BRIGHDE HID BEHIND a conference banner as she stabbed her finger at the screen of her phone. Her hand was shaking as she tried to end the call and it took her two attempts to press the right spot. She took a deep breath, fighting to remember her yoga breathing as she fought back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.
She was happy for Nick, really she was, but her brother’s phone call had confirmed her worst fears.
Good news for him could only mean bad news for her.
She struggled with the clasp of her bag, eventually managing to open it, and shoved her phone inside before snapping the clasp shut. She needed a drink. A strong one.
There were plenty of free drinks on offer in the hotel ballroom where one of the major pharmaceutical drug companies was hosting the end of conference party but Brighde didn’t feel like going back into the crowd. She needed space almost as much as she needed a drink.
The ballroom was on the hotel’s mezzanine floor but on the floor below she knew there was a bar adjoining the lobby. She looked at the staircase; the expanse of carpet between her and the stairs looked immense and she wasn’t sure if she’d make it. Her knees wobbled as she took the first step and she focused on putting one foot in front of the other until she could reach for the banister. She clutched it tightly, steadying herself for the descent. The simple task of negotiating a staircase suddenly seemed to require enormous effort. Was that a sign? She knew difficulty with motor skills was often one of the first obvious symptoms of the disease, impaired voluntary movements like gait and balance were hard to ignore, but surely that would be too much of a coincidence.
Get a hold of yourself, Brighde, she admonished herself. You’re only twenty-eight—you’re not about to fall apart yet.
She hoped she was right but it was hard to discount the feeling of mounting panic. Her chest was tight and she was finding it hard to breathe. She was surprised by her reaction to Nick’s phone call. She’d always suspected that she would be dealt the bad hand and she hadn’t expected to be so shocked.
This was what she’d always dreaded. It wasn’t exactly a surprise but, at the end of the day, it obviously didn’t matter how prepared she thought she was; the truth of it was no one wanted to know they were going to an early grave.
Somehow she managed to get down the stairs and into the bar on her wobbly legs without taking a tumble. She perched on a stool and ordered a vodka Martini. She had no idea if she liked Martinis—she drank vodka—but she felt she needed something more potent. Something that would numb the pain and a Martini sounded like it might do the trick. She didn’t want to ask the bartender for suggestions; she just wanted to anaesthetise herself.
She plucked the olive from the toothpick as she drained her glass.
Martinis weren’t too bad, she decided as she ordered another.
‘Brighde! What are you doing down here?’
Brighde turned at the sound of her name and found Sarah, her best friend, colleague and roommate all rolled into one, making a beeline for her across the room.
‘Just collecting my thoughts.’
‘Looks like you’re collecting more than thoughts,’ Sarah said as the bartender put a fresh cocktail on the bar.
Sarah was watching her closely as she pulled out another bar stool and sat down.
‘Who was on the phone?’ she asked. She’d been standing next to Brighde when she’d taken the call.
‘Nick.’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘He got his test results back.’
‘At nine o’clock at night?’
Brighde shook her head. ‘No. But it took him a while to figure out how to tell me.’
‘Was it bad news?’
‘Not for him.’ Sarah and Brighde had been friends for ten years since meeting at university, where they’d both studied nursing. Brighde had no secrets from Sarah. ‘He had ten repeats.’
‘He tested negative?’
Brighde nodded.
‘That’s great news.’
‘Yes. It is,’ she said, fighting to speak past the lump in her throat. She still felt like crying, even though nothing she’d heard in the phone call should make any difference. Nothing had really changed. She had her reasons for not getting tested and those reasons hadn’t altered. She could go on just as before. Nick’s results didn’t affect her future plans but she knew they solidified her fears. His results didn’t confirm her suspicions but they definitely strengthened them.
‘You don’t seem happy,’ Sarah said.
‘We each had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting a faulty gene. There’s only two of us,’ Brighde explained. ‘What do you think the chances are of both of us dodging a bullet?’
‘You know the answer to that. It’s still fifty-fifty. Just because Nick is clear doesn’t mean you won’t be. The chance of you inheriting the gene or not hasn’t changed. Nick’s results have no bearing on you.’
Brighde knew Sarah’s facts were correct. The reality was her chances of inheriting the mutated gene hadn’t changed but she still felt the odds were not in her favour. She’d always felt that. Which was why she never intended to get tested. Who wanted to know that they were going to die young? Who wanted that fear confirmed?
Not her.
‘I know you’re right. In theory. But I’ve always felt that I was going to draw the short straw and knowing Nick is okay just reinforces all those feelings. Huntington’s Disease is dominantly inherited and I can’t believe we’d both dodge the bullet. I don’t think we could both be that lucky.’
‘And I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it tonight,’ Sarah said as she shook her head at the bartender, who was clearing Brighde’s glass and asking if she wanted another. ‘Come and dance, have some fun. The band’s playing some good music—dancing will take your mind off it.’
Brighde let Sarah convince her to vacate the bar in favour of the dance floor. She didn’t really feel like dancing but she felt less like going back to the hotel room and staring at the walls. She was feeling miserable enough already.
* * *
Xavier nursed his beer as he watched the dance floor. It was taking him a little while to get back into beer drinking. He hadn’t realised he’d acquired such a taste for whisky in his years of living in Scotland, but when in Rome... Or Edinburgh.
What he was getting accustomed to far more quickly was the plethora of attractive young women at the conference. The band had been playing for some time and the dance floor was full. His eyes were drawn to a petite blonde in a sapphire dress. He’d been watching her for a while now; she’d been late onto the dance floor but even among the crowd she’d stood out. He’d tried to look elsewhere but his gaze continued to return to her. He believed you could tell exactly what a woman was like in bed by the way she