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  Genevieve looked exactly the same as the day before, but had obviously been bathed. New pyjamas had replaced the standard nightwear the hospital gave their patients. Rebecca smiled as she thought of what Genevieve would say when she woke up and saw what she was wearing. She was not a clothes snob, but there was only so far you could push a girl.

  Rebecca kissed her warm cheek and held her hand.

  "I'm here," she said to her. "I'm here, baby." She touched her cheek with the back of her hand and watched her, content just to be there, even under such circumstances. She read the doctor's notes on the clipboard at the bottom of the bed and was relieved to see that nothing major had happened during the night and that all vital organs were in working order. Other than that, she couldn't understand the medical jargon regarding the medications they were giving her. She enjoyed the precious few hours she had with her before Genevieve's parents arrived. They were in a more subdued mood, but they still ignored her.

  "I brought a bag with items she might need when she wakes up," Rebecca said to Genevieve's mother.

  "You shouldn't have bothered," her father spat. "We have everything she needs." Genevieve's mother didn't even look at her.

  Rebecca remained silent. Judging by those pyjamas, you might have what she needs but certainly not what she'd want, she thought to herself. She decided to not antagonise them by attempting to make conversation. They had made it very clear that they would tolerate her at the bedside for a limited amount of time and that was about it. Even for that crumb, Rebecca was grateful. She was well aware they could stop her visits if they wanted to and she would have no recourse in the matter.

  How she could kick herself when she thought back to the many times they both shunned the idea of a civil partnership, never dreaming for one minute that a time like this would come. If Genevieve made it through this nightmare, her first day out of hospital would be spent at the registry office with Rebecca. She would make sure that neither of them would ever have to go through this again.

  At midday, Paul arrived at the hospital looking worse than the day before. Rebecca smelt the odour of alcohol as he walked straight past her. Before the nurse had the opportunity to tell them about the number of visitors allowed, Rebecca squeezed Genevieve's hand, said goodbye to her and left. She had never felt so alone.

  * * *

  For the next week the routine was the same every day, only Rebecca now started going to the hospital at midnight, having been told in confidence by an on-duty nurse that that was the time the family usually left the hospital. She always left when Paul arrived at midday. She couldn't believe how badly he seemed to be taking it. Each time she saw him he looked unkempt and smelt of alcohol. In the midst of her own despair she felt for him.

  She knew that he had loved Genevieve and had been heartbroken when she had called off their engagement. Not only did he lose his fiancée, but he also lost his best friend. She had heard through the grapevine on many occasions throughout the years that he was still pining for Genevieve, but for the last year they had heard nothing until the invitation had arrived on that fateful day. Though both women were apprehensive, Genevieve had thought it best that she attend his show, not only for the support he would need but also to try and mend the broken bridge between them. Fate, however, had had other ideas.

  When Rebecca walked into her apartment, the answering machine was blipping. She pressed the play button and went to hang her coat up in the cloakroom. She just caught the tail end of the message from her boss, Clifford Stokes.

  "...I know that asking you to do this under the current circumstances is insensitive but you are the only person I can trust with such a project. I will understand if you say no, but please think about it. A couple of days in Paris, and if need be, you can be back in London within a few hours by plane." This was followed by messages from friends asking for updates on Genevieve. Rebecca had advised their friends not to go to the hospital and they were all too aware of Genevieve's parents' attitudes toward Rebecca.

  Rebecca mulled it over in her mind whether to go to Paris and do the art review. Clifford had been so good to her over the years and he had rarely asked any favours of her.

  "It must be important to him if he's asking me under these circumstances," she said to herself thoughtfully as she picked up the phone and dialled his number. She was booked on the seven-fifteen p.m. flight to Paris that same day.

  She packed selectively, retrieved her passport from the safe and made her way down to the lobby to wait for Peter to pick her up. She hadn't seen Peter since the first day Genevieve was in hospital. There was no point in him driving her to the hospital every day because Genevieve's parents would not let him see her. They had begrudgingly let Rebecca see her and other than themselves and Paul, they had refused to let anybody else visit.

  He held her tightly when she made her way to the car.

  "How are you holding up?" he asked, holding her at arm's length.

  "Better than I should be," she replied. Peter noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes and the way her veins bulged from beneath her skin because she had lost so much weight. She'd been slim before this trauma, but now she looked like a skeleton. He was convinced that she wasn't eating and made a promise to himself that when she returned from Paris he would take care of her. She had been shutting him and her friends out during a time when she needed them most.

  He put her case in the boot and was pleased that she had let herself into the passenger seat rather than the back seat. On the way to the airport he queried her on how Genevieve was progressing. Sensing her unease about the subject, he changed it to her upcoming trip.

  * * *

  The flight to Paris was uneventful. Even the turbulence, which under normal circumstances would have her reaching for the brandy, had no effect on her. As she entered the arrival area of the Paris airport, she spotted a stocky, well-built chauffeur holding a placard with her name on it.

  "Bonjour Madame," he said in a thick Parisian accent.

  "Bonjour," she replied, handing over her luggage. He guided her through the airport to where he had parked the car. As soon as she was alone in her hotel room she called the hospital in London to see if there had been a change in Genevieve's condition. Disheartened, she replaced the receiver; there had been no change. It had been nine days since she had slipped into a coma, but it felt like a lifetime to Rebecca. She unpacked her case and helped herself to the ice-cold champagne, which had been waiting for her arrival in a silver ice bucket — compliments from Clifford — as well as a massive bouquet of flowers. He's such a sweetheart, she thought as she inhaled the fragrance from the flowers.

  There was a package on the desk with her name written on the front. She opened it to find a ticket for the upcoming show she was to attend and some general information about the artists whose work she would be reviewing. She was sorry that she could not muster up the slightest bit of enthusiasm for the show or the artists. All she could think about was Genevieve. She knew she had to get into her work mode if she was going to do the artists any justice. Not only that, Clifford was relying on her to produce a very high quality piece of work.

  After her second glass of champagne, she began to wonder if she had done the right thing going on a trip when she should have been at Genevieve's bedside. By her fourth glass of champagne her emotions and fears had been replaced with a false bravado. Everything was going to turn out okay, so there was no need to worry. She unpacked her laptop, switched it on, waited for the Internet to connect and began her initial background research on the artists.

  * * *

  The following evening, a fellow British critic named Oscar escorted Rebecca to the show. He was a flamboyant and witty elderly man, and being in his company was just what she needed. He talked non-stop, which was a relief to Rebecca because she was not up for making conversation. He told witty anecdotes, dirty jokes and was very knowledgeable about the art world. Thankfully, the critics only got to spend a few minutes with each of the artists and were th
en handed a carefully written marketing piece about them, which was fine as far as Rebecca was concerned, as it was their art she was interested in. After seeing each piece, she asked the relevant questions that she needed answers to in order to enable her to write an honest review.

  The hours whizzed past and she was more than relieved when the evening was over. She bade Oscar goodnight over his pleas for her to have a nightcap with him and made her way to her room. Her phone light was flashing and she hurriedly dialled the number to listen to her voicemail. There was one message and it was from the hospital. Her heart nearly exploded through her body. The words she would have sold her soul to hear sounded in her earpiece.

  Genevieve was awake.

  CHAPTER 6

  GENEVIEVE SLOWLY opened her eyes and closed them again; the bright lights were too intense. Her body ached and her head throbbed. She was unaware of where she was, but it felt like she was in a void. She tried to touch her head and felt the weight of something attached to her hand being dragged toward her. Within seconds there was frenzied activity surrounding her. She heard high-pitched voices followed by the sound of someone crying. She felt very confused and frightened. She opened her eyes slightly just as a figure appeared in her vision. A tall, thin man with receding hair was standing beside her with a stethoscope around his neck. She looked up into his pale grey eyes trying to work out who he was, and more to the point, where she was.

  "Glad to have to have you with us," he said in a chirpy voice that in no way matched his sombre appearance. "Do you know where you are?" he asked. She stared at him trying to make sense of what he was saying. When she didn't reply, he continued, "I'm Doctor Phillips and you are in St. Thomas' Hospital." She tried to speak but it came out as a croak. He reached for a glass of water from the table at the end of her bed. "Perhaps this will help," he said, handing her the glass. She took it from him and sipped it slowly. The wetness felt good on her dry throat. She nodded to the doctor and handed him back the glass.

  "How did I get here?" she asked, still sounding hoarse. She closed her eyes again, her head pounding. She was trying her hardest not to be overcome by the panic she felt welling up inside. She willed herself to stay calm and take stock of the situation.

  "You were involved in an accident," he informed her. "Can I just ask you to open your eyes for a few moments?" She did as she was asked and he shone a thin, small torch into each eye, which sent sharp pains through them. She winced. "Very good," he said as if talking to a child. "Now tell me, do you know what year it is?"

  "What year it is?" she repeated, a puzzled face on her features.

  "Do you know who the Prime Minister of Britain is?"

  "Prime Minister?" she repeated, wondering where this conversation was leading.

  "Do you know your name?"

  She closed her eyes. She was tired and she wanted this man, doctor or not, to go away.

  "Okay," she heard him say as he moved away from the bed. She opened her eyes and saw him talking to a man and a woman who stood closely together. A third man stood with his back to her next to the doctor. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but she assumed they were talking about her because the woman, who would not take her eyes off her, let out an involuntary sob each time the doctor said something, whilst the men nodded their heads. Whatever he was saying to them was not being well received.

  "We won't know the severity of her condition until tests are carried out," the doctor explained to Genevieve's parents and Paul. "People with amnesia frequently forget the accident itself and have patchy memories about the events of the immediate preceding and following days." The doctor walked back to her bedside.

  "Okay," he said, smiling at her, "if you feel up to visitors your parents and fiancé are here and I'm sure they are very anxious to talk to you. I will come and speak with you later."

  Is this some kind of joke? Genevieve wondered as the people with whom the doctor had been speaking to came to her bedside.

  "Doctor!" she said frantically as he began to walk away.

  "Yes?" he asked kindly. She felt embarrassed and uncomfortable.

  "I don't know these people," she said quietly to him, willing him to understand the severity of the situation and to make the strangers leave.

  "It's okay," he said, using his gentle parental tone. "The blow to your head has just left you a bit forgetful. This is your mum and dad," he said, pointing to the middle-aged figures looking at her apprehensively. "And this is your fiancé," he said, pointing to the man with the midnight shadow on his face and who looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

  "Look, I don't know these people," she said, becoming more agitated. The woman began rummaging in her handbag until she found what she was looking for and then handed it to Genevieve. It was a photo of the three people standing in front of her, and herself. They were all smiling and looking directly into the camera. The woman started crying and grabbed hold of Genevieve's hand.

  "I'm your mum," she gasped, tears streaming down her face. "Oh my little baby, we thought we'd lost you." She took Genevieve's face in both hands and gently kissed her forehead, then moved away to make room for her dad to kiss her. Paul was hovering in the background, looking unsure of himself.

  "Go on, son," Genevieve's dad said to him.

  He stepped forward and went to kiss Genevieve on the mouth. She turned her head slightly so his kiss landed on her cheek.

  "Thank God you're alright," he said, hugging her tightly.

  She felt very uncomfortable with this display of emotion and affection from complete strangers.

  "How are you feeling?" Paul asked with concern in his eyes.

  "Like shit," she said, forcing a smile. The doctor appeared over Paul's shoulder.

  "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you all to leave now, she seems quite anxious so we have to make sure she gets plenty of rest," he said, smiling at the three of them standing by her bed. They each kissed her goodbye. This time she wasn't as evasive because she was relieved they were going.

  Her eyes followed them to the exit and then she turned to the doctor.

  "How long have I been here?" she asked as she struggled to a sitting position.

  "Nine days."

  "I've had nine days' sleep and I still feel like crap," she joked. The doctor smiled.

  "Tomorrow we're going to run some tests on you just to make sure that everything is in working order and then we'll go from there. Are you in any pain?"

  "Not pain as such; it's just my head that aches," she said.

  "Well that's to be expected; you've had quite a blow to your head," he reminded her. "Other than that, how are you feeling generally? Any nausea, stars in your eyes, so to speak?"

  "No, just an awful pain down the side of my face," she said, touching it gently. "And a bit woozy, which I expect is from lying down for too long."

  "Okay, well there's nothing for you to worry about; you're in safe hands. I'll see you tomorrow." He flashed her a wide smile and went and spoke with the nurses who were sitting around the reception desk.

  Lying there by herself, she looked around her at the people whose lives were being propped up by machines. To think that she must have looked like that at one stage sent shivers down her spine. She closed her eyes and went to sleep, only this time her mind was not void — it was full of dreams.

  * * *

  The next day her parents and Paul visited her briefly, explaining that they were going to see the doctor and they would return soon after. Once seated in his office he informed them of his diagnosis.

  "Well, the good news is she's had a CT scan to rule out haemorrhage, skull fractures and other complications, and has had a complete neurological check-up, which have all come back clear. As a result, we believe her amnesia is psychological in nature. There is no effective treatment for psychologically-based amnesias; most of them recover on their own."

  "So you're basically saying that we just have to play a 'wait-and-see' game?" Genevieve's father asked, sitting as still as a st
atue, his back straight as a rod. Everything about him was meticulous and ordered — from his close-cropped grey hair to his polished style of clothing, nothing dared to be out of place. The only thing he couldn't control was his aging — the deep lines around his mouth only added extra harshness to his features.

  "Yes. In contrast to the short time it takes to injure the brain, recovery is measured in weeks, months and even years. Recovery is most rapid shortly after the injury and slows down with the passage of time. Many people with severe head injuries end up with almost no noticeable problems and generally do better if just their head is injured without serious injury to other parts of the body, which is the case with your daughter. We must ensure that she has plenty of rest and no stress."

  Genevieve's father digested this news slowly; his dark grey eyes the colour of a stormy sea.

  "When can we take her home?" he asked.

  "We will keep monitoring her for the next few days, and if no problems come to light, she can go home and be treated as an outpatient."

  "Well, that's something to thank God for," her mother said, crossing herself in the habitual Catholic way. With a raise of his eyebrows, Eddie silenced her before she said anything else, his eyes narrowing with irritation. Elsie wilted under the impact of his stare, biting her lower lip and sinking her teeth into pink flesh. He stood up, his large frame towering over the desk. The doctor rose at the same time and both men shook hands.

  "Thank you," said Eddie. Elsie didn't move until he looked at her and nodded toward the door.

  * * *

  When Genevieve woke up, she felt aware of someone holding her hand. Too tired to open her eyes, she assumed it was the woman who said she was her mother and squeezed it.

  "Wake up sleepy head," she heard an unfamiliar voice say. She opened her eyes and was shocked not to see her mother sitting by her bed but a complete stranger. She snatched her hand away from the strange woman.