The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (9 page)

The impact of the painkillers meant that, to begin with,
Marianne felt as if the whole thing had happened to someone else. She was
distant and removed, as if she had seen it on a screen somewhere. It was not until,
aimlessly sorting through a pile of magazines and newspapers beside her
hospital bed, she came across a photograph of a young Asian female police
officer lying beside a large chestnut horse, the conker coloured mane mixed
with the ebony gloss of the woman’s ponytail. The headline read ‘Beauty and the
Beast; slain in the line of duty’. So the final death toll was 2,996 people and
one horse; she had read somewhere a dog had died in 9/11. Grief flooded through
her, seeping up from her toes as if she were blotting paper, absorbing her
whole body in one continuous sweep.

She had never felt so lost, so desolate. It was visiting
time, the ward was full of people, friends and relatives coming to see how
their loved ones were doing, willing them to get better, showing them they were
loved, letting them know it was all going to be alright. Who was coming to see
her? Where was her loved one? Where was George? She climbed back into bed and
burrowing into the pillows, pulled the covers over her head.

She must have sobbed for hours until she finally slept; the
picture of the policewoman and the horse clamped tightly in her raw-skinned
fist.

It was around midnight and
the ward was uncommonly quiet, when the nurse whom Marianne had come to know as
Sister Jackson, made a rare appearance.

“Dere you are Marianne, how are ya doin? Ya lookin’ a bit
peaky to me. Soon be time for you to go home. Dis place is not good for your
health.”

Marianne managed a half-smile. Sister Jackson propped her
up, plumped her pillows and straightened the sheets.

“I’ll go and get you a nice cup of hot chocolate for your
nightcap. Did you eat any supper at all dis evening?” Nurse Jackson eyed the
congealing bowl of stew. She whisked it away, disturbing the pile of magazines
and papers on Marianne’s bedside table. “You not botherin’ wit’ your personal
correspondence either?” She handed Marianne an envelope. “It could be good
news, Marianne, a well-wisher. Lord knows, we all need wishes and dreams these
dark days, a light at de end of the tunnel.” She flicked on Marianne’s beside
lamp as she trundled away.

Marianne did not recognise the handwriting. She
half-heartedly opened the envelope, the same handwriting filled the page; it
was on notepaper from a well-known Knightsbridge hotel. It read…

Dear Marianne,

Just a brief note to send you best wishes for a speedy
recovery. I’m sorry I’ve not had a chance to visit, but schedules rule and we
are filming the end of the TV series, so I am going back to the States
tomorrow. Angelique has made a good recovery and will be flying back with me
and I hear, although Paul is still undergoing surgery, he will hopefully make a
full recovery too. Both Zara and Mike are fine, thank goodness, but still
shell-shocked as we all are. Don’t credit me with any heroics once you recover
enough to write your report, I had a friend who made no secret of his
association with an illegal organisation and told me what to do if I ever found
myself in a particularly explosive situation. Advice I thought I would only
ever need for a role, not real life! Ha!

Take care of yourself and you never know, one day our
paths may cross again and I can recount more wondrous tales of the reckless
rogues, the lovely George and I once were. With every good wish, Ryan.

PS: I’m sorry those bastards blew apart your dreams for
your campaign, I feel sure when things settle down you’ll get the show back on
the road. R

Marianne stared at the
missive for some time. Well, what a surprise, how thoughtful, what a nice thing
for him to do. She felt quite moved by Ryan’s kindness and smiled again at how
little she knew of him and how, what bit she did know, reminded her of George,
protective, considerate and rather heroic. She drifted off to sleep, not sure
if she consciously thought or dreamed that George had sent Ryan to take care of
her, in that lovely, gently controlling way he had.

The very next day, Jack’s wife
Isabelle came to take Marianne back to Oakwood Avenue where Monty, hysterical
with happiness, tried to lick every inch of her as she eased herself onto the
sofa. Isabelle was reading a checklist of ready meals and, once satisfied with
this, busily arranged Marianne’s medication in the bathroom, presenting her
with a pile of books and magazines, topped off with a cluster of remote
controls and a telephone.

“Supper’s in the oven. I’ll ring later and call by in the
morning.”

“How’s Jack coping?”

“He’s not! Grumpy as hell, without you and Paul to moan
about.”

It hurt to smile.

“He’ll be alright, we’ll all be alright,” Isabelle said. It
was statement of fact; she marched off.

Marianne was so pleased to be home that Monty was
suffocating in her hug. As he struggled for freedom, she glimpsed the designer
collar Paul had extravagantly bought him for Christmas and she missed her
crusading colleague very much indeed. She could not bear to think of him going
back to his student-type flat in the centre of town. She made up her mind, life
is too short, it could have been even shorter, Paul was to stay with her and
Monty in Oakwood Avenue while he recovered, just until he was well and back on
his feet. She would buy supplies, make all his favourite things and he would
feel immediately at home and start to recover properly. Marianne smiled to
herself, she was not sure what his favourite things were, she was not even much
of a cook, but she would take care of him, make him better and strong again. It
was the very least she could do for someone who, having been through all they
had together, was now a very special friend.

There were not enough special people in her life, the trauma
she had been through made her realise. She had no family. No close friends,
only colleagues she was friendly with, she was single and yet widowed. She took
Ryan’s note from her bag and re-read it, taking comfort from his words.

“Time to get this show back on the road, Monty,” she told
the little dog who had cheekily nestled in beside her on the sofa. He had never
been allowed on the furniture before.

Paul made no attempt at even a vague protest when she told
him of her plan to have him convalesce at number seventy four.

“Just while you get your strength back,” she explained on
the phone.

“Great, thanks, sorted,” came his immediate response.

She and Isabelle emptied the contents of his wardrobe into
black bin bags and with his precious vinyl collection and vintage record player
perched on her knees, Marianne hummed tunelessly as Isabelle drove her and
Paul’s possessions across the city to the edge of suburbia and Oakland Avenue.

“It will be at least three months before he’ll be able to
drive,” Isabelle commented as they navigated the High Street.

“That’ll be nothing short of a miracle then, Paul’s never
been able to drive.” It still hurt to laugh.

After off-loading at the house, Marianne and Isabelle began
the journey south to collect their patient.

Marianne pushed her nose against the window – the ward was
full, beds crammed together, men sitting up in chairs, some playing cards,
others talking and laughing together in small groups. She scanned the room a
second time. She could not see him. Her heart lurched.

“Looking for me?” A muffled voice ventured, behind her.

She turned to find Paul Osborne swaying slightly, in a
swathe of bandage.

“I’ve had better looks, I know,” he offered.

“You look bloody marvellous to me.”

They hugged precariously. Isabelle was already emptying his
bedside locker into the ubiquitous bin liner.

“Come on, let’s get you home, I hate driving in London at
the best of times,” she busied, hooshing them both out to the car.

 Paul’s list of injuries was pretty impressive and he did
seem to take some perverse pleasure from recounting them at length. He
explained to Isabelle, he had been badly burned along one side of his body, his
left arm had been broken at the elbow and wrist, and pinned in both places, the
smoke damage to his lungs was lingering and painful. A piece of flying metal
had lodged itself just above his right eye. The eye had been saved and although
the gouge to his forehead was severe, he had been told it would heal to a scar
in the fullness of time. It was the shape of a question mark, he pointed out.
Marianne thought this highly appropriate, considering his quizzical nature.

By now the terrorist attack had started to wane in news
terms. Arrests had been made, debris cleared. With the PR machines taking up
the slack, many of the celebrities involved were busy ‘telling their story’.
Marianne kept an eye out for any mention of Ryan O’Gorman, whose calm and,
indeed, heroic performance on that fateful night would have done much to
enhance his reputation. So far the American TV star had not even been mentioned
in despatches, and far bigger names than his were filling miles of column
inches with their near death experiences.

Angelique had been discharged the same time as Marianne and
while Marianne had sought daily reports from the medical team on Angelique’s
condition, no message was ever returned. Angelique’s career rated higher in
media terms than Ryan’s, but again Marianne found no mention of how the actress
was faring in any of the glossy, gossip-column press. Zara and Mike too, had
just faded into the background.

None of them had felt inclined to divulge the facts
surrounding their very fortunate escape. It was like an unspoken covenant. It
was understandable. The whole of London was licking its wounds, the world
moribund with tension, too shocked to mourn, too bemused to move on. It seemed
each of them needed all their strength to concentrate on healing.

Now that she was well on the road to recovery, Marianne was
beginning to feel she needed someone a bit closer, someone she had shared the
terrible experience with, someone she cared for. She had enough of dealing with
everything, all of this, on her own, alone.

The new routine at number
seventy four was welcomed. It gave the day a framework. Recovery from a major
trauma is a slow process, moving on, standing still, stepping back. At times
Marianne felt she was looking into a black, bottomless pit, staring into
emptiness, being there just in case, waiting but not waiting, life on hold.
Without ever mentioning it, Paul seemed to know this and they both knew that
just being where they were, together, was probably the best place they could
be, for now, anyway.

Paul’s recovery programme was going well, it was the end of
October and he was beginning to look and feel more like his old self. He had
physiotherapy, which helped with mobility, and he had started painting again,
which helped with the night terrors. Happily for the residents of number
seventy four, Paul was addicted to daytime TV chefs and quickly became a
competent cook – they had all grown tired of Marianne’s one-pot repertoire.

So a routine was set, Paul filled his days with art, food
and his fitness regime and in the evenings after work Marianne cleared up,
having enjoyed whatever delight Paul had prepared that day. Monty was entirely
content with the arrangement, alternating between artist’s model and invalid
companion, especially supportive when ‘air had to be taken’ in the form of a
wobbly stagger to the park; and also pleased with the job of ‘dish of the day’
taster. Life was good, being alive, even better.

Marianne realised things were genuinely on the mend when she
heard a sound she barely recognised one evening, Paul’s laughter. They had
always had a similar sense of humour but real, chortling, tummy-hugging laughs
had been absent for some time. Besides, laughing hurt Paul’s chest and
Marianne’s heart. 

Initially there had been a quaint formality when Paul moved
in to Oakwood Avenue, but the fact that washing and dressing was a real
struggle, meant they soon had to dispense with feigned sensibilities,
particularly on the evening Paul got stuck in the bath. Marianne averted her
eyes while she tried to free him, but it was pointless. As was his attempt at
balancing a soggy face flannel across his private parts. As hard as she tried
to haul him upwards, he just slid gingerly back towards the taps. After the
third attempt, Paul had no choice but to drop the flannel and, grabbing her
shoulders, tried to save himself; she slipped on a towel, completely losing her
balance, and landed on top of him. She shrieked; there was water everywhere,
she sploshed about, panicking.

“Ouch, you’re hurting me, I can’t move,” he burbled, dunking
in and out of the bubbles. Marianne started to giggle. Paul came up for breath
laughing and pulling her hair, pushed her face under the water. She surfaced,
splashing him with all her might. Before long they were howling, tears of
laughter running into the rapidly cooling bath water.

“Just don’t get stuck on the loo,” she warned, and from then
on all formality dispersed and they started to have fun again. She just
laughed, when a cake she had created for his birthday, was baked so solid he
suggested they use it as a doorstop, and he was not remotely miffed when she
asked about the fox he was painting, knowing full well it was an attempt at a
portrait of Monty. The cosy banter of their past life was beginning to return.

Though there were some things Marianne needed to keep
private and would not discuss with Paul, such as her occasional habit of
clunking around George’s study in the small hours, slightly squiffy, berating
him for his insensitive, unsupportive and ill-timed demise. If Paul ever heard
her, he had the decency not to mention it. So in many ways they were all very
happy together, in every way they were each very glad of the other.