Someone to Watch Over Me (26 page)

She heard her boy singing and listened to his words again, and for an agonising moment felt the fear he must have felt as the sea took him. She had spent five years attending to every graze and bump, soothing fears and explaining puzzles and yet she hadn't been near when he had needed her the most. She had to stop and lean, winded and sick, on the handlebars of her bike as the reality of it hit her. She hoped harder than she had ever hoped before that he hadn't suffered and that the end when it came had been quick. She shook away from her the image of his body in the water. She couldn't let that in for now. She had trained herself to shut down beyond a certain point. It was the only way to survive. She allowed herself the first tears she had ever shed for his death. Mixed up with the pain was a kind of release and the sense that at last she could mourn him without feeling she was letting him down.

At the shop, Paul took one look at her face and made tea. Even Enif seemed to sense her mood and was less supercilious than usual, condescending so far as to put his head briefly on her shoe.

As she moved around the shop, glad to be busy, Carrie felt as frail and tender skinned as if she had been in an accident. She was due at the hospital to see Jen in the afternoon so she was keen to get the place straight before she went. She hoovered the floor, dumped the wilting golden chrysanthemums and replaced them with pink tiger lilies and after grabbing a sandwich, apologised to Paul about abandoning him for the second time that day.

‘It's fine. I'm glad you are going to see her. Send her my love,' said Paul to Carrie as she was getting her coat. ‘Tell her that Enif and me have got our fingers and paws crossed.'

‘I will,' said Carrie, ‘I'm going to try and persuade her to go home and get a bath and some rest. They put a camp bed up in the room for her. But I don't think she is sleeping much at all.'

Carrie had packed a soft, brushed cotton nightdress, a change of clothes, a pot of silky face cream, some magazines and an enormous bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut and she hoped that the items would give Jen some comfort. At least gathering them up had given Carrie something to do. She felt so helpless in the face of Jen's misery. What had happened to Tom had shown her that enduring your own tragedies did precious little to equip you to deal with the tragedies of others. She was as hopeless at saying the right things as Jen had been when Charlie went. All she could do now was turn up bearing chocolate and be there in case she was needed.

Jen was sitting in almost the same position as Carrie had left her in. She looked up as Carrie came into the room, her face white and drawn, her make-up smeared around her eyes and down her cheeks, and gave a watery smile. She got up and put her arms around her friend and Carrie could feel that she was only just keeping herself together.

‘There's been no change,' said Jen and her voice was unrecognisable. Carrie was so used to sarcastic, bawdy, noisy Jen, that it was a shock to hear how small and dull her voice sounded.

‘His left hand sort of gave a twitch about an hour ago, but the nurse said that limbs often twitch and it isn't necessarily a sign that he is going to come round.'

‘What have they told you?' asked Carrie.

‘They just keep saying it's too early. He could wake up and be fine. They just can't tell until he comes round.'

‘But he will come round, right?' asked Carrie

‘I don't know. I don't know anything,' said Jen, sounding like a bewildered child. ‘I won't be able to bear it if he dies.'

‘Why don't you come home with me, just for a while? Give you a chance to get freshened up, have a bit of a rest. If you prefer, you take a taxi back and I'll stay with him.'

‘What if something happens … and I'm not here?'

‘It won't be any help to anyone if you get ill …' said Carrie. ‘Have you actually eaten anything at all since you have been here?'

Jen shook her head. ‘I can't eat. I can't put anything in my mouth.' The fact that Jen hadn't eaten anything alarmed Carrie. Jen usually started to feel faint and talk about sinking blood sugar levels if she went without cake for longer than two hours.

‘Please go home for a rest. I promise I will ring you the minute there is any change,' said Carrie, stroking her friend's hair off her face. ‘You look terrible.'

At last Jen was persuaded into her coat and Carrie asked at the desk if they would call a taxi for her.

‘I'll be back soon, my darling,' Jen said, and kissed Tom's forehead. Carrie hustled her out of the room before she could change her mind.

An hour into her vigil and Carrie had eaten half of the bar of chocolate and attempted, and failed to divert herself with a piece in
Closer
magazine about dogging for the over-eighties. The combined effect of excessive chocolate and the thought of octogenarians having it off in Nissan Micras had started to make her feel sick. Tom hadn't moved at all. She thought how strange it was that she was with him when he was at his most vulnerable and yet she had not even met him. Being there felt a bit like an invasion of privacy and she wondered how he would take it if he suddenly woke up and saw a stranger sitting beside him. Just then a woman in a green uniform put her head through the door and asked if she wanted a cup of tea and Carrie, who was feeling thirsty in the dehydrating atmosphere of the hospital, was grateful for the offer.

‘There's always hope,' said the woman as she handed Carrie a cup of milky liquid. Her face was a mass of small scars, as if her skin had been pitted by a shower of burning rain.

‘Oh, he's not my …' Carrie started to say, but the other woman put her hand on her arm.

‘Just don't give up, my dear,' she said and smiled at Carrie as she dragged her trolley out of the room.

After drinking her tea in one thirsty gulp, Carrie decided that she needed ten minutes of air away from the persistent clicks and whirrs of the machines. She slipped out of the room, telling one of the nurses on her way out that she would be back very soon. She didn't want to let Jen down by missing anything crucial. She walked through the hospital concourse with its shops selling gifts no one had any use for, least of all those propped up in hospital beds – cuddly toys, bunches of stiff flowers and empty picture frames. As she went past the hairdressing salon she saw a line of ladies, all surely within a whisker of death, all with their hair in rollers. She wondered at their dedication to grooming even at this late hour. Perhaps it was easier to meet your maker with a tidy wash and set. Outside, on the tiny patch of grass between the car park and the place where the ambulances pulled up to disgorge their casualties, were the inevitable clutch of diehards. Dressed in hospital gowns and hooked up to drips, they stood smoking defiantly. One of them was really pushing the boat out and had a can of Special Brew in one hand, a burning twist of tobacco in the other. He raised his drink in Carrie's direction when he caught her eye and then bent double with a cough that sounded as if it was coming from the bowels of the earth. Carrie walked a short way out of the hospital grounds, sat on a bench and rang Oliver to find out what time he was expecting to meet up.

Jen managed five hours away from the hospital but at least seemed to have taken the opportunity to get some rest and to change from one pair of leggings and a jumper to a slightly different coloured version of the same ensemble. She put her arms around Carrie and held her tightly.

‘You are the very best friend I could ever possibly have and I love you dearly, but this is my watch,' she said, giving Carrie a little push towards the door.

‘Ring me if you need anything,' said Carrie. When she looked back, she saw Jen bending over Tom. Gone was the exuberant woman that Carrie had known for so many years, and in her place was this tender character, almost a stranger to her, her shadow long in the dimly lit room, her stillness full of waiting love.

When she got home Carrie ran herself a bath and poured a hefty slug of something that smelt of lemon under the hot tap, keen to get rid of the hospital odours she was sure were still clinging to her person. She wasn't sure if she was in the right frame of mind for going out to dinner, but felt she had left it too late now to cancel without seeming rude, and besides, there was something very seductive about the way Oliver listened to her. After the heightened emotion of the last couple of weeks and while she was still feeling so conflicted about Damian it would be a relief to spend a few hours with someone who didn't associate her with sadness and loss. Anxious not to dress as if this was a date – she had an uncomfortable memory of the way Oliver's eyes had lingered on the bits of her body not covered by the towel – Carrie chose a simple navy dress from Jigsaw, with a scooped neck and gathered at the front and matched it with red tights and some elegant black platforms.

Oliver was waiting for her outside the restaurant and because she was walking on the other side of the street, she had the opportunity of observing him before he noticed her. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and she was struck both by his air of confidence and the length of his legs in burgundy chinos. He smiled his slow,
I'm very sexy
smile, and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. He smelt clean with just a trace of some citrus aftershave and that slightly woody smell she had smelt before, as if he had been rolling around in bark chippings. The restaurant was decked out to look like the inside of a Bedouin tent, with draped ceilings and walls and was dimly lit by hanging coloured glass lanterns. Carrie was glad to see that they were not expected to loll around on floor cushions and that the waiters were not costumed in baggy trousers and waistcoats. Oliver had been to the restaurant before so she left it to him to order a selection of the mezze while she chose the wine.

‘What sort of a day have you had?' he asked.

‘I can't even begin to tell you,' said Carrie. ‘It doesn't make for particularly good dinner conversation.'

‘Try me,' said Oliver and leaned towards her. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned and she could see the skin of his chest which looked surprisingly tanned, considering it was the middle of winter.

‘Well I spent the afternoon with my friend in hospital because her boyfriend was in an accident and is now in a coma and this morning I discovered what happened to my son, so it's been a bit of a day, all in all.'

‘Did you see the medium again?' asked Oliver, and Carrie was so grateful for the matter-of-fact way that he asked her the question that she could have wept.

‘You don't think that sounds mad?' she asked.

‘What matters is that
you
believe it. I can't judge it because I wasn't there and I never knew your son, but if what this person is saying to you makes sense, then why wouldn't you go with it?' said Oliver, pouring her another glass of wine. ‘Is it making you feel better about losing your son?'

‘I'm not sure … It's like it's loosening something in me. Something that I have kept very hard and tight inside me ever since he went,' replied Carrie.

Carrie told him what Charlie had said to her about what happened on the beach. Oliver didn't attempt to touch or console her, nor did he offer tissues in that panicked way that men often do at the sight of tears; he simply sat and absorbed everything she said with calm sympathy. Then they drank some more wine and talked of happier things. Oliver made Carrie laugh with a story about Mrs Evans coming to his house in the night saying that she had an intruder.

‘I had to get dressed and everything. When I got there it turned out that she had forgotten she had left the radio on in the kitchen,' said Oliver.

‘Hmm … I wouldn't be surprised if Mrs Evans was harbouring carnal thoughts,' said Carrie.

When they got back to the house, Carrie didn't know whether to invite him in. She didn't want him to think that she was expecting or wanting anything more from the evening than they had already had. Seeing the indecision in her face, he made it easy for her.

‘You've had a hell of a day,' he said. ‘And I've got an early start tomorrow …'

‘Yes,' said Carrie feeling absurdly crestfallen. ‘You're right … it's been a lovely evening. Goodnight.'

Before she could turn away, Oliver bent to kiss her goodnight on her cheek. The kiss lingered and then moved to her mouth and Carrie's whole body leapt in response. She wasn't sure if it was due to the turmoil her strange day had unleashed or the bottle of wine she had drunk, but she was astonished by how much she suddenly wanted him. She opened her mouth under his, her hands twisting in his hair. She wasn't sure who made the first move, but they found themselves in the alleyway by the side of her house, their bodies pressed against each other, their breath coming hard and loud. She felt him kissing her neck, his hand on her breast, her nipple hardening at his touch so that he could feel it through the fabric of her dress. She ran her fingers across the front of his trousers and stroked him until he groaned and pulled away from her. His eyes were dark as he looked at her.

‘I want you. I think you can feel how much I want you,' said Oliver, ‘but it doesn't feel right …'

Carrie gaped at him. Was Oliver, the shag king of Almond Street, really turning her down?

‘You've been so sad today. A lot has happened,' said Oliver, tracing a finger along the side of her face. ‘You are so gorgeous and I'd give anything to … but I want you to be really with me, and not doing it because I'm a distraction from what else is going on in your life.'

‘What's wrong with distractions?' asked Carrie, furious that he had turned all decent on her. ‘Don't answer that. Goodnight then. I don't want to keep you,' she said sharply, and let herself into her house and shut the door, already feeling mortified by his rejection. Oliver Gladhill, the seducer of a hundred frail blondes, had just ruined his reputation.