The last will and Testament of

Ten

MICHAEL’S ROOM IS on the fourth floor of the George Washington University Hospital. We walk along the corridors in silence, both staring straight ahead. We arrived in Washington last night. Our hotel bed was very big and comfortable, but even so, neither of us slept very well. In fact, I’m not sure Luke slept at all. He hasn’t said much, but I know he’s feeling eaten up with guilt.

“He could have died,” he said last night, as we were both lying awake in the darkness.

“But he didn’t,” I replied, and reached for his hand.

“But he could have.”

And when you think about it, it’s true. He could have. Every time I think about it I feel a horrible lurch in my tummy. I’ve never before known anyone close to me to be ill. I mean, there was my great-aunt Muriel, who had something wrong with her kidneys — but I only met her about twice. And all my grandparents are still alive except Grandpa Bloomwood, who died when I was two, so I never even knew him.

In fact, I’ve hardly ever been into a hospital before, unless you count ER and Terms of Endearment. As we walk along, past scary signs like “Oncology” and “Renal Unit,” I realize yet again how sheltered my life has been.

We arrive at room 465 and Luke stops.

“This is it,” he says. “Ready?” He knocks gently and, after a moment, pushes the door open.

Michael is lying asleep in a big clanky metal bed, with about six huge flower arrangements on the table next to him and more around the room. There’s a drip attached to his hand and another tube going from his chest to some machine with little lights. His face is pale and drawn and he looks… vulnerable.

I don’t like this. I’ve never seen Michael in anything other than an expensive suit, holding an expensive drink. Big and reassuring and indestructible. Not lying in a bed in a hospital gown.

I glance at Luke and he’s staring at Michael, pale-faced. He looks like he wants to cry.

Oh God. Now I want to cry.

Then Michael opens his eyes, and I feel a swoosh of relief. His eyes, at least, are exactly the same. The same warmth. The same flash of humor.

“Now, you didn’t have to come all this way,” he says. His voice sounds dry and even more gravelly than usual.

“Michael,” says Luke, taking an eager step forward. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. Better than I was feeling.” Michael’s eyes run quizzically over Luke. “How are you feeling? You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” says Luke. “I feel absolutely…” He breaks off and swallows.

“Really?” says Michael. “Maybe you should have some tests run. It’s a very reassuring process. I now know that I have angina. On the other hand, my lymph is fine and I’m not allergic to peanuts.” His eyes rest on the fruit basket in Luke’s hand. “Is that for me?”

“Yes!” says Luke, seeming to come to. “Just a little… Shall I put it here?”

He clears a space among the exotic flower arrangements, and as he does so I notice one of the attached cards has a White House heading. Gosh.

“Fruit,” says Michael, nodding. “Very thoughtful. You’ve been talking to my doctor. They’re extremely strict here. Visitors who bring candy are marched to a little room and forced to jog for ten minutes.”

“Michael…” Luke takes a deep breath, and I can see his hands gripping the handle of the fruit basket. “Michael, I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. About our argument.”

“It’s forgotten. Really.”

“It’s not. Not by me.”

“Luke.” Michael gives Luke a kind look. “It’s not a big deal.”

“But I just feel—”

“We had a disagreement, that’s all. Since then I’ve been thinking about what you said. You do have a point. If Brandon Communications is publicly associated with a worthy cause, it can only do the company profile good.”

“I should never have acted without consulting you,” mutters Luke.

“Well. As you said, it’s your company. You have executive control. I respect that.”

“And I respect your advice,” says Luke at once. “I always will.”

“So. Shall we agree to bury the hatchet?” Michael extends his hand, all bruised from where the drip needle goes into it — and after a moment, Luke gently takes it.

Now I’m completely choked.

“I’ll just get some… water…” I mumble, and back out of the room, breathing hard.

I can’t burst into tears in front of Michael. He’ll think I’m completely pathetic.

Or else he’ll think I’m crying because I know something he doesn’t. He’ll think we’ve seen his medical charts and it wasn’t angina at all. It was a brain clot that is inoperable except by a specialist from Chicago who’s turned down Michael’s case because of an old feud between the hospitals…

OK, look, I must stop confusing this with ER.

I walk to a nearby reception area, taking deep breaths to calm myself down, and sit down next to a middle-aged woman. There are people sitting on upholstered seats and a couple of patients in wheelchairs with drips, and I see a frail old woman greeting what must be her grandchildren. As she sees them, her whole face lights up and suddenly she looks ten years younger — and to my horror I find myself sniffing again.

“Are you all right?” I look up and see the middle-aged woman offering me a tissue. She smiles — but her eyes are red-rimmed. “It gets to you, doesn’t it?” she says as I blow my nose. “Is a relation of yours in here?”

“Just a friend. How about you?”

“My husband, Ken,” says the woman. “He’s had bypass surgery. He’s doing fine, though.” She gives a half-smile. “He hates to see me upset.”

“God. I’m… really sorry.”

I feel a shiver go down my back as I try to imagine how I’d be feeling if it were Luke in that hospital bed.

“He should be be OK, if he starts looking after himself. These men. They take it all for granted.” She shakes her head. “But coming in here… it teaches you what’s important, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I say fervently.

We sit quietly for a while, and I think anxiously about Luke. Maybe I’ll get him to start going to the gym a bit more. And eating that low-fat spread stuff that lowers your cholesterol. Just to be on the safe side.

“I should go back,” says the woman, looking at her watch. She smiles at me. “Good to meet you.”

“You too.” I watch as she walks off down the corridor, then stand up and head back to Michael’s room, shaking back my hair and putting on a cheerful expression. No more dissolving into tears.

“Hi!” says Luke as I enter. He’s sitting on a chair by Michael’s bed, and the atmosphere is a lot more relaxed, thank goodness.

“I was just telling Luke,” says Michael as I sit down. “My daughter’s on at me to retire. Or at least downscale. Move to New York.”

“Really? Ooh, yes, do! We’d love that.”

“It’s a good idea,” says Luke. “Bearing in mind you currently do about six full-time jobs.”

“I really like your daughter,” I say enthusiastically. “We had such fun when she came into Barneys. How’s her new job going?”

Michael’s daughter is an attorney who specializes in patent law, and just exudes extreme cleverness. On the other hand, she hadn’t spotted that she was choosing colors that did nothing for her skin tone until I pointed it out to her.

“Very well indeed, thanks. She just moved to Finerman Wallstein,” Michael adds to Luke. “Very swanky offices.”

“I know them,” says Luke. “I use them for personal matters. In fact, last time I went in there was a few weeks ago. Just about my will. Next time, I’ll call in on her.”

“Do that,” says Michael. “She’d like it.”

“Have you made a will, Luke?” I say with interest.

“Of course I’ve made a will.” Luke stares at me. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” I say — then look from Luke to Michael. “What? What is it?”

“Everyone should make a will,” says Michael gravely.

“It never even occurred to me you might not have made one,” says Luke, shaking his head.

“It never even occurred to me to make one!” I say defensively. “I mean, I’m only twenty-seven.”

“I’ll make an appointment with my lawyer,” says Luke. “We need to sort this out.”

“Well. OK. But honestly…” I give a little shrug. Then a thought occurs to me. “So, who have you left everything to?”

“You,” says Luke. “Minus the odd little bequest.”

“Me?” I gape at him. “Really? Me?”

“It is customary for husbands to leave their property to their wives,” he says with a small smile. “Or do you object?”

“No! Of course not! I just… kind of… didn’t expect it.”

I feel a strange glow of pleasure inside me. Luke’s leaving everything to me!

I don’t know why that should be a surprise. I mean, we live together. We’re getting married. It’s obvious. But still, I can’t help feeling a bit proud.

“Do I take it you’re not planning to leave anything to me?” inquires Luke mildly.

“Of course!” I exclaim. “I mean — of course I will!”

“No pressure,” says Luke, grinning at Michael.

“I will!” I say, growing flustered. “I just hadn’t really thought about it!”

To cover my confusion I reach for a pear and start munching it. Come to think of it, why have I never made a will?

I suppose because I’ve never really thought I’ll die. But I could easily, couldn’t I? I mean, our train could crash on the way back to New York. Or an ax murderer could break into our apartment…

And who would get all my stuff?

Luke’s right. This is an emergency.

“Becky? Are you OK?” I look up to see Luke putting on his coat. “We must go.”

“Thanks for coming,” says Michael, and squeezes my hand as I bend to kiss him. “I really appreciate it.”

“And I’ll be in touch about the wedding,” says Luke, and smiles at Michael. “No skiving your best-man duties.”

“Absolutely not!” says Michael. “But that reminds me, I got a little confused at the engagement party, talking to different people. Are you two getting married in New York or England?”

“New York,” says Luke, frowning in slight puzzlement. “That has been finally decided, hasn’t it, Becky? I never even asked how your mother took the news.”

“I… um…” I play for time, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

I can’t admit the truth. I can’t admit that Mum still doesn’t know about the Plaza.

Not here. Not now.

“Yes!” I say, feeling my cheeks flame. “Yes, she was fine. New York it is!”

As we get onto the train, Luke looks pale and drained. I think it upset him more than he’s letting on, seeing Michael looking so helpless. He sits staring out of the darkening window, and I try to think of something that will cheer him up.

“Look!” I say at last. I reach into my bag and take out a book I bought just the other day called The Promise of Your Life. “We need to talk about composing our wedding vows.”

“Composing them?” Luke frowns. “Aren’t they always the same?”

“No! That’s old hat. Everyone writes their own these days. Listen to this. ‘Your wedding vows are the chance for you to show the world what you mean to each other. Together with the proclamation by the officiant that you are now married, they are the linchpin of the entire ceremony. They should be the most beautiful and moving words spoken at your wedding.’ ”

I look up expectantly at Luke, but he’s gazing out of the window again.

“It says in this book, we must think about what sort of couple we are,” I press on. “Are we Young Lovers or Autumn Companions?”

Luke isn’t even listening. Perhaps I should find a few specific examples. My eye falls on a page marked Summertime Wedding, which would be quite appropriate.

“‘As the roses bloom in summertime, so did my love bloom for you. As the white clouds soar above, so does my love soar,’” I read aloud.

I pull a face. Maybe not. I flick through a few more pages, glancing down as I go.

You helped me through the pain of rehab…

Though you are incarcerated for murder, our love will

shine like a beacon…

“Ooh, look,” I say suddenly. “This is for high school sweethearts. ‘Our eyes met in a math class. How were we to know that trigonometry would lead to matrimony?’ ”

“Our eyes met across a crowded press conference,” says Luke. “How were we to know love would blossom as I announced an exciting new range of unit trusts investing in European growth companies with tracking facility, fixed-rate costs, and discounted premiums throughout the first accounting period?”

“Luke—”

Well, OK. Maybe this isn’t the time for vows. I shut the book and look anxiously at Luke. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you worried about Michael?” I reach for his hand. “Because honestly, I’m sure he’s going to be fine. You heard what he said. It was just a wake-up call.”

There’s silence for a while — then Luke turns his head.

“While you were going to the rest room,” he says slowly, “I met the parents of the guy in the room next to Michael’s. He had a heart attack last week. Do you know how old he is?”

“How old?” I say apprehensively.

“Thirty-three.”

“God, really? That’s awful!”

Luke’s only a year older than that.

“He’s a bond trader, apparently. Very successful.” He exhales slowly. “It makes you think, doesn’t it? Think about what you’re doing with your life. And wonder.”

“Er… yes,” I say, feeling as though I’m walking across eggshells. “Yes, it does.”

Luke’s never spoken like this before. Usually if I start conversations about life and what it all means — which, OK, I don’t do very often — he either brushes me off or turns it into a joke. He certainly never confesses to doubting what he’s doing with his life. I really want to encourage him — but I’m worried I might say the wrong thing and put him off.

Now he’s staring silently out of the window again.

“What exactly were you thinking?” I prompt gently.

“I don’t know,” says Luke after a pause. “I suppose it just makes you see things differently for a moment.”

He looks at me — and just for an instant I think I can see deep inside him, to a part of him I rarely have access to. Softer and quieter and full of doubts like everyone else.

Then he blinks — and it’s as though he’s closed the camera shutter. Back into normal mode. Businesslike. Sure of himself.

“Anyway. I’m glad Michael and I were able to make up,” he says, taking a sip from the water bottle he’s carrying.

“Me too.”

“He saw my point of view in the end. The publicity that we’ll get through the foundation will benefit the company enormously. The fact that it’s my mother’s charity is largely irrelevant.”

“Yes,” I say reluctantly. “I suppose so.”

I really don’t want to get into a conversation about Luke’s mother right now, so I open the vows book again.

“Hey, here’s one in rhyme…”

As we arrive back at Penn Station, it’s crowded with people. Luke heads off to a rest room, and I head to a kiosk to buy a candy bar. I walk straight past a stand of newspapers — then stop. Hang on a minute. What was that?

I retrace my steps and stare at the New York Post. Right at the top, flagging an inside feature, is a little picture of Elinor.

I grab the paper and turn quickly to the inside page.

There’s a headline, “How to Fight Charity Fatigue.” Then there’s a picture of Elinor with a frosty smile, standing on the steps of some big building and handing over a check to some man in a suit. My eyes run puzzledly over the caption. Elinor Sherman has battled against apathy to raise money for a cause she believes in.

Wasn’t the photo opportunity supposed to be for Luke?

I scan the piece quickly, searching for any mention of Brandon Communications. For any mention of Luke. But I get to the end of the page — and his name hasn’t appeared once. It’s as though he doesn’t figure at all.

I stare down at the page in disbelief.

After everything he’s done for her. How can she treat him like this?

“What’s that?”

I give a startled jump at Luke’s voice. For an instant I consider hiding the paper under my coat. But then, there’s no point, is there? He’ll see it sooner or later.

“Luke…” I hesitate — then swivel the page so he can see it.

“Is that my mother?” Luke looks astounded. “She never told me anything was set up. Let me have a look.”

“Luke…” I take a deep breath. “It doesn’t mention you anywhere. Or the company.”

I wince as I see him scanning the page; as I watch the sheer disbelief growing on his face. It’s been a hard enough day already, without discovering that his mother has completely screwed him.

“Didn’t she even tell you she was doing the interview?”

Luke doesn’t reply. He takes out his mobile, jabs in a number, and waits for a few moments. Then he makes a noise of frustration.

“I forgot. She’s gone back to Switzerland.”

I’d forgotten that too. She’s gone to “visit her friends” again, in time for the wedding. This time she’s staying for two whole months, which means she’s having the full works. She must have done the interview just before she left.

I try to take Luke’s hand, but he doesn’t respond. God knows what he’s thinking.

“Luke… maybe there’s some explanation—”

“Let’s forget it.”

“But—”

“Just forget it.” There’s an edge to his voice that makes me flinch. “It’s been a long, difficult day. Let’s just get home.”

Дата добавления: 2014-11-26