talked them into a cruise or something. At least they have facilities, doctors, and hospitals right there on board. Some ships even have helipads; they would have got him to hospital immediately, and he wouldn’t be stranded on the roadside waiting for an ambulance to find him in some God-awful dump that doesn’t even have an airport.
*
A trillion hours later, or so it seems, and I’m here, in the breathtakingly beautiful country that is Andorra – the negotiator man at JFK sorted it all out after I eventually calmed down, managing to get me on the next flight. I tried calling Tom before takeoff, but his phone was either switched off or he was on a call as it went straight to that annoying answer message again. And then I had to turn my phone off as the steward doing the seatbelt check gave me a daggers look. There was no way I was drawing attention to myself whilst still in US airspace – hell no, I was certain I’d be arrested or something. America probably has my details now on some kind of database, especially for crazeee fruitcake loopers who don’t get a third time lucky chance, and instead have to shuffle straight off to jail in chains and one of those orange jumpsuits.
Seven hours later, I arrived at Toulouse Airport in France, the closest one to Andorra, and after hastily exchanging a fistful of dollars for far fewer euros, I took a taxi over the border and all the way here to the hospital – it turns out there is only one hospital in Andorra. Thank God. I’m shattered beyond belief, still wearing my buffalo shorts, and all I have with me is my handbag, albeit with a broken strap after the Vegas security guy yanked it free from the wheelie suitcase, so hard that it snapped clean in two. My suitcase, I’m guessing, is riding a left-luggage carousel somewhere at Heathrow, or maybe it’s still at JFK, offloaded when I was declared a ‘no-show’. Either way, I’m past caring, to be honest; my only concern now is Dad. I have no idea how he’s doing as when I tried to switch on my phone to call Nancy – the minute we landed – the battery had died, and yep, you guessed it, the charger is inside the suitcase. But I had a good think, and a big cry or two on the flight, and have managed to get a grip, just about. I can deal with this, whatever happens; whatever the situation is when I get to the hospital. I have to, for Nancy’s sake. She’s my only family, after all.
I push through the swing doors of the hospital’s main entrance and race up to the reception desk. An English-speaking nurse directs me to a family room, and the minute the door is opened, Nancy dashes towards me.
‘Oh, Georgie, you’re here,’ she says, her voice tearful and her face ashen. And she looks exhausted, all dark circles hanging like parachutes under her eyes; she’s wearing a floral halter-neck swimming costume underneath a matching floaty sarong. She looks as if she’s just stepped off a beach and the contrast to the clinical surrounding of the hospital intensifies my fear. I give her a big hug before quickly pulling back.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s fine. Love, he’s going to be fine.’ She clasps my hands in hers and squeezes them tight. ‘I’m so sorry. I panicked. He was gasping for air, and then when he collapsed on the mountain road, I screamed for help and the rest was a blur … How did you know? How did you get here? Did I call you? I must have done.’ She shakes her head vigorously, as if to rinse away the confusion in a desperate bid to gain clarity.
‘You did, and thank God you did. I couldn’t bear it if …’ My voice trails off.
‘I know dear, and I’m so pleased you’re here. They’ve done all the tests, and it turns out he has gallstones – that’s why he was bent double before he clutched his chest and keeled over,’ she gabbles fast, fuelled by adrenalin, her eyes are like dinner plates. ‘He’s going down for keyhole surgery tomorrow morning to have his gall bladder removed.’
‘So, it’s not the angina then?’
‘Oh no, they said that’s all fine. Well, as fine as it can be … but it’s stable, has been for years, as you know – no, it’s just bad luck the gallstones flared up now.’ Relief runs through me. Closely followed by more tears. Loads of tears – it’s as if a dam has burst and now I can’t stop. ‘Oh dear, lovie, let it all out.’ Nancy rubs my arm before pulling me back in for another big hug.
‘Sorry. It’s just that, he’s all I have … and you, you’re my only family,’ I say, in between the tears.
‘There there, no need to apologise,’ Nancy soothes. ‘He’ll be as right as rain in a few days, you’ll see. I’m the one who should apologise, silly old fool, scaring you like that when you were so far away … Georgie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be daft. I would have been devastated if you hadn’t called me,’ I laugh, relief giving way to near-euphoria now.
‘Come on, they’ve dosed him up with painkillers so he’s a bit dreamy, but he’ll be thrilled to bits to see you.’ After looping her arm through mine, she takes me to him.
18
Why does it take so long for an iPhone to come back to life? Mine’s been plugged in now for at least twenty minutes, I’m convinced of it. Not that I can actually check, because, yep, that’s where the clock is.
After a very restless night trying to get some sleep on the sofa in the family room (Nancy wanted to stay at the hospital ‘just in case’, so I stayed too), I made sure Dad was OK – he’s in theatre and will be out of it for at least the next few hours – before going in search of Daisy. Nancy gave me the keys and a rough idea of where she was located. It didn’t take long to find her in a layby next to a pretty stream, as Andorra is a small country; the first café I popped into, they knew all about the yellow bus with daisies all over it. A local guy, who spoke no English (and I can’t speak Catalan, of course), kindly brought me to Daisy in his four-by-four after we managed to establish a few details in French – mainly with me nodding and saying, ‘Oui, oui, voiture jaune’ over and over.
So now I’m sitting in the front seat of Daisy with the window down, the engine running, and my phone plugged into a charger connected to the cigarette lighter, which is a miracle in itself as, once I found Daisy, it then took me over an hour, firstly to work out how to actually drive her (changing gears is like stirring custard), then to negotiate the prospect of driving on the wrong side of the road, and finally to find an actual shop. In the end, I sputtered and stalled my way into a hypermarket car park where I abandoned her by finding a space I could drive straight into, and after buying some essentials to tide me over – knickers, a Hello Kitty T-shirt, pink velour joggers (I know, but they were the best option), toothbrush, deodorant, that kind of thing, I managed to find an electronics shop which, thankfully, sold in-car phone chargers. Hurray! I never
realised, before recent events, just how much I depend on mobile technology. It’s ridiculous, but I truly think I might be addicted to Twitter and Facebook, checking emails and nosing through total strangers’ Instagram pictures. But being without my phone … well, it has been like an actual part of me was missing. Ludicrous, I know.
I press the button again – still nothing! And then, boom! The Apple icon appears, and I’ve never felt so relieved – I’m back on. Right, I scan the easyJet website and see to my relief that it’s only an hour-long flight from Toulouse to Gatwick, the nearest airport to Mulberry-On-Sea. Perfect. I book the first available flight – Friday afternoon, not ideal; but at least I’ll be home with time to catch my breath and hopefully see Tom and Sam before the regatta launches on Saturday. Phew!
And then my phone goes berserk as it kicks into life, pinging with tweets, Facebook messages, several voicemails – I scan my missed calls list, and my heart sinks when I don’t see anything from Sam. But then lifts when I see a missed call from Tom. I call him back right away, but it goes straight to that annoying voicemail woman yet again, so I text Annie instead for an update, figuring she’ll be behind the counter at work and therefore unable to actually talk. A few seconds later, she replies.
OH NO. Sorry about your dad, hope he’s better soon. Everything OK here. NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. See you on Friday! xoxoxo
Ah, that’s a relief. I knew I could count on Annie. I smile. Oh, there’s another text message from her.
PS, that commando man on the committee, the one who owns the TV shop is super scary, barked like a sergeant major he did when I sat in his chair by mistake. And what is wrong with that weirdo Meredith? Why does she hate Carrington’s? Honestly, I nearly thumped her at the last meeting. I didn’t of course xoxo
Oh dear. The commando man is a bit scary, and I wonder what Meredith did to upset Annie? But she does have a very good point – Meredith is weird. And rude. She was asked to leave Carrington’s years ago; you’d think she would be over it by now … Sighing, I call Sam, but it just rings for ages and doesn’t even go to voicemail, which is very strange. Usually, her cheery, sunny voice kicks in. Maybe it’s something to do with me being in Andorra, dodgy roaming service or whatever – I push away the worm of worry, the little voice that says: Or maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you …
A few seconds later, Tom calls, and my heart lifts. I swipe the screen to answer the call immediately.
‘Georgie! What happened? Did you fall asleep? I didn’t bother calling last night after the meeting, in case I woke you up. I figured you’d be tired with jetlag.’ Ah, my heart soars. It’s as if my forgetting to open the envelope never happened, he’s still talking to me, and obviously just wants to forget it and move on – he’s not even mentioned it. He still loves me, of course he does; everyone fucks up now and again, and I’ll make damn sure it never happens again. ‘How was the flight home?’ he continues cheerfully.
‘Well, I’m not actually home yet, Tom.’
There’s a pause before he says, ‘But it’s Tuesday, you’re cutting it very fine for the regatta …’ And he’s right, but there was no way I wasn’t going to come straight here to see Dad – in that moment when Nancy called, it was all I could think of, I had to get to Dad, and nothing, absolutely nothing else mattered. Not the regatta. Not even Tom. My heart drops. Tom sounds disappointed and hasn’t even asked me why I’m not home yet; his first thought seems to be all about the regatta – maybe he’s not OK with me after all. ‘So, when are you coming home?’
‘Friday morning,’ I state, still deep in thought. A long silence follows.
‘What? Jesus, Georgie, what’s going on?’ There’s another silence. ‘Is everything OK?’ he eventually asks.
‘Yes, sorry, it is now!’
And I quickly bring him up to speed.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry, Georgie. Your poor dad. Wish him a speedy recovery from me, will you?’
‘I will, thanks. And Tom, I really can’t wait to see you, I’m so sorry about ruining everything, I didn’t …’ I say, taking control and figuring it best to cut to the chase, I can’t bear this awkwardness between us.
‘Look, don’t worry about it now; you need to take care of your dad. Let’s get the regatta out of the way and then maybe we can talk. I’ve got a manic week ahead wrapping up plans for the new store, in any case. I’m going to be in meetings for much of it,’ he says, ominously.
‘Um, yes. OK.’ Hardly the response I was hoping for. ‘I’d better get back to the hospital,’ I quickly add, because, right now, I really can’t think of anything else to say.
‘Yes, probably for the best.’ And I swear his Downton accent just got stronger. Oh God, I hate it when he goes all formal and distant. It’s as if he’s a trillion miles away, and I don’t mean geographically.
‘I’ll call when I land,’ I say quietly.
‘Sure. If I don’t answer, then I’m in a meeting, but leave a message.’
‘Will do.’ I try to ignore the sand-trickling-though-my-fingers feeling that’s building up inside me.
‘Safe trip. And I hope it all goes well for your dad.’ And he’s gone.
I sit and stare at the scenery, drawing in the whooshing sound from the stream, the steep cobbly streets on the other side of the road, leading up to the lush, grassy green mountains. It’s so tranquil and calm, and in total contrast to how I feel inside. Just a few weeks ago, my life was perfect, but now it’s in turmoil: my best friend isn’t talking to me, my boyfriend has distanced himself after I managed to ruin my own birthday surprise, and my dad is having surgery in a foreign country. Talk about all change. Gaspard said he could see the wanderlust emanating from my soul, or whatever – and it’s true, I was hankering to do something exciting, something out of the ordinary, before I become a thirty-something, or, shudder, a forty-something, still in Mulberry, and still doing what I’ve always done: picking out clothes for other people to wear in their globetrotting lives, while I’m writing about the contents of celebrities’ handbags. I’ll be like Mrs Grace before she got her break – seventy-odd and still doing the same thing.
But the adventure wasn’t supposed to be like this … this isn’t what I wanted. Because, the way I feel right now, I’d do anything to be back in Mulberry-On-Sea, with Dad there, too, of course, fit and happy and tending the roses in his little garden just like always, instead of lying in a hospital bed in a foreign country.
And with Sam on the fifth floor in the Cupcakes At Carrington’s café sharing a cake or three – cracking up over something or another, just like before, before everything changed. And then Tom, I really need to make things right with him; move in with him immediately, if he’ll still have me. It’s true, I’ve missed him so much these last two weeks, I can’t believe I hesitated even for a second. What is there to talk about? I love him, I want to live with him, I don’t even mind where it is now, and it can be in a tent in the middle of a field for all I care. It’ll be another adventure, of a different kind, only this time one worth having. Some relationships work out; some people have long-lasting, fulfilling, trusting, happy relationships. I pause for a moment to ponder and then rapidly realise that, actually, I don’t know anyone who has that – I thought Sam and Nathan were rock solid, but now I’m not so sure. And what about Dad and Nancy? Yes, they may have known each other for decades, but they were both married to other people for much of that time, which sort of proves my point. But then when did I get so cynical? I take a deep breath. Maybe there never are any guarantees. And then again, maybe it can work for Tom and me. But I guess I’ll just have to wait and see if it’s still an option.
Then there’s the regatta – will my elements of it go to plan? Or has my luck finally run out? If recent events are anything to go by, then who knows … it could turn into an utter disaster and I’ll be throwing another pity party for one, when it’s all my flaming fault. Isabella is bound to think so.
*
Back to the hospital and Dad is
wide-awake and sitting up in bed trying to get the portable TV to work.
‘Hello love.’ He dumps the remote control on the nightstand and squeezes my hand as I lean across the bed to kiss his cheek.
‘How are you feeling?’ I say brightly. He looks surprisingly well for someone who has just had surgery – if the hospital bed and the drip in the back of his hand were taken away and replaced with a sun lounger and a large cocktail, he wouldn’t look out of place on the deck of a cruise ship. I didn’t really notice yesterday, I was so worried; anxious about the angina and if it would scupper his chances of making it through the operation – the doctor had even said that a general anaesthetic is always risky, a little more so with Dad’s condition. But looking at him now, he seems very perky indeed – his mahogany tan is glorious and his hair a little longer and lighter than it was before he went off to ‘do Europe’. And he looks fitter, his chest and shoulders more defined.
‘Never better, but I’m gasping for a cup of tea,’ Dad says to Nancy, who is sitting on the other side of the bed with her knitting needles tap-tapping away.
‘I bet you are. I’ll go in search of a nurse or a cafeteria and leave you two together for a bit to have a chat, but don’t be overdoing it.’ Nancy smiles broadly, before putting her knitting on the end of the bed and glancing at me. I nod by way of confirmation as she pushes the door open with her left hip.
‘So what happened then, Dad?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of a blur to be honest, love. I remember we had climbed up a steep cobbled alley to get a closer look at a traditional stone-clad house – you should have seen the window boxes, sweetheart: bursting with colour, they were. Anyway, next thing I know, I’m bent over double thinking my time had come. And I can tell you, when something like this happens, it sure does put things into perspective. All the way here in the ambulance I saw my life in sharp focus: significant events, regrets – and it’s like Frank Sinatra said, “I’ve had a few …”’
Ice Creams at Carrington’s Page 16