Page 87 of Je T'aime, Actually

seventy-three

It was Monroe behind the wheel when the ferry docked. The grey light of early morning reached across the water as they followed the slow crawl of vehicles onto British soil.

She hadn’t really slept—an hour, maybe, curled uncomfortably on the backseat while the car vibrated beneath her. Chloé had looked exhausted, hollow-eyed and quiet as she pulled into the lone service station they’d stumbled on hours ago for coffee, insisting Monroe at least rest.

On the ferry, they’d drunk more coffee, bitter and scalding, more necessity than comfort. Now, with her hands tight on the wheel, Monroe felt wired, too alert and too numb, all at once.

The rhythm of the wipers matched the beat of her thoughts as Monroe pushed the car onto the motorway as fast as she dared.

At this hour, the world was only just waking; early shifts just starting up, delivery vans, fully loaded, crawling along as fast as they could go. The road wasn’t too busy—yet. But heading up the M2 towards the M25, that would change unless she detoured across the countryside.

Focusing on the road and on the Satnav kept her mind from straying too much, but she couldn’t stop it completely from picturing Poppy…the kids…the worst.

“I need to sleep,” Chloé yawned, voice thick with exhaustion. “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

Monroe reached over, patted her thigh. “Rest. I’ll be fine. Want me to pull over so you can get in the back?”

“No,” Chloé murmured. “I’ll be okay here. I’ll just tip the seat back and use your coat.”

Within minutes, her breathing deepened. A soft snore coming from her. And Monroe kept driving, eyes fixed ahead, heart in her throat.

Monroe drove them straight to the hospital. Woodington General, the police officer had said on the phone. Intensive Care Unit.

The car park was already filling as she pulled in, slowly circling for a space.

“Sweetheart, we’re here,” she said softly, gently shaking Chloé awake as she reversed into a spot.

Chloé’s eyes fluttered open, blurry at first, then focused on Monroe’s face.

“We’re here,” Monroe repeated.

“At the hospital?” Chloé asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Monroe said, her chin wobbling as everything hit all at once.

Chloé pulled the lever and brought her seat upright. “It’s going to be difficult, but I’m here. Whatever you need me to do—just tell me.”

“Thank you.” Monroe drew in a stuttering breath. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ll find the words. Don’t overthink it.”

They sat in silence in the dimly lit car for a moment, before Monroe reached for the door handle, steeling herself to face whatever Poppy needed her for.

They walked through the main entrance and found a sign pointing towards Intensive Care. Their footsteps echoed through the quiet corridors—fast, but steady.

At the end of the hall, a pair of locked double doors waited, an intercom mounted to the wall beside them. Chloé pressed the button.

“Hello?” the voice crackled, metallic and distant.

“Yes, we’re here for Mrs Harrington,” Chloé said, gripping Monroe’s hand. “We were told to come.”

The door buzzed. Chloé pushed it open quickly before it could lock again and led Monroe inside, down the sterile corridor towards a small desk where two nurses were working through charts and files.

“Hi, I was told to come here—” Monroe began, but the sound of her name, screamed, raw, cut her off.

She turned.

Poppy stood at the far end of the hallway. Pale, slumped, undone.