by Jill Mansell
The room off the main ward contained just two beds. Flo suspected she’d been allocated it in order to make her feel less left out when visiting time came around and all the fathers trooped in bearing flowers, helium balloons and presents for their wives or girlfriends.
Instead she was sharing with a pretty, down-to-earth single mother of three who’d been let down yet again by the father of her newest baby.
‘Swear to God I thought I’d found a decent one at last,’ Ceecee had already confided. ‘He was good with the other kids, didn’t like football . . . even had a job, which made a nice change, I can tell you. He seemed to be happy enough when I fell pregnant with this one. I was made up, reckoned he was a keeper. Then last month he started going out every night . . . not ideal, but I didn’t nag him about it.’ She pulled a face. ‘But two weeks ago he went out and didn’t come back. Sent me a text the next day saying it was over and he was seeing someone else. Not even a sorry, cheeky sod. So here we are, back to square one again, just me and the kids coping with it like we always do. Still, they’re the important ones, aren’t they? As long as they’re happy, that’s all that matters.’
‘True.’ Flo nodded, impressed by Ceecee’s sanguine attitude. Life might not work out as you’d want it to, but you just got on with it anyway.
‘Look, sorry about your chap,’ said Ceecee. ‘The nurses told me what happened, probably to stop me sticking my big foot in it and saying something awful without realising.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Have you got a photo of him so I can see what he looked like?’
‘I have.’ Flo reached into her bag for her phone.
‘I’ll show you mine and you can show me yours.’ Taking out her own phone, Ceecee began scrolling through a sea of pictures, then came and sat on Flo’s bed, next to her. ‘There he is, that’s Matt.’
Matt was lying across a leather sofa, wearing a pink polo shirt and jeans, grinning cheekily into the camera and making a peace sign. Flo in turn showed Ceecee the photo she’d taken of her and Zander up on the Downs with the suspension bridge behind them and the hot air balloon drifting overhead.
‘Ah, that’s lovely. He looks really nice,’ said Ceecee. ‘What d’you think of mine, then?’
What could she say? ‘He looks nice too,’ said Flo.
‘You reckon?’ Ceecee gave her a cheery nudge. ‘Ha, looks like a no-good cheating bastard to me.’
‘Oh my darling, look at you!’ Margot entered the side ward like a queen, on the arm of one of the nursing staff. ‘You are glowing.’ She gave Flo a gin-scented kiss on the cheek before settling herself carefully on one of the visitor’s chairs. ‘Now, let’s see this baby of yours. Oh I say, hello, Alexandra. You’re a beauty! Can I have a hold?’
Flo passed Alexandra over to her. There was something particularly lovely about seeing a newborn baby being cradled in the arms of an octogenarian. Her heart expanded with love and pride as Margot admired her daughter, now twelve hours old.
‘How did you get here? By taxi?’
‘No, Patrick brought me. He’s gone to park the car. Everyone from Nairn House sends their love, of course. You’ll get all manner of strange knitted items sent to you, I’m sure. But seeing as I don’t knit, I thought Alexandra might like these from me.’
Flo opened the faded leather jeweller’s box. There, nestling amongst the folds of ivory satin, lay a pair of diamond stud earrings, small but perfectly formed. ‘Oh my goodness, Margot, you can’t give me these!’
‘They’re not for you, they’re for her. And I insist.’ Margot’s dark eyes softened. ‘Give them to her on her eighteenth birthday. I’ll be dead long before that, but it’s nice to think of them being worn again by a pretty young girl. My parents gave them to me when I was twenty-one. I wore them when I was presented at court. No, don’t look at me like that. I want your daughter to enjoy them. And please don’t try to argue with me, because we both know you won’t win.’
‘Well in that case, thank you. They’re beautiful. It’s the nicest present anyone’s ever given her.’ Flo leaned over and hugged Margot again.
‘And how are you feeling, my darling?’
‘Happy and sad. I’m doing OK.’
‘You’ll be fine, I know you will. You’re a coper,’ Margot pronounced.
‘Here’s Patrick.’ Flo waved as he hesitated in the doorway. ‘Hi, come on in.’
She’d seen Patrick a couple of times at Nairn House before going on maternity leave. His relationship with aerobics instructor Jade had run out of steam before Christmas, and Patrick was now unrepentantly wearing his untrendy trousers and favourite old shirts once more.
‘Congratulations. Here’s a little something for the baby.’ He handed Flo one of the smart cardboard bags from the shop. ‘Sorry it’s not diamonds.’
It was a tiny pink and green woolly hat with knitted roses and leaves attached.
‘That is gorgeous,’ said Flo, touched. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘And I did buy you a bunch of tulips on my way over to Nairn House, but I left them on the roof of the car when I was fiddling with my keys. Next thing I knew, I was heading down the dual carriageway and they’d fallen into the road behind me.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Got run over by a Tesco delivery truck.’
‘Never mind. It’s the thought that counts,’ Flo said with a smile.
‘Well?’ Margot was holding Alexandra up so he could admire her. ‘What do you think?’
‘She looks like a baby.’
‘That’s not good enough, Patrick!’
He winked at Flo. ‘She looks . . . lovely. Well done.’
‘Typical man,’ Margot tut-tutted good-naturedly. ‘Now come along, take lots of photos of us so I can show everyone when I get back. I feel like a proud grandmother.’
Patrick said to Flo, ‘How was the . . . you know, the whole giving-birth thing?’
‘Pretty excruciating. Would you like me to describe it in revolting technicolour detail?’
He winced. ‘Maybe not.’
Thirty minutes later, Lena arrived. She looked from Margot to Patrick and said, ‘Who are you?’
‘They’re my friends,’ Flo explained patiently. ‘Margot lives at Nairn House. Patrick’s her nephew.’
‘Right. Well I was going to buy something for the baby, but I didn’t know what. So I didn’t get anything.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Flo.
Lena, catching the look Margot was exchanging with Patrick, said, ‘What did you get for it, then?’
‘Diamond stud earrings,’ replied Margot easily. ‘From Cartier.’
‘Well that’s just barbaric.’ Lena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Babies shouldn’t have their ears pierced; it’s a ridiculous idea.’
‘You must be Lena.’ Patrick reached across to shake her hand. ‘We’ve heard all about you.’
‘Oh. Well if she’s said anything bad, just ignore her. It’s not true.’
Flo said, ‘Would you like to meet Alexandra?’ because so far Lena hadn’t so much as glanced at her new niece.
‘Who? Oh, the baby. Let’s have a look at it then.’
‘It’s a girl,’ Flo reminded her, tilting Alexandra towards Lena so she could see her properly. ‘Would you like to hold her?’
‘No thanks. Bit small. Might drop it.’ Lena turned and gazed at the baby for several seconds. Finally she said, ‘No need for a DNA test, then.’
Had she seriously been planning one? Then again, with Lena, anything was possible.
Gently, Flo said, ‘There was never any need for a DNA test.’
‘Suppose not.’ Lena heaved a sigh. ‘Go on then, I’ll hold her for a bit.’
Flo passed the baby over and showed Lena how to support the back of her head. ‘There you go. Don’t worry, you’re doing fine.’
Lena’s expression softened. ‘She looks just like Zander.’
‘She really does.’
‘I miss him so much.’ A tear was glimmering now in her eye.
‘I’ve never held a baby before,’ said Lena. ‘It feels quite nice.’
Smiling, Flo said, ‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Who’s looking after Jeremy while you’re in hospital?’
‘Sarah from the downstairs flat.’
‘You could always ask me to keep an eye on him, you know. I’m not a cat murderer.’
Let’s hope not.
Aloud, Flo said, ‘I know, but Sarah’s right there. It’s easy for her to pop in. And I’ll probably be going home tomorrow.’
It had come as a terrible shock to Lena when she’d first learned from Mary, the solicitor, that Zander’s baby would now be inheriting his estate. But to her credit, she’d slowly come round to the idea. Flo had agreed that she could carry on living in Zander’s flat, and she seemed grateful for that. As Mary had crisply pointed out during their meeting, she was lucky to still have a roof over her head.
Lena nodded. ‘OK. What time do you two think you’ll be leaving here this evening?’
She was addressing Patrick, who pushed back his sleeve and checked his watch. ‘Another half-hour? Visiting ends at eight.’
‘So would you be able to give me a lift back to Clifton?’ said Lena. ‘I had to catch a bus to get here this evening. It was awful.’
Amused by her shudder of distaste, Patrick nodded. ‘That’s fine, it’s not far out of our way.’
‘Thanks.’ Lena was now looking askance at his shirtsleeves. ‘Your cuffs are frayed.’
Patrick kept a straight face. ‘I’m afraid they are. Frayed.’
‘But why would you wear them like that?’ Lena was evidently horrified. ‘You look like a tramp! Why don’t you buy a new shirt?’
‘I like this one.’ Neither remotely bothered nor taking offence, Patrick added, ‘It’s my favourite.’
‘But looking good is important. Trust me, when this baby’s old enough to wear proper clothes, I’m going to make sure she looks stylish. These things matter.’
He shrugged. ‘To you, maybe. Not to me.’
‘You should make more of an effort,’ Lena retorted.
‘You sound like my ex-wife,’ said Patrick.
Flo, sitting up in bed with Alexandra cradled in her arms, loved the way Patrick refused to be intimidated by Lena. She exchanged a secret smile with Margot.
‘I’m just saying what everyone else is thinking,’ said Lena.
‘And I don’t care. So if you don’t want to catch that bus back to Clifton,’ said Patrick, ‘it might be time to start keeping your thoughts to yourself.’
Oh yes, he knew how to handle her all right.
Chapter 55
‘OK, I’m off. Busy day. Some of us work normal hours.’
Tasha opened her eyes and smiled sleepily up at Rory. It was seven fifteen and he was already showered and dressed for work. She lifted her head for a kiss. ‘Serves you right for having a normal job. I don’t have to get to mine till midday.’
‘Lucky you. I’ll be home by six.’ Another kiss. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye.’
When he’d let himself out of the house, Tasha texted Sandra, the photographer she was booked to be working with today. One of the better tabloids was running a feature in its Sunday magazine and they were often chosen to do jobs together. Hi, just double-checking. The Carrick Hotel in Chelsea at noon, right?
A minute later, Sandra texted back: That’s it. See you there x
The Carrick Hotel was on Park Lane, with amazing views over Hyde Park. Red London buses, black cabs and thousands of cars made their way past in an endless stream. Over in the park itself, people were jogging, strolling, walking their dogs and . . . yes, picking up dog poo.
Hallie marvelled at the busyness of the scene. You could stand here at this window on the fifth floor and spend the entire day just gazing down at everything going on. It was a far cry from Carranford, that was for sure. Yet here she was, in the capital, amongst the craziness of it all.
And by herself, too. Up until a year ago, the very idea of going anywhere on her own would have been completely unthinkable. But life, thankfully, was very different now.
It was the last week of May, coming up to a year since the miraculous transplant. When the invitation had arrived from the newspaper to come to London in order to be interviewed and photographed for a feature in their Sunday supplement, she’d been excited, because it was exciting to be put up in a fancy hotel and have a bit of a makeover into the bargain.
Luke hadn’t been able to accompany her because he was working, as were her mum and Bea. But that hadn’t mattered; she’d simply made the trip on her own. Like a normal person! Later this evening she would make her way back to Carranford, to the cottage she now shared with Luke. Also like a normal person.
And she’d brought three different outfits with her to be photographed in. That was completely normal too!
An hour later, following a phone call from reception to let her know that everyone was here, Hallie opened the door to greet the photographer, the make-up artist and the journalist who would be interviewing her for the piece. The journalist, a woman in her fifties called Jean, wandered out on to the balcony to speak on her phone.
‘This is amazing.’ Hallie beamed as the make-up artist, whose name was Tasha, opened her case and began setting out a mind-boggling assortment of brushes, bottles, sponges and cosmetics. ‘I’ve never had this done to me before.’
Tasha carried on unpacking the case. ‘Well I hope you like the end result!’ she said cheerily.
‘I don’t usually wear much make-up.’
‘Don’t you worry.’ Tasha’s smile was reassuring. ‘I won’t do a drag-queen job on you. I’m going to make you look just like yourself, but even more fabulous.’
For the next ten minutes she expertly applied base, then primer, followed by different shades of foundation, explaining it all as she went. It was far more complicated than you’d think. Hallie watched in the lit-up mirror as Tasha moved around in front of her, bending and straightening, then standing back to assess each stage of her work. She was in her late twenties, at a guess, her honey-brown hair skilfully highlighted and fastened up in a topknot. Her eyes were very blue, her complexion flawless, and she was wearing a light lemony perfume.
‘I know about your website, by the way,’ she told Hallie. ‘One of my clients used to read it.’
‘Ah, thanks.’ Hallie saw Jean end her phone call on the balcony and come back into the room. ‘It’s taken off a bit in the last year. Well, that’s how the newspaper got interested, of course.’
Jean was surveying them with her head on one side.‘So you two haven’t worked out yet what it is you have in common?’
‘Sorry?’ Eyebrows raised, Tasha lifted her head and looked at her. ‘No, what is it?’
‘Hallie had a heart and lung transplant last year.’
‘What? You did?’ Tasha turned back to Hallie. ‘Really?’
‘Well, yes.’ It was clearly significant, but Hallie was at a loss as to why.
‘My fiancé had a heart transplant too!’ exclaimed Tasha.
‘Wow.’ OK, that explained it. Hallie shook her head. ‘What a coincidence!’
‘Not that much of a coincidence,’ said Jean with a wry smile. ‘The picture editor was going to book someone else to do the make-up for today’s shoot, but I suggested she choose you instead, seeing as you’d kind of been through it with your chap.’
‘Well it’s still pretty amazing.’ Hallie was touched that they’d thought of it. ‘There aren’t that many of us around. How’s he doing?’
‘Fantastic. Well, you know, bit of a rough start, but everything’s great now. He’s back at work, obviously still having regular checks . . . it’s coming up to a year now . . .’
‘Me too,’ said Hallie. ‘Not quite a year. Eleven months.’
>
Tasha was gazing at Hallie’s reflection in the mirror. ‘Rory had his transplant on the twenty-fifth of June.’
The words shimmered and reverberated in the air between them. Their eyes locked and stayed locked. Hallie gripped the sides of the chair she was sitting on and murmured, ‘Me too.’ Her heart was clattering, her mouth bone-dry, her brain reeling at this revelation.
Jean glanced up from her phone. ‘Well that’s what I call a coincidence, two people both getting new hearts on the same day! I mean, what are the chances of that happening, eh?’
The photographer, whose name was Sandra, paused in the process of setting up the lighting system for the shoot and said, ‘Wow, weird! If it’d been kidneys, they could have both come from the same person. But it’s not as if anyone’s got two hearts to give away!’
Hallie was lost for words. Time was kaleidoscoping, simultaneously speeding up and slowing down. Tasha was still watching her in the mirror. And she knew. Of course she knew. The vast majority of the population might never have heard of the domino transplant procedure, but she and Tasha were only too aware of it.
Oh my God . . .
‘So I wonder if there was some huge traffic accident with loads of people involved?’ Her eyes bright and beady, Jean said, ‘That could make an interesting angle to the piece. Is there any way we could find out?’
Whoa . . .
‘No.’ Hallie was firm. ‘They don’t tell you who your donor is. It’s all very strict. Any letters are exchanged via the transplant coordinator, and you might never even hear back from your donor’s relatives.’
‘They generally say to leave it for a year before writing to them.’ Tasha joined in.
‘So has your chap written to his donor’s family yet?’ asked Jean; being a journalist, she clearly had a nose for a story.
‘Not yet,’ said Tasha.
Hallie shook her head. ‘Nor me.’
Somehow Tasha managed to pull herself together and resume applying foundation to Hallie’s face. The secret seemed to enclose the two of them in a transparent bubble. Only when Sandra was otherwise occupied and Jean was out on the balcony taking another call did Tasha risk giving Hallie’s shoulder a squeeze and murmuring, ‘This is crazy.’