A Year Like No Other

by Pauline Lawless

  She sighed. “Well, I’ll leave your dinner on the stove and you can heat it up when you come in.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve ordered in a pizza. See you in the morning. Love you.”

  Before she could respond, he had hung up.

  “Some marriage this is,” she said aloud, as she went to turn off the Irish stew he loved so much.

  She wrote another five hundred words, pleased with the way it was going and at eleven o’clock closed her computer and with a yawn went up to bed. So much for telling Kieran about Corey! She’d also planned to tell him about her novel.

  Well, it would have to wait for another day.

  34

  Marilyn was making love to Louis on Thursday evening when Taylor rang.

  “Marilyn, can you get some more coke from Louis for me?” she asked. Her voice sounded desperate.

  “Honey, I told you, as long as you’re takin’ all that other stuff, I can’t give you more coke. It would be on my conscience, darlin’.”

  Taylor hung up on her.

  “Who was that?” Louis wanted to know.

  “It was Taylor, lookin’ for more coke,” she sighed.

  “She surely hasn’t finished the last lot I gave her? And what other stuff is she taking?”

  When Marilyn told him he did a backflip.

  “You’re kidding me? She’s crazy. She’ll kill herself.”

  “I know,” Marilyn said, bending over and putting her head in her hands. “I’ve told her she has to cut back or at least not take a cocktail of drugs. I dunno if she’ll listen. What can I do?”

  “What about Brandon? Does he know?”

  “No, an’ she’ll kill me if I tell him.”

  Now he was really worried. After all he’d been the one to supply her with the cocaine. “This is too dangerous, chérie. We cannot be involved any more. You have to tell her that.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow,” Marilyn assured him, as she pulled him to her to renew their lovemaking.

  Taylor was desperate. She needed a fix. The Vicodin and Oxycontin were not enough any more. She needed coke to clear her head. Some friend Marilyn was turning out to be!

  Where is she when I need her? Taylor asked herself bitterly. Well, I don’t need her. I’ll score my own coke!

  Getting dressed, she took €300 from the safe and stuffed it in her bag. Out of habit she put her credit-card holder in her pants pocket. Brandon had drummed it into her never to keep her credit cards and cash together.

  Slipping out, she headed to Montmartre, where Marilyn had said Louis got his stuff. It was after ten but with any luck she’d be there and back within the hour and before Brandon got home. He was out every Monday and Thursday night, usually until midnight, so she had plenty of time.

  She hailed a cab. When she asked to go to Montmartre, the cab driver raised his eyebrows. He spoke English and tried to engage her in conversation but she didn’t oblige.

  “Better be careful here, madame,” the cab driver advised, as he let her out at the Place Pigalle. “It is no place at night for a lady on her own.”

  “Oh, mind your own fucking business!” she said, getting out of the cab.

  She stood on the pavement, looking around. The place was heaving. Within seconds a guy had approached her. This is easy, she thought. I should have asked the cab to wait for me.

  “You want a little action, lady?” the stranger asked. “I got all the equipment and can go all night long, if you want,” he said, pushing his crotch forward towards her.

  “Go away,” she cried, pushing past him.

  “Huh ho, you prefer some girly action, is that it?” he leered at her and waved at a girl close by.

  The very attractive black girl came forward and, standing in front of Taylor, opened her coat. She was wearing only a thong and stockings. Taylor was shocked. “I please you better than any man,” the girl purred.

  “No, no,” Taylor cried, breaking into a run. This place was so awful. It had looked glamorous the night she’d been at the Moulin Rouge with Marilyn and Louis but tonight it was plain seedy. Left and right she could see sex shops with flashing neon lights and she was constantly heckled by men inviting her to come into their club. She didn’t notice the two men following her. They’d seen her getting out of the taxi and knew she wasn’t looking for sex. One of them caught up with her.

  “Can I help you?” he asked politely. “Are you looking for something?”

  She was gasping for breath. He was well spoken and looked quite well dressed. How come they all knew she spoke English, she wondered. She didn’t realise that she stood out like a sore thumb in her Versace leather coat, her gold and diamonds and her Hermès Birkin bag.

  “Maybe some heroin?” he asked, again very politely.

  “No, not heroin,” she replied. “Coke. I need cocaine.”

  “No problem, madame. You got cash?”

  “Sure,” she said, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “€100. Okay?”

  “That’s fine,” she said, taking the money out of her bag and giving it to him.

  He handed her a packet and she clasped it tightly in her hand.

  “Thanks,” she smiled at him. She’d got it, she’d got it! “Where can I get a taxi here?”

  “If you take the next turn left, you will have no problem.”

  She smiled her thanks at him but, before following his directions, she slipped into the nearest café where she ordered a cognac. As the waiter was getting it she went into the ladies’ where she snorted two lines of coke. The relief!

  She sat looking around the café as she sipped her drink. The cocaine had hit the right spot and she felt exhilarated. Who would have thought that she would be able to go out in Paris and score some coke by herself? Take that, Marilyn! I don’t need you any more, or Louis. I can manage it on my own. She laughed triumphantly, patting the little packet that she’d slipped into her pants pocket.

  Throwing back the remains of the cognac she paid the waiter, telling him to keep the change. He smiled in delight.

  She left the café and went in the direction the drug dealer had given her to find a taxi. She didn’t notice him standing in a nearby doorway, nor the signal that he gave to his friend to follow her. Turning into the quiet street, she didn’t hear the man coming up behind her. Next thing she knew she was knocked to the ground. He tried to grab her bag off her but she clung on to it. He started punching her then and the pain almost rendered her unconscious. She could taste blood as he took her bag and then he pulled her coat off her, roughly twisting her arms. Lastly he pulled her jewellery off her neck and wrists, leaving her bruised and bleeding. Mercifully, she then passed out.

  While his wife was experiencing this trauma Brandon was safe in Chantal’s arms, all thoughts of his wife far away. Chantal was so easy to be with and she was very sweet indeed. She’d promised to bring him back some local cheese from Normandy the following Monday and he offered to bring the wine and bread. They’d settled into a relaxed routine and the sex was still fantastic. He was becoming very fond of her. For now, she filled a need in his life.

  Coming in quietly that night, he was relieved to see that Taylor had gone to bed. Going quietly into his own room, within five minutes he was sleeping. He was awakened by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Sleepily he fumbled for the handset, thinking that at this hour it must be a call from the States. They constantly forgot about the six-hour time difference.

  “Good evening, is this Monsieur Brandon Hartford?”

  “Yes,” he replied, fully awake now. This was a French accent on the phone.

  “This is Capitaine Moreau of the Paris Gendarmerie. I am calling from the Lariboisière hospital. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your wife was admitted here tonight. Can you come, please?”

  “No, there must be some mistake. My wife is here sleeping,” Brandon said as he jumped out of bed and ran to Taylor’s room.

  He stood stock-still as he saw that the room was empty and that he
r bed had not been slept in.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled into the phone. “She’s not here. Is she okay?”

  “She’s alive but unconscious. Can you come quickly?”

  Brandon could barely speak. “Yes, of course, I’ll come right away,” he replied his voice and hands shaking. “What hospital did you say?”

  “Lariboisière. It’s quite near the Gare du Nord – the North Station. I’ll be waiting for you. Good evening.”

  Brandon thought he was in the middle of a nightmare. Could this be happening? He jumped into his clothes and rushed out where he luckily found a taxi quite quickly. He couldn’t think straight on the short journey there but still felt it must be all some horrible mistake. Taylor was probably out somewhere with Marilyn. Oh God, he cried, as he realised that probably they’d been in a car crash.

  Running into the hospital he gave the night receptionist Taylor’s name.

  “Ah, yes, just hold on a moment,” he replied, making a phone call. “The capitaine will be with you shortly.”

  “Where’s my wife. I want to see my wife!” Brandon cried in exasperation.

  “Monsieur Hartford?” said the dapper young man who came towards him. “I am Capitaine Moreau. Please come with me.” He led him into a small room off the foyer. “Please, sit.” The policeman motioned him to a chair.

  “Please, I’d like to see my wife as soon as possible. What happened? Was it a car crash?” he asked, distraught. Visions of Princess Diana went through his head.

  “No, not a car accident. She was attacked, in Montmartre, at about ten thirty this evening.”

  “Attacked?” Brandon repeated, not able to take it in. “What about her friend, Marilyn? Was she attacked too?”

  “Your wife was quite alone. Luckily, a passer-by found her and called 15 for an ambulance.”

  “That’s not possible! She’d never have been there alone. Not Montmartre, at night.” He was sure now they’d got the wrong woman. “May I see her, please?”

  “Yes, follow me, but let me warn you, she is not a pretty sight.”

  Moreau wasn’t joking. Brandon barely recognised the figure lying in the intensive care room. Her face was bruised and battered and she had an oxygen mask on. She had cuts and bruises on her hands and arms and a deep cut at the base of her neck. She was attached to a heart monitor and the beep, beep of it was the only reassuring thing there. She had just regained consciousness, the nurse told him, but would need monitoring for some time.

  “Oh God, Taylor, what happened to you?” he cried, taking her hand.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him bleakly before closing them again.

  “It’s better if we let her sleep,” the nurse said gently, leading Brandon from the room. “The doctor would like to have a word with you, if you would please take a seat.”

  He sat down heavily, his head in his hands. What was Taylor doing in Montmartre alone at that hour of the night? It didn’t make sense.

  “Mr Hartford? I’m Doctor Winters. I’d like to talk to you about your wife.”

  To his surprise, the young woman was American.

  “Will she be okay? She’s not in any danger, is she?”

  “Not from her injuries, no. They’re pretty superficial although I know it must look frightening. No, they’ll heal quickly. I’m more concerned about her substance abuse.”

  “Substance abuse?” He looked at her as though she were talking Chinese. “What do you mean ‘substance abuse’?”

  “Well, your wife has a large amount of hydrocodone and oxycodone in her system, coupled with a substantial amount of cocaine.”

  This woman was nuts. What was she trying to get at? Taylor would never have taken things like that. He laughed nervously.

  “Oh no, Doctor, I’m sure you’re mistaken. My wife has never taken drugs except for the odd few painkillers and maybe Valium and she certainly has never taken cocaine.” He laughed again.

  “Mr Hartford, these substances I mentioned are not only painkillers but also opiates and your wife has been ingesting them in large quantities,” she said gently.

  “Oh my God,” he stared at her bleakly. “And the cocaine?”

  Doctor Winters looked towards Capitaine Moreau.

  “She was carrying a substantial amount of cocaine on her person when she was admitted and had ingested some recently,” the policeman said. “We suspect that that is the reason she was in that area alone, at that hour of the night. It’s the centre of the drugs trade here in Paris.” He looked sympathetically at Brandon. “I’m sorry.”

  Brandon was ashen-faced.

  “Had you no idea that your wife was addicted to these drugs?” the doctor asked.

  Brandon didn’t know what to say. How was it possible that she’d been doing all this under his nose and that he’d been unaware of it? He didn’t blame them for not believing him. He could hardly believe it himself.

  “No,” he said quietly, “I honestly didn’t know, but then we lead very separate lives. We haven’t shared a bedroom for over twenty years so she could be doing anything in private and I wouldn’t have known.” He thought for a while.

  “She’s been having a lot of mood swings lately but I assumed it was because she’s been drinking very heavily. Oh, God, I can’t believe it,” he cried, burying his head in his hands. “What can I do?”

  “Well, she’ll certainly have to go into rehab. We have some very good facilities here in Paris,” Doctor Winters informed him.

  “She’d never agree to that. I’ll have to take her back to New York.”

  “Wherever, but the sooner she gets treatment the better. If she goes on like this she’ll kill herself,” she stated firmly, trying to stress the urgency of it to him.

  “When do you think she’ll be able to come out and when will she be ready to travel?” he asked her.

  “Just a day or two, I should think.”

  “Okay, I’ll organise that,” he sighed.

  “In the meantime, we’ll do our best to apprehend the person responsible for attacking her,” the policeman assured him, “but I’m afraid that will prove very difficult. By the way, she had no bag on her when she was admitted so I presume it was stolen in the attack. She did however have these credit cards in her pocket which was how we traced you.” He held out Taylor’s wallet.

  “Thank you, Capitaine,” Brandon said, taking the wallet and sliding it into his jacket pocket. “I’m sorry about all this.” He held out his hands helplessly.

  The policeman smiled sympathetically at him as he bade him au revoir.

  Brandon went in with the doctor to see Taylor once more. She was sleeping peacefully.

  “You may as well go home and get some sleep,” Doctor Winters said gently. “We gave her a sedative so she’ll sleep till morning. We’ll call you if there’s any change.” She felt sorry for the poor man. He was obviously cultured and a thorough gentleman. She’d believed him when he’d said that he’d had no idea what his wife was up to. It never ceased to surprise her the way some people lived. “If you need to talk to me again, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can,” she told him, shaking his hand.

  She left him to his thoughts. They weren’t good ones.

  Wearily he left the hospital but he knew he wouldn’t get much sleep. He poured himself a large whisky when he got home and sat mulling over the events of the night. He felt guilty and ashamed that he hadn’t noticed what his wife had been doing. It said a lot for their marriage. Going into Taylor’s room he checked her drawers and bathroom and found the Vicodin, Oxycontin and Valium as well as several other drugs and two empty bottles of vodka. How had it come to this? Well, he thought as he got wearily into bed, it’s time I did something to rectify the matter.

  35

  Brandon rang Jazz the following morning to say that he would be late in to work.

  “Can you continue on with what we were doing yesterday, till I get there?” he asked.

  “Of course. Is everything okay?” She sensed he was not h
is usual self.

  “No, I’m afraid not, but I’d prefer if you wouldn’t mention this to the others,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked with concern.

  “Taylor’s in hospital. I’ll explain all when I see you.”

  “Okay,” she replied, a little flummoxed.

  He also rang Yves to say he’d be late but didn’t elaborate further. He then took the metro to the hospital. He knew there was no way he would find a taxi during the Paris morning rush-hour.

  He arrived at the hospital to find Taylor awake and looking slightly better than the night before. They’d taken off the oxygen mask and had cleaned her up.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked her as he sat on the edge of her bed.

  “How do you think I’m feeling?” she retorted.

  He sighed. She hadn’t lost her sharp tongue along with everything else.

  “I know about the drugs, Taylor,” he said quietly.

  She turned her head away from him.

  “The doctor says you’re very lucky to be alive but you have to stop. They recommend that you enter rehab.”

  “Not here in Paris!” she cried, attempting to sit up in the bed.

  “No, I told them I’d take you back to New York.”

  “Thank God for that.” She lay back down, grimacing. “What do they know here anyway?”

  “Are you sore?” he asked sympathetically.

  “What do you think? Of course I’m sore,” she said sulkily.

  “Have they said when you’ll be able to come home?”

  “No. They’re talking of moving me to a ward but I absolutely refuse to go. If I can’t have a private room, then I want to go home.”

  The nurse came in then and Taylor told her, in a haughty voice, that she would be going home if there was no private room available.

  “I’m afraid you will have to speak to the doctor about that.”

  “Where can I find her?” Brandon asked the nurse.

  “If you go out to the desk, the sister-in-charge will contact her for you.”