Part 169 (2/2)

He shook his head. Carefully, he set the cognac aside, then reached

inside his jacket. Taking out a plain white envelope, he handed it to

Emma. ”Would you give this to him for me?”

”Of course.”

”As soon as you see him.”

”Yes, if you like.” She started to set it on the table, but caught the

look in his eye. ”I'll just put it in my suitcase.” She left him

sitting there, looking dully out of the windows. He was standing when

she returned, holding the empty wine gla.s.s in both hands. She started

to speak, then he swayed. The gla.s.s shattered on the floor before she

caught him. She had braced for his weight. The brittle fragility of

his body shocked her more than the paller.

”Sit. Come on, sit down. You're ill.” She knelt on the cus.h.i.+on beside

him, stroking his hair as he wearily closed his eyes. ”I think you've

got a fever. Let me take you to a doctor.”

”No.” He let his head fall back. His eyes were bright with fury when

they met hers. ”I've been to a doctor. A whole tucking fleet of

doctors.”

”You need to eat,” she said firmly. ”You look as though you haven't

eaten in a week. Let me fix-”

”Emma.” He caught her hand. She knew. He could see by her face that

she already knew, but refused to believe. He'd spent quite a while

refusing to believe himself. ”I'm dying.” It sounded easy, almost

peaceful. ”It'S AIDS.”

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