Accident …?
Hang on.
The motorbike … the traffic lights … Grandmother’s veil …
‘Oh, God. How bad is it?’
‘Well, it could have been much, much worse, just remember that.’
‘Olly. Tell me. I can handle it.’
‘Libby, don’t worry! You’re going to be fine, OK? The medics are looking after you really well. It’s just a nasty concussion – you’ve been pretty out of it for a few hours – and quite a bit of bruising …’
‘Not me! Grandmother’s veil!’
‘Your grandmother’s veil?’ His eyebrows, above those knackered-looking eyes, rise sharply upwards. ‘That’s what you’re worried about?’
‘Yes … I was holding it when I fell … it was stuck on my bracelet …’ Which is the first moment that it occurs to me: Marilyn’s bracelet. Another priceless sentimental object that will be lost forever, thanks to this stupid accident.
‘Ah. That explains things a bit more. Nobody could understand, from what the witnesses told the ambulance crew, why you weren’t just letting go of the veil … anyway, as far as I know, the veil’s all right. Nora and Tash noticed it was billowing around behind them just as they reached the A3.’
‘Oh, thank God.’
‘But honestly, Libby, and I know that veil must mean a lot to you; you really should be more concerned for your own health, and not the health of a pretty piece of lace!’ He takes one of my hands. ‘I don’t want to lose you to a crazy accident like that, OK?’
I love the way my hand feels in his. I mean, I love it. When I think of all the times our hands must have touched before, and yet I never felt this wonderful, warm, tingling sensation … And Olly looks so handsome. Tired, and bleary-eyed, but incredibly, startlingly handsome …
‘Oh, Olly,’ I begin. ‘You’re never going to lose me. I just wish it hadn’t taken me so long to—’
‘Shit!’ he suddenly says, pulling his hand away from mine.
Which wasn’t … quite the reaction I was hoping for.
‘I promised I’d let Nora know as soon as you woke up and started talking,’ he goes on, reaching into his back pocket for his phone. ‘She’ll want to come right away.’
‘But isn’t she on a plane right now?’ I don’t really have much idea of the timescale we’re dealing with here, but Olly did say I’d been out of it for a few hours. ‘Or back in Glasgow already?’
‘Are you kidding? She wasn’t going to get on a plane when she knew something had happened to you! They turned straight around and got back to you just before the ambulance drove off. Tash has been looking after Nora over at the restaurant all afternoon. They can be here in fifteen minutes.’ Olly produces his phone. ‘I’ll just give them a quick call,’ he adds, pressing his screen and lifting it to his ear before I can say anything else. ‘Hi,’ he says, a moment later. ‘Yeah, it’s me …’
Something about his voice, which has suddenly gone incredibly soft, and his face, which has suddenly gone even softer, makes me realize he’s not talking to Nora.
It’s Tash on the other end of that phone, I’m sure of it.
‘No, you can tell her to stop stressing. Libby’s awake … yeah, and talking … I know … exactly … I am, too …’
He’s smiling, now, as he talks: that fuzzy-edged one, where his eyes crinkle a little bit at the sides; the one he gives when he isn’t so much finding something funny as just feeling incredibly relaxed and happy.
It’s a smile I only usually see him give when he’s with me.
‘… yeah, if she’s feeling up to it …’ He stops talking into the phone for a second, glances up at me, and says, ‘It’s OK with you, isn’t it, Lib?
‘What’s OK with me?’
‘If Tash and Nora head over to the hospital? I mean, I don’t know how many visitors you’re allowed, but even if they can only pop their heads in …’
‘Yes, yes, of course. It would be lovely to see … er … them.’
‘Yeah, Libby says she’d love to see you,’ says Olly, as he returns to the phone. He listens to whatever’s being said on the other end for a moment, and then, lowering his voice just a little bit more, says, ‘Absolutely … sorry it’s not exactly going to be as salubrious as I’d planned … it’ll still be on me, though … hey, who says that’s not a proper first date? OK … OK … see you soon … bye.’
He shoves his phone back into his pocket, not quite meeting my eye for a moment.
‘So,’ I say, in a voice that may not sound completely normal (OK, that sounds a bit strangulated), but which, thank God, could probably be explained by the whole recent-head-trauma thing, ‘you and Tash …’
‘Yes. Well, maybe.’ Olly is turning slightly pink in the cheeks. ‘I mean, we had this fantastic night last night, and we’d agreed to go out for a coffee together today, until … well …’ He gestures at the Dettol-coloured curtains and the bleeping machine attached to my arm. ‘… all this happened.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I mumble.
‘Libby, don’t be ridiculous! It’s not like you had a nasty freak accident on purpose just to prevent me meeting Tash for a proper first date.’
‘No. God. I would never do that.’ I clear my throat. ‘So … you really like her.’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, obviously it would be a bit long-distance, and both of us work crazy hours … but if you let things like that get in the way, you’d end up alone forever, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes. You would.’
‘But yes, I do really like her. She’s terrific. Don’t you think so?’
I wonder, briefly, if it’s at all possible that head injury can do any damage to other important parts of your body, too. Because it feels, quite palpably, as if my heart has just split into several pieces.
Something I might ask a doctor about, when one of them turns up in a few minutes.
‘Lib? Are you OK? You look a bit worse all of a sudden. Do you need me to call a nurse? I’m sure one of them will be along any minute, now you’re awake …’
‘No, I’m fine. I was just … yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ I swallow, hard, ‘I think that Tash is terrific.’
Because she is, let’s face it. She might be A Bit Much, but she is terrific. She’ll make Olly very happy. And Olly’s happiness is the most important thing to me.
It’s just acutely, exquisitely painful that I’m not the one who’ll make him happy.
‘That’s … I’m really glad to hear that, Libby.’ He looks, if anything, more relieved than he did when I opened my eyes a few minutes ago. ‘I mean, obviously Tash and Nora are already friends, but it’s good to hear my other favourite little sister gives this whole thing her seal of approval, too … You know what,’ he adds, quite suddenly getting to his feet with a look of alarm, presumably because I’m looking even worse now, ‘I think I will just go and find a nurse, actually, just to see if there’s anything …’
He stops, because the Dettol-coloured curtain has just been flung open, dramatically, and Cass and Mum appear on the other side of it.
‘Oh, thank God!’ Mum shrieks, as soon as she sees that I’ve got my eyes open and I’m talking to Olly. ‘She’s come back to us!’
Which makes it sound more like I’m one of those amazing patients who lie in a coma for fifteen years and then suddenly sit up and ask what’s for breakfast than a person who’s been concussed and dozing in a hospital bed for the morning. But I suspect this is exactly what Mum wants to make it sound like: the drama of hearing that there’s been an accident and rushing to hospital will be a little bit tarnished for her now that I appear, undramatically, to be awake and chatting after only a few hours.
Oh, God: and talking of drama …
‘You’ve not got your camera crew here, have you?’ I ask Cass, as she strides into the cubicle in front of Mum.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, leaning down to give me a brief but rather fierce hug. ‘What kind of sist
er do you take me for?’
A split second later, she goes on, ‘I mean, we’ve left them out in the hospital grounds filming exterior shots. I would never bring them in to film you, Lib.’
A split second later, she goes on, again, ‘I mean, unless you were happy to go on camera and talk about what happened …?’
‘I’m not,’ I tell her, patting her hand, which she’s left lingering on my shoulder, as if she doesn’t quite want to take it away yet. ‘But I appreciate you asking.’
‘Oh, Cass, how could she possibly go on camera, with her face all horribly mangled like that?’ Mum says.
‘My face is horribly mangled?’ I gasp.
‘Mum, for fuck’s sake!’ Cass glowers at her. ‘No, Libby, it’s not horribly mangled at all. I mean, obviously if you actually needed your face for any reason – if those exact same injuries had happened to me, for example – it would be a disaster, because you wouldn’t be able to work for weeks, until all the swelling and the bruising had healed—’
‘Honestly,’ Olly interjects, shooting a reassuring look over Cass’s head at me, ‘it’s not that bad. You just look a bit sore.’
‘Exactly,’ Cass says. ‘I mean, it’s not all that much worse than that time you accidentally hit yourself in the eye with a cocktail shaker.’
‘You hit me in the eye with a cocktail shaker,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, yeah.’ Cass grins at me, looking – and this is a seriously rare event in the life of Cassidy Kennedy, I can assure you – a tiny bit sheepish. ‘I did, didn’t I? Oh, well, at least I’m completely dissolved of any responsibility for this one. Now,’ she goes on, before anyone can point out that it’s absolved and not dissolved, ‘have they told you when you’re getting out of here yet? Because if you’re not in overnight, I need to call my cleaner and see if she can go round to my flat and put some fresh sheets on the spare bed …’
‘Cassidy, don’t be ridiculous,’ Mum says. ‘Libby’s not staying with you. I’ll have her to stay at mine.’
Which is really, astonishingly nice of Mum.
Until she adds, ‘You’re far too busy with filming, Cass, to have an invalid around cramping your style. Besides,’ she goes on, with one of her favourite dramatic sighs, ‘I am The Mother, after all. People would be accusing me of a dereliction of duty if I wasn’t the one to take her in.’
‘OK,’ I say, ‘I’m not a pile of laundry. I don’t need to be taken in anywhere.’
‘Actually, you might,’ says Olly. ‘If they let you out today, you’ll need to have someone with you at all times for the next twenty-four hours. Because of the concussion thing.’
‘Oh, well, that definitely rules you out then,’ Mum tells Cass. ‘You said you had a Brazilian wax booked tomorrow at ten.’
‘Mum,’ says Cass. ‘I’ll cancel the fucking Brazilian wax.’
I stare at Cass.
‘You’re my fucking sister,’ she adds, to me, with a swoosh of her hair. ‘You matter more than a Brazilian.’
As far as sisterly declarations of love go, this is pretty much the pinnacle.
All right, it may not come wrapped in hearts and flowers, and there may not be Disney violins swelling in the background. But still. Cass would be prepared to cancel one of her grooming treatments for me. It’s incredibly touching.
‘Honestly, neither of you need to worry about it at all,’ Olly is saying, decisively. ‘Libby can come and stay with me. In fact, I insist upon it.’
My heart flutters, just for a moment, at this rather thrilling display of manliness. Not to mention the image of Olly carrying me up the stairs in his flat and tucking me tenderly into bed … until it occurs to me. Tash is staying there, too.
And the thought of trying to recuperate in one bedroom while Olly and Tash get up to God knows what in the other …
‘I mean, Nora might still have to head home tomorrow, because of work, but Tash is staying until at least Monday,’ he goes on. ‘So I don’t think there’s a better place for you to be. Even if I’m stuck at the restaurant, Tash could look after you at mine—’
‘No!’ I practically yelp. ‘I mean, I hugely appreciate all your offers for me to come and stay,’ I go on. And I really mean it. Even Mum’s offer, which – although she did still manage to make it sound as though she’d be doing it to help out Cass rather than me – I actually think is just as genuine and open-hearted as Cass and Olly’s. (It’s just that Mum doesn’t, with the best will in the world, have all that open a heart.) ‘But can we at least find out if I’m even allowed out of here tonight before—’
‘Too right you’ll need to wait and see if you’ll be allowed out,’ interrupts a woman in nurse’s uniform, walking into the cubicle and glancing around, disapprovingly, at all the people in it. ‘Hi,’ she adds to me, coming up to the bed and giving me a brisk wave before turning to check the scary-looking machine I’m plugged into. ‘I’m Esther. Nice to see you properly awake. How are you feeling?’
‘Fine,’ I say, ‘bit of a headache. That’s all.’
Because I don’t think she’ll be all that interested to hear that alongside this headache, I’m actually nursing a much more serious ache: one that springs from the horrible realization that I’ve screwed up my one chance at Happy Ever After.
‘All the more reason to get a bit of rest before Dr Regan comes round.’ Esther shoots Mum, Cass and Olly the sort of look that suggests she’s not accustomed to being disobeyed. ‘There’s a decent enough coffee bar at the front of the Grosvenor Wing,’ she says. ‘Only a five-minute walk away. I can wholeheartedly recommend the lemon drizzle cake.’
Which they take as the signal it’s quite clearly meant to be that they’re being told, in no uncertain terms, to bugger off. Mum and Cass, being Mum and Cass, do so with a bit of harrumphing and outraged hair-swooshing, respectively, but Olly seems amenable enough, simply pausing at the edge of my bed for a moment to say, quietly, ‘Seriously, Lib. Come and stay at mine. After all, what’s the point of a best friend if they don’t look after you in the aftermath of a one-in-a-billion veil-versus-Yamaha snarl-up?’
I know what he’s doing, with that lovely smile of his, and that casual mention of us being best friends. He’s letting me know that our quarrel last night is all water under the bridge. That not even Dillon can come between us.
I give him a much-less-lovely, watery-feeling smile of my own, and watch him as he follows Mum and Cass out of the cubicle.
‘I wish,’ observes Esther, a moment later, ‘all best friends looked like that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Him. Your friend. The gorgeous one.’ She tweaks my sheets, rendering them perfectly neat in an instant. ‘Single, by any chance?’
I have to say, I’m getting heartily sick of all these women suddenly coming out of the woodwork to point out how attractive they find Olly: Dad’s new stepdaughter at the wedding; this nurse; Tash, obviously … where the hell have they all been for the last seventeen years? I mean, if just one person had pointed out to me that Olly really is a bit of a dish, I might have stopped looking at him as Just Olly and seen him, instead, the way I now see him: as Hot Olly. Perfect Olly. Love Of My Life Olly.
‘Not really,’ I manage to reply. ‘He’s … just started seeing someone.’
‘Ah, well. All the good ones are always taken, aren’t they?’ Esther turns to head out of my cubicle herself. ‘I’ll have an auxiliary bring some water, and press the button if you need anything else, but you should close your eyes now and try and get some rest before the neurologist arrives. Lucky though you are to have hot friends and concerned family flapping around you like mother hens, you need peace and quiet right now.’
‘I’m not that lucky.’
She lets out a snort. ‘I see patients come in here after accidents way more serious than yours, undergo traumatic emergency surgery, and leave here a week later without having had a single visitor. You had people flocking in here fifteen minutes after you arrived. Trust me,’ she finishes, as she ste
ps out of the cubicle and pulls the curtains shut behind her, ‘you’re lucky.’
This puts things in some perspective, obviously.
And it is lovely – not to mention surprising – that I’m in the position of fielding three separate offers of assistance.
It’s just that none of that feels like it matters right now.
I close my eyes, ignoring the dull thud-thud-thud at the front of my head, and try to concentrate on doing what Nurse Esther told me to do – get some rest – without allowing Olly to pop up into my thoughts every other second. Olly gazing down at me as I opened my eyes; Olly on the phone to Tash; Olly calling me, effectively, his little sister …
‘Is she asleep?’
This is a whispered voice, from down at the end of my bed.
‘I don’t know … she looks asleep … gee, that hospital robe does nothing for her, poor thing.’
‘To be fair, darling, I don’t think that hospital robe would do anything for anyone. That awful green, and that fabric …!’
‘Should we put her in something a bit more flattering, do you think? I’d be perfectly happy to lend her this mink stole, but she’s awful funny about fur, did you ever notice?’
‘I can’t say I did notice, darling, but then I’m afraid I’m not awfully keen on fur myself.’
‘Oh, honey. Say, you’re not Canadian, too, are you?’
I don’t actually need to open my eyes to know that this is Audrey Hepburn and Marilyn Monroe talking.
But I open them anyway.
And I’m right: they’re both standing at the foot of my bed. Audrey is in her classic black Tiffany’s cocktail dress, tiara in her beehived hair and cigarette holder in her gloved hand, and Marilyn is (barely) wearing that astonishing nude-effect sparkly dress from Some Like It Hot, with yet another dead furry animal slung around her sequinned shoulders.
It’s a bit of a shock to see them out in the real world like this. Both of them, standing next to each other, gazing down at me like two exceptionally glamorous guardian angels.
‘Honey!’ gasps Marilyn.
A Night In With Marilyn Monroe Page 27