Jane Gordon - My Fair Man

It was dark in the hallway outside the apartment door. Despite the fact that this was one of the most exclusive developments in west London, the communal areas were badly lit. At first Hattie couldn’t make out the shape of the man who stood nervously before her, although she realised at once that it could not possibly be the Charters’ poor oppressed chauffeur. Opening the door wider to let the brilliant halogen lighting from her apartment flood the hallway she gasped with a mixture of delight and shock when she finally recognised the late night caller who was standing hunched before her.

‘Jimmy!’

He didn’t move for a moment and when he did pull himself up it was clear that there was something wrong. He was hurt or ill.

‘What’s wrong, Jimmy?’ she said.

‘Help me, hinny,’ he said in an unsteady voice that indicated he was in some pain.

She moved towards him and supported him as he made his way into the flat, completely forgetting the guests who were straining to see what the commotion was all about.

‘What is it, Hattie?’ said Toby in alarm.

‘It’s Jimmy,’ said Hattie, ‘and he’s hurt. Help me, someone …’

Claire rushed forward and the two young women led him over to the pure white sofa in the corner of the living area.

Tom and Mamie Charter looked on in horror as Hattie made her way past them, her beautiful Dolce and Gabbana cream dress covered in the blood of a grubby and dishevelled stranger. Trailing behind them, and whimpering pathetically, stood a thin, nervous mongrel on the end of a length of blue rope.

‘Another eccentric relative?’ enquired Tom as he stood up to leave.

As if on cue the rest of the guests scraped back their chairs and, offering the odd furtive glance in Jimmy’s direction, made their excuses. Within minutes they had all gone, ushered out by an effusively apologetic Toby.

It was Jon who attempted to calm a furious Toby on his return from helping Tom and Mamie into their chauffeur-driven Bentley. And it was Jon who drove Hattie, Claire and Jimmy to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and helped to carry him into Accident and Emergency – although it pained him almost as much as Jimmy to do so.

Even at this hour and in this place they made a curious bunch, he thought, as he noticed their reflection in the plate-glass automatic doors. The tall, good-looking sophisticated man accompanied by the two young women in the bloodstained designer clothes, carrying between them the dishevelled, wounded homeless boy.

The woman behind the reception desk eyed them all sceptically.

‘Name and address?’ she commanded.

Jimmy grunted uncomprehendingly.

‘No fixed abode,’ said Jon pointedly as they stood waiting for the woman to fill in the necessary forms.

‘Well, where did you find him?’ she asked, glancing at Jimmy with evident distaste.

‘He came to my—’ Hattie began but Jon quickly intervened.

‘We just saw him lying by the road,’ he said hastily.

‘Good Samaritans,’ said the receptionist cynically to Jon before turning her attention back to Jimmy. ‘Social security number?’

‘Why are you so obsessed with names, numbers and roll calls? This man needs to see a doctor urgently,’ said Claire angrily.

‘So does everyone else here. He’ll have to wait,’ the woman replied dismissively.

They sat down on the mesh metal chairs and waited, aware that even amongst the motley collection of people gathered here – many of whom seemed to be drunk or drugged or mentally challenged in some way – Jimmy was an unwelcome outsider. The ranks of waiting patients moved apart in disgust in order to let them have more space.

‘We should have given my address,’ said Hattie anxiously as they waited.

‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea. Although I have to say I think he might have been seen sooner if he had a fixed abode,’ said Jon.

‘Well, he’ll have to come home with me after they’ve seen to him,’ said Hattie nervously.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Jon began.

‘Of course I’m serious. He can hardly go back on the street in this state. And you know they don’t keep you in hospital nowadays unless it’s terminal. Where else can he go?’

‘Some sort of hostel, Hattie. You can’t possibly take him back to your flat. Toby would go mad.’

‘Well, he can’t come back with me,’ said Claire quickly.

It became clear in the next couple of hours that Jimmy was very low down on the casualty department’s priority list. A nurse did come over and attempt to take some more details but it was obvious from the expression on her face – somewhere between exasperation and contempt – that since Jimmy’s injuries were not life-threatening he would just have to wait. Gradually the chairs began to empty as one after another the people were taken away for treatment.

It was gone four in the morning before the nurse returned with her clipboard and took Jimmy away to a curtained cubicle within the treatment area.

‘I think we should go now, Hattie,’ said Jon.

‘I can’t just leave him here, Jon.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Can’t you imagine how awful it would be to find yourself in Jimmy’s position? No home, no life, no job, no family. And no compassion from your fellow human beings.’

‘But I never would find myself in that state, Hattie.’

‘Oh Jon, how do you know that? It could happen to anyone—’

‘Hattie, let’s not argue about this here and now. You know my feelings. And perhaps now you’ve seen the hopelessness of Jimmy’s case – Christ, he can’t even make himself understood – you’ll forget our stupid bet. Let’s call it quits and I’ll take you home.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it. I’m even more keen now to prove you wrong. And to show these people that Jimmy does have some worth. But you can go home. I’ll get a taxi when they’ve finished with him here.’

‘Rather you than me,’ said Claire, who was, with every passing moment, wishing that she hadn’t got caught up in this whole bet business.

‘I’ll wait and see you home. And I’ll try and find out how he is,’ said Jon insistently, getting up at the exact moment that Jimmy walked back through to the reception area. Apart from a nasty cut above his eye – which required three stitches – the rest of his injuries proved to be superficial. He looked dreadful though, his face bruised and pale and his clothes spattered with blood.

‘You’re coming home with me, Jimmy,’ said Hattie gently as she guided him through the door and back into Jon’s car.

‘Is Rex there?’ he asked.

‘Rex?’ Hattie replied blankly.

‘My dog, like. Rex …’

They had been in such a rush to get Jimmy to hospital that Hattie had scarcely paid any attention to the dog that had followed him into her flat.

‘Yes, I’m sure Rex is back at the flat with Toby,’ she said, although she rather doubted it. Toby hated dogs.

Toby was so angry that even when he was finally alone with Hattie and the prone figure on the sofa, he could barely speak.

‘You’re not leaving him and his bloody dog here?’ he said.

‘What else do you suggest,’ said Hattie, ‘that we carry him up and put him in our bed?’

‘That we carry them both to the door and throw them out,’ said Toby angrily.

‘I’d rather throw you out than him,’ she said with an unexpectedly hard edge to her voice.

‘You might have to. If they stay, I go,’ snapped back Toby.

At this Jimmy attempted to pull himself up as if to leave, but Hattie pushed him down, placing a crisp white pillow beneath his bruised and battered head.

‘Well then, you’d better go,’ said Hattie to Toby.