Book One: Thirty Days, Book 1 Read online

  In the end it is after nine when I finally shut down my computer, stretching my arms above my head and attempting to work the kinks out of my neck. Checking my phone, I see a message from my dad:

  Mum in a state. Flight’s booked into Gatwick for 11 a.m. Hope you’re okay. Dad x

  Succinct as always. I manage to raise a wry smile and text back that I will meet them there. I make my way down into reception and out the front door. I wrap my scarf round my neck and start toward the bus stop when I suddenly stop in my tracks, realising that I don’t want to go home. Instead, I change tack and head across the road to the Grey Goose, the pub of choice of Hudson employees. I am pretty sure no one will be here on a Sunday evening, but I take care when entering to check out the other patrons. Relieved there is no one I recognise, I head to the bar.

  “Hey, Abby,” says Jackson, the owner of the pub, who seems always be here. “What can I get you?”

  “Hey, Jackson. Can I have a vodka and lemonade, please? Actually, make that a double, please.”

  “Rough day?” Jackson asks.

  “Something like that,” I reply, anxious to find a seat and blend into the crowd. I pay and manage to find a seat in one of the back booths. Of all the pubs I have visited in London, the Grey Goose is my favourite. It manages to balance Old World charm in its fixtures and fittings with great food and service. And there is always a nice crowd in, which I think is largely down to Jackson’s influence. But tonight I am only concentrating on hiding out.

  My drink slides down quickly, and it slowly starts to take the edge off my increasingly spiky thoughts. I order another double, and the world starts to take on a palatable glow. Time seems to slow down as I make my way back to the bar for another.

  “Um, maybe just a single this time, hey, Abby?” Jackson queries, a look of concern on his face. “And maybe a glass of water?”

  I consider getting angry, but then somehow common sense tells me to go with the flow. “Sure, Jackson, whatever you say.” I beam back at him. My legs are a little wobbly as I head back to the table. I curse the uneven floor, and a little of my drink spills. “Oops!” I say out loud, not sure who I am talking to.

  I find my seat and sip my vodka slowly, ignoring my water. My vision starts to get hazy, and I think I start to hallucinate as I look up and find myself staring at Taylor. I blink several times to clear the image, but it stubbornly refuses to shift. “Going bloody crazy,” I mumble to myself. My Taylor vision shifts from foot to foot and then slides into the booth opposite me.

  “Abby, are you okay?” my vision asks.

  “Stupid, drunk Abby, seeing things,” I mutter.

  “Abby, seriously, are you okay?”

  “Humph. Fine, thank you, Taylor vision,” I reply, wondering why my hallucination is talking to me. I stare up into his eyes. “Taylor has such nice eyes, like chocolate. Hmmm, don’t tell real Taylor I said that. He doesn’t like me,” I say sadly, shaking my head. “Not at all.”

  “Okay, Abby, I think it is time we took you home.” Gently Taylor tugs my hand as he slides out of the booth. He helps me to my feet, wrapping my scarf round my neck. The world starts to spin, and suddenly I start to feel sick. The last thing I hear before everything goes black is Taylor’s muttered “Fuck!”

  The Fourth

  Muted light streams onto my face as I slowly become conscious. Images from last night start to flit through my head, and I start to sort through them one at a time, piecing together my journey from work to the pub to…shit. I slowly open one eye and then the other, knowing by the citrus scent around me that I am not at home in my own bed. Gingerly I move my head, waiting for the full impact of my hangover to hit. My head aches, but my stomach feels okay, so I prop myself up onto my elbows, taking in my surroundings. The exposed brick walls and the skylights confirm my worst fears…I am in Taylor’s bed.

  I look around for him, straining my ears for the smallest sound, but there is nothing. I suddenly realise that while I am still in my top and pants, my jeans are missing. I push back the squishy duvet and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. My stomach rolls, but I maintain control of the motion. It is only then that I notice my jeans hanging over the chair neatly along with my coat and scarf and with shoes underneath. I scurry over and start pulling everything on with haste, half expecting Taylor to come through the door at any moment. My bag is sitting on the table beside the bed, and I dig through it, trying to retrieve my phone.

  Glancing at the time, I realise that if I don’t get a move on, I am going to be late meeting my parents at the airport. I suddenly realise I need to pee, and I glance around, trying to locate a bathroom. In the corner I notice a sliding door, and as I investigate further, it opens into the biggest en-suite I have ever seen. The room is at least the size of the bedroom and is dominated by a free-standing egg bath in the centre of the room, just like the ones I have coveted in those expensive interior design magazines. In one corner a large shower cubicle hosts a large rainforest shower with a multitude of jets and even a bench for sitting on, while a large cabinet and sink sit in the other corner. The décor is neutral, echoing the colours of the bedroom, but as the sun shifts from behind some clouds in the sky, the light through the skylights creates shadows and accents, changing the feel completely.

  I quickly use the toilet, and when I wash my hands, the familiar scent of Taylor tickles my senses. I return to the bedroom, and it is only then that I fully take in the fact that both sides of the bed are rumpled, which I can only suppose means that Taylor slept in there too. My heart lurches at the thought, and despite my pounding head and rolling stomach, I suddenly feel a rush of warmth in my pelvis. I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts flooding through, hurriedly make the bed and make my way out the bedroom door. I find myself in a short corridor that leads into the main living area. Parched, I make my way to the kitchen to grab some water when I spy a glass of chilled juice and a bottle of headache tablets sitting on the counter with a note:

  Morning, Abby!

  Hope the hangover is not too hairy this morning. Take these with the juice and you should feel a whole lot better.

  Taylor

  P.S. You talk in your sleep.

  Oh. My. God. What the hell did I say? I am mortified, but at least there is the relief that Taylor is not here in person. I quickly take a couple of the tablets and down the juice in one long gulp. It is delicious, and almost immediately I start to feel better. Another glance at my phone tells me that nine o’clock is fast approaching, and I realise I need to get out of here before my work colleagues start arriving. I quickly gather up my bag and coat, and head for Taylor’s private lift, offering up a silent prayer that no one will be about. It takes me a minute to remember that Taylor is at his meeting, presenting my report, and I feel terrible that he had to look after me in such a state. As for the reason I got myself into that state, well, I am desperately trying to block that part out.

  It seems that Lady Luck is on my side as I manage to escape the building unscathed. Rounding the corner, I quickly dial Eddy to explain the situation to him. The kind boss that he is, he is mortified when he realises that despite everything, I still came into the office to do the work he asked for. Eddy insists I take the whole week off, but I know I’ll go stir-crazy at home, so we reach a compromise of a couple of days.

  Realising that I am doing okay for time, I head back to my flat for a quick shower and change of clothes as I can smell the booze and the dreadful aroma of old washing on me. I am just drying my hair and twisting it up when my phone rings, stirring me out of my depressing thoughts. I don’t recognise the number, so I let it go to voicemail with a view to checking once I get out the door. Finally dressed, I chuck my horrible clothes in the washing pile and head out in search of a bacon sandwich and caffeine, the ultimate hangover cure, and make my way to the station once more.

  .........................

  I close my eyes and try to breathe slowly. In through the
nose and out through the mouth. I continue this mantra, fighting to control the rising bile as I stand in Nonna’s kitchen, the image of her lying prone on the floor stark in my consciousness. I can hear my mum crying in the living room, something she has pretty much done since meeting at the airport. My dad is offering soft words of support. And I am just standing here, wondering why this happened and why I didn’t do anything to prevent it. Maybe if I had done resuscitation like they do on TV, I could have saved her before the paramedics arrived. All I know, she is dead and I did nothing to save her. The guilt is eating me up inside.

  I hear a phone ring, and my dad is talking softly to the person on the other end. At least, my mum has stopped sobbing, and a few words float through to me: aneurysm, previous history, unpreventable. I don’t really understand what any of this means, so I carry on trying to breathe, my arms wrapped tightly around my waist.

  Having not heard anyone approach, I start as I realise there is a hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes, and my dad is standing in front of me, looking at me with sad grey eyes.

  “Oh, sweetheart, come here.” He envelops me in a big hug and slowly explains the coroner’s findings. That Nonna had known that she had an aneurysm in her brain, that the doctors had decided not to operate due to its location, that it was a ticking time bomb in her head.

  “But I couldn’t save her!” I wail.

  “Sweetheart, you could never have saved her. She was dead before she hit the ground.” Dad’s words bring me little comfort, and despite the radiator warming the room, I continue to shiver. My mum comes into the room, and I can see that she has made an effort to pull herself together.

  “Right,” she says, trying to inject some brightness into her voice. “Next step, funeral. Now, Nonna would have hated us moping and weeping, so it is up to us to give her the send-off she deserves.” I know Mum is right. Nonna was the most cheerful, content person I have ever known. She would have hated the thought of us standing here in tears.

  As Mum starts prattling away about flowers and food, she starts looking through the kitchen drawer where Nonna kept all her important documents. It is such a random place, and I was always trying to convince Nonna to get a little filing cabinet or something. Well, it was too late now. I brush away a few stray tears as I watch Mum pull out a document holder.

  “Got it!” she exclaims. “I knew Nonna would be too stubborn to let us sort this out ourselves.” In her hand she is holding out a brochure for a funeral home, and inside is what looks like documentation for her funeral. “Typical Mamma, she’s chosen everything, even the music!” With her usual efficiency Mum is off to ring the funeral directors before anyone can get in a word edgeways. Feeling useless, I motion to my father that I am going to go for a walk to the beach. He nods, knowing that while he and my mum are gregarious and love being round people, I am essentially a loner and need some time to process.

  The sea breeze whips my hair into a frenzy matching the swirl of thoughts in my head. I am swamped by the sadness I am feeling, so I walk and walk, trying ineffectively to calm my chaotic emotions. I am only gone half an hour, but by the time I enter Nonna’s front door, it would seem that everything is in hand and the funeral is set for Friday.

  With nothing left to do, it is agreed that I will head back to London and return on Thursday evening. My parents have to catch the next flight back out to Spain to finish off the filming for the commercial that they were in the middle of when I called. So we say our goodbyes and head our separate ways. To say I feel alone and a little lost is somewhat of an understatement.

  The Fifth

  I wake with a start, sweat dripping and tears rolling down my face. I struggle to catch my breath as I try to dispel the overwhelming urge to bury my head back into my pillow and sob my heart out. I didn’t think I had this much water in me, but it would appear the faucets have been opened and nothing will stop the tears from leaking out.

  Sleep did not come easy. Whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was Nonna lying there dead. I am unsure as to what time I eventually fell asleep, but my dreams meant that I spent a restless night tossing and turning.

  A glance at the clock tells me that, despite the darkness, morning is here and it is time to get up. I shower and dress, my choice of clothing reflecting my dark mood and matching the dark circles under my eyes. I try to choke down a slice of toast, but my appetite has deserted me. I fill my travel mug with coffee and head out to the bus stop, knowing that I am still too early for work but not wanting to stay in my tiny, claustrophobic flat a moment longer.

  By some miracle, it would seem that London’s public transport system is running like clockwork, so instead of my normal forty-five minutes of commuter hell, I am delivered to the office by eight o’clock. The office is still in semi-darkness as I make my way quietly to my desk, and I am grateful to have some time to lose myself in my emails and the reports waiting for my attention.

  As the office fills, I am greeted with quiet condolences and a few hugs, which bring tears to my eyes; I wasn’t aware that half these people even knew I existed. Eddy admonishes me, telling me to take more time. But the understanding in his eyes when I explain that I just don’t want to be at home by myself makes me feel a little better.

  “You didn’t return my call.” Taylors voice startles me from the figures I have been engrossed in. I look up at him without comprehension.

  “Sorry?”

  “I left you a voicemail yesterday. You didn’t return my call.” He drops his voice lower so that no one can hear him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay after…well, after Sunday night, and of course Eddy told me about your grandmother.” Taylor looks at me expectantly, and I struggle to find my voice.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to inject some life into my expression. “Thanks for looking after me. I hope I didn’t puke on you or anything.”

  “You are a very well-behaved drunk, Abby, nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  A thought crosses my mind, and I suddenly feel my cheeks heating up. “Um, we didn’t, um, do anything, did we?” I can hear the desperation in my voice and feel completely mortified. “Only it looked like you slept with me…”

  “Rest assured I don’t take advantage of my employees when they are passed out drunk in my bed, even if I don’t seem to be able to control my behaviour around you when you are awake.” Taylor’s face remains unreadable, and I am not sure how to take this. His tone of voice gives nothing away. As if he is suddenly aware of my vulnerability, he softens his expression and continues, “I had you in the recovery position and wanted to make sure you weren’t ill. Longest damn night of my life.”

  Embarrassed, it is all I can do to whisper a muted “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing. But are you sure you should be here? Don’t you want to be with your family?”

  “Nonna was pretty much my whole family. My mum and dad are in Spain, filming, and won’t be back until Friday, when the funeral is. Um, is it okay to take the day as holiday?” I am suddenly unsure what the protocol for this is.

  “Don’t be daft. Just take the day.” Taylor offers a reassuring smile. “Now, are you sure you want to be here?” he questions again.

  “I just need to work, Taylor.” I give him a shaky smile, and I know Taylor is not convinced, but he seems ready to let it go.

  “But if it gets too much, make sure you take some time, okay?” Taylor leans across my desk and squeezes my hand. The gesture is not at all romantic, but the heat generated from the small touch sends tingles through me. I know he feels it too as he whips his hand back and stalks off without a word and with a very neutral face.

  The morning passes in a blur, and it is only when Michelle is standing in front of me, holding out a sandwich, that I realise it is lunchtime.

  “I got you this, sweetie. Didn’t think you would be up for the lunchtime bun fight.”

  “Thanks, hon. You are a star.”

  Michelle pulls over a spare chair, sits down and hands me a drink. We sit
in silence for a few minutes, chewing on our respective sandwiches. My throat feels tight and I struggle to swallow. Eventually, I give up and put the sandwich down with a sigh.

  “You have to eat, Abs. You look dreadful!” Tactful as ever, Michelle knows how to get straight to the heart of the matter. “Your Nonna would be seriously pissed if she saw you like this!”

  I raise a weak smile. “I know.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  I shake my head. “Thanks for the offer, hon, but Mum and Dad have everything sorted for Friday. I just have to write my eulogy. Nonna pretty much planned it all before she died. I think that because she knew it was coming, she got it all sorted so it would be exactly how she wanted it.”

  We return to a comfortable silence, and I am grateful to have such an amazing friend. Michelle finishes off her lunch and tidies away. “Try and eat something later for me, okay?”

  “I’ll try,” I reassure her, knowing that however tempting my favourite chicken-and-avocado sandwich looks, there is no way I am going to be able to force it past the giant lump in my throat. Michelle gives me a quick hug and then heads back to her desk upstairs, leaving me to my thoughts.

  As much as I try to bury myself in my work, my mind keeps coming back to the eulogy I have promised to write. I want to do Nonna and my mum proud, but I am just not sure where to begin. I try several attempts but each one seems weak, and I realise I am hardly full of inspiration, so I hit Delete and go back to completing a report that I could do in my sleep. With a determined effort I lose myself, and the next time I glance at the clock, it is eight in the evening and it is dark outside. I seem to be making a habit of this, so the security guard says nothing about it when I wish him a good evening on my way out.

  The silence of my flat is uncomfortable, so I turn on some music and do the one thing guaranteed to soothe my ravaged soul: I bake. The hours fly by as I whip up cakes, biscuits, tart after tart and chocolate éclairs, all in the confines of my tiny attic studio. When at last there is literally no room for anything to cool, I stop. I realise I haven’t eaten properly as I nibble on a chocolate-chip hazelnut cookie, but I no longer have the energy to do anything but turn the light out and lie down fully clothed on my futon. I pull the quilt that Nonna made for me over my head and succumb to the tears that have been threatening all day. When at last I am spent, I fall into a fractured sleep full of dreams of rotting corpses.