Wyer - What happens in france: A laugh out loud romantic comedy that will touch your heart

Bryony Masters clattered down the hospital corridor, handbag swinging wildly on her shoulder, skirting round patients and staff as they ambled without direction in front of her. She flew past the bookshop with paperbacks on a rotating stand and buckets of colourful flowers prepared in bunches for visitors to purchase. Her heart smashed against her ribcage. Tears had blurred her vision and the signage was incomprehensible: Cardiology, X-ray department, haematology, paediatrics, ENT, Wards 111. Where was Intensive Care? She drew to a sudden halt and cast about. A woman dressed in white trousers and tunic with hair scraped from a round face in which were set kindly, silver-grey eyes, noted her distress and approached her.

Can I help you?

Bryony nodded, not trusting her emotions. Intensive Care, she blurted before the tears could flow.

Come on. Ill take you. The woman spun on her heels and walked beside Bryony, her calm demeanour exactly what Bryony needed. She talked all the while, her singsong voice anchoring Bryony to the here and now, preventing panic from taking hold of her.

Its not far, just down this corridor and on the left. You meeting anyone here, or are you alone?

My mother. Shes here.

Then, shell no doubt be in the waiting room. Well head there first and you can meet up with her. Thats where all relatives wait. Theres a coffee machine and water and even biscuits.

Bryony strode beside the woman, the smell of disinfectant and something medicinal that was omnipresent in these places assaulted her nostrils. Please let him be okay.

The woman drew to a halt and gave her a smile. The waiting room is just there. She pointed out the blue sign over double glass doors. Someone will be inside to answer any questions you may have.

Thank you, Bryony said as the woman turned to leave. She adjusted her handbag, now dangling from her forearm. Her mother would need her to be strong. She pushed open the doors and spied the figure huddled on the front chair, hands cupped around a plastic cup, head lowered. She froze. Was she too late?

Mum.

Her mother looked up at the sound, issued a cry and, dropping the empty cup to the floor, hastened towards her daughter, throwing her arms around her waist. Bryony hugged her tightly, letting her cry.

Is he? Bryony couldnt bring herself to speak the word.

Her mother pulled away, eyes shining with tears and shook her head. No. It was a severe stroke but the doctor managed to give him a clot-dissolving tissue plasminogen activator, within what he called the golden hour. It might just have saved his life and prevented any more brain cells from dying. Hes going to be okay but we dont know what state hell be in. He might never regain his speech or walk. Well have to wait and see how well he recovers. Hell need lots of therapy and theres always a chance he could have another stroke and if he does, he might not be so lucky next time. Oh, Bryony, what would I do if I lost him? I couldnt bear it!

Its okay, Mum. Hes survived before.

That was different. A stroke is different to a nervous breakdown.

Hell make it, Bryony said, although her head was in turmoil. How did it happen?

The stroke?

Bryony nodded.

He was looking through some old photographs we keep in the cupboard. He was on the floor, going through them and I was in the kitchen making dinner when I heard a groan. I went running and found hed keeled over.

Photographs? Bryony asked warily. A buzzing began in her head. This was her fault. Her father had collapsed and suffered a stroke because of her. Which photos?

Hannah, said her mother as tears trickled down her pale cheeks, leaving two shining trails.

Bryony enveloped the frail woman in her arms, wondering if she could hear the loud hammering of her heart. Hannah. Of course it was Hannah. Bryony had to fix this, once and for all. It was now or never. There might not even be enough time left but she had to do everything she could to make things right. She had to find her sister, Hannah, before it was too late.

Bryony drew up outside Melindas house. The gaily coloured yellow front door stood out boldly among the row of identical houses, all of which had brown doors. The door was much like Melinda herself. Melinda was a one-off and she didnt much care if others thought her odd or different. It was one of the things Bryony loved about her. In Bryonys opinion, her friends front door was far more inviting than the others in the street. Someone no doubt Seans father had planted clumps of marigolds in the garden. A grinning garden gnome in a ridiculous costume and bright red hat dangled his rod into the flowers. The wooden sign hanging from a nail on the front door read: Forget the Dog. Beware of the Wife, adding to the impression that this was a house filled with fun and frivolity.

Bryony rang the doorbell and waited. The door opened wide and there stood Melinda, a huge smile on her round face as always. Her smooth chestnut bob clung to her head like a helmet but her large brown eyes sparkled with youthful enthusiasm.

Come in, she said, wiping her hands on a faded tea towel. Youve arrived at just the right time. Ive finished putting the final touches on the casserole and its ready to go in the oven. Wed best go in the kitchen. Freddies off school. He had a temperature this morning so I let him stay at home. Hes been playing with his Lego again and there are bricks everywhere in the lounge. I darent clean in there. Sean had to fix the vacuum cleaner last time because I hoovered up several yellow bricks and they got stuck in the pipe. Anyway, Ive finished my housewifely chores and am ready for a glass of wine. Make that a very large glass of wine. Care to join me?

Its only one oclock, protested Bryony.

And? You havent got to go back to work, so why not?

Bryony laughed. Only a small one. I have to drive, remember.

Melinda led the way into the kitchen, a friendly space that oozed warmth and contentment. The fridge was covered with plastic letters spelling Freddie, Mummy and Daddy. Several drawings had been added to the side of it: one of a large sun shining over a house, one of a large dinosaur and another of three stick figures holding hands. Plastic animals adorned the shelf above the sink and a piece of pottery showcasing the small handprint of a child took pride of place; next to it stood a photograph of a grinning boy with dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes who looked exactly like his mother.

Melinda swept away small pots of herbs into a cupboard and extracted two glasses from another, all the while moving plates and pans into the sink so they were out of view. Bryony sniffed the air. It smelt of warm dough and lemon essence. A rack of scones stood cooling next to a sponge cake. Melinda had indeed been busy.

The bright room was dominated by a huge dining table protected by a plastic, floral tablecloth. A chubby face peered out from under the table.

Hello, Briny.

Hello, Freddie. What are you doing under the table?

Im not under the table. Im in a boat. This is my sky, replied the boy, solemn-faced, pointing to the underside of the kitchen table. Its night-time. Ive been travelling all day. Im sailing to Zanzibar.