âBut I havenât been having as much pain lately.â
His doctor nodded as though that was almost expected. âThat can happen.â
âThat has happened,â Oliver insisted, his features slackening with shock, his good manners faltering. âYouâre wrong, Doctor Chadwick; youâve buggered it up. Youâve got it wrong!â He banged his fists on the side of his chair. âYOU ARE WRONG!â Recovering his composure, he sobbed once, the sound catching in his throat. âI ⦠Iâm not getting as much pain.â
Without looking at his patient, the doctor wrote something in his notes.
âThatâs good.â
âYes, thatâs good,â Oliver echoed, but without conviction. A wife, an apartment in Hampstead and a house in Surrey, three children at private school, and a disease that was killing him. âWhat about chemotherapy?â
âThe cancer is too advanced, Sir Oliver. It wouldnât help you, and itâs a punishing treatment.â
âItâs a punishing disease,â Oliver replied drily, trying to sound in control but panicking inside. His profits had been falling; he had struggled to cover the school fees for the last term. What now? Sell the business? Who would buy a gallery in a market grown nervous and wary?
âAlternative medicine ⦠Dâyou think that might help? I mean, it mightâerâmight it?â He stopped, forced composure, and got to his feet. âHow long have I got left?â
âAbout three months.â
âBut you do hear about remissionsâ¦.â
âYes, they happen sometimes.â
âSo I could go into remission?â Oliver said desperately.
âNo; Iâm afraid your disease is too far advanced,â Chadwick replied, his tone gentle. âYou have to tell your wife. She really should know.â
âKnow that Iâm dying? Perhaps I should also tell her that when Iâm gone, she might have to take the children out of school. Perhaps I should share my last few months unloading every burden onto her shoulders. Sonia can watch me die, but in case that isnât difficult enough, why donât I let her know that after Iâve gone she might have to sell the country house? Even the galleryâif she can find a buyer.â He was overflowing with bitterness and despair. âHow exactly is that supposed to help my wife?â
Embarrassed, the doctor was hesitant.
âIâm sorry. I didnât know you had financial worries.â
Oliver buttoned his jacket, smoothing down his hair as though to smooth down his emotions at the same time.
âNo, Iâm not going to tell Sonia anything, Doctor. Not until Iâve made her and the children secure,â he said, and turned toward the door.
âCan you manage that? You donât have very much time, and the pain will get worse. You wonât be able to work or function as well as you could before.â
Pausing at the doorway, Oliver looked at the oncologist.
âI have your word that you will say nothing to my wife, Chadwick? Even if she asks you?â
Reluctantly, the doctor nodded. âI have to respect my patientsâ wishes, but if you wonât confide in her, you should try to get some other form of support. Some help.â
âI donât need help,â Oliver replied, his tone ironic. âI need a miracle.â
It was raining when Oliver Peters walked out onto Harley Street. Pausing a moment, he straightened his tie again and began walking toward Marylebone High Street. His mind went back to the flight in Bernie Freelandâs jet. Not for the first time, he wished he hadnât gotten on the bloody plane in the first place. He had hated lying to Sonia, her dark eyes curious as she asked about his journey. He could have told her the truth, but he knew it would mean an argument. What was he doing accepting a lift with three call girls? Was he insane? What if