The waiting room was ahead of him, to the left.
Without pausing, he pushed open the door and came face to face with Oliver Taylor-Trent.
‘Thought so,’ said Jake.
Chapter 39
Juliet watched Oliver make his way down the darkened ward towards her. He looked terrible; business suit crumpled, greying hair uncombed, the lines around his mouth grown deeper than usual like cracks in parched ground. Then again, she probably wasn’t looking that spectacular herself.
Too shattered to move, Juliet sat and listened to the night nurse patiently explaining to him the functions of the various bits of machinery surrounding the bed. Being Oliver, he demanded to speak to the consultant in charge of the unit and threatened to become difficult when it was explained to him that the consultant was at home, asleep.
Finally, Juliet intervened.
‘Tiff’s getting the best care. Losing your temper isn’t going to help him. Oliver, sit down.’
‘I can’t bear it.’ Oliver’s gaze was fixed on his son’s fragile, immobile body. ‘I just want to make him better.’ Turning abruptly to the nurse he said, ‘Would a private hospital be able to do more? If it’s a question of money, I don’t care how much it costs—’
‘They’re doing everything possible,’ said Juliet. ‘It’s OK,’ she told the hovering nurse, ‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘He was fine the other day, I saw him playing outside the shop with Sophie... absolutely fine ...’
‘He was fine twenty-four hours ago. That’s the thing about meningitis.’
Oliver was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you phone me? You should have phoned me as soon as it happened.’
Juliet shrugged. ‘I knew you were in Switzerland. It would have made it more serious. I just kept hoping they’d say he was getting better. How did you find out?’ she said, although it was fairly obvious.
‘I rang Estelle. She told me what had happened. I was about to go into a meeting.’ Oliver gazed blankly down at Tiff. ‘I walked out of the building, flagged down a taxi and caught the first flight out of Zurich. When I was growing up in Bradford,’ he went on in a low voice, ‘there was a boy who lived opposite me. Billy Kennedy, his name was. We used to play in the same football team. He got meningitis.’
‘What happened to him?’ The moment the words were out of her mouth, Juliet regretted them.
Oliver didn’t reply.
Juliet rubbed her dry, aching eyes. ‘I need to change my clothes.’ Both her blue shirt and long white cotton skirt were spotted with sick and there were bloodstains on her sleeve where she had helped to hold Tiff while the doctor had been setting up an intravenous drip. The bag of things Jake had brought from home was in the waiting room outside.
‘You go. I’ll stay here,’ said Oliver, and for a second she hesitated, because if Tiff were to open his eyes and she wasn’t there for him, what would he think?
Except she knew Tiff wasn’t about to open his eyes. He was in a coma now, unaware of anything at all, mercifully, and clinging to life by a thread. Wondering how she could bear to be going through this, yet aware that come what may she simply had to, Juliet rose slowly to her feet.
‘I’ll be two minutes.’ She felt older than she’d imagined possible.
‘Take as long as you want,’ said Oliver.
‘I don’t want to take any longer than two minutes.’ Aware of the smell of sick rising from her skirt, Juliet said, ‘Did Jake see you?’
Oliver nodded.
‘OK.’
The waiting room was cool and deserted. Taking her carrier bag into the bathroom, Juliet changed into the clean silvery grey v-neck top and darker grey crinkle skirt Jake had found in her wardrobe. She’d never been a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, preferring stretchy, ultra-comfortable clothes that didn’t constrict.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn’t comforting but Juliet didn’t care. Without the customary crimson lipstick, her mouth was far too pale. Since dragging a comb through her hair was too much to contemplate, she forced herself to brush her teeth instead, then sluiced her face with cold water.
Even that felt as arduous as wading waist-high through treacle.
‘Hi’
Emerging from the bathroom, Juliet was unsurprised to find Jake waiting for her.
‘I’ve brought you a coffee.’ He held one of the steaming Styrofoam cups towards her. ‘Pretty vile, I’m afraid. But better than nothing.’
‘Thanks.’ Juliet took the cup, knowing she wouldn’t drink it.
‘So.’ Jake paused. ‘Oliver Taylor-Trent.’
‘Don’t lecture me,’ she said wearily. ‘This isn’t a good time.’
‘I’m not going to lecture you.’ Jake shook his head. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. No one else.’
‘Not Estelle?’
‘No.’
‘Tiff ?’
‘Of course Tiff doesn’t know.’ Juliet gave him a how-can you-even-ask look. ‘He’s seven years old.
Do you seriously imagine he’d be able to keep quiet about something like that?’
‘OK, that’s all.’ Jake held up his hands. ‘No more questions. I just needed to know for practical reasons.’
‘Sorry.’ Of course he did; he would be heading back to Ashcombe now. ‘Anyway, thanks for everything.’ Julie moved towards the door, beginning to panic at the thought that she’d been away from Tiff for longer than five minutes.
‘No problem.’ Jake waited, looking as if he wanted to say something else. Then he shook his head and smiled briefly at Juliet, so clearly desperate to get back to the ward. ‘Off you go.’
‘You look shattered,’ said Juliet. ‘Shouldn’t you get some sleep?’
It was eight thirty in the morning, grey and overcast outside. Oliver, looking more crumpled than ever, rubbed his eyes.
‘Not before I’ve spoken to the consultant. He’s on his way in now.’ Straightening up on his chair he said, ‘Who’s that over there?’
Juliet twisted round. At the nurses’ station behind them a lanky youth in a porter’s uniform was leaning against the desk glancing over at them and whispering to one of the nurses.
‘His name’s Phil, he lives in Ashcombe.’ Aware that her heart should be plummeting but quite unable to summon up the energy to care, Juliet said, ‘He works part-time in the kitchen at the Fallen Angel. Looks like he’s recognised you.’
‘Here’s someone now,’ said Oliver as the swing doors crashed open and a middle-aged man with an unmistakable air of authority burst into the unit, trailing assorted minions in his wake. ‘Is that him?’
‘That’s him,’ Juliet nodded, her throat tightening with trepidation.
Oliver was already out of his chair. ‘About time too. Right, now we’ll find out what’s going on.
How d’you do, I’m Oliver Taylor-Trent.’ Oliver stuck out his hand as the consultant, followed by his entourage, reached them. ‘I’m the boy’s father. I want to know exactly where we stand here,’ he announced brusquely. ‘No holding back.’
Juliet, her fingers closing helplessly round Tiff’s immobile hand, prayed that Oliver wouldn’t start going on again about money. She also prayed that the consultant wouldn’t be as brusque as Oliver; she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength to hear what he might be about to say.
‘Pickled walnuts, would you credit it?’ Marcella shook her head in disbelief, mystified by her own weirdness. ‘I always thought those food cravings were made up, just to get pregnant women a bit of attention, but I swear to God I’m dreaming of pickled walnuts. The moment I wake up I have to have them. Nothing else will do. And when I’m not eating them I like to look at them, bobbing about in their jar like dear little shrivelled brains—’
‘Whoa,’ Estelle spluttered, waving her hands and struggling to swallow her mouthful of Marmite on toast. ‘Too much information.’