The Dish (41 page)

‘My mum was in ITU for a while.’

‘Ah, right . . .’ Her eyes ask the question; I shake my head, feeling the familiar tightening in my throat.

I turn back to Roger. Were it not for the tubes
and machines, it almost looks like he’s having a lovely dream, a nap after too many Fortnums’ Scotch Eggs and a bottle of Chablis at the cricket. I move closer and watch as his chest moves gently up and down, the ventilator filling his lungs with oxygen, then emptying them for him.

I take his hand. It is cool and dry but heavily swollen from all the fluids they’re pumping him with. ‘Roger, I’m
not sure whether you can hear me – especially not over the din next door.’ I look up to see the nurse in the next bay drawing the curtain round Arthur’s bed again. ‘Now Anne-Marie’s your boss today and she says you’ll be fine and she knows what she’s talking about; but I’d appreciate it if you could hurry up and get better sooner rather than later because we miss you. The office is not the same
without you: Jonesy has no one to spar with, Azeem looks like a lost kitten, even Lumley seems a little flat.’

I look over to the nurses’ station, where there’s a huddle of low-level activity. I remember the first days when Mum was unconscious, I felt embarrassed talking to her if anyone else was nearby – worried they’d think me foolish for having a conversation with someone who wasn’t really
there. But then I stopped caring what anyone else in the world thought because she
was
there – I knew she was.

There was something I was going to tell Roger, what was it now? Oh yeah, that was it! ‘I tried to find an Elbert Hubbard quote to cheer you up – though you probably know them all already but anyway, this one struck me: “Live truth instead of professing it.” It reminded me so much of
you. It doesn’t matter what a person says – the only thing that matters is what they do.’

I look at his hand in mine and catch sight of the deep purple bruises that make me weak every time I see them.

‘Roger,’ I say, smoothing down the bed sheet by his arm. ‘I promise I’ll do my best with this column, but I need you to promise one thing in return: don’t leave. Not yet, you’re nowhere near ready.
I’ve got your to-do list and there’s so much on it: the Saints and Sinners issue, golf at Gleneagles, maybe Dollywood in the autumn?’

My eyes fix again on the plastic ventilator tube in his mouth and with all my might I will his lungs to get stronger.

‘Oh, and another thing – you have to have a word with Gemma,’ I say. ‘Her boyfriend sounds perfectly OK and all, but I don’t see her, longer-term,
with a man who does six hours of yoga a day.
Six hours
. To be honest, she seems a little lost – I think she needs your advice, if only so she can go in the opposite direction. And at some point in the future I’m sure there’ll be grandchildren . . . and you have to stick around for them, Roger: you can’t leave before that fun even starts. So yes . . . I know you don’t like being told what to do
. . . But please just do this one little thing for us all? Get better. Your heart is strong, I know it is – and it wants to live.’

May’s issue is currently being finalised up in our studio. The whole office is so quiet compared to a month ago. It’s not simply because we’re running less controversial stories, or because we’re all privately worrying about Roger. It’s because Roger is the life force of this paper, he’s the heart of it.

As for Sandra, it’s not as though we used to do daily water cooler chat, but as of yesterday
at 11.34 a.m., she’s developed a proxy superpower – the ability to pretend I’m invisible. I wonder if I streaked over to Azeem’s desk whether her pupils would even dilate.

There is literally nothing, officially, for me to do today apart from write my column, but instead I sit at my desk and google ‘post-stent ITU – chances of recovery’ and ‘62-year-old male – mortality rates – medium to heavy
cheese-eater’.

God, I hate the Internet! After five minutes of googling Roger’s chances of survival, I’ve developed cold sweats, an increased heart rate, a dry mouth and a tense, nervous headache – which means
I’m
now having a heart attack. I decide my time might be better spent doing some admin, like tidying my inbox. I click on the last email Adam sent me. It was the day after we came back
from Italy – a lifetime ago. He’d sent me a photo of a Selfree – his take on a Selfie – a photo of his face, but made entirely of food: blueberries for eyes, baby Chantenay carrot for a nose, a curve of fettuccine for his smile.

I am so desperately tempted to call him back. Tempted to apologise and tempted to tell him he’s an idiot. I’d like to know how things stand with Katie and the baby, if
he’s seen Josh yet. But every time I start thinking about it, it overwhelms me, and if I think about Adam, I feel guilty – because I should be focused on Roger.

So even though the thought of hearing Adam’s voice makes my heart expand a little – I won’t call him. And I’m going to try my damnedest not to think about the sound of his voice, his face, his smile; how happy I felt when I was with him;
how much less happy I feel right now.

But there is a call I can’t put off any longer and as I’m walking home, I take out my phone and dial the number I know by heart.

Dad picks up on the second ring – his voice anxious. ‘Finally! I’ve been worried about you. How’s Roger doing?’

‘He’s doing well, fingers crossed. They’re hoping to start weaning him off the ventilator in the next few days. You
know what it’s like though, they say one thing and the next day everything changes . . .’

‘I know this must be very hard for you, Laura. Seeing him like that . . . I can imagine what’s going through your mind.’

‘Dad,’ I say, softly. ‘Please, I’m really sorry, but can we not talk about that . . .’

‘Oh. OK then.’ He sounds hurt – and I wish he didn’t because it makes me feel worse.

‘But I do
want to ask your advice? I have to write my column tonight. And I’m stuck. Sandra says do one thing, Roger told me to do the opposite, I’m damned either way . . .’

There’s a pause on the line. ‘Laura – I’m not a huge fan of your ex-husband, but do you know the worst thing he did to you?’

I’m pretty sure I never told Dad about the threesome Tom, Tess and her friend had in our marital bed.

‘Er
– he made me lose faith in other people?’

‘No, darling.’

‘Then what?’

‘He made you lose faith in yourself.’

There is silence as Dad waits for my reaction.
When I give none, he carries on. ‘Over the last four years, you’ve asked mine and Jess’s opinion about everything from what flavour Ben & Jerry’s you should buy, to what word you should use at the end of a sentence.’

‘Because I care what
you think.’

‘That’s flattering sweetheart – but you’re a grown up. You have opinions, you always used to have strong ones, so stop asking everyone else’s advice.’

He’s right. Even at lunchtime I texted Sophie asking whether I should buy a Chunky Kit Kat or a regular one.

‘Dad – this is bigger than Phish Food, this is my life. Roger said Mum would have gone full steam ahead into battle. He said
she wouldn’t have been a wimp.’

There is another pause on the line.

‘Dad – are you still there?’

‘I am.’

‘Oh good, I thought it might have cut out.’

‘Laura. Roger knew your mother very well. And he’s right, she was a fighter.’

‘So you think I should let it go to court?’

‘But with all due respect to Roger – I knew her pretty well myself.’

‘Dad.’

‘In fact I would go as far as to say I might
even have known her a little better . . .’

‘Dad . . .’

‘And while she was one of the bravest people I’ve ever known, she was also someone who carefully weighed up the consequences of her actions with regards to how they’d affect those around her.’

‘What are you saying?’
Just tell me what I should do!

‘Your mum picked her battles. She strived to do the right thing – but her primary goal, always,
was to protect the people she loved.’

‘So I
should
sacrifice myself?’

‘Laura! I’m not saying be a martyr. You have to find the balance between doing the right thing by others – and doing the right thing for yourself. All she ever wanted was for you girls to be happy. My point is – you have to trust your own voice.’

‘But Dad – I’m so confused I don’t even know what I think anymore.’

‘Then you’d
better get off the phone pretty quickly and figure it out.’

I hold my breath while Heather reads my piece. Her brow creases as she nears the end. She looks up at me with a frown, then finishes and carefully puts the paper down on her desk.

‘What do you think?’ I say. ‘I read the Halsbury’s pages twice over – but they were starting to make me feel thick, and quite dizzy.’

‘I need to have a closer reading – but I have to tell you, I’m not impressed.’

‘You think I’ve overstepped the mark legally?’

‘No. I meant your final paragraph.’

‘The “PS” bit about Fergus Kaye?’

‘No – the bit before you sign off.’

‘Oh. That bit.’

‘It’s not what Roger would want,’ she says. ‘And I’m not particularly happy with it myself.’ She picks up the article again and looks at it with irritation.

‘OK. But it’s what I want.’ Sort of.

She shakes her head in resignation.
‘Then leave it with me.’

To: Dad

From: Laura

Subject: Thank you

I did what you said. I found my voice. It’s not necessarily a great one – but it’s all my own.

To: Laura

From: Dad

Subject: You’re welcome

She would be so proud of you. I am so proud of you.

To: Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: Your nemesis

Have you spoken to Sandra yet?

To: Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: re: Your nemesis

No –
life is so much nicer this way. Anyway, I’m not sure I’ll need to speak to her ever again.

To: Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: WTF?

Or are you just being over-dramatic/an optimist?

To: Laura

From: Heather

Subject: Your May column

OK, I have double-checked in
Halsbury’s
and am confident you’re clear of the line in terms of the law.

In terms of what LuxEris’s lawyers are demanding you’re following
the letter, if not the spirit of their demand, but I can’t see how they can actually come back at us – you’ve done a great job of hopscotching neatly between the lines.

Re: your final paragraph – I believe you’ve written this column under stress, and at the last minute, so apologies if I sound like a broken record, but are you quite sure you want to say this?

To: Heather

From: Laura

Subject:
re: Your May column

Yes

To: Laura

From: Heather

Subject: re: Your May column

Then fine – you don’t need to change a word.

To: Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: May column

Can you give this a quick sub, my dear?

To: Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: :-(

You KNOW I would never use any sort of smiley face – nor caps – if I didn’t mean them.

To: Sandra

From: Laura

Subject: May column

Sandra, please
find attached May’s column – which Heather and the subs are now happy with.

And five minutes after I’ve pressed send, and for the first time in recorded history, Sandra comes over to my desk, looks me in the eye, and says thank you.

My phone rings as I’m heading to the Tube. I look at the caller ID and my heart leaps, then sinks, then tries to restore itself to the middle ground. Please, please, please.

Her voice sounds tearful – but they kind of sound like good tears. ‘Laura,’ she says, sniffing loudly down the phone.

‘What is it, Gemma?’

‘Mr Dawson’s just been in to see Dad . . .’

I hold my breath, say a silent,
urgent prayer.

‘They’re ready to bring him round.’

When I walk into the ward the following morning I notice something’s different. Not Roger – he’s still lying on his back, unconscious – but there’s a strange absence of noise in the surrounding area.

‘Where is he?’ I say. The bay next door is now empty, not even a bed. ‘He didn’t . . . did he?’

‘What, Arthur? Oh no, he’s fine, he’s graduated:
they moved him down to High Dependency last night. We’ve got an incoming,’ she checks her watch. ‘Some poor chap, run over, texting while crossing the road – severe head trauma.’ She sighs, she sees it too often. ‘Ah, but Roger’s had another great night. You know we’ve started to
wean him off the anaesthetics?’

‘How long before he’s awake?’

‘It’s a gradual process, every patient’s different
– but he should be what you’d consider awake in a day or two.’

‘Not talking though?’

‘I have a feeling, from what you’ve said, he’ll be trying to talk before we get that tube from his throat.’

‘Anne-Marie – do
you
think coma patients can hear what’s going on around them?’

‘Depends on their GCS – but I believe they pick up on their loved ones’ voices and there’s plenty of research suggesting
that’s the case.’

‘Even if they’re one of the ones that don’t make it?’

‘Oh love,’ she says, putting her arm around me. ‘Are you asking because of your ma?’

The memory of that missed phone call resurfaces like a shark – and though I try again to push it back below the surface, how am I ever going to win against a flipping shark?

‘Have a seat,’ she says, pulling a couple of plastic chairs over.
‘I’d get you a cup of tea but we’re not allowed.’

‘Thank you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I have these moments . . .’

‘You don’t need to explain.’

But I do. If I tell Anne-Marie, maybe I can stop feeling these feelings. I never want to stop thinking of Mum, when I think about her she’s alive again. But I want to be at peace with this.

‘Anne-Marie, the day after my mum’s operation, she
was in recovery,’ I say, staring at the floor. ‘She rang but my phone was charging. I saw the missed call but thought I’d call later, and by the time I got round to it her phone was off.’ I feel the ache as if it were yesterday. ‘But if I’d known she was in hospital, of course I’d have called straight back. I would give anything to have spoken to her just one last time.’