13March
I sit at my writing desk in a modest flat overlooking the Thames, the rain pattering against the window, and try to make sense of the past fortnight. It began in a private clinic on the outskirts of London, where a young woman lay almost still in a dimly lit ward. The nurses moved around her as if they were afraid to disturb the very breath of death. Their eyes flicked repeatedly to the monitors, the faint beeps barely cutting through the quiet. It struck me then that no amount of money could coax a soul back from that shadowy realm.
In the consulting room, the senior consultant convened a tense meeting. Around a heavy oak table sat doctors in immaculate white coats, the room lit just enough to cast long shadows. Beside them was her husband, David Hartley a sharply dressed businessman with a tailored navy suit, a sleek haircut, and a goldplated watch that caught the light. The young surgeon, Andrew Collins, was particularly agitated; he was urging an operation with the fervor of a man who believed his scalpel could rewrite fate.
This ointment costs next to nothing, but it will have her on her feet in a week! he declared, slamming his pen on the table.
Not all is lost yet, he shouted, his voice cracking. We can still save her! He seemed on the verge of tears, his hands trembling.
David then rose, his voice calm but edged with theatrical grief. I am not a doctor, but I am the closest person to Eleanor, he began, using the name of his wife, the only name I know that has never really left English soil. Therefore I am categorically opposed to the operation. Why subject her to further torment? It would only prolong her agony. Even the most cynical among us felt a sting of sorrow at his words.
The senior consultant muttered, Perhaps you are mistaken, but Andrew sprang to his feet, his voice quaking with anger. Do you realise you are taking away her last chance? he demanded.
David remained as immovable as a granite wall. He had his own ways of influencing decisions, and he employed them without hesitation. The operation will not proceed, he said. I will sign any refusal. One swift stroke of his pen sealed Eleanors fate.
Only a few understood the cruelty of his choice, though, looking back, the motives were painfully clear. Davids fortunes had risen on Eleanors connections, her intellect, her money. Now, with her teetering between life and death, he was already picturing a future where he could wield her empire unimpeded. Her death was a convenience he did not hide from those who might expose him.
He slipped the senior consultant a reward that was impossible to decline a discreet payment to ensure the operation would not be pursued. Meanwhile, he had already chosen a plot in the Whitstable cemetery for his living wife.
A fine piece of ground, he mused as he strolled among the headstones, speaking like a seasoned estate agent. Dry, slightly elevated Eleanor will have a splendid view of the sea from there.
The caretaker, an elderly man named Thomas, raised an eyebrow. When do you intend to bring the body?
Im not sure yet, David replied with a detached shrug. Shes still in hospital. Shes lingering. The caretakers brow furrowed. Youve picked a plot for someone whos still alive?
Not that Id ever bury her while shes breathing, Thomas scoffed. Im simply confident she wont last much longer.
There was no point arguing. David had a holiday in the south of France waiting, and a tall, auburnhaired lover to accompany him. He imagined returning just in time for a funeral.
What a tidy piece of planning, he thought, sliding into his Jaguar. Ill be back, everything settled, and Ill be free.
All the paperwork was in order, the money paid no questions, no objections.
Meanwhile, Eleanor fought for each breath. She felt her strength wane, but she refused to surrender. Young, beautiful, eager for life how could she simply give up? The doctors kept their heads down, their eyes averted. To them she was already a dead leaf.
The only one who stayed on her side was Andrew, the obstinate young surgeon. He pressed for the operation despite constant friction with the department head. The senior consultant, keen to keep the peace, always sided with the head, who was rumored to be the consultants own son.
Unexpectedly, another ally emerged the cemetery caretaker, Thomas. Something about the request for a burial plot nagged at him. When he examined the documents, he froze: the maiden name of the dying woman was one he recognised.
It turned out she had been his former pupil, the brightest student in his class, brilliant and full of promise. He remembered her parents dying in a tragic accident years earlier, and how she had risen to become a successful entrepreneur. Now her name appeared on a burial contract.
This parasite wants to shove her into the ground, Thomas muttered, recalling Davids smug grin. Something was rotten, especially since the husband had achieved nothing of his own all his wealth stemmed from her.
Without a second thought, Thomas hurried to the clinic, hoping at least to say goodbye or perhaps to shift the tide. He was stopped by a weary nurse. Shes in a druginduced coma. Its better this way she isnt suffering. Thomas pressed, Is she receiving proper care? Shes still so young. The nurse merely repeated the same rehearsed line: The patient is hopeless; were doing everything we can. Realising he would not get the truth, Thomas left, his eyes stinging with tears as the memory of his former students radiant face flashed before him.
At the exit, Andrew caught up with him. I cant believe shes doomed, Thomas said, his voice cracking. Her husband seems intent on her death.
I agree fully! Andrew exclaimed. She can be saved, but we need decisive action!
For Eleanor Ill do anything, Thomas replied.
A sudden idea struck. Thomas recalled a former student who had risen to a senior position in the Department of Health. He contacted the man, laying out every detail of Eleanors case.
MrBarker, the life of this woman is in your hands. She must live! Thomas urged.
Thomas, why the formalities? the official chuckled. Your teaching got me here! He dialed the senior consultant without hesitation.
The call bore fruit. Within hours the board reversed its stance, and Eleanor was pulled back from the brink.
At the same time, David lounged on a sunbaked terrace in Nice, smugly thinking his scheme had worked. Ive hooked a wealthy heiress while her parents were gone, helped with the funeral, played the loyal friend and now Im living off their money, he mused, stroking his lovers thigh. Yet even he felt the weight of his wife’s growing suspicion, her hinting at his infidelities, and now the unexpected illness that threatened to set her free.
Ill never marry a clever woman again, he thought, better a pretty simple one I can steer. Just then his phone rang. A nurse from the London clinic sounded frantic. MrHartley, your wifes operation has been performed she survived and is out of danger.
What do you mean out of danger?! David roared, drawing startled glances from the sunbathers.
Realising his own peril, he packed hurriedly, leaving his lover bewildered. Vacations over. I have to sort this out! he shouted.
Back in London he demanded answers from the senior consultant. I paid to have Eleanor die, but youve saved her! he seethed. The doctors merely shrugged. Were not operating in isolation. Others with more influence stepped in.
The blame was shifted onto Andrew, who was promptly dismissed, his reputation in tatters. Thomas offered him a job at the cemetery, Better than sinking completely; you saved a life, that counts for something. With no other options, Andrew accepted.
Eleanors health gradually improved. Each day she reclaimed a bit more strength, the spectre of death receding. Yet the corporate world she returned to was a minefield. Her husbands coldness was palpable; he visited rarely, showing no joy at her recovery. Colleagues behaved oddly, withholding information. The chief accountant finally broke down in tears, confessing, Eleanor, David has taken over everything his people now run the firm. All we can do is hope you get better and restore order. If you dont, I cant imagine what will happen.
Eleanor tried to reassure her staff, Hold on, Ill be back to normal soon. Keep your heads down and dont give him any reason to suspect anything. It was easier to soothe others than herself.
Only two people remained steadfast: Thomas, the cemetery caretaker who had once taught her, and Andrew, the surgeon who had fought for her life. She leaned on their support, awaiting their visits. But they too began to disappear. David, ever the schemer, bribed the hospital to limit who could see Eleanor, effectively barring Thomas and Andrew.
When Thomas realised his former pupils name on the burial paperwork, he remembered her bright future and felt a surge of anger at Davids greed. He considered contacting his powerful former student again, but dismissed the thought. It would be awkward to ask for a favour now, he reasoned. Well wait; once Eleanor regains strength, things will shift.
Andrew, meanwhile, worked in the cemetery, his hands digging graves while his heart ached for Eleanor. One gloomy afternoon, at a funeral for an elderly businessman, he noticed the deceased clutching at his chest. With a surge of adrenaline, Andrew seized the mans hand, feeling a faint pulse. Clear the way! he shouted, demanding an ambulance. The man survived; turns out his young wife had tried to poison him for the inheritance. The rescued businessman was a major shareholder in Eleanors company. Upon learning Andrew had saved his life, he promptly intervened, restoring control of the firm to Eleanor.
Davids empire collapsed. He and his lover vanished as if theyd never existed. The senior consultant and the department head were dismissed, their licences revoked. Andrew was offered a chance to return to medicine, but Eleanor instead founded a private health centre and appointed him as director. Their professional partnership blossomed into genuine affection; six months later they married, with Thomas standing proudly beside them as the best man.
Now, as I write this, I marvel at how a single decision a signed refusal, a bribe, a moment of compassion can ripple through lives. Eleanor is expecting a child, and Thomas jokes, Hope the granddad doesnt trouble the baby! I close my diary, feeling the weight of the past weeks settle into a strange, hopeful calm.
