International Player(15)

My stomach flipped as I realized she’d been waiting for someone else to be stronger, for me to step in, take the burden from her, be the older twin. “I’m surer than sure.” I wasn’t certain about anything other than I wanted my sister and her baby to be better. But for the first time in my life, I had to be the one who led the way for Abigail and me. I had to show her there was nothing to be worried about.

“Thanks, Truly,” Rob said, shooting me a relieved smile. We were all on the same side. All wanted the same outcome. We just needed to remember it. And I needed to push down the rising panic at the thought of having to handle donors, presentations, lunches and dinners. What choice did I have? People were counting on me. As I thought about the task in front of me, it was as if an anvil was weighing down on my chest and every time I breathed it got a little heavier. I pressed the heel of my hand against my breast bone, trying to relieve the weight.

“The nurse will take you through your medication schedule and you can leave as soon as they’ve discharged you, but any change in blood pressure, dizziness, sudden bloating, or pain, I want you to come straight back.”

“My own bed,” Abigail said. “Thank heaven for small mercies.” She looked up at me, worry darting across her face.

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” I said, assuring both of us. Because I might be about to have a panic attack, but as long as Abigail was okay then nothing else mattered.





Eight





Noah


“Thanks for the other night. Calling the ambulance, coming to the hospital. Means a lot,” Rob said, handing me a beer from the fridge. I’d dropped around after my meetings had finished for the day to check on Abigail. Three days out of hospital and she was still in bed, adjusting to her new normal.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“I think you kept us all calm.” He blew out a breath and slumped on the sofa at the far end of the kitchen.

“How is she?” I asked before tipping back my beer.

“She tells me fine, but I never really know. I think she got a scare and she’s behaving herself at the moment. But I don’t want to get my hopes up that she’s going to stay in bed for five months.”

“She’ll do what’s best for the baby, I’m sure.”

A bang at the bottom of the stairs caught our attention, and we both snapped our heads around.

“Are you okay?” Rob called out.

“Yeah, I just tripped,” Truly said as she came through the door, her hair wet. She was carrying a pair of scissors and a comb. I hadn’t realized she was here, and maybe I was imagining it, but it seemed as though she was avoiding meeting my eyes.

When I’d returned from the US, I hadn’t imagined her as part of the picture back in London as I had Rob and Abigail. It was as if she disappeared from the world, from my brain, while I’d been in New York, but now she was back and I remembered all the time we’d spent together since the wedding and before I’d gone to New York. I should have made more of an effort to keep in touch. I liked her. She was clever and funny and passionate about things she believed in. As well as being warm and thoughtful—someone I enjoyed listening to and sharing my deepest thoughts with.

How could I have forgotten all of that? And why hadn’t I tried harder to keep our connection?

“Oh, hi,” she said.

I smiled and tipped my beer at her. She pulled back her hair, which showed off her almond-shaped eyes and perfect, full mouth. A memory flashed into my head of her laughing on her sofa as we both ate Chinese takeaway. She’d been my first and only woman friend. She always captured my interest in a way I never quite understood.

“Why is your hair wet?” Rob asked.

“I have to cut it—it’s easier this way.”

“You’re going to cut your own hair?” I asked. Truly had never taken much notice of how she looked. I appreciated that she preferred not to wear makeup. It was one of her many quirks that drew me to her.

“I have a donor lunch tomorrow and my hair is just . . . Rob, will you do it? Just straight along the bottom. My hands are shaking and I have to go through these.” She pulled a bunch of index cards from her back pocket.

“No fucking way,” Rob replied. “Why don’t you go to a hairdresser?”

“I have no time, and anyway, I always cut my own hair.” She grabbed an oak stool from the breakfast bar and placed it in front of us. “Please. It’s just a straight line.”

Rob rolled his eyes. “I’m three beers in. You’ll end up with a scalping. Noah will do it. He just arrived.”

“Fine,” she said, dumping the scissors and comb next to me on the sofa and hopping onto the stool.

I slid my beer onto the coffee table and grabbed the comb and scissors. I was no hairdresser, but at least I hadn’t finished my first beer.

As I moved closer, she kept her eyes studiously fixed on the cards in front of her. “Ian Chance. CEO of Langham Foods. Total donation of thirty thousand pounds, and last year they had a charity bake off to raise money.” She held up the card to show Rob as if he were going to call her out if she was wrong. “Three daughters, Chelsea, Marian, and Elizabeth—”

“This is one of the people at lunch tomorrow?” I asked as I hovered behind her. Her hair was almost down to her waist, ebony black and silky smooth despite the curls beginning to reform and reshape. I paused. Somehow it felt odd to be this close. Inappropriate. Intimate.