As I step inside, the hospital smell hits me first. Then the noise. I know emergency rooms are always busy, but … bloody hell. This is mayhem. Far worse than when we took Mum in. There are people everywhere. All the plastic chairs are full, and a guy with a gash on his forehead is sitting on the floor nearby. About three babies are howling, and a man with vomit on his jacket is drunkenly berating his … Is that gray-haired, anxious-looking woman his mother?
Averting my eyes, I head to the desk and wait for what seems like an eternity before a brisk woman says, “Can I help?”
“Hi, I’m here for Sebastian Marlowe. Has he been admitted?”
The woman types at her computer, then raises her head and gives me a suspicious look.
“He was admitted earlier,” she says. “He’s been sent for tests.”
“What kind of tests?” I ask anxiously. “I mean, is he … Will he be …”
“You’ll have to speak to a doctor,” she says. “Are you family?”
“I … Not exactly … I know him, though. I made the 999 call.”
“Hmm. Well, if you wait, you can speak to the doctor who— Oh, you’re in luck. Lily!”
She beckons over a pretty Asian-looking doctor, who seems so rushed off her feet, I can hardly bear to hold her up. But I have to know.
“Hello, can I help?” she says charmingly.
“Sorry to delay you,” I say in a rush. “I’m here about Sebastian Marlowe. I’m the one who called 999. I just need to know, will he be OK? I mean, is he—”
“Please don’t worry,” she says, gently cutting me off. “He regained consciousness soon after arrival. We’re giving him a CAT scan, though, as a precaution, and taking a couple of X-rays. He’s in good hands and I suggest you go home. Tomorrow he’ll be on a ward, and if you want to, you can visit then. He’s very lucky that you phoned 999,” she adds. “Good job.”
She smiles again and is moving off, when something else occurs to me.
“Wait!” I say, hurrying after her. “Am I the only person who knows he’s here? Do his next of kin … does anyone else know?”
He doesn’t have any family, I’ve suddenly remembered, and the thought makes my throat constrict. Here he is, beaten up in hospital, with no family, no one at all—
“I’m fairly sure one of the nurses made a call for him,” says the doctor, crinkling her brow in thought. “She spoke to his … girlfriend?”
The word stops me short. Girlfriend.
I mean, of course. His girlfriend. Whiny. He has her. She’ll be the one he wants to see.
“Great!” I say a little heartily. “Perfect. His girlfriend. That’s—yes. Well. So. My work is done. I’ll just—so. I’ll go home, then.”
“As I say, he’ll be on a ward tomorrow,” she says kindly. “Why not come back then?”
As she meets my gaze with her wise doctor’s eyes, I have a weird conviction that she gets it. She somehow understands that I have to know how Seb is, because I feel this strange, inextricable link to him. Which isn’t a relationship—God, of course not. We’re not even friends, really. It’s just … it’s a different kind of thing. A yearning. A tugging in my heart. A need to be with him and know that he’s OK. I mean, what would you call that?
I blink and meet the doctor’s patient gaze again. Does she understand it all?
Or am I projecting?
OK, I’m projecting. She’s just waiting for me to go away. God, Fixie, get a grip.
“Thanks,” I say for a final time. “Thanks so much.” And I head out of the hospital before I can catch a superbug.
He’s safe. That’s all I needed to know. And Whiny will visit him tomorrow. Or his friends will, or whatever. So, really, there’s no need for me to. That’s the end. Job done.
Fifteen
Except that at five the next morning I’m wide awake, knowing only one thing: I have to go and see him.
I don’t care if Briony’s by his side. I don’t care if a whole army of friends turn to stare and say, “Who are you?” I don’t even care if his colleagues whisper to each other, “It’s that awful girl who introduced Ryan to the company! Yes, her!”
By 6:00 A.M. I’ve conjured up about a million possible scenarios, each more embarrassing than the last, but I’m still resolved. I’m going. No one can stop me. I know I don’t have any actual relationship with Seb. I know I can’t even claim to be a friend. But the thing is, until I see him with my own eyes, all I can picture is crime tape and police officers and my own lurid visions of him lying on a stretcher, hovering between life and death.
I text Greg, telling him that a medical emergency has come up (true), then spend two hours agonizing over what to take. Flowers? Do guys like flowers? They might say they do, but do they actually?
No. I don’t think they do. I think guys actually like cans of beer and expensive remote controls and football games. But I can’t take any of those to a hospital bed.
Chocolates? Sweets?
But what if his mouth got bashed and he can’t eat?
My stomach gives a nasty twinge at the thought, and I shake my head to dispel my worst fears. I’ll see him soon enough. I’ll know the full picture.
Then the answer hits me: a plant! It’s uplifting and natural like flowers but not quite as frilly. And it’ll last longer. There’s bound to be a plant shop somewhere on the way.
I check the hospital website for visiting times, phone Greg to make sure he’s opened up, change my outfit three times, google plant shops, spray myself with scent, then stare at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing nothing fancy: just jeans and a nice top.
OK, my best jeans. And my nicest top. It’s chiffony and a bit dressy, with sheer sleeves. But it’s not too dressy, definitely not, it’s simply … nice. It’s a nice top.
Which is of course totally irrelevant. In sudden shame, I realize I’ve been looking at my reflection for three minutes and hastily turn away. As if what I look like matters. Come on. Time to go.
—
The nearest florist to the hospital is called Plants and Petals, and as I arrive I feel it should be hauled up for misrepresentation. There are no plants, only flowers. And those are mostly of the frilly pink variety.
“Oh, hi,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “I’m after a plant. Quite a plain plant. For a man,” I clarify. “It needs to be masculine-looking. Strong-looking.”
I’m hoping she might say, “Step this way, the masculine plants are in the back,” but she just sweeps an aimless hand around and says, “Help yourself. Carnations are half price.”
“Yes,” I say patiently, “but I don’t want carnations, I want a plant. A masculine plant.”
The girl looks blankly at me as though she has no idea what a masculine plant is. I mean, come on. Masculine plants are definitely a thing. And if they’re not, then they should be.
“Don’t you do any yuccas?” I ask. “Or really plain spider plants? You’re called Plants and Petals,” I add, almost accusingly. “Where are the plants?”
“Yeah, we don’t really do plants no more,” she says with a shrug. “Except the orchids. Very popular, the orchids.”
She points at a row of pots on a nearby shelf, each containing a single orchid. Each beautiful flower is tethered to a little wooden stake, and they look quite cool and minimal.
A guy might like an orchid. Mightn’t he?
“OK, I’ll take this one,” I say, grabbing the most minimal orchid of the lot. It has only two white blooms, with large, shell-shaped petals.
“Gift wrap?” asks the girl, beginning to pull out a sheet of iridescent pink cellophane. “You get a free ribbon,” she adds. “Pink or purple?”
“No, thanks!” I say hastily. “No gift wrap. It’s fine as it is. Thanks. Although I would like a card.”
I choose the least garish Get Well option and write:
Dear Seb
Wishing you a speedy recovery
Fixie
Then I pay for the orchid and hurry along the streets to the hospital, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. It’s bloody freezing, even though the Snowpocalypse hasn’t hit. As I reach the hospital entrance, a few shell-shaped orchid petals blow away in the breeze, and I curse myself for not asking if there was any plain cellophane.
Anyway, never mind. I’m here now.
Clutching the orchid, I head to the main desk and eventually discover that Seb is on Nelson Ward on the fourth floor. As I rise up in the crowded lift, my heart starts thudding and my hands suddenly feel a little damp.
I mean, this is a good idea, isn’t it?
“Noah!” exclaims a woman. “Leave the lady’s flower alone!”
I turn my head and to my horror see a toddler in his mother’s arms, triumphantly clutching a fistful of orchid petals.
Shit. What’s he done? There are only about six petals left on the plant now.
I whisk the orchid away out of danger and survey it anxiously. It still looks OK. It just looks even more minimal. Super-minimal.
“I’m so sorry,” says the mother, and I notice that the toddler has a cast on his foot and, really, am I going to make a fuss in a hospital? So I smile and say, “Not to worry,” and cradle the precious orchid with both arms until we reach the fourth floor.