Deborah Crombie - Necessary as Blood

He picked up the phone, and after a few calls, managed to track down his sometime source, a veteran reporter named Cal Grogan.

But by the time he rang off, he felt more baffled than ever. Cal had assured him that he’d be more than happy to help, but the story had come straight from the owner’s desk, and Ivan Talbot never revealed a source.

The square tucked away behind Kensington High Street was green and quiet, a residential enclave of elegant town houses. A few of these now housed businesses, including, on the ground floor at the end of a terrace, the café where Hazel had taken a job.

When Gemma walked in, she saw that the interior of the café was a clean, white space, with only a few tables, and fewer customers lingering over their lunches. Hazel stood at the back of the long, narrow room, stocking clean glassware on a shelf. She wore a white apron and T-shirt over tan trousers, and when she saw Gemma, she gave a radiant smile and hurried forward.

“Gemma! What are you doing here? What a lovely surprise.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t ring first. But I knew you’d said you were working today, and I just-I thought we could talk. Are you too busy?”

Hazel glanced at the remaining diners. “We’re just finishing up the lunch rush. Then there will be a bit of a lull before the afternoon-tea crowd starts filtering in.” She pointed Gemma to a small table at the front. “Have a seat and I’ll bring you some tea. You can enjoy the view, and I’ll be with you in a tick. There are some lunch specials left-have you eaten?”

“Just tea would be fine,” said Gemma, avoiding the question.

“You look dreadful,” Hazel exclaimed, examining her more closely. “What on earth did you do to yourself?”

“Oh, it was just something stupid that happened at work. I’m fine, really.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a better answer than ‘I walked into a door.’” Hazel gave her an assessing, skeptical look, but brought her a cup of tea. When the last customers had left, she took off her apron and sat down beside Gemma with a cup of her own. “Coffee for me, I’m afraid. I need the boost to get through the rest of the afternoon.”

“And this from the woman who used to drink herbal teas?” Gemma teased.

“Ah, well, another time, another place. Another person, really,” Hazel added, with just a touch of sadness, but then she smiled. “And I’ve discovered I quite like coffee. I’m going to take full advantage of my few minutes’ respite while Chef is out making an emergency-supply run.” She looked much better than the last time Gemma had seen her, when they had talked under the Westway.

“I’m glad you’re settling in.”

“So am I. But at the moment, I’m more concerned about you. Is it your mum?”

“In a way.” Gemma told her about the call from Cyn that morning.

Hazel frowned. “Well, no one would deny that your sister can be a bitch, but that’s a bit over the top, even for her. You know she’s jealous of you.”

“Cyn? Jealous of me? But she’s the one gets all the approval.”

“Sometimes you are thick, Gemma,” Hazel said with a sigh. “I suspect that’s her way of making up for not having your life-your job, your partner, your children, your house. But in this case, I think it’s more than envy. For all her bossiness, Cynthia is much more dependent on your mum than you are. I think she’s terrified of losing her-as is your dad-and you’ve become a convenient scapegoat.”

“But why would-” Gemma rubbed her head, trying to sort out her thoughts. “I don’t understand why blaming me would make them feel better-and I feel like I’m just being stubborn, not giving them what they want.” She swallowed, making an effort to steady her voice. “But this wedding has turned into a monster. I wanted it to be something special, for Duncan and me, and the boys, not some stupid spectacle in a cheap-or not so cheap-hotel. But if it means that much to my mum-”

“Darling, you are letting your father and your sister blow this all out of proportion. Your mother loves you. She wants you to be happy. And I think nothing would please her more than to see you get on with your life, by whatever means. And if you were thinking logically, you would know that your mother’s recovery does not depend on your getting married in the Ritz rather than the register’s office.”

“No. I suppose you’re right,” Gemma admitted, feeling a smidgen of relief, and with an attempt at lightness, added, “Are you sure you shouldn’t be practicing therapy again, rather than working in a café?”

“This suits me very well for the moment, and I mean to hold on to what I have,” Hazel said firmly. “And you-you are not going to let your family spoil your wedding. You are going to do what feels right for you.” Hazel patted Gemma’s hand. “Now, promise me you’ll go straight home and talk to Duncan. You can work this out between the two of you. That’s what counts, after all.”

But when Gemma arrived home, she found Duncan in the hall, looking as if he was on his way out, and his expression didn’t augur well for a discussion.

“Where have you been?” he said, sounding irritable. “I’ve tried ringing you for ages. Toby and I wanted you to meet us for lunch. But when I couldn’t get you, I made sandwiches, and now I’ve promised to take him to the art shop because you weren’t here.”

“Oh, no. My phone.” Gemma remembered tossing it onto the seat before she went into Betty’s, and that was the last time she’d thought of it. Had it fallen onto the floor of the car and turned itself off? “I think I might have lost it.”

“You think?” He frowned at her. “What do you mean, you think? Either you lost it or you didn’t.”

“I can’t…remember.” The room wavered. She sank down onto the hall bench, knocking the dogs’ leads to the floor. “I-I don’t feel very well. My head’s gone all fuzzy.”

“Gemma?”

At least that was what she thought he said. His lips moved, but a buzzing sound rose like a wave, drowning the sound of his voice. Then his face receded to the end of a white tunnel and blinked out.

It was seen as proper that you were married before you had a baby, and East End weddings were big social events. Even families without much money would try to put on a good ‘do’.

– Gilda O’Neill, East End Tales

The next thing Gemma knew, Duncan was stroking her cheek and saying her name, urgently. Then he turned his head and shouted for Kit and Toby.

She winced. “Ouch. Don’t shout. It hurts my head.”

“Gemma, are you okay? What happened there?” His face was inches away, his eyes intent.

“Just a bit dizzy,” she mumbled. “I’m all right.” She liked his hand on her face. It felt warm, and she pressed her cheek against it, closing her eyes against the light. But he tightened his grasp, using his other hand to turn her head.

“Open your eyes, Gemma. Look at me,” he said sharply.

“The light makes my head hurt,” she protested, but complied.

“Your pupils aren’t normal.” He sounded as if he was angry with her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

The boys came thundering down the stairs, the dogs at their heels, barking excitedly at the commotion. The noise made Gemma’s head feel like it was going to split open. She covered her ears, so that when Duncan spoke, his voice came through fuzzily.

“I’m taking your mum to hospital. Kit, I want you to look after Toby until we get back. I’ll ring you.”

“I don’t want to go to hospital,” said Gemma, pushing Duncan’s hands away. “I hate that place.”

“No argument.” He slipped an arm round her waist and lifted her, and she found that in spite of her resistance, she needed the support.