Holding Out For a Hero

by Caroline Anderson

  Boring as hell, utterly sterile and characterless.

  Safe.

  He spent his life like this now, moving from room to room, hotel to hotel, filming in odd locations and retreating each night like a hermit crab to an empty room abandoned by the previous occupant.

  Not that his flat was any better. Just as stark and soulless, but that was fine. He didn’t want more.

  He thought of Tom and Fliss and their family, warm and chaotic and noisy and full of life and love and happiness, and he felt a well of unaccustomed emotion rising up to choke him.

  ‘Stupid,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t need all that.’

  And then there was a knock at the door. ‘Ben?’

  Ah, no. Not her. He needed her even less.

  ‘Ben? I know you’re in there. I’ve got something for you.’

  I’ll bet, he thought, a shudder running through him.

  He said nothing, and after a few minutes she went away. He started to relax, but too soon. His phone rang—not his mobile, which he would have answered, but the one by the bed. He ignored it. Minutes later there was another knock at the door.

  ‘Room service,’ a male voice said.

  ‘I didn’t order anything. I don’t want it,’ he said, and there was a murmured conversation outside the door, and then fading footsteps, hushed by the carpet.

  He held his breath. She was still there, he’d stake his life on it. Suddenly tired of it, tired of the fame, the lack of privacy, the empty futility of his life, he catapulted off the bed and yanked open the door.

  ‘I’m not interested. Please, go away and leave me alone. I’m tired. I don’t need this.’

  ‘It’s just a little bottle of something,’ she coaxed, her lashes fluttering. He looked down at her, sad and lonely and desperate, and thought of Meg.

  Meg, who was warm and vibrant and funny, not afraid to speak her mind. Meg, who he was going to be shadowing for the next week, all day, every day.

  And, if his hormones had a say in it, every minute of the night as well.

  But not tonight, unfortunately, and his hormones were not so desperate that they’d take this woman up on her offer under any circumstances.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hanging on to his manners with difficulty. ‘I’ve had a long day, I’ve got a long week ahead. Please—leave me alone.’

  And he shut the door, locked it firmly and went to bed.

  Meg thought she’d have trouble sleeping, but she didn’t. Not at all. In fact, she slept all night, wrapped in a web of dreams all of which seemed to feature yours truly in glorious Technicolor.

  Glorious being the operative word.

  It was almost a relief when she woke to her alarm at five, because she could pull on her running shorts and vest, with its front pocket for her phone and keys, and head out onto the sleeping streets, pounding the pavements until she reached the little park that ran alongside the road and could shift across onto the dew-soaked grass under the trees.

  She loved this time of day, before the world really got moving and started to crowd in on her. Not that she minded the people. She loved people. It was just that sometimes she needed to be alone, and five o’clock in the morning was definitely one of those times.

  She headed back, sweat trickling down her spine and between her breasts, soaking into the vest top and the waistband of her shorts as she slowed her pace and walked back down the last little street to her flat.

  By the time she’d reached the top floor and stripped off, it was five twenty-three, and by the time she’d stepped out of the cool, refreshing shower, with her hair streaming and her skin alive from the scrubbing, it was five thirty-one.

  And Ben was going to be at the hospital at six, complete with make-up crew.

  That was a problem. Meg didn’t do make-up, ever, under any circumstances. She hated the feel of it on her skin, and her lashes were long enough to brush the lenses of her sunnies, so what was the point of mascara? And if she put eyeshadow on, it would only be a very natural colour, and since she had deep sockets and wide eyes, that, too, seemed pointless. And as for lipstick, the nearest she ever got was a flick of lipgloss.

  Besides, she was going to work, not to play.

  She dried her hair, grateful to it for lying smooth and flat for once and not drying into a kink, and then scraped it back anyway and twisted it up on the back of her head and secured it with a clip. Thank heavens for the decent cut and the miracle of conditioner, she thought, and also for the glow of health her holiday in the sun had given her skin.

  And then she stopped preening and dallying in front of the mirror, dragged on the—beautifully pressed for once!—tunic top and trousers of her uniform and ran downstairs to her car. She pulled into the hospital car park at a minute to six, found a slot by a miracle and screeched into the department at three minutes past.

  ‘Thought you’d bottled out,’ a low voice murmured behind her, and she jumped and spun round, her heart skittering. She could feel her eyes widening, feel her nostrils flaring to draw in the scent of soap on freshly washed skin, the faint citrus tang of shampoo, and something else, something masculine and dangerous and very, very exciting.

  Ben’s eyes tracked over her, and before she could speak or move or do anything, he lifted a hand and trailed a warm, slightly rough fingertip over her skin—across her cheek, over her nose, down her jaw, down, to the hollow of her throat where her pulse beat frantically under his touch.

  ‘Been running?’ he murmured, and she sucked in a breath and stepped back.

  ‘I run every morning,’ she said, almost truthfully. Especially, she could have added, when I’ve had a man like you in my dreams all night and my hormones need exorcising, like a ghost, as opposed to exercising, like they were all night!

  ‘That explains the healthy glow. Let’s go and talk to Jude.’

  ‘Jude?’

  ‘Make-up.’

  She opened her mouth to argue with him, but he’d gone, turned on his heel and vanished through the double doors and down the corridor towards Matt’s commandeered office, clearly anticipating that she would follow. Which, of course, she did, but it would have been nice to be asked, she thought crossly.

  By the time she caught up with him he was lolling in the doorway, chatting to a woman with pink hair and black lipstick.

  ‘Ah, Jude, this is Meg.’

  Meg stared at the woman with a sinking heart. There was no way she’d convince someone who could do that to herself that the bare, unadorned look was how she’d like to be.

  Or so she thought. Jude, however, was obviously deeper than the tattoos that covered every visible inch of her body.

  She sat Meg down, ran a finger over her skin—just like Ben, only without provoking the heart attack—and sat back with a gusty sigh. ‘Flawless,’ she said, and shut her make-up box. ‘I don’t want to do anything to her, other than maybe a flick of dust to take the shine off if it gets too hot. Let’s see how she is on camera. If you aren’t using lights, I don’t see a problem.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Good. I’m glad we agree.’

  Pete Harrison, the producer, stuck his head round the door and winked at Meg. ‘Our star,’ he said, coming in and taking her hand, squeezing it rather too earnestly as he stared into her eyes. ‘Good to see you’re on time. Looking forward to it?’

  Meg snorted and extracted her hand from his before he crushed it. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You should. You’ll be great.’

  Meg wished she had his confidence. Once that camera started rolling, and her mouth opened—well, it just didn’t bear thinking about. But clearly Pete wasn’t worried in the least. Probably because he didn’t realise just how worried he ought to be. Well, time would sort that one out!

  His eyes flicked to Jude. ‘When you’ve done her make-up, give me a shout.’

  ‘It’s done—she doesn’t need any,’ Jude said.

  He nodded. ‘The flawless skin of extreme youth,’ he sighed, and Meg laughed.

  ‘Hardl
y. I’m twenty-six.’

  ‘That’s extreme youth compared to Pete,’ Ben said, and earned himself a black look from the producer.

  He sucked in his stomach and turned back to Meg. ‘OK, Meg, let’s roll. I think the easiest thing to do is follow you, and let you do whatever you would normally do.’

  ‘What about permission from the patients?’ she asked, belatedly worrying about that and wondering if it might give her an out. ‘How do you get consent to use the footage?’

  ‘We deal with that individually,’ he explained. ‘We’ve put up a sign saying we’re filming in the department to warn people, and Rae, our researcher, will get consents from everyone we film. If they’re unconscious, we ask them or their relatives later. But we aren’t here to offend, and we can do a lot with blurring and narration so the identities of the patients are protected. I’m thinking here of RTAs, multiple trauma, anything gory. We can always edit out the worst of the blood. What we don’t want is you sitting in a room doing endless ankle supports and splinters, and Matt and Tom are fine with that. As much action as possible is the order of the day.’

  Thank God, Meg thought, because there was no way she wanted to sit and do ankles all day either. Although if they wanted her holding anyone’s head while they were sick, they could whistle, because she was lousy at it!

  Pete glanced at his watch. ‘Right. We’ve got a few minutes before you’re due to start, so I’d like to get a bit on camera and check the make-up really is OK. We need to get you miked up as well.’

  Which involved having a small microphone clipped to her lapel and a small but surprisingly heavy battery pack strapped to her back under her tunic. Great for the figure, she thought. I’ve got enough under there without any extra bumps!

  But strapped on it was, and then Ben was asking her questions, and they were testing sound levels and lighting levels and running it back so they could see, and Meg thought, Lord, it really is happening. I’m going to be on this stupid programme!

  ‘Right. It’s five to seven, so we need to film you arriving for work. Can you get your car and drive in and park it?’

  ‘What—and lose my parking space? You must be crazy! Anyway, I don’t want my car identified if possible. I don’t want to become a target for weirdos.’

  ‘Why don’t we film her walking in through the doors?’ Ben suggested, so they went to the entrance and set up the shot, but someone got in the way and so she had to go out again, and then again, and of course she forgot that she had the radio mike on, so by the time she came through the doors for the third time they were chuckling.

  ‘“Oh, pooh”?’ Steve, the camera and sound man, said with a teasing look, and she blushed furiously and smacked her forehead with her palm. She hadn’t even had to talk and she’d said the wrong thing already!

  ‘I’m sorry! I’ll do it again,’ she wailed, but they told her not to worry.

  ‘They’ being Pete, Steve—an outrageous flirt who had put Meg instantly at her ease with his silly banter—and Rae the researcher, tiny and looking young enough to be at school.

  ‘We can work round that footage,’ Steve said, and Pete nodded.

  ‘Right. Better get inside and see what’s going on, and if you could moderate the language it’ll save a lot of those bleeps,’ Pete teased. ‘What we need now,’ he went on, ‘is something good and dramatic to kick off with.’ And right on queue, they heard the sirens.

  ‘Traumatic amputation coming in following an accident in a glasshouse—want to do this one, Meg?’ Angie asked, appearing at her elbow.

  Pete’s eyes lit up, and Meg chuckled.

  ‘You must have some amazing influence,’ she said with a rueful grin, and, donning gloves and a disposable apron, she headed for the doors.

  It was a good job Ben was a doctor and Steve didn’t seem to be fazed by the sight of blood, because when the ambulance doors opened there was plenty of it to see.

  Meg, forgetting all about them, moved straight in and started asking questions, listening to the report from the paramedics, a bag of saline held aloft as they pulled the trolley out of the ambulance, locked its legs down and hurried through to Resus. Kenna was on the other side, holding a pressure pad on the elevated stump to try and minimise blood loss, while Mike filled Meg in.

  ‘Andy Johnson, farmer, aged thirty-six, working in a glasshouse when part of the roof fell in and sliced his hand off. He’s had morphine and we’ve started him on fluids, but BP’s stable at 130 over 70. No other visible injuries and the bleeding’s under control.’

  ‘Thanks. I think we know him, actually.’ Meg bent over him, making eye contact and smiling to reassure him, the film team forgotten. ‘Hi again, Andy, I’m Meg. We met last time you were in. I’m going to be staying with you while you’re in the accident and emergency department, so anything you want to know, feel free to ask me. How are you feeling? How’s the pain?’

  ‘OK now, wearing off thanks to these guys. Bloody cross with myself, though,’ Andy growled weakly from the trolley. ‘I can’t believe it. I knew the glass was loose, but I never dreamt…’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘It’s a nightmare—how the hell am I going to cope with one hand? I thought losing the finger was bad enough.’

  ‘Let’s cross one bridge at a time,’ Meg said soothingly, and glanced up at Mike, the paramedic who’d given her the report. ‘Do we have the hand?’

  ‘Yes—I’ve got it here,’ Kenna said. ‘It’s in pretty good condition, considering the dog retrieved it.’

  Meg’s heart sank. ‘The dog?’

  ‘Ran into the kitchen—that’s how his wife found out,’ she was told as Kenna handed her the plastic bag with the hand in it packed in saline swabs. ‘They’re following—Mrs Johnson and two children. They’ll be here shortly.’

  ‘Andy? Andy!’

  ‘That’s Jill,’ Andy said, lifting his head, but Meg pushed him gently back.

  ‘Don’t worry about her. Someone will look after her and fill her in. She can come and see you in a minute. Sophie, could you do that, please? You just lie there and relax and let us do our job. Right, let’s shift him across on my count, please—one, two, three.’

  They slid Andy across onto the bed, taking care to support his damaged arm and the pillow it was elevated on. Meg clipped the bag of saline onto the drip stand and took over the pressure from Kenna while Angie hooked him up to the monitor. He sagged back against the pillows, then his eyes flicked past Meg and he frowned in concentration. ‘Do I know you? Aren’t you on the telly?’ he said, and out of the corner of her eye Meg saw Ben move forward.

  Heavens. She’d forgotten about him.

  ‘Ben Maguire,’ he said. ‘We’re filming in the department.’

  Andy gave a grim little laugh. ‘So do I get to be on the telly? Blimey. You’d better get the missus on too, or my life won’t be worth living.’

  ‘I’m sure that would be fine,’ Ben said, and Meg wondered if she was hearing things or if his voice was unusually curt. Yes, she thought as he carried on, giving the researcher her instructions. Definitely curt. ‘Rae, could you talk to them when someone’s filled them in on his condition? Background would be good.’

  ‘Sure,’ Rae agreed, and Meg shot him a sideways look.

  Yup. He was as tense as hell, his hands rammed in his pockets, far from the casual, relaxed presenter of his earlier programmes. So why—?

  ‘Ben Maguire, eh? How about that?’ Andy murmured, his voice slurring a little with the pain relief. ‘I’d shake hands, mate, but it’s in a plastic bag at the moment.’

  Ben laughed shortly and patted his shoulder. ‘I’ll consider us formally introduced, under the circumstances. You just lie there and let them fix you up.’

  Tom had come in by now, and was busy checking the condition of the stump, issuing instructions for the pressure pad, his eye running over the monitor and assessing Andy’s vital signs. Although the bleeding seemed under control now, Andy was pale and clammy, and he’d obviously lost a considerable amount bef
ore they’d got to him.

  ‘Right, let’s have some bloods—is that saline or Ringer’s lactate running in?’

  ‘Saline. I’ve taken bloods,’ Meg said, reeling off the list, and Tom nodded.

  ‘Right, better switch to Ringer’s now. We’ll go for two units to start with. Hopefully we won’t need blood products. What about the hand? Anyone checked the condition yet?’

  ‘I have—it’s looking good,’ Angie said. ‘It’s packed in saline swabs and I’ve put the bag in cool water and notified the hand surgeon. He’ll be down any minute.’

  ‘Good. Well, Andy, it’s a nice clean cut straight through the radius and ulna—textbook amputation. If you had to do it, you made a good job of it,’ Tom said with a reassuring smile. ‘I should say the chances of reattaching it are good.’

  Andy closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘Thank God for that. You couldn’t save the finger, but I can manage without that. The hand might be a whole different ball game. I couldn’t see my wife, could I?’ he asked, the momentary distraction of Ben’s presence obviously wearing off and leaving him acutely aware of the gravity of the situation.

  ‘Sure. I’ll go and talk to her, shall I?’ Meg asked Tom, and he nodded.

  She expected Ben and Steve to stay there and carry on filming, but to her surprise they followed her out into the corridor, where she found Mrs Johnson standing staring at the resus door, bracketed by two young children—seven and nine or thereabouts, Meg thought, and certainly old enough for the events to have registered with them. They looked worried and overawed.

  Until they saw Ben. Then the elder one straightened up, his eyes widening. ‘Mum? Look who it is!’

  ‘Mrs Johnson?’ Meg said, and the woman’s eyes flicked from her to Ben and back, focusing on what mattered.

  ‘Meg?’

  ‘Hello, Jill. Are you OK?’