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Prologue
The End of Things That Could Have Been
I streaminto Freddy’s room fighter jet style, so desperate to share my news with him that I don’t take much notice of everyone around me. I definitely don’t read the sign on the door, the one which would have told me Basil Montague, aged 95, now occupies the room. If I’d read it, I wouldn’t have given Basil a near heart attack as I ran in and launched onto his bed, dangerously close to what I would discover was a broken hip.
“What…” I stare accusingly at the old man stealing Freddy’s mattress space, my heart booming in my chest at nearly planting a smacker of a kiss on grey stubble and what might be a spot of yesterday’s gravy. “… are you doing in my boyfriend’s bed?”
“Excuse me?” He coughs a phlegmy rattle and I wince in sympathy.
“Amber, what are you doing?”
I spin on spaghetti legs at the familiar voice. Freddy stands in the doorway, a cheeky look on his face as he leans on his sticks. His hair is on end, and a dark navy t-shirt makes him look delicious.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, my heart now a chuffing steam train through a long tunnel. Another coughing fit rattles from the bed stealer but I’m too focused on Freddy to spend another ounce of energy on the man who is not my boyfriend. Not that I’m insensitive to broken hips, or the elderly in need, normally I’d be all for full blown sympathy, but Freddy, my Freddy, is upright… upright with walking sticks as his only aid.
“Do you not check your messages?” Freddy’s eyes dance, and inside I jig along with them. My Freddy’s back.
I normally check my messages with fanatical regularity. Today I’ve been stalking the postman waiting for him to stride up our garden driveway. Royal Mail do not run on a schedule that appears to make any sense.
“I’ve been moved to the ‘Good Boy Ward’ for good behaviour,” he carries on. That smile that’s somehow etched itself onto my heart curves at the corners.
My mouth pings open, heart runaway fast. “They’ve paroled you from here?” Technically this isn’t prison, but it’s felt a lot like it the last few months. I shoot a sheepish glance at Mr Montague who is just starting his time on the ward where they fix broken bodies. Freddy has been here so long I’ve forgotten what it’s official doctory name is. We just call it ‘prison’ and it suits it well.
“Yep!” He holds his arms out wide and I run into them, checking my speed at the last moment so he doesn’t have to take the full force of my weight. He’s doing better, he’s not He-Man.
“Really?” I need verbal confirmation. Need to know the black of the nightmare is fading to a pale dawn. “Are you on the convalescence ward now?” It’s taken ages for him to get there. Although I’m harpooned by guilt even thinking that; his recovery has been extraordinary which has made the wait even longer. The doctors have been hesitating, expecting some form of relapse, but no backwards step has arrived. It’s just been forwards all the way.
‘Anyway, Amber French, why are you here, and not getting ready for your prom?”
“Prom, shrom,” I grouch.
“You promised,” he warns, starting to move his sticks so he can walk down the corridor to his new quarters.
“And I told you, I don’t want to go to an arsey bloody prom.”
“An arsey bloody prom?” He chuckles, and his sticks therapeutically click clack a golden harmony of recovery to my ears. “I hope they improve your vocabulary at Loughborough.”
That’s the plan:I’m going to Loughborough University, Freddy is getting better and then back to work, and I will be home at every available moment.
Yeah, right.It’s not my plan at all. I’ve just been nodding my head to it. In my back pocket I have my acceptance letter to Suffolk University. I’m not going anywhere.
Nowhere.
I’m staying here, right by his side, and there is nothing he can do about it. Apart from maybe kill me and bury me under the patio—and right now his shattered leg isn’t healed enough for that.
I’m surprised when Freddy leads us into a recreational area and not to his new ward. “What are we doing here?” I ask.
“Just fancied a change. I figured we could hang here a while.”
I survey the room. There are a couple of long-term patients playing chess in the corner, sighing impatiently over black and white checks and tatty kings and queens. I recognise them and give them a wave when they look up at the newcomers.
I’ve been coming here for six months. Freddy and I have spent six months of our relationship within the walls of this hospital. Six months after a start that abruptly ended.
“But in here I can’t do anything naughty to you,” I tease with a flutter of my eyelashes.
“You are truly wicked, Amber French.” He pats the seat by his. “Come on, show me what you came bursting in here to tell me.”
“Were you watching me?” I lean in and press my lips against warm skin.
