The Difference a Day Makes (3 page)

‘No, no, you did the right thing,’ I reassure her, pushing down a pang of longing for my babies. Tom is eight now and Jessica is six, but they’re still babies to me.Tom looks just like his daddy, sturdy and solid with a mop of thick, dark hair and midnight-blue eyes. He has his father’s competitive streak too and has to excel in everything he does. Jessica favours me - she’s slight, elfin-faced and her blue eyes are pale like mine though she seems too laid back to be one of my offspring and excels in absolutely nothing. ‘Are they both okay?’

‘They’re fine.’ Now it’s Maya’s turn to be reassuring.

‘I’ll see them in the morning.’ I feel guilty that once again I’ve missed their bedtime. They both love it when I’m home in time to read their stories to them, and Will and I try to work it that one of us is around every night of the week even though the co-ordinating of our diaries every Sunday night is a bit like a military operation. I wish I could spend more time with them. But then a paucity of time is the scourge of every working mum.

‘I’ve left your supper ready to be microwaved,’ Maya informs me.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘You are so good to us. I don’t know how I’d cope without you.’

‘How’s William?’

‘I’m just about to find out,’ I tell her. ‘Don’t wait up though.’ I know what she’s like, she’ll force herself to stay awake until I’m home just to make sure that I’m okay. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

‘Goodnight, Amy,’ she says and I hang up, so grateful that I have someone who watches my back.

 

The ward is in darkness when I arrive and a nurse scuttles out from behind the reception desk to meet me. I give her my name and she says, ‘I think that Mr Ashurst is asleep. I’ll check his room for you.’

‘I won’t wake him,’ I promise. ‘I only want to say goodnight.’ Actually, just looking at him would be enough. I’ve missed him so much today. Now that I’m not pumped up on my adrenaline high from work, my fears for his health flood back.

After a moment’s indecision, she takes me along to my husband’s room.

Will is asleep. His covers are thrown back as the room is unbearably hot and he likes a lot of fresh air in the room. Despite the stifling temperature, he’s still looking pale and vulnerable.

The nurse goes through a few cursory checks of the machinery that’s monitoring Will, then she creeps out and leaves me alone with my husband.

I stand and watch him, wanting to smooth away the slight frown on his forehead. I love this man so much. We met twelve years ago when I was just twenty-six, and I can quite easily say that they’ve been the happiest twelve years of my life. I’d been at the BTC since graduating, working my way steadily through the ranks, when Will - already a successful producer at the age of thirty - joined the corporation. We met at a Christmas drinks party for one of the programmes - bizarrely, a dating gameshow. I’d bought a new dress and killer heels as I wanted to dress to impress, make an arrival.The killer heels were so high that I tripped up as I walked into the party and turned my ankle. Will was on hand to break my fall. He got me a drink and put some ice in his handkerchief which relieved my bruised ankle if not my ego. We found a cosy corner where I could hide my shame and put my foot up and, left to our own devices, instead of working the room, we hit it off immediately. That was pretty much that. We dated for a few weeks, decided that we’d both found our soul-mate and would look no more.Then, without further ado, I moved lock, stock and two dozen handbags into his spacious flat in Notting Hill. We still live in the same area today, though home is now a three-storey Georgian villa with an enormous private garden and a good line in graffiti on the front wall.

While I’m musing, Will has opened his eyes.

‘Hey,’ I say. ‘You’ll get me into trouble with the nurse. I said I wouldn’t wake you.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ my husband tells me with a stifled yawn.

I pull a chair next to his bed and lean my elbows on it, gazing at him. ‘I was just thinking how much I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he whispers in return.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Okay,’ he says hesitantly. ‘This has frightened me, you know.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘My father died of a heart-attack at the ripe old age of forty-two, ’ he reminds me. ‘I’d kind of planned on outliving him.’

‘You will,’ I assure him.

‘It makes you think though.’ He lets out a shuddering sigh.

‘Next week you’ll be back at work and will have forgotten all about this.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You will. Two weeks max.’

‘No,’ he says flatly. Will’s eyes are troubled as he looks deep into mine. ‘You see, Amy, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today and I’m not planning on going back to work.’

‘Not next week?’

‘Not next week, nor the week after,’ he says. ‘In fact, not ever.’

 

 

 

‘
H
e’s gone mad,’ I tell Maya as she sets the table for breakfast. I’m wearing a track out of my kitchen floor. Soon I’ll be in a trench up to my knees. ‘Completely mad. He says he’s not going back to work. Work is his
life
. Perhaps he banged his head when he fell. He’s talking complete nonsense.’

‘Maybe he is just a little worried.’

‘I can understand that. But now I’m worried too.’ Even more worried than I was before. When we thought he’d had a heart-attack, I was frantic, filled with fear for our future. Now I have a husband who’s talking about giving up all our worldly goods, turning off, tuning out and becoming a hippy or something. I am completely beside myself and filled with fear about our future.

Perhaps I shouldn’t confide in someone who is technically employed by us, but Maya has also become one of our closest friends over the last few years. She’s like family to us. In fact, the only living relative we actually have left now is my sister, Serena.There are no grandparents to rely on for babysitting duties or emergency back-up, no extended-family network. We’ve no one. No one we can count on. Some people manage to go through most of their adult lives without the devastation of bereavement touching them. Will and I haven’t been so lucky. Tragedy isn’t a stranger in our lives. William’s father died young - at the same age Will is now. I think that’s what’s frightened him so much. No one wants to bury their parents until they’re old and grey. That’s how it should be.Yet we hadn’t reached our first wedding anniversary when his mother was also taken. She succumbed to cancer, knocking the feet out from under us once again.Within the year, and before our tears were dry, my beloved parents were killed in a terrible coach crash while on holiday in the Austrian Alps.The trip was a treat for my mother’s sixtieth birthday and I’d just told her that I was pregnant with her first grandchild. She was so delighted and it still pains me to think that she’s never seen my beautiful children. So that’s us. Our tight little unit of four against the world. No one else matters now. There are some scattered aunts and cousins, but we’ve never had time to keep in regular touch with them because of work. Our familial relationships run to exchanging Christmas cards every year. Sometimes we even forget to do that. Maya is our only back-up.There’s nothing that she doesn’t know about this family. Good and bad. She’s seen both William and me in our pants - once together. You can’t get much more intimate than that.

‘He’s talking about packing his job in, Maya. A job which he
adores
. William Ashurst,
workaholic
, is convinced he’d be happier as an unemployed person.’

‘He will think differently when he is better. I am sure.’ My nanny moves onto arranging a selection of cereal on the table for my children’s delectation. She lines up the boxes with military precision, always in the same order, edges neatly aligned.

‘I stayed at his bedside until the nurse got fed up and kicked me out.’

‘I heard you come home,’ Maya says. ‘It was very late. And you did not eat your supper.’

I couldn’t eat. I still can’t eat now. Out of habit, I’ve poured myself a bowl of Bran Flakes which I’m struggling to stomach. ‘All he talked about was wanting to change how we live.’

‘Upsets like this make you think in different ways,’ she assures me calmly as she gets a jug of fresh orange juice out of the fridge.

‘I
like
the way we live,’ I tell her. ‘I thought Will did.’ We have great jobs, great salaries, great help, great kids who go to a great school, a great house in a great neighbourhood. How much better could it get?

‘When he comes out of hospital, you must take holiday. That is thing to do.’

‘You’re right.’ I seize on the idea. ‘We’ll all go. Where do you fancy? Where do you think William would want to go? Perhaps I can book it up today.’

Maya shrugs. ‘We could rent big house in France again,’ she suggests. ‘Your husband is always happy there.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, animated now. ‘He loves it. So do I. All that countryside. All that French bread, cheese and wine. He’ll be in heaven.’

‘Now that his heart is not so good, perhaps he will be unable to eat those things?’

‘Bloody hell.’ I let out an unhappy puff. ‘You’re right.’ What’s the point of a French holiday when you can’t gorge yourself on all that bad stuff? The countryside is all very well, but take away the fab food and there’s not a lot to do, is there? Will lives for a wedge of Brie and a glass of Bordeaux.

‘Children,’ Maya shouts up the stairs. ‘Your breakfast is ready. Hurry to the table.’

When Maya tells Tom and Jessica to hurry, they do. When I tell them to hurry, there are snails that could overtake them.

My children clatter down the stairs. They both head straight for the table. ‘Don’t I even get a hello?’ I say.

Jessica comes and gives me a big hug. ‘I love you,’ I tell her.

‘Love you too,’ she reciprocates. ‘I didn’t see you yesterday.’

‘You saw me at breakfast,’ I tell her, desperately trying to remember whether she did or not. Was it yesterday when Will and I went into work early and missed them? So much has happened since then that my memory has been erased.

Realising that my son is more interested in his Cheerios than he is in me, I go over and ruffle his hair, kissing his reluctantly proffered cheek. ‘Where’s Dad?’ he asks.

I slide into the chair next to him and exchange a weary glance with Maya. ‘Daddy’s not very well,’ I say.

‘Is he in bed?’ Jessica wants to know as she joins us at the table.

‘Yes.’ I smile reassuringly at them both. ‘But not upstairs. He’s in bed at the hospital.’When I see their anxious faces, I hurriedly add, ‘Only for a day or two.’

Tom has gone quite pale. ‘He’s not going to die, is he?’

‘Of course not, silly billy,’ I say with a forced laugh, but my mind flashes back to the picture of Will lying lifeless on the platform in the Tube. ‘He’s going to be just fine in no time at all.’

Jessica bursts into tears. ‘Why? Why is he in hospital? Can I see him?’

‘Of course you can, sweetheart. Maya can take you in as soon as you’ve finished school today.’

‘I want to go with
you
,’ she protests with a pouting lip. ‘I want to go
now
.’

‘I have to go to work.’ I’m planning to shoot into the hospital for an hour on my way there, but if I take the kids then the visit will turn into a major expedition. ‘You’ll have to be a big girl and go with Maya later.’

‘I hope Daddy gets better soon.’ Jessica sniffs and cuffs her nose.

‘So do I, darling.’ And I mean that in more ways than one.

 

 

 

M
y dear husband has been out of the hospital and at home for two weeks now and he’s driving poor Maya mad. Me too, if you really want to know. Don’t men make fantastic invalids? I’ve gone from being terrified that he’ll die to wanting to kill him myself with my bare hands.

They kept him in hospital for ten days in the end and have given him every test known to man. What they found, I think, was reasonably reassuring. My husband feels otherwise.The doctor said his heart seemed sound, apart from the odd irregular beat - which surely must be good. Unfortunately, Will’s blood pressure was sky high and he now has to take a beta-blocker every day. His cholesterol was pretty bad too, so he’s on statins as well as a low-fat diet. No more French cheese for my hubby. He’s also taking something to thin his blood. Our GP told him that he needs to have a better work/life balance and I feel that he is taking this way too literally.

‘We’re going to sell up,’ William announces from his armchair in our living room. His feet are up on the pouff where they’ve been all day, the
Guardian
and his ‘medicinal’ glass of Merlot discarded at his side.

I widen my eyes behind my husband’s head and look at my sister. Her expression gives nothing away.

‘I wondered why there was a For Sale board outside,’ Serena notes. ‘That was quick work. You didn’t say you were planning on moving.’>

‘It’s this damn thing,’ Will says, pounding a fist in the region of his heart. I do wish he wouldn’t do that. Sends shivers down my spine. ‘Makes you think.’

‘The doctor said you’d hadn’t actually had a heart-attack,’ I point out. ‘Just a scare.’

‘It certainly was,’ Will says, with a fulsome laugh. ‘Most of my family have croaked it when they were still young. I don’t want that to happen to me. Scared me into thinking what I’d
really
like out of life.’

‘And that’s to sell your beautiful home?’ Serena sips at the red wine I’ve poured for her. I hold out my hands behind Will in a what-can-I-do? gesture.

I called Serena to come over and see us today with a view that she might be able to talk some sense into Will. I have tried and I have failed. My big sister is a city slicker - cool and calculating. She’ll get right to the nub of this, fight my corner for me as she’s always done. I’ve talked and talked to Will over the last three weeks and he’s systematically ignored every single thing that I’ve said. All of my protests, my objections, my desires, my insecurities have fallen on deaf ears.