The Dead Ex(19)

7



Vicki

16 February 2018


They insist they’ll have to keep me in for another twenty-four hours because I don’t have anyone at home to look after me.

‘No one at all?’ different nurses keep asking, even though I’ve told them enough times. Their disbelief makes me feel worse. What kind of woman gets to her mid-forties and doesn’t have a lover or a best friend or a child or a parent or someone to be around at a time like this?

Patrick … Patrick …

The emptiness in my chest should surely have eased by now. But as each year passes, it seems to get bigger.

Still, at least the detective with his fawn raincoat and that policewoman with her narrowing eyes have gone. I try to brush away my fears. Tell myself that they can’t accuse me of having something to do with a walkabout ex-husband just because I have memory lapses. But I get the distinct feeling they will be back.

A chirpy orderly with a HOSPITAL FRIEND badge comes round with a trolley. Its wheels click as she rams it by mistake into the bottom of my bed. Drinks. Sweets. Newspapers. Would I like anything?

I’m about to say no. I’ve ignored the news for years now as part of my ‘determined to stay positive’ attitude. But then I spot a tabloid which was a favourite with the girls. Its headline screams out: WEALTHY BUSINESSMAN STILL MISSING.

He is staring right at me. My skin goes cold with goosebumps. Then hot so that my cheeks burn. And cold again.

‘Fears are growing for missing property dealer David Goudman. Police are appealing for anyone with information to get in touch.’

My fingers trace the distinctive outline of his nose. I can almost stroke his face. Smell the expensive musky cologne he used to wear. Imagine his arms around me. The touch of his lips on mine. The horrified look in his eyes after I had my first seizure.

Until now, none of this has seemed real, despite the visits from the police. Men like David are invincible. Bad things don’t happen to them. But the picture and the news story mean I can’t pretend any more. My ex-husband has disappeared. And I might – or might not – have something to do with it.

When I get home the next day, the first thing I do is take the thing that was behind the pillow and slip it under the mattress instead. Just in case.

Then I put on the radio for company and microwave some soup. Parsnip and carrot with a hint of ginger and curry powder, which I’ve added for kick. I’m feeling hungry. Seizures often do that to me but it’s not the same for everyone. There are no definite rules because there are over forty different types of epilepsy and each person will be affected differently. At least this is what I was told when I finally got a diagnosis.

There were other ‘helpful tips’ too.

You might find that your character changes. This could be due to the medication rather than the condition. Yes. I used to be so much more confident.

Some relatives and friends find it difficult to accept. Too true.

Someone with epilepsy is not advised to live alone. If only I had a choice. ‘You do have an alarm, don’t you?’ said the nurse when she discharged me.

‘Sure,’ I’d said. But the truth is that I quite often don’t wear it. Especially when I have clients.

‘What’s that round your neck?’ they might ask.

‘Just a little red button which I press if I think I’m about to have a seizure. Providing I get enough time.’

How well would that go down? An aromatherapist is meant to help others. Not be in need of healing herself.

I brush the thought from my mind. Attempt instead to concentrate on the client whom I’d rescheduled for tomorrow. It will do me good, I tell myself. I need to get back to normal. That was another piece of advice from the consultant. Try not to let it ruin your life. Keep taking the meds. Don’t alarm yourself over the statistics. Plenty of people still have jobs and families.

But what kind of employer wants someone with an official record like mine? The only option was to go self-employed. It would be, I told myself, a new start.

Now, to clear my head, I go for a walk along the promenade. Below me, the beach drops away. When I first came here I was disappointed to find the beach was shingle. But that was because the tide was up. When it’s out, it’s sandy. Two different people. Like me.

When I get back, I spray lavender onto my pillow for a calm sleep. It doesn’t work. In my dreams, David runs after me along a beach. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’s shouting. ‘I’m sorry …’

I wake with a start with the night still black outside and the clock showing 4.12 a.m. next to me. For a moment, I think that it’s true. That he really is sorry for not sticking with me. And then I feel a huge grey wave of regret and sadness, because if he’d supported me, things would have been different.

All I can do now is hope against hope that David turns up. Soon.

My client – one of my regulars – is five minutes early, but I’m ready for her. The room is warm, and my usual soothing ‘angel’ music – like the sound of a light breeze or lapping waves – is playing. I like this woman with her soft, gentle manners. Indeed, there have been times when I’ve been tempted to explain my condition to her.

I’ve a feeling she might understand. But I daren’t risk it.

‘How are you?’ she asks when I answer the door.