Build a Man (29 page)

Luckily,
Kirsty’s just as eager for company as I am. An hour later, I’ve
navigated the futuristic Docklands Light Rail and managed to get my
exhausted, brain-dead self over to the Hilton at Canary Wharf,
Kirsty’s home for the past few days. Outside, night has fallen, and
the lights of restaurants shimmer in the water and canals. It’s a
part of London I don’t know, and my stomach clenches again as I
think of Jeremy showing me the city. I bet he could take me to some
great places around here. It’s only been a few days since our
outing to Borough Market, but I miss him.

“Hey!” Kirsty
waves at me from a chair in the reception area. “Is everything
okay?” she asks when I reach her side. “I texted you, but you never
responded. And God, Ser, you look worse than me. If that’s
possible.”

I take in her
wan face and crazy curls flying all over the place. “Gee, thanks.
I’m sorry I never got back to you. It’s been mental.” Quickly I
fill her in on the nightmare with Jeremy’s operation and how my
efforts to protect him backfired, leading to his big
Build a
Man
reveal and Peter being investigated by the hospital for
suspected breach of client confidentiality.

“Shhhhhiit,”
Kirsty says in a low voice, drawing out the word. “If I need a
drink after just listening to that, I can only imagine how you must
feel. So is Jeremy going to be okay?”

“The doctors
don’t know.” I shake my head. “He might recover completely or . . .
he might not.” My voice cracks on the last few words, and Kirsty
leans over and touches my arm.

I glance up
into her sympathetic eyes. “The worst bit of it is, if I hadn’t
pushed Jeremy into having that surgery, none of this would have
happened.”

“Look, you know
I didn’t agree with Jeremy having the operation,” Kirsty says, “and
sure, you might have given him a little added shove. But he wanted
that surgery – I could see how excited he was about the whole
thing. No one could have predicted the outcome.”

I nod, drinking
in her words.

“And you did
the right thing, not writing about him after what happened, and
trying to protect him by warning the hospital. You couldn’t have
known Leza would reveal his identity. Jesus, what an absolute
witch.” Kirsty’s eyes flash in indignation.

“I just hope
Jeremy gets in touch, so I can make sure he’s doing okay and
explain everything,” I say, sighing deeply.

Kirsty shoots
me a worried look. “Listen, Ser, I wouldn’t expect too much from
him. First of all, who knows how long it will take him to recover?
And secondly . . .” She bites her lip.

“I know, I
know, I totally betrayed his trust,” I rush out before she can say
anything. “But I really did think it was in his best interest.” Now
that I’ve said it, I realise how silly those words sound. His best
interest, right. More like
my
best interest. I drop my head
into my hands. How could I have been so selfish? Kirsty’s right –
it’s naïve to expect Jeremy to respond to my letter after
everything that’s happened. The weight inside me gets heavier.

“I take it you
haven’t told Peter you wrote the column,” Kirsty says gently.

I lift my head.
“No. I just thought, it’s over now so there’s not much point.
Jeremy hasn’t said anything yet, and I’m praying he won’t. And if I
did tell Peter, it would put him in a terrible position at the
hospital – you know, that someone working for him was involved. Can
you imagine the damage to his reputation and the business?”

“It wouldn’t be
good, and he definitely wouldn’t be happy. He’s practically married
to that clinic.” She makes a face.

“Yeah.” Peter
is
practically married to the clinic – my relationship with
him has always come second. Underneath all my practical reasons for
staying silent, I suspect if I tell him what I’ve done, even if I
say how sorry I am . . . that will be it.

Is that what I
want? To be with someone who has more passion for his business than
our relationship – and who might choose it over me, if push comes
to shove? And can I really stand sleeping beside someone each night
who doesn’t care how his practice affects people? I picture Peter’s
response to Jeremy’s disastrous outcome and think of Felicia, just
thirteen, and how Peter was only too willing to jab her full of
Botox.

I can’t even
begin to examine all this right now.

“So how are
things with you?” I ask Kirsty, aware I’ve been fixated on me since
I arrived and dying to think about something else.

“Horrible. Tim
keeps trying to talk to me at work; I keep hiding in the bathroom
to avoid him. Between that and morning sickness, it feels like I
spend most my time in there these days.”

“God.” I don’t
know what else to say. It sounds so grim.

“Yeah.” Her
eyes well with tears. “I do love him. It’s just a lot to handle
right now.” Kirsty shakes her head. “Look at the two of us! Ten
years ago, would you ever have thought we’d be in such a state? I
was sure I knew what I wanted back then. But once I had it, I
couldn’t run away fast enough.”

“I know exactly
what you mean.” I lean over and put my arms around her. I wish
there was a pill we could swallow to fast-forward past all this
confusion. The days when we knew beyond a doubt what our futures
held seem so long ago. I’m afraid nothing will ever be that clear
again.

The next few
weeks pass in a blur as I go from clinic to home to clinic again,
with a weekend outing here and there to visit Kirsty in Canary
Wharf. Neither of us has made a move in any direction. It feels
like we’re floating aimlessly through life, unable to break free
from our inert state.

The only thing
I
do
care about is hearing from Jeremy. I should just be
happy he hasn’t reported me – and I am, of course – but I’m longing
for him to get in touch. With each passing day, though, I’m more
and more convinced Kirsty’s right: it’s too much to expect. I’ve
lost him.

Things between
Peter and me have reached a similar inertia. I do what he asks at
the clinic and home, moving like an automaton most the time.
Peter’s so absorbed in his own world that he doesn’t notice my lack
of response, and since he’s been doing paperwork at the clinic most
nights, I’m usually alone at the flat.

Peter’s working
late as usual when my phone buzzes. I scrabble between the sofa
cushions to find it, thinking it’s probably him asking me to pop
the fillet in the oven.

“I’ll put them
in now,” I answer.

“Ser, it’s me.”
Kirsty’s voice is tense.

“Are you okay?”
I sit up straight, my heart beating fast.

“I’m bleeding.
I’m worried something might be wrong with the baby. Can you meet me
at the hospital? I’m about to call a taxi. I tried to get Tim, but
he’s not answering.” She sounds close to tears.

“Of course. But
maybe you should call an ambulance?” Horrific images of women lying
in pools of blood flash through my head, courtesy of
ER
.
“Lie down, put your legs in the air, and call 911. Or whatever it
is here.”

“It’s not
serious enough for an ambulance,” Kirsty says tightly. “But it’s
still pretty bad.”

I’m already on
my feet, shrugging on my coat. “Okay. I’ll grab a taxi. What
hospital are you going to?” I’ve no idea which one is closest to
her.

“Limehouse
Hospital. Hurry, please.” She hangs up, and I snatch my keys and
two tenners from Smitty’s emergency fund, then dash down the
corridor and into the lift, willing it to go faster. Outside, it’s
raining, and little wet beads patter onto my face as I rush toward
Marylebone High Street, where there’s sure to be a taxi. I flag one
down and climb in, instructing the cabbie to go as quickly as
possible to the hospital.

Finally – after
what feels like forever – the driver pulls up in front of the
brightly lit Accident and Emergency Room (why Accident and
Emergency? Isn’t an accident, by default, an emergency?). I hand
him some money then run through the doors, spotting Kirsty on a row
of dingy chairs. Her face is paler than I’ve ever seen, and even
her normally springy hair looks flat and lifeless.

“Are you okay?”
God, what a stupid question. Even by the way she’s sitting – both
arms crossed over her womb as if protecting herself from invisible
forces – it’s obvious she’s anything but fine.

Kirsty just
shakes her head.

“How much blood
was there?” I ask softly.

“There wasn’t
much, but enough,” she says, brow furrowed with worry. “It seems to
have stopped now.” Kirsty grasps my hand and I almost gasp at the
coldness of her fingers. “What if I’ve lost the baby, Ser? What if
it’s gone?”

I cradle her
hand between mine to get it warm again. “There’s no point thinking
about that now. Let’s wait until the doctors take a look at you
before we jump to any conclusions. Have you checked in?”

Kirsty nods.
“About ten minutes ago. They asked me to wait for a second.”

The nurse
behind the glass check-in desk beckons us over, and I can’t help
making comparisons with the private hospital where Peter works –
the contrast is as stark as the difference between an army barracks
and a luxury hotel. The chairs here are battered and mended with
duct tape, the linoleum tiles worn, and even the plants look like
they’ve been resurrected from the eighteen-hundreds. The whole
place seems near collapse.

“Right,” the
nurse says busily. “Let’s get you in to see a doctor. First things
first, they’ll do an ultrasound to make sure everything is all
right with the baby, and a blood test to make sure Mum is fine. I’m
sure it will be okay, love. You say you’re about twelve weeks?
Bleeding during the first trimester is very common. Just give me a
few details, and we’ll sort you out.”

Kirsty’s face
relaxes slightly under the nurse’s warm, reassuring tone, and she
lowers herself gingerly onto a metal chair, scrawling her details
on a form the nurse has handed her.

“Now, if you’re
finished with that paperwork, I’ll get someone to transport you to
the ultrasound unit.” The nurse points to a rusty wheelchair in the
corner. I help Kirsty into the stained seat.

“Can my friend
come?” Kirsty asks.

The nurse nods.
“Of course. She can take you up. Fourth floor.”

I wheel Kirsty
down the corridor and over to the lift in silence.

“Want me to try
Tim again?” I ask, as the lift creaks and clanks its way
upwards.

Kirsty nods
slowly. “Yes, please.”

Digging out my
phone, I find Tim’s number in my contacts and hit ‘Call’, but it
goes right to voicemail. “Hi Tim,” I say quickly, conscious of
Kirsty listening to me. “Kirsty and I are at Limehouse Hospital, in
the ultrasound unit. Please call.” I don’t know what else to say,
so I hang up.

“I have no idea
where he could be. He’s been at work every day – not that we talk.
Guess he took my request for space to heart. But he’s always
there.” Kirsty twists her neck to look up at me. “I might have
blown it, Ser. Everything. Tim, the baby . . . what if I lose them
both? God.” She presses her fingers to her forehead.

“I’m sure
everything will be fine.” I touch her back, hoping my words will
come true.

Two hours
later, there’s good news. The ultrasound shows the baby’s heartbeat
is steady and strong, and a bit of life has flooded back into
Kirsty’s face. We’re sitting in the ultrasound department waiting
to see a doctor to discuss the possible cause of the bleeding, and
I’ve already made three trips to the cafeteria to pick up food for
Kirsty.

I’ve ducked
down the corridor to ring Tim several times and I’ve left more
messages, but there’s still no sign of him. Even though Kirsty
hasn’t said anything, her hopeful glances toward the door each time
it opens give her away.

“I could have
five more of these.” Kirsty licks her fingers as she polishes off
yet another pastry.

I stare at her
with horror. “That’s the last of them at the cafeteria. I could
head over to McDonald’s and grab you a burger, if you want.”

“Relax, I’m
just kidding.” She grins over at me and I smile back, happy to see
some colour in her cheeks.

“Kirsty
Grainger?” the nurse at the counter calls.

“Come with me?”
Kirsty asks, looking nervous again.

I nod and take
her arm as we approach the counter.

“Room one,” the
nurse says, pointing down the corridor.

Inside the
small space, the two of us settle into chairs across from a Formica
desk. A doctor sweeps in and plonks a file down in front of
him.

“Hello, ladies.
I’m Dr Chandler. Which one of you is Mrs Grainger?”

Kirsty raises
her hand, like we’re back at school. Dr Chandler just has that
authoritarian air about him. “That’s me, Doctor.” Her cheeks colour
a bit. “And actually, it’s Miss.”

“Well, Miss
Grainger. You have placenta previa.” He pauses, takes in the blank
look on our faces, and says: “That means your placenta is lower
than normal, and, in your case, almost completely covering the
uterus.”

“How does that
affect the baby?” Kirsty asks.

“It doesn’t. As
your pregnancy progresses, the placenta should move into the right
position. We’ll keep an eye on it through ultrasounds, make sure
everything is all right. And if you have any more bleeding, come to
the A&E straight away.”

“So the baby’s
going to be okay?” Kirsty still looks worried.

Dr Chandler
nods. “Yes. If you take it easy – no heavy lifting or straining –
the baby will be fine.”

Kirsty slumps
and lets out a deep breath. I can almost see the pent-up tension
draining from her.

“I’ve scheduled
you for a follow-up ultrasound in another two months. So if that’s
everything–”