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LADY MO: Either you are pulling a leg with bells on it, or it is his name — like Duke Ellington or the Dukes of Hazzard.
DARRELL: No, no! He’s an actual duke! As in — of Wellington!
LADY MO: And — how could you fail to mention — de Sauveterre! Though he was a Duc, of course. No ‘k’, otherwise he would be a waterfowl.
DARRELL: I dreamed of meeting Fabrice in London. Despite of course knowing he is fictional. Mainly. Seems uncanny.
LADY MO: Seems like ridiculous plot straight out of one of your smutty books. Does he have a fake tan and a diamond Rolex?
DARRELL: I will have you know that all my heroes have natural tans and wear Patek Philippes!
LADY MO: Chad has a natural tan. But had to settle for a James Bond Omega. What does your Duke wear watch-wise?
DARRELL: His cuffs are so neatly tailored, I have not yet spotted which watch. And I now have to confess vital piece of information: he is not actually an actual duke. His father — who was an actual duke — disclaimed the title in 1960s.
LADY MO: Dad didn’t want to be a duke?? Was Dad mad?
DARRELL: Possibly. Wanted to go into politics and the law was that he couldn’t be an MP if he was still a duke. Not true, now — law changed. Probably by dukes. But was the case then.
LADY MO: Yikes. So can your man reclaim the title? Or is the dukedom lost forever, like Amelia Earhart?
DARRELL: Hmm. Do not know. Regarding himself, the man is evasive. From the crumbs of information he gave me I have managed to glean the following: Father’s political career was a washout. Father is now dead. Family seat was sold to pay humungous inheritance tax. Mother lives somewhere along Thames (assume not on barge). Younger sister lives in Milan and works in an art gallery. Younger brother lives in LA and works in film. My man lives here and does not work at all far as I can tell. He has a broker, so probably lives off a big pile of investments.
LADY MO: As eldest son, he probably got all the moolah.
DARRELL: Seems unfair to the youngest son? Not to mention the sister.
LADY MO: Posh people care not a jot about that sort of thing. They are all freaks.
DARRELL: What’s with the harsh words? You used to love posh people! You wanted to live in the Mitfords’ Hons’ Cupboard! What happened?
LADY MO: Met real posh people. They are highly irritating. Haw-haw like donkeys. Expect you to know everyone they know. Possess hyphenated last names with ridiculous pronunciation that bears no resemblance to the actual spelling. And have vomitably twee nicknames like Bitsy and Onky.
DARRELL: No real person is called Onky!
LADY MO: Ha! Wrong! Worked with bloke called Maurice who married into old money. His wife’s proper name was Monica, but she insisted he call her Onky, just like the rest of her family of in-breds did.
DARRELL: What did she call him?
LADY MO: Moo-Moo. Their conversations sounded like a chorus of ‘Old MacDonald’ performed after serious head injury. Posh people are freaks. Mark my word.
DARRELL: Speaking of names — what are you going to call the baby?
LADY MO: Haven’t decided yet. Chad wants to call her Matheson. Will humour him for now, but he has no hope in hell.
DARRELL: Wrong person to comment. At least he doesn’t want Britney.
LADY MO: No fear. He would be struck out of the will immediately. Chad’s mother has ban on all names ending with ‘ey’. Also Joanne, for some reason.
DARRELL: Fair enough. Names are for life, not just to make it easier to spot your suitcase on the baggage carousel.
I hung around outside the hospital for a full half hour, psyching myself up to go in. To be scrupulously honest, the actual psyching up part took only around ten minutes — the rest of the time I filled with daydreaming about Mr Perfect.
My God! The man was almost a duke! The only title above that was king! And he was nothing like Michelle had warned he might be. I needn’t have worried about protocol; he’d immediately invited me to join him at his table. He’d even bought my coffee. He was courteous and amusing, and he didn’t expect me to know anyone called Binky or Bertie. He even seemed interested in my stories, such as they were, although I spent most of my time trying to divert him back to the subject of himself, which he bore with good grace even if he wasn’t terribly willing to divulge—
Your Grace! That’s what I’d have to call him if he were a duke! Instead, he asked me to call him Claude, which was not unreasonable considering it was his name. It occurred to me that he hadn’t told me his last name, but I supposed there’d be plenty of time to find that out.
Which led me to think: where to now? He seemed to enjoy my company, but did that mean he was interested in me? Was I, for that matter, interested in him? He was handsome (tick), single (tick), perfectly groomed with perfect manners (tick, though to be fair, I’d never cared that Tom had been neither), and the son of an ex-duke (let’s face it — ticks into infinity). True, there had been no connection, as such, between us. But I suspected he was too buttoned up to give off any real sexual vibes; he would see that as. . . impolite.
No, to me there appeared to be only one major hurdle. If I liked him, what on earth did I imagine I was going to do about it? In three weeks I hadn’t even worked up the nerve to say hello. Asking him out would be like attempting to conquer Everest when, in reality, you were too feeble to work a cheap Stairmaster. I’d never had to worry about this with Tom. We met, we fell in love, we got married — it all happened as naturally and as easily as breathing.
I gave up thinking about it, and started to wonder again if Big Man was married. It would be embarrassing enough to explain to him why I had come, let alone to a Mrs Big Man. I had a story worked up that might sound plausible: I had been deputised by Alastair the doctor to see if he was all right and whether he needed anything. Why the doctor should choose me, I had no answer for. With luck, it wouldn’t occur to Big Man to ask.
To once again be scrupulously honest, there was one more reason I was delaying. I don’t like hospitals. In fact, I hate them. They bring me out in a cold sweat, and I find myself dragging my feet, searching frantically for excuses to turn and run. I’d only been to a hospital twice since Tom died, not counting the visit to St Regus’ reception yesterday. My mother had an operation on her varicose veins and Simon was bowled off his bike by a car. Neither was in bad shape when I went to see them — Simon had only a fractured collarbone and my mother was as usual, apart from a particularly unattractive pressure stocking. But the smell, the colour of the walls, the drip machines and metal beds — every time I looked anywhere, a picture flashed in my mind of the room where they’d put Tom. A nurse that day gave me a cup of tea, filled with so much sugar my fillings buzzed. To this day, I cannot drink tea with sugar.
I paced for another five minutes and then made a decision. I would go in. Secretly, I was hoping that the note the receptionist nurse had left said, ‘This woman is a fraud. Expel her immediately.’ But when I got to reception, another woman said, ‘Oh yes. He’s in Ward 12. You can go on up.’
I found Ward 12. It was full of people — men — in various states of consciousness. Some seemed to be sleeping. One looked as if he wouldn’t be waking up. One was a boy, not yet out of his teens. His mother was with him. I assumed, if these were all heart patients, that the boy had some congenital defect. I found myself feeling absurdly, tearfully grateful that he was here — safe, well, alive . . .
‘Can I help you?’
A man with sticky-out black hair was in front of me, squinting. He was in his late thirties and sounded Irish. He was wearing a grey chunky-knit jersey, a shabby old tweedy jacket and tan cords. He did not look like a medical professional. He looked like he was trying to piece together his movements for the last three days.
He squinted at me more closely and frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes!’ I replied, too brightly. I pressed on to cover it. ‘I’m looking for B— er, Mr Hogan.’
‘Are you now?’
I couldn’t quite read his tone. Was he saying he didn’t believe me?
‘You’re a relative?’ he continued.
Suddenly, I couldn’t cope with pretending any more.
‘Actually, I’m not,’ I sighed. ‘I was just on the spot when he had his heart attack and I was worried about him. I don’t think he has any family and—’
I ran out of steam and stood there, waiting for Mr Squinty to send me packing.
‘So, you know nothing about him?’ He seemed more curious than put out.
I shrugged. ‘He smokes. He may live in a council estate. He sits at my local café at the same time I do, every morning. He never has anyone with him — I don’t think he’s very sociable. He always wears the same godawful blue jacket . . .’
Mr Squinty said nothing for ages, which was extremely disconcerting. Then he nodded, slowly, as if he was thinking something through.
‘Does he know you?’ he asked. ‘Would he recognise you, I mean?’
‘Yes. Almost certainly.’
‘Good,’ he said. He put his hand firmly on the back of my arm. ‘Come with me.’ A few beds down, he added, ‘I’m Gabriel Flynn, by the way.’
‘Darrell Kincaid. You’re a — doctor?’
‘Tone of doubt noted and granted. I am a doctor, but of psychiatry.’
‘A psychiatrist? Why does—?’
But Dr Flynn stopped abruptly, and I almost cannoned into him. His tweed jacket smelled faintly of cigar smoke. I found it strangely comforting.
We were at Big Man’s bed. He was hooked up to a drip and to a machine that I assumed was monitoring his vital signs. He was lying with the sheets pulled tight across his chest, as if a nurse had recently re-made the bed and not been too fussed that there was someone in it. His arms were above the sheets, but I noticed that they were just lying there limply, as if he had lost the power to move them. He was staring up at the ceiling and seemed oblivious to our presence. His gaze was so intense that instinctively I glanced upwards. But the ceiling was uniformly plain and bland. White tiles with a slight texture. Nothing that seemed to require prolonged scrutiny.
‘I’m back,’ said Dr Flynn, in a voice that was cheerful but a little too loud — the kind used by a preschool teacher who desperately wants another job.
‘And I’ve brought a visitor,’ he continued. ‘Her name is Darrell, and she was worried about you. Although God knows why, when you’re clearly right as rain.’
Big Man did not respond to the dig. He may as well not even have heard it. He kept on lying there, unmoving, staring at the ceiling.
I raised my eyebrows at Dr Flynn. I expected him to take me aside and explain, but he spoke right up. Either it was a psychological tactic designed to provoke or discretion was simply not his thing.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘our Mr Hogan has been like this since he was given the all clear from the surgery. He won’t move. He won’t talk and he won’t eat.’ He addressed Big Man directly. ‘The nurses are becoming more than a fraction annoyed, Michael. And believe me, if you saw some of the instruments they have at their disposal, I myself would be wanting to stay on their good side.’
To me, he said, ‘It’s common for people, especially men, to go into a bit of a despond after heart surgery — brush with mortality, loss of sexual power and all that. But this reaction is more like a severe post-natal depression. Quite interesting, really, from an academic point of view. Pain in the jacksie from a practical one. Because if he doesn’t improve—’ He gave a brief, resigned shrug.
‘What?’ I asked, perturbed. ‘What happens if he doesn’t improve?’
‘Well, there’s a joyous spectrum of possibilities. Committing him to the loony ward is a likely start. Then there’ll have to be a feeding tube inserted, because we are duty-bound to not let him starve. Plus catheters and all that palaver for when the food we force into him inevitably makes its way out. Then if he continues to refuse to help himself, we will probably resort to ECT.’
‘ECT? You don’t mean — electric shock therapy?’
‘I do indeed mean that.’
I was horrified. ‘I thought that had been banned?’
Dr Flynn looked mildly surprised. ‘No, no. It’s still in use. Highly effective, in fact. Not pleasant, of course, even though we do stick you with an anaesthetic beforehand. But apart from the risk of chunks of your memory being erased, side effects are on the whole minimal.’
I stared down at Big Man. The odd blink had been his only detectable movement during this whole exchange. But unless the surgery had gone very awry, I knew he must have heard every word. If I’d been the subject of Dr Flynn’s bald prognosis, I’d be down the corridor, gown flapping, running like the bare-arsed wind.
‘You said if he doesn’t improve soon—’ I asked. ‘How soon is soon?’
‘Tomorrow, I’d say. Can’t keep him in here much longer.’
‘What can we do?’ I said.
It was a general cry for help, not directed to anyone in particular. But Dr Flynn said. ‘Glad you asked. I want you to sit here and talk to him.’
‘But . . . about what?’
‘Anything you like. What do you do for a living?’
‘I write romance novels,’ I admitted, a little reluctantly.
Dr Flynn grinned delightedly. ‘Really? My God! I always thought they were written by the kind of woman who keeps dolls on her bed. Do you keep dolls?’
‘No.’
‘Teddies?’
‘No!’
He chuckled. ‘Well, that’s grand, then. You’ll have yards of material.’
And he started to walk away! I grabbed his arm.
‘Are you serious? You want me to sit and talk to him?’
He paused. His smile had gone. ‘I want to keep him in the world,’ he said. ‘And I can’t do it on my own.’
I let go his arm. ‘How long should I stay?’
‘Long as you can,’ he replied. ‘Long as you can . . .’
He nodded to me, stuck his hands in his grubby tweed pockets and strolled off.
I looked around to see if anyone else had overheard our conversation, so I could ask if I was hallucinating. No one seemed to be even the slightest bit aware of me. I looked down at Big Man. He didn’t seem to be aware of me either, but I knew now that was because he was ignoring me.
I found myself in an ambivalent emotional state. Part of me was full of admiration for his ability to sustain such extraordinary pig-headedness, and part of me was becoming increasingly irate — for much the same reason. What did he think he was going to achieve by this? And what on earth made him do it in the first place?
‘I want to keep him in the world.’ It was an odd thing to say, but Dr Flynn wasn’t exactly conventional. Then again, I hadn’t had much to do with the psychiatric profession. I’d been offered grief counselling after Tom died, and did one session with a well-meaning but intense woman who seemed to want me to cry. I wanted someone to cheer me up. I thought that was the point of grief counselling — to make you feel better, not worse. But this woman seemed to think crying would be good for me, a healthy release. In my opinion, Tom’s death was so dramatic that tears seemed a particularly useless reaction to it.
Keep him in the world? Perhaps Dr Flynn had meant that Big Man needed to be reminded that the world existed, hence the need for a running commentary from me. It made a certain sense: difficult to stay locked in your head with someone yabbering non-stop beside you. There was a chair against the wall. I pulled it out and sat down. And began to talk.
I told him everything. I didn’t intend to, but once I’d started, I found I couldn’t stop. At first, it was all light-hearted — stories of my parents: my father’s personal crusade against random apostrophes (‘Surely all but the most egregiously obtuse can distinguish between a plural and a possessive?’), my mother’s reaction when Pringle branched out of knitwear and went all modern (‘Of course, I bought from them at the right time, when they still had royal patronage.’). Stories about Simon: that he was considering applying to the Guinness Book of Records for the most number of cavity-searches performed by international customs on a single individual. Stories about my name: the lists I’d made as a young child of super-girly alternatives (my favourite was Fifi Honey-Belle, and this was years before Bob Geldof had daughters). Stories about me and Michelle: the book of love spells we got from the library. We performed the least disgusting — most required us to use our menstrual blood — by chanting a few lines and sticking lemon peel in our bras. It didn’t work, unless some poor random male is still finding himself inexplicably riddled with lust for two unknown teenage girls whenever he makes a gin and tonic. I found it harder to talk about my writing because I still hadn’t heard if my publisher had assigned a new editor to me, and felt a rising bubble of panic whenever I thought about it. But then I started to talk about coming to London, the hoops I’d had to jump through to leave home, my constant freak-outs about money, the house that was infested by grumpy Romani builders — and rather like a piece of film run in reverse, I gradually worked my way back to the event that had triggered it all off.
But I didn’t come right out with it. I couldn’t. I paused, and sat there. I’d been talking for at least an hour, and the silence sort of rang around me. So when there was a movement in the bed next to me, I jumped. My eyes had gone down to my hands, where I’d been unconsciously rubbing the space where my wedding ring used to be. When I looked up, Big Man was staring right at me.
I stared back, mouth open a little in surprise. Then, before I could stop them, the words just came out.
‘He died,’ I said. ‘My husband died. Tom. My husband. He’s dead.’
I shut my mouth with a snap. I could feel my face start to flame with embarrassment at the stupid way I’d blurted it out, and because of the way Big Man continued to stare at me. His expression was similar to his usual one, but this time, hostility was definitely winning over neutrality.
Then I jumped again. Because Big Man spoke. His words were slow but absolutely distinct.
He said: ‘Lucky bastard.’
Dear Reader, I slapped him.
Dear God. I leapt up and slapped a man two days out of heart surgery right across the face.
I stared down at him for one horrified moment, my hand poised above the cheek it had just struck, the cheek on which a livid white imprint was now turning red.
And then I turned. And I ran.
I had just enough presence of mind not to run in the tube stations in case someone thought I was a bag snatcher, but I ran all the way there and all the way from the last tube stop to my house. I threw open my front door, slammed it shut behind me and clattered up the stairs. In the bedroom, I came to a sudden halt, and that’s when my knees gave way and I sank down onto the floor and curled up into a ball. My breathing was ragged and gasping, and I could not seem able to catch any air.
I thought — I really had thought — that I’d coped as well as anyone whose partner had died. I thought I had passed through all the stages of grieving — shock, denial, anger and sadness — and come out the other side still sad, but ready to move on. How wrong I had been. Look what had been lurking inside me all that time, just waiting to be released. Some person, some thing I did not recognise. Some kind of furious, maddened monster. I had never hit anyone in my life. I’d never had brothers or sisters my own age, never got into playground scraps or catfights. I’d never had physical arguments with a boyfriend, couldn’t even imagine having one . . .
I heard the bedroom door creak, but I did not raise my head until a voice said, ‘You all right?’
I’d left the house that morning before the builders arrived, and to be honest, the obvious thought that they’d be here hadn’t occurred to me when I’d run in as if pursued by the hounds of hell. I must really have given the pair a start if the boss had felt compelled to come up and check on me.
Anselo’s expression was a wary frown, and he seemed poised as if ready to bolt. It was clear to even the meanest intelligence that I was nowhere near all right. But to spare him, and myself, I have to admit, from any further discussion, I replied, ‘I will be.’
I thought he’d nod and beat a hasty retreat. But he frowned down at me for a moment more and said, ‘You’re not hurt? No one tried to—?’
I almost laughed. Little did he know that today’s top candidate for unhinged smack-down artist was, in fact, my good self.
‘No. I’m not hurt. Just upset.’
This time he did nod, but continued to hover in the doorway. ‘You want — tea?’
It was the last thing I wanted. I felt like food and drink would choke me. I shook my head.
I was desperate for him to leave me alone, and I think he sensed that. He nodded again, once, and carefully shut the door.
After a while, it was too uncomfortable to keep sitting on the floor. I hauled myself up into the bed and lay there until the sky outside the window was completely black. When I eventually made my way down to the kitchen for a glass of water, there was no one there.