Be Careful What You Wish For

  Rosemary lets out a quiet moan, and I glance down at her. For the first time I feel bonded to her by our love for Lionel. It brings a strange comfort. Because, as hard and painful as it is to think about it, if we have to say goodbye, at least we’ll say it together. And with my eyelids weighing heavy, I close my eyes and surrender myself to sleep.

  Chapter Forty-three

  I wake up with a start. Where am I? I sit bolt upright. Then it punches me like a fist in the stomach. Dad.

  Rosemary is still asleep, as I stagger to my feet. What time is it? The clock on the wall reads just after six. I’ve been asleep for hours.

  The hospital is still quiet and, as I hurry down the corridor towards Intensive Care, I don’t see anyone. Even the nurses who were sitting outside on Reception have gone. I glance at the windows, but I can’t see through the blinds. With no one around to stop me, I push open the door.

  Inside, the room’s dimly lit and silent but for the sound of the heart monitor beeping rhythmically. A wave of relief sweeps over me.

  He’s still alive.

  Honestly, it’s as basic as that.

  Breathing deeply, I approach the bed quietly so as not to wake him. I reach out to stroke his hand, then snatch mine away.

  It’s not my father.

  My stomach freefalls. A much younger man is lying in my father’s bed. I notice the thick blue tattoo of a bird etched on the side of his neck, a pulse beating, the pallor of his skin. All in a fraction of a second as the ground tips under me.

  ‘Excuse me, but you can’t be in here.’

  I whirl round to see two nurses.

  ‘Where’s my dad?’ I cry desperately. ‘What’s happened to him? What have you done with him?’ My mind’s spinning, and as they rush towards me I’m gasping for breath. Now they’re holding me and trying to comfort me but I can’t hear what they’re saying. I can’t hear anything but the howl inside my head. Because I know.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ I gasp. ‘He’s dead . . . he’s dead . . .’

  They lead me, stumbling, out of the room, supporting me as I flop like a rag doll.

  ‘Miss Hamilton, it’s Mr Bradley . . . Miss Hamilton, you have to listen to me . . .’

  A man in a white coat looms over me but I can’t focus. Darkness is closing in from around the edges and everything is receding.

  ‘We needed the bed for an emergency in the middle of the night. Your father has been moved to the coronary unit. He’s doing fine. He’s awake and asking for you . . .’

  And then everything goes black.

  ‘Did I give you two a bit of a shock?’

  It’s later. Rosemary and I are sitting at either side of Lionel’s bed each holding one of his hands.

  ‘I think it was Heather who gave us a shock.’ Rosemary smiles. My cheeks redden. How embarrassing – flipping out like that and fainting at Mr Bradley’s feet. I feel like a complete moron.

  Then I look at my father. Never forget, Heather. You came this close – this close – to losing him.

  Apparently Lionel can’t remember anything after the first heart-attack and it’s been something of a shock for him to discover that not only is he in hospital, but that he’s undergone heart surgery. Much less dramatic, but momentous in its own way, is the change in the relationship between Rosemary and me.

  ‘Just look, here I am with the two beautiful women in my life.’ He smiles approvingly. ‘I’ll have to do this again.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ scolds Rosemary. ‘And to make sure, Ed is going to be staying with us. I just had a message. He’s arriving this afternoon.’

  ‘With a nutritionist friend from LA,’ I add.

  Lionel manages a grimace.

  ‘You heard what the doctor said. It’s very important you stick to this diet. No cheese, no wine . . .’

  ‘No fun,’ he whimpers.

  ‘Lionel, you’re not going to make me a widow for the second time,’ warns Rosemary, in a voice that makes even me a little scared.

  ‘Me? Disobey doctor’s orders? I wouldn’t dream of it.’ He puckers his lips for a kiss.

  ‘You’ve had a heart-attack, you need to rest.’

  ‘I want a kiss, my dear, not a sexual marathon.’

  Rosemary blushes, and I stand up. ‘I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.’ Once I would have felt resentful, but now I feel a warm sense of contentment and pressing my lips lightly to my father’s whiskery cheek, I whisper. ‘See you later, alligator.’

  And, smiling, he whispers right back, ‘In a while, crocodile.’

  I spend the next few days at the cottage. Ed duly arrives with his nutritionist friend, a woman named Miranda whom he met at university and who now runs successful practices in London and Los Angeles. She’s here for a whirlwind twenty-four hours, meeting Lionel and his doctors, drawing up detailed diet plans and nutritious low-fat recipes, which she pins all over the small oak kitchen as if she’s wallpapering a room.

  Lionel is discharged at the weekend. I can call him Lionel again now, as he’s definitely back to being Lionel. Bushy-faced, loud-voiced and larger than life – though soon to be sixty pounds lighter, if Miranda has anything to do with it. And I think he will be. Despite his jokes and bravado, he’s had a shock. Every so often I hear a tremble in his voice and when Rosemary orders him to eat up his grilled chicken breast and steamed curly kale, he gets on with it like an obedient child, without so much as a whinge for a glass of pinot noir.

  I’m more than happy. And it’s on afternoons sitting outside on the lawn with Lionel, Ed and Rosemary, laughing at some crappy joke or other, I think of how I got my wish – and with it, much more than I could have ever imagined.

  ‘So, how’s that young American chap getting on?’

  We’ve just finished another healthy picnic lunch when Lionel brings up the subject of Gabe. Honestly, I swear my father’s a bloody mind-reader.

  ‘Er, he’s moved out,’ I say, as casually as I can, but it’s as if I’ve been stung.

  The past few days have revolved round Lionel, getting everything ready at the house for his homecoming, including moving his bed downstairs, and making sure he gets his medication at the right times. We’ve all been so busy with him that we haven’t been able to think of anything else.

  Except that’s not true. I can be falling asleep at night, or loading the dishwasher, or sitting on the grass with the sun on my face when my mind drifts to Gabe. Like some bizarre cerebral homing pigeon.

  ‘He’s gone up to the Edinburgh Festival,’ I add, feeling as if I have to offer an explanation. Even if it’s not the full story.

  Lionel beams at the thought of all those thespians, artists and musicians. ‘Are you going to go up and see his show?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He raises his eyebrows.

  There’s a pause and I can feel looks flying round the garden. ‘What?’ I demand hotly.

  ‘Nothing, sis,’ says Ed evenly and smirks into his mobile. Since his return from America he’s been constantly on the phone to Lou. It’s only a few weeks now until the baby’s due, and Lionel’s brush with death has made him realise what’s important in life. And it’s not football.

  ‘Oh, we don’t want to talk about some boring old festival, do we?’ pooh-poohs Rosemary. ‘Tell us all about that high-society wedding.’

  I smile gratefully at her attempt to rescue me, but I’ve been trying not to think about Lady Charlotte’s wedding. ‘It’s this weekend at Shillingham Abbey.’ My mind throws up an image of Daniel, all done up in his top hat and tails. I block it out. I haven’t told them the groom is my ex. In fact, apart from Jess, I haven’t told a soul. I couldn’t bear all the sympathetic glances, and are-you-all-rights because I am all right with it.

  Aren’t I?

  ‘Oooh, just think of all the celebrities who’ll be there . . .’ Rosemary’s eyes betray an excited gleam. Then she takes a sharp breath. ‘Do you think the Royal Family will go?’

  ‘I don’t know,
’ I say. If they do, Brian will think he’s died and gone to heaven.

  ‘So, when will you be heading back for it?’ Lionel looks over at me expectantly over his glass of Evian.

  Oh, shite. How do I tell them I’m unemployed? I try to think of how to explain things then realising I can’t, say simply, ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You’re not?’ gasps Rosemary.

  I shake my head and glance at Lionel, who’s studying me carefully.

  ‘I’m going to be all right,’ he says quietly.

  ‘I know you are.’ I feel guilty for not telling him the real reason why I’m not assisting Brian at this wedding. But I just can’t. They’d never understand. I don’t even understand.

  ‘I don’t need three nurses. I have Rosemary and your brother.’

  ‘And Miranda,’ says Ed, who’s still on the phone with Lou. ‘She’s in constant touch with your progress via email. Talking of which, she wants you to send her a detailed plan of everything you ate today.’

  ‘There’s plenty of people here to spoil my fun.’ Lionel smiles. ‘You must go.’

  I feel stuck. I’m not worried about leaving Lionel. The doctors are delighted with the progress he’s making and I know he doesn’t need me to mollycoddle him – Ed and Rosemary are more than enough. I glance at the two of them and feel almost sorry for him. But I can’t just call Brian and ask for my old job back. And anyway he’s probably got himself another assistant by now.

  ‘Why don’t you call Brian?’ suggests Rosemary.

  I look at her with surprise. I’ve mentioned Brian over the years but she never appeared to pay much attention. ‘Maybe I will,’ I murmur.

  ‘You can borrow my mobile,’ pipes up Ed, who all of a sudden has finished his call.

  I’m suspicious. Since when has he ever offered to lend me his mobile?

  Then I catch sight of Lionel who’s got that guilty schoolboy look, and get a sneaky feeling that this has been planned. ‘Is this a plot to get rid of me?’ I take the phone from Ed.

  ‘No, of course not, darling,’ says Lionel. ‘It’s just that Ed mentioned your finances . . .’

  I shoot my brother a warning look, but he pretends to be interested in a patch of grass.

  ‘. . . and I know Rosemary was really looking forward to seeing your photographs of all those famous people . . .’

  Rosemary flushes guiltily.

  With all eyes on me I take Ed’s mobile. I feel unexpectedly nervous. Despite what Brian said, I still feel terrible about letting him down at such short notice, and I want to make it up to him. But can I really face being the wedding photographer’s assistant at Daniel’s wedding? Taking close-ups of a man who broke my heart into a million pieces saying ‘I do’?

  Yes, you can, Heather, I tell myself firmly.

  And all of a sudden I make a decision. So what if I’m dreading seeing Daniel? So what if I’m the one crying in the church this time? I punch in the number. Brian and the business are more important and I’m going to put them first.

  ‘Hello, Together Forever.’ It’s Brian. He sounds stressed.

  I grope around in my head, trying to think of an easy way in to this conversation, then give up and blurt, ‘I don’t suppose you still need an assistant for tomorrow, do you?’

  ‘Heather?’

  His surprise is audible.

  ‘Yep, it’s me.’

  At the other end of the line I listen nervously to him dragging on his cigarette. Then he laughs quietly.

  ‘You’re going to need a fancy hat.’

  Chapter Forty-four

  As it turns out I need a lot more than a hat.

  ‘Lights?’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Tripods.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘Two Hasselblads, a Nikon, the reflector, sixty rolls of film and three lenses.’

  ‘Check, check, check, check . . . um . . . check.’

  It’s the morning of Lady Charlotte’s wedding, and we’re at Shillingham Abbey in Oxfordshire. The abbey is part of the ancestral home of the Duke and Duchess, and it’s nestled in the type of picturesque village you’d expect on a postcard – there’s a duck pond, cottages with rambling roses growing round the door, and more Hunter wellies and Barbour jackets than the whole of the Royal Family owns.

  ‘Is that everything?’ Brian is asking, looking up from the array of camera equipment laid out on the gravel driveway.

  Pausing from unloading cases out of the back of the Together Forever van, I think hard. Then remember. ‘Oh, hang on a minute, we can’t forget these . . .’ I reach into the depths, rummage around and produce a large tub of Vaseline. ‘For the lens,’ I remind him.

  ‘Oh, of course.’ He rolls his eyes skyward as he pops it into his pocket.

  ‘And then there’s this.’

  ‘An electric fan?’ he scoffs. ‘What the blazes do we need that for?’

  We exchange a look that says ‘Lady Charlotte’.

  ‘Originally she wanted a wind machine,’ I explain, rolling up its cord, ‘but I told her we could achieve the same effect with a portable fan.’

  ‘This isn’t a music video, you know.’ He tuts irritably.

  ‘Tell that to her,’ I say, and dump it in his arms. Something tells me this is going to be a big day. For all of us.

  Since my initial phone call a few days ago, Brian and I have spoken quite a lot and he knows all about Lionel’s heart-attack, Gabe’s uncle being Victor Maxfield, and my decision not to take the job at the Sunday Herald. True to character, he’s been a rock, listening supportively, telling me loyally what a great photographer I am, and immediately offering me my old job back. ‘Which, of course, goes without saying, but there’s no rush, take your time,’ he’s saying now, as he paces round the exterior of the abbey, taking readings from his light meter.

  ‘Thanks, Brian, I really appreciate it.’ Perched on a case, I smile gratefully. With everything that’s been happening, I haven’t yet made any firm decisions on what I’m going to do about my career. With my dream of working for the Sunday Herald over I’m effectively unemployed, and although I love working with Brian, we both know that after six years it’s time for me to move on.

  But to where I have no idea.

  ‘Oh, it’s no problem, no problem.’ He takes out a tissue and dabs the perspiration from his face. ‘To be quite frank, Heather, after this dratted wedding we’re both going to need a rest.’ He fiddles with his cravat, trying to loosen his collar, which is so heavily starched that it’s like a neck brace. Forced to swap his trusted grey flannel suit for the full top hat and tails, he’s been uncomfortable all morning. ‘Pity that poor groom, that’s all I can say,’ he mutters to himself, as he strides over to the van and checks his reflection in the wing mirror.

  ‘Well, that’s another thing,’ I say hesitantly. There’s a pause. Having tried not to think about it, Daniel suddenly rears his ugly head. ‘The groom’s my ex.’

  Brian stares at me, not understanding.

  ‘Remember Daniel?’ I say quietly, and feel a familiar knot in my stomach. Oh, God, this is what I’ve been afraid of.

  Brian’s jaw would have dropped, had his collar not been nearly strangling him. ‘Gordon Bennett, how could I forget? He broke your heart . . .’ Wide-eyed, he continues to stare at me, and then, ‘You’ve known all along and you still offered to be my assistant today . . .’ His voice breaks off as he gazes at me, his eyes filling up. ‘Heather, that’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ He hurries over to give me a hug.

  ‘Stop it, or you’ll have me crying,’ I protest, my voice muffled by his shoulder. ‘And you know I don’t cry at weddings.’

  He laughs, sniffing away his tears. ‘Thank you, Heather.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ I smile, and then, gesturing at the equipment scattered around our feet, say briskly. ‘Come on, we’ve got a wedding to photograph.’ And hoisting a tripod under each arm I set off towards the abbey.

  We spend the next ten minut
es setting up: lights over by the altar, reflector near the pulpit, a tripod at both ends of the aisle. In fact, it’s only when Brian pops out to get more extension leads from the van – which means he’s gone for a quick smoke – that I take a moment to look at my surroundings.

  The abbey is breathtaking. Its sheer size inspires a kind of stunned awe, and I walk round, head tilted back, gazing up at the shafts of sunlight shining through the stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colours across the smooth stone floors.

  And then there are the flowers: hundreds of thousands in huge elaborate arrangements, cascading from columns, at the end of each pew, strung up high in big garlands. The place is a blaze of pink and white. Though to be honest, I think they’ve overdone it a bit. Isn’t it supposed to be about quality, not quantity? In fact, the more I think about it, the more it looks a bit tacky. I mean, it’s so over the top, it’s like the Chelsea Flower show in here.

  Oh, who am I kidding? It’s not over the top, it’s absolutely bloody beautiful. I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

  I inhale the heavily perfumed air. There’s no point in pretending, I have to face up to it, whether I like it or not. This is where Daniel, the man with whom I shared three years of my life, will get married today.

  Only not to me.

  I feel a deep ache and the stirring of a wishful thought. I banish it quickly. Oh no you don’t . . .

  Interrupted by the creak of the door I turn round expecting to see Brian with the extension cords. The figure of a man is silhouetted in the doorway but as he starts up the aisle I realise it’s not Brian.

  It’s Daniel.

  He’s thinner than I remember and a little older round the eyes, but he still makes my stomach flip. And now he’s only a few feet from me and we’re both staring at each other and my heart’s thumping so loudly I’m sure he can hear it. Bumping into your bastard ex-boyfriend who broke your heart is one thing. But the church on his wedding day? Well, you can imagine.