Winter in London Without You novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Thirty Seconds
Verity bleeds in a taxi, her husband hangs up on her, and the hospital's emergency contact is his assistant; her bank text says the joint account is closed and she has twelve pounds.
The taxi driver pulled onto the kerb of a busy road in north London and shouted at a man on the pavement to call an ambulance.
I was sitting in a pool of my own blood.
It had soaked through my coat and into the seat, and I could not make my hands stop shaking.
I was sixteen weeks pregnant.
I knew what it meant before anyone said it, and I still held my stomach and told it to hold on.
The driver was crying a little. He kept saying, "Stay with me, love, stay with me."
I took out my phone.
Back in the spring, my husband had made my number a restricted contact on his phone. Any emergency had to go through his assistant first.
In October, she had squeezed my arm at the office party and said, "Ring me any time. It's my job to keep him calm so you don't have to."
I didn't ring his assistant.
I rang my husband directly, because this was our baby.
It rang four times.
"Alistair, I'm bleeding," I said. "I'm in a taxi, and I think I'm losing the baby."
"Not now, Verity."
His voice was flat and tired and very fast.
"You think the whole firm stops because you're pregnant?
"I have sixty people at a table and three hundred emails.
"You've cost me my train of thought. Do you know what that costs?"
"Alistair, please, just listen."
He hung up.
I stared at the screen. A second later it showed me a grey line: the call could not be connected.
He had blocked me again.
Then his assistant's Instagram story came up at the top of my phone, because I still followed her.
It was the Wrenfield Capital winter lunch in Mayfair, white tablecloths and champagne.
Alistair stood at the head of the table with a glass raised, laughing.
Bryony Slade had written across it: Best speech he's ever given!
A text arrived from his number.
Don't ring me at work again. We'll talk tonight. A.
He never signed his texts.
I was too cold and too frightened to think about why, so I only read it twice.
The ambulance came and two paramedics climbed into the back of it with me.
The one who knelt beside me had a Welsh voice and tired eyes. His badge said Gethin.
"Verity, is it? I'm going to put a line in your arm and we'll be at St Mary's in six minutes," he said. "Is there someone I can ring for you?"
"No," I said.
"Husband? Family?"
"He knows," I said. "He's busy."
Gethin looked at me for a second and didn't say anything else.
He held my hand the whole way and kept his voice level.
It was the only kind thing anyone did for me that day, and I didn't thank him, because I was looking at the ceiling.
It was over by half past two.
A nurse with a clipboard sat on the edge of my bed and told me she was sorry, and I said thank you, because I had been taught to.
The room was very quiet.
"I'm going to ring your emergency contact, Mrs Wrenfield," the nurse said. "Just so somebody knows where you are."
"He won't pick up."
"It's the number on your chart."
She dialled and put it on speaker so I could hear it ring, and it rang twice.
"Bryony Slade."
My stomach went tight.
"Hello, this is St Mary's Hospital," the nurse said. "I'm calling about Mrs Verity Wrenfield."
"Oh, Verity! Is she all right?" Bryony said brightly. "Don't worry, I'll tell Alistair the moment he's out of his lunch. He's very tied up, but I'll pass it on, I promise. You just let her rest."
"Thank you," the nurse said.
"Anything at all," said Bryony. "She's like family."
The line clicked off.
I looked at the nurse.
"Is that who's on my chart?" I asked. "My husband's assistant?"
The nurse checked the clipboard and frowned.
"That's the contact number. Your husband put it down himself when you were booked in. His name is next to it."
So he had known.
Six months ago he had sat in a clinic and written down his assistant's number.
It was the person to call if his pregnant wife was ever in trouble.
I sat up slowly.
"I want his name taken off," I said. "Both of them. Leave that line empty."
"Are you sure? It can wait until you're feeling better."
"Please do it now."
The nurse looked at me for a long moment, and then she crossed his name out.
My phone buzzed on the blanket.
It was my bank.
Your joint account ending 4417 has been closed at the request of the primary holder.
I turned out my coat pocket on the sheet.
There was a twelve pound note and a few coins.
That was everything I had left.
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