by Mandy Baggot
‘OK.’
‘OK?’ Hayley checked. ‘Are you sure? This must be one special dictionary.’
‘The dictionary comes and, for being an awesome mum, I think you should have some fizzy wine,’ Angel said, checking her watch. ‘It’s past eight o’clock and it’s nearly Christmas.’
‘Quick! Where’s the nearest bodega?’ Hayley smiled. ‘Come on, it’s late. Let’s move the case off the bed and tuck you in.’
She strained to pick the case up lengthways but managed to slide it down onto the floor without losing any contents or banging the floorboards too hard. It was a double Coronation Street night. When she straightened herself back up, Angel was slipping down under the covers, eyes wide open, but the first signs of sleep showing. She yawned.
‘Time for sleep,’ Hayley said, brushing a hand over Angel’s hair.
‘I don’t really mind if they don’t have Yorkshire puddings in New York you know,’ Angel said.
Hayley looked at her daughter’s expression. There was concern in her large blue eyes. She didn’t want that. Whatever life threw at them none of it should ever come to rest on Angel’s shoulders.
‘I have good news.’ Hayley smiled. ‘Google tells me they do have them and they’re called popovers.’
‘Really?’ Angel looked less than convinced.
‘Really. And the best news of all is they sell them in a ready-made mix.’
Angel broke a smile then and clenched her fingers into excited fists.
‘Reasons Christmas is going to be better in New York number 84 – they have Yorkshire puddings.’ Hayley grinned. ‘So, let’s recap. We know what a bodega is and we can probably pick up the Yorkshire pudding mix while we’re getting the fizzy wine.’
‘Mum!’ Angel said, swiping a hand at Hayley’s arm and laughing.
She kept the smile going but inhaled a long breath and watched the happy expression restored on her daughter’s face. This trip was all about Angel and she didn’t even know it yet.
Hayley leaned forward, kissing Angel’s forehead. ‘Go to sleep now. No reading up on George Washington or how many types of squirrel there are in Central Park.’
‘Only one, the grey squirrel and they’re in decline. Apparently …’
Hayley put a finger to her lips and Angel stopped talking.
‘Time for sleep now but tomorrow I want to hear all about the little critters.’
Angel smiled. ‘Night, Mum.’
‘Night, Miss Mensa.’ Hayley went to the door turned off the light and stepped onto the landing.
She waited a few seconds, just wanting to stay in this happy bubble before everything in their lives changed, and then she heard the softest of voices.
‘Dear God, or Father Christmas, it doesn’t matter which … If you’re listening I really, really want to find my dad.’
4
St. Patrick’s Hospital, Manhattan, USA
Oliver felt as if he had the contents of a toolbox in his mouth. Every single spanner and a dirty wrench. A horrid, metallic taste tainted his tongue and the flesh on the inside of both cheeks. It was making him nauseous – as was the chattering machine next to the hospital bed that was recording every movement of his heart. All the doctors arriving en masse when he’d been admitted had since disappeared. He was prostrate on the bed, the sensation in his chest now nothing more than a numb ache, Clara tapping on her phone next to him. Worry was etched on her forehead. He couldn’t be here anymore. He hated these places and he needed to get back to work, get to the bottom of all that was going on with Regis Software. He tried to move into a half-sitting position.
‘Oliver, don’t you dare move. The nurse said you need to lie completely still.’ Clara clamped a hand to his forearm, dropping her phone into her lap.
‘I just need to see what this damn machine is saying and then I can get out of here.’ He craned his neck. ‘What’s it saying?’ He tried to focus his eyes on the graph shapes appearing on the screen.
‘It’s saying if you don’t lie still your personal assistant is going to get the meanest nurse she can find,’ Clara retorted. ‘Try to stay calm.’
‘In this place?! Are you kidding?’ He flopped back down.
He didn’t need to read the graph to know what it was saying. Those humps and bumps, the lines rising and falling, they only meant one thing. Heart attack. He knew without any shadow of a doubt. It was his destiny. It wasn’t a case of ‘if’ but ‘when’. It was genetic, written in family history. This was what the male Drummonds had in their future. Heart problems and eventually … death.
That realisation weighed on his shoulders like an unmoveable snow drift. Maybe this year was it for him. Time out, nothing else, not even making thirty. Like his brother.
‘It’s not a heart attack.’
Now his PA was apparently a mind reader, although clearly no physician. Oliver stared up at the ceiling, looking into the pattern of the off-white tiles, a string of cheap silver tinsel hanging lamely from one crack. It looked like someone hated Christmas just as much as he did.
He wasn’t going to meet Clara’s eyes. The woman was just trying to keep his spirits up. That’s all people knew how to do in situations like this. She knew his family story. She knew the inevitable ending.
His tightened chest had definitely slackened slightly, but it wouldn’t stay that way. It would take him over again, when he wasn’t ready, another time, another place.
‘When my first husband had his first heart attack he turned the colour of a well-ripened plum. Then, when he hit the floor, he was paler than a hockey mask.’
Oliver swallowed away a sick feeling burning his stomach. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear this.
‘His second heart attack was different. Sweating, confusion … he said it was like having a wrecking ball on his chest.’
‘Was there a third?’
Clara nodded. ‘Oh yes, the third one killed him.’
He’d heard all he needed to. There was no escape from this death sentence and now he just wanted out of here. He began ripping the monitors off his chest and flailing up to a sitting position. ‘Don’t tell me any more.’
‘Oliver, put those back on.’
‘I can’t be here.’
He was just pulling the very last round sucker from his chest when the door opened and a dark-haired woman wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard entered the room. She was beautiful. Asian colouring, cat-like eyes, full lips. Oliver toyed with the sticker in his hand like a kid being caught with his hand in the candy jar.
‘Mr Drummond, sorry I was called away.’ She looked at his fingers holding the sensor that was supposed to be flat on his chest. ‘I see you got impatient.’ The corners of her mouth lifted in a wry smile.
He watched her walk confidently to the machine. She pressed some buttons and began making notes on her chart.
‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I told him to keep still but he isn’t the best at following instructions,’ Clara spoke up.
The doctor finished writing before looking up, smiling at Clara and clicking off her pen. ‘I have a lot of patients like that.’ She looked to Oliver. ‘Nearly all of them male.’
He swallowed. This was a woman in control. It was intoxicating and, for a second, he felt completely disarmed. He needed to find his rhythm here. He gripped the buttons of his shirt and began to fasten them together. He was still here, alive. His heart hadn’t beaten him in this round and he wasn’t going to be throwing in the towel that easily. It was just like NFL. He’d never stopped giving his all for that. He needed to remember that feeling.
He set his hazel eyes on her. ‘So, what’s the verdict, Doctor? Am I going to be well enough to take you out to dinner tonight?’
And there he was. Back in the game. There was amusement in her expression as a smile reached her lips, a glint of acknowledgement in her eyes.
‘For God’s sake, Oliver.’ Clara exhaled a breath of annoyance.
The doctor’s eyes looked him up and down, f
rom his leather shoes, up through his designer trousers, to the tailored shirt he was just finishing doing up. ‘You had a panic attack.’
Her words crushed his libido like a snowplough clearing the streets. He was shaking his head without even knowing it. A panic attack? Panic. Weak. Desperate. Small penis.
But just what was he thinking here? This was a good thing. It wasn’t a heart attack. This was great. He blew out a breath.
‘Your symptoms are a classic case of hyperventilation,’ the doctor continued.
‘No,’ Oliver shook his head. It may not be a heart attack but he was damn sure it wasn’t panic either. Panic wasn’t in the Drummond nature. ‘It wasn’t like that at all.’ He looked to Clara. ‘I wasn’t gasping for breath like some sort of asthmatic and I wasn’t panicked.’
‘Mr Drummond, it isn’t like most people think. Hyperventilation is a complex reaction the body makes when it needs to try to get you to slow everything down.’
He shook his head again. This did not compute. Whatever had happened was everything to do with his family history and nothing to do with being a lightweight.
‘I don’t do slowing down, Doctor …’ He scrutinised the identity badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. ‘Doctor Khan. I run a global business.’
‘Oliver,’ Clara had her calming voice on now. It was the tone she used when she thought he’d gone too far in a meeting, when he’d made one heated comment too many. Well, he hadn’t in this case. He wasn’t going to listen to some junior doctor tell him the pain and his collapse was due to something excited teenagers got at a Taylor Swift concert.
‘Mr Drummond, I can only imagine the sort of pressure you’re under at work. People in your position, under that amount of stress on a regular basis, you’re susceptible to all kinds of health issues that aren’t always immediately apparent.’
She might be beautiful but he wasn’t going to let her tell him this was to do with panicking. He had never panicked in his life. He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do it.
‘You’re aware of my family history?’
‘Yes. I did a quick review of your file. Would you like me to …’
He cut her off. ‘You’re sure it wasn’t a heart attack.’ It wasn’t a question so much as a statement.
The doctor nodded. ‘Your blood pressure is slightly elevated but everything else is completely as it should be. For complete peace of mind my suggestion would be to—’
He raised himself up off the bed, standing to his full six feet and picking his tie from the counter. ‘Thank you, but if I’m not dying today then I think we’re done here.’ He smiled at Doctor Khan, regaining his composure and control before dipping a hand into the pocket of his trousers.
‘My card,’ he said, offering it to her. ‘If you want to take me up on the dinner offer.’
He could almost feel Clara raise her eyes to Heaven.
5
Mancinis Restaurant, 10th Avenue, Manhattan, USA
When you’d had your life flash in front of your eyes everything was magnified. The times this had happened Oliver could only count on one hand, but he knew there would be more to come. It was as inevitable as Christmas and the start of a new year. But, for now, in this moment, there was simply clarity. It was a chance to take stock, to re-evaluate, every encounter enhanced.
Oliver raised the delicate stemmed wineglass to his nose and savoured the aroma of the Merlot within. Oak, deep, dark berries, aged to perfection: the most expensive red wine they had on the list. He closed his eyes and put the rim of the glass to his mouth. He let the wine touch his lips first, before opening them up and allowing the liquid to reach his tongue. It was smooth, dense, like a velvet wrap had coiled itself around the flesh.
He finally swallowed the wine and replaced the glass on the table, surveying the rest of the restaurant. It was full and from his vantage point he could see people being turned away at the front door. That’s what his status in the business community had bought him. A regular table at one of the most exclusive restaurants in the area from just a phone call, no matter how late. Except he was alone. He’d called Tony, asked if he wanted to continue where they’d left off the night before, but apparently his invitation wasn’t quite as tempting as a night with a Polish girl called Erica. He didn’t blame his friend. Hell, if Doctor Khan had taken him up on his dinner offer he wouldn’t have called Tony in the first place.
Oliver looked out the window, half-hidden by the heavy, gold-flecked curtains and a string of expensive-looking Christmas bells. The snow was coming down faster now and, as the temperature dropped, it was starting to layer up on the sidewalk. A couple, wrapped up in scarves, hats and gloves came into view. The woman, dark hair flying out from under her hat, screamed as the man hit her with a snowball. Their forms bobbed and swayed in front of the red and green lights of a flashing Christmas tree on the adjacent building. Oliver watched the woman bend to the ground and start to gather as much powdery white stuff as she could scrape up to counter his attack. She threw, but her aim was off and the ball hit the windscreen of a parked car. Shrieking, as her partner chased her again, they ran off up the road. He was still watching the situation play out when he heard someone clear their throat.
Oliver turned his attention back to the restaurant and looked up to see a waiter stood next to him, dressed in the Mancinis uniform of cream tuxedo with a maroon waistcoat and matching bow tie.
‘I apologise for disturbing you, Mr Drummond, but I wondered if anyone was joining you for dinner tonight,’ the waiter asked.
Oliver nodded his head. Yes, that was exactly what he needed to get over the earlier hospital drama. His mind wandered back to Doctor Khan. She had virtually prescribed stress relief. Maybe it was time to follow the doctor’s orders.
‘Absolutely, Ricco.’ Oliver let his eyes roam around the restaurant, falling on the other patrons. He looked away from the couples holding hands across the table, the businessmen, the over forties. Who was left? There was a group of four women half a dozen tables away from him, two blondes, two brunettes. They weren’t too loud, they hadn’t started eating yet and each of them was impeccably dressed. Then he spotted her. Sitting at a table in the very corner of the room, just close enough for him to see everything he needed to see. Hair the colour of honey, fingers wrapped around a glass of white wine, black day-to-night dress.
‘Ricco, send a glass of your best champagne to the lady over there and ask her if she’d care to join me?’ He nodded in the direction of the corner table.
‘Yes, sir.’
Before the waiter turned to depart Oliver spoke again. ‘And Ricco,’
‘Yes, Mr Drummond?’
‘We’ll both have the salmon.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Oliver sat back in his chair, took another sip of wine and waited to see what would happen. He didn’t really need to watch. He was certain of the outcome. After all, what woman would refuse free champagne and the opportunity to dine with a billionaire?
His chest creased suddenly, making him sit a little uneasy. Straight away the fear flooded his every part. He swallowed, trying to home in on the background music of instrumental Christmas schmaltz he couldn’t stand. It wasn’t working and he could feel his head starting to throb. No, this was not happening. He wasn’t going to give into it no matter what ‘it’ was. It’s a heart attack. Your number is up. You’re going to die.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge his subconscious. The beautiful doctor’s diagnosis began to run over his mind again as he tried to focus on Ricco, approaching the honey blonde with a glass of champagne on a silver tray. He didn’t have time for stress, or death. He had to fight, not give up like his father and brother had done.
Oliver pulled in his stomach and sat up in his chair ignoring the twinge in his pectoral muscles. He watched the woman accept the glass the waiter was offering and seek him out. She raised the glass a little, a bashful smile on her lips. He swallowed down the pain. He wasn’t going to let it ge
t in the way of his evening. He was in.
* * *
Her name was Christa. She was in New York for two nights and this was the second of them. It was perfect. She was staying at the Bryant Park Hotel, her boss had reserved the table and she was visiting for a conference. She was in cosmetics, nail polishes and something called acrylics for a national company named Cuticle. She talked a lot and after her third glass of champagne her Idaho accent really came out. She was just the sort of distraction he’d needed.
‘Sorry, Oliver, I’m boring you. You don’t want to hear about French manicures and the latest in Gelish.’ Christa put her glass down on the table, nearly toppling it over in her haste.
‘I never knew it was so complicated,’ he responded. ‘But I have to admit, if we’re being really honest here, nails aren’t the first thing that attracts me to a woman.’ He kept his eyes on her and was rewarded with her gaze and a soft smile taking over her mouth.
‘Is that so?’ She placed her hand on the table, smoothing the linen cloth with her fingers. ‘Are you gonna tell me what is the first thing that attracts you?’
She looked coy now and it was relaxing him. He leaned forward a little. ‘Well, Christa, what do you think it is?’ He was teasing and from the look on her face she was enjoying every minute of it.
‘Is it a smile?’ she guessed. ‘Maybe the eyes?’
He waited a few beats, carefully filling her glass up with champagne. ‘No.’ He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.
‘Do you have a thing for blondes?’ Christa picked up her glass, took a sip of the liquid inside.
He shook his head, sat back in his seat, his eyes still fixed on her. This was the part he liked best. The questioning, the innocent expectation, the not knowing what was going to happen next. He was as exhilarated here as he used to be on the football field, as he sometimes was when he was closing a deal at Drummond Global. He’d not closed many of those recently. He drummed his fingers on the table, pushing the negative thought away. This was his time. Here was where he did his living, with no boundaries. Here, his short life expectancy just didn’t exist.