My Bonnie: How dementia stole the love of my life. John Suchet

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СКАЧАТЬ bed. I fussed around, making sure everything was perfect. Beautiful soft towelling dressing gowns, his and hers, towels you could wrap round yourself twice, large bath and spacious walk-in shower. It was perfect. I rang room service and ordered a bottle of champagne. It arrived before she did, which I was pleased about.

      The phone rang. ‘I’m in the lobby.’ As calmly as I could, I gave her the room number. My heart was pounding, my skin tingling. I forced myself to count slowly to 20, then went to the door and held it open. I listened for the lift doors opening. Nothing. I waited, my breathing becoming shallower. Still nothing. I cast my eyes back into the room to check for the umpteenth time that everything was in order. Suddenly a flurry of movement, the sound of quick breathing, the rustle of clothes. In a flash, head down, she brushed past me into the room.

      Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, and slowly her breathing calmed down. ‘God, what an experience.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘As soon as I walked into the lobby, I saw this man looking at me. Had a pass or something round his neck, so I knew he was security. After I phoned you, he walked over to me. I knew what he was thinking. He asked me if I was a guest. I said no, but I was coming to visit a friend. From England. He looked as if he was going to question me further. But then he nodded and walked away.’ ‘My God,’ I said. She nodded quickly. ‘He thought I was a hooker.’ She looked alarmed, I looked alarmed, then we both dissolved into laughter.

      She was wearing a dark pink suede suit, with a plain mauve blouse underneath. That suit was one of my favourites, and I had told her so when she had worn it to a fancy do we had been to with our spouses in London. That’s why I wore it, she said, because I knew you liked it. I sat her on the end of the bed, put my arms round her, and kissed her. She responded instantly. Gently I laid her back on the bed, opened the suit jacket, and kissed her again, more softly this time.

      I opened the champagne and poured two glasses. ‘A toast,’ I said. ‘To our future together. Lord knows how we’ll achieve it, but we’ll do it somehow.’ We clinked our glasses and drank. Later I ordered dinner from room service.

      I remember now that we didn’t talk much that evening. What was there to say? We could go through all the impossible dreams and ideas again, as we had at that Italian restaurant in Washington, but where would it get us? There was another reason for our silence—well, mine at any rate. I knew we were together, and were going to be together for the next two nights. I wanted nothing to intrude on that delicious thought.

      It came time for bed. ‘You get into bed,’ she said, ‘and I’ll join you in a few moments.’ She went into the bathroom. When she emerged she was wearing a white towelling robe. I had dimmed the lights. She stood by the side of the bed, fixed her eyes on mine, unbelted the robe and let it fall from her shoulders. She climbed into the bed.

      Ah, my Bonnie, I remember it as if it were yesterday, every sensation, every glorious moment, the little pulsating sounds you made, the gentle smile on your upturned lips. You make that sound now, quite often, but there is distress in it. You made it when I got you ready for bed last night, didn’t you? You hate having to take your clothes off to get into your nightie, you ask me why do I have to do this, and you make despairing little sobbing sounds. They go into me like a thousand sharp needles. I try to reassure you, but know I am making you unhappy, and that hurts. Me, making my Bonnie unhappy? How could it have come to this? But once you’re in your nightie you’re fine, you even thank me.

      So off we go to the bathroom. I hand you your toothbrush and you start to brush your teeth. Damn, how could I have been so stupid? I take it gently from you and put toothpaste on it. You let me, you’re not angry. All the time I am saying reassuring things. You let me help you, even with the most intimate things. In fact, you’re grateful. Thank God. I couldn’t handle it if you kept getting angry with me.

      I tuck you into bed like a caring parent. I return to the bathroom, content to have just a minute or two on my own. Last night I looked at myself long and hard in the mirror. Sad face. John the lover now John the carer. I force a theatrical smile. Make it as wide as I can. God it makes me look stupid, but it makes me laugh for a moment. I get into bed and we have a peck of a goodnight kiss. As always, my mind starts to roll back the years, but fortunately I am asleep before I become too miserable.

      I cursed myself for having wasted five hours sleeping in that hotel room. Five hours of unconsciousness. Stupid boy! I wake you gently, and without opening your eyes you are smiling and we are joined again, from our lips down to our toes.

      You get up and make me a cup of tea. I remember you walked across the end of the bed. You wore the towelling robe, and on your head was a white towelling turban. You turned to me and you were smiling. ‘I must look silly,’ you said. Silly? Silly? I had never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

      We lingered over breakfast in the room and I reluctantly began to turn my attention to the day’s filming. I had a story to shoot. I knew I could knock it off in a couple of hours and get back to the hotel. As I left the room, I turned back for a last look. Bon was sitting up in bed, still in the robe and turban. It took me a moment to realise that what I thought was a towel she was holding to her face was, in fact, the shirt I had been wearing the day before.

      I linked up with my camera crew and explained that we would have a trawl down Fifth Avenue and film Brits shopping. My cameraman asked me what stores I had arranged this with. I said I hadn’t made any prior arrangements, we would just suck it and see. He raised an eyebrow. It won’t be that straightforward, he said. You can’t just walk in with cameras and expect to start filming. I told him not to be silly. This was America. You could film anything you liked, anywhere you liked.

      Turned out he was right. By lunchtime we hadn’t shot a foot of film. Never mind, let’s go to one of the electronic shops. That’s where we’ll find the Brits. We found the shop all right, but the moment we walked in with our camera gear the manager came straight over waving his hands. You can’t film in here, he said. What was going on, I wondered? He explained that the shop had a strict policy of privacy towards its customers—we couldn’t film anyone in the act of buying. I protested—free country, free press, what if the customer agreed, and so on. Ever tried arguing with a New Yorker? Doesn’t work.

      I was beginning to get just the inklings of a certain feeling of anxiety. My arguing turned to pleading. Finally the manager made a small concession. We could film the goods in the shop, as long as we did not identify the shop, and he would give me an interview saying that he had noticed an increase in British shoppers in the previous few weeks. Phew, I thought, at least that will give me a story.

      By late afternoon that was all we had. Not much of a story, said my cameraman. I was satisfied. I knew we had enough. We shot some footage of anonymous people window shopping, walking in and out of the big stores. I added a piece to camera, me strolling along Fifth Avenue saying how Brits were taking advantage of the strong pound and the lower prices here, making it worth coming to shop in New York even with the cost of an airfare. By six o’clock I was back in the Harley with my Bonnie.

      That evening I said I wanted to take her out to dinner. She wore a dark chiffon dress with large colourful flowers, belted at the waist, pleated at the front. Another of my favourites. Under it, oh yes, stockings and suspenders. Naturally. Those cream combs held back her lovely hair. I smiled when I saw them. I knew you would like that, she said. Had I ever been happier? I don’t think so.

      I took her by the arm and walked her to a restaurant I knew. The manager sat us at a table in the window with Bon facing out to the street and me facing into the restaurant. The cold air was coming through the glass, and so we moved to a table further in. The manager came over, arms out, and asked in a voice that passes for polite in New York, ‘So what did you do that for?’ I said defensively, ‘Er, it’s a little cold by the window. It’s СКАЧАТЬ