Patience Page 6

  ‘I have no idea. We haven’t been in touch,’ replied Eliza.

  ‘Bloody hell! Has he cancelled your honeymoon?’

  ‘Probably. He sodding booked it.’

  ‘Has he given you your share back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You need to ask him for it! How are you affording the rent?’

  ‘I’m thinking of advertising for a lodger. I just haven’t got around to it yet.’

  ‘What a bloody mess! And don’t you have a food tasting scheduled for next week? Have you cancelled that at least?’

  Eliza didn’t reply.

  ‘Jesus, you’re still going, aren’t you? You’re still going to try the sodding food for your reception even though you’re not actually going to get married?’

  ‘I am waiting, for Mum’s sake,’ Eliza said, loudly. ‘I am delaying this so that I can spare her the shock. She’s had enough shocks.’

  ‘Eliza, it’s been four weeks – four weeks – and Ed has not come back. You haven’t even spoken to him. Don’t you think it might be time to come clean? And come on, your parents will cope. I doubt they love him as much as you think they do. He’s a knob.’

  ‘He’s everything they want in a son-in-law, Katy.’ There was a snort from the other side of the table, but Eliza was thinking about her mum’s delight when they’d got engaged. It was something she thought of, often. ‘Look, he’s been a part of my life for so long that I no longer really function without him. And there’s so much that’s great about him – he’s so successful, he knows what he wants… And I find myself wanting to send him messages myriad times a day with just general observations about weird men I see on the tube, or YouTube videos of mad cats, or disastrous interviews on the Today programme – and I can’t. And it bloody hurts. So we must be a real thing, mustn’t we?’

  ‘It will hurt,’ Katy said, then took another swig of wine. ‘You were together for years. Christ, almost fifteen of the buggers! But that doesn’t mean he was right for you. He’s behaved like a tosser and he doesn’t deserve you wanting him back.’

  Eliza suspected that this was the polite version of what Katy was really thinking. She wasn’t usually one for holding back.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have your strength, Katy. I can’t do it. I need him. And anyway, you don’t need strength, you have Matt. You should try being me. Ed was my One. The only one who’d have me. Everyone else has run a mile.’

  Katy’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘You are genuinely saying that you would still marry him after this, if he came back with his tail between his legs and asked you to?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the only guy I’ve ever loved. And the only guy who will ever love me.’

  ‘Eliza, my dear, you are deluded. I love you, I really do, but you are deluded.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘You know I’m saying this because I care. I properly care. More than he does.’ Katy had reached out to put her hand on Eliza’s.

  ‘I know. I know. But I can’t say goodbye to all of this, just yet,’ Eliza replied, looking firmly into her wine glass, and not at her friend. ‘I waited too long for it.’

  ‘OK. I’ve had my rant. But please think about it. Let’s try to move on,’ said Katy, reaching for the drinks menu. ‘Firstly, let’s order cocktails. And then tell me what on earth you did to incur the wrath of the boss from hell.’ Eliza managed a genuine smile before filling her in on the desperate details of her workplace faux pas, cactus and all.

  *

  It was several hours later when the pair tumbled out of the bar and into a minicab home. They dropped Katy first, at the studio flat she shared with Matt in Vauxhall. She planted a kiss on Eliza’s cheek as she opened the door. ‘Courage!’ she said, as she got out. ‘This too shall pass.’

  As the cab drew away from the curb, Eliza felt a rare surge of hope. Being with someone who knew her almost as well as Ed had made her feel less alone, if only for a short while. Perhaps she would survive this after all.

  That feeling of hope lasted only a second or so.

  Her phone beeped. Eliza pulled it out of her pocket, convinced it would be a message from Katy, saying she’d forgotten something. But it wasn’t Katy. It was from Ed.

  Hello there. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I wondered though – would you like to meet up to talk? I think we need closure.

  All the best friends in the world couldn’t protect her from herself now.

  7

  Pete

  August

  Pete held several paper towels under the tap for a few seconds, flapping at the sensor impatiently to persuade it to vent forth. When they were sufficiently damp, he wiped his face and neck, noting the brown staining, a confirmation of the sand and dust he’d just removed. He’d performed a similar ritual at the airport in Qatar, but desert dust was hardy stuff and he wanted to feel properly clean before he went through passport control.

  He hated Heathrow at this time of day. It was heaving, despite the late hour. Several large aircraft had just landed, the e-gates were inexplicably shut, and the queue at immigration, now being ushered, loudly and doggedly, into a semblance of order by a member of Border Force, snaked out far beyond the maze of cordoned corridors. Pete reckoned that pausing for a while would make very little difference to the time he’d spend in the queue.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a soft grey V-neck jumper. It was only ever used on trips back to the UK, and it had come to signify homecoming to him. He also considered donning a scarf, but decided that no self-respecting Brit – even an expat Brit – could get away with that in summer.

  It was a warm evening by local standards, but these days he wasn’t much used to temperatures below thirty centigrade. The two men using the urinals next to him were wearing shorts, sandals and T-shirts, but he felt freezing. He pulled the jumper over his head, noting that this was the point at which he had to change gear. If he tried to live his Qatar life in Oxfordshire, his wife wouldn’t recognise him. More to the point, he didn’t really recognise himself.

  He checked his reflection in the mirror before leaving. God, he thought, I look old. And tired. His good looks, if he’d ever had them, were long gone. He’d got the first flight out he could, just a few hours after his ten-hour early shift had finished. He was getting too old for twenty-four-hour days. Retirement was too far away for his liking.

  When he emerged from the toilets, the queue was a little more manageable and his line moved fairly quickly. He bypassed baggage reclaim as he’d only brought a small bag for the cabin, then walked through the double doors, past customs and the railings holding back the assembled melee of taxi drivers, hotel reps and family members, to the hire car desks. It was a well-practised manoeuvre. It was a long drive for Louise, so he had a privilege card with a company who rented him cars cheaply. He wasn’t ever home long enough to justify them owning a second car.

  As he stood outside, waiting for the courtesy bus, his mind turned to Patience. When he’d last seen her she’d been in a hospital bed, staring despondently at the ceiling. He’d hated having to leave, but James, his boss, had been texting him hourly for updates, nagging him to return as soon as he could. Louise had assured him that she had it sorted and could cope without him, and she did, always. She was so organised, so dedicated, so crusading. She had to be; he’d been out of the country for work for much of the past decade.

  The transfer bus arrived and he jumped on, eager to be embraced by its warmth. The journey around the airport perimeter was smooth and unhindered by traffic. When he arrived at the car hire office, he found it deserted. The sole member of staff manning the desk looked at him in disappointment as he entered, sighing as he winched his ample buttocks into a standing position before swigging the dregs of full-sugar coke from a can. He barely made eye contact as he tapped Pete’s details into his computer and zapped through a list of inflated, optional insurance policies, to which he clearly did not expect a positive response. Within minutes, Pete was driving out i
n the direction of the M25, having been handed the keys to a mid-range, minimum-trim, low-powered commuting car, just like all of the others.

  London’s orbital motorway, so often clogged with thousands of frustrated motorists, was almost entirely empty. He did his best not to delight the average speed cameras as he headed north and then west on the M40, opening his windows a crack and breathing deeply as he entered the green belt just outside London, savouring the scent of grass and pollen. Qatar’s air never smelled of either.

  It was 2 a.m. when he reached the house, so he was surprised to find that the lights were still on downstairs, as if welcoming him back. She’s made a conscious decision to do this, he thought; how wonderful. Back in the early days of his expat existence, she had often greeted him at the door, whatever the hour, with a smile on her face and her best underwear concealed beneath a dressing gown, waiting to be unwrapped.

  When he had finally located the correct key for the front door on his ring of assorted keys from two continents, he turned it in the lock and pushed it open. He could see Louise sitting at the computer in their office, with her back to him. So, she had waited up for him, too! His heart swelled. He desperately needed a hug. He went for weeks in Qatar without any human physical contact at all.

  She gave no sign that she’d heard the door, so he tiptoed through the hallway and into the study, aiming to surprise her. As he drew near, he realised that she was typing frantically. He moved further forward and tapped her gently and swiftly on both shoulders.

  ‘I’m ho-ome!’

  He had almost sung it.

  ‘Oh, hi, Pete. I’m working. Sorry. With you in a minute.’

  He was stunned.

  ‘I’ve got this urgent thing to do,’ she added, turning her head around very slightly as an obvious afterthought, and receiving his kiss on her right cheek.

  ‘More important than welcoming me home? Grrayt.’ His Brummie accent, severely eroded after years of living in the south, came out when he was riled. He walked out of the room and into the kitchen. There, he opened the fridge, reached for a cold beer, and opened it. Then he glanced towards Tess, who was asleep and dreaming in her crate, her legs miming a frantic run.

  ‘How was your flight?’ his wife asked mechanically from next door, as the click-click-clack of the keyboard continued.

  ‘Hot, cramped, tiring.’ It was a familiar response, usually met with a kiss and a directive to have a shower while she made him a cup of tea, or something stronger. He resolved to have the shower anyhow, but walked down the corridor to check on Patience first.

  She was sleeping soundly on her back, her arm lying across her chest in a sling, her mouth wide open, her breathing shallow. He stood in her bedroom doorway for a few moments, taking her in. Even though he had received regular updates from Louise while he’d been away, every time he returned he needed to see her for himself, straight away. He feared that he’d find her worsening, or weaker; he didn’t entirely trust Louise to tell him the truth when he was in Qatar – not out of malice, but out of a desire to protect him. He knew that she shielded him from a great deal, understanding that hearing about her struggles would make him feel even worse. He hated having to work overseas, and she knew that.

  Content now that his daughter was showing no signs of ill-health, he returned to the study, his beer still in his hand. ‘Lou, why are you still awake at this ungodly hour, anyway, if you’re not waiting for me?’ he said to his wife’s back. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sending in an application for something important. You’ll like it, I promise. I’ll tell you in the morning.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s gone two.’

  ‘No. The sooner I do this, the better things will be,’ she replied, her own hands remaining fixedly on the keyboard. ‘For all of us. Towel’s out in the bathroom,’ she added, her voice light.

  Pete spotted a few key words in the document she was typing.

  ‘A medical trial? What sort of medical trial?’

  ‘Go to bed, Pete. It’s a long story. As I said, better saved for tomorrow, when you’re not tired.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with Patience? Or you? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, actually, I’m better today than I’ve been in years.’ Louise swivelled her chair around to look at him, dislodging his hands from her shoulders. He saw that there was defiance in her eyes – and something else he couldn’t quite discern.

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ she said.

  ‘A job? What brought that on? You know you don’t need to work.’ Pete took a swig from the beer bottle.

  ‘No, but I want to. I’ve been applying for a few months now, and today I got offered a job. A good one.’ Louise smiled.

  ‘Bloody hell, Lou. You could have told me.’ He watched as her smile turned into a scowl.

  ‘You’re hardly ever here now, and anyway, I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I’ve been out of it so long, it was a very remote possibility.’

  ‘So what is it?’ he asked, perching on the side of the desk, trying to defuse the situation as best he could. He knew that he should be pleased that she would be earning a wage, but somehow, news of her having a job had suddenly made his life in Qatar seem less necessary, and that made it so much harder for him to bear.

  ‘At the hospital. A medical research assistant.’

  ‘But you’re a nurse.’

  ‘Was a nurse. Years ago. This uses some of those skills, though.’

  ‘When are you starting?’

  ‘Tomorrow – no, later today. And this application is part of it.’

  ‘You’re going to take part in a medical trial yourself?’

  ‘No, Patience is.’

  ‘Jesus, Lou. You didn’t think to talk to me about this first?’ Pete took another swig and glared at her.

  ‘It’s a trial with Professor Larssen, Pete. You know, the one who ran all the drug trials for Rett? We applied for a few. But this one is different. And it’s the best thing that could ever happen to her, seriously. The thing is, I had to make a quick decision, and you were in the air at the time. But you’ll love it, I promise. Just give me a chance to explain it to you, tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll love our daughter being experimented on? Really? I see.’

  Pete remembered applying for those drug trials. Patience had been younger then, and the last vestiges of hope had not yet escaped him. But now? Now they were settled and they were coping – and frankly, he was glad that he’d lost all hope that Patience would ‘get better’. That hope had almost destroyed him.

  He had finished his first beer and decided that the time was right for a second. He marched back into the kitchen, retrieved another bottle from the fridge. He stood still for a minute, concentrating on both his rapid breathing and the cold, numbing liquid. When he returned to the study, Louise had resumed typing.

  ‘What is it, then? Tell me. What are they going to do to her?’

  ‘You really want to do this now?’

  ‘Yes, I do. After a seven-hour flight and a two-hour drive, I’m still wide awake and raring to go. Let’s do this now.’ His nostrils flared.

  ‘It’s gene therapy. Scientists reckon they can reverse Rett syndrome.’

  Pete took another swig and swallowed hard.

  ‘Reverse it, how? Are they going to wave a wand? Say abracadabra?’

  Louise chose to ignore him.

  ‘They inject a virus with a copy of the gene, without the Rett fault. And then… It fixes it.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘I am telling you, it is. Or at least, it may be. The experiments they’ve done on mice are very promising.’

  ‘You’re going to make our daughter have experimental treatment that’s only been tested on mice? Bloody hell.’

  ‘There’s really no need to be like this, Pete.’

  ‘There’s every reason. Because I love Patience as she is. I have come to terms with it, after all of these years
. This is who Patience was always meant to be. It’s time you started believing that too, Lou. You have to let the hope go.’

  ‘Why the hell would I do that?’ replied Louise. ‘This new trial is amazing. It’s extraordinary. Denying Patience this chance would be betraying her. This could change her life. It could unlock her. She could maybe find a way to learn, to speak again.’

  ‘Christ, Lou, this sounds like science fiction! Have you even considered what the risks are? God knows I’m no scientist, but even I know that experimental trials are full of risks.’

  ‘They will take all the necessary precautions.’

  ‘Precautions, bollocks,’ said Pete, finishing up his beer. ‘Look, I’m knackered from travelling all day to get home to spend a precious week with my family. I’m going to bed. You have obviously decided that I don’t need to be consulted. Thanks a lot, Lou, thanks a lot. I work my arse off halfway across the world for you. And here you go acting like we’re divorced.’

  There was a prolonged silence while they eyed each other warily. Finally, Louise spoke.

  ‘I often feel like I am,’ she said.

  ‘Then there’s no point discussing this further, is there?’ he said, slamming his beer bottle down on the table, storming out of the room and stomping up the stairs.

  He heard her call out his name as he went, but he could tell that it was a half-hearted effort, so he didn’t bother to reply. As he snatched the towel that had been laid out for him on the heated towel rail, he heard the clicks of the keyboard start up once more.

  *

  Pete was woken up in the morning by what sounded like two furious blackbirds sumo-wrestling on the telephone wire outside their window. He turned to check the clock on his bedside table and discovered that it was only 4.30 a.m. But still, it was 6.30 a.m. in Doha. Normally he’d be up, dressed and in the car on his way to the building site right now, ready for a 7 a.m. start. So this was practically a lie-in, he reasoned.

  He turned over to look at Louise. She was comatose beside him, her blonde, highlighted hair ruched by her pillow, the remnants of mascara forming a half crescent under her eyes, her lips parted. Her breathing was shallow and rhythmic. It was difficult to believe that the defiant, angry woman he’d been met with last night was the same woman lying beside him. Her face was relaxed now – her dreams were clearly offering her respite – and the lines on her face, forged by decades of stress and exhaustion, were much smoother. They might almost be called laughter lines now, rather than the physical evidence of sorrow.