THE FOURTH

Muted light streams onto my face as I slowly become conscious. Images from last night start to flit through my head, and I start to sort through them one at a time, piecing together my journey from work to the pub to…shit. I slowly open one eye and then the other, knowing by the citrus scent around me that I am not at home in my own bed. Gingerly I move my head, waiting for the full impact of my hangover to hit. My head aches, but my stomach feels okay, so I prop myself up onto my elbows, taking in my surroundings. The exposed brick walls and the skylights confirm my worst fears…I am in Taylor's bed. 

I look around for him, straining my ears for the smallest sound, but there is nothing. I suddenly realise that while I am still in my top and pants, my jeans are missing. I push back the squishy duvet and swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. My stomach rolls, but I maintain control of the motion. It is only then that I notice my jeans hanging over the chair neatly along with my coat and scarf and with shoes underneath. I scurry over and start pulling everything on with haste, half expecting Taylor to come through the door at any moment. My bag is sitting on the table beside the bed, and I dig through it, trying to retrieve my phone. 

Glancing at the time, I realise that if I don't get a move on, I am going to be late meeting my parents at the airport. I suddenly realise I need to pee, and I glance around, trying to locate a bathroom. In the corner I notice a sliding door, and as I investigate further, it opens into the biggest en-suite I have ever seen. The room is at least the size of the bedroom and is dominated by a free-standing egg bath in the centre of the room, just like the ones I have coveted in those expensive interior design magazines. In one corner a large shower cubicle hosts a large rainforest shower with a multitude of jets and even a bench for sitting on, while a large cabinet and sink sit in the other corner. The décor is neutral, echoing the colours of the bedroom, but as the sun shifts from behind some clouds in the sky, the light through the skylights creates shadows and accents, changing the feel completely.

I quickly use the toilet, and when I wash my hands, the familiar scent of Taylor tickles my senses. I return to the bedroom, and it is only then that I fully take in the fact that both sides of the bed are rumpled, which I can only suppose means that Taylor slept in there too. My heart lurches at the thought, and despite my pounding head and rolling stomach, I suddenly feel a rush of warmth in my pelvis. I shake my head, trying to clear the thoughts flooding through, hurriedly make the bed and make my way out the bedroom door. I find myself in a short corridor that leads into the main living area. Parched, I make my way to the kitchen to grab some water when I spy a glass of chilled juice and a bottle of headache tablets sitting on the counter with a note:

Morning, Abby!

Hope the hangover is not too hairy this morning. Take these with the juice and you should feel a whole lot better.

Taylor

P.S. You talk in your sleep.

Oh. My. God. What the hell did I say? I am mortified, but at least there is the relief that Taylor is not here in person. I quickly take a couple of the tablets and down the juice in one long gulp. It is delicious, and almost immediately I start to feel better. Another glance at my phone tells me that nine o'clock is fast approaching, and I realise I need to get out of here before my work colleagues start arriving. I quickly gather up my bag and coat, and head for Taylor's private lift, offering up a silent prayer that no one will be about. It takes me a minute to remember that Taylor is at his meeting, presenting my report, and I feel terrible that he had to look after me in such a state. As for the reason I got myself into that state, well, I am desperately trying to block that part out.

It seems that Lady Luck is on my side as I manage to escape the building unscathed. Rounding the corner, I quickly dial Eddy to explain the situation to him. The kind boss that he is, he is mortified when he realises that despite everything, I still came into the office to do the work he asked for. Eddy insists I take the whole week off, but I know I'll go stir-crazy at home, so we reach a compromise of a couple of days.

Realising that I am doing okay for time, I head back to my flat for a quick shower and change of clothes as I can smell the booze and the dreadful aroma of old washing on me. I am just drying my hair and twisting it up when my phone rings, stirring me out of my depressing thoughts. I don't recognise the number, so I let it go to voicemail with a view to checking once I get out the door. Finally dressed, I chuck my horrible clothes in the washing pile and head out in search of a bacon sandwich and caffeine, the ultimate hangover cure, and make my way to the station once more. 

~*~

I close my eyes and try to breathe slowly. In through the nose and out through the mouth. I continue this mantra, fighting to control the rising bile as I stand in Nonna's kitchen, the image of her lying prone on the floor stark in my consciousness. I can hear my mum crying in the living room, something she has pretty much done since meeting at the airport. My dad is offering soft words of support. And I am just standing here, wondering why this happened and why I didn't do anything to prevent it. Maybe if I had done resuscitation like they do on TV, I could have saved her before the paramedics arrived. All I know, she is dead and I did nothing to save her. The guilt is eating me up inside.

I hear a phone ring, and my dad is talking softly to the person on the other end. At least, my mum has stopped sobbing, and a few words float through to me: aneurysm, previous history, unpreventable. I don't really understand what any of this means, so I carry on trying to breathe, my arms wrapped tightly around my waist.

Having not heard anyone approach, I start as I realise there is a hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes, and my dad is standing in front of me, looking at me with sad grey eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart, come here." He envelops me in a big hug and slowly explains the coroner's findings. That Nonna had known that she had an aneurysm in her brain, that the doctors had decided not to operate due to its location, that it was a ticking time bomb in her head.

"But I couldn't save her!" I wail.

"Sweetheart, you could never have saved her. She was dead before she hit the ground." Dad's words bring me little comfort, and despite the radiator warming the room, I continue to shiver. My mum comes into the room, and I can see that she has made an effort to pull herself together.

"Right," she says, trying to inject some brightness into her voice. "Next step, funeral. Now, Nonna would have hated us moping and weeping, so it is up to us to give her the send-off she deserves." I know Mum is right. Nonna was the most cheerful, content person I have ever known. She would have hated the thought of us standing here in tears.

As Mum starts prattling away about flowers and food, she starts looking through the kitchen drawer where Nonna kept all her important documents. It is such a random place, and I was always trying to convince Nonna to get a little filing cabinet or something. Well, it was too late now. I brush away a few stray tears as I watch Mum pull out a document holder.

"Got it!" she exclaims. "I knew Nonna would be too stubborn to let us sort this out ourselves." In her hand she is holding out a brochure for a funeral home, and inside is what looks like documentation for her funeral. "Typical Mamma, she's chosen everything, even the music!" With her usual efficiency Mum is off to ring the funeral directors before anyone can get in a word edgeways. Feeling useless, I motion to my father that I am going to go for a walk to the beach. He nods, knowing that while he and my mum are gregarious and love being round people, I am essentially a loner and need some time to process.

The sea breeze whips my hair into a frenzy matching the swirl of thoughts in my head. I am swamped by the sadness I am feeling, so I walk and walk, trying ineffectively to calm my chaotic emotions. I am only gone half an hour, but by the time I enter Nonna's front door, it would seem that everything is in hand and the funeral is set for Friday.

With nothing left to do, it is agreed that I will head back to London and return on Thursday evening. My parents have to catch the next flight back out to Spain to finish off the filming for the commercial that they were in the middle of when I called. So we say our goodbyes and head our separate ways. To say I feel alone and a little lost is somewhat of an understatement.