Chapter Twenty-Five

Some idiot who had ignored the signs and who should have been able to see all our brake lights—unless they were blind drunk—went and crashed into a car five back at rather high speed. Since no one had their hand brakes on because we were moving, it caused us all to run into one another in a domino effect. Luckily, there wasn’t much momentum left by the time we were hit. We just tapped the car in front of us, cracking their number plate but doing nothing more serious. We were only jolted a bit.

Cars farther back weren’t so lucky, though. I knew this was going to take ages to sort out, so I was looking to get over onto the hard shoulder when I heard ragged breathing beside me.

Tom was pale, sweaty, and almost hyperventilating. It was a panic attack if I’d ever seen one. I stopped the car and shut the engine off. I turned to him and took his hands in mine. Wide blue eyes stared back at me, the whites showing all around. His hands shook.

“Look at me, Tom. It’s okay. We’re fine,” I said, keeping my voice low and soothing, yet firm. “Just breathe in . . . and out. No one is hurt. Everyone’s okay. Just some minor damage. We’re all okay. Breathe in . . . and out . . .”

Yes, I was speaking gibberish, but I was speaking it in a low, even tone and at a slow pace to try and relax him. I was also squeezing and releasing his hands rhythmically to the “in-and-out” breathing pattern I wanted him to adopt.

My technique was a mixture of things that I’d read about, things my therapist had recommended, and things that I had learned worked for me.

I continued talking to him and ignoring the people outside, one of whom was knocking on the window. I only stopped once Tom’s breathing was back under control.

“Are you okay? Better now?” I asked.

“I think so.” Tom nodded.

“Do you want a Valium?”

He didn’t answer right away, but after a few moments, he nodded. “Please.”

I got my pillbox out and handed him a tablet. He had an open water bottle with him so he washed it down with a drink. I gave him the box.

“You can take another if you want to, but they will catch up with you in about four to five hours and probably knock you out.”

He nodded and pocketed the small box. “I’ll see how I go.”

“Okay. I’m going to move over to the hard shoulder. Do you want to get out now, or are you okay if I drive again?”

“I’m okay,” he said, but I noticed his knuckles turning white as I started the engine.

The police were already on the scene. They had cleared the lane between us and the hard shoulder, so I quickly crossed and stopped the car.

“You can stay here if you want,” I said as I got out.

I gave the police my information. They checked their insurance database to make sure I was covered to drive the car. I could tell when they realized whose car it was by their reaction.

I told them I was driving because of Tom’s injuries, not because he was too frightened to drive—the press would have a field day if that little detail was leaked. I also explained that while this was a relatively minor accident for us, it still seemed to have shaken him and reminded him of his crash last year. Did they really need his statement since he wasn’t driving? They explained they had to talk to him but that they would be as considerate as possible. One officer went to speak to Tom, who had chosen to remain in the car, while I gave my statement to another policeman.

I returned to the car to wait then, while they did God knows what.

“Are you okay?” I asked Tom. His color looked better, but he still didn’t look quite right.

“I’m fine.” He offered me a tight smile.

“Sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay.” I looked in the rearview mirror. “They said that because we haven’t done anything wrong and our car wasn’t badly damaged, they’ll let us leave as soon as possible.”

“Good,” he answered, sounding stressed.

I reached over and took his hand.

Five minutes later, an officer came to Tom’s window and asked for a selfie—which Tom graciously agreed to! Then two others asked. Then one of the other accident victims must have noticed him . . . soon Tom was taking a dozen pictures. He was a good actor, so they didn’t see the tension around his eyes and lips. But I did.

After all that, we were finally allowed to leave. I would have been furious about the officers asking for selfies if I wasn’t so worried about how Tom would feel as we drove off.

I had to keep my speed down as we went through the roadworks. Even after that, I kept to the inside lane and went ten miles below the speed limit.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine!” he snapped.

“I can slow down more.”

“No! No. Just . . .” He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I’d rather just get home,” he told me, his voice calmer but still stressed.

I sped up a little to get him home faster, but I was too worried about him to make much in the way of conversation.

“How are you feeling?” I felt compelled to ask after another ten minutes of silence.

“You don’t have to keep asking.” He sounded like he was trying not to lose his temper.

“Sorry,” I apologized. A second later, I smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just . . . haven’t we had this conversation before, only in reverse?”

“Touché.” Tom cracked a genuine-although-small smile at that. Then he took a deep breath. “How about we both try and stop?”

“Okay.” I reached over and took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze. Since neither of us seemed in the mood for conversation, I asked if he wanted to find something on the radio. We listened to BBC Radio Two’s mixture of music and chat.

When we pulled into his driveway, I turned the car off. Before I could get out, Tom reached over and took my hand, although he kept facing forward.

“This can’t go on,” he said softly.

“Sorry?”

“This fear of driving. I can’t go on giving in to it.”

“Okay.” Having a leg that looked like a misshapen tree trunk might be a bit of a problem, but I wasn’t about to put him off. I also wasn’t about to push him. I wanted to hear what he had in mind.

“They say you need to get straight back on the horse. While I really didn’t want to get back on the road after the prang today, I did. The longer we drove, the easier it became. I haven’t done myself any favors by avoiding driving for so long. I won’t be able to until this leg is deflated. But once it is, once I’m on the mend . . . push me? Even if it’s only sitting in the driver’s seat for five minutes with the engine turned off. Keep pushing me, please.”

“Okay.” I squeezed his hand. I could feel a very slight trembling. “I promise.”

He finally looked at me, his face a mixture of both relief and trepidation.

“Now try to forget about it until after your operation. You’re not operating any heavy machinery on that leg.” I tried to tease him and lighten the mood.

“As long as you promise to make me do it.”

“I will.” I nodded. “I promise.”

The smile he gave me was rather like the one you might give the devil after having just made a pact with him; you’d got what you wanted, but now you weren’t so sure it was worth the cost.

***

Tom was a very patient model. It took three mornings of faffing about in the studio with lights and filters before I had something approximating a decent image.

The best pictures came from using two primary colors that would then blend to make a third. The real problem was how exact the placement of the pin spotlights had to be.

I tried all colors with him: red and blue, red and yellow, and blue and yellow, as well as all three primary colors at once. I thought the red-and-blue combination was the most attractive, but they were all interesting.

In the end, because the light placement had to be just perfect, I set the camera up on a tripod and used a remote control so I could take pictures and still adjust the lighting if he moved slightly.

All that effort and precision was worth it, though. The images looked great!

We did experiment with pastel colors to be more in keeping with Warhol’s portraits, but the colors just weren’t strong enough to look good on camera. I did have a certain fondness for the series that left Tom with pink-and-lavender hair. Tom wasn’t quite so amused, however.

The rest of the month was fairly uneventful.

Tom started working with the editor on his film. It would take about two months to complete. While it was only a short film, the editor wasn’t working on it full-time. Tom would also need some time to recover from his operation.

He found someone to do the audio—someone who had worked on period dramas and who had an excellent reputation. She couldn’t score it until it was edited, of course.

Then, seemingly in no time at all, Tom and I were back in London. It was the night before his operation. He wasn’t at all nervous; he had complete faith in the surgeon. In fact, he was excited to get it over with and start getting back in shape.

Diane didn’t come down with us. She had an art show to put on for one of her committees, so she planned to join us the next day.

In the morning, we got to the hospital bright and early—surgeries started at eight o’clock. Because we were in a private facility, there were no strict visitor hours. I was able to stay with Tom until they took him up for surgery. Feeling a little antsy, I went out for a walk to kill time while he was under the knife. I hoped it would distract me from worrying about what might go wrong. I found a lovely little deli café and ordered a cup of tea. Although the food looked lovely and I hadn’t eaten since last night, I was too nervous to eat anything.

Beside the deli, there was a conveniently placed florist. Next to that that was a gift shop that sold get well soon cards, teddy bears, and other assorted trinkets. Basically everything a visitor to the hospital might need. After that, the shops varied a little more. Nothing that could hold my interest, though, so I returned to the hospital to wait.

Mum had filled her first notebook with stories. I had offered to transcribe them for her, so once back in Tom’s room I commandeered his tray table, set up my tablet, attached the keypad, and began to type.

The stories were interesting enough to take my mind off all the horrible things that might go wrong with Tom’s surgery. By the time I was starting on the second story, Tom was wheeled back into the room on his hospital bed, awake but looking drowsy. I couldn’t believe he was back so soon. It wasn’t even noon!

“It went well,” the nurse who brought him in told me. “No complications. We’ll bring his lunch in an hour or so. Hopefully he’ll feel up to eating. Would you like something?”

“Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you.” I wasn’t fine, I was hungry. But I wasn’t about to ask nurses to fetch me lunch.

“Just let someone know if you change your mind.” She smiled and turned to Tom. “The physiotherapist will come by this afternoon for your first session. Don’t worry if you fall asleep, we’ll come back later. You should be able to walk with few problems, but if you need the bathroom or want to get out of bed for any reason, please call us so we can make sure you’re steady on your feet! That’s very important after an anesthetic, okay?”

Tom nodded. After making sure we knew where the call button was, she left. I approached Tom’s bedside.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, taking his hand. His eyes were hooded, so I could tell he was still feeling the effects of the anesthesia.

“Leadened,” he said, offering me a small smile. “Can you pass me a drink?”

I poured him a glass of water from the jug on the bedside table. He sipped it slowly.

“Can I do anything for you?”

He shook his head.

“Shall I put the TV on?”

He shook his head.

“Can I see?” I pointed to his leg, which was hidden by the sheet.

He made some sort of affirmative sound, so I lifted the sheet and took a look. The incisions were all covered in dressings and tape. I couldn’t see how bad that was, but I was astounded to see that the burns had totally gone. They had also used muscle flaps to fill in the missing muscle above the knee. Other than the dressing, his leg looked perfectly healthy again.

“It looks amazing!” I told him. He craned his neck so he could see.

“Mmm,” he agreed. He leaned back against the pillows.

“You can sleep if you want to,” I assured him. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

“Ma’be,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

I moved my chair and tray table closer and I resumed typing so Tom wouldn’t feel like he had to make conversation with me.

“Where’s the cat?” he asked.

I looked up. “Sorry? Cat?” I wondered if he was sleep talking, but he seemed to be awake. His head and hands were moving, but his eyes were closed.

“She drove here to wait,” he explained, his voice soft with lethargy.

“Your cat drove here to wait for you?”

“Where is she?” He was getting louder. I was worried he’d wake himself up when he needed to rest.

“The cat’s fine. She went to the gift shop to buy you a teddy bear.” It was the first thing I could think of to say.

“That’s sweet.” He smiled. “Don’t let her eat the book.”

I didn’t know where this stuff was coming from, but it had to be one of the most amusing conversations I’d ever had with anyone. I stopped trying to make sense of it.

“I won’t. She already ate an apple.”

“That apple was mine!” he whined.

“I got you a shoe instead.”

“’Kay,” he mumbled. Then he fell silent for a while and eventually dozed off.

I continued to transcribe Mum’s story. Tom woke up after about an hour. He was still lethargic, but he needed the toilet. I called a nurse. She helped him get up safely and led him to the attached bathroom.

He wasn’t too pleased when the nurse explained that he could either sit to wee or stand as usual, but that she’d have to stay with him if he chose to stand. I sat with my hand over my mouth, stifling laughter as I listened to the conversation and Tom’s grumbles through the loo door. The nurse reappeared shortly and stood by the door, rolling her eyes at me with a good-natured grin while she waited for him to finish.

He seemed to do okay, though. The operated leg looked painful to walk on, but considering he’d had four saline balloons removed, muscle stitched in, and the skin stretched right around the leg, I wasn’t surprised. The nurses didn’t seem worried either, which was reassuring.

Soon after he was back in bed, his lunch arrived. They offered me a pot of tea, but I refused and headed to the waiting room, which had a tea and coffee machine—it was nice tea, actually!

Tom tried to share his lunch with me, but I assured him that I’d pop out to the deli the next time he had a sleep.

After lunch the physiotherapist came in and put a slippery board on the bed under Tom’s leg. She had him slide his heel as far up as was comfortable. He stopped with his heel about eighteen inches from his bum, then lowered it again. He was to repeat that twenty times, twice a day. She cautioned him to stop and lower the leg again as soon as he felt pain. He could tear his stitches if he went too far, but she said as the swelling went down the exercise would get easier every day. She would advise him in his physiotherapy sessions when he could increase his exercise level.

She’d only just left when another nurse appeared, with Tom’s medication. She read his vital signs, asked a few questions about how much discomfort he was in, and then gave him his next dose of pills.

We talked for about another half an hour, until his eyes grew heavy and he started talking gibberish again. He started with barbecues; it was a little early in the year for that! I assured him we’d sit under umbrellas. Not that I expected him to remember—he had no idea what I meant when I asked whose cat he’d been talking about earlier.

Two of the nurses walked past the door then, chatting about their daughters.

“Kel, did you ’member to pick the kids up from daycare?”

Kids! We had kids now? Oh, this could be fun!

“Yes, dear, all sixteen of them.”

“Thank God. Did you . . . count them?” His voice was growing thick with tiredness.

“Yes, only little Timmy was missing. We don’t like him very much anyway.”

“Timmy’s all right. Timmy’s in my pocket. He’s got my chocolate . . .” His words trailed off into unintelligible mumbles.

Diane coughed politely from the doorway, trying hard but ultimately failing to suppress a snicker.

“Sounds like they have him on some good drugs!”

“Yes.” I blushed, feeling just slightly ashamed of myself. “He doesn’t really react rationally to what I say after he’s had his pain medication. I just have to say something in reply, and he’s happy. I’ve been having a bit of fun with it.”

“I quite understand. He was the same as a boy. Whenever he had a high temperature he’d start yammering on about all sorts of rubbish!”

Oh well, at least she didn’t think I was some evil, child-killing villain!

“So . . . Timmy? Should I be preparing myself for sixteen grandchildren?” she prodded.

I choked, coughing as she laughed. Evil woman!

“Never tease a woman about potential grandbabies, darling girl!” She settled in the chair next to me, smoothing her skirt primly while I wiped the tears from my watering eyes. I did not like the devilish look in her eye one bit. “I might be willing to settle for two or three in exchange for never mentioning this conversation to Tom when he’s sober,” she offered slyly.

“You wouldn’t!” My stomach dropped at the prospect of Tom ever finding out about his pain-med-driven acceptance of sixteen children, or of trying to explain to him my lunatic teasing while he was not thinking clearly. Because honestly, having kids with the man . . . yeah, the thought wasn’t horrible. Someday. Not sixteen of ’em, though! I glowered at Diane as she chuckled.

I glanced at Tom, relieved to see that he’d gone off to sleep. He looked so innocent, long lashes curving over his cheeks, his mouth slightly open. I could almost see what his future children would look like.

Blimey! How had I gone from teasing him to brooding in the space of two minutes?

“They gave him his pain pills about thirty minutes ago, so he’ll be sleeping for a while,” I told Diane. “There’s a nice deli down the street if you fancy getting a late lunch?”

“Oh lovely, dear.” She smiled. “Then we can decide the names of my grandchildren!”

Rotten woman!