Oliver didn’t reply.
Juliet rubbed her dry, aching eyes. ‘I need to change my clothes.’ Both her blue shirt and long white cotton skirt were spotted with sick and there were bloodstains on her sleeve where she had helped to hold Tiff while the doctor had been setting up an intravenous drip. The bag of things Jake had brought from home was in the waiting room outside.
‘You go. I’ll stay here,’ said Oliver, and for a second she hesitated, because if Tiff were to open his eyes and she wasn’t there for him, what would he think?
Except she knew Tiff wasn’t about to open his eyes. He was in a coma now, unaware of anything at all, mercifully, and clinging to life by a thread. Wondering how she could bear to be going through this, yet aware that come what may she simply had to, Juliet rose slowly to her feet.
‘I’ll be two minutes.’ She felt older than she’d imagined possible.
‘Take as long as you want,’ said Oliver.
‘I don’t
Oliver nodded.
‘OK.’
The waiting room was cool and deserted. Taking her carrier bag into the bathroom, Juliet changed into the clean silvery grey v-neck top and darker grey crinkle skirt Jake had found in her wardrobe. She’d never been a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl, preferring stretchy, ultra-comfortable clothes that didn’t constrict.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror wasn’t comforting but Juliet didn’t care. Without the customary crimson lipstick, her mouth was far too pale. Since dragging a comb through her hair was too much to contemplate, she forced herself to brush her teeth instead, then sluiced her face with cold water.
Even that felt as arduous as wading waist-high through treacle.
‘Hi’
Emerging from the bathroom, Juliet was unsurprised to find Jake waiting for her.
‘I’ve brought you a coffee.’ He held one of the steaming Styrofoam cups towards her. ‘Pretty vile, I’m afraid. But better than nothing.’
‘Thanks.’ Juliet took the cup, knowing she wouldn’t drink it.
‘So.’ Jake paused. ‘Oliver Taylor-Trent.’
‘Don’t lecture me,’ she said wearily. ‘This isn’t a good time.’
‘I’m not going to lecture you.’ Jake shook his head. ‘Who else knows?’
‘No one. No one else.’
‘Not Estelle?’
‘No.’
‘Tiff ?’
‘Of course Tiff doesn’t know.’ Juliet gave him a how-can you-even-ask look. ‘He’s seven years old.
Do you seriously imagine he’d be able to keep quiet about something like that?’
‘OK, that’s all.’ Jake held up his hands. ‘No more questions. I just needed to know for practical reasons.’
‘Sorry.’ Of course he did; he would be heading back to Ashcombe now. ‘Anyway, thanks for everything.’ Julie moved towards the door, beginning to panic at the thought that she’d been away from Tiff for longer than five minutes.
‘No problem.’ Jake waited, looking as if he wanted to say something else. Then he shook his head and smiled briefly at Juliet, so clearly desperate to get back to the ward. ‘Off you go.’
‘You look shattered,’ said Juliet. ‘Shouldn’t you get some sleep?’
It was eight thirty in the morning, grey and overcast outside. Oliver, looking more crumpled than ever, rubbed his eyes.
‘Not before I’ve spoken to the consultant. He’s on his way in now.’ Straightening up on his chair he said, ‘Who’s that over there?’
Juliet twisted round. At the nurses’ station behind them a lanky youth in a porter’s uniform was leaning against the desk glancing over at them and whispering to one of the nurses.
‘His name’s Phil, he lives in Ashcombe.’ Aware that her heart should be plummeting but quite unable to summon up the energy to care, Juliet said, ‘He works part-time in the kitchen at the Fallen Angel. Looks like he’s recognised you.’
‘Here’s someone now,’ said Oliver as the swing doors crashed open and a middle-aged man with an unmistakable air of authority burst into the unit, trailing assorted minions in his wake. ‘Is that him?’
‘That’s him,’ Juliet nodded, her throat tightening with trepidation.
Oliver was already out of his chair. ‘About time too. Right, now we’ll find out what’s going on.
How d’you do, I’m Oliver Taylor-Trent.’ Oliver stuck out his hand as the consultant, followed by his entourage, reached them. ‘I’m the boy’s father. I want to know exactly where we stand here,’ he announced brusquely. ‘No holding back.’
Juliet, her fingers closing helplessly round Tiff’s immobile hand, prayed that Oliver wouldn’t start going on again about money. She also prayed that the consultant wouldn’t be as brusque as Oliver; she wasn’t at all sure she had the strength to hear what he might be about to say.
‘Pickled walnuts, would you credit it?’ Marcella shook her head in disbelief, mystified by her own weirdness. ‘I always thought those food cravings were made up, just to get pregnant women a bit of attention, but I swear to
