Page 91 of Duplicity

CHAPTER 43

Marlowe

If there is a more depressing combination than eating a sweaty, plasticky cheese sandwich while doom-scrolling Instagram photos of a supermodel draped all over your gorgeous boss, then I’d love to know.

Actually, I wouldn’t. Things are crappy enough already.

I take that back. I feel guilty even thinking that, because nothing is crappy. Tabs has a new pulmonary valve, and she’s out of the ICU and sitting up in bed, and her cheeks are a lovely pink colour, and all of that is amazing. Miraculous. It’s the dream!

For as long as I can remember, I’ve prayed for this outcome. My entire future happiness has hung in the balance as I’ve desperately fought for a way to get this life-saving operation for my daughter. So it’s safe to say the big things in my life are going really, really well. They’re fantastic, really. I’ve secured a few more years of optimal health for Tabs, and nothing else matters.

I say that last part to myself through gritted teeth, because gratitude in these moments is important, and I shouldn’t be sweating the small stuff. I’m not, really. It’s just that I’ve spent two nights sleeping in an armchair next to Tabby’s bed in the ICU, and exhaustion seems to have robbed me of all perspective.They have a no-parents-overnight policy, which is far from sensible if you ask me. Why am I any more likely to spread infection at night than during the day? I was just lucky that the duty nurses looked the other way as I sat in that chair all night.

Now we’re back on the paediatric cardiology ward, which is great. It’s just that it’s noisy, and I’m so tired. My head is throbbing, and the poor little girl diagonally across from us keeps screaming in pain. There’s a family visiting in here, and their twin toddlers are running around and yelling at the top of their voices. I’ve given Tabs my noise-cancelling headphones so she can nap, and I’m kicking myself for not bringing earplugs, too. I have no idea how she’s supposed to heal in here. Busy paediatric wards are the least restorative places on the planet.

I’m not usually one to throw a pity party, but I’m not normally so sleep-deprived either. I wasn’t doing too badly, actually, until I scrolled through Instagram in a vain attempt to distract myself from this revolting hospital cafeteria sandwich and my feed served up GOSH’s posts of its latest fundraiser.

The very first post on the carousel?

Brendan Sullivan grinning and looking like every woman’s wet dream in black tie with the ridiculously gorgeous Brazilian supermodel Fernanda Luz da Costa on his arm. She’s so leggy and flawless, and he looks so suave and, let’s face it, smug. They’re perfect together. They both look like megastars.

Do you know what? It’s a good thing. It’s a helpful reminder that this guy’s lane is a motorway and mine is some country road full of potholes andI should stay in my lane.I should be grateful for this additional piece of evidence that the universe has served up to nudge me back on course. He and I have had a very specific kind of relationship, and he made it clear exactly what kind of worth I have in his mind on Friday. I shouldn’t require any more data.

I throw my phone onto the bed in disgust and pick up the little pink notebook by Tabby’s bed. It’s her gratitude journal, a habit I’ve tried to instil in her even while I’ve failed to take my own good advice. We write in it together every single night. When she was little, I would do the writing, but now she does it. I open it and leaf through the pages.

Mummy sang to me when I couldn't breave.

I gave Daniel chease and he gave me his paw.

Mummy says were going to Amercia and a special doctor will fix me.

I feel breathless, suffocated by that constant chokehold of love and terror and gratitude and unresolved intrusive thoughts.

Last night’s entry, written in the ICU, was this:

My hart is better and i had strawberry jelly.

It’s the perfect reminder from my greatest and most treasured teacher that we can give thanks for the big stuff and the small stuff alike. But right now I’m so broken that it feels impossible.

I close the notebook and slump forward on my hard plastic chair, creating a cradle with my arms so I can lay my weary head down and attempt to nap alongside my daughter.

BRENDAN

Our nine-hour flight proves an excellent opportunity to interrogate Athena on every aspect of Marlowe and Tabby. Having been Mr Boundaries for so long, the dam has burst and I’m insatiable in my thirst for details.

But there’s one area where she’s unyielding.

‘Talk to me about Tabby’s father,’ I demand, and she shakes her head.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s Marlowe’s story to tell. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask her.’

Fair enough. Her intransigence makes me like her more, actually. It’s been clear to me since I met Athena that she’s ridiculously hot and ridiculously competent, but she strikes me as a bit of a cold fish. It’s made me question at times whether she’s the right person for my brother, who has the most golden heart you could wish for.

But the more I understand about her relationships with Marlowe and Tabby, the more I understand what a fiercely loyal protector she is, and I’m glad. Glad my brother has found happiness with her, and glad Marlowe has her in her corner.

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