Spiralling Skywards: Fading (Contradictions, #2)(27)

I’m still in Scotland. My phone’s dead. Do you have Sarah’s number on you?

I wanted to leave and get a phone charger, but I waited for Mel’s message to come through.

No, just your mobile and home number.

I didn’t bother to reply. I shut my computer down, stuffed it in the bag, and made my way down to the reception. The girl behind the desk wished me a great day, and the valet waved down a cab for me. I managed to get on a flight immediately, leaving no time to buy a charger.

As soon as I reached my car back at Gatwick, I plugged in my phone and started the engine. It took a few seconds for the screen to light up and the service to kick in, and when it did, all fucking hell broke loose. Text messages, missed calls, voice mails . . . my phone continued to buzz and chirp and vibrate. Sarah, Sash, Mai, and Archie.

My hands shook as I opened the first message from Sarah.

Pretty Girl: Hey Aussie husband, just letting you know Sash is here with me. Luke had to get an earlier flight or something and said you’d have his balls if he let me stay on my own, so I called Sash. No need to rush back. I don’t know why you don’t just get a flight in the morning. I love you x

Pretty Girl: Morning, I’ve tried to call, but I’m going straight to voice mail. I’m a little worried, babe. I’ve no idea where you are, where you’re staying, or anything. Call me when you get this plz. X

Pretty Girl: Okay, so I don’t want you to panic or anything, but I’m not feeling so great, and I’ve just been for a wee and there was blood in it.

“No. Fuck, shit. No. Fucking no.”

I put my car into reverse and pulled my car out of its parking spot. My head and my heart were pounding so hard I could feel my entire body vibrate. As I approached the barrier, I realised not only had I not paid my exit fee at the terminal but also the ticket was actually still in my suit jacket’s pocket, in my bag, in the boot of my fucking car.

I slammed the palm of my hand down on the steering wheel at least three times and said the word “fuck” a whole lot.

I carried on towards the barrier and pressed the lost ticket button, slid in my credit card, and paid the extortionate maximum rate that could be applied for short-term parking.

As dangerous as it was, I read the rest of the string of messages from Sarah as I drove.

Pretty Girl: Sasha’s on the phone with my doctor now, finding out what we should do. I feel okay, just a little warm and really sick, but that’s nothing new, is it?

Pretty Girl: Call me. Plz. X

I did exactly that. It was three in the afternoon so the M25 had yet to become a car park. I wove my way through the traffic at speeds that even scared me at times. Each and every one of my calls to Sarah went to voice mail.

I scrolled through and found the next message was from Sasha.

Sash: Where the fuck are you? She’s burning up and pissing blood. I’ve called an ambulance. I’ve no clue what the fuck is wrong, and all she’s worried about is you.

I couldn’t drive faster if I tried. I felt so sick, and I made the executive decision to simply throw up in the passenger foot well while driving rather than waste time pulling over. I assumed they took Sarah to the small private hospital where we had gone for her check-ups. I was sure one of the voice mails or texts would tell me, but between driving at breakneck speeds and hurling in my car, I really didn’t have the time to stop and verify. I parked illegally on a grass verge at the hospital and ran towards the reception area, bouncing on my toes as I gave Sarah’s details.

“She’s over in the maternity department. Level three on the anti-natal ward.”

I didn’t say thanks, I didn’t say a word. I ran as fast as I could in the direction I thought I should be going, and just before I entered the building, I threw up in the bin outside, which actually made me feel a whole lot better.

Instead of waiting on the lift, I took the stairs two, three, and four at a time. I pressed the buzzer on the wall by the double doors that were blocking my path and explained who I was when a voice crackled, “Good afternoon, can I help you?”

There were three nurses, some midwives, and who the fuck knew who else all standing at the desk as I entered.

“Sarah Delaney,” was all I said. I felt as if I were about to have a fucking heart attack. I must have looked like it too, judging by the way the women were looking at me.

“Are you okay, sir?” one of them asked.

I leant forward and braced my hands on my knees so I could catch my breath, managing to shake my head.

“No. My wife. Sarah Delaney. My phone died. I had no charger.”

Why the fuck was I even bothering to explain?

“Room twelve,” the woman who was standing on the other side of the counter said, and I started moving.

“Sir, wait. The doctors are with your wife now. I need . . .”

I ignored her, and I was at the door of room twelve before she could round the counter.

My eyes found hers the moment I stepped into the room.

She looked tiny in the large hospital bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows and hooked up to two drips and a shit ton of machinery.

In the five seconds it took for me to observe all of that, Sarah burst into tears. I passed white coats—at least two—but kept walking. Being careful of the drips, blood pressure cuff, and the monitors she was hooked up to, I slid onto the bed and pulled her into my lap. Wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight. Not giving a shit about my vomit breath, I kissed her hair and face. I brushed away her tears before giving up and falling apart with her.