Emily

Chapter Twenty-seven

As soon as he’d gone, I leapt out of bed and rang the hospital. Finn sounded relieved to hear me, but somehow detached.

‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lied.

‘Rory said you were asleep.’

‘I was — but, oh, Finn, he’s as touchy as gunpowder. I do need you — can’t you come over later?’

‘I can’t, lovie, some of those poor sods from the petrol tanker are in pretty bad shape.’

‘Oh, God.’ Why did Finn always make me feel slightly ignoble? ‘What a horrible, self-centred little bitch I am. I’d forgotten all about them.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten about you,’ said Finn, then someone said something in the background. ‘Look, darling, I’ve got to go. I’ll try and come and see you tomorrow.’

The receiver clicked. At that moment Rory walked through the front door and stood in the doorway looking murderous.

‘Have you gone quite mad?’ he said softly. ‘Standing in a howling draught when you’re supposed to be in bed? Who were you talking to?’

‘Coco. I was just letting her know I’m home.’

‘She happens to be in London,’ said Rory acidly.

He walked towards me, put his hands on my shoulders, and gazed down at me for a minute. The fury seemed to die out of his eyes.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘you think you’re hung up on Finn, but he isn’t the answer for you. He’s married to his work, always has been. He’s a man with no nonsense about him,’ and for a minute his face softened. ‘And you’re a chick with an awful lot of nonsense about you, Em. Now go and get into bed and I’ll bring you something to eat.’

I went back to bed and thought about Finn — but at the back of my mind, like an insistent tune, the thought kept repeating itself: if Finn had really loved me, he’d never have let me leave the hospital. He’d have whisked me back to his flat. Rory didn’t love me at all, he loved Marina but even so, he’d been utterly single-minded about getting me home and keeping me there. I felt very confused and uncertain of my feelings. I wanted my mother.

Next morning the telephone rang. ‘That was your Doctor friend,’ said Rory when he’d put the receiver down. ‘He’s coming round to see you in half an hour.’ He went back to his easel, rummaging noisily about for a tube of burnt sienna that he’d mislaid. Finally he gave up looking and poured himself a drink and started painting.

I was dying to go and tart up for Finn. Surreptitiously I levered myself out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’ said Rory, without turning round.

‘To the loo,’ I said.

‘Again?’ said Rory. ‘You’ve just been.’

‘I’ve got a bit of an upset stomach,’ I said, sliding towards the door.

‘I should have thought it was hardly necessary, then, to take your bag with you,’ said Rory.

‘Oh,’ I said, blushing and putting my bag on the table.

In the bathroom there was nothing to do my face with. I washed and took the shine off my nose with some of Rory’s talcum powder, and tidied my hair with Walter Scott’s brush. I got back into bed. Rory was still painting ferociously. Very cautiously I eased my bag off the table and just as cautiously opened it. Of course, my bottle of Arpège was at the bottom. I’d scrabbled my way down there, managed to unscrew the top, and was just about to empty some over my wrists when Rory turned round and my bag, plus all its contents and the unstoppered scent bottle, fell with an appalling crash to the floor.

Rory was not amused. We were in the middle of a full-dress row when Finn rang the doorbell. Rory went to let him in. I shoved the bag and all its contents under the bed. The whole room stank of scent like a brothel.

Finn came in, looking boot-faced, but he smiled when he saw me. Rory went and stood with his back to the fire, his eyes moving from Finn to me.

‘All right, Rory, I won’t be long,’ said Finn dismissively, and picked up my wrist.

‘I’ll stay if you don’t mind,’ said Rory.

‘Well I do,’ I snapped. ‘I feel like a biology lesson surrounded by medical students with you both in here.’

‘I’ll turn my back if you like,’ said Rory, ‘but keep your thieving hands off her, Doctor,’ and he gazed out of the window, whistling Mozart.

‘How are you feeling?’ said Finn gently. ‘Are you eating all right?’

‘Like a horse,’ said Rory.

‘I am not,’ I snapped. I grabbed Finn’s hand.

‘No need to feel Finn’s pulse, Emily,’ said Rory.

‘Oh shut up,’ I said.

Finn was a bit like a dignified cart-horse with a couple of mongrels rowing between his legs.

‘It’s not fair,’ I said to Rory afterwards. ‘Look at the way you and Marina carry on.’

‘We’re not talking about me and Marina,’ said Rory, his eyes glittering with strain and exasperation. Walter Scott was noisily eating a coat-hanger in the corner.

‘Walter thinks your behaviour is appalling,’ I said, ‘and he knows all about dogs in the manger.’