There were bedrooms on the third floor, as well as a wide terrace with another pool— this one a small, square infinity pool that was covered over for the winter—, and a dining area with a wet bar. Though we didn’t take the stairs, I did have to check out the stairwells as we walked the hallways; the long flights crisscrossed past each other dizzyingly, and the entire ceiling over the stairwell was a giant, peaked skylight. Natural light was a big deal in this house. That was going to be awesome for my seasonal affective disorder.
The master bedroom and bathroom took up most of the fourth floor, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that Neil’s bedroom in London looked a lot like the one in New York, but with light blue walls and gray carpet. It was comfy and cozy, and there was a flat-screen TV above the fireplace that I could easily imagine enjoying from the huge bed.
“Oh my gosh, I’ll feel so at home in here!” I clapped my hands and spun in a circle. “Look, you’ve even got the neat dressing room between the bathroom and bedroom thing going on!”
Smiling, he took me into his arms. “I like that. You’re going to feel at home here because it reminds you of my apartment in New York, where you apparently felt at home already.”
“I feel at home pretty much everywhere you are.” My heart did a little flip-flop as I realized the truth of my statement. I really did feel at home with him, no matter where we were. And I was at home. I blinked up at him. “Oh my god. I... live here. This is where I live.”
“And I’m so glad.” He dipped his head to kiss me, and I held onto the front of his shirt and melted against him.
He pulled away reluctantly. “Hang on. I have no qualms about ripping off your clothes and ravishing you within the limits of your medical restrictions, but there’s one more thing I want to show you.”
He led me into the hallway again, to the back of the house, which was slightly truncated to make room for another terrace. This one didn’t overhang or impede the one below it, but it did have two peaks of roof on either side of it, so the neighbors couldn’t see over.
“Let me guess. We’re going to have outdoor sex here this summer?” I laughed as I stuck my head out the door and into the brisk London December.
When I stepped back, Neil hadn’t said anything. No flirty quip. No lascivious implication. He was standing there quietly, with an odd look on his face.
And I realized what he was thinking.
“I... very much hope so,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“Oh, baby. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” I went to his side and put my arms around him, and he returned my embrace stiffly.
“It’s all right. I just blindsided myself there a moment.” He forced the most fake smile anyone has ever smiled in the history of smiles and said, “So... hot tub? Suit optional, of course?”
If he wanted to ignore the sad, strange little turn his mood had taken, I was more than happy to.
The next morning, we reported to Royal Marsden hospital, only about ten minutes from Neil’s house. Neil would be receiving treatment from the hospital’s wing for privately funded patients, and his oncologist’s offices were located there.
Dr. Grant was a kind, but serious man in his fifties, with a long face and brown hair. He reminded me of a cross between Sam the Eagle and Guy Smiley. I held about a thousand Jurassic Park jokes inside while we made our introductions. Though he was very personable, I could tell right off the bat that any American cinema jokes would go over his head.
We sat in the two tall-backed black chairs in front of his desk while he pulled up Neil’s chart on the computer. The doctor read for a moment, his face giving nothing away as his eyes flicked across the screen. “Hmm. I’m not sure I’m pleased at the delay in treatment.”
That was a great way to start off the meeting.
Neil nodded. “I discussed this with the oncologist on staff at Presbyterian. He was of the same opinion as you.”
“Then perhaps you should have listened to him.” Dr. Grant’s bushy eyebrows rose.
I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone actually scold Neil before. Well, besides his daughter, and me.
“Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. You can have at me on January third, and not an hour before,” Neil responded in easy humor.
Dr. Grant raised an eyebrow. “Your condition is nothing to be glib about, Mr. Elwood. The cancer cells have become resistant to the Imatinib, you didn’t respond well to the Nilotinib before, and I don’t believe we have time to try you out on it again. The last blood test you had in New York on the twenty-first suggests that your condition is rapidly accelerating. I’ll have another draw done before you leave the office today, but at this junction I feel your best hope will be chemotherapy, followed by a stem cell transplant.”