AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You’d be terrified.”
He kissed her then, passionately, thrusting his tongue into her mouth like a teenager in the back row of a movie theater. Alexia was so shocked she responded in kind. It was exciting, like kissing a stranger, but after a few moments she was aware of being watched. Pulling away, she saw Roxie, her wheelchair parked in the master bedroom doorway. She looked stunning in a cream silk dress. At least she would have done if it weren’t for the look of revolted horror on her face.
Alexia lost her temper. “What is the matter, Roxanne? Haven’t you seen a husband and wife kiss before?”
“Steady on, darling,” murmured Teddy, but Alexia was on a roll.
“No, I’m sorry, Teddy, but I won’t ‘steady on.’ How dare she look at us like that! I’m tired of creeping around my own house, my own husband, like I’m walking on eggshells. Your father and I love each other, Roxanne. We are happy together, blissfully happy, and if you don’t like it . . . well, I’m afraid that’s simply too bad.”
Roxie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. For what felt like an eternity, she sat frozen in the doorway. When she did finally speak, her voice came out as a croak.
“It’s Michael.”
Cold fear flooded Alexia’s heart. “Michael? What about Michael? Has something happened?”
“That’s what I came to tell you.” Tears streamed down Roxie’s face. “There’s been a terrible accident.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Summer Meyer leaped out of the taxi and ran through the electric double doors into the John Radcliffe Hospital. Situated out in Headington, a few miles North of Oxford city center, the Radcliffe was home to one of the busiest accident and emergency departments in the country. It was still only late afternoon, but the sun was out, it was a Saturday, and the pubs were open. This being Oxford, Summer found herself fighting her way to the reception desk through a sea of drunken students, noisily bemoaning their mostly self-inflicted injuries.
“Michael De Vere,” she said breathlessly. “Motorcycle accident. He came in a few hours ago.”
Please, please hold on, Michael. Please don’t die.
A litany of hideous coincidences had prevented Summer from arriving earlier. Roxanne was listed in Michael’s wallet as his next of kin. When Roxie heard the news she’d called Summer immediately. Unfortunately Summer’s U.S. cell phone battery died, and she’d left Michael’s flat to go makeup shopping just minutes before Roxie called and left her voice mail. Summer finally heard Roxie’s message almost two hours later. She would not forget it as long as she lived. Coming back to the flat and hitting play, expecting to hear Michael’s voice, she had found herself listening instead to Roxie. Choking with sobs, Roxie told her that Michael had been “crushed” by a truck in a horrific accident, and was on his way to hospital. But it was the last five words of Roxie’s message that had branded themselves eternally on Summer’s memory:
“He might not make it.”
Summer ran out into the street, still barefoot and with her long hair dripping from the shower, but it took her fifteen minutes to find a free cab, and a further five to convince the driver to take her in her half-dressed, hysterical state. Once they did get going, the traffic on the beltway was terrible.
The receptionist in the emergency room typed Michael’s name into her computer.
“De Vere. Yes, here we are.”
“How is he? Is he in surgery?”
The receptionist looked up from her screen. “And you are?”
“Summer. Summer Meyer.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m his girlfriend.”
“Sorry. Family only.”
“But I just told you. I’m his girlfriend.”
“Y’gan be my girrrlfren, ’fyou want . . . gorgeous fucking arse.” A revolting, paralytically drunk man in a suit careered into Summer from behind, groping her as he tried to steady himself.
Turning around, Summer pushed him off hard, sending him flying back into a nearby group of patients. “Fuck off!
“Look,” she implored the receptionist, “Michael’s sister called and asked me to come. She’s his next of kin. Please. I am family. I have to see him.”
“Wait here a moment.”
Getting up, the woman conferred with a colleague in whispered tones. Summer saw the pained, serious looks on their faces and drew the obvious conclusion. I’m too late. He’s dead. She wanted to ask the question out
