“There you go,” he says, removing his arm as soon as we’re out of reach of the lenses. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”
“That wasn’t the bit I was worried about,” I mutter, looking around the reception, wondering where I’m supposed to go. I don’t even know what ward Mum’s in. Or what the visiting hours are. In all honesty, I’ve been so distracted by Scarlett — and, well, byJett— that I haven’t really thought much about Mum’s illness at all. Which I know makes me sound like the worst daughter in the world — an assessment I’m sure Mum herself would agree with — but, in my defense, the nurse I spoke to about her on the phone was very clear that it wasn’t anything serious.
“I wish I could tell you more, love,” she’d said kindly last time I called. “But I’m not allowed. I’ve got to know your mum quite well, though, since she’s been here —” She’d paused here, in a way that made me feel like she was trying to tell me something deeper than her actual words. “—and what Icantell you is that if I were you, I wouldn’t be too worried. If you know what I mean.”
Ididknow what she meant. Or, at least, IthoughtI did. I was sure she was telling me mum was at it again, manufacturing drama for the sake of getting attention. Now that I’m here, in the sterile surroundings of an actualhospital, though, I’m suddenly not so sure.
What if she really is ill?
What if she’sdying?
What if she’s been telling the truth for once in her life, and I’ve been blithely going about my business, assuming it was all another one of her lies?
What if I reallyamthe worst daughter in all the world?
“Alexandra? Lexie?”
The voice that puts a cork in my downward spiral is the one I remember from that phone call, and I turn to see a pleasant-faced woman of about my own age (Myactualage, I mean. Not the one Scarlett Scott keeps making up on the spot for me.) smiling in that tactful way some medical professionals have. The one that’s supposed to be comforting, but which always makes me think they’re about to tell me I have two weeks to live.
Did I mention I don’t really like hospitals much?
“I thought that must be you,” the nurse says, glancing at Jett, before turning her attention back to me. “I recognized you from your photos. The ones your mum keeps beside her bed,” she quickly adds, seeing the look of horror on my face. “I’m Mary McNamee. It’s nice to meet you, lovely.”
I smile back, instantly liking her. Unlike the hospital receptionist, who’s gawking at us unapologetically from behind her desk, or the man who was so busy staring that he ended up going through the revolving doors three times, Mary McNamee doesn’t seem remotely phased by Jett, and, as she shows us up to the ward, she continues to address all of her comments about Mum to me.
I think this is the first time someone’s treated me as a person in my own right since this whole charade started.
The hospital is warren-like inside, and the long corridors and artificial lights do little to quell my nerves. Despite the size of the place, it’s almost eerily empty, and I find myself wishing I’d worn something other than the heeled boots, which I chose to make myself look taller next to Jett, but which click a noisy tattoo on the scarred linoleum floor, almost as if they’re announcing our arrival.
“We put your mum in a private room, because she was getting quite a bit of attention,” the nurse tells me, stopping at last outside one of the many doors in the seemingly endless corridor we’re marching down. “I don’t think she was very pleased to be on her own, to be honest, but oh well.”
She gives me a quick wink, and I decide my first impression was right: I like this woman. And she definitely has the measure of mum all right.
“Visiting hours don’t start for another hour,” Mary says, pushing the door open, “But we thought it was probably best to make an exception, under the circumstances, so you can have some privacy. And here she is!”
She says the last words as she steps into the room, speaking brightly, the way people do to very elderly people.
Mum will hate that.
“You’ve got some visitors, Samantha,” she says, addressing the figure in the bed, who’s still hidden by the door of the room. “I’ll leave to have a chat with them.”
“Good luck,” she whispers to me, putting her hand briefly on my arm as she reappears. “I’ll be just down the hall if you need anything.”
I hesitate outside the room, my legs too heavy to move. Then Jett gives me a gentle push from behind.
“You got this, Lady M,” he says, so softly only I can hear him. “Go get ‘em.”
And so I go.
And there she is.
Mum is sitting up in bed, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, and with a full-face of makeup, complete with an extravagant set of false eyelashes, one of which is slightly crooked. She’s wearing a silk dressing down with marabou-trimmed sleeves, and I can tell instantly that she’s pretending to be Joan Collins in an episode ofDynasty.
She looks absolutely fine. Borderline Barbara Cartland, sure, but health-wise,fine.
I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. Sheisfine. Surely she’s fine? Which means I’m maybenotthe worst daughter in the world after all.
“Lexie, darling.”
