Aisling stretched up and gave him a kiss in answer, and headed off in the direction of the ladies’.
She looked in the mirror and sighed at her washed-out appearance and flattened, lifeless hair. She rummaged in her handbag and found a hair-elastic to tie her hair back in a pony-tail, and then she washed her face thoroughly. She patted it dry and looked in the mirror again – wishing that her make-up bag was not in the car along with her fresh clothes and perfume.
Then, she felt an enormous surge of guilt for thinking of such trivial things when poor Thomas was so ill – and possibly even dying.
As tears started welling up in her eyes, Aisling took a tissue from her bag, and pressed it tightly to her eyelids. Things were bad enough without Jameson having to comfort her as well as worry about his stricken son.
Looking as reasonable as she could, she headed for the door in the restroom. As her hand reached for the handle, it was suddenly pushed inwards – almost knocking her off her balance. Then a very polished-looking, dark-haired woman in a red suit wafted past her, without a glance or word of apology. She headed straight for the mirror, checking her perfectly styled shiny black bob, and reaching for her blood-red lipstick.
The hospital restaurant was almost empty, with only a few people dotted here and there. Jameson was sitting at a corner table waiting for Aisling. “I called my parents,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “They’re both in a bad way . . . blaming themselves for what happened to Thomas. They sounded completely exhausted.”
Aisling stretched out a comforting hand. “These awful things happen . . . but it’s not anybody’s fault.”
“I guess these things do happen . . .”
Aisling lifted her bag. “Shall I get us some breakfast?” she asked, trying to sound brighter. “You might feel better after eating.”
Jameson stood up. “I’ll get it,” he said quickly.
“No,” Aisling said firmly. “You buy everything for us – and this is only breakfast. Let me do it for you this time.”
At the counter, Aisling looked at the display of rolls and pastries, searching for something that just might coax his appetite a little. She eventually settled for some croissants and coffee, plus a couple of portions of fruit salad. She paid for them and then turned to lift the tray, when she noticed a figure in red standing by their table.
It was the glamorous, black-haired woman who had so rudely bumped into her in the ladies’ room.
Something made Aisling halt in her tracks – and she stood for a few moments just watching them. Watching the way the elegant woman was now stretching a hand out to pat Jameson’s shoulder in a familiar manner. A too-familiar manner. Watching the way her dark head was now bent low – with her face almost touching his.
Very slowly, Aisling made her way back to the table, hoping all the while that the woman would move. But instead, she actually sat down in the chair next to Jameson. Then she dragged the chair in closer to him – until their knees must have been almost touching.
Aisling felt her throat tighten as she moved nearer the table, and neither Jameson or the woman seemed to notice her until she actually placed the tray down on in front of them.
“Oh, hi,” Jameson said. He first looked up at her, and then quickly glanced at the woman. “Aisling . . .” he said, kind of awkwardly, “this is Verity. Thomas’s mother.”
Aisling’s legs suddenly felt wobbly, and she sat down hurriedly in the metal chair, her heart sinking. Her intuition had been right. Now she knew why the woman had made her feel uneasy.
She forced herself to stretch out a hand towards the Jackie Kennedy-type woman. After just the tiniest pause, Verity offered a well-manicured hand.
Aisling noticed her nails were painted scarlet to match the suit.
“And you are?” Verity asked, arching her meticulously shaped eyebrows.
Aisling’s eyes darted in Jameson’s direction, wondering who or what she should describe herself as. His girlfriend? His travelling companion?
Jameson reached over to take her hand. “Aisling is my friend,” he said quietly. He lifted her hand up, making sure that there was no mistake about their close relationship. “My very special friend.”
Verity sat back in her chair, her arms folded. “I see,” was all she said – but her tone was not warm.
“I’m also Thomas’s friend,” Aisling said. “That’s why I travelled down here to be with him.”
“That was real nice of you,” Verity said, her eyebrows lifting high again. She leaned forward now. “And just how long have you all been such good friends?”
“Since Aisling came over from Ireland . . . some time ago.” Jameson was deliberately vague, and Aisling noticed that his voice had now taken on the cool tone she’d heard him use when they first met. “Aisling’s staying in one of the houses up at Lake Savannah. She met Thomas out swimming in the lake . . . and they got along instantly. She’s a teacher, and I’m sure she has a wonderful instinct for all kind of kids.” He paused, obviously making a point. “Anyway, Thomas introduced us.”
“How touching,” Verity said, smiling. She looked from one to the other, her brow slightly furrowed. “So,” she said a few moments later, “what do you think after seeing him . . . do you think he’ll pull through?”
“Sure,” Jameson said, his eyes steely. “Sure he’ll make it.”
Verity nodded. “Good,” she said, her smile showing off a row of perfect, white teeth.
“I think he’ll make it, too.”
Aisling passed the coffee pot and breakfast plates across the table to Jameson, then she turned to Verity. “There’s enough coffee for three in the pot – shall I get another cup for you?”
Verity stooped to the floor to pick up her black patent handbag. “No, no,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt you guys.”
Jameson pushed his chair back. “You’re not interrupting us, Verity,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ll get the cup.”
She looked up at him, her head tilted slightly, and her eyes were bright this time. “Thank you, Jameson,” she said, “I guess I will have some coffee – it might help keep me awake.” She ran a hand through her sleek, bobbed hair, and when he moved away from the table she reached in her handbag for her compact to check her make-up and re-apply her lipstick.
“I look an absolute fright,” she told Aisling, surveying herself in the mirror. “Jameson is not at all used to seeing me like this.” She gave a little shrug and snapped the compact shut. “But, I suppose it is a crisis.”
“It certainly is,” Aisling replied curtly.
Verity put her compact away. Then, she leaned her elbows on the table with her hands tucked daintily under her chin and said: “You sure do surprise me.”
“In what way?” Aisling asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
“Because,” said the elegant Verity, “you’re not at all Jameson’s usual type.” She paused for a moment, waiting for Aisling to respond. When there was no response forthcoming, she said: “Well – you could hardly say that we two are alike. Could you?” Her eyebrows quivered.
“No . . .” Aisling said, wondering where this was going.
“You see, men are funny creatures . . . they usually go for similar types. And given the fact that we were man and wife for a number of years, you would imagine he would pick someone similar to me in some way. But then . . .” She broke off with a little smile, and lowered her head.
“But then?” Aisling prompted, curious to hear what was coming next.
“Well . . . Jameson did say you were particularly good with kids . . . I presume he meant handicapped or retarded kids like Thomas.”
“I like most children,” Aisling said, lifting a croissant she didn’t really want onto her plate. “Being handicapped or otherwise makes no difference.”
“Well,” Verity said, admiring her nails, “that probably explains the attraction. I would imagine that Jameson finds it difficult at times – you know – having complete responsibility fo
r him . . . Thomas.” She threw back her hair. “Not that I haven’t offered to help out myself, God knows. But I refuse to bury myself in that glorified cabin in the wilds. And if Jameson is still too stubborn to move back here – what can I do?”
Aisling took a deep breath. “I would say that’s between you and Jameson – it’s not my business.”
Verity looked up with a dazzling white smile. Too dazzling for the circumstances. “Precisely,” she said. “I think . . . I rather presumed that there was more to your little friendship . . .”
Little friendship? Aisling sucked in her breath, and willed herself to keep silent.
“How silly of me,” Verity rattled on. “There are so many different types of friendships, even between grown men and women. And there are so many obvious, fundamental differences between you. Even at first meeting I can see that.”
Aisling raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“The age difference for a start,” Verity stated. “Then of course the cultural differences. America must seem like another planet to someone like you . . . I believe Ireland is rather . . . how should I put it? Different?”
Then, before Aisling could respond, Jameson arrived back at the table.
“Thank you, darling,” Verity said, accepting the plain white cup. “I was just saying to your friend Aisling how different our American ways must seem to her. You know, compared to life in Ireland.”
“Yeah,” Jameson said, rather distractedly. “There’s bound to be a lot of differences.”
The piece of croissant in Aisling’s mouth suddenly seemed to swell until she felt it might choke her. Then, as she eventually swallowed it, a dreadful feeling of being in the way – of not belonging – engulfed her.
“Do you think we should go up to the ward soon?” Verity asked. She turned sideways in her chair, blocking Aisling from the conversation.
Jameson checked his watch and shrugged. “We’ll have our coffee, and by the time we head back up he might have started to come round.”
There was silence for a few moments as all three drank the hot, strong coffee. Then, Verity looked at Jameson again, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“D’you know what I was just thinking? When Thomas comes through all this – why don’t we take him on a trip to Disneyland? Christmas might be a good time.”
Jameson put his coffee cup down and looked at his ex-wife. “Disneyland?” he repeated in a stunned voice. He rolled his eyes in despair.
Verity tossed her hair in a manner reminiscent of a teenage girl, oblivious to – or ignoring – his reaction. “Why not? It would be livelier and more suitable for him than spending it up at that lake . . . or spending it at your folks’ place again.” She took a delicate sip of her coffee. “Anyway,” she said, “after what’s happened to him while he was staying with your parents . . . we’ll have to be more careful.”
“We?” Jameson looked as though he was going to explode. “Did you actually use the word ‘we’, Verity? Since when have you been interested in Thomas’s welfare?”
“Oh, come on, Jameson.” Verity narrowed her eyes. “We don’t need to rake over old arguments . . . not at a time like this.”
Jameson shrugged and gave a loud, annoyed sigh.
Aisling wished she were anywhere now – anywhere rather than stuck in between Jameson and this awful woman he had once been married to.
Apart from worry about poor Thomas, lack of sleep was beginning to catch up on her. And she was annoyed at herself for looking such a mess and not being able to do anything about it.
Verity suddenly stood up. “I’m going on ahead to the ward.” She took one last dainty sip of her black coffee. “I’ll see you later.” Then, without a glance in Aisling’s direction, she tapped her high-heeled shoes out of the canteen, as though she were a model on the catwalk.
“Christ!” Jameson’s voice was a low moan. “This is all we need – fucking Verity!”
Aisling stared at him without speaking, for she really did not know what to say. She was in very unfamiliar waters with this ex-wife who she had not bargained on meeting.
Jameson leaned across the table, his hand seeking hers. “I’m so sorry, Aisling . . . what a hellish mess I’ve brought you into.”
Aisling shook her head. “It’s nobody’s fault . . . poor Thomas didn’t ask to get knocked down.”
Jameson’s brow deepened. “I just feel everything is my fault . . .”
“But you weren’t even there,” Aisling told him. “It’s really silly blaming yourself.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have left him with my folks . . .” He shook his head. “They’re in their seventies . . . and maybe he was too much for them. But they always seemed so capable . . . and they love Thomas.”
Aisling squeezed his hand tightly. “It was an accident,” she said firmly. “It could have happened when he was with you.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. But the tone of his voice did not sound convinced. “You heard what Verity said – maybe other people will think the same thing.”
“People only have to see you and Thomas together to know how much you care for him.”
Jameson managed a shadow of a smile. “Thanks. You somehow make me feel okay about myself . . . even now.” And then, in the middle of the sterile, almost-empty café, he leaned over the formica table and kissed her tenderly. Then he looked into her eyes and said: “Aisling, I’m real sorry about Verity turning up. I should have realised, but with everything else – it never crossed my mind that we’d meet her. I should have known my parents would have given her name to the hospital.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Aisling said. “You have enough real problems.”
“She’s such a bitch . . . and it’s more blatant when she’s compared to someone like you.” He took a gulp of his coffee then stood up. “Shall we go?”
“Are you okay?” Aisling checked.
“I’m not looking forward to it,” he said, his eyes misting over. “I’m not looking forward to seeing him again all strapped up with wires and everything.”
Aisling stood up and stretched a hand out to him, and then together they walked slowly out into the corridor to catch the elevator back to Thomas’s ward.
Chapter 31
There was little change in the boy, although his breathing did not seem quite so laboured. Verity stood at one side of the bed, and Jameson and Aisling at the other. Very little conversation passed between them. Everyone’s attention focussed on the fragile figure in the bed.
After a while one of the nurses appeared at the door. “There are hospitality rooms downstairs,” she told them. “I checked them out, and they’re not taken tonight. They’re basic, but it would give you a chance to have a rest and still be close to Thomas.”
“Not for me, thank you,” Verity said, giving the nurse a forced little smile. “I’m going back to my apartment for a few hours . . . I have to change and sort out some things.” She looked at Jameson. “There’s a spare room for you . . .”
“We’ll be OK here,” he replied curtly without even looking at her. Then, he turned to the nurse. “My parents will be back fairly early, I should think. Could you call me when they arrive at the hospital? I’m just a bit concerned about my father . . .”
“Of course,” the nurse told him, “and I’ll leave a message down at the reception desk just in case.”
“Your father’s sick, Jameson?” Verity’s ears had pricked up. “It’s not serious or anything?”
He shrugged, barely glancing at her. “No . . . but he’s not a young man, and the stress of the accident won’t be too good for him.” He turned to Aisling. “He takes medication at specific times, and with the accident and rushing to hospital – he had to go home to sort it all out.”
“Well,” Verity said, turning on her heel, “I shall see you later then, Jameson.”
He sighed as the door closed behind her. “I thought she would never go. This situation is difficult enough without having her around constantly.”
While Aisling showered and shampooed her hair, Jameson went off to collect their stuff from the car. By the time he had showered too, she was already in one of the white-painted iron beds and dozing lightly, her hair still damp. She was vaguely aware of Jameson sitting on the side of her bed, stroking her hair and saying how sorry he was about everything. She smiled sleepily and kissed the back of his hand.
Several hours later, Aisling woke with a start. It was the nurse knocking on the door, to inform them that Jameson’s parents had arrived, and had gone upstairs to see Thomas.
As she watched Jameson rushing around getting ready, she suddenly said: “Maybe it would be best if you go on up to see Thomas on your own this time.”
He shook his head. “No . . . we’ll go together. I haven’t brought you all the way down here just to abandon you.”
Aisling hesitated. “I’d rather you went on your own.” She gestured to her clothes, some on the back of a chair and some in her bag. “I’m not ready yet . . . and it’ll give you time to talk to your parents on your own.” She could see the disappointment in his eyes. “I’ll come up soon, I promise.”
“Okay,” he said, “if that’s what you want.” He finished dressing, kissed her and left.
Aisling stayed sitting on the bed for a long time, thinking. She thought about Thomas lying upstairs, and her stomach and throat tightened in fear. Then she thought about Jameson’s parents and wondered what they would think when they met her.
And how they would feel if they knew she was a married woman.
So much had happened recently that she was struggling to keep up with everything. Then her thoughts moved to the most trivial – but irritating – issue of all. Verity.
The cool, perfect Verity.
And she didn’t need to wonder what Verity thought about her. First impressions were hard to forget – and Aisling knew her creased travelling clothes and scruffy hair had not done her any favours.
Aisling Gayle Page 29