She took the call.
‘Speaking.’
She listened.
‘Oh. Okay.’ She swallowed. ‘Is she okay? I’m on my way.’
Chapter Eight
Abbey
I ordered an Uber, and he held me for the two minutes it took to arrive. He opened the door for me, and I turned to press one last kiss to him.
‘You should go back to your party,’ I said into his cheek.
‘And miss the opportunity to meet the great Iris Cavendish? Not a chance on this earth. In the cab, Abbey.’
I didn’t have the energy to fight the situation. I wanted him to want to come. I wanted Gran to meet him. I lifted my dress, sliding along to the far seat, and he hopped in after me, folding his long legs into the compact car.
The call from the nursing home had been to let me know she had fallen. This was the third one this year. Previously, we’d had success with rehabilitation, but at the moment she didn’t have the energy to get through a two or three-hour program. We had arranged for a private physio to visit her once a week, but when I had called to check in on how she was progressing, the physio had said she wasn’t making any gains. Tonight’s was the good kind of fall apparently: what they call an ‘assisted fall’. She’d had her back to a cupboard when she’d gone, so she had slid down it and then called out to them from the floor. Though she was sore and bruised, she had not hit her head.
My hand was on my throat searching for my pendant and he reached across to me, taking my hand in his and giving it a comforting, warm squeeze.
We arrived at Iris’s nursing home a little after ten. Ashford House was a beautiful Victorian mansion in Randwick, an affluent area, where it was leafy and green. Iris had lived in nearby Paddington for most of my life, so she was familiar with the area. The house had been converted into an attractive-looking nursing home in the last ten years and housed forty or so residents. Iris had been here for three years. Though I had offered for her to live with me when she’d decided she could no longer live alone, she had refused, saying she would kill Peter in a fortnight.
The amount of money she paid to live there was a king’s ransom. It had eaten most of the money from the sale of her Paddington townhouse.
We were let into the locked foyer by a nurse, and I stopped at the base of the stairs, leaning on Nick to remove my slingbacks. I picked up the skirt of my dress and ran up the stairs. At the top of them, he removed his jacket, leaving him in a waistcoat and a gleaming white buttoned shirt. He had removed his tie in the car and looking at him in the light I stared at his throat for, well, too long.
Iris’s room was at the far end of a long corridor. It was the best room in the place because it had a corner window that dappled light spilled into during the day. Three years ago, when she had still been able to see the print, she could read her books by it. We eventually switched her to digital and audiobooks as her eyesight had worsened.
I was a little apprehensive as I entered her room. She did not enjoy being fussed over and preferred Kate to me in these kinds of situations because Kate was all level-headed and I would become emotional. That Kate was not here told me that whatever had happened to Gran, medically at least, Kate was not worried about her.
Iris was on her bed, her covers pulled to her waist, her beautiful pale face against a perfect white pillowcase. I could not see a single injury on her. She looked as if she was lying in state, like a queen, her long white hair that she refused to cut spread out onto her pillows in soft shiny waves. Her pale-blue nightgown, tied with a ribbon at her neck, had a ruffled collar and ruffled cap sleeves, which somehow added to her queenliness. Lionel was beside her on a chair, holding her hand.
His soft brown eyes crinkled to greet me as I walked into the room, Nick close behind me. Lionel stood and reached for my hand. His was clean, dry and warm and felt like paper, the soft and cherished kind. He was a love letter, creased and treasured. He was dressed in clean, brown-checked flannelette pyjamas and a navy-blue dressing gown.
‘You look fabulous, Abbey,’ Lionel whispered.
‘Abigail Louise Cavendish.’ Iris’s voice rang out strong, like that of a Shakespearean thespian. ‘If you are going to bring gorgeous men into my room, I would appreciate you calling ahead. I might have liked to have put a little colour on my lips.’
A relieved sigh escaped my mouth. Clearly, the fall hadn’t dampened her spirit.
‘Gran, Lionel, this is Nicholas Northby. He’s my uh … well … he and I met on holiday, and he is my, erm … boss?’ Nick raised a dark eyebrow at me. ‘Nick, my grandmother, Iris and her uh …’ I searched for a word to describe Gran and Lionel’s relationship. ‘Friend …Lionel.’
Fuck me, but life is complicated.
Gran extended an elegant arm to Nick, who astonished me by bowing over her hand and kissing it with a courtly flourish.
‘Mrs Cavendish. Lionel.’ He shook Lionel’s hand.
‘It surprised us all enormously that Abbey took a lover on holiday. And then I was quite confused, thinking he was Maldivian,’ my grandmother said, raising a gorgeous flush on Nick’s cheeks. ‘Of course, England is lovely. I myself have had two English husbands. My Harry was English. He had verygracious manners. I was quite swept up with him. I can see why my granddaughter likes you and, of course, that is a very nice dress.’
‘It is nice to meet you too, Mrs Cavendish. I have heard a great deal about you.’
Gran gave Nick an assessing stare. ‘Abigail, did you take my advice this evening?’
‘No, Gran.’
