The Art of Keeping Secrets

by Rachael Johns

  ‘And long-distance relationships never work anyway, but I’m not asking for you to move in with me.’

  Every hair on the back of her neck quivered with awareness at his suggestive tone. ‘But you are asking something?’ she whispered.

  ‘That depends on what your answer would be. I wouldn’t want to make things awkward when we’ve only reconnected again after all these years.’

  She licked her lips and swallowed, her mouth suddenly parched. ‘My answer depends on what your question is.’

  ‘Felicity Bird,’ he began, using her maiden name, ‘would you like to come up to my room and have an adventure?’

  Nothing had ever sounded so enticing. Flick pushed aside the thought that maybe she was being hasty, that maybe she was doing this to upset Seb, and followed the cravings of her body instead of the cautions of her head. ‘Yes, please.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Emma

  Emma awoke to a dark room—only the flashing lights from Times Square sneaking through the gaps in the curtains. With a groan, she felt around on her bedside table for her mobile. The screen read 11.15 pm. Hallelujah; she’d managed about four hours of sleep before her pounding skull had woken her.

  But hang on, shouldn’t Neve be back by now?

  She must have been exhausted not to have woken up when Neve returned, because surely the others wouldn’t have been able to keep their voices down when discussing the evening’s events. Frowning, Emma angled her mobile phone to cast light over the room. She was surprised to see both beds empty. Had Neve and Flick gone down to the bar so as not to disturb her? With no fear of waking her absent friends, she sat up, turned on the bedside light and sent a message to them: Where the hell are you? How did James react?

  While waiting for a response, she popped two painkillers from the packet by her bed and swallowed; not that drugs were doing any good. She blamed Max for putting her under added stress by taking her babies away on their fifteenth birthday. What had she ever seen in the bastard? There should be a warning for innocent young women across the foreheads of all hot, young guys: Beware—outer package does not necessarily reflect what is inside!

  Irritated when neither of her friends replied, she logged into Facebook and posted ‘happy birthday’ messages on Louise’s and Laura’s walls, glad to be the first to do so. If it were up to her, the girls wouldn’t have Facebook accounts yet, but Max had given them permission two years ago without consulting her. When she’d confronted him about it, he’d accused her of being an old stick-in-the-mud and told her to get with the times.

  She spent the next few minutes torturing herself by scrolling through the kids’ profiles and staring at all the happy family snaps they’d posted in Hawaii. Chanel, who didn’t look much older than the girls, was all skin and bones in a skimpy gold bikini. Onlookers probably assumed she was Max’s oldest daughter but Emma worried about the influence she might have on the girls. And was that beer Caleb and Max were sharing? She felt like throwing up. Discarding her phone on the bedside table in disgust, she climbed out of bed and headed into the bathroom, switching on the light as she entered.

  Her gaze caught on her image in the mirror. Why do hotels have to have such huge mirrors?

  As if she wasn’t depressed enough, her reflection threatened to send her over the edge. If she couldn’t love herself, how could she ever expect anyone else to? No wonder Max had left her. No wonder the kids preferred spending time with him.

  And where the hell are Flick and Neve? She tapped her fingers against the vanity.

  If she weren’t looking so dire, she’d drag on some clothes and go downstairs to look for her friends; anything would be better than sitting here feeling sorry for herself. But by the time she’d pulled together the miracle that would be making herself presentable for a public viewing, they’d probably be back anyway. Emma sighed, hating herself for being such a grump.

  As she turned towards the toilet and pulled down her pyjama pants, a sharp pain shot to her head, stronger and more intense than usual.

  What happened next was a blur.

  One moment she was lowering herself onto the toilet seat, the next she awoke on the cold tiles—her head aching worse than ever. She reached up to touch her forehead and gasped when she looked at her fingers and saw blood. She scrambled up, pulling herself to her feet with the aid of the toilet, and realised blood wasn’t the only liquid on the floor. Her PJs were sodden and a giveaway smell had her screwing up her nose.

  Oh my God!

  Self-loathing washed over her.

  She came face to face with herself in the mirror and gasped again. If she’d thought her appearance bad before, now she looked like she’d painted her face for Halloween and sprayed a pungent aroma all over her to make the costume more authentic. In an effort to pull herself together, Emma yanked tissues from the box on the counter and pressed them against the blood seeping out of the top of her head. She applied as much pressure as she could stand to try and stop the flow.

  Had she tripped on her pyjama bottoms and stumbled? It was the only logical possibility.

  She pulled back the tissues to check her wound but the flow of blood hadn’t eased up at all. So many times she’d tended to cuts and scrapes on the kids and had instinctively always known what to do, but right now she had nothing.

  An ice pack, she thought, after a few moments. That might do the trick and also reduce the chances of her spending the rest of her time in New York wandering around with an egg-sized bump on her head. Make-up might be able to hide the grey beneath her eyes, but nothing could hide a mountain with a Harry Potter scar on her forehead. There was no ice in the minibar, but there was an ice machine down the corridor. She could wrap a few cubes up in a face-washer. Feeling marginally better, Emma grabbed a few clean tissues to replace the bloodied ones and then, with the heel of her hand pressed against her forehead, she opened the bathroom door.

  Thank God her friends weren’t back yet.

  She removed her wet pyjamas and shoved them in a plastic bag to deal with later, then went back into the bathroom to clean herself up and put on fresh clothes. Doing so wasn’t easy while keeping one hand pressed against her seeping wound, but somehow she managed. Then, deciding against shoes, she grabbed the ice bucket and located her key card but the door opened before she got to it.

  Flick took one look at her and shrieked. ‘Oh my goodness, what have you done?’ She marched inside and flung her handbag onto the bed. She stared at Emma’s head, her eyes wide in horror at the new tissues already soaked in blood.

  ‘Where’ve you been? Where’s Neve?’ Emma asked, feeling a little dizzy again.

  ‘Sit down,’ Flick instructed, ignoring Emma’s question and taking hold of her arm to usher her onto the bed. ‘What happened?’

  Emma swallowed, her throat dry. ‘I’m not exactly sure. I woke up and went to the toilet. I think I must have tripped on my PJs and hit my head on the edge of the shower.’

  ‘Let me have a look.’ Flick gently drew the tissues away from Emma’s head. ‘Good lord, you’ve done a good job.’ She rushed into the bathroom and returned a moment later with the tissues, whipping out another wad and replacing the bloodied ones.

  ‘Do you think you could go get some ice for me?’ Emma asked, trying not to wince at the pain.

  Flick raised an eyebrow. ‘Honey, that needs more than ice. You’re going to need stitches.’

  ‘No. Way.’ Emma shook her head, which only aggravated the agony. ‘I hate hospitals.’

  ‘I’m putting my foot down on this one.’ And before Emma could object further, Flick had picked up the hotel phone. A moment later she was speaking. ‘It’s Felicity Bell from Room 4012. Is there a doctor on call in the building? No, I don’t think we can wait that long. Can you make sure there’s a taxi, I mean cab, for us downstairs straight away and let me know your nearest 24-hour medical facility?’

  Ten minutes later, Emma found herself sitting beside Flick in a yellow cab on her way to hospital.
A late-night emergency room in one of the world’s busiest cities was not what she’d envisaged for her kid-free holiday.

  Could things get any worse?

  ‘Where’s Neve?’ she finally asked again, trying to distract herself from the pain and melancholy thoughts.

  Flick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her since she left. Do you think we should be worried?’

  Emma didn’t have the brain space to worry about anything besides her head right now, but she made an effort. ‘By Neve’s standards, it’s not that late. Maybe they’re talking about Will. James probably has lots of questions for her.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. It just feels like so much time has passed since she went to the theatre. Do you need more tissues?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ They did the switch and Emma couldn’t help notice Flick seemed out of sorts. ‘Are you okay? Where were you?’

  She took a few seconds to reply. ‘I got bored waiting for Neve, so I went to the bar for a drink. I’ll tell you about it later.’

  Although that sounded inauspicious, Emma didn’t press for further information; she needed all her energy to press the tissues against her head. They sat in silence for the rest of the trip—Emma praying that the blood would miraculously stop flowing and they could return to the hotel. But there were no miracles on 114th Street by the time they arrived. Flick worked out the tip for the first time since they’d been in New York. Good thing, because Emma didn’t think her brain capable of maths right now.

  ‘Good luck, ladies,’ said the driver before Flick slammed the back door and he drove off to search for his next job.

  Emma took a step towards the entrance and almost stumbled. Flick reached out to steady her and didn’t let go again until they were inside the ER and she’d deposited Emma on a hard plastic chair.

  ‘You wait here. I’ll go talk to someone.’

  Thankful that she had her friend to take care of her, Emma held her head and prayed they wouldn’t have to wait hours in this cold, sterile place. For some reason she’d expected something a little more sophisticated in New York, but it appeared hospitals were the same the world round. Beige walls with rows of uncomfortable seats, a smell of disinfectant, and if you were lucky, magazines to read while you waited and a TV hanging in a corner, the volume not high enough to hear.

  Having watched plenty of American medical dramas where patients waited for hours on end, Emma couldn’t believe it when Flick returned not long after with a tall, beefy guy dressed in navy blue scrubs and wearing a bandana on his head. Tattoos covered his thick neck and he was pushing a wheelchair.

  ‘Blood spurting from the head must be high on the priority scale around here. They’re going to assess you straight away,’ Flick informed her.

  ‘You must be Emma,’ said the giant, not meeting her eyes as he scribbled something down on a clipboard. ‘Come on through.’ Without another word, he all but heaved her up and deposited her into the wheelchair.

  ‘I can walk,’ she objected, but ignoring her, he sped off as if he were in training for the wheelchair–pushing Olympics. She gripped the sides of the chair and the bloodied tissues fell into her lap. ‘Flick?’

  ‘Your friend can wait out here while we fix you up,’ boomed the man she assumed to be some kind of nurse. When she’d thought tall and beefy, she’d been thinking Hagrid rather than Thor. This guy might be able to lift heavy things but he had little bedside manner and she wasn’t sure she’d trust him with a needle and surgical thread either. Where were the hot, sexy medical types she drooled over on the likes of Grey’s Anatomy and House? She hoped Hagrid would soon be handing her over to Dr McDreamy.

  No. Such. Luck.

  He wheeled her to a cubicle where a matronly woman almost the size of him waited, her arms folded and a stethoscope around her neck. She gave Emma a curt nod as Hagrid lifted her out of the wheelchair and onto an assessment table. He pushed the wheelchair outside and then stepped back into the cubicle and drew the curtain. Emma gulped as the woman came close and scrutinised her.

  ‘I’m Doctor Chiarelli,’ the woman said after a few moments of peering at Emma’s head like it was a newly discovered insect. ‘I see you have a nasty head wound. You’ll need stitches.’

  No kidding.

  As Dr Chiarelli began firing questions, the giant nurse, who still remained nameless, started to tend Emma’s gash. He cleaned it with saline solution and then laid out some scary-looking instruments on a tray.

  ‘How did you injure yourself?’ The doctor spoke as if addressing a naughty child who’d fallen and split her head to get attention.

  Wanting to get out of there as fast as possible, Emma answered each question as best she could. ‘I had been asleep and I got up to go to the bathroom and must have fallen and knocked my head on the tiled shower edge.’

  ‘Must have? Did anyone witness this fall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you live in New York?’

  Emma shook her head. And then remembered that it hurt. Ouch! Hagrid wasn’t impressed either. ‘Hold still,’ he grunted.

  ‘I’m here on holiday.’

  ‘From Australia.’ The doctor smiled victoriously for the first time. Did she want Emma to compliment her on cleverly picking the accent?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘No, I’m here with two friends.’

  ‘And neither of them saw your fall?’ It sounded like the bloody Spanish Inquisition.

  ‘No. They were out.’ What had any of this got to do with her need for stitches?

  A frown formed on Doctor Chiarelli’s face. ‘Had you been drinking?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you bite your tongue?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. Although the gash on her head hurt so badly that she may not have noticed a little tongue abrasion.

  ‘Did you lose continence of bladder or bowel?’

  Her cheeks heating in humiliation, Emma confessed that yes, she had lost control of her bladder when she’d fallen.

  ‘I see,’ said the doctor, her tone ominous. ‘Do you know how long you were on the floor?’

  She wanted to say something sarcastic about not having her egg-timer with her, but she didn’t think Dr Chiarelli would find this amusing. She wasn’t sure Dr Chiarelli found anything amusing. ‘I guess a few seconds.’

  ‘You guess, but you don’t know?’ The doctor didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Have you any sore muscles?’

  ‘Only my head, but that’s been giving me grief for weeks.’

  This caused an expression of concern to cross the doctor’s face. ‘You’ve been having headaches for a while?’

  Geez! Why on earth had she admitted this? But somehow she didn’t have the wherewithal to lie. ‘Yes, a few.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Emma tried to shrug but lying down made it difficult to do so. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a couple of months.’

  ‘And have you seen anyone? A doctor in Australia?’

  ‘No.’ Emma prepared herself for the older woman’s disapproval.

  ‘I see.’ These two words sounded prophetic. Emma wanted to ask what exactly she saw but the doctor spoke again before she could. ‘I’m going to stitch you up now and then we’ll run some tests.’

  ‘Tests?’ Emma’s heart shot up to her throat. Stitches were bad enough but she didn’t want to be poked and prodded by this terrifying pair. She suddenly felt terribly homesick. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  Dr Chiarelli pursed her lips. ‘It’s merely a precaution to make sure your fall was simply a trip or a faint and not the result of something more worrying, like a seizure.’

  Seizure? Emma gulped. She didn’t remember falling and couldn’t say exactly how long she’d been on the floor but surely she’d have known if she’d convulsed? ‘What … kind of tests?’

  ‘We’ll run some bloods—’ Eek, needles! ‘—and do a full neurological and physical examination and a scan of your head to start with.’
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  Before Emma could ask any further questions—like exactly what a ‘full neurological and physical examination’ entailed—Dr Chiarelli announced, ‘Right, let’s get these stitches done.’ She had a gleam in her eyes as if she quite liked this part of her job.

  Sadist!

  Chapter Thirty

  Genevieve

  Her head resting against his chest, Neve listened to James’s heartbeat as he slept, his legs entwined with hers and his arms holding her close. They’d had sex in the kitchen and then in the shower, before moving into his bedroom and doing it all over again. No doubt muscles all over her body would ache tomorrow. Even in her younger years, she couldn’t remember doing it more than once in a night. When she and James were together all those years ago, they’d had to steal moments here and there and he’d always gone home to his wife afterwards, so she’d never spent the whole night in his arms. Sure, they’d snuggled after sex—he wasn’t one of those men who roll over and immediately fall asleep or leave.

  She had fond recollections of lying in his arms, happy and satiated, as he played with her hair and they’d talked about everything under the sun. It wasn’t just an amazing sexual tension they’d shared. They were also both passionate about musicals and movies, eating out and hundreds of other little things. Letting him go after making love, watching him as he’d climbed out of her bed and dressed, knowing that he was going home to her, had broken Neve’s heart every single time. So many times she’d told herself she should end it—everyone knew married men never left their wives for their mistresses—but she hadn’t been able to do so until she’d found herself pregnant. That had been the catalyst.

  The thought of Will intruded on her nostalgia. Reality shattered her post-coital bliss as guilt and self-loathing warred with the joy of reconnecting with the only man she’d ever truly loved. A lump formed in her throat and she blinked back tears. She had lied to the two most important people in her world. What a mess she’d gotten herself into. Yet, although her head was scolding her selfishness, her body had far fewer scruples. Her body loved the feeling of his naked skin against hers and urged her to wake him—to slide down his body and rouse him from slumber by taking him into her mouth.