Page 112 of The Last Kiss

“Whatever,” I grumble.

“Julia.” Liv squeezes my hand. “Henri loves you. I think he loves you so much he can’t bear to watch you go through this. You should have seen him when I got to the hospital. He was destroyed. He looked like a madman, hair all wild, face savaged with worry.”

A little sigh escapes my lips. “Can we not talk about him again?”

The squeeze turns into a pat. “Sure.”

“I mean, if he really loved me, he would have been brave enough to face this with me. He’s probably with Odile right now, making his mother happy.”

“Jules, I don’t think—”

“Let’s not mention him again. He doesn’t exist anymore, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m planning on dropping down dead to the floor like his dad did. I’m planning for this to be a civilised affair. I’ll just eek out like a ghost in the night.”

“Julia, you did drop down on the floor in front of him. How the hell did you keep your tablets a secret while living in the same room as him?”

“Let’s not…”

“I know. Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

I’m aware of Liv turning and speaking to the faceless nurse who’s riding with us. I’ve no idea who they are, apart from the odd blur of white. A true professional. A cool rush spreads up my arm from the cannula at my elbow.

‘Jules, you have to sleep.”

“No. I don’t want to sleep.”

It’s too late though, darkness is edging in, walking spindly fingers into my consciousness. No. Please don’t make it dark. I clutch her hand, fighting against it.

“Liv, how did you pay for the ambulance?” It’s the last thought I can round up before a void of black steals me away. She’s going to kill me for not having travel insurance.

I know we are in London before I’ve opened my eyes. The air is different, cool on my face. May in London is worlds apart from May in the South of France.

Bollocks. I block thoughts of honeysuckle and marigolds.

“Julianna Brown. What have you been doing?”

I groan at Dr Francis.

“Just catching some sun.” I try to smile but my mouth won’t move.

“I said a relaxed break, not having major heart attacks. I don’t know how you survived.”

Henri.

His name whispers through my brain like wisteria in a breeze.

“Sorry,” I grumble. I’m vaguely aware of some shifting of the bed, a heave and a ho, and then I’m planted back down again, opening my eyes to the London hospital I spent so much time in two years ago.

“Right then, obs, rest, and I’ll be back shortly to chat.”

I roll my eyes. What are we chatting about? “We don’t need to spin this out. You can just tell me how long right now.”

Dr Francis wiggles his grey brows. “How can I do that without your obs? You’re feisty this morning, Julianna.”

It’s childish but I pull a face.