“Just plain black today,” I admit.
“What? Plain black? Are you feeling alright, dear?”
I could unpack that question, but I don’t have the energy — so I just murmur, “Yes, I’m fine.”
He hums softly, not convinced, but thankfully moves on. “Anyway, where’s that marvellous son of mine? I need a quick word.”
“Oh! Right, he’s out on-site this morning,” I say quickly. “Signal’s bad, but I can try him for you. Is everything okay?”
“All fine, my dear. The doctors say I’m good to go home.”
“That’s wonderful! Are you ready to leave now?”
“Ready and packed.”
“Alright, I’ll try calling Henry and ring you back once I get through.”
“You’re lovely, you know that.”
I grin. “And you’re a terrible flirt, you know that?”
There’s a beat of silence — then a burst of laughter fills my ear, rich and genuine.
“Speak to you soon, Matty.”
The name makes me pause. Only my sister calls me Matty, but somehow it feels natural coming from him. Comforting.
I try Henry’s mobile three times, and every call goes straight to voicemail. He really has no signal. I stare at the phone, imagining James sitting alone in a hospital bed, waiting.
Nope. Not happening.
“Right,” I mutter to myself, pulling up the Uber app. “We’re doing this.”
I call James back to tell him I’m on my way.
Nearly an hour later, James and I are in the back of a taxi heading to his house.
The nurses looked mildly disappointed when they realised it was me collecting him and not Henry, but James seemed thrilled. He’d hugged me so tightly when I arrived that I thought my ribs might crack — but honestly, I didn’t mind. It felt… warm. Familiar.
He spent the drive complaining about hospital food, telling me stories that had me laughing so hard I almost forgot I was supposed to be hungover. When we pull up outside his townhouse in North London, I can’t help but be impressed. The street is beautiful — quiet, well-kept, the kind of place untouched by London grime.
“James? Are you okay?” I ask when he freezes halfway out of the car.
“Yes, dear,” he says sheepishly. “Legs are still a bit weak. Would you be a dear and fetch my wheelchair from inside?”
“Of course.”
He hands me his keys and points me in the right direction. The lock clicks open easily, and I step into a wave of scents — spices, lavender, and something warm and familiar. Sandalwood. Henry.
The house is beautiful. Elegant but lived-in, with black and white marble floors and soft amber walls. My heels click along the hallway as I find the chair by the living room door, just where James said it would be.
“James, your home is gorgeous,” I say as I wheel him inside. “Have you lived here long?”
“Nearly forty years,” he says proudly. “Mary and I bought it before the boys were born. She took one look around and said, ‘This is it.’”
He smiles at the walls as if they still hold her. My chest tightens.
Henry never talks about his mum, and I’ve never asked. I’ve seen her photo behind his desk — a beautiful woman with the same emerald eyes — but I didn’t know the story. Until now. The look on longing tells me everything I need to know.
