Chapter Five .

After The Aftermath

The very next day, Jack's wife Isabelle came to take Marianne back to Oakwood Avenue where Monty, hysterical with happiness, tried to lick every inch of her as she eased herself onto the sofa. Isabelle was reading a checklist of ready meals and, once satisfied with this, busily arranged Marianne's medication in the bathroom, presenting her with a pile of books and magazines, topped off with a cl.u.s.ter of remote controls and a telephone.

"Supper's in the oven. I'll ring later and call by in the morning."

"How's Jack coping?"

"He's not! Grumpy as h.e.l.l, without you and Paul to moan about."

It hurt to smile.

"He'll be alright, we'll all be alright," Isabelle said. It was statement of fact; she marched off.

Marianne was so pleased to be home that Monty was suffocating in her hug. As he struggled for freedom, she glimpsed the designer collar Paul had extravagantly bought him for Christmas and she missed her crusading colleague very much indeed. She could not bear to think of him going back to his student-type flat in the centre of town. She made up her mind, life is too short, it could have been even shorter, Paul was to stay with her and Monty in Oakwood Avenue while he recovered, just until he was well and back on his feet. She would buy supplies, make all his favourite things and he would feel immediately at home and start to recover properly. Marianne smiled to herself, she was not sure what his favourite things were, she was not even much of a cook, but she would take care of him, make him better and strong again. It was the very least she could do for someone who, having been through all they had together, was now a very special friend.

There were not enough special people in her life, the trauma she had been through made her realise. She had no family. No close friends, only colleagues she was friendly with, she was single and yet widowed. She took Ryan's note from her bag and re-read it, taking comfort from his words.

"Time to get this show back on the road, Monty," she told the little dog who had cheekily nestled in beside her on the sofa. He had never been allowed on the furniture before.

Paul made no attempt at even a vague protest when she told him of her plan to have him convalesce at number seventy four.

"Just while you get your strength back," she explained on the phone.

"Great, thanks, sorted," came his immediate response.

She and Isabelle emptied the contents of his wardrobe into black bin bags and with his precious vinyl collection and vintage record player perched on her knees, Marianne hummed tunelessly as Isabelle drove her and Paul's possessions across the city to the edge of suburbia and Oakland Avenue.

"It will be at least three months before he'll be able to drive," Isabelle commented as they navigated the High Street.

"That'll be nothing short of a miracle then, Paul's never been able to drive." It still hurt to laugh.

After off-loading at the house, Marianne and Isabelle began the journey south to collect their patient.

Marianne pushed her nose against the window the ward was full, beds crammed together, men sitting up in chairs, some playing cards, others talking and laughing together in small groups. She scanned the room a second time. She could not see him. Her heart lurched.

"Looking for me?" A m.u.f.fled voice ventured, behind her.

She turned to find Paul Osborne swaying slightly, in a swathe of bandage.

"I've had better looks, I know," he offered.

"You look b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous to me."

They hugged precariously. Isabelle was already emptying his bedside locker into the ubiquitous bin liner.

"Come on, let's get you home, I hate driving in London at the best of times," she busied, hooshing them both out to the car.

Paul's list of injuries was pretty impressive and he did seem to take some perverse pleasure from recounting them at length. He explained to Isabelle, he had been badly burned along one side of his body, his left arm had been broken at the elbow and wrist, and pinned in both places, the smoke damage to his lungs was lingering and painful. A piece of flying metal had lodged itself just above his right eye. The eye had been saved and although the gouge to his forehead was severe, he had been told it would heal to a scar in the fullness of time. It was the shape of a question mark, he pointed out. Marianne thought this highly appropriate, considering his quizzical nature.

By now the terrorist attack had started to wane in news terms. Arrests had been made, debris cleared. With the PR machines taking up the slack, many of the celebrities involved were busy 'telling their story'. Marianne kept an eye out for any mention of Ryan O'Gorman, whose calm and, indeed, heroic performance on that fateful night would have done much to enhance his reputation. So far the American TV star had not even been mentioned in despatches, and far bigger names than his were filling miles of column inches with their near death experiences.

Angelique had been discharged the same time as Marianne and while Marianne had sought daily reports from the medical team on Angelique's condition, no message was ever returned. Angelique's career rated higher in media terms than Ryan's, but again Marianne found no mention of how the actress was faring in any of the glossy, gossip-column press. Zara and Mike too, had just faded into the background.

None of them had felt inclined to divulge the facts surrounding their very fortunate escape. It was like an unspoken covenant. It was understandable. The whole of London was licking its wounds, the world moribund with tension, too shocked to mourn, too bemused to move on. It seemed each of them needed all their strength to concentrate on healing.

Now that she was well on the road to recovery, Marianne was beginning to feel she needed someone a bit closer, someone she had shared the terrible experience with, someone she cared for. She had enough of dealing with everything, all of this, on her own, alone.

The new routine at number seventy four was welcomed. It gave the day a framework. Recovery from a major trauma is a slow process, moving on, standing still, stepping back. At times Marianne felt she was looking into a black, bottomless pit, staring into emptiness, being there just in case, waiting but not waiting, life on hold. Without ever mentioning it, Paul seemed to know this and they both knew that just being where they were, together, was probably the best place they could be, for now, anyway.

Paul's recovery programme was going well, it was the end of October and he was beginning to look and feel more like his old self. He had physiotherapy, which helped with mobility, and he had started painting again, which helped with the night terrors. Happily for the residents of number seventy four, Paul was addicted to daytime TV chefs and quickly became a competent cook they had all grown tired of Marianne's one-pot repertoire.

So a routine was set, Paul filled his days with art, food and his fitness regime and in the evenings after work Marianne cleared up, having enjoyed whatever delight Paul had prepared that day. Monty was entirely content with the arrangement, alternating between artist's model and invalid companion, especially supportive when 'air had to be taken' in the form of a wobbly stagger to the park; and also pleased with the job of 'dish of the day' taster. Life was good, being alive, even better.

Marianne realised things were genuinely on the mend when she heard a sound she barely recognised one evening, Paul's laughter. They had always had a similar sense of humour but real, chortling, tummy-hugging laughs had been absent for some time. Besides, laughing hurt Paul's chest and Marianne's heart.

Initially there had been a quaint formality when Paul moved in to Oakwood Avenue, but the fact that washing and dressing was a real struggle, meant they soon had to dispense with feigned sensibilities, particularly on the evening Paul got stuck in the bath. Marianne averted her eyes while she tried to free him, but it was pointless. As was his attempt at balancing a soggy face flannel across his private parts. As hard as she tried to haul him upwards, he just slid gingerly back towards the taps. After the third attempt, Paul had no choice but to drop the flannel and, grabbing her shoulders, tried to save himself; she slipped on a towel, completely losing her balance, and landed on top of him. She shrieked; there was water everywhere, she sploshed about, panicking.

"Ouch, you're hurting me, I can't move," he burbled, dunking in and out of the bubbles. Marianne started to giggle. Paul came up for breath laughing and pulling her hair, pushed her face under the water. She surfaced, splashing him with all her might. Before long they were howling, tears of laughter running into the rapidly cooling bath water.

"Just don't get stuck on the loo," she warned, and from then on all formality dispersed and they started to have fun again. She just laughed, when a cake she had created for his birthday, was baked so solid he suggested they use it as a doorstop, and he was not remotely miffed when she asked about the fox he was painting, knowing full well it was an attempt at a portrait of Monty. The cosy banter of their past life was beginning to return.

Though there were some things Marianne needed to keep private and would not discuss with Paul, such as her occasional habit of clunking around George's study in the small hours, slightly squiffy, berating him for his insensitive, unsupportive and ill-timed demise. If Paul ever heard her, he had the decency not to mention it. So in many ways they were all very happy together, in every way they were each very glad of the other.

It was Sunday afternoon. Paul had cooked a traditional roast; melt in the mouth South Devon beef; roast potatoes crispy with sea salt and his 'signature' vegetable dish of crunchy leak and broccoli cheese bake. Monty had been walked, the second bottle of red opened, the fire lit and newspapers spread, heaven. Marianne became aware of someone not quite concentrating on the crossword.

"Okay?" She peered over her gla.s.ses.

"Yep." He did not look away.

"Sure, you hurting?"

"No, I'm fine...well, I am a bit."

"Painkiller? Need a rub of Ibuprofen?"

He held her gaze, leaving the armchair, hotching stiffly across the s.p.a.ce between them to kneel by her legs, stretched languidly from sofa to coffee table, glamorously clad in dog-haired jogging bottoms. She put her magazine down.

"What?" Monty had joined Paul at her feet.

"I need a kiss."

"Oh, is that all?" She leaned down, ruffled his hair with her free hand and planted her lips on his frowning forehead.

"No, a real kiss." He took hold of her arms, turning her so she fell back onto the sofa, he raised himself off the floor and perched above her, looking down, smiling but serious. She felt a flutter in her chest, desire, fear or both? She could not be sure, it was sudden, fleeting. She scanned his eyes, questioning. He brought his face next to hers. Briefly rubbing noses, breathing her in and then he licked her lips, a swift darting tongue, tasting of salt and wine.

"Whoa Tiger," she said, forcing a laugh.

"G.o.d Marianne, you must know how much I want you? How I feel about you?" he whispered, and then he kissed her, a hard needy kiss, a kiss that wanted an answer, a kiss demanding response.

"I'm not sure this is right Paul," she said, but it felt so good, a gorgeous, proper, grown up kiss. She could not deny she wanted him to kiss her again. He was so young and lovely and warm and alive. She ignored the rebuke bubbling at the base of her throat. Throwing caution to the wind, she moved to lie deeper beneath him and wrapping her arms around his head, pulled him to her, kissing him back, moistening his dry mouth with her tongue, biting the edge of his lips gently with hers. He pulled back, looking straight into her eyes, his pa.s.sion so fierce, she could feel it. He pushed his hand under her top, finding the curve of her soft breast beneath the mult.i.tude of layers she always wore; he began to caress her softly and then, leaving her lips, ran his tongue up and down her throat. She groaned with pleasure.

And then, "Paul, I..." She held him off, "I can't, I'm not ready, not sure." But her body belied her words. There it was again, that feeling, that rush of heat, lighting her up from inside. The tingling between her legs made her moan and she stretched beneath him. He moved to lie beside her and she could feel his hardness pressing through his jeans against her thigh. Her stomach lurched in pleasure. She pushed against him, sliding beneath him, pulling him to her. He groaned as he twisted, a pile of newspaper fell from the sofa onto Monty, who had been dozing gently beneath their fondlings. He grunted. Paul moaned again, then he screamed. Her eyes flew open.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm stuck, I can't move."

"s.h.i.t, nor can I."

"Sorry."

"Hang on, I'll see if..." She wanted to giggle and weep at the same time. She squirmed beneath him. He was locked in position, his face white, a line of perspiration formed along his lips which were turning blue. Fuelled with horror, she gave an almighty heave and lifted him off her to free herself and slide to the floor. Paul slumped, face down on the sofa. Marianne retrieved her top, pulling it on. In a flash she was easing him onto his back. He squealed and slowly she began to straighten him out, his legs were numb. She pushed a cushion under his head.

"Ouch!"

"Don't be a baby. I'll go and fetch your pills."

On her knees beside him, she fed him painkillers with wine, then brought a warm flannel, drenched in lavender water, and wiped his face. His colour was returning. She undid his belt and the b.u.t.ton of his jeans. Genitals returned to status quo, she rubbed his legs gently, he wiggled his naked toes.

"That's better," he said quietly, after about ten minutes.

"I don't know; you scared me half to death." She could not decide which bit of the past half hour had been the scariest.

He reached for her hand and closed his eyes.

"I want you so much..." His voice trailed off.

"I know," she whispered, her throat dry.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said, and headed off to clear away the lunchtime debris.

It was an unusually silent vigil in George's study during the early hours of what would become a grey Monday morning. Marianne sat in his chair, at his desk, running her fingers over the heavy gla.s.s dome he used as a paperweight. She traced the engraving of his initials with her nail.

"You know, I nearly did something very foolish today," she told the inanimate object. "I nearly ruined a friendship, carelessly exchanging something special for something trite. A quick fumble on the sofa, because he was here and it was offered. s.e.x with someone I don't love, not in that way, s.e.x because I miss George and I'm lonely. So I've decided, that's it, s.e.x is off the agenda. Because if you aren't in love with someone, what's the point and let's face it what's the likelihood of me ever falling in love again? It just ain't gonna happen."

The paperweight remained silent on the subject. She straightened her shoulders and looked herself in the eye in the gla.s.s, before opening a drawer and dropping the paperweight inside.

They were sitting in the garden of their favourite wine bar. It was one of those fabulous late autumn days, the trees had all but shed their leaves and were standing stark against a streaky sky. A bronze sun hung low, skimming the rooftops and the breeze smelled gently of decay, mingling with wood smoke from chimneys boasting the first of the season's open fires. They had eaten c.u.mberland sausage and mustard mash with onion gravy. The week, like the remaining slice of soda bread, had lain awkwardly between them. He sniffed and cleared his throat. She gazed into her cider, amber like the day.

"Last Sunday..." He coughed. She continued to stare at her drink. "I thought I had better explain."

She touched his hand, rubbing his thumb with her forefinger.

"No need," she said.

"Oh, but I think there is." His voice was strained, he p.r.o.nounced each word carefully.

"Paul..."

"No really. I don't wish to appear rude or pushy or anything."

"Why are you speaking like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like weird."

"I'm not." He blushed slightly. "It's just that I think we should make a go of it. I think we should be a couple....that's what I think."

She flipped a beer mat.

"You must know how I feel about you," he continued.

"Paul stop, right now."

"Why not? Am I so repulsive?"

"Silly." She went to ruffle his hair.

"Don't."

"Paul, you're my friend. Probably my best friend."

He took a swig of his drink, putting the gla.s.s down heavily.

"But that's a great basis for a relationship. I know all about you, all about George, your childhood, your parents, your love of Ireland and the island where you spent every summer. I know all about everything."

Marianne sighed. "No you don't Paul."

"What don't I know?"

"Lots. Anyway, I am not ready for another relationship, maybe never."

"I can wait."