Albie returned to the hotel to bring me a change of clothes. The obscene trunks were discarded and we were transferred to a ward to spend the night. I wish I could report some unique Barcelona atmosphere, with everyone promenading down the corridors and eating octopus off cocktail sticks until dawn. It was as anxious and depressing as any hospital ward in the world, but with the oaths, groans and sobbing cries in a different accent. Albie, who had never been inside a hospital since his birth, looked shaken. ‘Dad, if this is all some elaborate ruse to stop me smoking, then it’s worked.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. Albie, you can leave me here if you want.’
‘What, and go and party?’
‘At least go back to the hotel. You can’t sleep in a chair.’
‘I’ll go later. Now we need to phone Mum.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you want to do it, or shall I?’
‘I’ll talk to her, then pass her on to you.’
So I called her and next day, by the time the procedure was complete and I was waking from a sedative-assisted sleep, my wife was by my side.
Connie lay, somewhat awkwardly, half on, half off the hospital bed, her fantastic face close to mine.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine! A little sore, a little bruised.’
‘I thought it was keyhole surgery.’
‘More Chubb than Yale.’
‘Are you in pain? Shall I get off you?’
‘No, no, I like having you here. Don’t move. I’m sorry if I stink.’ I had not bathed properly since the Mediterranean and was painfully aware of staleness of both breath and body.
‘Christ, I don’t care. Shows you’re alive. How was the …?’
‘A little uncomfortable. A pressure in the chest, as if someone’s got their finger inside you somehow—’
‘Bloody hell, Douglas!’
‘I’m fine. I’m sorry you had to come all this way.’
‘Well, I was thinking maybe just let it go, let him go through surgery by himself, but there was nothing on TV, so — here I am.’ Her hand was on my cheek now. ‘Look at this crazy beard. You look like you’ve been shipwrecked or something.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Oh God, I’ve missed you too.’ She was crying now, and perhaps I was too. ‘Let’s do exactly this same holiday next year, shall we?’
‘Exactly like this. Don’t change a thing. I want it to be exactly like this every year.’
‘Holiday of a lifetime.’
‘Holiday of a lifetime.’
After the angiogram, and with the angioplasty considered a success, it was decided that the heart attack was ‘not serious’. It had certainly felt serious enough as I’d lain sprawled on the floor between those beds, but I did not quibble because the good news was that I could leave the hospital after one more night and, with the correct medication, would be allowed on a plane back to England in ten days or so.
Taking control with admirable efficiency, Connie and Albie found an apartment. This would be more comfortable and less claustrophobic than a hotel and so we filled in medical forms, scheduled various tests, and then took a taxi to Eixample, a bourgeois residential area full of rather grand apartment blocks. Ours was a pleasant, quiet, book-lined place on the first floor — not too many stairs — the home of an absent academic, with a balcony at the rear and places to walk nearby. There were Gaudí buildings and restaurants, the Sagrada Família was seven blocks away; all very civilised and ruinously expensive, too, but, perhaps for the first time in my life, I was able to point out the value of comprehensive travel insurance. We would not worry about expense. It was important that I did not worry about anything at all.
There’s a kind of luxury in convalescence, and I was carried from place to place with great care and attention like an old vase. Albie in particular was terrifically attentive and interested as if, up until now, he’d thought mortality was a myth. Some months later I discovered that my admission into hospital had been the subject of a series of verité-style photographs; stark, black-and-white high-contrast images of my gawping face while sleeping, extreme close-ups of the various heart monitors affixed to my chest, the cannula piercing my skin. To the teenager all disasters are a rite of passage, but I was happy, at long last, to have provided him with some inspiration. At least he had some photos of me now.
Once it became clear that I would not be dying any time soon, Albie lost interest. Connie and I encouraged him to leave us on our own and his relief was palpable. His college friends were meeting up in Ibiza before heading off in all kinds of directions, and he flew out to join them, with a store of dramatic stories to tell. Perhaps he embellished the truth; perhaps he’d administered CPR. Perhaps a part of him wondered how it might have felt if I hadn’t pulled through, who knows. The crisis had been mine, but I was happy for him to receive his share of attention and acclaim. I was proud of him.
