Chapter 20

Lottë had taken measurements of all the rooms in their new house including windows so that she could organise curtains. She and Robin went down to Kent one Monday in early July to the store where his old furniture was being kept and Bea joined them. She was not possessive about anything. She had already taken what she needed for her present house. As a result, Lottë was able to choose what she wanted. It did not leave a lot for them to buy. Arrangements were made for delivery.

Robin did not say anything to Lottë about it but he felt rather weary on Tuesday morning. Betty fed him coffee as soon as he got to the office and that perked him up. He worked at his latest project for an hour when the tiredness returned. It was not just tiredness. He felt awful. Without thinking he groaned and dropped his pen. He was unable to pick it up again. His fingers would not obey his brain. He groaned again in frustration.

Betty had heard him. The second groan worried her and she went in to him. He was slumped in his chair, his face ashen and lop-sided.

"Oh my goodness! He's had a stroke!"

She grabbed the telephone, dialled 999 and called for an ambulance. Next she dialled Reception and warned them.

'I need to tell his fiancée, ' she thought. She looked round for Robin's mobile. It was on the side of his desk. She picked it up and found Lottë's number which she jotted on a piece of paper. There was no point in ringing her until she knew which hospital the ambulance would take Robin to. She sat on Robin's desk and took one of his hands in hers.

"The ambulance will soon be here," she said soothingly, "and as soon as I know where they're taking you I'll ring your fiancée and tell her."

Robin tried to say something but it was quite unintelligible. Betty timidly stroked his head. She was very fond of her boss. "Don't worry," she said softly. "You'll soon be being looked after properly."

The ambulance crew were led in minutes later and Robin was already beginning to look better. He was able to thank Betty. "Bart's," said the leader as they took Robin away.

Betty immediately rang Lottë. "Good morning, Miss Irvine," she said. "It's Betty Hall, Mr Stephens's secretary speaking. He's been taken ill and I called an ambulance."

"Oh no! What happened?"

"I heard him groaning and went in to see what the trouble was. He was slumped in his chair, white as a sheet and his face was wonky. He couldn't speak properly."

"Oh, my God! That sounds like a stroke!"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Irvine."

"Oh no! Where have they taken him?"

"St Bartholomew's."

"Right! I'm going there. Thank you very much for ringing, Mrs Hall. I'll ring you later when I've got some news."

"Thank you, Miss Irvine. Please do. We'll all be very anxious. Goodbye."

Betty rang Rupert Rockingham's secretary and told her what had happened.

Lottë rushed to her editor's office. "My fiancé's had a stroke or something very like it. I must go to him."

"Oh, Lottë, that's awful. Of course you must and don't rush back. Wait until everything's under control. Just keep me in the picture if you would."

"Thanks, Tim."

Lottë grabbed her laptop. She did not bother with the lift but hared down the stairs two at a time. There was black cab being paid off. Lottë dived into it.

"St Bart's A and E," she said, "and please be as quick as you can."

The cabbie nodded. The journey was inevitably not without hold-ups but still only took seven or eight minutes which seemed like hours to Lottë. She paid off the cabbie and rushed in without waiting for her change arriving breathless at Reception.

"Robin Stephens," she said breathlessly. "He's my fiancé."

The receptionist calmly scanned her computer. "Ah yes," she said. "He's undergoing tests at the moment. If you like to take a seat someone will come and see you in due course." She smiled compassionately. "I'm afraid it may be an hour or so."

Lottë bit her lip and nodded. She managed a half smile of thanks and went and sat down. She wanted to talk to Matty or Daphne but she could not use her mobile in the building and even though the receptionist had said an hour she could not risk going outside to make a call.

She picked up a magazine and found her hands were shaking. She put it down again.

"Oh God," she prayed, "please make him better. Please don't take him away from me. I love him so much. Please, God."

She continued to pray in much the same way until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see a nurse smiling at her.

"Miss Irvine?"

Lottë leapt to her feet. "Is he all right?" she asked.

"Yes, he's fine. Would you like to come and see him?"

"Oh, yes please." She paused uncertainly. "I-is he awake?"

"Oh, yes and," she added with a twinkle, "no tubes either."

"Oh gosh!" Lottë's face lit up. "Thank you, Lord," she breathed.

"Was it a stroke," she asked.

"No not really. It's often called a mini-stroke though. The proper name is a transient ischaemic attack."

"Could he have another one?"

"Yes but if he looks after himself he'll probably be all right but wait for the doctor to tell you about it."

"OK."

Robin was on a general ward sitting fully dressed in a chair beside a bed. He rose to his feet when he saw Lottë come in, his face a picture of joy. Lottë curbed the urge to run to him but her face mirrored his. They gently embraced, backed off slightly to look each other in the eye and then they clung to each other. That was when the dam burst for Lottë, a silent torrent of tears. Robin felt her trembling and gently stroked her hair.

At last Lottë pushed back and searched for a tissue. Robin handed her his handkerchief from his breast pocket. She wiped her face and dabbed at the remaining tears in her eyes.

"Oh darling," she whispered. "My darling Uncle Rob. He heard me and answered my prayers. I was terrified I was going to lose you."

Her cheek went against his again. "I love you so much," she went on. "You're my life. If nothing else this morning has shown me that you're that." Her head came back up. "Kiss!"

They did so very gently, lingeringly and with intense love. When they broke Lottë smiled at him, a smile so gentle, so warm so brimming with love that it was Robin's turn to sob just the once as he buried his face in her hair.

"I'm sorry, my darling. I w-wish I ha'n't caused you this ancshiety." His speech was not totally back to normal.

"You couldn't help it, darling. Don't blame yourself. It just happened."

Her happiness at his almost recovery bubbled over. "It wasn't as though you were a fat old gin-soak or a feelthy nicotiney."

That broke the emotional straight-jacket that they were in. Robin laughed. It started as a chuckle which grew into helpless, happy laughter.

Nurse Wainwright who had collected Lottë looked at Sister nervously. Sister shook her head.

"Nothing dangerous," she smiled reassuringly. "A little increase in blood flow which is a good thing."

"Oh, Lottë my little one," stuttered Robin as he recovered. "Who else could make me feel so much better?"

"No one, I hope."

"No!"

They went back into a clinch.

"Darling," said Lottë, "I don't know but I suspect that all this excitement and so on might not be good for you. Why don't we just lie down on your bed together and snuggle?"

Robin was oblivious of what anyone else might think. He nodded. They lay down, Robin with his head on Lottë's breast, and within moments, through physical exhaustion on Robin's part and emotional exhaustion on Lottë's, both were asleep.