the money out of my wallet?”
“No,” I gasp, “I wouldn’t dream of going in your wallet. I’ve got my own money; I had some change in my purse.”
“Change?” His eyes crease as he starts to chuckle.
“Yeah, I had two pounds.”
“Darcy!” I hear him swallow. “This is a five-star hotel and we’re in the presidential suite; two pounds doesn’t cut it. You probably insulted the man. I keep a wad of fifties in my wallet for tipping.”
I guess he sees my blushes, and tells me he will sort it when we check out. I bite the inside of my cheeks. After last night I expect him to say something about us, something to make me feel special, but he’s unusually quiet. After a moment or two of silence he looks up and I catch his eye; I smile, though his face remains straight. It seems he looks past me and out through the window. It feels to me like he’s regretting us.
I scrape the chair legs along the tiled floor and stand.
“Thanks for the trip,” I say, throwing the scrunched serviette on the table. “But this just isn’t working.”
He lunges forward, spilling tea on his shirt as he grabs for my hand.
“Why?”
“Well, look at you last night, and look at you now. It’s like…” I pause. “It’s like you got what you wanted and now you don’t want to know me.”
“No, Darc, it’s not you.”
“Well then, what? Do you regret us, last night?”
“No, Darc,” he repeats. “Last night was amazing, you are amazing.”
I feel a fluttering return to my stomach as his eyes light up. Still holding my hand in his, he pulls me back down into my seat.
“It’s my mother. The thought of seeing her is driving me mad. I haven’t seen her in years, and she probably won’t even recognise me. I’ll be okay later, believe me, I just want to get this morning out of the way. Say what needs to be said, let you meet her and say my goodbyes.”
He moves his chair round the table so we are no longer opposite, and he sits next to me. As I butter my toast, he places the palm of his hand over mine. It feels like there’s no need for words, his touch says so much, and I relax.
T he reception area is quiet; the phone rings, but the swivel chairs at the desk are empty. It takes my breath away as we walk along the corridors of St Mary’s Hospice. I shudder; it feels like death accompanies us and walks mockingly at our side. I glance at the numbered doors on each side. The only sound apart from our own breathing is the clattering of tea trollies and the shuffling of feet. Snow’s steps slow and we stop outside room seventy-two. His hand feels clammy as I take it in mine. There’s a vacant expression on his face as he stands with his other hand on the doorknob, and it must be a minute or more before he turns it and walks in onto the blue carpet. I step in behind him. We are met by darkness, the windows masked by dark curtains. Snow walks over and inches them open, allowing in a little light. A middle-aged woman is sat propped up by pillows in a high-backed chair. She lifts her head from out of her hands and frowns at us. I see no smile on her lips, no outward emotion.
“This is Darcy. Darcy, say hello.”
Holding out my hand for her to take, I step towards her, but her eyes don’t meet mine and are still focused on Snow. I rest my hand on her shoulder; she flinches and folds her arms around her waist. I catch her lined face and pale skin, but not her eyes, which dart down into her lap. My gaze follows and comes to rest on her hands; I notice her nails are trimmed and beautifully polished. As I glance back up, I notice her strawberry-blonde hair, which sits on her shoulders. I can’t see a strand out of place; it’s almost too perfect. Then I remember the posters I saw on the walls in the foyer advertising mobile hairdressers and beauticians.
Feeling awkward and not knowing what to say, I turn back to Snow. He passes me a half smile.
“How about you go sign us in?”
I nod, as he adds for me
“No,” I gasp, “I wouldn’t dream of going in your wallet. I’ve got my own money; I had some change in my purse.”
“Change?” His eyes crease as he starts to chuckle.
“Yeah, I had two pounds.”
“Darcy!” I hear him swallow. “This is a five-star hotel and we’re in the presidential suite; two pounds doesn’t cut it. You probably insulted the man. I keep a wad of fifties in my wallet for tipping.”
I guess he sees my blushes, and tells me he will sort it when we check out. I bite the inside of my cheeks. After last night I expect him to say something about us, something to make me feel special, but he’s unusually quiet. After a moment or two of silence he looks up and I catch his eye; I smile, though his face remains straight. It seems he looks past me and out through the window. It feels to me like he’s regretting us.
I scrape the chair legs along the tiled floor and stand.
“Thanks for the trip,” I say, throwing the scrunched serviette on the table. “But this just isn’t working.”
He lunges forward, spilling tea on his shirt as he grabs for my hand.
“Why?”
“Well, look at you last night, and look at you now. It’s like…” I pause. “It’s like you got what you wanted and now you don’t want to know me.”
“No, Darc, it’s not you.”
“Well then, what? Do you regret us, last night?”
“No, Darc,” he repeats. “Last night was amazing, you are amazing.”
I feel a fluttering return to my stomach as his eyes light up. Still holding my hand in his, he pulls me back down into my seat.
“It’s my mother. The thought of seeing her is driving me mad. I haven’t seen her in years, and she probably won’t even recognise me. I’ll be okay later, believe me, I just want to get this morning out of the way. Say what needs to be said, let you meet her and say my goodbyes.”
He moves his chair round the table so we are no longer opposite, and he sits next to me. As I butter my toast, he places the palm of his hand over mine. It feels like there’s no need for words, his touch says so much, and I relax.
T he reception area is quiet; the phone rings, but the swivel chairs at the desk are empty. It takes my breath away as we walk along the corridors of St Mary’s Hospice. I shudder; it feels like death accompanies us and walks mockingly at our side. I glance at the numbered doors on each side. The only sound apart from our own breathing is the clattering of tea trollies and the shuffling of feet. Snow’s steps slow and we stop outside room seventy-two. His hand feels clammy as I take it in mine. There’s a vacant expression on his face as he stands with his other hand on the doorknob, and it must be a minute or more before he turns it and walks in onto the blue carpet. I step in behind him. We are met by darkness, the windows masked by dark curtains. Snow walks over and inches them open, allowing in a little light. A middle-aged woman is sat propped up by pillows in a high-backed chair. She lifts her head from out of her hands and frowns at us. I see no smile on her lips, no outward emotion.
“This is Darcy. Darcy, say hello.”
Holding out my hand for her to take, I step towards her, but her eyes don’t meet mine and are still focused on Snow. I rest my hand on her shoulder; she flinches and folds her arms around her waist. I catch her lined face and pale skin, but not her eyes, which dart down into her lap. My gaze follows and comes to rest on her hands; I notice her nails are trimmed and beautifully polished. As I glance back up, I notice her strawberry-blonde hair, which sits on her shoulders. I can’t see a strand out of place; it’s almost too perfect. Then I remember the posters I saw on the walls in the foyer advertising mobile hairdressers and beauticians.
Feeling awkward and not knowing what to say, I turn back to Snow. He passes me a half smile.
“How about you go sign us in?”
I nod, as he adds for me
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