Found (2 page)

One year later...

‘I’ll probably never be allowed back in the country once I’ve left. I’m surprised they didn’t arrest me. And then there’s Felicity,’ I choke out. ‘And–’

I can’t continue. The tears are gushing down my face, and I probably look like I’ve aged twenty years in one night, though Piers isn’t looking any better. 

He pulls off his oxygen mask. ‘Oh, Pony,’ he croaks at me.

‘Don’t “Pony” me,’ I snap, suddenly feeling tremendously angry. I turn away. 

There’s silence, except for the awful, yet reassuring, steady beep of the machines he is hooked up to. I can’t look at him. I don’t want to see how frail and weak he is – how it hurts for him to even breathe, let alone move – and I certainly don’t want his sympathy when
he’s
in this state.

So, instead I look around this private New York City hospital room and try not to think about the nagging voice in my head. The one that is asking me how I can trust this man when he’s been lying to me for the past umpteen months, when he’s...

‘I’m glad you’re OK,’ I mutter, suddenly feeling ashamed. One minute I’m up, the next minute I’m down.

I blame the tiredness, the awful mind-numbing tiredness, and the shock – I’ve not slept in nearly thirty-six hours. Whatever chemicals were spinning around my bloodstream, courtesy of my forced visit to the medical centre at JFK Airport, they’ve faded away now.

I’m still amazed that I wasn’t arrested for my behaviour, but when I thought Piers was dead... well, I lost it. Instead, it wasn’t Piers, it was... I start crying even more at the thought of it, at the thought of Felicity lying in a morgue.  

‘She was fine when I got on the flight,’ I wail. ‘How has this happened?’

Piers makes a gesture with a tilt of his head, beckoning me closer, and I shuffle nearer to him. He takes my hand, and I try and ignore the IV, though it’s the tube sticking out of his chest that freaks me out the most. There should
never
be a hole there.
Ever
.

‘I’m so sorry, Piers,’ I choke out. ‘I thought it was you, and then it wasn’t, but for it to be Felicity...’

I shouldn’t be doing this now, especially since visiting hours are technically over and I’ve only been allowed in because of the circumstances. I should be comforting Piers, seeing if he’s OK after his surgery. I shouldn’t be stressing him out. I tap Piers’ hotel key, nervously, on my leg.

Everything is a big jumble though; nothing makes sense. Felicity was deteriorating, sure, but not to the point that we all needed to prepare to say goodbye to her... I mean, I only saw her a couple of days ago, and she was more than capable of calling me out on my bad business decisions. I was never naive enough to think that she was magically “getting better” but, likewise, I was never despondent enough to think that her time was going to be up so soon. 

Piers takes off his oxygen mask again and croaks something that sounds like a cross between “Mum” and “Giles”. He is seriously flagging, and he needs to keep that mask on.

I glance again at the tube in his chest. He should be resting. I can never get anything right.

I assume he means his brother, Giles, not my mum – I’ve not spoken to either of them since my meltdown at the airport. Hank, the man who found me on the floor in the Arrivals terminal, told me afterwards that he instinctively knew I wasn’t a threat to others, just to myself. He pointed out that it’s not uncommon to spot people receiving devastating news when they clear Immigration and switch on their phones – a lot can go wrong when people are in the air.

‘Giles?’ I gently ask.

He nods and makes a half-hearted phone gesture with his hand.

I gently lean over to kiss him on the cheek, scared I’ll disturb one of the wires. His skin looks even more waxen up close, except for the violent purple smudges under his eyes. 

‘You’re tired, aren’t you?’

With a tilt of his head, I know it’s time to go.

‘I’m tired, too,’ I admit, ‘but I’ll be back first thing.’

I study him, committing how he looks to memory, but also trying to remember the last photo that was taken of the two of us. I wish I had that photo with me, or any photo of us, but I remember that Piers always takes a framed photo of the two of us on his business trips. There will be one in the hotel room.

‘I love you,’ I choke out, ‘and of course I’ll call Giles. I’ll let him know you’re OK.’

I had already sent both Giles and Mum a quick message to let them know that I’d arrived at the hospital, that Piers is doing as well as can be expected, and that I’ll call them once I head to the hotel – not that there’s much news I can update them with tonight.

He squeezes my hand reassuringly, and I get up and leave the hospital room quickly before I burst into tears again. Deep down though I’m terrified that I’ll come back in the morning and Piers will be gone, that he won’t survive the night.
Like Felicity
.

As I hop into a cab and tell the driver to take me to Gramercy Park Hotel, I give his brother a quick call, promising to update him tomorrow as soon as we’ve spoken to the consultant. Giles ticked off my list, I’m about to call my mum when we’re already pulling up outside the hotel. That was quick.

As I make my way through the beautiful lobby of the hotel, I barely take in the cool black-and-white Moroccan tiles that juxtapose the rich red rug lying on top of them, but as I call my mum, I pause to admire the massive Venetian glass chandelier. No one could ignore those sparkles.

‘Arielle?’

‘Hi Mum,’ I say wearily, as I head to the lift, the spell of the dazzling chandelier broken.

‘How is he? How are you?’ she fires at me.

‘I’ve just left the hospital, and I’m like the walking dead,’ I admit. ‘Piers is doing as well as can be expected, but he’ll probably be in the hospital another week–’

‘A week?’ Mum interrupts.

‘Maybe longer, and who knows when he’ll be allowed to fly home. We won’t be allowed to stay in the hotel forever,’ I continue, ‘but that’s next week’s problem.’

Mum tuts sympathetically as I unlock the door, and I immediately change my mind. There is no way Piers’ work is moving us. I could happily live in a suite like this.

‘Is Atlas OK?’ I ask as I shut the door behind me and dump my handbag on the floor.

‘He is. He’s happily purring away on my knee.’

‘Dad will be jealous.’

‘Oh, Dad isn’t here. He’s going to pick us up tomorrow. We’ll look after him at ours until you get back.’

‘Wait, why isn’t Dad in London with you?’ I ask, tearing myself away from exploring the suite, though the mahogany English drinking cabinet – more notably the bottle of Hendrick’s Gin in it – is calling my name.

‘I didn’t want to tell you earlier, but there’s been a development,’ Mum says slowly, ‘with Felicity’s death. Your dad was with Etta...’

I let the words “Felicity’s death” wash over me – I don’t want to deal with that now; I need to be strong for Piers – but as I squint at myself in the ornate dresser mirror and clock the photo of me and Piers, I think about what Mum has just said. Why would my dad have been with Etta? That makes no sense at all. In my tiredness, I must have misheard Mum.

I pull a face in the mirror at my messy bun, which is now dishevelled to the point of pure scruffiness, no longer chic, and I notice that I’ve managed to splash tea down the sleeve of my cream knitted jumper. These are the only clothes I have in New York, the ones I am wearing. Even worse, I’m wearing a sequinned baseball jersey underneath my jumper, which now seems extremely tacky this side of the pond. I’m such an idiot for not grabbing any clothes, but when Giles called me and told me I needed to get on a plane to New York because Piers was about to have surgery, I dashed straight to the airport.

I flop down wearily onto the king-sized bed and snuggle into the vibrant malachite-green Italian linen that covers four impossibly soft Hungarian goose-down pillows and a duvet.
Heaven
. Then I remember my mum is still on the phone.

‘... which is why they are there as they have to make sure that it was natural causes.’

‘What?’

I’ve missed half of what Mum has just said because of my moment luxuriating on the world’s most epic bed. I could fall asleep in seconds, and I suspect I will as soon as I get off the phone. Forget my plan of a long bath with a neat gin or two – I’m climbing straight underneath these blissful covers.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions, love. I’m sure it’s just procedure and that nothing–’ she falters, ‘–external happened to Felicity.’

I’m seriously confused. What does she mean by
external
? Felicity died in her sleep... didn’t she? And what does any of this have to do with my dad?

‘Huh?’

‘That’s what I’m saying, Arielle. Your dad was at the police station with Etta. They took her in for questioning.’

‘Questioning?’ I echo. My head feels like I’ve just downed two bottles of champagne in quick succession.

‘Yes, they need to rule out that Etta wasn’t involved in–’ Mum stumbles again with her words, ‘–Felicity’s death.’

I’m wide awake now. I always knew Etta was trouble, the fucking
murdering
bitch...

‘Arielle!’

Mum sounds shocked at my language, but she doesn’t know Etta like I do, doesn’t know what she’s capable of. Etta’s probably been polite whenever she’s crossed paths with my parents but that girl is unhinged, not to mention hooked on drugs. I could see how, in her coked-up state, or whatever it is she takes copious amounts of, she could have lost it with Felicity: throttled her or smothered her... I shudder at
that
chilling image.

‘Arielle...
Arielle
,’ Mum is saying down the phone. ‘Please don’t, sweetheart. I need you to stay strong. Look, it was routine questioning as they think Etta was the last person to see her alive. Dad said they wanted to know...’ Mum pauses like she’s choosing her next words carefully, ‘about the state of Felicity’s mind.’

‘They’ve not questioned anyone else though, have they?’ I pointedly remark as my brain processes all of this. ‘And what do you mean her state of mind? She had Alzheimer’s, so what did they expect her mind to be like?’

Mum hesitates.

‘Mum?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she finally says.

‘Felicity...’ I start to say but it comes out in a choke because what Mum has just said makes me suspect that there is
everything
to worry about. I know how unstable Etta was; I can recall quite vividly how she screeched down the phone at me, just the other day.

I get up off the bed and walk across to the window, desperate for some air. ‘Felicity didn’t deserve any of this,’ I finally manage to mutter in a tiny voice as I pull back the heavy chenille curtains.

Looking out of the window I’m treated to a view of Gramercy Park, which is similar to the private gardens that you find in Bloomsbury and Chelsea. Seeing people walk down the street and a yellow taxi pull up outside one of the townhouses, even at this late hour, reminds me that the world is still turning – that normal,
safe,
everyday things are happening – and I feel slightly calmed by this thought.

‘Shhhhhhh,’ Mum soothes down the phone at me. ‘I agree, but Felicity had an incredible life. She was loved, and she was happy, so what more could she have wanted?’

How about not being murdered in her sleep by her goddaughter?
I refrain from airing that dark thought out loud as I plonk myself down in one of the room’s amazing velvet chairs. I feel like I’m about to pass out, but this is like sitting in a throne.

The more I think about this, the more I know Etta was involved because Felicity’s death is too sudden. There has to be more to this, and the police clearly think so, too.

‘Look, you must be shattered,’ Mum continues as I bite my lip to stop myself from crying. ‘Get some sleep, and we’ll talk later.’

I ignore her. ‘Why was Dad with her?’ This is another part I don’t understand.

Mum sighs. ‘Etta asked us if we could be listed as an emergency contact for the agency, so Sadie called us. We arrived as the police did, and Dad thought Etta could use a friendly face by her side since she looked so distraught.’

I swallow what feels like a large stone in my throat, but of course there’s nothing there.

‘I caught the last train to London,’ Mum continues, ‘once it became obvious that your Dad and Etta weren’t going to be leaving the police station anytime soon. Matt gave me a lift to the station. You’d like him,’ she adds.

My head is spinning. I don’t even know who Matt is, and I don’t care. None of this is making any sense, except Mum telling me that I need to sleep. I have no idea what time it is, what day it is – all I know is I’ve been awake for far too long.

‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘Give Atlas a big squish, and I’ll talk to you once I’ve slept.’

‘Will do. Send our love to Piers, and keep your chin up. Oh, and call Obélix when you can. He phoned me just before you did, and he sounded absolutely frantic. Said he kept getting an engaged tone. I filled him in on what’s happened.’

‘I was probably on the phone to Giles,’ I mutter, stifling a yawn.

Am I so tired that I am dreaming? Nothing that has happened in the past twenty-four hours is making the slightest bit of sense, and I dread to think what sort of a mess Ob is in if he’s desperate enough to chase me down via my parents.

‘Call him later,’ Mum instructs as I yawn again.

We say our goodbyes, but when I hang up the phone, I ignore her advice. I have no text message from Ob, but there is a message informing me I have twenty-three new voicemail messages, probably all from him. When I dial through to my voicemail service though, most of the messages are a few seconds of white noise before the caller hangs up.

‘Fatty, look, it’s me,’ Ob finally says after twenty-odd weird, and slightly frustrating, non-messages. ‘I spoke to your mum, and I’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry about Felicity passing away. I know how much she meant to you, and I’m sorry to hear about Piers’ illness. Do give him my best,’ he says gruffly. ‘Your mum said everything was looking positive for him post-surgery, so I’m sure you’ll both be home soon.’

There’s a pause, and I hear the sound of a bottle being unscrewed. After I’ve listened to the rest of this, I’m going to join Ob and pour myself a very large gin and tonic. And when that’s gone, I’m pouring myself another – if I haven’t passed out before then.

‘Look, something’s happened,’ he admits. ‘I don’t know what to do, how I can deal with this. You’re the only one I can talk to, the only one I can tell.’ 

I hear him take a large swig from his glass.

‘I know you’ve got a lot on right now, Fatty, but...
Arielle
, I’m scared,’ he chokes out. ‘Call me.
Please
. As soon as you can. I need you.’ He hangs up.

Crap
. What’s happened? A small selfish part of me wants to ignore Ob, to pour that glass of gin, down it, and go to bed, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound this upset. Those messages were only left thirty minutes ago, too, so it was... I quickly do the maths: 5.30am back home. It is
never
a good sign if someone is drinking before breakfast.

I quickly pour myself a gin, sink back into the oh-so-comfy throne chair, and I call Ob. Forget what Mum said about sleeping – he needs me.

‘Fatty.’ Ob answers after a few rings, sounding like a man who is drunk but trying to hide it. ‘How’s Piers? How are
you
?’

‘He’s OK,’ I say, ‘and I’m OK, but what’s up with you?’

Please let it be nothing serious.

‘What’s the prognosis?’

‘Ob,’ I say warningly. I don’t want to shoot the shit with him in a long drawn-out conversation. ‘I’ve not slept in nearly two days, I’ve travelled thousands of miles, and I received terrible news when I landed. Piers could be better, I’m OK, Felicity is dead, and Tabitha thinks I’ve sold her out,’ I list glibly with a sigh, remembering Tabitha’s accusing voicemail message. A story must have broken in the papers about her, and it hurts that Tabitha thinks it had something to do with me.

I take a large swig of my drink and send up a silent prayer that Ob is OK, that he’s not been diagnosed with anything awful or life threatening, that his parents are in fine form, and that this is just some weird quarter-life crisis that has hit him. Basically, Ob being Ob and nothing too serious. I don’t have the energy to deal with anything else.

‘Spare me the merry dance, and tell me what’s up.’

‘I’m pregnant,’ he rushes out.

I spit out my gin. I wasn’t expecting
that
.

‘Jade is. Might be,’ he amends. ‘She could be... I don’t know how this happened,’ he finishes quite pathetically.

Bloody hell. Obélix could be a
dad
? This is
major
.

‘Did you use a condom?’ I demand, not that I really want to know that because the thought of Ob having sex is something that should never be imagined. Any children of his are miraculous conceptions; exactly like I was for my parents.

‘Well...’

That’s a no, then. What. An.
Idiot
. I know I wanted him to get laid, although not in lieu of payment for a vet bill, but this is something else.
Why can’t he meet a nice normal girl and date her the good old-fashioned way?

‘You stupid bugger,’ I lecture. ‘Hop into bed with whoever you want, but keep yourself safe. STIs are on the rise. Irgh, get yourself checked out.’

I read that cheering fact in the in-flight magazine on the way over here. It was, weirdly, written by a name I recognised: Geli Voyante. Moving from writing a national “hot or not” column to writing about sexual diseases in an in-flight magazine is a step-down career-wise, but who am I to judge? I didn’t even have a career until recently.

‘Not to mention the small matter of a baby popping out nine months later,’ I continue with a groan as his words sink in. ‘What are you going to do if she is?’

I want to be supportive, I really do, but the gin has relaxed me and I’d like to crawl into that heavenly king-sized bed and sleep for a week. I take another sip.

‘I guess I’ll marry her,’ he says. At that, I splutter again, which is another waste of rather excellent gin. ‘Anyway,’ he continues, before I can interrupt. ‘we’re going to see her doctor in a few hours. Get it confirmed.’

‘Bloody hell, Ob. This is all sounding rather serious.’

I don’t add – and grown-up. And
terrifying
. All this explains the drinking, although I hope he’s not going to be driving in this state.

‘A baby is
rather
serious,’ he replies dryly.

‘So. If she is,’ I prod, ‘are you happy about it?’

He sounded so scared in his messages, or maybe he was overwhelmed. I have no idea how I’d react if I found out I was pregnant under those circumstances... Then again, I wouldn’t do what Jade did to settle a bill. 

‘I have no idea what I am. She didn’t want to see me again, you know, after our night together. You were right about that.’

Hearing Ob’s sad tone, I wish I hadn’t been. I had suspected Jade only slept with him to write off her vet bill – in Jade’s mind this was never supposed to go any further than that night.
Poor Ob.

‘OK, go and–’

‘I’d better go. Speak soon,’ he interrupts abruptly, hanging up before I have a chance to give him a pep talk.

Poor, poor Obélix. What a mess.