‘You’ll feel better if you scream and shout at me. If you were a guy, I’d tell you to punch me.’
‘But because I’m a girl, I’d probably hurt my dainty hand on your cheekbone?’
He smiles. ‘Rookie mistake. Always aim for the chin or jaw.’
‘Thanks for the tip, Rocky. But you’re the one person who had a worse night than I did. I’m not going to punch you – I’m not a monster.’
‘No, you’re a human being who has a tendency to bottle up her feelings.’
I shake my head. ‘Enough with the analysis.’
‘I was a wreck after my first cardiac tamponade,’ he says. ‘It’s when blood pools around the heart after surgery and if you suspect it, you don’t hang around. It was a Saturday night. My consultant was off – at home with his feet up, watchingMorse– and I was the most senior doctor in the hospital. I had to organise an emergency team and get the patient back into theatre. I’d assisted on dozens, but it hits different when everything rests on you – on your skill, your judgement, your cool head. All I could think was, if he dies, it’s on me. We reopened his chest, drained the blood and fixed the bleed – it went like clockwork – but when I got out of the hospital, I went on a six-hour bender and ended up going home with the barmaid.’
‘I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.’
‘I trained for years before they let me loose on a patient. And, more importantly, Ichoseto be a surgeon, but last night you didn’t get that choice. You didn’t get time to prepare or to even think. How can it not have affected you?’
‘So, the moral of the story is: drink and fuck away your trauma?’
‘The moral of the story is to let it out, Nella. Express your pain because if you don’t, it will eat you up from the inside.’
I nod mutely. My pulse has kicked up, and I’m too restless to stay sitting. I stand, and a moment later, Mark takes a tentative step towards me.
‘Talk to me, Nella.’
A heaviness settles on my chest, and my throat tightens.
‘You could have died,’ I whisper. I try to speak up, but I can’t get enough air into my lungs and suddenly I’m back in the pool, the water weighing me down as I fight to draw breath.
‘You could have died.’ This time, my voice is louder. ‘And I can’t be responsible for both of you dying.’
He stares at me for long moments. ‘Bothof us? Nella, you weren’t responsible for what happened to Leo.’
‘That’s not how you felt at the time.’
‘Please, forget what I said at the funeral. I was angry and grieving and lashing out. I’d just lost my brother, and I wasn’t in my right mind. Surely you knew that?’
‘The problem was, Mark, I agreed with you. Iwasto blame.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ he says fiercely. He drags a hand through his hair. ‘Jesus Christ, why didn’t I see this before? I tried to rationalise it over the years, telling myself that you’d understand, and that I didn’t need to explain myself, but I realise now that sometimes you just have to hear the fucking words. You need it spelled out. I’m never going to get an acknowledgement or apology from Giovanni, but you will get both from me. I’m sorry, Nella, I was wrong to say what I did, and I would give anything to take those words back.’
‘But I could have saved him,’ I say, my voice small. ‘I went to the hospital to tell him I wanted to get back together. But I was too late … it was too late.’
His face is twisted in pain. ‘No, Nella. He had a heart condition. You’re not to blame.’
‘I couldn’t save him. But I had to save you, or I … I … wouldn’t be able to live with myself.’
Fresh anger bubbles to the surface, propelling me forward till we’re toe-to-toe.
‘You could have died.’ I jab his breastbone with each syllable. ‘You could have died, you bastard. You could have fucking died!’
He grabs my hand and lays it flat against his chest. ‘Feel that?’
His heart is pounding underneath my palm.
I nod.
He rests his forehead against mine. ‘I’m alive, Nella. We’re both alive.’
