Hope for the Hopeless

"What will you do now?" Leighton asks. Its several minutes since my husband was taken away in handcuffs, and the god awful truth is that it already feels like hours. Michael and I have always been very independent souls, more than capable of surviving days or weeks without each other if need be, but at this moment I want nothing more to run after him, pound my fists against the side of the police car and beg him in desperate screams not to leave me.

For all the good it would do.

I ponder Leighton's question, anything rather than continue imagining Michael in the back seat of a panda car, an image that in all honesty is almost too much for me to bear. What will I do now, that's one hell of a question? I mean I'd like nothing more than to go home, crawl under my duvet and stay there for the rest of my life, probably eventually, if you'll pardon my drama queen sensibilities, dying of a broken heart. But then again, if I'm to think practically, and as a newly single woman whose house is highly likely to be seized as part of an ongoing police investigation I probably should, I really need to get a grip and come up with some practical solutions as to how exactly I'm going to get myself out of the mess my husband seems to have got me into.

I look at Leighton, "I guess I'll come back to work tomorrow morning and start rebuilding the reputation my husband destroyed."

"Good girl." Leighton smiles, squeezes my arm in a fatherly gesture. I pull away, as if his touch has burnt me. I knows its an overreaction but I can't help it. Leighton and I go back some way, but not far enough. Not enough for me to accept his sympathy, his support. There are only two people in my life with whom I can let my guard drop enough to do that. One is gone now, heading away from me to the nearest police station, and then in all likelihood into a jail cell, with a divorce between us inevitably following.

Which still leaves one, I realise.

And suddenly I know exactly what I'm going to do.

~

I book into a hotel under an assumed name. I don't know yet what the full impact of VRSAgate will be, but given Fiona Dunn's untimely demise at Michael's hands I suspect it will be huge and I'm not yet ready to face reporters outside our house or banging on my hotel room door. My hotel is nice; a lot nicer than I probably deserve, but then I don't know how long the luxury I've long enjoyed since I married Michael will continue, and figure I might as well enjoy it while I can.

In my room I undress, letting my clothes drop to the floor in an untidy heap, too drained and tired to want to be bothered with bending down to pick them up. Then I step under the power shower, turning the temperature gauge to make the water as scolding hot as I can. I need it. Need to feel the dirt and grime, all be it purely in my head, wash away.

Afterwards my skin hurts and I know I've overdone it, but in some odd way it does make me feel better. At least I feel clean now, or at least as clean as I'm ever going to feel again thanks to that bastard.

Ah. Anger. Its coming. I knew it would. It was bound to.

I wrap myself in a robe then head for the mini bar. Its a bad idea and I know it, not that that stops me. I pull out a bottle of red wine, open it, and slosh out a glassful. Then I curl up on the bed, glass in hand and reach for the phone.

The usual rigmarole follows, but eventually, after passwords and security checks and the like, the process which never fails to mystify me is finally complete and I get put through to the person I actually want to speak to.

"Well if it isn't the second best cardiothoracic surgeon in the world..."

In spite of myself, and my godforsaken low mood, I can't help smiling. There's something about just hearing her voice that puts a smile on my face no matter what's going on in my life.

"First best these days." I correct her, "You're not practising. Other priorities."

She snorts, "If you call being a clothes horse and cuddling other people's babies a priority then yes honey, I guess I do. But not for much longer Constance Beauchamp, give it a year and I'll be back, giving you a run for your money."

I believe her too. Having seen her work first hand I know it'll take more than a career break to stop her excelling in theatre.

"Anyway." She says, suddenly sounding serious and proving not for the first time that she knows me a thousand times better than most, "you didn't call to tease me for old times sake. That I can hear from the tone in your voice. What's happened Cons?"

I sigh, knock back my wine and then after a deep breath, finally manage to speak again, without bursting into tears as I feared I might. "Are you near a computer?"

"Erm, well right now I'm just near my husband, and paper copy of a very dull speech he's giving tomorrow and that I'm trying to jazz up, but," I hear her get to her feet at the other end of the line, and whisper my name to her husband, presumably by way of excusing herself from the room, "I can find a computer. I mean this is The White House. There must be one somewhere..."

~

Yes. That's right. The woman on the phone, my random shoulder to try on, is none other than the First Lady of the United States of America. I know what you're thinking, how the fucking hell did that happen? Truth be known, Abbey and I find ourselves asking that question rather a lot too.

She wasn't the First Lady when I met her. She was, however, a particularly fierce Resident at Saint Angelos Hospital, New Hampshire, and I was a bright eyed young intern desperate to make my mark. I riled her at first, mainly due to some terribly unsubtle brown nosing, but, well, circumstances conspired to bring us together professionally, leading to a friendship that has lasted ever since.

I assumed, originally, that when her husband – the very sexy and charismatic Josiah Bartlet - took the meteoric rise to fame in the world of politics, and the two of them took their place in The White House, via the New Hampshire Governors Mansion, that I'd never really see them again. But Abbey wasn't that fickle, hence the fact that security checks aside, I can still – almost – get hold of her whenever the fancy takes me. Occasionally I do, I admit, take advantage of this fact and call her for my own amusement, just because I can – Jed's second inauguration being a case in point; I rang her at one of the balls to mock the hat she wore for the ceremony itself – but often I call because like tonight, I need her. Because besides Michael, she's the only true friend I've ever had.

~

"So what am I looking at?"

She's obviously found a computer; and I picture her, sat in front of it, the phone in the crook of her neck, waiting expectantly for what I'm about to say.

"Go to Google UK news." I figure it'll be easier this way. Easier if I don't have to explain. If I don't have to tell her what he's done. All the same, its still not easy. "Search..." I swallow hard, fighting back tears, then force the words out, "... Michael Beauchamp."

I hear a sigh on the other end of the line. I'm not surprised. While I have been utterly enamoured by Abbey's husband since day one, she has been utterly unimpressed by mine. Even at my wedding she did her best to dissuade me from going through with it. For all the good it did her. And me.

"What's the jackass done now?"

"Please Abbey." I say softly, aware now that tears are trickling down my cheeks, "Just look for yourself."

There's a lengthy silence, punctuated only by the occasional sharp intake of breath and another very dark sounding 'jackass' which has always been Abbey's name of choice for Michael. And god how right she was. As she reads, I sit on the other end of the phone and cry, unable to stop myself now, finally letting go the tears I've held in so well up to now.

Eventually she speaks. No prize for guessing what her reaction is.

"Fucking jackass."

That finishes me off and I let out a pathetic tortured sob, unworthy of a grown woman. Unworthy of a human in fact. I sound like a wounded animal and I know it. I start to apologise but Abbey instantly silences me.

"No. Now don't you apologise. You've got nothing to apologise for. Oh God Connie, I don't know what to say. Actually, no, yes, I do." There's another silence as she apparently returns to surfing the web momentarily, which I find quite odd, until she speaks again, "British Airways. 03.40am flight from Heathrow. Get on it. I'll have a car pick you up at the airport. Just get here."

I feel instantly comforted by her words. For one, I want to, need to see her, and any escape from the UK has to be a good thing. Not to mention the fact that it feels good to have someone else take control, tell me what to do; I don't like it from most people. In fact, from most people it riles me, but Abbey isn't 'most people'. Not by a long shot.

And yet, as my heart is already on the plane, my body already curled up in a guest room in the White House residence, my head is objecting most vociferously.

"Abbey. I can't. You can't be associated with me. Jed can't be associated with me. Not now." It hurts to say it, but I know I have to. Abbey is an amazing woman, but on occasion she is prone to forget her office and get carried away with things. And I suspected this was one such occasion; not least because I was already imagining the headlines that would be thrown up by 'Doctor Death's' wife shacking up in the White House.

Not that Abbey is having any of it. "Constance Beauchamp, you get that flight. Otherwise I'm coming to Holby to wave a placard saying 'Free the VRSA jackass'. Do I make myself clear?

Crystal clear actually.

Apparently, I'm getting that flight.