From Christmas to Eternity

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘Jean,’ he said, remembering her face, remembering the worry she’d felt about her husband. Remembering the cluster of rings on her finger. ‘Who—told him?’

  ‘One of the nurses spoke to him. She said you were holding her hand, stroking it and trying to soothe her, and that you wouldn’t give up and they had to stop you.’

  He hadn’t wanted to stop. He’d held her hand, seen the rings, and he’d felt a huge wave of sadness when she’d died.

  ‘Last patient,’ he said. ‘Head—injury. Raj came.’

  ‘And took you away for a CT scan, which is why you didn’t see the relatives.’

  He nodded. ‘Sad. Both parents. Like me. Maybe—better together.’

  ‘Better that they’d gone together, like yours did?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Her son thought so. He said she would have been lost without him. They’d been married for fifty seven years.’

  ‘Wow. Long time.’

  ‘It is. I told him I’d pass it on to you. He asked how you were.’

  ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘I told him you were getting better.’

  He nodded slowly, and then smiled, glancing down at Lottie in his arms. She’d fallen asleep, her arm flopped out to the side, head lolling, and he eased her into the buggy without waking her.

  He was getting better.

  And he would be a doctor again.

  One day.

  * * *

  Julie came at three, just a few minutes after they were home, and Lucy left them to it and went to get the girls. She took the car, because Lottie was asleep in her cot and might not stay there, and she didn’t want to be out long, and when they got back she heard voices upstairs.

  ‘She’s lovely. How old is she?’

  ‘Eight months.’

  ‘And is her name Lottie, or is that short for something?’

  ‘Charlotte,’ he told her, his voice carrying clearly. ‘Liked—Lottie, though. No, Lottie. Keep still.’

  He was changing her nappy, Lucy realised, and she was on the point of running upstairs to take over when she realised he was talking with less hesitation. Still slowly, a little haltingly, but almost properly. And he’d been better at lunch, once he’d relaxed.

  Progress. Tiny steps but each one was massive progress, and they were happening hour by hour as his brain recovered. Overwhelmed, she went into the cloakroom, shut the door and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a little sob.

  He was getting better. He was.

  Finally, after two weeks of painfully slow progress, he was getting better, and the relief was immense. She hadn’t realised how wound up she’d been, how desperately worried for him. For all of them, really, because if he’d stuck at that, he would have been really difficult to live with.

  Thank goodness she’d never have to find out just how difficult.

  She came out of the cloakroom just as they came downstairs, Lottie in his arms smacking his face with her hands and laughing, and she caught Julie’s eye and smiled.

  Julie gave her the thumbs-up, and she nodded. So it wasn’t her imagination.

  Unable to stop the smile, she veered off into the kitchen, put the kettle on and made a celebratory cup of tea.

  * * *

  Better, he realised, didn’t mean cured.

  Emily needed help with her reading, and Lucy was upstairs with Lottie, changing her nappy.

  ‘Can’t—do it,’ he said, hating the admission, seething with frustration, because it was so simple, so ridiculously damned easy, and Emily looked crestfallen.

  ‘Never mind,’ she said gently, climbing onto his lap and hugging him. ‘Mummy will help me.’

  He hugged her back, his eyes stinging with tears. He wanted to help her, wanted to be the one to do it, otherwise what was the point of him being there at all?

  Being anywhere?

  ‘Hey. What’s up?’

  He looked at Lucy, her face creased in concern, and he lifted Emily off his lap and walked away. He could hear her explaining, the words coming so easily to her, and Lucy’s murmured response sounded reassuring and comforting.

  He wanted to reassure and comfort—wanted not to have caused the need for that reassurance in the first place.

  ‘Andy?’

  He was in his study, the room which had always been his retreat, only now it felt like a torture chamber, filled with things he couldn’t understand or deal with. Including Lucy.

  She closed the door softly behind her and slid her arms around his waist. ‘What’s up, darling?’

  ‘Em needed—reading. Couldn’t—’

  He let out a growl of frustration and slammed his hand into the wall, and Lucy let him go and came round in front of him.

  ‘Hey, come on. David said it would take time.’

  ‘Want to help,’ he said, his eyes stinging again, and she made a soft sound of comfort and went up on tiptoe, drawing his head gently down and kissing him. Her lips were soft and warm and yielding, and he sank into the kiss, hating that he was so needy and yet absorbing the comfort she offered because he was so lonely and isolated.

  ‘So much—want to say,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I know. It’ll keep. Be patient.’

  ‘Mmm. Have to.’

  ‘I’m sure we can find other ways to communicate.’

  He lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, seeing not only the promise but also the sorrow. Not pity, he realised, but genuine sorrow that this was happening to him. To them.

  He kissed her again, just a soft, lingering brush of his lips on hers, and then he let her go.

  ‘Want me—bath girls?’

  ‘Please. I’ve done Em’s reading with her but I need to feed Lottie.’

  ‘OK.’ He kissed her again, just because it felt so good, and then he went and rounded up the girls.

  His frustration was still there, but for now, at least, it had moderated to the point where he could deal with it, thanks to Lucy. And hopefully, if he could only hang on, it would get easier to deal with.

  Over the next few days his speech improved hugely, and every little improvement merited celebration.

  Sometimes they went out for coffee and cake, sometimes they went to the pub for lunch, and sometimes, if Lottie was napping, they went into their bedroom, closed the door and made love, then lay there tangled in each other’s arms dozing or talking softly until Lottie stirred.

  Bliss.

  Then on Friday, while they were lying in bed in the aftermath of another stolen moment, she had an idea. ‘You have to see David in London on Wednesday, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask Ben and Daisy if they can have the girls for the night, and drop Lottie off at my parents and spend the night in London? Maybe go to a show, even, and then we can come straight home after you see him. I don’t have to work on Tuesday or Wednesday, and it would be so nice, wouldn’t it? I think we both deserve a treat.’

  He stared at her for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Lovely. If they don’t—mind.’

  She asked them that evening, and they didn’t. None of them minded—not Ben and Daisy, or her parents, and least of all Emily and Megan who thought it was a brilliant idea going for a sleep-over in the middle of the week. And amazingly Ben and Daisy even wanted the dog.

  ‘Ben’s father’s a vet and his childhood was overrun with pets, and he really misses having dogs around,’ Daisy said. ‘And we’ve always said it would be fun to have a dog, but we can’t get one until we’ve finished doing up the house, so to borrow Stanley would be lovely, so long as he won’t chase Tabitha.’

  ‘No, he’s fine with cats, he’s terrified of them, and feel free, you can have him any time you want,’ Lucy said, laughing, and hung up an
d told Andy.

  ‘Great,’ he said, and he smiled, his eyes lighting up in a way they hadn’t done for ages. ‘So—what show?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s look on the internet, see what there is. What do you fancy?’

  ‘Something fun,’ he said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Musical? But not too big. Not noisy. Don’t want noise.’

  ‘OK.’

  They found a show, in a tiny venue, a function room in a restaurant off the Kings Road. The ticket price included dinner, and it looked perfect. The only problem was that it was sold out.

  ‘Ring,’ he suggested.

  She didn’t hold out any hope. The act was hugely popular, cripplingly funny according to the reviews, and she didn’t think they stood a chance, but someone was looking after them.

  ‘I’ve just had a family group of twenty cancel, and I had eighteen people on my waiting list, so, yes, I can offer you a table for two, but you are so lucky.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, grinning and giving Andy the thumbs-up, and he just shrugged and made his ‘I told you so’ face, so she stuck her tongue out, paid for the tickets over the phone and then did a little happy dance.

  She had such a good feeling about this now.

  ‘OK. Hotel,’ she said, coming back to the sofa and snuggling up to him at the computer. ‘How about the one we stayed at the night you proposed to me? That’s close.’

  And full of happy memories.

  ‘OK,’ he said, nodding.

  It was eye-wateringly expensive, but they gave them an upgrade to a room at the back overlooking the gardens, and threw in breakfast.

  ‘Done,’ she said, and paid, trying not to think about how long their savings might last if Andy could never return to work. He had critical illness cover, but was it good enough?

  She stopped the negative thoughts. There was a lot of water to go under their bridges before they needed to worry about that, and for now she felt they both needed a treat.

  So it was costing them a small fortune. So what? She didn’t care about anything except Andy and his recovery, and if it helped to bring them closer together, then she was all for it, because he seemed to be holding something back.

  Despite his willingness to make love to her whenever they had the chance, he still wasn’t talking about them, wasn’t talking about the future.

  He was spending time with the children, much more time, and seemed to be doing his best to make up for all the hurt he’d caused in the run-up to his exam, but time with her seemed—what?

  Less romantic than she’d like it to be? Less loving? He hadn’t said ‘I love you’ since she’d spoken to him in the operating theatre, and now she was wondering if he’d really meant it then or if it was just David’s ‘happy drugs’ talking. Or because he’d secretly been afraid he might die, and thought he’d leave her with that last thought to cherish?

  Or because he really did love her, but it had taken something that drastic to get him to admit it.

  Why? Was he still hurt because she’d thrown him out? It was a possibility, but until he could speak fluently again, she didn’t want to force the issue and frustrate him.

  Maybe, though, she could use this time together alone to create some new, romantic memories, to set the tone for their future. Not family time, not family memories, but something special between just the two of them.

  And maybe then, given enough provocation, he’d tell her again that he loved her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THEY left the car at her parents’ house in Essex, got a taxi to the station and caught the train into London.

  It took them less than an hour door to door, and when they checked in, the memories came flooding back.

  Lucy was busy at the desk, and he let her deal with it while he looked around the foyer. The restaurant was through there, he thought, the place where he’d proposed to her over dinner. He hadn’t done anything crazy like go down on one knee, but it had still been pretty public once she’d let out that little shriek and flung herself into his arms.

  Where had all the years gone?

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  He stared around, then looked down into her gentle green eyes. ‘Just remembering. So long ago.’

  ‘It’s not that long. Come on, let’s go and find our room.’

  It was lovely, on the inside corner of the

  L-shaped building, so that the window was angled and they looked down into a mass of greenery where the gardens of all the houses that backed onto the area were mingled together out of sight of the busy streets.

  It would be stunning in summer, she thought, but even in winter it was green and fresh and calming, a sort of secret oasis in a desert of stone and concrete.

  She turned to him, about to comment, and found him sprawled out on the bed watching her, his eyes almost indigo.

  ‘Come here and lie down.’

  ‘Are you tired?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. I see,’ she said, smiling and walking slowly towards him, swaying her hips provocatively. He raked her with his eyes.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Mmm. I hope so.’

  ‘Complaining?’

  That was a big word. It made her smile. That, and the idea that she’d ever complain about

  Andy’s lovemaking.

  ‘Absolutely not. Never.’ She took off her coat and hung it up, unzipped her boots and put them neatly in the corner under the coat, then slipped off her trousers, her jumper, the thin silky vest top underneath, her heart pounding with anticipation. He might not be able to speak to her fluently yet, but there was nothing wrong with his powers of expression, and when she glanced at him she saw his eyes on her body, flames dancing in them as she peeled off her clothes one by one.

  If she’d ever doubted that he still wanted her, the doubt went in that moment, burned away by the fire in his eyes.

  He didn’t take them off her for a second, just lay there, scarcely breathing, watching her as she undressed for him.

  Lovely. Beautiful.

  His?

  Maybe. He hoped so. He really, really hoped so, but if things didn’t improve a lot, could he ask her to stay with him? There was so much he wanted to say, so much they needed to talk about, but he just couldn’t. A conversation as important as that couldn’t be bungled by his stupid lack of words, and he knew it was sensible to wait until he could really say what he needed to say.

  Probably starting with ‘sorry’. Hell, he could say that now, but on its own it was hardly enough, and she had some apologising to do, as well.

  But in the meantime...

  ‘Come here,’ he said again, gruffly this time, and she went to him, dressed only in the skimpiest lacy underwear.

  He tried to sit up, but she put a hand flat on his chest and pressed him back, then slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned his shirt, then slid his belt buckle free, her fingers taunting him as she unfastened his trousers and slid the zip down.

  He’d kicked his shoes off, and she patted his hips so he lifted them and peeled his trousers slowly down his legs. His clingy jersey shorts left little to the imagination, and she made a soft purr in her throat and ran her hands back up his legs, skimming past his hips, then settled herself over him.

  She didn’t say a word, and nor did he, just lay there and let her torture him exquisitely until he couldn’t stand it.

  It didn’t take long.

  She rocked against him, once, twice, and he cracked, sitting up and taking her face in his hands and kissing her as if he’d die without her. Maybe he would. He didn’t know, and he didn’t want to find out.

  She slid his shirt down over his shoulders and off his arms, and then pushed him back, trailing her hands down over his chest and easing away the soft jersey that was separating him from h
er.

  He swallowed hard, his breath jammed in his throat until she shifted her hips and took him deep inside her. Then he let it out in a rush, his hands reaching up and drawing her down so he could kiss her.

  The lace of her bra chafed against his chest and he groaned and cupped the soft fullness of her breasts.

  ‘Lucy,’ he groaned, and she moved, killing him inch by inch, the sweet torture finally too much.

  He snapped, rolling her under him, plundering her mouth as his body drove into her, his hands seeking, finding, worshipping.

  She splintered in his arms, taking him with her over the edge, and he dropped his head into the hollow of her shoulder and waited for his heart to slow and his breathing to return to normal.

  Then he rolled carefully to his side, taking her with him, their bodies still locked together, and he held her close against his heart.

  ‘Very good idea, that,’ he said lazily, and she laughed softly, her breath drifting over his skin.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘What time do we—go?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Good. Little nap,’ he said, suddenly drained, and slid gently into sleep in her arms.

  * * *

  The show was amazing.

  They’d walked there from Kensington, hurrying a little because they were in danger of being late, but they were there in good time in the end.

  They went for a simple meal of hot chicken salad with ciabatta twists, with a good Pinot Grigio and a wicked dessert with a million calories and enough chocolate even for her.

  And as the desserts were served, so the act started.

  She was worried at first. Andy had seemed tired after their impromptu lovemaking, and she wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep up with the pace of the jokes, but he was having no trouble, and she hadn’t seen him laugh so much in ages.

  Or herself, come to that. She thought she was going to split her sides at times, and she saw Andy wipe tears from his cheeks at one point.

  Fun, he’d said, his only specification apart from music. This was both. Witty, exquisitely observed, the songs were hilarious, the volume wasn’t excessive and they couldn’t finish their desserts because it was too dangerous to eat at the same time.