caught at the office; he’s not even called to find out if she’s had any news from their agent about
their house.
She leans over, turns off the light and closes her eyes.
But a while later, she’s still lying there. Why on earth isn’t her husband home? She checks the clock. If he’s not back in the next few minutes, it means he’ll have
missed the last train . . . Briefly, Abby wonders if he’s having an affair, and her stomach lurches. But she can’t give headspace to that now – in less than five hours Callum will
be awake. Then it’ll be slam, bam, into the onslaught of the day, getting him dressed and breakfasted and off to school, going to the supermarket . . . And now she has to find a flat, fast,
or they’ll lose their buyers.
I
really
need to sleep, she thinks. I’ve got so much to do, and if I don’t sleep, I won’t be able to function.
She throws back the duvet, gets out of bed, pads to the bathroom and unlocks the cabinet. Right at the back, there’s a packet of temazepam Glenn managed to persuade a locum GP to prescribe
him when Callum was first diagnosed. The stress of that and his work had resulted in a period of insomnia. The packet is nearly full and though the pills are probably past their sell-by date, Abby
is beyond caring. She drops one, then two, then – what the hell? – three tablets into her palm.
* * *
Michael’s not aware of having drifted off, but he wakes with a jolt. His heart is thumping, his head pounding, his throat tight and parched. There’s flickering
light, talking . . . Eventually he works it out: it’s the television. He’s on the sofa.
He frowns, trying to piece together the night before. It’s no good, he doesn’t remember anything after he drank that whisky . . .
Then, with a shiver, he recalls the previous afternoon. The letter . . . His debts . . . The impact on his shop, his family . . . The repercussions hit him with hurricane force, and panic
explodes in his brain.
Gradually, as if moving through syrup, he manages to get himself along the corridor. His legs are so heavy he can barely lift them, but after what feels like an age, he opens the door to the
bedroom and leans, breathless and pouring with sweat, against the frame.
It’s a coronary, he thinks. ‘Chrissie . . . ?’ But it seems his heart is still pumping.
At once his wife is awake. She sits up swiftly and turns on the bedside lamp. ‘Oh love, what’s the matter?’
The light is dazzling; it’s one sensory input too many. Michael collapses and slides to the floor.
* * *
Karen is roused by a ringing. It’s the landline, yet it’s still dark outside. Her nerves jangle – no one would call at this time unless it was an emergency.
Then she remembers the text she sent to Anna – her friend must have picked it up before leaving for work and is now responding. Relieved, she grabs the receiver.
‘Hi!’
‘Karen?’ Before Shirley continues, Karen has an awful sense of what’s coming. ‘It’s your father. I’m at the hospital.’
It’s as if a hundred balls are being thrown at her at once. Karen reels; she can’t catch a single one. How can Dad be taken ill so fast? Which hospital is he in? Which ward?
All this as Shirley says, ‘They’re not sure he’s going to make it . . .’ in a small voice.
This can’t be happening, thinks Karen. Yet somehow she manages to articulate, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ and barely has she put down the phone before she’s
galloping ahead, calculating what she should do about the children. Take them? In the circumstances it doesn’t seem right. There’s only one person she feels able to ask to babysit at
this hour. But . . . Oh Lord.
Karen reaches for her mobile, also on her bedside table. Ah, a text. Just the intro on screen is enough:
It’s OK, love. Please don’t feel bad – I was being insensitive.
It’s all she needs to know. She calls; within half an hour Anna is round. In hushed tones they agree to
their house.
She leans over, turns off the light and closes her eyes.
But a while later, she’s still lying there. Why on earth isn’t her husband home? She checks the clock. If he’s not back in the next few minutes, it means he’ll have
missed the last train . . . Briefly, Abby wonders if he’s having an affair, and her stomach lurches. But she can’t give headspace to that now – in less than five hours Callum will
be awake. Then it’ll be slam, bam, into the onslaught of the day, getting him dressed and breakfasted and off to school, going to the supermarket . . . And now she has to find a flat, fast,
or they’ll lose their buyers.
I
really
need to sleep, she thinks. I’ve got so much to do, and if I don’t sleep, I won’t be able to function.
She throws back the duvet, gets out of bed, pads to the bathroom and unlocks the cabinet. Right at the back, there’s a packet of temazepam Glenn managed to persuade a locum GP to prescribe
him when Callum was first diagnosed. The stress of that and his work had resulted in a period of insomnia. The packet is nearly full and though the pills are probably past their sell-by date, Abby
is beyond caring. She drops one, then two, then – what the hell? – three tablets into her palm.
* * *
Michael’s not aware of having drifted off, but he wakes with a jolt. His heart is thumping, his head pounding, his throat tight and parched. There’s flickering
light, talking . . . Eventually he works it out: it’s the television. He’s on the sofa.
He frowns, trying to piece together the night before. It’s no good, he doesn’t remember anything after he drank that whisky . . .
Then, with a shiver, he recalls the previous afternoon. The letter . . . His debts . . . The impact on his shop, his family . . . The repercussions hit him with hurricane force, and panic
explodes in his brain.
Gradually, as if moving through syrup, he manages to get himself along the corridor. His legs are so heavy he can barely lift them, but after what feels like an age, he opens the door to the
bedroom and leans, breathless and pouring with sweat, against the frame.
It’s a coronary, he thinks. ‘Chrissie . . . ?’ But it seems his heart is still pumping.
At once his wife is awake. She sits up swiftly and turns on the bedside lamp. ‘Oh love, what’s the matter?’
The light is dazzling; it’s one sensory input too many. Michael collapses and slides to the floor.
* * *
Karen is roused by a ringing. It’s the landline, yet it’s still dark outside. Her nerves jangle – no one would call at this time unless it was an emergency.
Then she remembers the text she sent to Anna – her friend must have picked it up before leaving for work and is now responding. Relieved, she grabs the receiver.
‘Hi!’
‘Karen?’ Before Shirley continues, Karen has an awful sense of what’s coming. ‘It’s your father. I’m at the hospital.’
It’s as if a hundred balls are being thrown at her at once. Karen reels; she can’t catch a single one. How can Dad be taken ill so fast? Which hospital is he in? Which ward?
All this as Shirley says, ‘They’re not sure he’s going to make it . . .’ in a small voice.
This can’t be happening, thinks Karen. Yet somehow she manages to articulate, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ and barely has she put down the phone before she’s
galloping ahead, calculating what she should do about the children. Take them? In the circumstances it doesn’t seem right. There’s only one person she feels able to ask to babysit at
this hour. But . . . Oh Lord.
Karen reaches for her mobile, also on her bedside table. Ah, a text. Just the intro on screen is enough:
It’s OK, love. Please don’t feel bad – I was being insensitive.
It’s all she needs to know. She calls; within half an hour Anna is round. In hushed tones they agree to
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