Capítulo 4: THE THIRD
As I push my way into Alfredo's at nine-thirty on the dot, I mentally prepare myself for the Spanish Inquisition. For once Michelle is already there ahead of me, waiting with two steaming lattes and the biggest cinnamon bun I have ever seen.
"Oh my god," she sighs with a mouthful of crumbs. "You so have to try this."
"Mmm, looks scrumptious." I eye the bun with delight, feeling ready to get everything off my chest. I settle down in my seat, breaking off a piece of the bun, and take a sip of my coffee.
"Come on, then. Spill the beans, Abby. I can't believe you have made me wait this long!"
"Um, well, okay …" I stammer, suddenly feeling rather shy about everything that has gone on over the last couple of days. I start off describing the event in the kitchen and work my way through until our encounter last night, omitting my dream as I don't think I am ready to share that with anyone!
"Bloody hell, Abs, you are a dark horse." Michelle gives me the once-over, scrutinising me over her designer glasses, making me feel like one of those science experiments at school.
"Not really," I mumble. "It just kind of happened. But that's it, nothing more. Taylor has made that abundantly clear."
"It doesn't really sound like that, hon. From what you have told me, it sounds like he wants you as much as you want him. But I can see his point. He's your boss and that could make things really complicated."
"I know. I have just never experienced anything like this before."
"Ah, sweetie, I am hardly the expert," Michelle says drolly.
I snort into my coffee. "Come on, Chelle, you are always being wined and dined." Michelle is twenty-five and drop-dead gorgeous. It also helps that she comes from minor aristocracy so spends her weekends with people called Alistair and Kiki. She never has a shortage of gorgeous, available, well-bred men whisking her off to the opera in Covent Garden or taking her away for minibreaks in the Cotswolds.
"You might be right, but I couldn't say that I have ever met a guy whose clothes I have wanted to rip off without even knowing his name. Even Jeremy was a bit of a slow burner." Jeremy Renner. The love of Michelle's life between the age of eighteen and twenty-two. Jeremy, who died when some idiot got into a car drunk and decided it was a good idea to drive the two miles home from the pub. Even saying his name causes tears to well up in Michelle's eyes. "Dammit, you would think I might start getting over this…It's been three bloody years already!"
I pat Michelle's hand because I know this is as much as I can do to comfort her. Her pain is still so raw that I think she plays the field to try and forget, and I feel bad that I have brought this up for her. She takes a steadying breath and plasters on a fake smile.
"So what are we going to do to make you forget about Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome Bossman?" Michelle jokes with a weak laugh.
"I don't know," I say with a sigh. I just can't seem to get Taylor out of my head. Each time I replay the scene in my head, it makes me feel even more down. I glance up at the clock and realise with all our chatting time has flown by and if I don't get a move on I will miss my train.
"Hon, I have gotta dash. Nonna will kill me if I am late…It's chicken parma today."
"No worries, Abs. You can't be late for chicken parma." Michelle has eaten several times with us and knows just how amazing Nonna's cooking is. "You take care and I'll see you in the office tomorrow." I give her a big squeeze and head off down the road to grab a bus to the train station.
~*~
As the bus trundles towards King's Cross St Pancras, I plug my earphones in and blast out some rock music to try and drown my thoughts, and I focus my energies by making up stories in my head about the people around me. I manage to keep this up all the way down to Brighton on the train and on the short bus ride to Nonna's house. Before I know it, I am standing outside her door without any clear memory of the mechanics of my actual journey.
"Nonna!" I call out to my grandmother as I walk through the unlocked front door of her basement flat. Nonna hurries out of the kitchen to greet me in her normal bustling way that I find comforting. The last couple of days have turned my world upside down, so being here, in the home that has defined my childhood, fills me with a sense of peace.
"Bella Abigail. My darling, let me look at you." Nonna hugs me tightly, then holds me at arm's length, scrutinising me in a way that seems to look through to my soul. "You have lost weight, darling. They are working you far too hard up there in the Big Smoke."
"Nonsense, Nonna. I am exactly the same as last week. You are just being dramatic!" I hand Nonna a bunch of vibrant orange gerbera that I managed to find at the station and follow her through to the kitchen, my nose picking up the delicious aromas of our lunch.
"Ah, well, it's my Italian heritage. Do you expect me to be anything else?" I chuckle at our long-standing joke, and we start chatting about everything we have both been up to during the week. The normalcy of our everyday chat and the environment soothe me, and soon I almost feel like the last couple of days have not happened, or at least they happened to someone else.
"So, Abigail, any sign of a nice young man, then, on the horizon?" Nonna queries, as she does every visit. I can feel the heat rising at the direct question, and given that I have never lied to Nonna before, I don't think I can now.
"Oh, Nonna…" I sigh. "There is someone, but it won't work out."
"Stuff and nonsense!" Nonna retorts.
"Well, he is my boss—well, my boss's boss, and so there is no chance of anything happening. He kissed me when he dropped me home, but then he rejected me when we kissed again…" I am aware that I am rambling incoherently, but I just can't seem to get a grasp on what I want to say. Nonna looks at me with her normal serene expression, waiting for me to continue.
"Um, need the loo," I mumble and dash off to the bathroom before Nonna can say a word. I sit on the edge of the bath, trying to calm my rapid thoughts down, when I am suddenly interrupted by a loud crashing noise. With a start, I head back to the kitchen, calling Nonna's name. When I don't get a response, a prickle of fear slides down my spine, and I break into a run down the corridor.
I arrive in the kitchen, and it is as if the air has been sucked out of the room as I look at Nonna lying prone on the floor. I drop to my knees, calling out her name, desperately trying to feel for a pulse, a heartbeat, anything. My hands shaking, instinct drives me to the telephone, and I find myself talking to an emergency dispatcher, who calmly takes my details and assures me that help is on the way. I feel useless as I sit on the floor beside Nonna. As the dispatcher calmly carries on talking in my ear, asking questions, I do my best to answer while at the same time straining to hear the sound of the ambulance arriving.
The clock ticks loudly, and inwardly I am urging the ambulance to go faster, faster. It feels like a lifetime, but in reality, only minutes have gone by when the doorbell rings. I run to the door, throwing it open and ushering the ambulance crew through to the kitchen. I stand back to give them access to Nonna, all the while offering up a silent prayer that she is going to be okay. As they work on her still and lifeless body, I am distracted by food simmering on the hob and the cracked dish of chicken parma on the floor. As if I am an automaton, I turn the hob off and start cleaning up the floor, knowing that Nonna would be devastated if she knew people were seeing her normally pristine kitchen in such a state.
"Honey," says the female paramedic who has been attending to Nonna. I start and turn my attention to her. "Honey, I am afraid she is gone." The air whooshes out of my lungs, and it is all I can do not to collapse on the floor. I realise I am holding on to the edge of the counter so tightly that my fingers have gone numb. Distractedly I hear the male paramedic talking into the radio, but I can't seem to grasp the words. The female paramedic puts her arm around me and steers me out of the room and into the hallway.
"Okay, honey, we are going to have to take your…your grandmother?" she queries with a tilt of her head. I nod in acquiescence. "Okay, we have to take your grandmother to the hospital."
"Why?" I interrupt, my head clouding with too many thoughts to handle.
"There is paperwork and things that need to be done," the paramedic continues to explain kindly. "Is there someone we can call for you?"
"Um, I need to call my parents. They aren't in the country at the moment." Each word seems to take gargantuan effort. I hear a rattle and turn to see Nonna on a trolley, a sheet covering her like in the movies, as they take her out to the ambulance. "Oh my god. She really is dead, isn't she?"
"I am afraid so, honey. Can I call anyone to be with you right now?" The paramedic hands me a tissue, and it is only then that I realise that the tears are pouring down my face. I shake my head and attempt a smile but fail miserably. The kindly paramedic squeezes my hand and reiterates the instructions for what needs to be done. Then almost as quickly as they arrived, they are gone.
The silence is deafening. All at once bile rises in my throat, and I have to run for the bathroom before I am sick. I dry-heave for several minutes before I am able to get my emotions under some form of control. Shaking, I make my way to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. It takes several attempts before I am able to dial the number for my parents.
The dial tone grates in the oppressive silence. My father answers with a cheerful "Hello?" and it is all I can do to whisper,
"Daddy," before I break down into tears. Through the sobs, I manage to convey what has happened. As always he is the calm in the middle of the storm, and my breathing slows and I am able to answer his questions. I can tell that my mother is not with him as his focus is totally on me.
"Okay, sweetie. Mum and I will get the next flight back. The flight is only a few hours, so at the latest we will be back in the morning. Will you be okay until then?"
I fight the rising bile down. "I don't think I can stay here, Dad. I have to go back up to London. Can I meet you there?"
"Of course, honey. Look, here comes your mum. Let me talk to her and I will text you the details of our flight, okay?"
"Thanks, Dad," I reply, grateful that I am not going to have to deal with this on my own. We sign off, and I am glad it is my dad I spoke to rather than my mum. If I am a mess, I know she is going to be ten times worse when she hears the news. I make my way to the kitchen and tidy up, making sure everything is up to Nonna's standards before gathering up my bag. As I look around, all I can see is Nonna lying on the floor, and I know that is not an image I will forget in a hurry.
~*~
I am halfway back to London when the ringing of my phone breaks me out of my reverie. I am surprised to see it is Eddy, so I force a smile into my voice as I answer the phone.
"Abby, thank heavens I got hold of you!" Eddy exclaims. I can hear wailing in the background.
"Look, I am really sorry to ask you this, but is there any chance you could get back into the office today?"
"Sure," I reply. "What do you need?"
"Shit, sorry about this, Abby. Taylor loved the report, but he has asked for a couple of more figures, and as you can hear in the background, things are not going to plan at my end." Lowering his voice to a whisper, Eddy continues, "Meg is at her wits' end, and I can't leave her to cope with this on her own."
"Sure, Eddy. I am just on the train and can be in the office in an hour." I glance at my watch and am startled to realise it is already four o'clock. "Do you want me to call you when I get there and we can have a quick chat about what is required?"
"You are a star, Abby. Talk to you shortly." I sigh as I lean back in my seat. I am not in the mood to go into the office, but at least it is a distraction so that I don't have to think about everything that has happened today.
Before I know it, I am walking through security, making inane jokes about living at the office. I grab a coffee from the kitchen and am suddenly assaulted by the memories of yesterday's kiss. I hurry back to my desk and pick up the phone, dialling Eddy, all the while trying to blot out the emotions that are building up in me. Eddy explains what he needs, and I estimate that it is only a couple of hours' work. Perfect, I think to myself. Get the work done and then go to bed and forget today ever happened.
In the end, it is after nine when I finally shut down my computer, stretching my arms above my head and attempting to work the kinks out of my neck. Checking my phone, I see a message from my dad:
Mum in a state. Flight's booked into Gatwick for 11 a.m. Hope you're okay. Dad x
Succinct as always. I manage to raise a wry smile and text back that I will meet them there. I make my way down into reception and out the front door. I wrap my scarf round my neck and start toward the bus stop when I suddenly stop in my tracks, realising that I don't want to go home. Instead, I change tack and head across the road to the Grey Goose, the pub of choice of Hudson employees. I am pretty sure no one will be here on a Sunday evening, but I take care when entering to check out the other patrons. Relieved there is no one I recognise, I head to the bar.
"Hey, Abby," says Jackson, the owner of the pub, who seems always be here. "What can I get you?"
"Hey, Jackson. Can I have a vodka and lemonade, please? Actually, make that a double, please."
"Rough day?" Jackson asks.
"Something like that," I reply, anxious to find a seat and blend into the crowd. I pay and manage to find a seat in one of the back booths. Of all the pubs I have visited in London, the Grey Goose is my favourite. It manages to balance Old World charm in its fixtures and fittings with great food and service. And there is always a nice crowd in, which I think is largely down to Jackson's influence. But tonight I am only concentrating on hiding out.
My drink slides down quickly, and it slowly starts to take the edge off my increasingly spiky thoughts. I order another double, and the world starts to take on a palatable glow. Time seems to slow down as I make my way back to the bar for another.
"Um, maybe just a single this time, hey, Abby?" Jackson queries, a look of concern on his face. "And maybe a glass of water?"
I consider getting angry, but then somehow common sense tells me to go with the flow. "Sure, Jackson, whatever you say." I beam back at him. My legs are a little wobbly as I head back to the table. I curse the uneven floor, and a little of my drink spills. "Oops!" I say out loud, not sure who I am talking to.
I find my seat and sip my vodka slowly, ignoring my water. My vision starts to get hazy, and I think I start to hallucinate as I look up and find myself staring at Taylor. I blink several times to clear the image, but it stubbornly refuses to shift. "Going bloody crazy," I mumble to myself. My Taylor vision shifts from foot to foot and then slides into the booth opposite me.
"Abby, are you okay?" my vision asks.
"Stupid, drunk Abby, seeing things," I mutter.
"Abby, seriously, are you okay?"
"Humph. Fine, thank you, Taylor vision," I reply, wondering why my hallucination is talking to me. I stare up into his eyes. "Taylor has such nice eyes, like chocolate. Hmmm, don't tell real Taylor I said that. He doesn't like me," I say sadly, shaking my head. "Not at all."
"Okay, Abby, I think it is time we took you home." Gently Taylor tugs my hand as he slides out of the booth. He helps me to my feet, wrapping my scarf round my neck. The world starts to spin, and suddenly I start to feel sick. The last thing I hear before everything goes black is Taylor's muttered "Fuck!"
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