I smiled for the first time since the phone call. It felt good to remember; the happy memories were as comforting as a blanket.
‘He used to give me his copy ofRe:Soundafter he’d read it and we’d talk about bands for hours. My life would have taken a very different turn if Patrick hadn’t been in it.’
‘Pete says your parents wanted you to be a lawyer.’
‘Immigrants always want their children to train to get proper jobs, and I don’t blame them. It helped that Pete was happy to go into accountancy, it took the pressure off me. So, when I announced I wanted to do an English degree, they reassured themselves that I could always be a teacher. They wanted more for us than the slog of working in a restaurant. But then, if it wasn’t for that restaurant I wouldn’t have met Patrick.’
After she left I didn’t manage to sleep at all. The hours ticked by and it felt like I was just waiting for my alarm to go off.
I dozed a bit on the train, thankful it was the weekend, otherwise I wouldn’t have got a seat, but for the last part of the journey back to London, I gazed listlessly out of the window.
I now found myself back at my flat sitting on a hard-backed kitchen chair, my bones aching from tiredness, mechanically chewing toast and forcing back coffee in an effort to jumpstart myself awake.
I wanted to go to the hospital – surely he’d be allowed visitors by now? But would I be allowed in to see him? I wasn’t family, and I didn’t know any members of Patrick’s as he never talked about them. I only knew Justin.
It was only a few days ago that Patrick and I had been chatting in John Lewis and he’d told me how much he was looking forward to spending more time at his vineyard in Crete. He was going to learn how to make wine, and I’d teased him that he’d spend his days content just to drink it. The idea that he might never make it back to Crete made me feel sick all over again.
I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit here.
I googled the name of the hospital that Justin had given me. It was somewhere off Harley Street. Whether I was allowed in or not was in the lap of the gods. I just knew I had to try.
*
It was spitting when I came out of the station at Oxford Circus. I pulled up my hoodie and cursed myself for not bringing an umbrella. I could have stayed underground, changed onto the Bakerloo Line and got off at Regent’s Park – the tube closest to the hospital – but trains were so unreliable at the weekends, it was faster to walk.
Despite the rain, I found myself walking slowly. Every so often I’d chide myself to get a move on, but it still took me almost twenty minutes to reach the hospital. Then there was some confusion over which wing I needed, and by the time I’d found the right entrance, I’d been walking for a full half hour. My hands were frozen and my trainers were sodden.
The reception was empty, with only a receptionist and security guard sitting behind a curved mahogany desk.
I walked towards them, my sockless feet squelching in my trainers. ‘I’m here to see Patrick Armstrong.’
The receptionist clicked a couple of times on her computer, but before she could speak, the lift doors slid open and Justin walked out. He didn’t need to speak; his ashen face said it all. He caught my eye and shook his head.
I was too late. Patrick was dead.
I felt my body sway, and I swung out my arm to steady myself against the wall. Justin was walking towards me; I blinked furiously, trying to get my eyes to focus.
I realised Justin was talking and that his hand was gently touching my forearm. ‘Zoë,’ he repeated. ‘You’re in shock. I think we all are.’
His words snapped me to attention. ‘I’m so sorry, Justin. Sorry for your loss, and for not being here for Pat sooner.’
‘There was nothing any of us could do.’ His eyes were glassy. He had his own grief to deal with; I was just in the way.
The next few days went by in a blur. I did what I always do when I’m stressed – I threw myself into work and drank too much.
Simon was still away, and we Facetimed as much as possible, but some nights I was out too late to catch him and we’d just send each other a series of texts.
On the fourth day after Patrick died, I got a postcard from Zak Scaramouche.
Dear Member,
I’m just a humble rock and roller, taking life one bottle of Jack Daniel’s at a time, but I’ve learnt a couple of things over the years: life is precious and we need to cherish every moment, and the people around us.
I’m not very good at sharing my feelings – I prefer to let my guitar do the talking – but I want you to know that I’m thinking of you and that my heart breaks imagining that yours is breaking.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep doing the Fandango. Sometimes it takes all our effort just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. But I’m here walking beside you.
Always.
