Page 92 of Road Trip to the Riviera
‘Ah, I see. Amnesia.’ There’s something in Mum’s tone that makes me wonder.
‘Doyouknow what he was doing?’
‘No, I couldn’t say.’
But I’m familiar with Mum’s avoidance. ‘Couldn’t say or don’t know?’
‘Just ask him again, Sarah.’
And I can’t get her to engage with it any more.
I give Peter a ring and update him. He’s sympathetic and tells me not to worry about work. I have one of my paranoid moments where I worry that everything is going rather too well without me. I prefer to think of myself as irreplaceable. But then I remember it’s my firm, so nobody’s going to be firing me.
Then, seeing that it’s past lunchtime and afternoon visiting hours will be starting, I make my way back to Hal’s room.
At first, when I knock and there’s no answer, I wonder whether he’s asleep. After one more tentative knock, I turn the handle and push the door open gently. Only to find a vacant bed, made up for the next patient.
I check the number on the door – it’s definitely right – then walk to the nurses’ station. There’s a man in scrubs tapping away on a computer and I wait for a moment for him to finish. He looks up. ‘Oui?’
‘Monsieur Noakes?’ I say. ‘Um. He’s gone?’
He shakes his head, not understanding.
I try an elaborate mime, me opening the door, the room being empty. ‘Hal Noakes.’ I add slowly.
‘Ah!’ A smile of understanding breaks out over his face. ‘Monsieur Noakes!’ He nods his head.
‘Yes. Where is he?’ I say slowly, putting my hand above my eyes and miming looking around.
‘Parti.’
‘Gone?’
‘Oui. Gone.’
I’m just wondering how to mime the phrase ‘Where has he gone to?’ and trying to imagine how on earth I’ll understand any reply, when a nurse I recognise returns to the station.
‘Madame Noakes?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I lie.
‘Ah, your husband has just left. You must have missed him.’
‘He’s been discharged?’
She makes a face from which I ascertain she wasn’t thrilled at the fact he’s left. Nor am I if I’m honest. And what is he doing leaving without calling me. I check my phone, but there’s nothing.
Smiling to cover my embarrassment, I thank her and make my way to the lift, my crutch clicking on the shiny floor. Hopefully he’ll just be waiting in reception for me. Perhaps he’s giving me a call right now.
But the reception is empty apart from an elderly lady pushing another woman in a wheelchair.
I speed walk past them and through the double doors. There are cars, one or two people in scrubs, a taxi. An ambulance has pulled up and someone is being unloaded on a gurney. But no sign of Hal.
I try to call but his phone rings out. I send a text. WHERE ARE YOU? Then I realise, of course, that his phone’s still somewhere in the crushed hulk that used to be Betty. The thought of it brings a lump to my throat. It so easily could have been worse.
With nothing else for it, I decide to return to the hotel to wait him out. I’ve just made it to the end of the driveway at thefront of the building, however, when I see a familiar figure in the distance, travelling slowly on two crutches. He’s just at the corner of the road, but it’s definitely him.
‘Hal!’ I call. But he’s too far away.
