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  The lift dings and we start our ascent toward the operating room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A few minutes later, my hands and arms have been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives, and I’m wearing a rather trendy tunic and trouser outfit (by Chanel, this time) in Egyptian cotton.

  “The patient’s ready, Doctor.” A nurse pops her head between the operating room doors.

  “Great. Thank you.” Peter’s all business now, tying a mask over his mouth. I do the same, trying not to gag as I breathe in its starchy smell. What, they could get designer gowns, but they couldn’t fashion something better than this?

  “Ready?” Peter turns toward me, eyes serious. “Just stay in the corner. Don’t ask any questions or try to talk.” His words are muffled through the mask.

  “Okay,” I say, suddenly terrified. I can’t even bear to watch Extreme Makeover. How on earth am I going to witness someone I know being torn to bits in front of me? I have to, I tell myself, wiping my sweaty palms on my tunic. I’m a reporter now, and I need the detail. If it bleeds, it leads. Blood is a good thing. People love it!

  “Let’s go.” Peter elbows his way through the swinging metal doors. I take a deep breath then follow him into the operating room.

  The first thing I notice is how bright the lights are, and how white it is. Everything gleams, as if it’s been polished a million times (it probably has), and there’s not a scratch, scuff or fingerprint anywhere. If ever there was a place I’d want to have my face removed and put back on again, then this would be it. Suddenly I’m not quite so nervous. The OR is like something out of a space ship, Peter’s a brilliant surgeon, and I’m not even sure they allow things to go wrong here.

  I let out my breath and look toward the centre of the room. Jeremy’s stretched out on a table, covered up to the shoulders in a sheet – no doubt designed by Dolce&Gabbana. Except for the tube running into his arm and the man standing behind Jeremy’s head monitoring a bevy of beeping machines, Jeremy could be sleeping. Okay. This isn’t so scary.

  “Ready?” Peter looks at the nurses. They nod, their twin chignon-heads bobbing up and down in unison.

  “Scalpel, please,” Peter says, just like in the movies. The nurse hands him a scary-looking metallic instrument, and my face screws up in anticipation of Peter cutting into poor Jeremy’s skin. I know he won’t feel a thing, but still . . .

  Peter makes an incision under Jeremy’s left eye and a nurse dabs away the blood. Then Peter pulls back the skin flap to reveal blood and something yellowy – fat, I presume – and a wave of nausea rolls over me. Gross. I gulp in some air, forcing myself to watch as Peter neatly removes extra skin and fat, then stitches up the incision.

  He starts in on the right eye, and this time I’m able to observe without the threat of vomit. Still, there’s no way I would voluntarily do this for a living. I’d never be able to detach myself from the fact that it’s a living person I’m pulling apart.

  Peter’s just sewing up the bit underneath the right eye when there’s a bleep from a machine behind Jeremy’s head. The man monitoring them springs to his feet.

  “Shit!” He fiddles with the device’s buttons and knobs.

  My heart jumps into my throat. I’m no expert, but I can’t imagine ‘shit’ means something good.

  “Patient’s aspiration levels have dropped to a critical level,” the man says in a controlled voice. Suddenly the relaxed feeling in the OR disappears.

  “Decrease anaesthetic,” Peter snaps.

  “I have,” the man shoots back. “But he’s not responding. All the levels were fine until now. Must be an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic.”

  Everything stops as a silence like nothing I’ve ever known fills my ears. My heart thumps and I start to count to ten, just like Mom always instructed me to do when faced with something scary. When you get to that final number, she’d said, everything will be better. Granted, I was seven when she told me that, but it’s always worked for me.

  One.

  The man’s eyes are glued to the monitor and my breath comes in shallow gasps.

  Two.

  Everything will be fine. It will.

  “Well? Is he responding?” Peter barks.

  Three.

  The man behind the monitor shakes his head.

  Four.

  Come on, Jeremy, I plead with his silent form on the bed. Come on! This is your dream. You need to be okay.

  Five.

  Halfway there. He’s got to come around.

  Six.

  “He’s back. Normal aspiration.”

  I let out my breath and lean against the wall, my heart galloping faster than a race horse. Thank God, I think, as my pulse slows. I knew Jeremy would pull through before I got to ten. I knew it! Whatever the crisis was, it’s over.

  “Thank you,” Peter says, although his tone suggests anything but. “How long without aspiration?”

  “About two to three minutes.” The man shakes his head.

  “Fuck,” Peter hisses in a tight voice. My eyebrows fly up. I’ve never heard him swear in a professional context. “Serenity, wait out there.” He points toward the door.

  “But–”

  “Now!” Peter’s expression leaves no room for argument and I don’t want to distract him from whatever’s happening with Jeremy, so I slink through the doors, trying to figure out what’s going on. Something to do with the anaesthetic – did they give him too much? Or too little? That’s not such a big deal, is it? Jeremy will be all right, and this incident will add a bit of drama to my column. We’ll have a laugh about it tomorrow, when he’s resting comfortably eating whatever yummy meal the hospital chef has prepared.

  I cross my fingers, praying I’m right. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

  A few long – very long – minutes later, Peter bursts through the operating room doors. He jerks when he sees me, as if he forgot I’m here.

  “So? Is Jeremy okay?” I need to hear Peter say everything’s fine.

  He peels off his mask and gloves, washing his hands in silence until I can bear it no longer.

  “Peter!”

  Sighing, he turns toward me, his face anxious and tense. “No. No, Jeremy’s not okay.”

  My heart drops and my pulse starts pounding. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “You know how some people are really sensitive to pollen or seafood? They respond in a way that’s different to normal people.” Peter dries his hands.

  I nod, desperate for him to hurry up and get to the point.

  “Well, Jeremy’s hypersensitive to anaesthetic.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “It means that the amount we gave him – based on his weight, age, etcetera – was too much. And when someone has too much anaesthetic, the brain can’t get the amount of oxygen it needs to function normally.”

  I watch Peter’s mouth move but I can’t quite piece it all together. “So what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It’s like drowning. If the brain goes without oxygen for too long, certain centres like speech and mobility can be affected.”

  “How long was Jeremy without oxygen?” I’m almost afraid to ask.

  “We reckon around three minutes. Long enough to suffer some damage.” Peter’s face is serious.

  I sag against a wall. Jeremy, brain damaged? My stomach flips, and for a second, I’m certain I’m going to throw up. “What damage has he suffered?” I croak, bracing myself to hear Peter’s words.

  “We won’t know until he regains consciousness,” Peter says. “He’ll be moved into Critical Care for observation.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Family only,” Peter responds brusquely. “Although it’s not common, hypersensitivity to anaesthetic does happen. They know how to deal with it there.”

  I nod numbly. I don’t care how frequently it happens. All I care is that it happened to Jeremy.

  “Why don’t you go home now. I’ve got another
surgery in thirty minutes, anyway.” Peter starts stripping off his scrubs, as if he’s already forgotten about poor Jeremy lying prostrate in Critical Care.

  He notices my expression and sighs. “Complications can happen, Serenity, I told you. It’s part of medicine. Now go on.” Peter gives me a little push toward the door, as if I’m Smitty. “I’ll see you later tonight. I’ll fill you in on Jeremy then.” He turns to the sink again, dismissing me.

  I stare at his back, unable to believe he can be so cold. Sure, Peter doesn’t know Jeremy like I do, but he’s so damn clinical about the whole thing, as if Jeremy’s just one damaged cog on the surgical production line. Which, in a way, he is.

  In a daze, I change from my scrubs, then go out into the gleaming corridor and over to a little kiosk in the corner, serving – I squint at the food inside the case – caviar and sushi, along with a full menu of imported sake. Suddenly I’m disgusted by this place and its over-the-top wealth and luxury. It’s just tempting fate to step in and make something go wrong.

  I collapse onto a distressed leather chair. Funny, until I asked, I’ve never heard Peter mention to any patient that something could go wrong during surgery. It’s always been about the outcome: how wonderful they’ll look; how they’ll appear ten years younger. If this anaesthetic thing happens as much as Peter says it does, shouldn’t he be telling patients about it?

  But as much as I want to pin the blame on Peter for what’s happened to Jeremy, there’s one thought blaring in my head. It presses down on me, filtering through every pore and making me shiver with guilt. I was the one who convinced Jeremy to go through with the surgery. Part of the reason he’s lying in Critical Care is because of me.

  There’s no way I’m going home. No way. I’ll get into Critical Care somehow to see Jeremy, to sit beside him so he’s not alone, even if he doesn’t know I’m there.

  Wiping away the tears that have gathered in my eyes, I stand up, full of determination. Heading to the interactive information stand beside the lift, I scroll through the hospital departments until I locate Critical Care on the eighth floor.

  As the lift rises, I rehearse my story. I’ll pretend I’m Jeremy’s sister, and hopefully that should do the trick. If it doesn’t, well, I’ll sneak back into the OR, grab my scrubs, and impersonate a doctor if I need to. I can’t let Jeremy lie there alone.

  I walk out into a blinding white corridor with the same grand chandelier as in reception. Potted orchids grace every surface, and the whole thing feels more like an upscale boutique hotel than the Critical Care department of a hospital.

  “Hello.” Yet another blonde nurse behind a bamboo desk smiles at me with just the right mix of sympathy and empathy. “Can I help?”

  “I’m Jeremy Ritchie’s sister. From America,” I add quickly, remembering my accent might be a tip-off I’m lying. “I believe he was brought to Critical Care after an operation about twenty minutes ago?” I try to look trustworthy but – as always when I lie – my face flushes.

  The nurse’s expression doesn’t alter, but her eyes narrow slightly. “Just let me check our records.” She taps away at a Mac then glances up. “Can I see some ID, please? Sometimes we get paparazzi trying to sneak in.” Her mouth twists like she’s tasted something foul.

  “Yes, those vultures, I know. They stop at nothing,” I say, my cheeks getting even redder. I make a show of searching in my handbag for identification. “I’m sure I have something in here. Just a second . . .” My eyes widen in horror as the notebook I’d shoved in my bag clunks onto the floor.

  The nurse stands, peering over the desk. “Did you drop something?” She spots my notebook. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s just, it’s just my journal. Journaling’s all the rage in the States.” I smile shakily, willing her to believe me. At least my accent is helpful this time.

  “I need to see some identification,” she repeats, sitting back down.

  “Um, I don’t have any with me. Sorry. I never thought of bringing ID to the hospital.” That much is true, anyway. “Please let me see my brother. I’m really worried about him.”

  Something in my expression must ring true, because the nurse waves me past the desk. “Mr Ritchie is in suite ten. Please use the disinfectant gel outside each room before entering.”

  I nod then race down the corridor, past numbers one, two, three . . . I pause for a second outside suite ten, wondering what Jeremy will look like. In my mind, he’s all wound up in bandages like a mummy or a car-crash victim, but realistically I know Peter only did the bags under Jeremy’s eyes before disaster struck. The real damage is inside his head.

  Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I rub a squirt of gel from the silver wall dispenser into my hands, then push open the door.

  Inside the spacious room, the light is dim and although they’ve made an effort to keep up the cool – with modern art on the walls and a glass sculpture in one corner – nothing can disguise the row of machines and the high hospital bed. This is a room for a very ill person.

  “Jeremy?” I whisper as I walk on tiptoes toward the bed. The room is silent except for the beep of monitors, and it feels like I’ve crawled into a cocoon, where the outside world doesn’t exist. Nothing exists but Jeremy, lying here in front of me.

  Wow. If I thought he was pale before the operation, this gives the word a whole new meaning. Even the hospital sheet has a healthy glow compared to him. Angry bruises make his eyes resemble a raccoon’s, and the stitches underneath . . . I wince at the neat black thread piercing angry-looking skin. But apart from that – and the tube running into his arm, along with the various machines he’s hooked up to – he could be resting.

  Except he’s not. I slump onto a retro-patterned chair beside the bed, unable to take my eyes off him. Maybe he’ll be fine when he wakes up. No one really knows what happens in the brain, right? It’s still a mystery. And people can go without oxygen for a long time – what about that David Blaine dude? He went up to, like, seven minutes or something holding his breath. Anything is possible.

  I watch Jeremy’s chest rise and fall, then lean over to take his hand. God, it’s freezing. I rub his fingers between my hands to try to warm them up, then place his hand back under the sheet and cover it with my own. I sit like that for hours, observing Jeremy’s still, bruised face, and praying he’ll be okay when he awakens.

  The shrill ring of my mobile jerks me from my trance. I answer it quickly, ducking out into the corridor.

  “Hello?” I whisper.

  “How’s the column coming?” Leza’s sharp nasal tone blares out at me and I hold the phone away from my ear. Oh God, the column. With everything that’s happened, writing it has been the last thing on my mind.

  “I’m sorry, Leza. There were complications with the surgery, and Jeremy’s still not awake.” I cross my fingers for the millionth time that when he does come to, everything will be all right.

  “Complications?” she interrupts. “Like what?” Instead of sounding angry, her voice is kind of . . . happy.

  “Well, Jeremy had a reaction to the anaesthetic. The doctors think he may have suffered brain damage as a result.” I lean back against the cool wall, struggling to breathe against the heavy weight on my chest.

  “Brain damage?” Now Leza sounds downright gleeful. A flash of anger goes through me. How can someone be giddy about brain damage? “What kind of brain damage?”

  “They don’t know yet. The doctors are waiting for Jeremy to wake up to assess him.”

  “This is good shit, Serenity. Seriously good shit.”

  Good shit? Jeremy lying in bed, damaged, is good shit? I try to form words to respond, but my mind can’t even begin to conjure up anything coherent.

  “Hang tight there, Serenity,” Leza continues. “Discover the extent of the damage. Jeremy should wake up in the next few hours, right? Write the column, and add in the damaged bits once you find out. Even if it’s just a bloody eyelid twitch, I want to know. We couldn’t have asked for
a better story, really. This is drama at its best, and our readers deserve to know everything.”

  I shake my head, unable to process what she’s saying. Leza wants me to offer up Jeremy on a plate because our readers deserve it?

  “Serenity? Serenity! You’re not getting wussy on me, are you? You wanted to be a tabloid reporter. This is what tabloid reporters do. Forget the Monday deadline – get me the copy by eleven tonight, and that job is yours. I want to make a big splash with this tomorrow morning.”

  Thoughts swim round my head like caffeinated goldfish. If I can do this, the job will be mine. Everything I’ve wanted – a full-fledged reporter on London’s top tabloid. But–

  “Or should I get Mia onto it?” Leza’s voice is low and threatening.

  My head snaps up. Mia? “No. No, I’ll do it.” The words fly out of my mouth.

  “Good.” The line goes dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I stare at the phone in my hand, feeling like I’ve done a deal with the devil: Jeremy, in exchange for my coveted job. Kind of like that Faustus guy who offered his soul in return for knowledge. I shiver, remembering what happened to him in the end. Let’s just say it wasn’t good.

  Easing open the door to Jeremy’s room, I slink over to the corner. The room is deathly silent, and the chair squeaks loudly as I shift on its hard surface.

  Right. I can do this, I say to myself as I flip open my notebook. I’m a reporter; I need to act like one. Dream it, live it. I’m pretty sure Mom might not approve of me using her mantra in this instance, but hey, a mantra is a mantra.

  Tapping my pen on the pad, I try not to stare at Jeremy’s pale face or his unmoving body – or think about those terrible moments on the operating table, when the doctors struggled to get oxygen back to his brain. But the more I try to push away the memories, the more they demand centre stage.

  I slam the notebook closed and walk over to the window, drawing in deep breaths. It’s not like I’m using Jeremy’s real name. It’s perfectly anonymous – and Jeremy will be fine. All I need to do is concentrate on separating the broken man in front of me from James, the fictional guy in my column. I sit and open my notebook again.