Two for the Road, page 27
“Good point,” he says. His dark eyes glint and his lip curls.
“You know,” I whisper, my lips inches from his. “Carpenters in romance novels are always good kissers.”
“And what about in real life?” Taj moves one hand to my waist and pulls me toward him. Now there’s no space between us. He puts his other hand on the side of my face, wet and warm on my cheek.
“This is what I wanted to do in Brighton,” he whispers.
And then his lips are on mine, and mine on his, and this is not some sort of hesitant, should-we-do-this? kiss. We’re both hungry for each other, kissing like we never want it to end. He runs his fingers through the hair at the back of my neck, then pulls me in even closer to him, my back arching as I lean into him.
“Excuse me,” says a small voice. My eyes open, I turn, and a child in a bright-green life vest, eyes in goggles, gestures to the other side of the pool, which we’re preventing him from getting to. “I’m trying to swim across the pool.”
I look at Taj and we both burst out laughing.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
I pull his head down to mine, twisting it to whisper in his ear. “Are people staring?” He tilts his head to mine and whispers back: “I don’t care.” Then his lips are on mine again. Our bodies pressed close.
“Yes,” I say when we’ve finally broken apart, “I think we should go.”
My legs are like jelly, and it takes all my focus to walk like a normal person into the changeroom.
I somehow manage to strip off my wet suit despite my jittery hands and pull on my clothes, then run a hand through my wet hair, only quickly glancing in the mirror at my reflection because there’s not much I can do about it anyway. Down the steps, and back out the front door to the street, I look around and see him. Taj is across the pedestrian road, in the shadows of a stone wall, one foot up. I inhale, wanting to savor every second of walking toward him. When I’m inches away, he reaches out for my hand, interlacing my fingers in his, and pulling me into the shadows of the streetlamp. He moves a strand of wet hair from my face, then grabs my hand and holds it. Our fingers interlaced, my chest presses against him. Then he kisses my earlobe, and my neck, his hot breath warming me in the cool night. I tilt my face toward his, running a finger down to his jaw until I get to his chin. He opens his mouth, and nips at my fingertip. I can feel my heartbeat in that finger. I pull it out and then lean in, biting his bottom lip. He lets out a low growl, and bites my lip back, and then wraps his arms around me, and presses his lips to mine. My breath quickens as he moves even closer to me and I feel how hard he is against my stomach.
Then he slips an arm around me, and we take only a few steps before he bends to kiss my ear, then a few more steps, and his hand grazes the top of my jeans. A few more steps, I lace my fingers in his. A few more steps, and his lips are on mine again. Like this, slowly, we make it back to the hotel. The dark lobby is empty, the chandelier lights low.
“I share a room with Angus,” he reminds me.
“I don’t share with anyone.”
He runs a finger down my arm. “Is that an invitation?” he says. I nod.
“Definitely. Room 205,” I tell him, then hold up a finger. “Wait—I think.” I pull my key card out of my pocket to check the envelope it’s in, then nod. “Yep. 205.”
“I’ll meet you there in five,” he says as we pass the bar. “I just want to go dump this”—he holds up his bag—“off in my room and powder my nose.” He nuzzles my ear. “I’ll be quick.” He doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks, if they’re looking at us. I let go of his touch, then turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Zane in the bar to the right. He’s sitting alone, sipping from a low ball glass, but I turn before there’s a chance to make eye contact and head up the stairs, feeling like I’m still floating in the pool.
I race around my room, whipping off my clothes, then pulling a brush through my wet hair, finding my best matching underwear set, coral lace, my fingers trembling with nervous excitement. I pull on a long silky turquoise sundress over my head and brush my hair, then blow-dry it on low so I won’t miss Taj’s knock on the door.
When it’s been five minutes, I turn off the hairdryer, just in case.
I haul my suitcase over to the closet and give it a kick to get it in.
Five more minutes pass.
I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker.
Ten more minutes pass. I check my phone, but it’s not as though Taj has my number.
Fifteen minutes pass and I open my book, but the words look like they’re in Spanish or Italian or German.
Twenty minutes: I text Dory for her take. Maybe he forgot which room you’re in. Message him on the XO app?
Twenty-five minutes: I open the app. Close it. Open it again. Send him a message. Hey. In 205. Pretty sure whoever’s in 502 isn’t wearing coral lace right now.
Thirty: Wish I could delete that message.
The mattress engulfs me as I flop back down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what went wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day 8, Sunday, 8 a.m.
Bath
The next morning I’m still wearing the sundress and lacy underwear, and the evening replays in my head. My stream of consciousness amounts to many different variations of WTF? Did Taj fall asleep? What sober person falls asleep in that situation? Didn’t he say five minutes? Did I misunderstand? I’m hurt and disappointed and confused and embarrassed that maybe I said or did something that made him rethink his actions—and I can’t decide which emotion I’m going to let take precedence. Everything seemed so good, everything felt so right. I know I didn’t read the signs wrong. And screw those emotions. I’m angry. And in pain from where the zipper of my dress dug into my side while I was sleeping.
I fumble around in the room for two matching shoes, pull them on then head down the slate stairs, into the modern lobby bar, with its tall glass windows and low-back chairs.
The air smells like bacon and butter. Francis and Roshi are sitting together, a chessboard between them. They study the board and take small sips from their mugs.
Coffee. I need coffee. And a plan. And a GPS for Taj. Is he at the bus? Should I look for him outside? What if I go outside and he comes down the stairs?
“Hi, Gigi,” Roshi says as I take a seat at the table beside him.
“How’s the match going?” I ask to fill the air.
“Very well for Francis.” Roshi smiles, as Francis takes his knight.
Charlotte and Angus walk into the lobby bar. They’re holding hands. I watch as Angus looks around, then points to a chair a few feet to the left of Charlotte, near the bar, and says something to her. Her face immediately pales and she leads him to the chair. Angus sets a hand on the chairback and then, instead of sitting down, he crumples to the floor.
Charlotte screams. “Gigi! Roshi!”
I run to them and drop to my knees next to Angus, who’s in an awkward, half-seated, half-lying-down heap. Tiny beads of sweat cover his face. He stares at the back of the chair before him. “Somehow missed that,” he says, and tips slowly to the floor.
I spin around. “Help! Someone call 911.” Is there 911 in England? Will anyone know what I mean? Angus’s skin is gray like the carpet. His teeth begin to chatter.
And out of nowhere, Taj materializes next to me, kneels beside Angus, and presses two fingers to his neck.
“Everyone take two big steps back!” he shouts. “Now!” He looks around, points at a woman in a white top and black slacks behind the bar. “Call 999. When you get them on the phone bring it here and put it on speakerphone.”
I leap up and shuffle back, pulling Charlotte with me. Jenny and Francis and Roshi stand behind us. Roshi puts a hand on my shoulder. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I whisper.
“Angus, can you hear me?” Taj says. He rolls Angus on to his right side.
Angus moans.
“Is it his heart?” Charlotte says.
Taj pulls something out of his back pocket. We all watch as he unfolds his penknife and begins slicing through Angus’s jacket. “Sorry, mate,” he says. “Gotta be done.” He makes a cut straight down the back, then the shoulder seam. He pulls at the pieces until he’s down to Angus’s collared shirt, and begins slicing some more. Charlotte gasps.
Angus’s arms and chest are gray, too, just like his face. There’s a bandage on Angus’s left arm, and the area around it is red and swollen.
“What’s this? When did this happen?” Taj looks at Charlotte.
Charlotte looks stricken. “In Cambridge, the first day. He caught it on a fence post, remember?”
“Fuck,” Taj says. He tugs at the edge of the bandage. It resists. He places another hand on Angus’s arm and tugs. This time the bandage comes off, revealing the skin underneath. It looks like raw steak.
The bartender leans over Taj, a cordless phone extended. “I have a Caucasian male, 74,” Taj barks into the phone. “Diaphoretic. Heart rate elevated. He’s presenting as myocardial infarction but could be sepsis. Wound on upper arm is red, inflamed.”
Diaphoretic? What does that mean? And how does Taj know the term? Charlotte and I exchange a worried glance.
The next few minutes feel like they’re happening in warp speed. Taj looks at the bartender. “What’s the address of the hotel?” And seconds later he’s saying it into the phone. He turns his attention back to Angus, whose eyes are now closed. Is that a good sign or a bad sign?
None of us have moved an inch.
“Help is coming soon,” Taj says to him before looking up and registering for the first time that the others from the tour are in the bar. He nods at me and his gaze slides to Charlotte. “Do you want to hold Angus’s hand?” Charlotte steps forward, crouches down to Taj and takes Angus’s palm. She looks at Taj. “He’s so hot,” she says.
Please let him be OK. I cross my fingers.
Sirens blare and a moment later a man and woman, both dressed in navy uniforms, appear at the door, pushing a stretcher. They hurry into the room, place the stretcher on the ground. Within a minute or two, Angus is on the stretcher and the paramedics are rolling it back out through the doors to the lobby. They disappear around the corner, Taj following close behind.
Charlotte takes my arm. “What are we going to do?” she asks. “Is Angus going to be OK?” She looks terrified.
I wrap my arms around her. I don’t know. I don’t want to lie. So I just hug her tight.
* * *
—
The lobby bar is quiet, the only sound coming from the whoosh of the tap as the bartender rinses a glass, wipes it dry, then slides it into the rack overhead. Two tables have been pushed together, and we’re all sitting around them. All of us except Taj and Angus, and Zane, who took a taxi to the Royal United Hospital when he heard the news.
“I feel like we’ve lost a collective limb,” Sindhi says.
“Our funny bone,” Roshi says. Charlotte lets out a whimper. I put my hand on hers.
The door to the back room swings back and forth as the bartender emerges, carrying two big platters. “In times of distress I find it’s best to just eat,” he announces.
He places the plates of food on the table before us. Eggs, toast, thick sausages sliced on an angle, beans, oranges. We all stare at it. No one touches it.
“What are we going to do without Angus?” Nelle asks. “What if he’s not better by tomorrow? Or the day after? Or the day after that?” She wipes her eyes, and Violet puts her arm around her.
“The tour will go on,” Violet says. “I’m sure they have support staff.”
“I feel like the tour is the least of our worries,” Jenny says.
“I don’t want to leave Angus behind,” Charlotte says.
“He’s going to be OK,” I say, but it’s more to convince myself.
“I think he had a heart attack,” Charlotte whimpers.
I wrap my arms around her. “Lots of people have heart attacks and they’re fine afterward.”
“It might not have been. Could’ve been heart failure. Or an arrythmia. Or a stroke,” Jenny says. All heads swivel toward her. She throws her hands up. “What? There’s a lot of medical jargon in murder cases. I pay attention.”
“Eighty-five percent of patients with heart failure live for at least another five years,” Francis says. And I think: That’s fifteen percent that don’t.
“I think we should go,” I say.
“Go where?” Roshi asks. “To see him?”
A moment later Francis looks up from his iPad. “It’s 1.5 miles to the hospital,” he says.
“Do you think they’ll let us in?” Sindhi asks.
“I’m not sure, but it’s better than sitting around here, wondering what’s going on.” I turn to Charlotte and reach for her hand. It’s cold. “Do you want to go?”
She nods, then stands. “Let’s go.”
“Yes.” Nelle agrees. “Let’s go to the hospital. Gigi’s right. We can’t just sit here doing nothing. Let’s be with Angus.”
“But what if they don’t let us see him?” Sindhi says. “If he’s in an intensive care unit, they won’t allow anyone in, especially not a bunch of strangers.”
“We’re not strangers, we’re his friends,” Charlotte says, her voice cracking.
“Let’s do it,” Violet says, nodding, standing with Nelle.
Suddenly our listless group comes alive with purpose. I ask the concierge to call us two taxis, but after twenty minutes, when neither has arrived, I turn to Francis. “How long does it take to walk a mile and a half?”
“Thirty-five minutes at a steady pace, provided it’s flat terrain,” he says without hesitation. I turn to the others. “Let’s walk?” Miraculously, no one protests.
A few blocks on, it starts to rain. Not the usual English mist you see in movies (which we really haven’t experienced anyway) but huge drops that feel like pennies falling from the sky. Our pace quickens.
“We can do this,” I say, and Charlotte grabs my hand, ducking her head as we walk faster. Charlotte swipes at her bangs, which are matted to her forehead thanks to the rain.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
The route to the hospital is straight through the middle of town, over cobblestone we’ve treaded numerous times, past the Roman baths and the Abbey and all the famous sites. The town is quiet, the streets mostly vacant.
“We haven’t had much rain the entire trip,” Charlotte remarks, looking up at the sky.
Francis doesn’t share a stat. Instead, he asks, “Where are we going again?” Which makes me wonder if I’ve led us in the wrong direction, but I pull out my phone just to be sure, cupping a hand over the screen to keep it from getting wet. “We’re going the right way,” I say.
“Oh, good, good,” Francis says.
A car passes on our left, splashing through a puddle and sending a wave into the air. We all scatter to stay out of its way.
“Are you alright?” Roshi says to Sindhi, concerned. She reaches out for his hand.
“Once you’re soaked to the skin, you can’t get more soaked,” she laughs, washing away tension.
We cut through the park to head north, passing the limestone façade of a grand hotel, a fountain sending water into the already-wet air. The colors in the botanical gardens look even more vibrant against the gray of the sky. I focus on the steady beat of the raindrops, not letting my mind think about what terrible things might be happening with Angus at this very minute.
At some point the buildings transition from quarried stone to more concrete and glass. A row of willow trees leads to a set of office buildings, clean white brick with dark windows. No people. Only a smattering of cars in the lot.
“Here we are,” Charlotte says.
“I didn’t actually think we’d make it,” Jenny says.
“It took exactly as long as it was supposed to,” Francis confirms. “Thirty-five minutes.”
We march up the path, which leads us behind the trees up to a set of sliding doors, Francis and Jenny and Nelle to my right, Violet and Sindhi and Roshi to my left. Charlotte’s still holding my hand. No one’s making the first move even though surely every one of us wants to get out of the rain. We walked here in denial, prolonging the inevitable, but now we can’t pretend that everything’s going to be OK. We’ll have only the facts to face. I squeeze Charlotte’s hand. “Let’s go.”
The glass doors slide open. I’m expecting a whirr of activity but inside feels like the set of a zombie movie. A TV crackles from its perch near the ceiling, and the only other person in view is a nurse behind the plexiglass. The halls are empty. I wonder where Taj is—is he in the room with Angus, or another waiting room with Zane? A Black woman sits at the nursing station, typing on a computer. She looks up.
“We’re here to see Angus McAllister.”
The keys clack.
She looks up and nods. “He’s here. But I don’t have any news.” Her tone is capable and reassuring, like a worn wool blanket that’s softened with time. “You can wait over there.” She points to our right, to an area of blue vinyl chairs, all empty. Where’s Taj? Where’s Zane? “I’ll let you know when I have an update.”
Each of us chooses a chair, like the music has stopped and none of us wants to be removed from the children’s game. Violet says she’d rather pace the halls.
“I’m worried for Charlotte,” Francis says. “Angus is her lobster.”
He catches my eye and shrugs. “It’s a Friends reference.”
