Fragrance of Violets

by Paula Martin

  She let out a long exhalation. “Oh.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  “I—I hardly know what to say. Until a few days ago, I thought John Tyson turned me down because I wasn’t good enough. Last Sunday night, when I found out it was Jack, I thought it was his revenge.” She paused and pursed her lips. “But I know Jack isn’t spiteful or malicious, and now part of me is over the moon, because he thought I was right for the role, but another part hurts because he thought I would still hold what happened ten years ago against him.”

  “Would you have thrown the contract back at them?”

  Abbey sipped her drink thoughtfully as she recalled how all her resentment resurfaced when Jack first came back to Rusthwaite, and how hard it had been to admit she was as much to blame for their teenage break-up.

  “Come on,” Louise prompted. “If they’d told you Jack was the author of The Rycroft Saga, how would you have reacted?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, read the email again, and raised anguished eyes to Louise. “Why didn’t he tell me all this when we met again? Especially when I told him how devastated I was when I didn’t get the part?”

  “That’s something you’ll have to ask him, Abbey.”

  She shook her head. “But it’s not something I can do on the phone, is it? And tomorrow we start the previews, and then a three week run. I think I’ll have to wait, which is probably for the best, because my thoughts are all over the place now.”

  “Are you still angry with him?”

  “I don’t know. At least this has made me put my anger on hold until he tells me his reasons for everything.” She gave Louise a wry smile. “I suppose that’s better than last Sunday when I was too angry to listen to any explanation.”

  After Louise left, Abbey sat for a long time, staring into space. She picked up the email printout and read it again, through tear-filled eyes.

  “Why do we keep getting everything wrong, Jack?” she gulped, unable to hold back her tears any longer.

  CHAPTER 18

  The first preview went well. A receptive audience laughed at the satirical wit of Oscar Wilde’s play, and gave the cast a standing ovation at the end.

  As they moved offstage, Tony, who played one of the lead roles, gave Abbey a quick hug. “Well done, you got the laughs in all the right places.”

  She blew out an exaggerated breath and smiled. “I’m just relieved I managed to remember my lines.”

  She went with the rest of the cast for a celebratory get-together at a small club near the theatre. Although she’d joined them at the last minute, they accepted her immediately, and all nine of them worked as a team. She’d almost forgotten how much she loved the camaraderie among a theatre cast.

  They laughed over the small glitches in the performance: the stale muffins, the over-full bowl of sugar lumps which spilled on the floor, and the problem Lady Bracknell encountered as she tried to unfasten the knot in her chiffon scarf.

  Rusthwaite seemed a million miles away, and so did Jack. She hadn’t had time to think any more about his email to Farrell but sometime she needed to decide whether to contact him again. She had to make a decision about her father, too.

  “You’re looking very solemn, Abbey,” Tony said. “Want another drink?”

  “Yes, why not? Thanks.” Abbey handed her wineglass to him. She couldn’t think about her personal problems at the moment. All her concentration had to centre on the play.

  It was nearly three o’clock when she returned to her apartment. The normal show routine had already started. Late to bed and sleeping until ten or eleven in the morning, a few hours to herself, and back to the theatre.

  She slept soundly and woke with a start when her phone rang. Rolling over, she reached out and squinted at the screen.

  “Hi, Lou.”

  Even to her own ears, her voice sounded groggy, and there was a laugh from the other end. “Oh dear, too much to drink last night, sis?”

  “It was the first preview, you know.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Pretty good, apart from a few small problems. We’re back at the theatre at three o’clock while Peter decides what to do about them.”

  “Oh.”

  Abbey frowned at Louise’s abrupt reply. “What does oh mean?”

  “I’ve just had a call from the hospice. Dad’s not doing very well. They’ve had to increase his morphine and they said—well, it seems it could be days, not weeks.”

  “Oh.”

  Louise gave a short laugh. “Now it’s you who’s saying oh, Abbs.”

  “It’s when I don’t know what to say.” Abbey shook her head. “Louise, this is totally the wrong time and—”

  “I realise that, but people can’t choose when they’re going to die, can they?”

  “No. Sorry, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  “I heard from Ellie. She’s managed to get a flight to Madrid, and another to Heathrow this evening. Farrell and I will pick her up at the airport, and she can stay at my place. We’ll probably go and see Dad tomorrow.”

  “Louise, I can’t commit myself to anything at the moment. Sunday’s usually our day off, but during the previews we can be called back at any time while Peter adjusts things.”

  “I understand that, and I know you’re not making excuses. In the end, it’s your decision, so call me and let me know.”

  “Will do.”

  Abbey clicked off her phone and pulled the duvet over herself again. It was only eight-thirty and she needed more sleep.

  She spent half an hour trying to get back to sleep but her mind wouldn’t switch off. Could she visit her father? Part of her recoiled from the idea, but an inner voice kept repeating, For heavens’ sake, the man’s dying.

  With a resigned sigh, she threw back the bed covers, and went into the kitchen. As she stirred her coffee slowly, she yearned to talk to Jack. He’d understand, he knew all the issues she had with her father, and he’d be rational and objective about her dilemma.

  Instead, she called Louise. “You think I should go to the hospice, don’t you?”

  “You have to make your own decision, but for what it’s worth, I think you might regret it in the future if you don’t.”

  “But I wouldn’t know what to say to him. I’m scared I’ll feel angry, and you shouldn’t feel angry toward someone who’s dying, should you? What if he asks me to forgive him? I’m not sure I could do it, even now.”

  “Abbs, he can’t force you to forgive him. That has to come from inside you.”

  Abbey clutched her stomach in an effort to control the shaky sensation. “I hate hospitals. They make me nervous.”

  “It’s not a hospital, it’s a hospice.”

  “It’s still full of sick and dying people, isn’t it? I’m not good with people who are ill. I get tongue-tied because I’m worried about saying the wrong thing.”

  “Now you are making excuses.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s what I feel. Look, I’ll call you when I know what’s happening tomorrow. Oh, and give Ellie my love when you see her.”

  When she arrived at the theatre that afternoon, Abbey put everything else out of her mind apart from the play. It was a relief to escape into another world, a world with which she was familiar, instead of all her unsettling thoughts.

  They went through several scenes where Peter wanted the pace increased or decreased, and the Saturday evening performance went well with no major problems. The props department provided softer muffins and put less sugar cubes in the bowl, and Peter agreed that Susan should repeat her struggle with Lady Bracknell’s scarf which had earned her a roar of applause from the previous night’s audience.

  Afterwards, when they went to the club again, he told them they could all relax the next day. The only remaining problems involved the stage crew, so he didn’t need the cast there while he and the crew ironed out the scene change at the end of Act One.

  Abbey wasn’t sure whether she felt relieved at n
ot having to go to the theatre on Sunday, or whether she wished the whole day was going to be taken up with extra rehearsals. As it was, it meant she had to make a decision. Was she going to go to the hospice or not?

  After another late night, she didn’t wake until eleven o’clock the next morning. For a few blissful seconds, everything seemed normal, until cold dread seeped through her. Now she had to decide.

  For the next couple of hours, she vacillated from one extreme to the other. Yes, she’d go, because he was dying. No, she wouldn’t, because she owed him nothing, because he’d not been there for her in her childhood. She couldn’t make up her mind.

  Louise called her shortly after one o’clock. “Are you at home or at the theatre?”

  “At home. Peter doesn’t need us today.”

  “Are you coming with me to St. John’s?”

  “With you? What about Ellie?”

  “She’s still fast asleep. Her flight from Lima was delayed, and she was stuck at Madrid Airport all night. She arrived at Heathrow at nine this morning. Shall I pick you up on my way to the hospice?”

  Abbey thought quickly. “No—no, it’s all right. I—I’ll meet you there.”

  As soon as she said it, her stomach turned over in nauseous panic.

  “Two o’clock?” Louise asked.

  “Okay.”

  Abbey’s breathing quickened as she clicked off her phone. In an hour’s time, she was going to see her father for the first time in over fourteen years. Would he look the same, or would he be so frail and ill that she wouldn’t recognise him? What would they talk about? What could they talk about? She had absolutely no idea.

  Louise’s words came back to her, words that Farrell had said: Once you forgive your father, you’ll be able to move on and take ownership of your life again.

  It was what she needed to do, but how could she forgive someone whose actions had left her with such a deep distrust of men, however many times she tried to tell herself they weren’t all like him?

  In hindsight, she could accept that her distrust was the reason for her overreaction when she discovered Jack was the author of The Rycroft Saga. She’d immediately jumped to the conclusion that he had made a deliberate attempt to deceive her.

  Cupping her face in her hand and massaging her temples with her fingers, she grappled with a myriad of disorganised thoughts. Jack’s email to Farrell showed he wanted her for the role of Maggie but assumed she would reject him, once she knew who John Tyson was.

  And I did that last Sunday. She’d rejected him out of hand, without giving him the chance to explain anything.

  She frowned as the other question jolted into her mind again. Why hadn’t he told her? He’d had plenty of opportunities once they started to grow closer, so why hadn’t he been honest with her? Did he hope she would never find out?

  As she glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall, her hands clenched. For the moment, she needed to forget about Jack. In less than an hour, she was going to see her father again. Even thinking about it caused a spasm of dread to clutch her stomach.

  * * * * *

  By the time she pulled into the car park at two o’clock, she was a trembling mass of nerves. Louise was waiting by her car, and she tried to sound normal as she greeted her sister.

  “Hi, Lou. I’m still not sure about all this, you know.”

  “You’ll be fine. How was the show last night?”

  “Great. We had a good audience.”

  They talked about the show while they walked through the well-kept garden which surrounded the single storey hospice building. Although Abbey appreciated Louise’s efforts to distract her, her heart thumped painfully as they reached the door.

  They passed the reception area, and Louise led the way along a corridor which smelt fresh and clean. Abbey glanced at the paintings of the English countryside on the cream walls and tried to admire the floral displays on small tables, but she was more aware of the choking sensation in her throat and the nausea welling up inside her. Any minute now, they’d stop, knock on a door, and she’d come face to face with him again.

  “I can’t do this,” she croaked as she turned and quickened her steps to the front door. “I’m sorry, Louise, I can’t do it.”

  She yanked open the swing door and ran past the manicured lawn to the car park. Her legs had turned to jelly, and her hand trembled as she tried to unlock her car.

  Louise came up behind her. “Abbey, you’re getting yourself all wound up for nothing. Dad’s not an ogre. He’s sick and needs us, all of us.”

  She spun around. “What about all the times we needed him? Was he there for us? Oh, damn!” She hit the wrong button on her key fob and the car alarm started to wail.

  Louise took the key from her, clicked it, and the alarm stopped. “Abbey, calm down.”

  She opened the car door, got in, and looked up at her sister. “I can’t face him, Lou. I’m sorry, I’m going home. Don’t follow me,” she added. “I need to be on my own.”

  She slammed the door, and switched on the engine. Tears blinded her eyes as she reached the hospice gate. Brushing them away with one hand, she struggled to stay in control as she drove back to her apartment.

  Once there, she gave way to the racking sobs that overwhelmed her. Yes, she’d had a panic attack, but why? Was it the thought of seeing him again? Or not knowing what to say to him? Or what he might say to her? Or was she scared the past was going to rush back and overwhelm her like a huge tsunami?

  Eventually, she stretched her aching shoulders to relax her tense muscles, but it was less easy to quieten her mind. She picked up the Sunday paper but, after a few minutes, threw it back on the table when she realised she’d read a long article without taking in a single word. Her thoughts still whizzed around in relentless circles.

  With a huff of exasperation, she pulled her phone from her bag and rang Jill, who played Cecily Cardew.

  “Hi, Jill, do you fancy going to the Tanners on the South Bank? It has a nice terrace overlooking the river, and at the moment I could kill for an ice cold margarita.”

  Jill laughed. “A choice between an ice cold margarita and doing my ironing? No contest. I’ll meet you there at—what, four-thirty? Should I call Susan and Alison, and see if they want to come, too?”

  “Good idea.”

  Abbey gave a satisfied nod as she clicked off her phone. This was what she needed—drinks and possibly dinner later with people who knew nothing about her personal life or about her father or Jack.

  She took the underground to London Bridge station, and walked along the riverside path to the Tanners Inn, one of the attractive new bars which had sprung up in the regenerated area on the south bank of the Thames.

  Susan waved from the terrace, and Abbey grinned at the sight of four margaritas lined up on the table.

  “I do appreciate people who come up with good Sunday afternoon ideas,” Susan said with a smile. “My husband’s filming in Prague at the moment so on Sundays I’m at a loose end without him. I was trying to persuade myself to clean the kitchen cupboards when Jill rang.”

  “And Jill said it was no contest between her ironing and a margarita.”

  Susan laughed. “What were you trying to find an excuse not to do?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” Abbey took a sip of her drink and tried to ignore the pang of guilt.

  Jill and Alison, the other two women in the cast, arrived about five minutes later, and they were soon exchanging titbits of theatre news and gossip. Abbey made an effort to relax and join in, but her mind kept returning to the hospice.

  Two margaritas and a couple of hours later, Susan suggested they should order some food.

  Abbey was about to agree when Louise’s words came back to her: I think you might regret it in the future if you don’t. And Louise said it could be days, not weeks. What if he died tonight, and she’d let a stupid panic attack stop her from seeing him?

  She gave an apologetic smile and stood up. “I’m sorry, I need to go. I said I wa
sn’t making this an excuse not to do something, but I was. It’s not the ironing or cleaning the kitchen cupboards. I have to visit my father.”

  Susan’s face creased in concern. “Abbey, is everything all right?”

  She shook her head. “No, he’s dying, and I need to go and see him.”

  Jill started to stand. “Do you want us to come with you?”

  “No, I’m fine, you stay here. See you tomorrow evening.”

  She walked up to Tooley Street and hailed a cab. “St. John’s Hospice, Hampstead, please.”

  * * * * *

  A painful tension tightened her whole body when the taxi turned into the hospice car park. She paid the driver and took some deep breaths before she walked toward the door.

  “I’ve come to see Marcus Seton,” she said to the woman at the reception desk. “Can you tell me which is his room?”

  “Are you Abbey?” The middle-aged woman with curly blond hair smiled. “Louise and Ellie left about half an hour ago. It’s room six, down there on the right. He’s sleeping most of the time now, but you can sit with him for a while, if you want. I’m Rose, by the way. Shall I take you down to the room?”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll find it. Thanks.”

  As she walked down the corridor, she felt the same shakiness she’d had earlier, and desperately wanted to turn back, but forced herself to go on. When she reached the door of the room, she ran her tongue around her dry lips and rubbed her clammy hands against the sides of her navy trousers.

  She knocked softly. There was no answer, and she pushed the door open.

  Her eyes went first to the stand with the plastic bag containing a clear liquid which she assumed was morphine. Slowly she let her gaze descend to the man himself.

  His eyes were closed and his breathing was raspy. His face, thin and yellowed with jaundice, reminded her of parchment. His hair was still thick but greying now instead of dark brown. His hand, resting on the lilac duvet cover, was bony.

  He wasn’t anything like the father she remembered. That man had been tall, slim, youthful, and good-looking.

  She tiptoed across to the easy chair next to the bed and stared around. Pale green walls, a small pine wardrobe and drawer unit, and green and lilac floral curtains at the window which overlooked a beautiful garden where a profusion of early summer flowers danced in the light breeze.