breaking my heart. They have three young kids, and Ned is doing everything he can. He’s a good guy, her husband, but he’s had to cut down on his hours to look after her and the children. They barely had enough to make ends meet before, but now it’s desperate. I give them whatever I can. Anyway, last night Ned rang me to say that the new drug, MPQ-202, they’ve been trialing her on, is working.’
‘That’s fantastic. Is it immunotherapy?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s the prognosis?’
‘They’re hoping Sandra will make a full recovery if she continues being treated with MPQ-202.’
I don’t understand why Patrick is looking so sad if the outlook is good.
‘What’s troubling you?’ I ask, squeezing his hand.
‘I don’t want to bother you with my problems. Tell me more about your children.’
‘You’re not bothering me, Patrick,’ I say, twirling the stem of my glass in my fingers. ‘What’s really going on?’
He looks away from me, grimacing slightly, as if he’s embarrassed. I wonder if I’m being too insistent; after all, it is early days in our relationship. He takes a sip of lager and then throws me a weak smile.
‘The problem is we can’t afford the drug. MPQ-202 costs twenty-five thousand pounds a month and there’s no way of getting it on the NHS. I paid for the first two months, and now the docs are saying she needs another six months of treatment. We’ve got to pay for the next two months up front. It’s all or nothing. If she doesn’t take this medicine, she’ll die.’ He swallows hard and glances away. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs. Sitting up straighter, he continues, ‘Anyway, I should be able to pay for most of it.’ He pulls his hand out of mine and rubs his knuckles into his eye sockets. ‘I’ll have to sell the flat. I earn good money, but because I’m a freelancer, I often have to wait for months for my clients to pay. I’ve got some hefty outstanding invoices that should cover it, but the dosh won’t arrive in time.’
‘That’s awful,’ I whisper, stroking the back of his hand with my fingers. ‘I’m so sorry your sister is having to go through all of this. How old is she?’
‘Forty-three. She’s my little sister. The kids are all under ten. Here.’ He opens his wallet and pulls out a creased photograph of a woman cuddling two boys and a little girl; the latter can’t be more than two years old. The woman’s head is bald; her skin has a yellowish tinge and her eyes are sunken.
‘That’s Sandra. I took the photo last month.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I murmur. I can’t tell if there is any familial likeness between Patrick and Sandra because she looks so waif-like, so close to death.
‘Your parents?’ He doesn’t talk about his family and I haven’t pressed him. It suits me because I’m not yet ready to share my story about Adam.
‘They’re dead. It would have broken their hearts to see her like this.’
I hand the photograph back to him. He strokes it and then carefully places it back into his wallet.
‘Come on. Let’s go and eat.’
That night he makes love to me, and it is unlike anything I have ever experienced before. This is a man who is in control, who knows what he is doing, and who wants to pleasure me. And my goodness, he does. I feel as if I am going to combust. This spectacular man plays my body as if it were an instrument, taking me to exquisite heights of desire that I had never known were possible, always ensuring that I am satisfied first. I have no idea how many times he makes love to me, or what hour it is when I eventually fall into a deep sleep. When I awake, the sun is streaming through the muslin curtains and Patrick is sitting up in bed, watching me, his fingers gently running over my neck and breastbone.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers.
I am sore and tired, but heavy with an intoxicating happiness. And when he makes love to me again, I lose all my inhibitions. Adam and I never made love like this. Never.
As we’re lying together, limbs intertwined, I tell him about Adam, the details surrounding his death and the horrendous aftermath.
‘Surely the investigation isn’t still ongoing?’ he asks.
‘It is. They think Adam was murdered, but they haven’t charged anyone yet. There seems to be no progress.’
‘That’s terrible,’ Patrick says, his eyes closed, his fingers trailing across my stomach. ‘How awful for you