Blue skies, blue seas. A lemon tree. What looks like a medieval fortress, perched up on a rock – and everything washed in the most brilliant, buttery sunlight. I can almost feel the warmth of it from here – despite the sound of the rain beating against glass.
Sea salt and sun. If he were here now, if I could bury my face in the side of his neck and breathe him in, that’s what Aidan would smell like. But he isn’t here. He’s there. Dozens of him, small enough to fit into the palm of my hand over and over again.
He’s on a stage in front of a green backdrop, his eyes laughing behind his glasses as he sits on a wooden chair with a copy of his book in his hand.
He’s gazing out over an azure sea, the wall he’s leaning against painted ochre-red.
He’s posing in front of a bookshop; the old-fashioned bow-fronted window artfully arranged with copies of Piecekeepers – Capolavoro, they’ve called it there. I don’t know if it even means the same thing – can it? And is it the same book if it has a different title? If the name is something else…can it be the same?
A salmon-pink sunset over a harbour wall.
A row of vast, glittering motor yachts; all of them glossy white with glistening steel rails. Lights under the surface turning the harbour water a glossy green.
Aidan – Haydn – again, on the deck of one of those boats as it leaves a tiny port; behind him a washed-out mountain looms over a misty coast. The caption below the photo reads: Working hard, playing hard in Ischia. Keeping an eye on Vesuvius though. Just in case… followed by a load of tags. Thankfully, he hasn’t included #blessed or #nofilter because the Winky Face of Idiocy is quite bad enough.
At least there’s no sign of any actresses in these. That helps.
Except…who took the photos?
Not him.
Who was with him? At the bookshop and the festival, probably someone from his publisher. But on the boat? Who was that?
I can’t bear to look for the photos Andy was talking about. It would be so easy – but then could I ever unsee them? Would they be better or worse than I imagine? As long as I don’t see them, I can tell myself what I want. As long as I don’t go looking, I’m still in control.
I guess it doesn’t really matter, does it? This is Haydn, not Aidan. This is public, not private. This is the famous bestselling author with his game face on (yes, it’s a bestseller already; no, of course I haven’t been checking, whatever would give that impression?), not the guy who spills UHT milk all over himself in the early hours of the morning. Not the one who’s allergic to lilies. Not the one who stood on the roof of a Brighton hotel with me and told me I knew him, even though I barely knew him at all…
And yet, however hard I tell myself that, there’s still this feeling.
I can’t control this, can I? People can’t be managed by to-do lists and feelings don’t stick to the plan. I can solve any problem you give me at a convention, any puzzle…but I can’t solve this.
I can’t solve him.
I took a risk, and what did it get me? This scraping sensation down the inside of my ribs; the feeling rattling down my arms that everything is too small and too imperfect and too stupid for words…
It’s all him…not me.
He said that himself. Aidan and Haydn aren’t the same. They aren’t. They aren’t. I tell myself that and I stare at the screen, at the tiny, tiny Haydns lined up in their neat little grid. These aren’t Aidan. They’re projections of him; ghosts. Masks and mirrors and what he wants the rest of the world to see. But they aren’t him. They aren’t what I see.
What was it Mum said? Stand up for myself? Be proud of who I am.
Right. So, I solve problems. I’m proud of that. It’s what I do.
And there’s only one way to solve this one: I’m going to call him.
Because Aidan is my problem.
I’m going to call him and talk to him and I’ll feel like I’ve done something useful, instead of sitting here under a table stalking him from halfway across a continent. If it matters, he’ll tell me who took the photos, he’ll tell me what happened at breakfast. He’ll tell me because I know him.
And if he doesn’t?
Shut up, Lexi.
I scuttle sideways out from beneath the table – and frighten the life out of one of the cleaners wiping the windows. He actually drops the cloth he’s using – I didn’t think I was that scary. I do feel better though. Lighter. This is good. This is a positive thing. I’ll speak to Aidan, and then I’ll catch Dad and ask him if we can talk. He’s been in such a perky mood that he might even say yes – and it’s not like he can tell me we don’t have enough staff for both of us to spare ten minutes for a chat, is it? I’ll tell him how much I love the conventions, how much I love what we do…but I need to look beyond them too, and work out who I am when I’m not being Max Angelo’s perfectly organized, perfectly in-control daughter. I’ll have to do it sooner or later – might as well make it sooner, right?
If I can keep out of the way of the scavenger hunters, this might even turn out to be a good day.
I’m almost at the door when I hear footsteps – running footsteps – and suddenly Sam bursts through the doors into the banquet hall.
“Lexi.”
She’s out of breath; she’s been looking for me.
“What? If it’s about the lift, I know and—”
“It’s not the lift.” She shakes her head. “You’d better come. The ambulance will be here any time…”
“Stop. Ambulance?” Oh, god. One of the convention members has had an accident. That must be it. How many first-aiders have we got? Where did I put the insurance forms? Do we have any doctors around or do I need to call the hotel one? Dad’ll know. “Okay. Is Dad there already or do I need to call him?” Bugger. Left the walkie in the ops room. We’ll have to run back there to fetch it…
Sam’s face turns ashen. “You don’t know. Oh god.”
“Know what?”
“Lex, it’s your dad. The ambulance is for him.”
My phone slips from my fingers and something cracks as it hits the floor – but what that is, I simply don’t know.
Inside the ambulance, everything is bright. Too bright. It burns.
Dad is strapped to a stretcher, and against the red blanket his skin looks sallow and saggy. His eyes have sunk deeper into their sockets and somewhere along the way he seems to have banged his head and there’s a shiny, tight look to one side of his forehead. It must have happened when he fell.
The paramedic leans over Dad and holds out something small and white. “Max? Max? I’m going to spray something under your tongue.”
Obediently, Dad opens his mouth…and at that precise moment I understand both how scared he is, and that I’ve never seen him scared before. Not of anything. Not at all.
He was already on the stretcher and trolley when I got to the lobby; the blanket pulled right up to his chin as the paramedics wheeled him out through the open doors. There were people everywhere – hotel staff, convention staff and members…a sea of faces staring blankly at my father. Sam barged them out of the way and shoved me in front of her. “Wait! She’s going with you!”
The second paramedic stopped and looked at me. “Are you his next of kin?”
“I’m his daughter.”
“Come in the back.” He ushered me with him to the open doors at the back of the ambulance.
“Sam!” I shouted back to the doors. “Call Bea! Her number—”
“I’ll find it. Go.” She held up a hand in goodbye as I climbed in behind the stretcher and somebody slammed the ambulance doors shut.
“Mr Angelo?” The paramedic is holding a clipboard and pen, peering at Dad.
“I’m perfectly…just need…” Dad’s voice is thin and wheezy – and ambulance or not, he’s obviously not listening to a word.
The paramedic gives up. “Do you know if your father has any allergies?” He’s talking to me now, isn’t he? And it’s the weirdest thing, but all I can think is that I
should be the one with a clipboard because that’s what I do. Nobody else gets to hold the clipboard. It ought to be me.
“Penicillin, I think?” My voice sounds shaky and small, smothered by the siren speeding us on our way.
“You think?”
“I’m not sure. He’s got this story about how he was given it when he had tonsillitis or something when he was a kid and he came out in a huge rash, and because it was summer he just walked around the house in his swimming trunks.”
This was probably not the kind of information the paramedic was looking for.
But it’s my dad. This man doesn’t understand. It’s my dad. My dad. That’s who he is: stories and anecdotes and…my dad.
He taps the end of his pen on his clipboard and nods. “I’m going to put probable allergy for now. The hospital staff can confirm it when he’s feeling a little more robust.”
“Is he…what…?”
From the stretcher, there’s a snort. Whatever the paramedic gave Dad is obviously starting to work. “I’m not going to die, Lexi. Don’t panic.”
“Dad, you collapsed in the middle of the lobby.”
“I told them – I just got a bit short of breath. All I needed was a sit-down…”
The siren finally switches off and the paramedic clips his notes onto the end of the stretcher, picking up a pen-torch. He leans over Dad again, peering at him. “That, Mr Angelo, was a little more than getting short of breath. It sounds like it was most likely angina, but now we’ve got you, we’re going to take you in so the doctors can run a few tests…”
“Nonsense. Too many sausages at breakfast. Bit of indigestion. I’ll be fine – you can take us back…”
“Mr Angelo, I’m afraid—”
Angina. The word is strange – and right now, strange is scary. More than scary – petrifying. “What’s angina?”
“It’s a chest pain. Nothing,” Dad says from his stretcher – obviously to me, before carrying on at the paramedic. “I really can’t apologize enough for wasting your t—”
“Dad!”
Silence, other than the rattling of medical equipment in cupboards and drawers as we hurtle over a speed bump. Everything has that hospital disinfectant smell, rubbery and sour; cardboard and clean metal. Everything tastes of fear.
Today might actually be a good day.
I really had no idea, did I?
The ambulance turns a corner and slows. “All right, Max. Looks like this is our stop,” says the paramedic – and a moment later, the doors are opening and the smell of rain fills our little metal box. I step down – right into a puddle – and follow Dad and his clipboard as he’s wheeled through wide automatic doors from the hospital ambulance bay into the building. There’s a long, high desk built along one wall, the top covered with in trays and bottles of hand sanitizer. A nurse peers over at us and calls “Triage 2!” – and Dad is wheeled through a wide brown door. I try to follow, but Desk Nurse yells at me. “Excuse me! Hello? You can’t go through there!”
“But…he’s my dad.” I point at the door – which has swished shut behind the trolley. “I’m his daughter…” I add – just in case she hadn’t figured that out from the whole “dad” thing.
Her stern expression softens. “You’re better off out here. Let them take a good look at him and someone’ll be out to talk to you. Is there anyone you want to call? Your mum?”
“They’re divorced.”
“You want to call her anyway?” She pushes a phone towards me across the top of the desk.
“She lives in France…would that be okay?”
The nurse nods, then picks up the handset and punches in some kind of code. “Just keep it short – or you’ll get me in trouble.”
I dial Mum’s number from memory. For a moment, I didn’t think I’d remember it – I’ve always called it from the contacts in my phone…which is currently lying on the banquet hall floor back at the hotel. As the phone rings, I wonder if Sam remembered to go back for it and call Bea – and whether, when she switches it on, the first thing she’ll see is my attempt at stalking Aidan.
“Allô?”
“Leonie?”
“Lexi! How are you?”
“I’m…I need to talk to Mum.”
“But what’s happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It’s not me – is Mum around?”
“Of course, I will fetch her. Wait…”
There’s a rustling sound, and I hear Leonie calling Mum’s name; a pause, then a rapid burst of French. Footsteps, then the phone being picked up again.
“Lexi. Is something wrong? What’s the matter?”
“Mum. It’s Dad. You always ask if it’s him. This time, it is.”
“What? Is everything okay?”
“He’s in hospital.”
I hear her take a deep breath, as though she’s steadying herself, and I carry on.
“I don’t know much – he collapsed and they said it’s angina and I don’t know. They won’t let me in with him and I don’t know and…”
“Angina. Oh lord. It was your grandfather’s heart that killed him. Is Bea there? Does she know?”
“Sam’s calling her.”
“Okay. Okay. Good.” Her voice is quiet and tinny, as though it’s coming from somewhere even further away than France…but it’s still her voice, and I feel better for hearing it. “And your father? How is he now?”
“He was okay in the ambulance. They gave him something and he seemed a lot better.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know. They sprayed something under his tongue.”
“That sounds right. Good.”
“You keep saying that. It’s not good!”
The nurse behind the desk clears her throat and looks at me pointedly, making a shhh gesture with her finger to her lips.
When Mum speaks again she’s calm, her voice clearer. “Lexi. I know. I know. But listen to me – your father will be fine. This is nothing, just a scare, okay?”
“But…”
“Just a scare. Okay?”
“Okay.” I grip the handset so hard I’m afraid it will shatter under my fingers. The nurse clears her throat again. “I have to go. I’m using the hospital’s phone. I left mine in the hotel.”
“Of course, you go. Leonie and I are home all day – call me when you can, when there’s news, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And don’t panic. I’ve known your father a very long time – longer than you have, remember. This isn’t even going to dent him.”
“I know, Mum. I have to go. Love you!”
“I love you too, sweetheart. Speak to you later.”
I drop the phone back into its cradle and slide it over to the nurse. “Thank you,” I say – and I mean it.
“You’re welcome, love. Take a seat over there – I’ll let the doctor know you’re waiting when she comes out. It might take a while – we’re a little understaffed today.” She points me at a couple of rows of moulded plastic chairs along the wall. They’re just the same as the ones in the dining hall at college – only blue instead of red. Halfway along the row is a battered coffee table with a stack of well-thumbed magazines on the top and a couple of children’s picture books with the covers torn off. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the opposite wall, tuned to a news channel with the sound turned down and the subtitles switched on. I flop into a chair next to the table and pick up the top magazine from the stack, just to take my mind off everything – and when I straighten it out and look down at the cover, it’s Aidan’s face that looks back up at me. Of course it is.
I toss the magazine back on the pile, tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes.
And I wait.
I always thought hospitals were meant to be quiet places – you know, to help with healing. But they’re not. Or at least this one isn’t; it’s actually noisier than most conventions. There’s a constant buzz in the background – people walking in or out or through the brown door on
e way or another, ambulances pulling up and driving off, shouting, trolleys rattling, machines beeping… Just so much noise. How does anyone cope here? It’s not that I’m not used to noise, but there’s something so…desperate about it here. Something so hopeful and so sad all at once. And it seems completely chaotic too. People talk about conventions as chaotic, but they’re not. There’s a flow to them – people move out of one event and into another, or out to get lunch or a drink with friends. They rise and fall, drift and ebb. You can read them as easily as a clock if you know how.
Not here.
But then, nothing about a convention’s life or death, is it? It’s all just play.
Unless you’re Dad.
It’s not play to him, is it? It really is life and death – his life’s work… And it’s put him in the hospital.
The automatic doors to the outside world swish open again – and this time there’s a rush of footsteps, and someone walks in front of me and sits in the chair beside me. “Lexi?”
Sam.
She grabs my hand, and I open my eyes.
“How is he?”
“I don’t know – he seemed okay when we got here. They told me to wait, so I’m waiting.”
She’s still wearing the bottom half of her Catwoman costume – but with an old, baggy purple hoodie pulled on over the top. “Bea’s coming. Here’s your phone, by the way.” She pulls it out of her hoodie pocket and passes it to me. A jagged crack runs right across the screen. “Sorry. It was like that when I found it – must have broken when you dropped it. It still works fine though.” She watches me rubbing my poor broken screen with my thumb. “Well. Fine-ish,” she adds.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“We wanted to. I practically had to hold Mum and Dad back until I’d finished on the phone with Bea.” She nods at her parents, who are talking to Desk Nurse.
“How is she? Bea?”
“Scared, but other than that…” Sam shrugs and settles back into her seat – then almost immediately leans forward again and wriggles. “For a waiting room, you’d think they’d spring for better chairs. What with people having to wait here and everything. Jesus.” She fidgets some more and swears a couple of times under her breath before finally sighing and sitting still. “By the way, seventeen, in case you’re wondering. Sev-en-teen scavenger hunt photos. I’m not even joking.”
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