The Woman Who Stole My Life (37 page)

On the third day of his coma, there was a flicker of response from Roland’s brainstem. But any celebrations were premature. ‘There’s a ninety per cent chance that he’s not going to survive,’ Mannix told me. ‘And if he does, it’ll be a long road back.’

Gilda and I soldiered on through the book tour – Chicago, Baltimore, Denver, Tallahassee … On the fifth day I had to stop exercising. ‘I’ll die, Gilda. I’m sorry, but I will.’

I did my interviews and talks and book-signings on autopilot. Gilda was a godsend. Over and over again, she reminded me where I was and what I was doing there.

I missed Mannix terribly; but, whenever I got to speak to him, he was barely present. Now and again he tried to connect with me by saying something like, ‘Gilda said there was a good turnout last night.’ But his heart wasn’t in it.

Over eleven days Roland went into cardiac arrest three times. Each time, he was expected to die, but miraculously he hung on.

The tour ended. Gilda and I came back to New York and I wanted to go immediately to Ireland to be with Mannix, but Jeffrey needed me more. Esperanza and a nanny had taken care of him while I’d been on tour and to fly off again so soon would be like an abandonment. I toyed with taking him out of school two weeks before term ended, and both
of us going to Ireland, but it would be wrong to interrupt his education.

Whenever Mannix could spare the time away from the hospital, he Skyped me. I tried to be positive and light-hearted. ‘Think of Shep, Mannix. You, me and Shep, playing on the beach.’ But I could never make him smile; his worry had made him unreachable.

Betsy fluttered in and out of our lives, bringing us gifts of strange things like ribbon-wrapped boxes of marrons glacés. ‘Chad’s opened an account in my name at Bergdorf Goodman,’ she said. ‘I’ve got two personal shoppers. I’m being totally re-imaged – right down to my underwear.’

‘Betsy!’ I was appalled. ‘You’re not a doll –’

‘Mom.’ She gave me a woman-to-woman look. ‘I’m an adult. And I’m having fun.’

‘You’re only eighteen.’

‘Eighteen is grown-up.’

‘These things are disgusting.’ Jeffrey had abandoned his marron glacé. ‘They’re like chickpeas.’

‘I think they
are
chickpeas,’ Betsy said. ‘Like, sweet ones.’

I could have wept. All that money on her expensive education for her to become a rich man’s toy and to think that chestnuts were chickpeas.

At the Blisset Renown Happy Holidays party, I bumped into Phyllis. ‘Where’s Mannix?’ she asked.

‘Not here.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘He’s in Ireland.’

‘Oh yeah?’

I refused to expand any further: Phyllis had had plenty of opportunities to stay current with my life and she hadn’t bothered.

‘I hear your Betsy is running around town with a man twice her age.’

‘How do you know
that
?’

She winked at me. ‘And how’s that angry kid of yours? Jeffrey?’

I sighed and gave in. ‘Still angry.’

‘I see from my diary you’re due to deliver your second book to Blisset Renown on February first. You going to make it?’

‘I am.’

‘It’s good?’

Was it? Well, I’d tried my hardest. ‘Yes, it’s good.’

‘Well, step up your game,’ she said. ‘Make it great.’

‘Happy holidays, Phyllis.’ I moved off. I was looking for Ruben and I found him by a platter of ceviche.

‘Ruben?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I was wondering … you know … any news on the charts?’

‘Yeah. Too bad.’

‘
One Blink
didn’t chart?’

‘Not this time round. Hey, it happens.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I felt crippled with guilt.

I couldn’t tell Mannix, he had far too much to worry about, but later I rang Gilda and she was shocked. ‘
You
asked Ruben?
You?
Stella, never ask that question. If your book had charted, believe me, twenty different people would be calling you, every one of them taking the credit.’

The day Academy Manhattan closed for the Christmas break, I went to Ireland with Betsy and Jeffrey.

The kids stayed with Ryan and I stayed in Roland’s flat with Mannix. But he was hardly ever there; he was practically living at the hospital.

Mannix had said that Roland had made progress, but the first time I visited him, I was shocked. He was conscious, his right eye was open but his left side was paralysed and a constant stream of drool poured from the left side of his mouth.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ I whispered and tiptoed towards him. ‘You’ve had us all very worried.’

Carefully I picked my way through all the cords and wires connected up to him, so I could kiss his forehead.

A sound came from Roland, like a weak howl. It was so pathetic and strange, it scared me.

‘Answer him,’ Mannix said, almost impatiently.

‘But –’ What had he said?

‘He says you look beautiful.’

‘I do?’ Forcing cheer into my voice, I said, ‘Thanks very much. In fairness, I’ve seen you looking better.’

Roland howled again and I looked at Mannix.

‘He’s asking how your tour went.’

‘Well!’ I took a seat and tried to produce entertaining anecdotes, but this was horrific. I knew myself how hellish it was to be unable to speak and it must be far, far tougher for a person as articulate as Roland.

I tried not to show my discomfort. But I was having flashbacks to my time in hospital and I was
certain
that Roland was deeply shamed by his condition.

‘He’s delighted to see you,’ Mannix insisted.

For every one of the ten days I was in Ireland I sat with Roland and told him stories. When I’d get to the end of the tale, he’d let out one of his terrible howls and the only person who could make sense of them was Mannix.

Rosemary Rozelaar was Roland’s neurologist but she’d clearly ceded all control to Mannix, who was in his element, moving around Roland’s bed day and night, studying printouts and brain scans.

Mannix’s parents were still in Ireland and appeared sporadically at the hospital. They always seemed to be just coming from a party or on their way to one, and they brought gin in a flask to Roland’s bedside and drank it from white plastic cups.

I never stopped being aware of Roland’s debts; they wore away at my thoughts like a stone in a shoe. Over the past couple of years he’d repaid a lot, but he still owed thousands upon thousands and there was no chance that he’d be working again for a long, long time.

I wanted to bring it up, because ultimately it would surely impact on Mannix and me, but I didn’t want to add to Mannix’s worries.

Eventually he addressed it. One rare morning in bed, when he didn’t jump up and go immediately to the hospital, he said, ‘We’re going to have to talk about money.’

‘Who? Us?’

‘What? No, about Roland’s debts. Me, Rosa and Hero. And Mum and Dad, for all the good they’ll be. We’ve been in denial, but we need some sort of family conference. The problem is, every one of us is broke.’

‘But when I deliver the new book in February …’

‘We can’t use your money to pay my brother’s debts.’

‘But it’s
our
money. Yours and mine.’

He shook his head. ‘Let’s not go there. Let’s see what else we can come up with. Okay, I’m going to jump in the shower.’

He was halfway across the room when his phone, which he’d left on the bedside locker, rang. He sighed. ‘Who is it?’

I picked it up and looked at the screen. ‘Oh? It’s Gilda.’

‘Don’t bother answering.’

‘What’s she ringing for?’

‘Just asking about Roland.’

Oh. Okay.

Two days before Academy Manhattan reopened after the break, Betsy, Jeffrey and I were due to return to New York.

‘I can’t leave here,’ Mannix said to me. ‘Not yet. Not until he’s stabilized.’

‘Take as long as you need.’ I wanted to be with Mannix; I missed his presence, his advice, everything about him, but I was trying to be a bigger, more generous person.

Mannix took us to the airport and the thought of going back to New York without him was suddenly overwhelming. I loved him. I loved him so much it hurt, and I knew I had to tell him. I should have told him long ago.

In the post-holiday mayhem of the departure hall, Mannix shoved our trolley through the throngs to our check-in desk.

‘Get in the queue, kids,’ I said to Betsy and Jeffrey, then shunted Mannix to one side.

‘Mannix,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘I –’

His phone started to ring. He looked at it. ‘I’d better take this.’

‘Rosa?’ he said. ‘Right. Okay. But
be
there. See you then.’

‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Rosa’s trying to weasel out of the talk about Roland’s money. Or lack of. I’d better get going. Safe flight. Ring me when you land.’

He kissed me briefly on the mouth, then turned away and was instantly swallowed up by the crowds. I was frozen to the spot, stricken with terror that our moment had been and gone. That somehow the best bit had already happened, while
I’d been waiting to get there, and now we were on the downward slope.

January in New York was snowy and very quiet. The promotion for
One Blink at a Time
had finally finished and my days were strangely peaceful. Apart from going to the movies about once a week with Gilda, I had no social life. I worked on
Right Here, Right Now
and the highpoint of each day was a call or a Skype from Mannix. It seemed that Roland’s condition was starting to settle. I always wanted to ask Mannix when he was coming back, but I managed not to. Nor did I ask about Roland’s finances. I knew they’d had their family discussion and if Mannix was too stressed to talk about the outcome, I’d go along with it.

In the last week in January, I got an unexpected phone call from Phyllis. ‘How’s the new book?’

‘Finished, really. I’m just playing around with it.’

‘Why don’t you come see me? Today. Bring the pages.’

‘Okay.’ I might as well. I was doing nothing else.

When I walked into Phyllis’s office, the first thing she said was, ‘Where’s Mannix?’

‘In Ireland.’

‘What? Again?’

‘No. Still.’

‘Ooooooh.’ It was information that she hadn’t had and I didn’t feel like telling her the whole story. ‘What’s going on with you guys?’ she asked.

‘Just …’ I shrugged. ‘Stuff.’

‘Oh yeah? Stuff?’ She stared at me hard but I wouldn’t give in.

‘So you wanted to see my new book.’ I handed over the printout.

‘Yeah. I’m hearing things on the bush telegraph and they’re making me twitchy.’

Instantly I was filled with alarm.

I watched as she studied the first nine or ten pages, then she started flicking and speed-reading, and before she’d reached the end, she said, ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry, honey, this won’t do.’ Her kindness was what was really worrying. ‘
One Blink at a Time
didn’t work. You cost them money. You need something different. They won’t buy this.’

‘But it’s exactly what Bryce told me to write.’

‘Things were different then. Now we’re eighteen months on and
One Blink at a Time
has bombed –’

‘It’s bombed?’ No one had told me. ‘It’s actually bombed?’

‘Yeah. Bombed. You thought no one was calling because they’re all on a diet and grouchy? No one’s been calling because they’re so embarrassed for you. They will not publish a
One Blink at a Time
reboot.’

‘Can’t we wait and see what they say?’

‘No way. You never bring them something they’re sure to reject. Bottom line, Stella: I will not agent this book. Go away and come up with something else, fast.’

Like what? I wasn’t a writer; I wasn’t a creative person. I was just someone who’d got lucky.
Once.
All I could offer was more of the same.

‘You were rich, successful and in love,’ Phyllis said. ‘Now? Your career has tanked and I don’t know what’s up with that man of yours but it’s not looking so good. You’ve a lot of material there!’

She shrugged. ‘You want more? Your teenage son hates you. Your daughter is wasting her life. You’re the wrong side of forty. Menopause is racing towards you down the track. How much better does this get?’

I moved my lips but no words came out.

‘You were wise once,’ Phyllis said. ‘Whatever you wrote in
One Blink at a Time
, it touched people. Try it again, with these new challenges.’ She was on her feet and trying to move me towards the door. ‘I need you out of here. I’ve got clients to see.’

In desperation, I clung to my chair. ‘Phyllis?’ I was pleading. ‘Do you believe in me?’

‘You want self-esteem? Go to a shrink.’

She ousted me into the snowy street, then called later that afternoon. ‘You’ve got until March first. I promised Bryce “new and exciting”. Don’t let me down.’

I was in bits. I didn’t know what to do. It was impossible for me to come up with a new book. But one thing was certain: I couldn’t tell Mannix. He had enough on his plate.

The thought of having no income made me feel like I was falling through endless space. Mannix and I had always known that giving up our jobs and moving to New York was a risk. But we’d never contemplated the exact details of how it could go wrong – and where it would leave us financially. From what Bryce had said at that first meeting, I’d assumed I’d have a career that would last some years, one that would guarantee us security indefinitely.

For two days, I got through the hours, starey-eyed and frozen with fear. Gilda noticed I was being weird but I fobbed her off. I was too frightened to talk about what had happened. If I talked about it, it made it real.

Then – in one of those jokes that God likes to play on us – Mannix rang to say he was coming back to New York the following day. ‘Roland’s out of danger and there isn’t really anything more I can do for him.’

‘Great,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you glad?’

‘I’m thrilled.’

‘You don’t sound it.’

‘I am, of course I am, Mannix. You know I am. See you tomorrow.’

In desperation, I rang Gilda and I told her everything that had happened, every single word that Phyllis had said to me.