Page 136 of (Not) The One
On some distant level, I become aware of the look exchanged between the two. And then I realise.
‘He told you.’
‘I gather he wasn’t supposed to,’ Beckett replies.
‘Not until Monday.’
‘Is someone going to tell me what’s going on?’ Olivia asks, her gaze swinging between us.
‘I love him and we’re going to have a baby.
‘You are literally the worst driver,’ Oliva snipes. ‘Even I could’ve told you to ignore the last turn off.’
‘This is a hundred thousand pound car, Olivia. Who would’ve thought the navigation system could be improved by the input of your directions.’
‘The navigation system obviously doesn’t watch the news, or else it would’ve know the roads in this area would’ve been busier because of the Brexit demonstrations.’
‘You might’ve said before we left.’
‘Mum, Dad, for goodness sakes. You’re upsetting the kids.’
At my light-hearted intervention, Olivia murmurs and apology, but there’s not necessities for her husband.
‘You should really have a round the clock driver on staff in case anything like this ever happens again.’
‘God forbid,’ I whisper, and the car goes quiet again.
‘What I can’t understand is, if he was on the way to the wedding, why has he been taken to a hospital nearer? St George’s is miles away. There are nearer—p
Beckett presses his hand over his wife’s, his gaze, for the moment, intent on hers.
‘Why?’ I ask. If Olivia isn’t allowed to ask, tell me.
Beckett sighs heavily, flicks the blinker, and begins to turn the car into a corner.
‘Because St George’s is the leading trauma centre in London for brain injuries.’
‘It’s probably just a precaution.’ Despite her words, Olivia’s expression is grim. But I don’t have the bandwidth to process any of it as I tighten my hands over my stomach and begin to pray.
* * *
Beckett takes charge at the hospital, herding Olivia and I as though we’re hens. Down a corridor, the scent of disinfectant cloying as small things register during our hustle.
Automatic doors buzz open.
Industrial sized dispenses of hand sanitiser with signs of instructions for use.
The squeak of rubber against shiny floors.
The rustle of uniforms and scrubs.
Then we’re bustled into a room where faces greet us, but not the one we’re here to see.
‘How did you get here so fast?’ I ask, as Heather stands, her hair in disarray.
‘Griffin, he had his bike.’
‘Your mum will kill you when she finds out.’
