by Clark, Lucy
The subject of Chantelle was special, precious and his. A part of him appreciated her not pressuring him to open up; the other part, the one that was now rearing its ugly head, was quite the opposite and for the first time in a long time he realised he wanted to talk about his wife, to share her life with someone new.
‘Why are you frowning?’ Bergan asked, and it was only when she spoke that he realised she’d moved. She was now leaning her arm on the table, her elbow bent, her head propped up on her hand as she held the cup of tea with her other hand and took a sip of the hot liquid.
Richard looked at her for a moment before raising a hand to his forehead, feeling the deep grooves there. ‘Am I?’ He instantly tried to relax his facial expression, especially as it appeared to be under such close scrutiny. ‘Sorry. Didn’t realise.’
‘Worried about some of the patients we saw tonight? Although A and E is far quieter than it was just a few hours ago, I do feel sorry for the theatre staff because a lot of them still have quite a few more hours of work to get through before they can come and slump into a chair and drink a mediocre cup of tea.’
Richard’s smile was instant. ‘You’re so right.’
‘So,’ she said, taking another sip of her tea, ‘why were you frowning? Although,’ she continued, as quickly as she’d first spoken, ‘if you’d rather not tell me, that’s fine. I’ll respect that, but I will let you know that I’m also quite a good listener.’
He pondered her words for a moment before nodding. ‘Fair enough. Well, Dr Freud, I actually do have a question for you.’
‘For me?’ Bergan eased up from her slouched position, flicking her long auburn plait back over her shoulder.
‘Yes.’ Richard paused, wondering how to broach the subject delicately, not wanting to put her on the spot but also trying to figure out why she wasn’t that curious about his past. He had to admit he was more than a little curious about hers, and while he respected her privacy, he did hope that soon she’d be able to trust him with more. It wasn’t that he wanted to gossip, it was simply because…he liked her.
‘So what’s the question? Do I have to guess?’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘No. I was just trying to find the right way to phrase my words.’
Bergan sipped her drink again, watching him closely and making him feel highly self-conscious.
‘Well…to answer your question, I was thinking about the other night, with Jammo and what happened after we’d put her in the ambulance.’
‘OK.’
‘I guess I’ve been wondering ever since we had our little…chat, on the way back to the drop-in centre, whether or not you were…’ He stopped and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid this will, no doubt, sound horribly vain, but here goes.’ He straightened in his chair before holding her gaze. ‘I’ve been wondering whether or not you’re interested in me, in my life. I mentioned my wife and you barely batted an eyelid. Any ordinary woman would have plied me with questions—’
‘Indicating you already know what the answers are going to be,’ she returned, her tone quite calm and controlled.
‘Sorry?’
‘If other women have asked you about your wife, then you no doubt have your answers perfectly rehearsed.’
Richard scratched his head. ‘I’d never thought of it like that before.’
‘And if I were to ask you about her now, would your answers be the same ones you’ve given to other interested women?’
‘Uh… I… Actually, I don’t know. You’ve really thrown me for a loop, Bergan.’ He pushed both hands through his hair, leaving it sticking out a little and making him look even cuter. Bergan tried not to smile. ‘You do that, you know. From the way you look at me across a crowd of thousands or whether we’re sitting quietly in an almost deserted cafeteria at…’ He stopped and checked his watch. ‘Almost a quarter past five in the morning.’
‘And you’re not used to such attentions from a woman?’
‘That’s a loaded question.’
‘Is it? Have you dated much since your wife passed away?’
‘How do you know she died?’ he asked. ‘I might have been divorced.’
Bergan instantly shook her head. ‘Not with the way you spoke about her the other night. The loss, the grief, the resigned acceptance to continue living your life—it was all there in your tone and body language. And as to why I didn’t ask you more about her, I was merely giving you room, as you’ve clearly been giving me room.’
‘What do you mean?’
Bergan looked down at the half empty cup of tepid liquid in front of her. ‘I blurted out something about my past, my personal life to you. You know about Smitty and yet you didn’t push for all the sordid details.’
‘I respect your privacy.’
‘As I do yours.’
Richard leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs out in front of him. ‘We’re both too polite for our own good, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Got it in one.’ She smiled at him.
‘I’m curious about you.’
‘Ditto.’
‘Really?’
Bergan winked at him, feeling a little bolder than usual. Richard was interested in her. She didn’t think she was anything special and yet he’d not only admitted to finding her attractive, but he really was interested in her. ‘I’ll share, if you will.’
‘Just like that? You’ll trust me?’
She shrugged one shoulder. ‘You’ve proved yourself worthy.’
‘How did I do that?’
‘By checking on Jammo. It shows you really care.’ Bergan held his gaze. ‘I like that in a person.’
‘Oh. So you do like me?’
She nodded, slowly and steadily, her expressive honey-brown eyes speaking volumes. ‘Far more than I’m comfortable with.’
CHAPTER SIX
RICHARD LOOKED AROUND the cafeteria, noticing the other group of people was getting up to leave. Within another minute it was just the two of them in the large, silent room.
‘Why does it bother you so much that you like me?’ As he spoke, he edged his chair closer to hers, unable to be that far away from her, especially when she was admitting to their mutual attraction.
‘Because I don’t like being…tempted. It makes me feel out of control.’
Richard nodded. ‘You’ve had to fight for that control. I understand that.’
‘Do you?’
‘I may not have had experiences similar to yours, but emotions of helplessness can come from all sorts of directions.’
Bergan nodded then asked the question that had been nestled in the back of her mind for the past two days. ‘Will you tell me about your wife?’
Richard shifted in his chair and placed his hands onto the table, lacing his fingers together in a slow and very deliberate way. ‘Her name was Chantelle. She was a French nurse and we worked together for many years, first in Australia, then in Paris.’
‘Was she the one who told you about the job there?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. We were very good friends and then slowly that friendship evolved into more, into love.’
Richard looked down at his hands, his fingers clenched tightly together. ‘Then, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, Chantelle was diagnosed with breast cancer.’
Bergan shook her head. ‘Oh, Richard. So young.’
‘She fought for her life, did everything the doctors prescribed—surgery, chemotherapy—but it was too late. The cancer was…ferocious.’ A sad smile came to his face. ‘I remember the day we went shopping for her first wig. The French most certainly know the art of wig-making and we found her a beauty. A glorious red and gold, much the same colour as your hair. Beautiful it was, and Chantelle looked very fine in it. She said she didn’t want pity, she didn’t want sadness, she wanted to enjoy every moment of life.’
When Richard’s lower lip wobbled, just for a second, Bergan couldn’t help herself and quickly reached out and placed a hand over his. Richard looked at her unseeingly as he
looked into the past.
‘I loved Chantelle, very much. But sometimes our life together seems more like a dream than a reality. A short dream filled to the brim with every emotion you could imagine. She had days of anger when she’d throw things in frustration. Other days, she’d ask me to hold her close and she’d just…weep. Her sobs were so gut-wrenching, so desperate, so honest.’
He closed his eyes and Bergan could see tears quivering on the ends of his eyelashes. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, wanting to let him know she was there for support. He’d been though his own grief, his own personal anguish and she had the sense that, like her, he didn’t often talk about those deeper emotions.
Perhaps that was a part of why they’d been drawn together in the first place, the fact that both of them lived a life on the surface, quite happy and content up to a point, because deep down inside was a box of emotions that had been carefully locked away many years ago.
Bergan waited for Richard to collect his strength, simply sitting there quietly, holding his hand, wanting him to feel that she understood how difficult it could be to really open up that secret part of your life to someone else. It wasn’t easy. It was often raw—the emotions rising up from the depths below, making a person feel exposed and vulnerable.
The last thing she wanted now was for Richard to feel uncomfortable, to feel as though he’d made a mistake in telling her about Chantelle, but when he finally opened his eyes and looked at her, she had the distinct impression that perhaps this was what he’d needed to do, to talk about his wife once more.
‘She was so brave. She had bad days—the ones where she’d cry and rant and rave—but she only allowed herself to do that for twenty-four hours. The next day when she woke up she’d pick up her courage and strength and forge ahead once more.’
‘Chantelle sounds like an amazing woman, Richard.’ Bergan could clearly see him being married to a strong woman, and Chantelle certainly sounded like an incredible person.
‘She was. The chemo, of course, used to take a lot of strength out of her, but she still managed to have a smile on her face, to have patience with those who nursed her.’
‘Was she in a hospice?’
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the side of his mouth. ‘Did I mention how stubborn she was? She didn’t want to take up a bed in a hospice when there were people worse off than her.’
‘What did you do? I take it she stayed at home, then?’
‘Yes.’ The smile increased. ‘When her mind was made up, that was it. I cut back on my shifts and didn’t work nights. Several of Chantelle’s friends rallied around, rostering themselves to care for her whenever I was at work or to give me a bit of respite, a few hours when I could go to the shops and pick up groceries. Once, I thought about going to the movies, but it just didn’t seem right to go without her.’ He shrugged. ‘That probably sounds silly.’
‘No.’ Bergan shook her head. ‘Not at all. It can be difficult to try and find some enjoyment in the normal things we do when the person we usually did those normal things with is too sick to join in.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly.’ He exhaled slowly.
‘How long were you married?’
‘Fourteen months. She was diagnosed four months after our wedding.’ He looked down at the way Bergan’s hand was on his. Firm, understanding, supportive. He shifted his fingers, linking them loosely with hers before he spoke again, his tone dropping to a hushed whisper.
‘She was so brave. She’d fought such a good fight. Then one day, with our close friends gathered around her bed, Chantelle looked at me, took my hand in hers and told me to move on with my life. She told me to find someone who’d give me a run for my money, who was stubborn, funny and kind. She urged me to find another true and honest love, filled with passion and power. I promised her, then I kissed her goodbye and it was then she told me never to give up hope.’ A lone tear slid down Richard’s cheek.
They sat in silence for a while before Bergan sighed and sniffed, unable to believe she was so affected by what Richard had shared. ‘She chose how she would die. Not many people get to do that, as we know and see daily proof of.’
‘True. I did envy her that. She planned her funeral, the food that would be served at her wake, the music I had to promise to play.’
‘On a CD?’
‘No. One song on the piano and the other on the guitar.’
‘You play both instruments?’
He nodded. ‘I do. I’ve actually found it very cathartic, playing music.’
‘Will you play something for me some time?’
He was surprised at this, but instantly smiled and she was glad to see that happy, shining light back in his eyes. ‘If you like.’
‘Wow.’ She wasn’t sure why she was so surprised. Perhaps it was because learning a musical instrument was something she’d always wanted to do but had never really had the opportunity, so she admired anyone who could play. ‘Are you any good?’
He chuckled. ‘Too bad if I’m not. You’ve already asked me to play something for you so you’re going to have to sit there and suffer through my bad renditions of jazz standards.’
‘You must have had some talent if Chantelle wanted you to play at her funeral.’
Richard chuckled. ‘You would think that. But let me tell you, while Chantelle was a very generous, very giving and kind person, she was also highly mischievous. I always thought she’d wanted me to play so that she could have the last laugh.’
Bergan giggled. ‘She sounds like such a wonderful woman.’
‘She was. I wish you two could have met.’ Richard looked down at their hands, linked loosely together, before meeting her gaze. It had felt right to share with her and now it felt right simply to sit here and hold her hand. ‘You’re a lot like her, Bergan.’
It was such a very sweet thing for him to say, and combined with the way he was holding her hand and looking into her eyes, Bergan was astonished at the desperate longing winding its way through her, begging her to believe his words. She’d promised herself so many years ago that she would never believe the guff that men, in general, often spouted, but this time she really wanted to.
She swallowed, surprised to find her throat dry, and forced herself to look away from him. She needed to break the intense and intimate atmosphere surrounding them and racked her brain for something different, something mildly humorous to say. ‘Apart from her wig,’ she added, and was instantly rewarded with one of Richard’s smiles.
No. She didn’t want to think of it as a reward, she wanted to put distance between them because now that she knew about his past, now that he’d opened up to her and confided in her, he would no doubt expect the same from her.
It was all well and good to say that she trusted him, that she knew he would keep her confidence, but actually talking about her past was something she usually avoided at all costs. She looked at where their hands were joined, his thumb rubbing gently over her knuckles, causing little jolts of delight to travel up her arm before bursting forth and flooding her entire being.
‘Yes. Before her hair came out, it was jet black, and for years I’d had to listen to her bemoan the fact that even though she’d tried to dye it red, it had never really worked. That’s just the sort of person she was. Her hair fell out due to the extensive chemotherapy and she took that as a sign to go and buy a wig in whatever colour she wanted.’
‘The glass is half-full, rather than half-empty.’ Her words were softer than before.
‘Exactly.’
Bergan shook her head. ‘I’m not like that, Richard.’ She glanced briefly at him as she tried to pull her hand away, but he held it firmly and looked into her eyes.
‘I disagree.’
‘You barely know me.’
‘I know enough. I’ve seen the way you are with your staff in A and E, firm but fair. I’ve seen you with patients and with teenagers and with your friends.’ He gave her hand a little squeeze, hoping to get his point across, h
oping that she’d believe him. ‘It doesn’t matter to me what may or may not have happened in your past, Bergan, it’s who you are now I’m interested in.’
She looked at him for one long moment before pulling her hand free and rising to her feet. She shook her head and began pacing up and down, never more pleased that the cafeteria was vacant.
‘You shouldn’t be.’
‘Shouldn’t I?’ He couldn’t help but give her a bemused smile.
‘No.’ She held out a stern finger towards him. ‘Don’t look at me like that with those big blue eyes of yours.’
‘I didn’t realise they caused so much damage.’ He chuckled and shifted in his chair, about to stand and walk over to her. Bergan immediately stepped back and raised both hands.
‘Don’t be cute either.’
‘Bergan…I’m—’
‘Just stop. Please, Richard?’ She took another step away and shook her head. ‘I can’t…think properly when you’re near.’
‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
She glared at him before turning and pacing towards another table, pushing in a few chairs here and there, needing to do something so she could at least gather her thoughts. Finally, she looked across at him, pleased he was once more sitting down.
‘There can never be anything between us. Not of a romantic nature,’ she clarified.
‘Why?’
The single, soft and totally reasonable question instantly exasperated her. She spread her arms wide. ‘Because I’m damaged goods. I’ve done drugs, I was a teenage drunk. I’ve done some horrible things and half of them would make your hair turn white right here on the spot if you knew what they were.’
‘I very much doubt that.’ He stood, but she instantly pointed to the chair.
‘Sit.’
With a small smile he did as he was bid.
‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to inject a little more control into her tone. Dragging in a deep breath, she slowly let it out before closing her eyes. Crossing her arms over her chest, needing to ensure her barriers were up when she spoke, she began.