Ice Creams at Carrington’s (20 page)
‘Well, it’ll just make it all the more thrilling when you do actually see him then. And all will be forgiven and forgotten, and he’ll ask you to move in with him again and you’ll have incredibly filthy reunion sex, you’ll see.’ Eddie smiles, seemingly pleased with himself for having it all worked out. ‘And don’t forget our bet. Only a matter of time before the cash is mine.’ He winks before grabbing my hand and leading me like an obedient toddler into the bedroom. ‘Ciaran will pack while I find something suitable for you to wear. You never know, Tom might try to surprise you –
second time lucky –
by turning up at the airport … You’ll want to look your best,’ he instructs, flinging open the lid of my suitcase, which is on the bed, while casting a disparaging eye over my floor-drobe. ‘Honestly, Georgie, I know these are mostly Mango and Topshop, but really … you must look after your clothes. Hang them up!’
‘Hey, nothing wrong with high street clothes. I love them … and I’ll have you know that some of my Carrington’s clients do too. Even the fabulously wealthy ones – it’s not all Prada and Phillip Lim you know.’
‘Hmmm. If you say so.’ He pulls a face, unconvinced, as he plucks a pair of red pleather shorts off the floor and hands them to me. ‘Put these on. Tom won’t know what’s hit him when you emerge through Arrivals.’
‘No I can’t. They go a bit camel-toe after a bit; they’ll be hideous after a seven-hour flight.’
‘Ew, oversharer!’ He tosses them into the suitcase. ‘What about these?’ He hands me a pair of cotton buffalo print shorts instead.
‘They’ll do.’
‘Good. And put the Manolo’s on.’ I do as I’m told.
‘On seconds thoughts, no! Far too …
TOWIE
does Marbs.’
‘OK, I’ll decide,’ I say, holding up a palm, figuring this could go on all day if I let him have free rein. I slip the coveted heels off and carefully place them in the suitcase and opt for my gold flatform trainers instead, figuring comfort for travelling is best.
‘Fine. Now let’s sort out your hair and face.’
A few hours later, having hugged and kissed Eddie and Ciaran goodbye, I’ve just checked in at JFK airport. I glance at the Departures board and see the flight to London Heathrow is scheduled to leave on time, and whilst I’m sad to be leaving New York, I can’t wait to see Tom, apologise and try to make amends. Sam, too – I really need to talk to her – and then I must get stuck in to finalising the last-minute bits and bobs for the regatta. If I can make sure my elements of it go smoothly, then I might just be in with a chance of redeeming myself with Tom, Isabella too. I hope. She’s bound to know that I let her son down on my own birthday!
I wander over to a kiosk and am flicking through a copy of American
Vogue
when my phone rings. My heart lifts. I bet it’s Tom. I quickly retrieve it. Oh, it’s Dad. Ah well, it’ll be nice to talk to him. When he called on my birthday we only chatted for literally a few seconds. The signal was shocking, and when I offered to ring him back, he wouldn’t hear of it. Didn’t want me running up my phone bill.
‘Dad! How’s it going? What adventures are you having today?’
Silence follows.
‘Georgie?’
‘Oh hi Nancy, sorry, I assumed you were Dad, how are you?’ Another silence follows.
‘I, I, um, I …’ She’s crying. Oh God. A horrible sickly shiver engulfs me. I toss the magazine back on the shelf and head outside.
‘Nancy, what’s happened?’ Tears fill my eyes.
‘It’s George, your father! He’s had a heart attack. And, I, I’m sorry, it’s … I don’t know …’ The airport sways. The harsh striplights flash all around me. I can’t hear properly. And why is everyone moving in slow motion? Gawping at me. I reach a hand out to a nearby wall to steady myself. I swallow hard before drawing in an enormous gulp of air, just like the drowning person who manages to reach the surface.
‘I’m coming.’ And I’m running. Running back to the check-in desk. Ignoring the queue, I tear to the front and fling my bag on the counter. ‘I need to change my flight. I need to go right now—’
‘OK, ma’am. See right there behind you? It’s a queue!’ the uniformed woman states in a bored voice, pointing a graffiti-print acrylic nail in my face before beckoning the next person to step forward. It’s a big beer-bellied guy wearing a cowboy hat and a bootlace tie with a metal sheriff badge clasped at his chubby neck.
‘But you don’t understand. I need to go
right now
.’ I slap my hand on the counter.
‘
Security!
’ The pretend cowboy sniggers, elbowing me sharply out of the way before fanning his passport and travel documents out across the desk in front of him, as if claiming his stake as the rightful person next to be processed.
Not me
. A feral instinct takes over and I shove him right back before sweeping my hand across the desk, messing up his documents and then making them flip up in the air. They land in a jumbled pile on the floor right next to his lizard-skin boot-clad feet. ‘Bitch, you better pick that lot up, y’hear me!’ He clenches a fist, raises it, and then hesitates when I step forward; clearly not used to a woman standing up to him, he drops his hand. Twat.
‘Don’t call me a bitch, you fucking knobber. You’re not even a real cowboy.’ I shout in his face – spit actually skyrockets from my mouth and lands on his lapel. Fucking hell. ‘Do you know that I’m a personal friend of Dan Kilby? That’s right.
The
Dan Kilby.
World-famous
country singer. You’ve probably tried to line-dance to his music …’ My heart is hammering so hard it feels as if it might burst right out of my chest. What the hell am I doing? I sound like some kind of lunatic. The words are coming out of my mouth but it’s as if somebody else, another
crazeee
person’s mouth next to mine, is actually saying them. A few seconds later, and a guy in one of the same blue uniforms as worn in Vegas has hold of my elbow. My heart sinks to a new low I never knew existed. Oh no, not again. Twice in one weekend. They’ll deport me this time, for sure.
‘OK, let’s calm everything down here,’ he starts, in one of those softly-softly negotiator-style voices. ‘Ma’am, please step aside.’
‘No, I need to go right now. My dad, he …’ My voice trembles, ‘Nancy just called. What if he … dies?’ My voice quivers as I say the actual word out loud. ‘And I’m not there …’
‘And where is your father?’
‘He, they … they’re doing Europe,’ I manage.
‘You need to give us more than that to go on,’ the negotiator man says.
‘I … hold on.’ The phone is still clutched in my hand. ‘Nancy?’ But she’s not there. I instantly call Dad’s mobile, praying she picks up. She does after the first ring. ‘Where are you?’ I ask immediately. There’s no time for niceties.
‘In the mountains,’ she says in a small, shaky voice.
‘Where, Nancy? Where are you? You must know where you are!’ I say, fear engulfing me, and making my voice sound hideously shrill and accusatory.
‘I don’t know. We stopped to paddle in the stream … It’s so beautiful and tranquil here. But where’s the ambulance, they called an ambulance, the people here …’ she babbles, incoherently. Oh God. I’m going to faint. I wobble and the security man grips my elbow to steady me.
‘What country?’
‘Andorra.’
‘Andorra!’ I breathe in relief. ‘I’m on my way.’ And I end the call.
‘There isn’t an airport in Andorra!’ It’s the moody check-in woman.
‘What do you mean? Every country has an airport!’ I say, desperately resisting the urge to launch myself across the counter and head-butt her smug face.
‘Well, Andorra doesn’t,’ she snaps before doing a sarcastic smile. ‘Too mountainous, can’t land aeroplanes there.’
And this tips me over the edge – I sink to my knees and big, gulping, heaving sobs roar from me while I slap the floor with my left hand. I knew I should have stopped them going. I should have been more insistent. I should have pointed out all the dangers of visiting remote places that I’ve never even heard of. Places that don’t even have an airport! Who even decided that was ever an acceptable thing? But I was so wrapped up in myself, worrying about how I felt about them ‘doing flaming Europe’ – I should have talked them into a cruise or something. At least they have facilities, doctors, and hospitals right there on board. Some ships even have helipads; they would have got him to hospital immediately, and he wouldn’t be stranded on the roadside waiting for an ambulance to find him in some God-awful dump that doesn’t
even have an airport
.
*
A trillion hours later, or so it seems, and I’m here, in the breathtakingly beautiful country that is Andorra – the negotiator man at JFK sorted it all out after I eventually calmed down, managing to get me on the next flight. I tried calling Tom before takeoff, but his phone was either switched off or he was on a call as it went straight to that annoying answer message again. And then I had to turn my phone off as the steward doing the seatbelt check gave me a daggers look. There was no way I was drawing attention to myself whilst still in US airspace – hell no, I was certain I’d be arrested or something. America probably has my details now on some kind of database, especially for crazeee fruitcake loopers who don’t get a third time lucky chance, and instead have to shuffle straight off to jail in chains and one of those orange jumpsuits.
Seven hours later, I arrived at Toulouse Airport in France, the closest one to Andorra, and after hastily exchanging a fistful of dollars for far fewer euros, I took a taxi over the border and all the way here to the hospital – it turns out there is only one hospital in Andorra. Thank God. I’m shattered beyond belief, still wearing my buffalo shorts, and all I have with me is my handbag, albeit with a broken strap after the Vegas security guy yanked it free from the wheelie suitcase, so hard that it snapped clean in two. My suitcase, I’m guessing, is riding a left-luggage carousel somewhere at Heathrow, or maybe it’s still at JFK, offloaded when I was declared a ‘no-show’. Either way, I’m past caring, to be honest; my only concern now is Dad. I have no idea how he’s doing as when I tried to switch on my phone to call Nancy – the minute we landed – the battery had died, and yep, you guessed it, the charger is inside the suitcase. But I had a good think, and a big cry or two on the flight, and have managed to get a grip, just about. I can deal with this, whatever happens; whatever the situation is when I get to the hospital. I have to, for Nancy’s sake. She’s my only family, after all.
I push through the swing doors of the hospital’s main entrance and race up to the reception desk. An English-speaking nurse directs me to a family room, and the minute the door is opened, Nancy dashes towards me.
‘Oh, Georgie, you’re here,’ she says, her voice tearful and her face ashen. And she looks exhausted, all dark circles hanging like parachutes under her eyes; she’s wearing a floral halter-neck swimming costume underneath a matching floaty sarong. She looks as if she’s just stepped off a beach and the contrast to the clinical surrounding of the hospital intensifies my fear. I give her a big hug before quickly pulling back.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s fine. Love, he’s going to be fine.’ She clasps my hands in hers and squeezes them tight. ‘I’m so sorry. I panicked. He was gasping for air, and then when he collapsed on the mountain road, I screamed for help and the rest was a blur … How did you know? How did you get here? Did I call you? I must have done.’ She shakes her head vigorously, as if to rinse away the confusion in a desperate bid to gain clarity.
‘You did, and thank God you did. I couldn’t bear it if …’ My voice trails off.
‘I know dear, and I’m so pleased you’re here. They’ve done all the tests, and it turns out he has gallstones – that’s why he was bent double before he clutched his chest and keeled over,’ she gabbles fast, fuelled by adrenalin, her eyes are like dinner plates. ‘He’s going down for keyhole surgery tomorrow morning to have his gall bladder removed.’
‘So, it’s not the angina then?’
‘Oh no, they said that’s all fine. Well, as fine as it can be … but it’s stable, has been for years, as you know – no, it’s just bad luck the gallstones flared up now.’ Relief runs through me. Closely followed by more tears. Loads of tears – it’s as if a dam has burst and now I can’t stop. ‘Oh dear, lovie, let it all out.’ Nancy rubs my arm before pulling me back in for another big hug.
‘Sorry. It’s just that, he’s all I have … and you, you’re my only family,’ I say, in between the tears.
‘There there, no need to apologise,’ Nancy soothes. ‘He’ll be as right as rain in a few days, you’ll see. I’m the one who should apologise, silly old fool, scaring you like that when you were so far away … Georgie, I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be daft. I would have been devastated if you hadn’t called me,’ I laugh, relief giving way to near-euphoria now.
‘Come on, they’ve dosed him up with painkillers so he’s a bit dreamy, but he’ll be thrilled to bits to see you.’ After looping her arm through mine, she takes me to him.
W
hy does it take so long for an iPhone to come back to life? Mine’s been plugged in now for at least twenty minutes, I’m convinced of it. Not that I can actually check, because, yep, that’s where the clock is.
After a very restless night trying to get some sleep on the sofa in the family room (Nancy wanted to stay at the hospital ‘just in case’, so I stayed too), I made sure Dad was OK – he’s in theatre and will be out of it for at least the next few hours – before going in search of Daisy. Nancy gave me the keys and a rough idea of where she was located. It didn’t take long to find her in a layby next to a pretty stream, as Andorra is a small country; the first café I popped into, they knew all about the yellow bus with daisies all over it. A local guy, who spoke no English (and I can’t speak Catalan, of course), kindly brought me to Daisy in his four-by-four after we managed to establish a few details in French – mainly with me nodding and saying, ‘
Oui, oui, voiture jaune
’ over and over.
So now I’m sitting in the front seat of Daisy with the window down, the engine running, and my phone plugged into a charger connected to the cigarette lighter, which is a miracle in itself as, once I found Daisy, it then took me over an hour, firstly to work out how to actually drive her (changing gears is like stirring custard), then to negotiate the prospect of driving on the wrong side of the road, and finally to find an actual shop. In the end, I sputtered and stalled my way into a hypermarket car park where I abandoned her by finding a space I could drive straight into, and after buying some essentials to tide me over – knickers, a Hello Kitty T-shirt, pink velour joggers (I know, but they were the best option), toothbrush, deodorant, that kind of thing, I managed to find an electronics shop which, thankfully, sold in-car phone chargers. Hurray! I never realised, before recent events, just how much I depend on mobile technology. It’s ridiculous, but I truly think I might be addicted to Twitter and Facebook, checking emails and nosing through total strangers’ Instagram pictures. But being without my phone … well, it has been like an actual part of me was missing. Ludicrous, I know.