Found (4 page)

‘Ten weeks is ridiculous,’ Piers rages as soon as Doctor Teddy has left the room. ‘This must be some sort of insurance scam. I do not need ten weeks to recover.’

As I reach over to take his hand and squeeze it, he winces. So much for Piers keeping calm.

‘Pony, are you feeling OK?’ I ask gently.

I hate seeing him like this, hooked up to scary-looking machines that are keeping him alive. There’s something about this room that is starting to make me feel so useless. I’ve realised that our lives can quite easily be taken out of our hands, that we can become reliant on machines to survive. A part of me feels somewhat thankful that Felicity didn’t have to endure a long drawn-out demise in hospital, fading away until her end – I understand how much she would have hated that – but then what end
did
she face?

As much as I try and push down thoughts about Felicity, they keep popping to the surface.
Did
Etta do something to her, or is this all some awful misunderstanding? I mean, now I think about it, she’s
always
high and has never done anything to harm Felicity before... I don’t know what to think.

‘Piers?’

He ignores me and presses a button that’s dangling at the side of his bed. A look of relief passes over Piers’ face as whatever he’s just activated kicks in, and I wish I could have a shot of it, but then I remember Etta and her addiction.

‘I am now,’ he replies.

I smile at him, pushing away my bad thoughts. I need to focus on Piers and not dwell on them.

‘Can you do me a favour though?’ he asks.

‘Of course.’

I expect it to be about getting a marriage licence, but his next words worry me.

‘Call my consultant at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and double-check how long he recommends I convalesce before flying,’ he barks. ‘Giles will have the number.’

‘I can,’ I say, as I realise that if Giles has the consultant’s number, Giles has known about this a lot longer than he let on. ‘Can’t it wait until you’re out of the hospital though?’

‘Arielle, please do this for me,’ Piers snaps, so I nod. Anything to keep his stress levels down. ‘Oh, and make sure London is talking to Doctor Teddy so they can co-ordinate my recovery back home. I’m not recovering here if I can help it.’

‘Maybe I should speak–’ I stop short at his stormy look.

‘Will you help me or not?’

I understand Piers’ frustrations, I do, but he doesn’t seem to understand Doctor Teddy’s stern words about not getting stressed out. His recent operation should be a pretty clear warning to Piers that he needs to take it easy, and follow his doctor’s instructions.

‘Of course, but–’

A booming voice interrupts me, and I’m slightly relieved. ‘Mr Bramley, how are you today?’

There are two people in the doorway, and I know that the man on the left is the one who asked the question. He looks like an American football player, and he probably was back in high school. He’s the polar opposite of the man standing next to him who has tight, dark-brown curls, milky-white skin, and a pair of thick black frames resting on his wonky nose. The other man looks like a taller and more ripped version of LL Cool J; I bet he’s the physiotherapist, or physical therapist, as the Americans call them.

‘I’m Brett, your physical therapist.’

See
.

‘And I’m Bryce, your case worker,’ the other man says.

Case worker?

‘Hi,’ Piers says with a nod.

‘I’m Arielle,’ I say, sticking out my hand as they walk towards us. ‘Sorry, what’s a case worker?’

Back in the UK, a case worker would be here to take Piers away from me because I hadn’t looked after him properly but that would, quite frankly, be ridiculous since
Piers is an adult
. With thoughts like this, I evidently need some more sleep. I’m starting to get a horrid fuzzy head.

‘From the insurance company,’ Bryce explains as he shakes my hand. He turns to Piers. ‘I need to go over a few things about your situation.’

That seems a little extreme, to send someone over to talk to Piers, until I remember that this is America and Piers’ operation probably cost tens of thousands of dollars, not to mention his hospital stay and whatever else they charge for. God bless the NHS and, in this instance, private medical insurance.

‘Then I’ll take you through your recovery exercises,’ Brett says to Piers.

I shoot him a look to see if he wants me to stay. My head is spinning from their sudden appearance, and I suspect Piers might be reeling, too.

‘Maybe you could make that phone call and pick up some pyjamas and toiletries for me,’ he suggests.

OK, not reeling then.

‘Sure,’ I agree, though I’m reluctant to call the hospital. I trust Doctor Teddy. If he says Piers needs six-to-ten weeks to recover, then I bet he’s right. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ I promise, reluctant to leave him because I feel like I’ve only just got here.

Pecking a kiss on Piers’ cheek, I grab my bag. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I call to Bryce and Brett as I leave, but they are already focusing all of their attention on Piers.

I leave the hospital and make my way back towards the hotel. The walk back seems much quicker than my walk this morning.

During my call to Giles, I snippily ask him to call the consultant in London since he clearly knows everything. I’m not sure how I feel about Piers telling his brother about his illness, but not telling me.

Next I decide to tackle the Tabitha problem. Picking up the suite’s landline, I dial her number. Hopefully this way she’ll answer because it won’t be my mobile number flashing up on her screen.

‘Lottie, is that you?’ Tabitha demands. She sounds frantic.

A-ha! It did work calling from a New York number, though I feel bad as she was obviously expecting her cousin. I wonder why she’s in New York.

‘It’s Arielle. Please don’t hang up,’ I say. ‘I promise I’ve never spoken to any journalist about you, and I’m not sure why you think I have.’

Nothing.

‘Hello?’ I ask. ‘Are you still there?’

There’s an awkward pause, then Tabitha clears her throat. ‘I... it’s... I’m sorry for accusing you,’ she says finally.

‘I didn’t tell anyone you were in Cornwall, not even Piers,’ I continue, when it becomes evident that Tabitha isn’t going to say anything else, ‘but I think I know why you might have thought that.’

In a rush I explain my suspicions about Lydia looking through my phone.

I’m gutted that she could even suspect me because Tabitha has been an amazing friend to me these past few months – if she wants nothing more to do with me, I will be heartbroken.

‘... I am so sorry though,’ I finish, ‘because leaving my phone out like that was as good as me selling you out. Can you ever forgive me?’

There’s a pause, then Tabitha sighs softly. ‘Of course, Arielle. I found out this morning actually that Lydia was the source when the–’ She spits in anger. ‘–
journalist
called me for a follow-up quote. So much for protecting their sources, huh?’ She laughs hollowly. ‘I was going to call you, but when I read about Felicity in the papers, I thought I’d give you a few days. You must be devastated.’

‘Read what about Felicity?’ I ask stupidly.

‘You don’t know?’ she says slowly, her voice panicked. ‘Well, see... gosh... the thing is–’

‘I know Felicity died,’ I interrupt, ‘but it only happened yesterday. How is it in the papers already?’

Tabitha considers this for a moment. ‘Good point. Not even Lydia’s story made the papers today. The latest scandal about me is only online because they missed the deadline for the morning edition, thank goodness. That’s really odd.’

It is very odd. Why would Felicity’s death be in the papers? She died
yesterday
. She wasn’t famous, or anything like that, and I can’t see Etta getting out of the police station last night and managing to arrange an obituary in time to make today’s edition.
What is going on here
?

I can feel a lump of bile rising in my chest.
Did
Etta leak it to the papers that Felicity had died as soon as she found out? Is she trying to drum up public sympathy, somehow cash in on this event to sell records? She is a vile cold-hearted bitch if this is her game plan. I can’t believe she’d do this to Felicity to gain some cheap publicity.

‘Do you think she did it?’ Tabitha asks quietly. With that one question I know that my previous fear was right, that it wasn’t an obituary that Tabitha read in the newspaper.

How could my parents have kept this from me? How could they suggest Etta was questioned by the police because it was routine and dismiss the post-mortem as nothing to worry about?
Why didn’t they just tell me that Etta has been arrested for Felicity’s murder?

‘If anyone could lose it and kill someone, I think Etta Millhouse could,’ I say, my voice cracking. Tears brim in my eyes as I think about poor Felicity suffering like that at the hands of her goddaughter.

‘Etta?’ Tabitha sounds puzzled. ‘You mean
Felicity
?’

That makes no sense. Tabitha just asked me if I thought Etta had killed Felicity... right?

‘Felicity?’ I question dumbly.

‘Oh, Arielle!’ Tabitha sounds distraught. ‘I thought you knew.’

‘What did the papers say?’ I demand.

‘They confirmed that Felicity died and mentioned that their source, someone close to the family, had asked the police to investigate because...’

There’s the longest pause from Tabitha, even though I know the rest of this sentence: Felicity’s Alzheimer’s wasn’t in the final stage and they need some answers as to why she deteriorated so quickly.

‘Yes?’ I whisper.

‘They need to rule out it wasn’t suicide,’ Tabitha says finally.

The air rushes out of me and I collapse back on the bed. My ears are ringing, and I feel hollow.

‘Arielle?’

Tabitha
can’t
have said that. Felicity
can’t
have done that. Felicity would
never
have done that.

This has to be Etta spinning the story somehow so she gets away with harming Felicity. So she gets away with
murder
. Someone has got this staggeringly wrong, reported it horrifically inaccurately. Felicity would never have killed herself...
would she
?

‘Arielle, are you there?’ Tabitha’s worried voice echoes down the phone.

‘Change the subject,’ I croak out trying to stop the feeling of nausea that’s rolling over me, trying to stop myself from crying because I fear, if I start, I will never stop.

‘Please! Talk about anything else,’ I demand shakily, though my brain still replays Tabitha’s words over and over. Could it have been suicide?

I can’t even air that word out loud, can’t even begin to imagine that Felicity would do that, but then I think back to the final phone call I had with her when I was waiting to fly to New York. That phone call had a certain finality to it, now I think about it, or maybe I’m changing my recollection to fit this new possibility. I don’t know what to believe as I stifle another sob.

Tabitha, thankfully, doesn’t press me, doesn’t apologise. She gets immediately that I do not want to talk about this – and I don’t – but I will be asking my parents if this is what they were keeping from me. Did they really think they could cover this up?

‘Sure!’ She has far too much pep in her voice. ‘Why are you in New York then? Is Piers working hard whilst you shop?’

At this question I can’t control myself any longer and I burst into tears.
Everything
has gone heartbreakingly wrong.

‘Now what can you see?’

‘Shouldn’t we be talking about you?’ I ask.

‘Arielle, I’m either going to be a dad or I’m not,’ Ob says flatly. ‘And that all depends on whether Jade decides to keep the baby or she...’ He chokes slightly. ‘Gets an abortion,’ he finally manages to stammer out as I turn the corner and emerge onto Broadway. ‘She’s told me not to question or pressure her whilst she makes her decision, and I have to respect that.’

‘But surely you have rights?’ I argue as I walk down Broadway.

Broadway is a weird one. It’s about thirteen miles long and, unlike the majority of New York City which is organised in a grid system, Broadway cuts diagonally
across
Manhattan, the cheeky rebel.

‘It’s your baby, too,’ I point out, ‘so get some advice. You want to be a dad, right?’

He ignores me. ‘Where are you now?’

‘I’ve just walked past the Flatiron Building and now I’m heading past a park. In a few minutes I’ll probably be able to see the top spire of the Empire State Building, but back to you...’ I roll my eyes. What I can see is not as important as Ob’s baby because, yes, Jade is pregnant.

He ignores me. ‘The Flatiron Building?’

‘It’s a building that looks like an iron. Google it,’ I say dryly, ‘and stop stalling. Promise me that you’ll speak to someone. Find out your rights.’

‘And do what? If Jade gets a whiff of this, what’s to stop her getting an abortion just to spite me? Once she’s done that, it’s not as if it’s reversible. Whatever you might think of Jade, Fatty, I do want to be a dad. I want her to keep this baby.’

I refrain from remarking that I don’t think very much of Jade. I don’t want her to get rid of this baby, of course I don’t, but if it could transpire that it isn’t Obélix’s, I would like
that
scenario to play out.

Obélix deserves so much more than a woman who used him to get out of paying a vet bill. He deserves to have a baby with a woman that loves him for who he is, someone who actually wants to be with him.

‘Really?’ I say, even though I know Ob can’t really do anything to make Jade have this baby. I fully respect that it’s her body, her choice, but maybe trying something,
anything
, would help him not to feel so out of control.

‘Are you saying that you’ve never thought about it?’ he asks me as I dodge out of the way of two New Yorkers having a loud argument in the middle of the pavement. ‘No hankerings for a mini-Bramley or two?’

‘Have you met Annabelle?’ I point out, only half joking.

‘
Seriously
?’

Ob sounds disgusted with me, but I never realised he felt that strongly about having children. I mean, he can barely look after himself. The thought of him looking after a tiny defenceless baby is a pretty scary one.

‘Of course I don’t mean that, and of course we’ve thought about having children,’ I admit, ‘but it’s not something we want to explore until I’m in my thirties. There’s so much we want to do before then.’

And, quite frankly, the thought of housing a baby for nine months – my body changing and going out of my control – freaks me out. It
really
freaks me out.

When I was growing up I never had baby cousins or friends with baby siblings; if I had a baby, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Piers is the same. OK, I suppose he’s helped Giles out a bit with Annabelle – being a single dad can’t be easy – but he’s never expressed an overwhelming urge to start a family anytime soon.

We’re young, we have plenty of time, but then I think of Piers’ illness and how we might have run out of time if things hadn’t played out like they did. That makes me sad. I want Piers to be the father of my children, just not for a long while.

‘We’re talking about you anyway,’ I point out crossly, more at Piers and his secrecy than at Ob. I do not want to think about my circumstances, which is why I phoned him.

‘Are you there yet?’

‘Am I where?’ Is this Ob being philosophical in some way, or merely plain annoying?

‘At the Empire State Building.’

‘Nearly.’

‘What’s it like?’

I laugh. ‘Tall, but stop dodging the conversation.’

He ignores me again. ‘Where are you heading to anyway?’

I laugh weakly. ‘I have no idea.’

After speaking to Tabitha I need to mull things over and calm down. If I call Mum and ask her if it’s true, it will make what Felicity did be true that little bit sooner. Well, might have done. It would help to explain a few things though – such as why Felicity sold the shop in Bournemouth. Was that what she was doing – winding everything up?

‘OK, what landmark is next?’ he demands, pulling me back to the here and now.

I force myself to laugh, but I’m relieved to have Ob to distract me as I stop on the corner of Broadway and West 33rd Street so I can stare up at the Empire State Building. From where I’m standing the side of the building pokes out, but it still manages to loom over the street, and I know if I went to stand at the bottom of it, I would be overwhelmed.

I feel insignificant in this moment. How did people even come up with the idea of these dizzying skyscrapers, let alone work out how to make them possible? Whoever built the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, their legacy will live on forever. What sort of a difference will
I
ever make? Suddenly it seems very important that I make a difference and leave something behind. What will my “skyscraper” be?

‘Arielle? Hello? Fatty!’

The moment is shattered.

‘I have no idea,’ I confess as I start walking again. I’m not sure if I’ve answered Ob’s question or my own internal self-doubt.

Yellow taxis zoom as fast as they can down the streets, hoping to pick up the big spenders who are emerging from Macy’s. Once upon a time that would have been me; now shopping is the last thing I want to do. Ha! Who would have thought
that
would ever happen?

‘I’m passing Macy’s, but I don’t think that’s your cup of tea,’ I offer.

The thought of Ob in Macy’s is highly amusing. They’d think he was some hick visiting from Ohio with his broad shoulders, flaming red hair and plaid shirt – at least they would until he opened his mouth and then they’d probably come over all gooey hearing a British accent.

Silence. Well, silence from Ob anyway. In front of me a yellow taxi has just run into the back of another – a clear fender bender – and cars are beeping at them for blocking the road as the drivers emerge and start yelling at one another, arms flailing.

‘Ob?’

‘I want this baby so much, Arielle,’ he whispers. ‘I want to be a dad.’

Poor Ob. He sounds
heartbroken
.

*

‘You’re back!’

It’s nearly three hours since I left the hospital, but it feels a lot longer. Whilst I felt I needed some air, some space to think, I just wanted to be with Piers really. New York is no fun without him, and even though Ob kept me company on the phone, he hung up pretty quickly after I called him out on his declaration to marry Jade – marrying Jade is not the solution.

‘I couldn’t keep away,’ I quip as I kiss Piers on the cheek and sit down next to him.

He smiles at this and I wonder if he, like me, is remembering when it was
him
that used to practically live at the hospital – when
he
couldn’t keep away from me. We’ve been together ever since apart from that stint at my parents’ last year, and I really don’t like to think about that trying time if I can help it. Piers throwing me out was hideous, but it was needed, and look where I am now. OK, it’s on hold, but I have a career... sort of!

I’m not often near the Barbican where we first met, but the few times I have been that way I always recall the awful interview I had with Penelope Whitter, the demon managing director of Benfords. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if she’d offered me that financial PR position, and whether my path would have crossed with Piers’.

I’d like to think we’d still have met, though on the meagre salary the company offered I wouldn’t have been hobnobbing in Chelsea. Maybe his firm would have been a client and that’s how fate would have brought us together though. I’d like to think that we’d have found each other somehow if things had worked out differently.

‘Pony?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I turn my attention back to the here and now. ‘How was it?’

‘Boring.’

‘All sorted with the insurance?’

‘Yep.’

Piers looks absolutely fed up, so I reach into my handbag and pull out a brown paper bag, desperately hoping that no grease has soaked through and marked its silk lining. That would really top off my look. I’ll be parading around New York City wearing dirty jeans, smelly underwear and a shirt borrowed from my fiancé. Add in a grease-stained handbag and I’ll definitely get stopped in the street by someone wanting to take a photo of me, the style icon –
not
!

‘Ta-da!’

I hand Piers the paper bag. At last, he has a hint of a smile on his face. It kills me to see him looking so bleak and weak, surrounded by machines and connected to those tubes. It’s the small breathing tube in his nose that worries me the most, knowing that it’s there because he’s struggling to breathe normally – something we all take for granted.

‘Is this...?’ He opens up the bag. ‘It is!’

His smile turns into a grin as he pulls out his chicken enchilada suizas, which are basically normal enchiladas covered in a béchamel sauce.
Calorific
, but probably delicious if the smell is anything to go by. I pull out another bag which contains my marinated shredded-steak mini tacos and a side of sweet plantains. I’m salivating at the thought of those juicy steak bits.

‘And!’ I pull out some Jelly Belly Soda in green apple flavour and hand it to him. ‘For you!’

His face lights up when he sees it because he
loves
this stuff. I’ve stuck to a bottle of water to help my skin, which is feeling tight without my skincare products.

‘This is the best meal ever!’ he declares. ‘Thank you, Pony.’

‘Even better than Le Gavroche?’ I tease.

‘Yes,’ he groans through a mouthful of his enchiladas.

This sets alarm bells off. Piers love his food, but this reaction is extreme – even for him. He’d never forget his manners.

‘Wait, you are allowed to eat, aren’t you?’

Even in his weakened state I suspect Piers would put up a decent fight if I tried to wrestle his food away from him, but I think “nil by mouth” only applies to those having surgery, not those recovering.

‘Of course.’ He pinches one of my plantains.

‘Hey!’ I protest.

‘Well, tuck in!’

So, I do, and I can honestly say that Piers is right. Sitting here eating this food with him is definitely our best meal together. I’m so relieved to be here with the man I love. Eating, laughing,
breathing
. I’d be broken without Piers.

‘Same again tomorrow, please,’ he chirps, finishing his bottle of soda and passing it back to me. I start putting our empty wrappers back in the brown paper bags when a nurse enters Piers’ room. ‘Uh-oh,’ Piers jokes, ‘busted!’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t see that, Mr Bramley,’ the nurse says in a strict voice, ‘but only because that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile. And I can see why,’ she says, turning to me. ‘This must be your fiancée.’

‘Hi, I’m Arielle.’

‘And I’m here to clean and change Mr Bramley’s tubes,’ she says briskly, but with a twinkle in her eye. I know she means his catheter.

‘Do you want me to go?’ I ask Piers, and he looks relieved – there are some things that don’t need to be seen by your other half. ‘I can come back later though?’ I add.

‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘Exhausted,’ I admit.

I’m not running on New York time, and I’m also knackered from walking around earlier. Thank goodness it’s quite cool for late April. As soon as the temperature creeps above 25°C, I’ll be cabbing it a lot more.

The air gets stifling in New York in a way that it never seems to in London – sure, it gets muggy at home, but it’s doesn’t reach New York levels – and that means the fatigue kicks in even sooner. Not to mention the fact that no one wants to be pounding the pavements in New York when it’s hot because the smell leaves something to be desired. I’ve experienced nausea already from some nasty garbage-like whiffs.

‘Shall I see you in the morning?’ he suggests.

‘Are you sure? I can come back later.’

I feel bad leaving Piers here on his own, plus I feel like I’ve barely seen him today, but then I look at him. If I feel exhausted, how must Piers be feeling? He had surgery
yesterday
, so he shouldn’t even be up and awake. I need to let him rest, let him build up his strength.

‘The morning it is,’ I say before he can answer me, ‘although...’