by Kayte Nunn
As if Cara knew what she’d been thinking, she said, ‘You’re in hospital, down the valley from Zermatt. They’re taking really good care of you.’ Her voice broke off and Mattie could tell that Cara was trying to collect herself. ‘They’re going to keep you here for a few more days, and then transfer you back to London.’
Johnny. Mattie wanted to ask about Johnny. Where was he? Shouldn’t he be here? She tried to speak again but could barely move her lips. She was so tired. Just a little more sleep … A grey fog enveloped her and she lost consciousness again.
*
The next time Mattie woke up her head felt a little less hazy. The blinding light had faded and she was able to open her eyes. The room was small and square with sickly yellow walls. She saw curtains with a flowered pattern hanging at the windows, framing an overcast, leaden sky. In the distance loomed the sharp white peaks of mountains. The bed she was lying on crackled underneath her as she tried to shift her weight. Owww. She felt like she’d done five rounds with Tyson Fury. She did a mental survey of her body. Her ribs were sore if she even moved a fraction and her right arm was pinned to her chest. She couldn’t lift it. Neither could she move her left leg, which was, she could now see, encased in plaster from hip to ankle and suspended above the bed at a 45-degree angle. If she’d been run over by a Mack truck she couldn’t have been in a worse state.
‘Hello there, how are you feeling?’ A nurse with a heavy German accent bent over her, loosening the tightly tucked covers. ‘I’m going to take your temperature, just putting this in your ear. Hmm, all good. Now, would you like to try something to eat?’
Mattie nodded, wincing as even that small movement sent a wave of pain through her skull.
The nurse pressed a button and the bedhead inclined slightly. Mattie felt momentarily dizzy and blinked hard, steadying herself against the sensation. The nurse wheeled a table over and picked up a bowl. ‘I’m going to help you, until you can manage it yourself. Chicken and dumpling soup. Here you go,’ she said, proffering a spoon.
Mattie felt like a baby bird opening its mouth to be fed, and just as weak and helpless. It hurt even to eat, but hunger overcame pain. Once they were finished, she tried to speak. ‘Johnny?’ she croaked.
But the nurse had bustled away, not hearing her question.
The effort of eating had made Mattie too tired to think, and she listlessly watched the shadows move slowly across the room before falling into a doze. It was several hours before Cara returned, and the sky outside her window had grown dark. This time, Nick was with her.
‘Mate, there you are.’ Cara bustled into the room carrying an enormous slab of chocolate and a pile of glossy magazines. ‘I raided the hospital shop down the hall. They had a few English ones,’ she said, placing them on the table next to Mattie. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Johnny?’ Mattie croaked again. She tensed, waiting for bad news. Lying in her hospital bed, she’d had plenty of time to imagine the worst.
‘He’s in the ward down the hall,’ said Nick. ‘He’s a bit battered and bruised and they’re keeping an eye on him in case of concussion, but apart from that he’s fine.’
Mattie exhaled and felt a wave of relief wash over her. Johnny was okay. Her worst fears had been unfounded.
A ruthlessly efficient doctor visited her. ‘You have made a bad break of your tibia and fibula. We had to operate and pin the bones back together,’ he explained. With clinical detachment, he went on to describe the likely rehabilitation process, saying that she would need to be in a wheelchair for several weeks, perhaps even months, until her shoulder, which had been dislocated by the force of her fall, tearing the ligaments that normally held it in place, had healed sufficiently for her to start to use crutches. After that she could walk in a hard boot. ‘Months, not weeks’ was his gloomy prognosis.
It would be a while before she was dancing on parapets again then, Mattie thought humourlessly. Had that rainy seaside photoshoot really only been a few days ago? She couldn’t quite believe it, but then again, she couldn’t believe anything that had happened. She was supposed to be having the time of her life, on holiday with her boyfriend and friends, drinking unfeasibly large glasses of beer, tucking into hearty alpine dinners and snuggling romantically in front of the fire … She wasn’t supposed to be lying in a hospital bed miles from home, unable to walk.
Mattie spent three more days in the Swiss hospital, losing great chunks of time as the painkillers they gave her sent her to oblivion. They’d be strong enough to tranquillise a stallion, she thought as she faded out one more time. She was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Her cast itched like there was a swarm of ants inside it, and every time she moved her ribs screamed in protest. Cara and Nick popped in every day, Cara spending hours by her friend’s bedside, painting Mattie’s nails a lurid shade of green and feeding her chocolate and gossip in an effort to buoy her spirits. For the first two days there was no sign of Johnny, then on the second afternoon, just as she was at her lowest, she saw him. Her absent boyfriend, fetchingly dressed in a hospital gown, walking slowly towards her.
‘Matilda! There you are!’ he called out. ‘Been looking everywhere for you. Blasted nurses wouldn’t tell me a thing, or if they did it was in German so I didn’t have a bloody clue what they were on about.’ This didn’t seem to be much of an excuse. Her nurses all spoke perfect English. She dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter. He was here now. ‘Oh Christ, Mattie,’ he said, reaching her bedside. ‘Looks like you got bashed up pretty badly.’ She saw the shock register in his eyes, but tried to make a comical face at him. Ouch. Even that hurt.
‘Ssss … not too good,’ she mumbled.
He stood, body angled away from her as if he could scarcely bear to come any closer, and his eyes darted at her face to take a second look.
He didn’t stay long, muttering a lame joke about having to get back to his ward before the SS nurses found him missing. It wasn’t until he’d left that she realised he hadn’t even kissed her. Mattie was hurt, but not especially surprised. Earlier that morning, a nurse had handed her a mirror and a hairbrush. ‘You might like to use this. Don’t be too concerned, it looks worse than it is at the moment, and it’ll heal quickly. The plastic surgeon can tell you more.’
The words plastic surgeon had sent a stab of alarm through her and she put one hand up to her cheek, feeling it puffy and unfamiliar beneath her fingers. Then, just below her eye, she encountered a crusted, swollen mass. She could feel the stringiness of stitches and scabbing. What had the avalanche done to her face? She remembered the taste of blood after she’d fallen. Not wanting to look, but unable to resist, she raised the mirror. A deep purple and black bruise completely circled one eye and her lip was swollen beyond recognition. But worse than that was the cut under her eye – a livid, pulpy red and black slash drawn together by angry-looking stitches. She’d never been one to spend much time primping in front of mirrors, but seeing a freak’s reflection looking back at her rocked her to the core. She wasn’t surprised that Johnny hardly knew her; she barely recognised herself.
Cara and Nick seemed far less fazed than Johnny had been about her appearance. ‘Don’t sweat it, babe,’ Cara had said when Mattie mentioned her face the next day. ‘It’s only superficial. You’ll have your ugly old mug back in no time.’
‘I don’t reckon Johnny’s quite as convinced,’ said Mattie bitterly.
Nick had been in touch with Mattie’s travel insurance company (thank God Bianca had insisted she take it out before she left) and made arrangements for her to be medevaced back to hospital in London. Dr Teuton, as Mattie had nicknamed him, said that was likely to be in the next day or two if everything progressed as it should. After Nick had relayed the news, he and Cara said their goodbyes. They wanted to stay to make sure Mattie was going to be okay, but had to get back to their lives. ‘I’ll come and see you the minute you’re back in London,’ promised Cara, carefully embracing her battered body.
Johnny slunk in a few hours
after they had gone. He told her his mother was flying out the next day to take him home. Mattie was surprised. It hadn’t even occurred to her to call her parents; even if they’d been close by she wouldn’t have asked for their help.
‘But what about me?’ she asked.
‘Well, er … you’re not exactly able to fly at the moment, are you?’ he said, a look of guilt flashing across his perfect features. Anyway, Nick said it was all sorted.’
‘Yeah, but …’ Mattie sank back, too exhausted to tell him that she expected he might have done a bit more, might have at least been there for her and stayed until she was safely on her way home too.
‘Look, Mats, I’ll see you when you get back, hey? Don’t expect you’ll be up to much for a while anyway.’
Nope, thought Mattie miserably, you’re right there, buddy.
He squeezed her hand as he left, but Mattie could tell he was doing his best to avoid looking at her black eye and swollen face. Once again, she noticed that he hadn’t kissed her hello or goodbye.
As the door closed behind him she felt suddenly more alone than she ever had in all of her thirty-one years. More alone than when she had first landed in London, knowing scarcely a soul. More alone than when Waffle, the family’s golden retriever, had died when she was eight. She wanted to howl as she had done then, but the tears didn’t come. Mattie knew she should probably call her brother, but every time she thought about what she would have to say, her throat closed up and she put it off. Cara had promised her that she would let Mark know the barest details of the accident, and Mattie couldn’t face explaining it to him. She simply wasn’t up to it.
Cara had also called Bianca, and within hours of her call an enormous bunch of tiger lilies was sitting in a vase in Mattie’s room. Mattie knew that it was going to be a long time before she could return to work. The doctor had talked about months of recovery rather than weeks. There was also the problem of getting up and down the stairs to her third-floor flat. Cope with one thing at a time, she told herself, trying not to spiral into a blind panic. The first thing to do was make it back to London. Figuring out the rest would have to come later.
CHAPTER SIX
Rose flopped on the towel that she’d carefully spread out. Feeling the sun’s heat almost like a living thing, pressing its way into her oiled limbs, she took in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she relaxed. The glorious arc of golden sand never failed to both soothe and thrill her. The fact that it had been more than a year since she’d last felt the sand between her toes only added to her pleasure.
‘Who’s up for a swim?’ Mark asked the two cossie-clad kids beside her, both of whom were jumping up and down with wild excitement at the prospect of a day at the beach. ‘Sunscreen first though.’ Leo and Luisa raced to slather themselves with the thick white lotion, seeing who could finish first.
Rose opened one eye. ‘Don’t forget the back of your neck, Leo,’ she said. ‘You three go on ahead. I want to properly warm up first.’
‘Come on, Rose, we want you to come in with us,’ said Leo, a pleading look in his eyes. ‘Please?’
‘Yes, Rosie, come and swim,’ demanded Luisa.
‘Come on, Rose,’ said Mark. ‘That water looks too good to pass up.’
She squinted at the rolling waves, foaming white at the shore’s edge. The ocean did look inviting, a shimmering vista of crystalline blue stretching off into the distance as far as the eye could see. She smiled as she was reminded of the time when Mark had told her he loved her, right on this beach. A time when her heart had leapt for joy at the words she’d thought she would never hear. A time when he had persuaded her to come back to the Shingle Valley and make her life with him.
‘Oh, alright then, if I must,’ she mock-grumbled.
As she got to her feet she could feel Mark’s eyes on her, taking in the skimpy jade-green bikini taut over her breasts and bottom. He took his time checking her out. The local Eumeralla shops didn’t run to much in the way of swimwear and so she’d ordered it online, hoping that it would fit. The parcel had only arrived a few days before they left, but thankfully it just about covered her and the colour perfectly set off her long, dark hair and skin that was already turning golden from the sun. A summer of running through the vineyards had kept her in shape and working hard at Trevelyn’s meant that she was often too busy to grab more than a slice of baguette smeared with terrine or a chunk of ham for lunch. Once upon a time she’d been overweight and pasty. And miserable. She remembered those days with a shudder. She was never going back there again.
Mark leaned over and ran a lazy hand down her back and across the curve of her hip before playfully flicking the elastic of her bikini bottoms. ‘Mmmm … nice, very nice,’ he said approvingly.
‘Hey, watch it,’ she said, pretending outrage but unable to help laughing at him, happy he had noticed. During the long days of vintage she often felt that he was completely oblivious to her, that he wouldn’t care if she was there or had run off with the butcher, his focus was so completely on getting the grapes picked and into the winery at the optimum level of ripeness. It was a welcome change that he now had some time for her, and for Leo and Luisa too. They had spent all morning competing with each other for their father’s attention, though the lure of the sea was taking all of their focus just then.
‘Want some help with that sunscreen?’ he asked, massaging a dollop of it into the small of her back.
‘Ohh, that’s good,’ said Rose, closing her eyes and giving herself up to the feel of his hands, so sure and firm on her skin.
‘Turn around and I’ll do your front,’ he commanded.
As she obliged she gazed into his eyes, seeing that they were almost opaque with lust. Rose noticed that the kids had raced ahead of them, desperate to swim. Mark put down the bottle. ‘Come on, gorgeous, we’d better catch up or we’ll lose them,’ he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the water.
Later, as she lay soaking up the sun’s unrelenting heat, Rose watched Mark and Leo shaping a boat out of the wet sand at the water’s edge, their two dark heads, so similar, almost touching as they worked. Luisa danced around them, playing with a strand of seaweed she had found, her cloud of curly hair lifted by the ocean breeze. Rose wanted to pinch herself. Nearly three years ago she’d been completely alone, had washed up on the other side of the world with nothing but a backpack and a broken heart. Now, here she was, with a home she loved, her own restaurant and an insta-family. Unreal. She hoped the picture in front of her might, someday soon, include a chubby little olive-skinned, green-eyed baby, scooping up fistfuls of sand next to his or her half-brother and sister …
That evening, sated by sun and sea air, they trooped into Rustica, the French-style bistro where Rose had once worked.
‘Alors!’ Rose was nearly knocked sideways in an enthusiastic bear hug.
‘Philippe!’ she cried, embracing him just as joyfully. Philippe had been one of her first friends in Sydney, and he’d gone from being a scruffy barista to a chef and restaurateur with a mini-empire of dining establishments. He had parlayed the success of the original Rustica, with its Provençale fishing village vibe, and opened Petit Rustique, in the Sydney beachside suburb of Manly, and Rustica Cité, which was, as the name implied, in the heart of the city.
Philippe released her and greeted Mark in traditional Gallic fashion, kissing him on both cheeks before leaning down and greeting Leo and Luisa. ‘How have you both grown so much, eh? Attend! You are so tall! And Rose, vraiment très belle, toujours. Mark, you are a very fortunate man to have such a beautiful family.’
Mark grinned. ‘They keep me out of trouble.’
‘Now, you are here to eat? Of course you are.’ With a flourish, Philippe ushered them to a table at the front of the whitewashed timber-clad room, overlooking the beach.
Rose breathed in the delicious aromas of roasting meat, garlic and herbs coming from the kitchen. ‘Please, feed us, Philippe. We’re famished, aren’t we, guys?’ she said, look
ing at Leo and Luisa, who nodded in agreement. ‘All that swimming today has given us the most enormous appetites. We could practically eat an elephant, couldn’t we, Luisa?’ The little girl giggled back at her and then looked doubtful.
‘We’re not going to have elephant, are we, Rosie?’
‘Only kidding, sweetheart. Besides, elephants would probably be too chewy, don’t you think? All that tough skin! Ugh!’ she said, shuddering.
Rose didn’t need to consult a menu; she knew that Philippe would send out a stream of dishes for them to try, together with plenty of shoestring frites to keep the kids happy.
Mark handed Philippe a couple of bottles of Assignation shiraz, the Kalkari flagship wine. ‘Decant one of these and keep the other for yourself, mate.’
‘Absolument,’ said Philippe and he hurried away to the kitchen.
After they’d eaten their fill of a rich, garlicky bouillabaisse, chateaubriand, an enormous pile of frites and petit chocolate and caramel soufflés cooked in miniature copper saucepans, the table was a mess of empty plates and crumpled napkins. Rose tipped her glass to her lips, savouring the last drops of the rich, fruity purple-red wine.
‘So how do you think this year’s vintage is going to stack up next to this?’ she asked Mark, indicating her glass. ‘Another Jimmy Watson winner, perhaps?’
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘That sort of gong comes once in a lifetime, but I reckon we could get close again this year. Yields have been down but we had almost perfect growing conditions and Jake has done an incredible job getting the vineyards up to scratch, particularly the ones at Trevelyn’s. They’ve produced some of the best fruit I’ve ever seen in all my years in the valley.’