Found (3 page)

Utter bliss. Wherever they bought the bed from, wherever they got this linen, they have bought their guests a little slice of heaven. That was, by far, the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a
long
time, and I’ve slept so well that I could almost forget that outside of dreamland things aren’t going so well.
Almost
. I stretch out into a starfish and issue number one hits me: Piers is in the hospital.

I shoot a look at the clock and see it’s just after 10am, which means it’s three in the afternoon back home. The past forty-eight hours have been crazy.

Was it just
yesterday
that I landed in New York, saw Piers at the hospital, found out Ob might be a dad, found out Felicity might have been... I shudder at that grim thought. Oh, not to mention Tabitha deciding I sold her out to the tabloids. She’s the only person I’ve not dealt with, but before I call her I need fortification. And to see Piers. And to find out whether my best friend is going to be a dad. Right, breakfast first.

I pick up the phone, call room service and ask for the biggest teapot filled with English breakfast tea, plus half the breakfast menu. I only nibbled some Pringles on the plane, so I order oatmeal with strawberries and cream, ricotta pancakes with rhubarb and maple syrup, plus a large serving of bacon. I desperately need bacon right now. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up.

I can remember so vividly the first time Piers brought me to New York. He took me to the sweetest little diner – all red vinyl swivel stools and cosy booths – tucked away around the corner from Wall Street. I had the most delicious stack of sweet waffles with oak-smoked bacon, swimming deliciously in a rich maple syrup. I wish Piers and I were heading there for breakfast now instead of me having to order room service and Piers eating whatever constitutes hospital food in this part of the world.

Reluctantly I get out of bed and stretch, taking in the room with a more awake pair of eyes than I had last night. Yep, still stunning but I need to get moving and head to the hospital.

I grab the quickest shower and just have time to dress in my dirty clothes – I really regret not packing anything now – when breakfast arrives. As I chomp my way through the most moreish pancakes, I quickly catch up with Mum who tells me that whilst the police are not treating Felicity’s death as suspicious, a post-mortem will be happening. I couldn’t get anything else out of her, except her repeating several times that I need to focus on Piers because I can’t change anything for Felicity.

It makes no sense though. Surely Felicity’s doctor would have been the person to ask about Felicity’s state of mind, not Etta? Why was she taken to the police station? Why is a post-mortem happening if Felicity died of natural causes? The only thing that makes sense is that Piers needs my full attention.

Breakfast finished, I leave the hotel after a quick look on my Maps app. Thankfully New York’s grid system makes it easy to navigate, and it looks a pretty straightforward walk to the hospital – I need the air.

I try calling Tabitha, but she doesn’t pick up, so I call Ob. It goes to voicemail. I fire off a quick text asking how the doctor’s appointment went, but suspect no news is bad news – I’m not sure which outcome would be the worst one for Ob.

OK, taking in the scenery it is then, though it’s not very inspiring. I’m currently walking down 23rd East Street, a sparse tree-lined road filled with brownstones and tall grey buildings. Looking up I spy make-shift washing lines and a few people staring out of their windows; at street level, there are cheap-looking diners, hair salons and, of course, the ubiquitous Starbucks trying to lure people in to spend their dollars.

It’s a stark difference to what I’d be seeing if I’d set off in the opposite direction and hit the Lower Manhattan end of Broadway. There would be no loopy handwritten signs there advertising mani-pedis for a bargainous five dollars; no grown men lazing on stoops. This is a side of New York I’ve never seen.

I cross over the road and head down 1st Avenue, and a few minutes later I’m back at the hospital – no wonder I was only in the cab for a few minutes last night. Looking at it this morning it seems dingy – the folly of a faded brownstone building – but appearances are deceptive because this is one of the best hospitals in the country for heart issues and cardiovascular care.

Maybe that five bucks mani-pedi would have been the best mani-pedi ever, I ponder, as I head inside and take the lift up to Piers’ floor. I mean, appearances are deceptive: look at Piers. He hasn’t looked well, but I never suspected he was really ill – something I will be calling him out on once he’s recovered. 

I hover at the door and watch the man I love for a few minutes. Piers is so absorbed in his laptop that he doesn’t even notice me.

He’s still hooked up to various machines, and there’s that awful tube poking out of his chest, only covered slightly by his hospital gown. Another wire pokes out from underneath his gown – that one is linked to a machine displaying numbers with squiggly lines – but thankfully his full-on oxygen mask has been replaced by a small nasal tube. He also has an IV in his hand, and another tube that’s linked to a catheter bag which is stuck on the side of his bed. This room looks reassuringly familiar from my love of
Grey’s Anatomy
and
Scrubs
, but it is rather terrifying at the same time.

‘I hope you’re not working,’ I sternly say as I enter the room.

He jumps in surprise and snaps down the lid of his laptop, causing one of the machines to beep a bit faster.

‘Were you working?’ I storm over to the bed and snatch his laptop from him. With that reaction, he must have been.

‘Arielle–’

I glare at him, and flip the lid up.
Who has major surgery and then goes to work the very next day?
He is an absolute idiot sometimes. No job is worth killing yourself over.

‘What’s this?’ I ask as I take in what I am seeing on the screen.

I turn around his laptop so he can see the screen – not that he needs to see it since
he
was the one surfing the web and looking at
this
mere moments ago.

‘Pony, I...’ He sounds hoarse still. I look around and can’t see any water, so I’ll get that rectified. Well, unless he’s not allowed any fluids or food yet, or maybe that’s what one of those tubes deals with. It hits me in this moment that Piers is seriously ill, even if he thinks he’s not.

‘Piers, why were you looking at that?’ I ask. I think I’d rather have caught him doing work. Or even looking at porn. This website, weirdly, makes me feel very uneasy. ‘Is there something you need to ask me?’ I press.

‘Good morning to you, too,’ he mutters.

I pull him a pointed look, close the laptop, then lean in and kiss him gently on the cheek. OK, so I was being a bit bitchy, but he really should be resting: Piers Bramley plus a laptop does not equal a chilled-out state. That might not have been work, but it could quite easily have been. He only had surgery
yesterday
. When I had my operation on my ankle, I was woozy for
days
– I’m secretly impressed that he’s not a half-asleep mess.

‘Good morning, Piers.’ I smile at him and sit down on the wide padded chair next to his bed. It’s a far cry from the plastic hospital waiting chairs we have back home. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m OK,’ he answers, ‘but how are you?’

Piers Bramley, a true gent, one who is more concerned about me than he is himself. He’s the last of a dying breed, I’m convinced of it.

‘I’m fine.’ I reach over and squeeze his hand, careful not to knock his cannula.

‘How did you sleep?’ he asks.

OK, so we’re not going to talk about what I’ve just seen.

‘It was almost the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had,’ I confess, ‘but it was missing you.’ I tap the laptop that I’m still holding. ‘So?’

‘We were talking about it before, so I thought I’d do a little research.’ Piers shrugs. ‘I don’t have much else to do.’

‘You rest and get better,’ I say sternly, ‘and I’ll be taking this with me.’

I put the laptop in my handbag because I know if I don’t that Piers will be working from his hospital room, if he hasn’t been already, and that’s not going to help him recover from surgery. I should also check in his bag if there are any work documents and take his BlackBerry away. I should have done that last night, but I expected him to be resting when I got here. He’s such an idiot.

‘I need something to do,’ he points out. ‘I can’t lie here all day.’

‘Well, I’ll be here, and I’ll pick up some books from Barnes & Noble. Any preferences?’

‘Whatever looks good, though if you’re in the mood for picking up something...’

This had better not involve me going into his office and picking up files.

‘... one of the nurses this morning was telling me about a great little Mexican place that’s two minutes away,’ Piers says hopefully.

‘Oh, was she now?’ I tease. ‘Was that who you were considering eloping with?’

It’s Piers’ turn to shoot a pointed glance at me. ‘Yes,
he
recommends their enchilada suizas. He said they are the best ones he’s ever had.’

No comment on the fact that he was looking up how to get a marriage licence in New York City then.

‘And you should try out this place near the hotel,’ he continues. ‘Their duck and walnut porridge dish with four cheese grits is amazing.’

I pull a face because that sounds so wrong. ‘For breakfast?’

‘No, no, for dinner.’

I pull another face. ‘Hmmmm, if you’re good I might pop over and bring you back a portion of those... enchilada suizas, was it?’

He nods. For a moment his face looks a little bit brighter.

‘And maybe we’ll try that porridge place when you’re better,’ I continue. ‘You can order that dish and I’ll have something a bit more normal.’

He smiles at me. ‘I’d like that.’

‘And the wedding?’ I prompt.

‘It’s a thought, isn’t it, if we no longer want to get married at Tharnham?’

He’s looking at me hopefully. I can almost block out his dark circles and grey pallor and see the man I fell in love with, until a machine beeps and I’m reminded that Piers is very ill and we’re in hospital. Things are not how they should be.

‘
You
no longer want to get married at Tharnham,’ I point out, ‘and I understand why you wanted to get married sooner rather than later, but why didn’t you tell me about your illness?’

I know I said I’d wait until he gets better, but I can’t stop myself. The thought of what I’d be dealing with right now if Piers hadn’t pulled through his surgery... I take a deep steadying breath and try to ignore the stab of pain I feel from merely
thinking
that awful thought.

‘I–’

My phone buzzes, which stops Piers talking.

‘Aren’t you going to get that?’ he asks hopefully.

I shake my head. ‘You were saying?’

‘It could be important.’ He’s so using this as a delaying tactic.

I roll my eyes as I reach into my bag. ‘It’s Ob.’ I open the message and quickly scan it. ‘Shit!’

‘Pony?’

I ignore him and reread the message again, hoping it will say something different, but it doesn’t.

‘Arielle, what is it?’

I look up at Piers. ‘Ob’s going to be a dad,’ I tell him.

Piers’ surprised expression probably mirrors my own.

‘What?’ Piers looks as shocked as if I’d told him that Ob has grown a second head.

‘A-huh. Oh, and Etta was taken down to the police station for questioning,’ I share, as I quickly text Ob back. I tell him that I’ll call as soon as visiting hours are over, then I switch off my phone.

‘What for?’ Piers asks.

‘Something to do with Felicity’s death. Mum said Etta was the last person to see Felicity alive, so the police wanted to talk to her about it.’

‘Wait, that’s not normal.’

I shrug, though I’m hoping that my casual reaction might prompt Piers to brainstorm why this happened since Mum won’t tell me and I have no idea what’s normal when it comes to people dying, or even what you’re supposed to do when a loved one passes away. My paternal grandparents died before I was born and I don’t remember my mum’s parents who both died when I was a toddler.

‘The police don’t usually get involved unless it’s suspicious circumstances,’ Piers continues. ‘The only reason they ask questions is if they suspect something unusual happened.’

I clench my fist into a ball. I’ve changed my mind. Right now I don’t want to think about something awful happening to Felicity, especially if it was at the hands of Etta. But, if she
had
hurt Flick, surely they would have arrested her?

‘Mum said there’ll be a post mortem, but I think they’re being over-cautious.’

‘But–’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I interrupt, wanting to change the subject.
Piers
needs my focus right now.

Mum was right. I can’t alter what’s happened to Felicity, but I can help Piers with his recovery. I’ll deal with what Etta may or may not have done later; I’ll deal with Felicity’s death later.

‘The police know what they’re doing,’ I dismiss, ‘so let’s–’

‘Ah, Piers. Here you are.’

I’m thankful for the interruption, although I do wonder where else Piers could be.

I turn around and I’m met by the sight of the most gorgeous-looking doctor I have ever seen. If they had doctors like this working for the NHS, the waiting times in A&E really would be horrific.

‘And you must be Arielle,’ he continues.
He said my name correctly
.

I am
swooning
, though I am also painfully aware I’m wearing dirty clothes and not looking my best. The choice of a sequinned baseball top yesterday is haunting me, though slightly less so than the knickers I’ve been wearing for the past two days. I should have gone commando.

I smile brightly. ‘I am. Hi.’ I wave at the doctor like an idiot, all thoughts of Etta, Felicity and Obélix going clean out of my mind.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Teddy Taylor, Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery.’

Teddy Taylor
. That is a name to
die
for. Well, hopefully not literally, but I’d be in very good hands if I did.

‘Doctor Teddy’s been looking after me superbly,’ Piers chips in, and I tear myself away from staring at Teddy with his gleaming white teeth and tousled dark hair. Who knew it was possible to look
that
good in scrubs? He makes McDreamy look like McUgly.

OK, I’m more tired than I realised. Of course I’m not mentally hitting on the man that saved my fiancé’s life. Well, OK, I am a little bit. I blame the jet lag.

‘How’s he doing?’ I ask.

Doctor Teddy is off, throwing in medical jargon that I’m clueless about; Piers clearly understands though judging by the questions he’s firing back. It reinforces how long Piers has known about his condition and how much he has kept from me. I’d never even heard of pleural effusion until Giles called to tell me Piers was about to have the layers of his lungs stuck back together on the operating table. Ah, yes:
Giles
. I should probably be listening to this so I can answer his questions when I call him.

‘–Arielle?’

Huh, why are Piers and Doctor Teddy both staring at me? Piers looks amused, whilst Doctor Teddy is peering at me in concern.

‘Oh,’ I try and recover myself, ‘so Piers will be OK then?’

Doctor Teddy smiles at me. ‘Your fiancé is going to make a full and swift recovery.’

OK, the teeth are slightly overkill. Do they really need to be
that
white? I run my tongue over my slightly less white set of gnashers.

‘And as long as he keeps up some light exercise, cuts out the stress and eats a balanced diet, I’m sure the two of you will be celebrating your golden wedding anniversary. Don’t quote me on that though,’ he puts in quickly with a honking laugh that loses him some attractiveness points. ‘Lawsuits and all that.’

God bless America.

‘Of course.’

We both smile at him, and when he turns his attention to the chart at the end of Piers’ bed, we roll our eyes. Doctor Teddy is pretty, but he’s not Piers.

‘How long will I have to be in hospital then?’

Doctor Teddy scribbles something on his chart. ‘At least another week. Until your chest tubes are out.’

‘And when can I fly home?’

He puts the chart down and grimaces apologetically at Piers. ‘Honestly? Once you’ve been discharged, it will be six weeks at the very earliest, but more like ten.’

Did he mean to say
days
?

‘You’ll need to have some follow-up consultations about five weeks after you’ve been discharged,’ Doctor Teddy explains when he clocks Piers’ stunned face, ‘and I couldn’t let you fly if I thought you needed more recovery time. Cabin pressure after your surgery...’ Doctor Teddy shakes his head with a grimace.

Ten weeks?
Even if Piers gets discharged next week he’s going to be here until June or July. There is no way he will cope with doing nothing until then. There’s no way I can return to London and leave him because, if I did, not that I ever would, he’d be working and stressing himself out before my plane even taxied out of JFK.

‘
Ten weeks
?’ Piers is incredulous as he echoes the thoughts in my head. ‘What am I supposed to do for ten weeks?’

‘Relax and recover, Mr Bramley,’ Doctor Teddy says sternly. ‘I assume you want to live to marry your beautiful fiancée?’

Piers ignores his question. ‘And I definitely can’t fly home sooner?’

‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

‘What about a boat?’

All I can think of is the fate of
Titanic
and my hatred for all things nautical. I do not want to take a trip across the Atlantic.
Ever
.

‘It’s certainly one way of travelling back to the UK, but I really couldn’t recommend or endorse it unless you were
fully
better,’ Doctor Teddy stresses. Poor man. I wonder how many times he’s been hit by a lawsuit.

Piers looks like he’s about to say something else, but then his shoulders slump forward, defeated. ‘So I’m stuck here then.’

‘With me though,’ I say cheerfully.

I understand his frustration, but I don’t want him to ruin his recovery just so he can get home quicker. Anyway, wouldn’t it be most people’s dream to spend time in New York with no work? They’d probably prefer it if they weren’t recovering from a pleurodesis, but this is a good opportunity for Piers to take stock and work out what he wants to do next. He can’t go back to his job, that’s for sure. He’ll be back in hospital before his first day is done. The financial world is too stressful – especially now.

‘Slow and steady, Piers,’ Doctor Teddy reminds him. ‘Your physical therapist will be along shortly to go over your breathing and coughing exercises, and we’ll look at getting that drainage tube out of you within the next few days.’

Doctor Teddy shoots an apologetic look at me. ‘He really needs to rest, OK? You’re more than welcome to be here. Loved ones really do help patients on their road to recovery, but he needs
no stress whatsoever
.’

I wonder if he overheard me telling Piers about Ob’s impending fatherhood and Etta’s brush with the law. I nod, and he turns back to Piers.

‘I’ll check in with you tomorrow, but you’re doing well, Piers. Try and focus on that.’

Piers nods again, but I can tell that he’s already scheming to find ways to travel home sooner. When I go back to the hotel I’m hiding his passport. He will be fit to travel when he goes to the airport, I’ll make sure of that.