Page 31 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)
Chapter Thirty-One
Roni
My laptop chimes with an email, snapping me from my thoughts. I hover the cursor over the notification, pausing briefly before opening it, then I click on it.
It’s from Haydn, giving me details of a guy who might be able to help me.
Apparently, it’s too risky for her to do it herself, something to do with new policies at work meaning her system is monitored.
I slam the laptop closed. Guess that idea is out the fucking window then because I don’t trust anyone else with this kind of job, so I’m on my own and back to square fucking one.
I check my phone and see it’s late. Seems I got lost in my thoughts longer than I realised.
I need to try and get some sleep if I have the smallest hope of making it through tomorrow with Clayton and his parents.
I get up, grabbing my laptop and placing it on the chest of the drawers as I make my way to the bathroom to pee before coming back and getting into bed.
What’s worse than waking with a headache?
Waking to your phone ringing with an incoming call from the arsehole destined to become your husband in a matter of weeks while suffering from a headache.
This is what’s now known as the Clayton effect.
And the reason I down a couple of headache pills with a glass of water, though I contemplated switching water for whiskey, but I’m not that desperate—yet, before I even attempt to call him back and find out what the fuck he wants now.
I’m set for a whole day of this shit, listening to his grating voice and demeaning attitude.
I stroll to the lounge, my eyes drawn to the sofa and the memory of yesterday when I’m startled from my thoughts by my phone ringing in my hand.
Taking a deep breath as I watch Clayton’s name practically screaming at me from the screen, I finally swipe to answer, slowly bringing the phone to my ear.
“Hello, Clay—”
“Finally! Where the fuck have you been? Why didn’t answer?” he demands, sounding out of breath.
“Well, good morning to you too, arsehole. You bang your fucking head getting our bed this—”
“Shut the fuck up, Veronica.” I baulk at his harsh words, but before I can gather a response, he continues, “My father is in the hospital. I’m on my way there now, and you’re to meet me there.”
Damn, that’s not what I was expecting, and I know I should feel bad his father is sick…
but screw that. Clayton’s father is just as much of an arsehole as Clayton, and when he takes his last breath, the world will be a better fucking place.
Of course, there is the added bonus I no longer have to spend the day planning a wedding I want less than Clayton’s death, which is saying a lot.
“I’m sorry, Clayton,” I say while my subconscious whispers, No you’re not. “What hospital is he at?”
“Guys,” he says as a car door slams shut. “Move your arse, Veronica!” Then the call ends.
After a quick shower, I dress in something plain and simple, jeans and a white tee with a black blazer, then head out.
It’s just past ten and the sun is shining without a cloud in the sky, but there’s a chilly breeze as I lock my door.
Crossing the road, I sense eyes on me, and I know Mickey is watching me from his window on the second floor.
I get in my car without looking despite wanting to desperately.
All the more reason I won’t. He’s made his choice.
And I don’t have the strength to deal with all the emotions wrapped up in that man and our complicated relationship, especially while I’m preparing to act like a loyal, doting fiancée to a man I detest.
Rounding the corner and out of sight, if Mickey is still watching, I release a deep sigh.
I turn on the radio and try to drown out my thoughts, but every song seems to taunt me with happiness and words of love and heartbreak.
It’s like they are reading my mind, playing in sync with every thought and emotion and feeling I’ve experienced over the last few weeks.
After flicking through the stations, I just switch the damn thing off and drive in silence.
Once I arrive at Guys and St Thomas’ hospital and park, I message Clayton to find out where he is. He still hasn’t replied by the time I reach reception, so I approach the woman behind the desk, her glasses resting on the end of her nose as she looks up at me.
“How can I help,” she asks.
“I’m looking for Mr Simmonds, Mr Clayton Simmonds. He was brought in this morning, I believe,” I tell her, my eyes scanning the area.
“Do you know—”
“Veronica, what are you doing?” Clayton’s voice carries across the reception area, several people turning to look at him as he marches across the space.
“Trying to find out where you were. I sent—” My words are cut short as he reaches me, grabbing my arm and tugging me away.
“Hey!” I snap through a strained smile. “Thank you,” I call to the receptionist. “Get your hands off me. I can walk by myself,” I say, trying to pull free of his grip.
When we make it inside the lift, he finally releases me. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes, because you’re obviously fucking stupid. I had to come all the way down here to fetch you.”
My bicep burns from his grip, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of rubbing it in front of him. “I didn’t need you to come and fetch me, Clayton. You could have just messaged me back.”
He waves a hand, dismissing my response as the lift comes to a stop. Clayton steps forward, this time snatching my hand and squeezing firmly, letting me know not to bother trying to pull away, and steps out when the doors open.
I keep my mouth shut as we stride down the corridor to a double set of doors, leading to the ICU. He presses the buzzer, stating his name when a woman answers, then the doors buzz and we push inside. He leads me, if you can call it that, to a private room, of course, and opens the door.
I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t the sight that greets me.
Clayton Snr is laid out in bed hooked up to several machines, one of which is breathing for him, and an IV attached to his arm.
But his face is…a fucking mess. There’s no other way to describe it.
I thought he’d had a heart attack or a stroke, but he looks like someone gave him one hell of a beating.