My Very '90s Romance, page 26
Josh and I looked at each other.
“Depends who it is,” he said. “I mean, if it was the governor of the Bank of England—”
“Or the pope, maybe,” I chipped in.
“—or our flatmate and friend,” said Josh.
“Look, just can it, OK?” said Kate. “You and Sophie go off and have a brilliant time. Why don’t you get famous, like that woman who couldn’t drive a car? Make a record? Go to parties with Keith Chegwin? I really couldn’t give a fuck. But just leave me alone, OK, Josh?”
She got up and stormed out of the room.
“Wow, has Kate got problems with her love life or something?” said Josh, peering after her.
I COULDN’T SLEEP. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind began whirring through an exhausting litany of things that might happen including:
I get fired (because I deserved to be).
I wear the wrong color and they make me wear an old man’s pajamas.
The band gets us banned from TV.
Candice makes nasty personal remarks about me.
Josh and Sophie get engaged, and I have to cook for myself.
It doesn’t work for Addison. Because, as I don’t need Kate’s flow chart to remind me, he is running out of time.
When I say I couldn’t sleep, I . . . well, I managed to sleep pretty late into the morning, then scrambled up in a panic. The house was quiet. Outside, it was threatening to turn into the most beautiful day. I wandered over and confronted my wardrobe. I had no idea I had so many green things. Black wasn’t going to work either, not sitting next to someone with pitch-black hair who was as pale as death. I’d look like the Crow of Doom, perched on his shoulder. Is there a Crow of Doom? It didn’t matter; I discarded all black and gray items forthwith. And navy—I could never tell the difference. OK. There wasn’t a lot left now, and rather a lot of that seemed to be pink. I sighed. If only Kate ate less salad and more sausage rolls, I could have borrowed something of hers. I picked up an old T-shirt that said “Free Nelson Mandela.” Well, it would have been a good message to get out on TV, but perhaps a little unnecessary now. Finally I settled on a stripy top and a plain long skirt, in a vain attempt at “willowy.”
Before I left the house, I crept into Addison’s room. “Don’t worry, guys,” I said to his stacked computers. “I’ll bring him home.”
Someone had turned off the monitor, so there was no Claudia. I walked around slowly, patting things. Magda had taken lots of his Star Trek and Star Wars stuff and put it around his hospital bed, so Add’s room wasn’t as cramped as usual. I picked up a small Han Solo figure.
“You’re coming with me,” I said. “You’re known for getting people out of sticky situations. We need you now, Han.” And I put him in my pocket.
“Look at you,” I said, addressing the computers again. “Enough power to run the space shuttle and you can’t do a damn thing for the person who loves you the most.”
The computers winked at me.
“And don’t be cheeky.”
I shut the door behind me quietly.
FROM THE MOMENT I stepped inside the hospital, I could tell there was something going on. Staff who normally slouched about the corridors were bustling officiously up and down. Everyone was moving a bit quicker than normal and had suspiciously clean hair. Yup, the TV cameras must be in.
I was so used to weird goings-on in the high-dependency unit that I almost didn’t notice when I walked through the familiar swing doors. This, however, was something else altogether. For starters, there was an enormous Christmas tree in the middle of the ward. Big, cheap, and nasty plastic wreaths had been randomly placed on the walls, with what were obviously large, empty cardboard boxes hastily covered in cheap wrapping paper, so you could still see the flavor of crisps the boxes had held. I nearly retched when I saw Addison’s bed. Somebody had dressed him in garish red pajamas, but that wasn’t the worst thing—they had also seen fit to hang some mistletoe above his bed.
“What?” I said out loud. There were four times as many people as there normally were on the ward, and about twice as many nursing staff. Stephen spotted me and came to my rescue.
“Excited?” he said.
“To the point of vomiting,” I replied. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off,” he said. “I came in anyway. Plus, there’s this particular sound recordist. . . .”
“You tart!” I said. “I expected to find you crying your eyes out over your lost love.”
“Who, your friend?” He grinned wickedly. “I don’t think so. It was a lot of fun to watch, though.”
“You’re an evil tart!”
“Sweet!”
“Still, at least you helped,” I said, hitting him with a bit of tinsel.
“Good. Now, do you want to come over and join the party?”
I looked around—Chali and her menagerie clearly hadn’t arrived yet, but the television crew were bustling around. Several other families were also with their patients, hovering nervously. Not one person was wearing green. Candice—a vision in snot—and Dr. Hitler were in front of the nurses’ station, talking very intently to each other in the way that people do when they’re trying to pretend to the outside world that they aren’t having a row.
“All I’m saying,” Candice was whining as Stephen and I walked over, “is that I don’t see why we can’t just change that little room into Makeup. God, it’s only for a day.”
“And all I’m saying is could you please stop talking nonsense about things you don’t understand, like how much we use the disinfecting room and the importance of clean things to sick people,” Dr. Hitler hissed back at her.
“Hi,” I said. They both straightened up.
“Yes?” said Candice snottily.
“Ehm . . . I’m meant to be in your show.”
“Oh, well done. Why don’t you go and speak to Roger, and I’ll sort out any autographs later on, OK? Look, Doctor, surely you have an operating theater or something we could use?”
I glanced at Stephen, and he made the thumbs-up sign at me.
“She’s such a bitch,” he said. “I love her.”
Roger was nowhere to be found, so I went over to Addison’s bed to try to remove the mistletoe.
“What’s going on?”
I leaned across to the next bed. “God, if you don’t know, what hope is there for the world?”
“None. You’re all doomed and you’re all going to hell, especially the Protestants. And the Liberal Democrats. And Michael Bolton.”
“You’re a very grumpy God today.”
“Well, I’m not feeling well and they keep shining lights in my eyes. It’s like being back in Japan in ’44.”
“Why don’t you ask them to close the curtains?”
“Not Christmassy enough, apparently.”
“Oh. Well, they’re making a TV show and they’re having a band play to try to wake up some of the coma patients. Then hopefully they’ll piss off and leave us alone.”
“Huh,” said God. “Well, at least I get to wear my best pajamas.”
“It’s still a beautiful world,” I said.
“Holly!”
A vision in silver came clopping up the ward in enormously high-heeled shoes.
“Aha—one of my angels!” said God.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Chali? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Well, my shoes are killing me. But apart from that, everything’s fine. Mrs. Bigelow is furious.”
“That’s not fine.”
“Oh, yes it is. She’s opening the shop by herself! I almost wish we weren’t here, so we could see how she’s getting on, doing a day’s work for a change.”
“I’m sure she’s finding it tough,” I said. “Probably won’t even have time to paint all ten fingernails.”
Chali stopped suddenly in front of Addison’s bed and looked at me. “Is this him?”
I nodded.
“Oh God, Holl, you didn’t tell me he was so gorgeous.”
“Ehm, I think you’ll find that’s pretty much all I told you.”
She gently stroked his face. “God. Wow. Hey, is this mistletoe?”
“No!” I grabbed it off her.
She pouted. “Well, his pajamas are horrible, anyway. Where can we set up?”
“How many of you are there?” I said with some concern, as a line of grubby blokes filed through the ward door, each carrying a piece of sound equipment or an extension lead.
“Ah,” said Chali. “Well, when I told Mr. Big . . . lots of people wanted to get on TV. So the band’s a bit . . . larger than it was.”
“How much larger?”
“Well . . . there was five of us . . . ?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now there’s about fourteen.”
“Fourteen?”
“I’m still the only vocalist. Mr. Big is on lead guitar. Two bass players. A rhythm guitarist, four drummers, and five backing singers.”
“Jesus, Chali, we’re trying to wake these people, not punish them.”
“It’s my big break, remember? And don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re OK,” said Chali pleadingly.
“Urhg! Chocolates!” At the other side of the ward, one of the Spangles was half-inching gifts from a critically ill person.
I let out a long sigh. “Well, it’s not me you have to convince. There’s a guy called Roger who . . .” As I spoke, Roger himself appeared.
“Quick, come and meet Roger.”
Roger was walking around half in a daze carrying a tray of designer coffees.
“Hi.”
He looked at us both with a complete lack of recognition.
“It’s Holly Livingstone,” I said. “I’m not surprised you don’t recognize me during daylight hours.”
“Oh, yes, hello.” He took me in for the first time.
“Oh my God. Stripes?”
“What?”
“You’re wearing stripes. I’m sorry, that won’t do at all, yeh?”
“Yeah, well, forget about that. This is Chali Sanghara, lead singer with Mr. Big and the Spangles.”
“The carol singers, right?”
“Ehm, well . . .”
“Great . . . just set up anywhere, yeh?”
And he ran away from us toward Candice, brandishing the coffee.
Chali and I looked at each other, and she shrugged and went over to help the band set up in the far corner. One of the gnome army, his mouth covered in chocolate, leaned down to plug in his amplifier, eliciting a screech from Dr. Hitler, who was getting increasingly puce and agitated at her ward being turned into a three-ring circus.
Last to arrive were Josh and Sophie, who entered the scene like some weird couple from a genetically perfect future. Their matching blond hair gleamed in the sunlight through the windows. Sophie was ostentatiously carrying a check the size of a playing field, bearing her name in huge letters and a quite enormous number of zeros.
They’ll never fit that under the banking counter, I thought mutinously. “Hi, Josh. Hi, Sophie.”
“Hey,” said Josh. “How’s it going?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I’m sure I saw Dr. Hitler smack one of the gnome army.
“Hmm. Not bad.”
“I must go and talk to Candice,” said Sophie. “I’m hoping to bring her on board as one of my celebrity supporters.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” I said. “She’s a bit of a bitch.”
Sophie, however, had already swanned her way over there. Josh and I waited a couple of minutes for the expected rebuff, but within seconds Candice and Sophie were blathering away like old friends.
“Sophie really does get on with everyone,” said Josh proudly.
“OK, everybody!” A loud voice rattled around the ward. I looked up. Roger was standing on someone’s bed, hollering through a megaphone.
“Get off that!” shouted Dr. Hitler.
“It’s OK—they’re asleep!” shouted Roger. “Now, everyone, just a few ground rules. First, please stick to your own corners. We’re only filming a short ten-minute segment, so this shouldn’t take more than eight or nine hours. During that time please do not change clothes or your hair and makeup, for continuity reasons. Unless of course you cry and we want you to do it again, in which case you’ll be taken off to Makeup. We’re going to film Candice, then the band, then the check, OK? Refreshments will be provided; once we’ve finished filming you, you will find a sandwich waiting for you at the door. Please don’t take more than one. Oh, and please, on no account address Candice unless she speaks to you. In fact, we’d rather you didn’t make eye contact with her. So keep quiet, keep out of the way, and, who knows—you might be on TV and have a nice souvenir for your loved one, if and when he or she is returned to you. OK, do we have any questions?”
Someone asked what if they needed to go to the toilet, and Roger requested that they didn’t for the duration of filming, prompting a mad dash for the bathroom. Then Sophie very loudly asked if she was expected to say a few words when handing over her fifty-thousand-pound check. Roger glanced at Candice, who nodded and, behind Sophie’s back, managed to mime something that looked as if it meant they could chop it out later.
“Of course,” said Roger. “You’re a very important part of the show.”
Sophie preened herself.
“Anyone else?”
One of the drummers played a ba boom—cha! Roger wasn’t amused.
“OK, then, everyone. Places, please.”
I started looking around for what might be my place, but a tiny girl with an enormous walkie-talkie came up and manhandled me onto Addison’s bed.
“Candice will come and talk to you, probably!” she said, as if Candice was Santa Claus. “So good luck! I’m sure you’ll get on.”
“I’d rather get off,” I mumbled, but she had whisked away to shove some other people about.
The whole ward went silent, and the Christmas tree lights were turned on. Candice strolled over and sat two beds down from Addy’s, alongside a young lad called Carl, who’d stolen a car, smashed it up, and had been in here for a year. He was fifteen. It wasn’t pleasant.
She turned toward the camera and lit up with an enormous beaming smile.
“So I’m here with Carl Foster and his mother, who are spending another ‘coma alone’ Christmas this year. Mrs. Foster . . . how did you feel when you first heard Carl had been in an accident?”
“Well, I felt terrible, yes, really bad,” said Carl’s mother, who was shrunken and nervy.
“Right. Right, that must have been awful. And how did you feel when they told you he was in a coma and might never regain consciousness?”
“Yes, well, that was really terrible. It was really bad, yes.”
“Do you feel sad that he might never have a chance to grow up, get married, have a family, have a career—that he’s missing out on so much?”
“Yes. Yes, really, it’s terrible . . . really, you know . . . really bad.”
Candice turned her attention to Dr. Hitler.
“So, Doctor, in a case like Carl’s—what’s the likely outcome?”
“It’s very difficult to say,” said Dr. Hitler, who looked like she’d smeared her glasses especially for the occasion.
“What—don’t you know?” said Candice.
“Well, there are a number of possible outcomes. He could wake at any time, or he could be in a vegetative state for many years.”
“And you don’t have anything better to offer Mrs. Foster?”
Dr. Hitler colored. “As I say, comas are very unpredictable things.”
“Right. Well . . . thank you, Doctor.”
Candice turned to face the camera.
“So remember, kids, if you’re thinking about joyriding tonight, you’ll probably end up like Carl. Don’t do it!”
“Yes,” said Sophie, who was standing nearby. “When I become PM, I’ll make going into a coma the punishment for joyriding!”
Candice moved on.
“Many of our stories here are tragic. Some are uplifting. And some, like our next stopping point, are even . . . romantic!”
To my surprise she sat down next to me.
“So, Holly, you’ve got a funny story to tell of how Addison came to be in this state, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“You know—leaning in for a kiss and then—whoops!” She chuckled. I sat there stony-faced, unable to believe she would bring this up on TV. I caught sight of Stephen out of the corner of my eye wearing a contrite expression and shot him a dirty look, the grasser.
“No,” I said again.
“Cut!” yelled Candice. Roger hurried over so they could both have a go at me. Candice started:
“Now listen, ehm . . .”
“Holly,” I said.
“Yes, Holly. We’ve all got a job to do here, you know. And we can either make it hard or we can make it difficult—it’s up to you.”
“We’ve got all day,” said Roger. “And tomorrow and, you know, the day after that . . . But all these dedicated nurses and doctors here, they really want to get back to work to help sick people—like your boyfriend, yeah?”
“I mean, Christmas is a time for unselfishness,” said Candice.
“It’s June!” I said. She ignored me.
“. . . and I’m sure everyone in this room would like to see us make the best program we can as a tribute to the amazing work of—”
“And I need to go to the toilet!” shouted one of the Spangles.
“OK, OK,” I said. “I’ll do it. It’ll be like one of those hostage videos they send back from the Middle East.”
“There you go,” said Candice. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it?”
Roger pressed Candice’s shoulder. “You’re so diplomatic,” he said to her. “Ready to go in three . . .”
Ping! Candice lit up her amazing smile again.
“So, Holly—you’ve got a funny story to tell of how Addison here came to be in this state, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have, Candice,” I said dutifully.
“Would you like to share it with the viewers?”
“Well, we were . . . I was trying to kiss him on the top of a wall, and he fell over and hit his head,” I muttered.
