Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (22 page)

‘Etta,’ I say, rather calmly. ‘What’s up?’ Really I want to tell her to do something not very polite to herself.

‘I see you’ve blown off Felicity again. Too busy, huh?’

She sounds drunk, and probably high, which doesn’t surprise me as she was splashed all over the Internet again after falling out of a nightclub less than six hours ago. This time she was snapped looking cosy with Elías Najera, the goalkeeper at Chelsea F.C. I don’t think the club will be too thrilled with him considering Chelsea play Manchester United this afternoon, and I’m surprised she’s even up. I guess since she’s using Felicity’s phone, she must have gone straight from London to the New Forest.

‘I’m visiting Felicity tomorrow,’ I point out. ‘I spoke to both Felicity and Sadie about this yesterday.’

Both true.

‘Don’t bother,’ she slurs. ‘Leave my godmother alone.’

‘Etta, grow up, and take less drugs,’ I snap.

I hear screeching as I hang up the phone, and when it starts buzzing back a few seconds later, I hit ignore and put my phone on silent. I cannot be bothered to fight with Etta. I don’t get why she hates me, but that’s her problem. There’s room for both of us in Felicity’s life.

Annoyed, I make myself a cup of peppermint tea and grab another slice of cake – a rich Victoria sponge decorated with juicy strawberries to complement the strawberry jam and buttercream filling – and I settle down to spend the afternoon blogging.

As well as my Twitter followers increasing, I’ve had over ten thousand unique people read my blog since the pop-up. The video I put up of me altering those flared jeans has had over five thousand views. I thought I’d be lucky to get a handful of people watch it, so
thousands
of people being interested in what I have to say is
staggering
. I don’t get what’s so interesting about me, but I’m finding it addictive sharing things.

The afternoon passes in an enjoyable blur of chats on Twitter and writing blog posts, whilst I blast some old favourites out: The Killers. Radiohead. Blink 182. Paramore. Sum 41. The music is loud, and I’m thankful we live in a detached house.

A lot of people have made comments that ask me to customise more clothes and upload more videos, which is something I might tackle next week. It feels like my old dream of wanting to become Coco Chanel, but in my own way. I’ll never be a designer like Coco or Christopher Bailey, but maybe being Arielle Lockley, soon-to-be Arielle Bramley, won’t be too bad.

I head into the kitchen to feed Atlas and to see what I can have for dinner when the landline starts ringing. No one except my parents tends to call me on there, or Piers when he’s in the States. I grab the handset and head back into the living room.

‘Hello?’

‘Arielle, it’s Giles.’

‘Oh, hi Giles. How are you? How’s Annabelle? Did she take BoJo out for a ride this morning? Gosh, we haven’t seen you guys in ages. We must rectify that!’

I get on with Giles, but it’s rare we talk on the phone. Sticking to Annabelle is a safe topic until I can get Piers to take the handset from me, except he’s not here.

‘Arielle, do you not have your mobile on you?’ He sounds panicked.

‘I do, why?’

‘Did you not see my calls?’

Something in Giles’ tone tells me that this is not a social call. I pick up my phone, which has been on silent for the past few hours, and see a further few missed calls from Felicity’s number – Etta, I assume – as well as several from Giles. I feel sick.

‘Sorry Giles, I had a nuisance caller, so it was on silent and I’ve had my music on quite loud. What’s wrong?’ I ask.

‘I... Well... This is tricky to say, Arielle.’

‘Just spit it out, Giles,’ I say tensely.

I feel sick. OK, please let this be some weird mix-up, nothing serious. Giles wanting to tell me about some bizarre family skeleton that means nothing to anyone except for Piers and Giles, yet Giles has suddenly developed some weird sense of honour and needs to tell me what it is.

‘Look, are you sitting down?’

‘Yes,’ I squeak.

‘Piers is in the hospital, I’m afraid, old girl,’ he says bluntly. ‘I must be down as his next-of-kin on his work forms, so they called me. I’ve got you booked on the last flight from Heathrow tonight, but it leaves at eight. You needed to leave ten minutes ago, but you should just make it. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’

‘Make it before what, Giles?’ I whisper.

Make it before Piers dies? Is that what Giles is inferring?

‘Before they close the gate,’ he says in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Look, old girl, he’s going to be fine, but I need you to grab your passport and get to the airport. You can call me back when you do that, OK? You need to head to Heathrow Terminal 5.’

‘I–’

‘Arielle, go,’ Giles says firmly, and he hangs up on me.

I’m in a mad daze, tears cascading down my face as I try and process what Giles has said. I think back to my conversation with Piers this morning, how quickly I rushed off the phone to talk to someone else, and I start shaking. What if that was the last conversation I ever have with him? But, a little voice in my head springs forward, what if it isn’t?

I pull myself together, call a cab, and grab my passport from the safe. I stick on a jumper to cover up my baseball jersey, and take off my trucker hat. I have serious hat hair so I stick my hair up in a messy bun.

Within ten minutes I’m in a car with just a handbag containing my passport, purse and phone – no other luggage – and I’m urging the driver to get to Heathrow as quickly as he can. 

‘I’m in a cab, Giles,’ I screech, as soon as he picks up, cursing myself for having my music too loud to hear the landline ring. Cursing Etta for making me put my mobile on silent. ‘What happened?’ I demand. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

‘He’s been ill for a while, Arielle, you know that, right?’

‘He said he was fine,’ I whisper. ‘He promised me he was fine.’

I hear Giles groan. ‘Bloody man,’ he swears. ‘Look, he wasn’t. He’s had fluid on his lungs for a while because of his heart.’

Why can’t Giles just get to the point? Has Piers had a heart attack?

‘They call it pleural effusion, which is what is causing him to cough all the time,’ Giles continues, oblivious to my discomfort. I wind down the window, desperate for some fresh air. I feel dizzy.

‘He’s been putting a great strain on his heart and lungs so they tried draining the fluid with a needle last month but it’s obviously not worked. Don’t worry though, OK?’

I don’t know what to say to this. Piers lied to me then. When he went to the specialist and claimed he was fine,
he was lying
. No one is fine, far from it, if someone has to put a needle in your
lung
, if you are experiencing pressure on your
heart
.

I am shaking as the taxi speeds on through London towards the M4.

‘At least it’s not cancer.’ Giles laughs nervously.

I gasp. ‘It could have been cancer?’ Horrific words to use, but I’m going to kill Piers when I see him.

I thought it was just a bad cough, just a cold. What sort of a fiancée am I for not knowing he was ill? For not realising that some of the times he told me he was at work that he was, in fact, at a doctor’s surgery or in a hospital. I’m pretty sure you can’t just have your lungs drained on your lunch hour and then be back at your desk in the afternoon. He might have thought he was protecting me in some bizarre Piers-like way for not telling me, but he has lied to me and
I never suspected a thing
. 

‘See!’ Giles tries to laugh again, but it sounds rather strangled. I can hear Peppa Pig squeaking in the background. ‘It could be a lot worse. It’s hypertension causing congestive heart failure, which is a lot more treatable than cancer,’ he says matter-of-factly.

He sounds exactly like Piers in that moment, and if Giles were here with me, I’d punch him. What do these words even mean? I suspect they are serious enough for Giles not to be so la-de-da about them, even if he’s just reacting to this news in his own way and doesn’t actually mean to sound so irritating.

‘What happened then? Why have they called you?’ I demand.

Can he not spell it out for me in English what’s happening to his brother right now, to my fiancé? Not scary medical terms, just plain English.

We’re out of London now, on the M4, shooting west towards Heathrow. The traffic has been remarkably kind.

‘He collapsed again. He’s at the hospital now, having a pleurodesis. They’re basically sticking the layers in his lungs back together, and that should stop the fluid from building up,’ Giles explains.

‘He’s having surgery?’ I ask in a tiny voice, even though I realise that you probably can’t stick someone’s lungs back together without slicing them open. I feel like collapsing myself.

‘He is, but he’s in good hands. Trust me, he’s going to be fine.’

Is he saying that to reassure me or to reassure himself? His brother is thousands of miles away, on his own, having surgery. How is he not freaking out?

‘OK,’ I say in a quiet voice.

I still don’t understand half of what Giles has said to me, but I comprehend that Piers is having surgery right now, which is never great for anyone. Whatever Piers has, I mutter a silent prayer, and I pray for him to get through this.

‘How far away are you from the airport?’

I peer out of the window. ‘We’re somewhere on the M4,’ I answer. ‘And traffic doesn’t look too bad. What time does check-in close?’

‘You’ve got until half seven to get to the desk, so you should make it. Look, Arielle, do you need me to get on a plane? I can fly out in the morning.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You have Annabelle to think about, but can you do me a favour?’

‘Of course.’

‘Can you call my parents and get them to sort out the cat? I left him in, and he’ll survive tonight on his own, but I need someone to look after him. Ask my mum if she can head to London tomorrow, please.’

‘Do you not want to talk to them?’

‘I’ll talk to them later,’ I say quietly. ‘I can’t do it right now.’

‘Don’t worry, I get you. Let me just get a pen.’

I give Giles the number, and get all the details from him about the hospital. I also make him promise to call me as soon as he hears any news at all. Even if I’m in the air, he can leave me a voicemail. I want to know as much as I can as soon as I get off the plane. It’s an eight-hour flight, but a lot can change in that time – I need to be prepared for all eventualities before I make my way to the hospital, and I’d rather Giles broke the news to me than a stranger.

‘Look, chin up, old girl. He’ll be fine. Speak soon.’

He sounds so much like Piers that I’m in tears before he’s even hung up.
Please
let Piers be OK; I couldn’t survive if he wasn’t...

‘Hi Felicity!’ I say in a strangled voice, then I realise it might be Etta who’s on the other end of the phone. I do not need her histrionics, not now.

‘Arielle, dear, hello! How are you?’ Ah, good. It is Felicity, though I should never have answered the call.

I’m in the airport lounge, waiting for the gate to be announced. In the end I made it to the check-in desk just in time, only to find out when I cleared security that my flight is delayed for at least an hour. I should be keeping my phone free in case Giles or the hospital try to call. I changed my mind and asked him to pass my number on to them. I don’t care who gives me news about Piers – I just want news as soon as it’s available.

‘This is not the best time, if I’m honest. Can I–?’

‘Dear,’ Felicity rather forcefully cuts me off. ‘This is the right time–’

‘I–’ I begin to protest, thinking only of Piers and potential phone calls from Giles to say everything is OK, that it was a false alarm, that they got the wrong person and Piers is fine in his hotel room – but she interrupts me again.

‘The chance that you’ll get me again so clear in my thoughts, Arielle, it diminishes significantly as each hour passes today. Do you understand? We’re
never
going to get another chance to have this talk,’ she says firmly.

The fact she has interrupted me twice stops me short. Felicity is always so impeccably polite, so well-mannered, and I replay her words in my head. OK, I don’t quite believe that Felicity will never have another good moment – of course she will – but I know where she is coming from, how frustrating it must be for her if I hang up and go when she’s feeling completely like Felicity and not like she’s being controlled by her condition.

What am I thinking? Giles can leave a voicemail. If something bad has happened to Piers, I can’t do anything about it; if Giles is phoning me, it’s already happened, it’s too late. As heart-wrenching as that thought is, as much as it’s a truth I don’t want to consider, it will still be the truth.

But Felicity? It seems Felicity is inferring that she has this moment to speak to me lucidly, without confusion, and without her illness. She has the chance to be Felicity Farrell right now. Those chances she gets, those precious moments when everything is clear and normal, she needs to grab them when she can.

‘Sorry, Felicity. Go on,’ I say meekly.

‘Have you thought about what you’re going to do now?’

‘Huh?’ Somehow I don’t think Felicity is referring to me catching a plane and flying to New York.

I don’t want to tell her about Piers though; it will open the floodgates if I do. I finally managed to stop crying fifteen minutes ago, and I don’t want to start weeping again. I already look like a diva, sitting here with my sunglasses on – not that they disguise my puffy red cheeks to the people around me – and I don’t want to give anyone any more reason to stare at the hunched up woman rocking back and forth in the corner. If I attract any more attention, I have the sinking feeling that they could stop me from boarding my flight.

‘Well I have,’ Felicity presses on without an explanation – nothing new there. ‘I’ve been following your blog and your videos with great interest, and I think you’ve got something.’

‘Like what?’

I have one thought here: how can I get Felicity to call me another day, to have this conversation when I care about my career and am not consumed with worry for Piers?
This doesn’t matter right now.

‘Not blogging, dear, per se, but styling. Customising. Look at how wonderful you were as a dream-maker in Bournemouth. Look at how many people you helped.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re saying Felicity,’ I say thickly. My head hurts, and I don’t want to think about any of this. I just want to get to Piers.

‘You’re going to be marvellous, you know. You and Piers. You’re going to have a wonderful life together, and you’re going to do so well when you both find your feet.’

I want to scream at Felicity that Piers might not find his feet, that he might be dead, never able to walk on his feet again, but then I’m hit by a massive wave of guilt. Guilt because Felicity is trying to have a helpful conversation with me, trying to guide me and steer me once again on the right path, and guilt because these conversations must be so hard when she doesn’t know how they will turn out. Right now I want to get her off the phone, even though I know she may slip into a different world from yesteryear at any given time. 

‘You were saying?’ I force myself to say brightly, standing up and walking over to a vending machine to grab a drink. ‘About my blog?’

I need to focus on Felicity, give her the attention and respect she deserves.

‘It’s marvellous, all those people talking to you! You have to do something with them,’ she says seriously. ‘I think this is what you were meant to do.’

‘It’s just a hobby, something fun,’ I dismiss as I unscrew the cap from my bottle of sparkling water.

‘The answer will come to you, dear. Trust me, and promise me that you’ll do something with your blog, that you’ll give serious thought to how you could style people on the Internet, like you used to do in the shop.’

‘I–’ And then it hits me. I know exactly what I can do, though whether it will work... I take a sip of my water as the pieces line up in my head.

‘There’s my girl! You know, you’ve really cheered me up this past year. I’m so glad we met, even if our time together has been short. Bittersweet, let’s call it.’ Felicity laughs, that wonderful tinkling laugh of hers. ‘I hope I’ve been helpful!’

‘You have,’ I say. ‘I’ve had the most wonderful idea. I... Oh, I’ve got to go,’ I apologise. ‘They’re calling my flight.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you up there!’ Felicity chuckles. ‘I’m heading that way.’

That makes no sense, but I’m so glad that I didn’t hang up on Felicity. Her moment of lucidness lasted only ten minutes, and I realise that those moments are only going to get shorter and shorter until they are no more.

‘Goodbye, my dear, and I’m sure we’ll meet again,’ she continues. ‘It’s been an absolute pleasure and a privilege.’

‘Of course we’ll see each other again, Felicity,’ I say to her odd goodbye. ‘I’ll see you as soon as I get back.’

She’s gone though, and I’m switching off my phone as I hand over my passport and ticket to the woman at the gate.