Found (5 page)

I hand over the Barnes & Noble bag which contains a few magazines,
The Kite Runner
by Khaled Hosseini, and the latest James Patterson thriller. For myself I’ve bought
Vogue
– obviously – and a vampire book called
Dead Until Dark
by Charlaine Harris. I figure escaping into a fictional fantasy world will help my current state of mind far more than reading the latest Jodi Picoult book. I need some light relief.

‘Take these.’ I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. ‘Don’t stay up reading too late,’ I tease with a wink.

‘Goodbye,’ I call to the nurse who is already bustling around Piers. She seems completely charmed by him, and I wonder if that’s the effect of Piers’ accent. It wouldn’t surprise me: British accents are like crack in this city.

‘Which floor?’ I’m asked as the lift doors ping open and I step inside.

‘Ground floor, please,’ I chirp.

‘I love your accent.’ The man in the elevator smiles at me.

See
.

Right, back to the hotel I go. Again.

It hits me like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. It’s as if my clothes are filled with those rubber bricks they have at swimming pools to test your diving skills, yet at the same time I feel like I’m floating. How can I feel light yet those bricks are dragging, dragging, dragging me down? I am drowning, and each breath I gasp doesn’t make me feel steadier, doesn’t make things right, but instead makes everything feel more swirly and fragile. Like things will never be the same again.

When I’m back in the UK, I’ll never see Felicity again. When Mum calls me, she’ll never have another amusing anecdote about an afternoon spent with Felicity.
Everything has changed
. I feel clammy and dizzy yet, at the same time, I feel nothing. Numb, raw, nothingness, like I could be quite happy if there was never another tomorrow.
Is this what grief is?

I was fine, taking one step at a time, focusing on Piers, until I spoke to Mum and she confirmed what Tabitha told me – that Felicity may have done this to herself. Every time this thought pops into my head it feels like my heart is caught in my chest and I can’t breathe for a moment. It’s one thing for Felicity to die, but if she
chose
to do this to herself? I have no words to–

‘Miss? Excuse me, Miss. Are you OK?’

I look up from my position at the hotel bar to see the barman looking at me with great concern. I follow his gaze to my hand, and see that I am shaking. The ice at the bottom of my drink is clinking softly against the side of the glass.

After that shocking conversation with Mum I decided to have a drink in the bar – not because I wanted a drink, but because I wanted to be around people. But, even though it’s after six in the evening, I’m the only person in here. I had hoped being around people would help me, would calm me down as I’d be eavesdropping on
their
plights; instead I’ve been hit by a barrage of thoughts and none of them are pleasant.

I’m sitting in an opulent, dusky-pink room, lit up by the large candles that are flickering on every table. There’s also a long line of candles in varying sizes on top of the gorgeous limestone fireplace. The black-and-white floor tiles match those in the lobby, and the furnishings are plush and luxurious like the ones in my suite. This bar screams of money and taste and I feel out of place in my dirty and borrowed clothes. If Felicity could see me now... I laugh out loud, quite hysterically, because she didn’t want to stick around to see what happened to me. She didn’t want to stick around to see what happened to
anyone
. No wonder Etta is always off her face, trying to cope – how wrong I was to vilify her.

None of my behaviour fazes the barman who has likely seen a lot worse than a dishevelled woman looking sad and cackling to herself. ‘Do you want a key to the park?’ he asks kindly.

Huh?

Seeing the blank expression on my face he continues. ‘The park opposite the hotel? It’s private, but we have a key for guests. It’s very peaceful in there and, actually, it’s the only private park we have here in New York. It might be a better place for you to be than in here,’ he continues, ‘a better place to think. Or,’ he hurriedly adds, ‘you can stay here. Totally your call.’

He flashes me a grin, showing his pearly white teeth, which automatically makes me run my tongue over mine. For the second time today. I totally blame Austin Powers and that stupid stereotype, though I do need to pick up a toothbrush. I had to use Piers’ this morning.

‘That would be really nice.’

I offer him a weak (closed) smile, though he probably only wants me to leave to stop making his bar look grubby.

‘My pleasure.’ He looks relieved. ‘Tell the concierge that Chester sent you.’

‘Thanks.’

With a quick salute and another smile he grabs my now empty glass of club soda – sparkling water to us Brits – and heads back down to the other end of the bar with it. In my state no alcohol is going to touch my lips – I’d only become maudlin.

I make my way downstairs to the concierge, ask for the key, and head out of the hotel with a member of staff as I’m not allowed to let myself in. It’s weird to think that this is the only private park in New York City, though Central Park is plenty big enough for everyone.

‘Please shut the gate properly when you leave,’ the woman says to me with a smile before she closes the gate behind her – it locks with a click – and heads back to the hotel.

As I look up, all I can see are the tall New York brownstones that surround the park. For a second it feels like they are closing in on me, that they are trying to swallow me whole, until I look straight ahead and see lush green trees and bushes. I take a deep breath, noticing a contrasting peppery sugar scent in the air, and I feel slightly calmer.

Walking into the park I find myself a bench to sit on – it’s empty in here, so I have my pick – and I appreciate the silence. OK, I can still hear the beeping of cars and, occasionally, a siren or two, but I no longer feel like I am drowning. Today the gardens look lush and alive, and I admire the beds of neatly-kept, colourful flowers opposite me, though I imagine in winter, when everything is dead...

I start to cough and choke at the thought of death, at the thought of Felicity, and the tears cascade down my face as I take huge gulping breaths of air to try and control my racing heart. It hurts so much, almost as much as when I thought I had lost Piers, and it’s just so
unfair
. Felicity didn’t deserve to die, however it happened, but she also didn’t deserve to suffer like she has been doing – no one deserves that.

I just can’t get my head around her death. This goes against the Felicity Farrell that I know because the Felicity Farrell I know –
knew
– is a survivor. Can we truly know anyone though? I’m not sure I even know myself at times...

‘Hello there. Hello? Are you OK? Here, take this.’

Something is pushed into my hand. As I clasp my fingers around it, I realise it’s a tissue. So much for New Yorkers being bad-ass people who only take care of themselves, though I guess I wasn’t as alone in here as I thought.
Mortifying
.

I look up and I’m met with the sight of a glamorous older lady who looks like she was born and bred on the Upper East Side. Wearing a stylish outfit that would rival – well, it pains me to say – Felicity, she’s dressed in an immaculate dark-grey peplum skirt suit with a cropped boxed jacket. Half a dozen rows of pearls sit tastefully on her dazzling, white, pussycat bow blouse, and a blingtastic owl-shaped brooch is pinned on her jacket. Rose gold in colour, its eyes appear to be made from sapphires. Small diamonds are dotted along its wings. This woman has serious taste.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble as I crumple up the wet tissue. I feel like a mucky tramp in comparison to this refined elderly lady who has joined me on the bench, though she looks over-dressed to be sitting in a park on a muggy weekday evening. She’s probably on her way to some benefit or function.

‘Are you OK, dear?’

The dear stings, even with the American accent, because the pleasantry reminds me of Felicity and how we first met when I was sitting on a pavement in Bournemouth, feeling glum. I start to cry all over again at the memory. I can’t believe she’s gone.

‘A good cry can make us feel better,’ she murmurs sympathetically, once my huge racking sobs have subsided to a mere sniffle. I bet she is seriously regretting coming over to me now, and I wonder who this woman is.

‘Eve,’ she says.

Huh? Did I air that thought out loud?

‘I’m Eve,’ she repeats, ‘and I live over there.’ She nods at one of the brownstones. Going on her outfit and her address, this woman is clearly loaded. She’s probably cursing that they let people like me into her private sanctuary; she’s probably trying to calm me down so she can ask me to leave.

‘I’m Arielle,’ I huskily say as I dab at my face again with another fresh tissue that Eve has pressed into my hand. ‘I’m staying at the hotel,’ I explain, feeling like I should, though I have every right to be in here, too.

‘Oh, you’re a Brit. How lovely!’

I smile weakly at that because I’m not quite sure what to say in response. Saying thanks seems a little weird because it’s not as if I
chose
to be British. It’s just something I am.

‘Well it’s nice to meet you, Arielle, even if you’re not feeling too cheery today.’

‘Likewise,’ I mumble because it’s hard to make small talk when you’re trying not to hyperventilate or throw up over someone you’ve just met.

We sit here in companionable silence whilst I get myself under control. When I’m certain I’m not going to burst into tears again, I thank Eve for the tissues. She is still sitting next to me as if she has all the time in the world, though maybe she has.

‘My pleasure, dear.’

Another sting at the “dear” remark but no tears this time.

‘I hope you’re feeling a bit better,’ she continues.

‘I am. Thank you,’ I add politely, though I feel far from fine.

She looks at me expectantly and, again, I have to fight back the tears. Is this how it’s going to be every time that I see a well-dressed lady of a certain age who happens to look at me in an inquisitive manner, just as Felicity did? I really hope not.

‘I’ve just had news of a death,’ I gulp, feeling the need to explain, ‘and my fiancé is poorly. He’s in the hospital,’ I clarify, ‘and not allowed to travel back to the UK for a few months...’ I shrug. ‘Sorry. I’m all over the place. I’ve had a lot to deal with.’

‘How terrible,’ she softly says, ‘and I’m so sorry for your loss. Sometimes though, and I know it’s awful that people say this, but sometimes it is better for people to go before their time. There’s less suffering that way, and no one wants a loved one to suffer, do they?’

‘I guess not,’ I mutter as tears start to fall down my face again. I quickly turn away from Eve.

Watching a bee buzz back and forth between the flowerbeds, I try to calm down, though those words play over in my head. Is that what Felicity did? Chose to go now before she really suffered later on? The post-mortem result can’t come quick enough.

‘I should go,’ I choke out eventually, remembering that Eve is still next to me. What must she think of me? ‘I should leave you to enjoy the park in peace.’

Silence.

I turn around, but she has gone. Instead of Eve, there is a packet of tissues that she’s left on the bench. I can see her heading towards the gate of the park and I watch her gracefully walk away in a way that reminds me, desperately, of Felicity. That was the oddest encounter, but I do feel a bit better from her words.

‘Why don’t you go out? Do some sh– sightseeing,’ Piers amends, seeing the stormy look on my face.

Does he honestly think that I want to go sightseeing or shopping, of all things, when he’s here in the hospital in this state? When Ob is desperately waiting for
that
phone call from Jade, the one that’s going to change his whole life either way? Sure, with all that’s going on, why wouldn’t I whip out Piers’ black AmEx card and trot down to Fifth Avenue to splash some cash?

‘On second thoughts,’ Piers continues, scrutinising me from his hospital bed where he’s propped up against two huge light-blue pillows. His skin is looking a little less grey today, and there’s a hint of pink in his cheeks. ‘Shopping.’ He looks pointedly at me.

OK, he may have a
slight
point. I’m sitting here with my unwashed hair scraped back in a bun, wearing a tea-stained hoody of Piers’ and the same pair of jeans I arrived in. I’ve worn these jeans for a full week now, borrowing massively over-sized tees and shirts from Piers’ clothes and washing out my only pair of underwear each night in the sink. Silly when I’m staying in one of Manhattan’s luxury hotels – one which, obviously, offers a laundry service.

His work has been amazing, though given the shit storm that is happening on Wall Street with the credit market tightening, I guess they’ve currently got bigger fish to fry than little old me running up a hotel bill they’d be paying for anyway if Piers was in a fit state to work. Still, I can’t bring myself to send my underwear to be laundered... OK, shopping it is. Who knows exactly how long we’ll be here, though I will have to pop home as soon as Felicity’s funeral is arranged.

Which reminds me, I need to get an update from Mum – see if the funeral is still on hold. There’s no real excuse for the funeral to be delayed since the post mortem ruled out suicide, and I’m thankful,
relieved
, that Felicity didn’t do that to herself, but Etta delaying the funeral means me not accepting that Felicity has really gone.

Not a day goes by when I don’t get the urge to pick up the phone to tell Felicity something, but then remember I can’t. I
hate
that realisation so much. Felicity should have lived until she was one hundred and five years old, then died peacefully in her sleep. OK, she did die in her sleep, but at far too young an age. Seventy-seven years old is no age at all.

‘Shouldn’t you be doing your exercises?’ I point out, ignoring his suggestion as I try to push the thoughts of Felicity from my mind. Piers thinks I should accept the verdict and move on. When I leave the hospital and am on my own though, I find it hard to remember his words.

He ignores my question. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a pair of jeans for so long,’ Piers teases.

He’s looking a lot better than he did when I first burst into this hospital room eight days ago. All of his tubes have been removed, though we’re still waiting for Piers to be discharged. I suspect if they don’t discharge him soon, he’ll be trying to do it himself; in hospital though, Piers has structure. I’m worried this will hit him hard once he has endless days to fill. He’s a workaholic, and he’s itching to get back to it.

We’ve got another six days left at the hotel, and then we’re being moved into an apartment round the corner from it which, thankfully, has its own key to the park. I visit every evening.

Even though I’ve not seen Eve since, I look out for her when I’m eating my dinner in there. Amazingly the hotel deliver my room service order to the park, which beats eating inside. The current May weather is pleasant enough to make dinner the highlight of my day, Piers aside. It’s not too hot and sticky at the moment, though I know the weather will turn and then I’ll want cooler clothing options.

‘I’ll pick up some stuff,’ I say, throwing my hands in the air in defeat as Piers wrinkles his nose, but there’s a twinkle in his eye as he nods at my hands.

‘What?’ I demand.

‘Maybe go to the spa, too.’

I shoot him a look.

‘I’m not saying that you don’t look beautiful, because you always look beautiful to me, but you do need some me time.’

‘I–’

‘Going back to the hotel to read your vampire books after you’ve spent all day at the hospital doesn’t count,’ he says sternly.

There’s something quite hot in his tone, and it would usually have me suggesting inappropriate things to Piers – especially after some of the raunchy scenes I’ve been reading in my books – but I know he’s far too weak, even if seducing him in hospital would cheer him up considerably.

‘Shopping it is then.’ I smile at Piers, and shake my head fondly. ‘Do you need me to pick you up anything?’

‘Just another book, please.’

He’s been reading voraciously since I took his laptop away from him and there’s definitely a change in him. He’s less stressed, less tense. It’s a welcome improvement, but I’m not sure how long it will last. He’s been signed off work until we get back to London, but a few of his colleagues have visited and would have, no doubt, talked shop if I hadn’t been here to object.

‘Oh, I think I can manage that,’ I say, leaning in and kissing him goodbye. I’m very happy to see him smiling.