The Function to Breathe

Thirty Six

2016

It's late on Wednesday morning. I'm alone in the house; Ricky and the rest of the band are on a mini UK tour testing out some of their new material and I'm using the time to finish off my final pieces for my degree show collection. I've nearly finished it; there are a few items that still need little bits completing on them but this morning I'm working on the final piece. It's one of the major pieces of the collection, a chance to show my skills to full advantage; an evening dress with a fitted, structured, one shouldered bodice that I have already completed and am now adding a chiffon skirt to. I'm intending to construct that by draping and pinning the fabric directly to the bodice until it falls how I want it to. It isn't an exact science; it's almost impossible to make a pattern for it, it just has to be draped and pinned and redraped and repinned until the desired result is achieved.

I'm concentrating so hard that when my phone starts ringing it takes me a few seconds to realise what the noise is. Then when I do realise I decide against answering it; I've come to a tricky bit and don't want to let go of the fabric until all the tiny pleats I've made are properly stitched in place. When the phone starts ringing for a second time I ignore it again, it's only when it immediately starts to ring for a third time that I let the fabric fall from my hands with a sigh. The person calling me obviously thinks it's important they got hold of me; I just hope it isn't going to be a cold caller trying to sell me something useless or wanting me to take part in a survey.

When I pick up my phone I see the caller is Simon. I assume the other two calls have been him as well... why is it so urgent he speaks to me? As soon as I answer the call I find out.

"Cat, love, Rick's not well." Simon tells me as soon as we've exchanged greetings.

"What's wrong?" I feel my chest constrict a little with panic. When I talked to Ricky yesterday he'd been moaning that he was coming down with a cold, but it must be something more serious than that, Simon wouldn't phone me to tell me Ricky had a cold. Ricky would do that himself and probably complain for ages about it; it wouldn't be a cold, it would be flu, but not man flu, real proper flu.

"Now, I don't want you to panic Cat," Simon says, which of course makes me do exactly that. Why do people do that, tell you not to panic? It always has the completely opposite effect and makes you panic more than you would have done otherwise... well it does me anyway.

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," he continues, "but he went for a run earlier. He was back sooner than normal, complaining of chest pains. We called an ambulance; he's on his way to hospital."

My knees turn to jelly and I lower myself carefully onto the sofa behind me before I fall. This is my worst nightmare; that something would happen to Ricky.

"Is someone with him?" I manage to ask as my mind goes into overdrive. Chest pains aren't good, not at all. I press my hand to the centre of my chest, I feel like I can hardly breathe.

"Yeah, Nut's gone with him. I'm going to follow in a few minutes, now I've spoken to you. Are you okay love?" Simon's voice sounds a bit shaky. He's scared, that isn't good either.

"I... I don't know." I reply quietly.

All I know is I have to get there; they're in Brighton, what's the best way to get there? I feel sick with fear, lightheaded and panicky. Please don't let me have a panic attack now... I haven't had one for months, not since before Christmas. I need to keep calm. Panicking is not going to help the situation, but as much I as I try to rationalise that knowledge, my stupid brain thinks otherwise.

"I'm coming down."

"Good," Simon sounds relieved. "Get the train though, I don't want you driving. You won't concentrate properly if you're panicking. Text me when you're on your way and one of us will meet you at Brighton station."