‘What do you think he would say if youtook a lover?’ The last three words are in a French accent.
‘You’re ridiculous. I’m not taking a lover. And—I’m sure his nose would be out of joint, initially, because I’m not sure being cuckolded goes with his alpha male reputation, but then I’m sure he’d realise it was just his ego getting in the way and he’d come around.’
‘Hmm.’ Ally’s going to take far more convincing than that. ‘That I would like to see.’ She must see the exhaustion onmy face, because she puts an affectionate hand on my arm. ‘Let’s go and pump this doctor for all the information we can get. Right, shall we face these dickheads? Maybe I can put my arm around you and pretend to be your lover. That’ll distract them from your Dick Face husband.’
CHAPTER 7
Honor
Thankfully, there’s a parking spot right outside the Good Vibes Hospice. Di helps us out of the car and we stand together in front of the glossy red door.
Ally leans in. ‘I’m a bit scared.’
My heart lurches. Ally will always be my amazing little sister, who I love so much. I put an arm around her shoulders and squeeze before letting go. ‘I know, sweetie. It’s shit, and it feels really wrong that we should even be considering a place like this for Mum. But Noah promised me it’s not scary or depressing, so let’s hope he was telling the truth.’
We ring the doorbell at eleven sharp, and when it swings open, Noah himself is there. I wasn’t expecting that. He stands with one arm up on the door and shoots us—but if I’m honest, mainly me—a wide grin. I also wasn’t expecting what he’s wearing: a very faded, soft-looking t-shirt sporting a cracked image of Homer Simpson, and some knackered jeans. The sleeve of the t-shirt rides up his raised arm, exposing a tanned bicep. Nothing like Jackson’s, of course, but still. It’s a gratifying sight.
I feel unaccountably flustered and clear my throat. I’m aware of Ally looking from Noah to me and back again.
‘I didn’t realise hospice owners wore jeans and answered doors,’ I say archly to cover my sudden discomfort.
He sweeps his free arm open and steps back. ‘Come in, come in. There’s no job too humble for me here. And white coats are scary and serious, and we don’t do scary or serious here. My man Homer has better vibes than a white coat.’
‘So I see.’ I adjust my posture and sweep through the door. ‘This is my sister, Ally. Ally, this is Doctor Noah Thierry.’
‘Noah, please. How do you do, Ally?’
He shakes Ally’s hand and then goes to kiss me on both cheeks. He kissed me goodbye last night, but somehow I wasn’t expecting a kiss this morning. As he brushes my cheek with his, I catch a sniff of something citrusy. Verbena. Shampoo, maybe. He doesn’t strike me as a cologne kind of guy.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ he says quietly, somewhere near my ear, and then straightens up. ‘Thank you both for coming. It’s not an easy step to take, but I hope we can make you feel better about everything you’re facing. D’you fancy a quick tour first, before we sit down and have a chat?’
Ally and I exchange glances.
‘Sounds good,’ Ally says. She’s smirking. I know that smirk.
‘Okay then. Let’s do this. Welcome to Good Vibes.’
We’re standing in a large, square hallway with a wide wooden staircase in front of them. It has a stairlift attached to it, but that’s the only sign we’re not in a private residence. Noah leads us into an airy sitting room. The two sash windows are thrown wide open and there’s a hotch-potch of furniture: bookshelves, cosy sofas, tonnes of throw pillows, and a few pretty lamps dotted around. Against one wall stands a large console with a kettle, a Nespresso machine and a tray ofmugs. It’s a delightful room, if you can forget the purpose it really serves.
‘If Soho House did death,’ Ally quips.
‘That’s exactly the look we went for.’ Noah looks bashful. ‘We actually got one of their ex-designers to pull this place together. When we brainstormed on how we wanted this to feel, one of our team joked that he’d like to retire to Soho Farmhouse when he’s old, and have their converted milk floats bring him a bacon sandwich every morning and a vodka martini every evening when he’s confined to his cabin. It got us thinking that we should make it as comfy and tasteful as possible. Some relatives end up spending a lot of time here.’
I flinch at the reminder that I could end up stuck in this place for most of my waking hours quite soon. Noah seems to catch my expression.
‘Come and see the kitchen.’
He leads us across the hall and into a charming kitchen with a communal wooden table. Two men are standing at the island, prepping food. They give us a smile and a wave.
‘Nick and Ty, our chefs,’ Noah says. ‘We take nutrition seriously here. Our guests may be out of time for treatment, but an anti-inflammatory diet can really prolong life and avoid unnecessary suffering. Also, food is one of the main pleasures in life for most of us, so as long as our guests can enjoy it, we’ll spoil them.
‘All our meat is pastured; the vast majority of our produce is organic. We prepare and serve a lot of bone broths, too. But it’s not too virtuous. There’s tea and homemade cake or scones every afternoon. It’s become a bit of a tradition. You’d be amazed how many of our guests have visitors around three o’clock.’
He winks at us and puts his hands in his pockets. My first impressions are good. I have no idea what the medical credentials of this place are, but I can appreciate that it’s as far frommy preconceived idea of how a hospice would look and feel as possible.
‘Let’s take a look upstairs,’ he continues. ‘We’ve got eight rooms; two of them are free at present. They’re all nice, big rooms, and they’re all ensuite.’
He skips up the shallow staircase, and I find myself checking out his arse. Absentmindedly, yes, but I’m definitely checking it out. It’s not my fault; he has a very, very nice arse. Delectable, even. The jeans curve around and under it, the fabric pulling taut as he climbs the stairs, providing quite enough definition to be tantalising.
