Page 58 of Chasing Storm
Thatcher hastily stands up and joins them.
“He is critical but stable,” he says to Thatcher’s mum quietly.
She nods, trying to hold back the tears.
I chew my lip and fold my arms, leaning over to brace myself in case there is anything worse than that to come.
They continue talking in hushed tones, but I feel dad has lowered his voice after his initial sentence so that I heard him.
He continues providing more details and information on the prognosis as they listen attentively.
The atmosphere relaxes, the tension and worry slowly dissipating as Thatcher and his mum smile at each other. I sigh in relief. I’ve never been around death before. This is a first of what I hope is very few. I’m not cut out to be so anxious and on edge.
JP sits down next to me and smiles. “I’ll take you back home. You can change and get something to eat.”
“I’m okay. I want to stay here.”
“Go,” Thatcher says, coming back over. “It’s just going to be us sitting around some more.”
“That’s okay.”
“I adore you for saying that, but really, it’s boring as all fuck. Take a break. You’ve been here for six hours for a man you don’t even know.”
“I want to be here for you.” Even though I could do with going to change out of this too-pretty-for-hospital outfit, I get the feeling he is trying to push me away. My lower lip quivers slightly, but he crouches in front of me.
“Storm, you being here for the past few hours has given me strength that was waning and the ability to keep hanging on for my mum. You have been everything to me. I’m not pushing you away, I’m telling you to take a break.”
I cup his face and lean forward to press my lips to his for a moment. “Are you sure? My feet are killing me.” I smile to show I’m joking. Sort of. These shoes are murder. “I’ll change and be right back.”
“Perfect.” He smiles and rubs his thumb along the line of my lip, teasing me.
I nod and stand as he does too. JP takes my hand and, with a slight smile at Thatcher’s mum, whose name I found out is Carole when we were introduced a few hours ago, I let him lead me downstairs and to the entrance. Expecting to wait for another taxi, I’m mildly surprised when he carries on walking to the car park and stops in front of an old Jaguar that is so low-slung, I know I’m going to struggle to get in with these shoes on. Shrugging, I remove them and open the door when he unlocks it, getting in with ease in my bare feet.
“Fancy,” I half-mock him. “Daddy’s?”
He snorts. “Dad doesn’t drive himself anywhere anymore. No, this is mine. I don’t drive it often, but taking taxis everywhere is a bit of a pain sometimes. All that waiting around.”
“I don’t drive at all,” I say, suddenly wishing I did so I could take this baby for a spin. It roars to life with a sound that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Do you want to learn?” he asks, pulling out of the space.
“Nah, not really. I live and work in Notting Hill. I don’t really have a reason to drive anywhere.”
“Good enough reasons. It’s why I don’t bother much as well.”
“What do you do for a living?” I’m curious. I don’t know much about any of them, except the really big stuff.
“I don’t work. I make money on the markets.”
It takes me a few seconds to realise he doesn’t mean a stall on Portobello Road.
“Oh, you are a fancy fucker, aren’t you?” I say with a giggle.
He laughs. “I have my moments.”
The atmosphere on the way home is decidedly less intense than it was in the hospital as we chat about mundane things. I’m trying to avoid discussing the kiss we shared. I wonder if he is doing the same.
A few minutes later, he is pulling up outside my flat, and he cuts the engine.
