CHAPTER 35
Harry
Life turns on such tiny moments of fate.
Harry’s mind was wandering, woozy from drugs as he lay immobile after his second round of surgery.
If one of those green lights had been red, or he hadn’t phoned Ana before leaving Southampton, or the M3 hadn’t been covered in cones, then he wouldn’t be here. And Ana wouldn’t have lost their baby.
He remembered nothing of the accident two weeks earlier. His last memory was of swerving to avoid the little blue car, then nothing.
The Mondeo driver, a kind man by the name of Alan, had regained control of his car, in spite of the enormous swipe that had sent him careening toward the median barrier. He’d escaped with only whiplash. Alan confirmed to the police that Harry had been driving dangerously but otherwise hadn’t wanted to cause any bother. Harry had sent him a check that would cover the cost of a new car—something rather more exciting than a Mondeo.
After the emergency services had cut Harry out of his Aston, he’d been taken to the Royal Surrey. One leg was crushed and he had severe internal injuries. He went straight into surgery and from there to intensive care.
Charles had driven back to London to break the news to Ana personally, then had taken her to Guildford. The surgeon had told them Harry might not last the night.
As they waited, hour after interminable hour, the stress became too much for Ana. She’d started to have contractions and was admitted to the hospital herself. Efforts to halt the early labor had failed, and by the time Harry was out of danger, the baby was lost.
When Harry came to, his brain fuzzy with medication, the doctors had explained that his shattered leg bones had been pinned together with rods and plates, and he would need ongoing surgery. It could take up to a year before he could walk properly again. In the meantime he’d be laid up for weeks, if not months, and could be left with a limp.
Later, a nurse had told him about Ana.
When he was stable, Harry had been transferred to a hospital closer to home. His first visitor after the move was Charles.
“Guess I’m gonna have to find myself a temporary tennis partner,” joked his friend, looking at the metal contraption encasing Harry’s leg. It resembled a Tudor-era torture instrument. “Bloody inconsiderate if you ask me.” Then his smile disappeared. “Harry, I’m sorry—”
“Not your fault. Just shitty luck.”
“At least you’re still here, old boy. It was touch and go for a while there. How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad, until the painkillers start to wear off. How’s Ana?”
Charles looked away, fixing his eyes on the machine beeping behind Harry’s head. “Pretty upset, obviously, especially about the baby.”
“Does she blame me?”
“I don’t know. She knows about the race, and that you were driving dangerously.” He looked at Harry again. “Your Tom Cranwell’s on track to get you off with a fine, by the way. But Ana . . . well, you know how excited she was about this baby. She’s bound to be upset, worrying about you and coping with that. But she’s young. Plenty of time for another.”
Where had Harry heard that before?
Ana had visited the next day, by herself. She didn’t want Eliza to see him like this, she said.
It was brief, and awkward, and she didn’t touch him other than to peck him on the cheek. After an initial “How are you feeling?” she didn’t probe further into whether he was in pain or worried about his recovery. She didn’t even ask any of the normal silence-filler hospital questions about the food or whether he had enough to read.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’m so sad about the baby.” His voice caught, and he held out his hand.
She ignored it, looking at him steadily for a moment before her eyes slid away to stare out of the window. “So am I, Harry. So am I.”
“We can try again.”
“I can’t think about that. All I can think about is the life that never was.”
“I understand. You’ll need time.”
“I don’t want you seeing Andre outside of work,” she said abruptly.
“What? Why not? The accident wasn’t his fault.”
“You act like a fool around him, Harry. And he’s a bad person—you know he is. I know you need his money, but tell me, how much is that money worth? Your unborn child? Your family? You need to off-load him, get him out of your life.”
“The race wasn’t his idea.”
“Then whose was it?” Her dark eyes bored into his.
“We just said last one to the pub should buy a round.”
“Then Charles is an idiot too. And he’s, what? Forty-five? And drinking and driving too? For Chrissake, Harry.”
“I only had two beers at the match. That’s the honest truth.”
She sighed, the fight leaving her. “Whatever, Harry. It doesn’t matter now.”
There was a tap on the door, and Janette’s head appeared around it. “Is it OK if I come in? I didn’t know whether I should visit.”
Harry’s spirits lifted as she tiptoed in—a nonjudgmental friend. She was clutching grapes and a copy of Ian McEwan’s Atonement.
“Come in, sweetheart, and try not to look too closely at this.” He waved a hand toward the leg.
She talked about things at the office, and what was happening in the news, and her voice had such a soothing effect on him that he fell asleep, jerking awake later to find her sitting quietly, reading a magazine.
“Sorry, it’s the drugs making me sleepy. You don’t have to stay . . .”
“Do you want me to go? I’m sorry—”
“No. It’s been lovely seeing you. Would you come again? And, Janette, I’d like you to move back to my office while I’m out of action. Take calls, answer emails, tell people what’s going on with me.”
“Of course, Harry. Nothing would make me happier. Oh, apart from you getting better really quickly, of course!”
“It’s going to take a while. I’m not sure when they’ll let me go home. Perhaps you could come in weekdays, at a time of day when . . . other visitors aren’t here. You can bring in the paperwork, take a bit of dictation?”
“That sounds like a great plan.”
And so it became his routine. Janette visited every afternoon, and it was the only bright spot in his day—that and his painkiller top-ups.
Andre came in a few times, filling the private room with his colossal presence. He talked football, mostly, but Harry couldn’t work up any enthusiasm.
Ana visited on weekends, and for half an hour in the evening during the first two weeks, dropping to two evenings and Sunday afternoon on the third. She brought Eliza once, and he realized he’d missed her first day at school. He asked Eliza about it, but she seemed more interested in the complicated metal arrangement encasing his leg.
He found Ana’s visits tiring. She fidgeted and avoided prolonged eye contact. Kisses were limited to a peck on the forehead. He didn’t know what to say to her, how to make things right again. The loss of their baby hung between them, and he knew she still blamed him.
The nurse came in. The tall one with the kind eyes—Clare. “How are we today, Harry?”
“All the better for seeing you, Nurse Clare. And I’m sure we will be feeling much improved after a top-up of those lovely painkillers.”
She picked up the chart from the bottom of his bed. “Not due for an hour or two yet. Can you manage?”
“How disheartening. Do I have a choice?”
“We don’t want you leaving here an addict, do we? Now, time to change this dressing.”
Harry’s attention was abruptly diverted from Clare’s agreeable body to his own leg as the pain made him gasp.
“Sorry, Harry, I’ll be quick as I can. Look on the bright side—at least we know the nerve damage is healing.”
He shut his eyes as she left the room ten minutes later.
“Harry?”
He opened them to see Janette by his bed. “Janette. Boy am I pleased to see someone who’s not going to prod me or poke me or generally cause me unspeakable agony.” He gave her a weak smile.
“Oh, you poor thing! Is it really painful?”
Janette’s sympathy pierced his cheerful facade and he closed his eyes again, groping for her hand.
She took it and kissed it, then he felt her lips on his forehead. “This is so awful, my love. I hate seeing you like this.”
“Another hour to wait for painkillers.” He kept hold of her hand.
“The doctors know best, Harry. It’s going to take time.” She stroked his brow, then his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.
He sighed. It felt as if no one had touched him, other than to inject him, measure him, or bandage him, in weeks. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You’re an angel, Moneypenny.”
The hand on his head stilled for a moment, then stroked his cheek tenderly.
“I just want to see you all better. More than anything.” She leaned forward and kissed his forehead again, more slowly this time.
He opened his eyes and looked into hers, hovering just above him. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a man who couldn’t move, would you?”
She smiled. “Not unless he wanted me to.”
He moved his hand to the back of her head and gently brought her close, until they were kissing. His head spun with the drugs and the pleasure of a sensation that wasn’t pain.
Later, he had a quiet word with Nurse Clare, ensuring that—from now on—he wouldn’t be disturbed during his assistant’s visits.
Ana
Took me three hours to get through security at JFK,” said Terri, who was just back from New York. “Everyone there’s jumpy as a flea on a bouncy castle.”
“A what?” said Ana.
“Sorry, metaphor fail. Jet lag.”
A few weeks ago, the world had been rocked by the terrorist attack on New York’s Twin Towers, and Londoners were on edge again too. Bomb threats were a normal part of life, but IRA attacks had dwindled, and since the Good Friday Agreement, people had finally dared hope for a lasting peace. Now it was back to bomb alerts and loop messages about unattended baggage.
For Ana, still mourning the loss of her child, this was turning out to be the year from hell. She said as much to Terri as she filled her in on recent events over their regular lunch.
Harry had come home. He was on crutches and, apart from the daily cleaning lady, was alone in the house for most of the day—Tegan now only babysat Eliza after school. With Charles and Megan’s help, Ana had turned the dining room into a bedroom-office, and Harry was spending some of the time working. But he was still in pain, grew tired quickly, and as a result was in a constant bad temper.
“I know I’m being impatient with him,” Ana said, “but I can’t move past thinking this is all his own fault.”
“You have to make allowances for boys, ’cause they’re generally rubbish. That especially applies to overprivileged upper-class arsehole boys.”
Ana laughed. “It’s amazing you’ve worked for him this long, considering you’ve never liked him—have you?”
“Strangely, I’m fond of the old bugger. Couldn’t stand him that first time I interviewed him, but there’s something about Harry. Go easy on him, Ana. He’s been a twat, but I think he’s probably paid the price.”
Ana mulled over Terri’s words as they paid the bill and left. If Terri, who hated almost everyone, was speaking up for Harry, maybe it was indeed time for a little forgiveness. Blaming him for the loss of her baby was perhaps unfair. It had been his baby, too, and he’d been so excited.
She stopped in the street, causing a man following close behind to bump into her. He harrumphed, then as she turned to apologize, his eyes widened. “Sorry, my fault!”
She smiled. She still had it. And maybe it was time to give it back to Harry. She hailed a cab to take her home.
Fifteen minutes later she was opening the door to Harry’s bedroom—quietly, just a crack, in case he was asleep.
He wasn’t. Harry was seated in his armchair, his bad leg resting on a footstool. And on his lap was Janette, her head tucked into his shoulder. He was stroking her hair, and they were talking quietly.