Anna could barely take it in. Neither she nor her mother had slept more than a handful of hours in the last two days. The nurse understood that and calmly, gently told them to take their time.
All that they had left was time. And each other.
After a while, there was no point staying at the hospital. Gary Scott’s body might still be there, but his spirit was gone; the beautiful soul that made him the energetic vital man he’d always been was gone.
Anna’s mother stared at the watery sun struggling to climb in the sky.
“He would have hated it, you know,” she said. “He wouldn’t have wanted to survive that. He hated any sort of illness. He never stopped complaining about the ache in his knees on damp days, or the cold in his bones in the winter. He was talking about moving to Florida, but he’d never would have done it.” She turned to face Anna. “He didn’t want to grow old. Now he never will.”
Anna wrapped her arms around her mother, and they held each other as the grey clouds hung dark and ominous above them. But what are clouds when the worst has already happened?
Anna took her mother’s car keys and drove them both home. During that short, twenty minute drive, their roles reversed, and Anna became the parent.
She guided her mother through the house, knelt to take off her shoes, quietly bringing her hot tea, then undressing her and putting her to bed.
She sat alone in the kitchen, staring out at the trees stripped bare in the back yard. Their skeletal arms, dark and black, waved at her in the bitter wind.
She sipped her tea, clasping the mug until it grew cold.
The radiators ticked softly, the pipes humming and rumbling. Her dad never had gotten around to draining the air out of them.
Her head dropped into her hands and her hopeless tears came again.
14th January 2016
There’s so much to do to organise a funeral. So many things to think about. And the last thing you want to do is discuss catering or flowers or any of those thousand things you have to decide on. And when the person who has passed has been well known in his time, there’s double the work.
The Health and Care Professions Council didn’t let this get in the way of the wheels of their justice. The investigation must have been unusually rapid, because on the day before her father’s funeral, Anna woke up to read an email from them.
She should care what they said, knowing they had the power to end her career, but she didn’t.
She read the words slowly, misery dragging her down.
Dear Dr. Scott,
As you were unable to attend a ruling on your relationship with a former client, we have taken the unusual step of informing you of our decision by electronic mail.
You have admitted breaching professional boundaries by engaging in a personal and sexual relationship with the service user. You have further acknowledged that your actions constituted misconduct and as such, we conclude that your fitness to practise was impaired as a result.
Dating former patients is flawed and risks undermining the public’s trust in the profession. Further, you have breached the HCPC’s ethical guidelines and we are therefore withdrawing your licence to practise forthwith.
Yours sincerely,
More than once Anna wished she’d never met Nick Renshaw. But Fate wasn’t paying much attention to what she wished or what she wanted. She didn’t believe that ‘things happen for a reason’. That’s just what people told themselves to feel better.
But I did meet him and I made a lot of wrong decisions.
Her life had changed for good, for bad—changed permanently and irrevocably.
Damn his beautiful face. Damn his beautiful body. Been there, done that, got the scars to prove it.
Anna read the email twice more, then quietly deleted it.
She had work to do.
She put a notice in the local newspaper and sent emails to news desks and city sports desks, announcing her father’s passing. The florist had to be contacted, a menu finalized with the caterer for the gathering after the funeral, the minister briefed, the guest list updated.
Anna took charge of the paperwork, notifying her father’s insurers, pension, bank, clients and clubs—so many people, all sad, all sorry, all moving on with their lives. And then there was Anna, with no clue how to do that. Just another day to get through. Another day to fall asleep at the kitchen table because half a bottle of vodka was the only peace you could find in your life.
The day of the funeral was bitterly cold, an icy wind feathering the ground with flurries of snow that hung on trees and branches, and drifted into soft, silent mounds.
The small church was packed, people standing at the back, and even a local TV crew attended because her father had been somebody. The minister talked about the impact he had as an NFL player, the years as a coach, and his charity work with young athletes from disadvantaged backgrounds. If anyone knew of the scandal surrounding Anna, it wasn’t obvious.
Her father’s drinking buddies arrived, awkward in out-of-date suits and sober ties, and his football friends filled the aisle with their broad shoulders and broader bellies. Her mother’s friends wore navy or black, and whispered that they’d bring food later.
Her father had been loved and admired, and that was something. But it felt as if her hands were empty even as she wrapped them around her mother, who was graceful in her grief, offering brave smiles to friends and distant cousins that Anna didn’t recognise.
There was one other person there, and Anna felt him before she saw him.
She felt a prickle on her skin, and turned. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nick watching her, his expression troubled. He nodded, but didn’t move towards her, and for that she was grateful. She didn’t have the strength to talk to him, even if she’d had anything to say, but something about his silent presence soothed her.
The service ran over time because so many people wanted to share their memories of the great Gary Scott. Anna smiled through her tears, knowing it was exactly what her dad would have wanted—laughter and slightly off-colour locker room jokes. Her mom smiled sometimes but seemed absent, except for the moments when tears slid down her rouged cheeks.
When they finally faced the interment, the ground was iron hard and the weather deteriorating. The minister rushed through the words as the mourners turned blue with cold and stamped their feet.
Anna’s mother placed a bouquet of black-eyed-Susie’s on the coffin, because those had been his favourites—bright yellow and full of sunshine, just like her, he used to say. Anna laid a single sunflower on top and held her mother as their tears froze and their teeth chattered.
When the coffin was lowered into the ground, it didn’t seem possible that such a large presence had left the world, and Anna felt her father’s absence bitterly.
Everyone else was grateful to leave the grim and grey churchyard for the warmth of Anna’s mother’s house. They drank toasts to Gary Scott’s memory and ate the sandwiches and quiches, and forked pie into their mouths that opened and closed like hungry birds.
Nick had disappeared into the crowds of people without speaking, but Anna knew that he’d be back. He wasn’t a man who gave in without a fight. She hadn’t spoken to him since that terrible day—the thought of starting now was too much. Too much. And her throat closed with horror.
As the last stragglers left, a town car pulled up outside the house, and Anna’s heart began to beat wildly. She stood with her back pressed against the door as if her thin, stick-like arms could keep him out. When he knocked, it reverberated through her fragile frame. She didn’t want to answer, but knew her mother would hear and ask questions that Anna would rather not answer.
Slowly, reluctantly, she opened the door and stared.
“Anna.”
He wore a heavy overcoat, but his hands were bare. Those long fingers with the blunt nails that had touched her so many times, seemed vulnerable in the icy grip of winter.
She hardened her heart, her breath misting in f
ront of her.
“I’m sorry for your loss. He sounded like a great guy. I wish I’d known him.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we talk?” his eyes pleaded with her.
“You know we can’t. You shouldn’t even be here.”
His head drooped.
“I had to. I couldn’t let you go through this alone,” he said softly. “I miss you.”
She’d missed him, too. Missed his soft Yorkshire accent, those flattened, drawn-out vowels. Missed his warmth. Missed his kindness. Missed his body wrapped around hers, pressing down on her, inside her. Above all, she missed his love. And here he was, offering it to her again. But it was too late to heal the wounds.
“Please, Anna. We need to talk.”
She lifted her chin and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I’m not allowed to have any contact with you. Those are the conditions of my bail. You know this.”
“That won’t be forever. They’ll see from the phone records that we weren’t lying. It’s just a matter of time. I’ll wait for you.”
“Don’t.”
“Of course I’m going to wait for you!” he cried out in frustration.
“I don’t even know if I’ll go back to London. It’s not like I have a career left. I’ve lost every client. Brendan did his best, but they all cited broken contracts because of the morality clause.” She laughed bitterly.
Nick took a shocked breath and his eyes filled with sympathy.
“They didn’t even wait for the police to finish investigating. I’m guilty—judged by the public and the Press.”
“It’s all my fault. Let me make it better!”
“You’re going to make it better?” her voice was as cold as the wind that whipped Nick’s coat around him and cut through Anna’s thin black dress.
He saw a delicate gold chain around her neck and hoped that she was wearing the gold rugby pendant that he’d given her. Hoped, but couldn’t be sure.
“How exactly are you going to make it better?”
Ice in her heart, ice in her words. Nick blanched.
“Well, I . . .”
“No, let me guess,” she folded her arms and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the scudding clouds with a ferocity that chilled him. “Did you know that the Health and Care Professions Council revoked my licence to practise?”
Nick sucked in a breath and closed his eyes.
“But if we tell them the truth . . .”
“Really? I only broke the morality/no-fraternization clause a little? You’ll go to them and tell them we’re sorry and we won’t do it again, then ask them nicely if they’ll give me back my licence to practise. Is that what you were going to do? No?”
She knew she was being a bitch but she couldn’t stop the juggernaut of emotions. She felt overwhelmed one minute, empty and lost the next. Seeing Nick was too much, just too much.
“Anna . . .”
He saw the moment that she started shutting down, closing him out. Her eyes drifted across the familiar planes and angles of his beautiful face with the blankness of a stranger, then she met his eyes.
She knew exactly what to say.
“There’s nothing for me in London now.”
Nick’s gaze turned fierce, and Anna could see the determination in his eyes. He wanted her to fight, not give up.
And she couldn’t do that to him.
She lifted her chin and met his heated gaze.
“I wish I’d never met you.”
And then she closed the door, a soft click as she locked it.
Disbelieving, Nick leaned his head against the door, then turned on his heel, a curse dropping from his lips as he strode back to the waiting car.
February 2016
NICK HAD MOVED on.
It hurt Anna to admit that, but it was true. She’d told him to go, practically thrown him out after her father’s funeral, so what could she expect?
But it didn’t stop tears hovering in her eyes.
Unable to help herself, she searched for all the evidence she could find that Nick had returned to his so-called bad boy ways.
There were photographs of him at three different events with four different women—all attractive, all blondes, and two of them were married.
The newspapers were enjoying their lurid headlines.
PLAYING THE FIELD!
Wife-swapping scandal of top rugby players
Notorious womanising bad boy Nick Renshaw raised eyebrows when he was seen at Soho House last night with a bevy of blonde beauties.
“He arrived with one woman, but soon after another joined them. They were flirting with him all night and Nick was definitely enjoying himself,” said an eyewitness. “He disappeared with one of them for ages. Everyone was talking about it.”
The mystery blonde has been identified as Madeleine Dubois, wife of Naughty Nick’s teammate, Bernard Dubois. Astonishingly, the second woman on the arm of the rugby bad boy was soap actress Kimmy Clayton, new wife of footballer Alan Clayton.
Since Nick cheated on his fiancée, reality star Molly McKinney, with his former club doctor, the star Fullback has been seen with a string of different women. [See page 7, 8 and 9 for photographs.]
Anna closed the laptop and rubbed her arms. She was cold, so cold. Cold inside.
It was the night before the big match, Nick’s first international cap for England. He should have been excited and happy, the promise of all those years fulfilled.
But he was still reeling from the outrageous newspaper allegations and the implication that he was a womanising bastard who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
It was such a distortion of the truth that it should have been laughable. Instead, he’d been hauled into a meeting with the Club’s management for disciplinary proceedings. It was only after Bernard backed him up that the Club’s PR team retained a libel lawyer to sue the newspapers who’d run the story. But these things took time. Most people believed there was no smoke without fire.
Was this his life now? Anyone could make up lies about him and it was published as Gospel truth?
Bernard had apologised over and over, but the damage had been done. Besides, it wasn’t Bernard’s fault that he’d been delayed and was late getting to the party, so had asked Nick to look after Madeleine. And it definitely wasn’t Madeleine’s fault that her new pregnancy made her nauseous and Nick had been worried enough to hang around outside the ladies’ bathroom when she became sick. It wasn’t even Kimmy Clayton’s fault because they’d only met that evening when she’d spent five minutes advising Madeline on the best way to get through morning sickness.
For some reason, the newspapers seemed determined to portray him as a hole-chasing playboy. They liked their bad boys, and when they couldn’t find them, enjoyed manufacturing them. Jason had told him to go with the flow and make the most of the opportunities it threw Nick’s way. He certainly had a lot more chances for one-night stands.
But he missed Anna, the ache of a phantom limb: the pain was acute, even though the limb was no longer there.
He hoped like hell that she hadn’t read any of the fake news reports.
Moodily, he rubbed his ankle, feeling the thicker scar tissue, faded to white now. Imagining a twinge, he popped a couple of painkillers, ignoring the memory of Anna’s face when she’d found him doing that months ago.
Irritated with his own company, he picked up his long neglected guitar and experimentally strummed the strings. It was horribly out of tune and Nick winced.
He spent several minutes tweaking the pegs, getting it to the right pitch. There was only one song that he felt in his heart when he was feeling blue.
At half-speed, he sang the lyrics of Tracy Chapman’s Talkin’ ‘Bout A Revolution. The words meant a lot to him. He was still afraid he’d be one of those guys standing in a welfare line. The image haunted him; it could still happen.
There was no Anna to talk him out of his funk. He could have called Trish, but she’d done enough for h
im already. She wasn’t there just to drag him from depression yet again.
He sang alone in his room, his voice low and melodic, but when he looked up Giovanni was watching him, sympathy and understanding in his eyes.
“But of course you sing about love. A revolution of the heart perhaps, amico mio. What else is there? We Italians understand this.”
Nick didn’t answer and went back to playing his guitar, alone in his room, alone with his thoughts.
England V Ireland, Rugby World Cup, Qualifier Match
Dear Nick Renshaw,
My name is Eloise Higginbotham and we met at my school, St. Aubyn’s High School in Cheshire when you was with the Manchester Minotaurs.
You was well cool and told our Head, Mrs. Herman, that us girls should be allowed to play rugby if we wanted to. It took ages, but we got together with another school, Hale Secondary School, and started a team with the girls there. They was a bit up themselves at first, but now they’re ok. We’re in a proper league and everything and Malcolm, the Coach, he says I’m really good and could get into the County team.
My mum is a big fan of yours as well. She saw them photos of you and your missus in the paper and thought they was well hot. She told me that you’re going to be playing for England and I read an article about you. That’s what I want to do. I want to play for the Women’s Rugby Team for England. I’m going to do it one day.
If you hadn’t come to my school, none of this would have happened. Well, it might, but maybe not. That’s a bit scary, because I love playing rugby. I effing love it. Everyone always told me that girls can’t play it, but you didn’t. You were all like, yeah, she can play if she wants.
Thank you for everything.
Play awesome for your match against the Irish. I’ll be cheering for you.
Your friend,
Eloise xoxoxoxox
Nick read the letter again. It had been delivered to the Phoenixes’ clubhouse, and had only just now reached him. It was written on a piece of paper torn from a notebook and drenched in strong perfume. Eloise had used a glittery pen and decorated the paper with tiny hearts and big, loopy flowers.
Undefeated Page 26