by Jill Mansell
‘Hold him, hold on to him, don’t let him swing . . . someone call an ambulance . . .’
‘Hello? Hello!’ Grabbing the phone back from Tasha, Carmel shouted into it without success; with all the commotion going on, no one at the other end could hear them.
Nauseous and faint with terror, still half in and half out of the changing cubicle, Tasha listened to the sounds of yelling, scuffles and panic. Her overactive imagination was picturing Rory unconscious and dangling by a rope while blood poured from his head and splashed on to the rocks below. Something had clearly gone horribly wrong. He could even be dead. Oh God, this was more than she could bear . . .
Chapter 19
The pain was agonising, close to unbearable. Rory struggled to stay calm. One minute everything had been great, they’d been climbing the gorge and it was all going according to plan. Then one of the climbers above him slipped, dislodging a small piece of rock and letting out an inadvertent shout of alarm. If he hadn’t looked up, Rory now knew, he would have been fine; the rock would have bounced off his safety helmet. Instead it had landed on his cheekbone and he’d simultaneously lost his own footing, saved by the climbing ropes from plunging a couple of hundred feet to the ground but not from slipping sideways beneath the overhang and crashing into the section of rock he’d just climbed.
Dazed and dangling, he felt the pain radiating through his body and knew at once what had happened. He’d experienced it before, following a ferocious rugby tackle at school. And if it hurt like hell now, this was nothing compared with the remedy.
People were yelling, calling instructions as the rescue team swung into action around him. Within minutes Rory found himself lowered to the ground, being efficiently checked over by a medic. The ambulance, they assured him, would be here any minute now. Behind the medic, he could see Joe saying to one of the other climbers, ‘Fuck, I don’t believe it.’
The other climber, visibly shaken, said, ‘Look at his face.’
Rory knew only that there was some blood, not how much. Oh God, what had happened to his face?
The medic, crouched over him, murmured reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it looks. You’re just bleeding like a burst balloon. Ever dislocated your shoulder before?’
‘When I was eighteen. Rugby tackle.’ He sucked in the gas and air from the mask over his face.
‘I’m going to try and put it back now. You OK with that?’
Rory took a couple of extra-deep breaths, nodded and braced himself. ‘Go ahead.’ It was going to hurt like hell, but the sooner it was done, the sooner it would be over.
‘All right, here we go. Grit your teeth.’
Rory found himself enveloped in a whole new world of pain. He let out a gut-wrenching yell as the agony intensified, only dimly aware of his surroundings for the next few seconds as every synapse in his body reached its physical limit. In the furthest recesses of his mind he was grateful that at least Tasha wasn’t here to witness the spectacle and hear him making noises like a wild animal caught in a trap.
‘There, done,’ said the medic.
And like magic, the pain was gone. Unbelievably, the ball had popped back into the socket and his shoulder was normal again. Well, sore obviously. But he was in one piece.
‘Fuuuuuuuck,’ Joe exhaled.
‘Yep.’ Weak with relief that the worst of it was over, Rory nodded. Fuck indeed. The sound of an ambulance siren grew louder and he closed his eyes.
Twenty minutes later, Rory had been checked over by the paramedics and was being helped into the ambulance. ‘We need to let the girls know we’ll be late picking them up. Can you call Tash?’
‘OK.’ Joe pulled his mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans.
‘Don’t scare her. When she answers, don’t say straight away that I’ve had an accident. Tell her I’m fine but I just need to go to the hospital for a check-up.’
‘Right.’ But Joe was frowning at his phone, evidently puzzled by something. As a faint noise emerged from it, he jumped and put it cautiously to his ear. ‘Hello? Who’s that?’
He was greeted by the sound of faint tinny shrieking.
‘What? But I didn’t call you. How long have you been listening? Well it’s not my fault, my phone must have done it. Calm down, for crying out loud. Of course he’s all right. Pass me over to Tasha.’ Pulling a face at Rory, he said, ‘God, that girl drives me nuts. You’d think I’d done it on purpose.’
‘You’re telling me they heard everything?’ Rory winced at the thought of it.
‘Yeah.’ Now that the adrenalin-inducing panic was over, Joe broke into a grin. ‘Including you screaming like a girl.’
It was midnight by the time they arrived home, marking the end of one of the most fraught days of Tasha’s life. Joe had driven them back to London, dropping Carmel off first, then Rory and herself.
In the bathroom of her flat, Rory studied his reflection in the mirror.
‘Does it hurt?’ Next to him, Tasha surveyed the damage. If it had looked bad before, it was worse now. Over the last few hours, the side of his face had ballooned, the bruises already livid cranberry and purple. His left eye was swollen shut, the stitches holding together the cut on his cheekbone looked tight and spiky, and the collar of his shirt on that side was soaked in dried blood. His popped-back left shoulder was in a sling to make sure it stayed that way.
‘No.’ Rory shook his head.
‘That’s not true.’ Did he think she was stupid?
‘It hurts a bit. Compared with getting the shoulder sorted, this is nothing.’
She gave him a look. ‘So at least you’ll never go rock climbing again. That’s something.’
‘I might. I probably will.’ Rory’s gaze met hers in the mirror. ‘Until this happened, it was brilliant. I was loving every minute.’
‘Seriously?’ Tasha didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Having to listen in on the phone to the yelling and panic surrounding the accident had almost finished her off; at one stage in the clothes shop, the terror and sense of helplessness had caused her legs to give way.
‘It was a one-off accident. There’s no reason why anything like that would ever happen again.’ His tone reassuring, Rory put his good arm around her waist. ‘You’re only upset because Joe’s mobile called you by mistake.’
The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped Tasha. Last time, she’d given him grief because he hadn’t bothered to keep in touch. This time, she’d been kept too much in touch.
Either way, it seemed, her overactive imagination was destined to keep her in a state of terror.
‘You still could have died,’ she pointed out.
‘Hey. We were out doing something. I could have stayed at home and not got out of bed all day. It’d be safer.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s not what living’s about, is it?’
‘You’re an adrenalin junkie.’
Rory nodded. ‘I am.’
‘And you’re never going to give up doing all this . . . stuff.’
‘True.’ He searched her face. ‘Can you handle that?’
Tasha quaked inwardly, because this was what it was all about, wasn’t it? Basically, she had two choices. Either stop seeing Rory and consequently stop worrying about him, or carry on seeing him and accept the associated terms and conditions.
‘I’m not going to stop seeing you,’ she told him. She saw the relief on the undamaged side of his face. ‘I can’t.’
‘Good.’ His expression softened. ‘Well, thank God for that.’
‘Wouldn’t it be just the height of irony, though, if worrying myself sick about you caused me to have some kind of stress-related stroke or heart attack?’
Rory kissed her. ‘It would, but it’s never going to happen.’
‘It had better not.’ Forcing herself to relax, Tasha smiled and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Because I’m telling you now, if it does happen and I end up dead, I’ll be so cross.’
Chapter 20
‘OK, so we got all excit
ed when you told us about this new man of yours, and that was four weeks ago now.’ Bridget leaned across the restaurant table and gave Flo a you-can-tell-us eyebrow raise. ‘So why haven’t you seen him since?’
‘You know what I think?’ said Annie. ‘I reckon he doesn’t exist. He’s Flo’s fantasy boyfriend, she just made him up.’
Flo was used to being single and teased about it by her workmates. Bridget had a husband, five children and many grandchildren. Annie, divorced, was having the time of her life internet dating, and Mavis had just married for the third time. The four of them had come out tonight to this restaurant in Redland to celebrate Bridget’s upcoming sixtieth birthday.
When Bridget had first invited all her colleagues at Nairn House, the younger contingent had hastily made their excuses, preferring to spend their precious Friday night out clubbing and drinking themselves senseless with people their own age. Flo, who had actually been invited to a party in Bath, had felt sorry for poor Bridget when she’d seen how many of the others were dropping out.
Which was how she’d come to find herself here this evening instead. With three women all old enough to have given birth to her.
Oh well, maybe not a wild party night, but still quite fun and nice in its own way. And at least the food was good.
‘He had to go to Toronto,’ she explained patiently. ‘On business. He thought it would only be for a couple of weeks, but it’s taken longer than they expected.’ She’d told them this before, but her workmates liked to make fun of her.
‘He’s found himself another girlfriend over there,’ Annie gleefully announced. ‘That’s what happened, I reckon.’
‘Maybe he has. And I’m not his girlfriend anyway,’ said Flo. ‘We just spent one evening together. I liked him. And he seemed to like me. But that’s all it is.’
Inside her brain, a little voice whispered hopefully, So far . . .
‘Did you sleep with him?’ Bridget, who was nothing if not blunt, wagged an admonishing finger. ‘You should never sleep with ’em on a first date. That’s just giving it away.’
‘I didn’t sleep with him! And it wasn’t a date.’ Honestly, these women.
‘Was there kissing?’
‘I’m not going to say.’ Flo felt her cheeks heat up.
‘There was kissing,’ Mavis cackled. ‘Tongues?’
‘Mavis!’
‘Ah, look at her, she’s gone all red. Bless!’ Predictably they found this hilarious.
Ever the optimist, Annie said, ‘Perhaps he came back from Toronto two weeks ago and just hasn’t told you.’
‘That could be it.’ Flo smiled. Zander had texted her yesterday to say he would definitely be coming home on Wednesday, and they’d already arranged to meet up that evening. Although she wouldn’t share this bit of news with them, seeing as their nosiness and capacity for asking intimate questions would only go into overdrive.
‘I’ve forgotten his name now.’ Bridget frowned. ‘Ooh, what was it? I know it’s something posh . . .’
‘Percival. Quentin. Boris! Ooh, I love a posh name, I do,’ Mavis said with relish. ‘Peregrine! Tarquin!’
‘Zander.’ Annie had remembered it. Triumphantly, she put on a posh voice. ‘Oh Zaaaarnder, what are you doing hiding away in Toronto? Do you have any idea how long Flo’s been waiting for a boyfriend? She’s desperate for you!’
A Bristolian born and bred, Annie had a strong local accent but a gift for mimicry, and her voices always made them laugh. Bridget was spluttering wine and Mavis was whacking her on the back when the door to the restaurant swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air and two more diners.
Flo stopped laughing abruptly when she saw who had just come in.
Oh God, Lena.
‘What’s up?’ Annie was following the line of her horrified gaze. ‘Who are you looking at? Don’t tell me that’s Zaaarnder?’
‘Sshhh.’ Flo shook her head and pulled an anguished face at the three women. ‘Don’t say anything. It’s his sister.’
Like Wimbledon spectators, three heads turned to look at Lena, who was removing her black coat and handing it to the waiter. She was wearing a slim-fitting emerald-green dress and black suede stilettos; with her make-up perfectly applied and her hair pulled back in a sleek ballerina bun, she looked amazing.
‘Wow.’ Evidently thinking the same, Annie murmured under her breath, ‘Does Zander look like that?’
‘Well, he doesn’t wear high heels and make-up,’ Flo murmured back. ‘But otherwise, yes.’
And she couldn’t help feeling a bit proud of the fact that they were visibly impressed.
‘So hang on, is this the nutty one who wants to kill Jeremy?’ said Mavis.
‘Yes.’ Flo pressed a finger to her lips, because the waiter was now leading Lena and her dinner date into the dining room. ‘Sshh.’
Then she looked at Lena’s companion for the first time, and almost dropped her fork.
What, really?
No way.
But it was, it was him. And how ironic, when they’d just been making fun of Zander’s posh name.
Because who should Lena be having dinner with? Why, none other than tomato-soup Giles. And typically, the waiter was leading them to the table right next to their own.
Flo held her breath. It wasn’t until she’d been seated and had made herself comfortable that Lena glanced across and saw her.
Talk about a double-take.
‘Good lord, it’s you. What are you doing here?’
What did she seriously expect by way of an answer? Oh, this is where we come to do our aerobics class . . .
‘Just having dinner with my friends,’ replied Flo.
Lena’s pale blue gaze took in every detail, from Bridget’s hand-knitted peach cardigan to Annie’s wrinkled cleavage to Mavis’s overenthusiastic application of shimmery violet eyeshadow.
‘Right. I see.’ She turned to address Giles, lowering her voice but not enough. ‘I thought it might be some kind of geriatric hen night.’
Annie raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Flo shook her head fractionally, indicating that a stand-up fight here in their favourite restaurant might not be ideal. Luckily, her friends had heard all about Lena, and thanks to their jobs were capable of handling rudeness with humour and grace.
‘I see what you mean,’ Mavis murmured under her breath. ‘What a charmer.’
‘She’s the one I told you about,’ Lena was now explaining to Giles. ‘The one looking after that damn cat.’
‘Right.’ Giles, Flo realised, was giving her a speculative look. ‘You know, I’m sure I know her from somewhere. I’ve definitely seen her before.’
Whoops, this could be interesting. Flo turned her attention to the food on her plate. She’d been sober that evening, so recognising Jaaahls had been easy. Whereas he’d been drinking, which had presumably reduced his own memories to a murky haze.
Oh, but awful though she was in her own way, surely even Lena would be appalled if she knew what an obnoxious lowlife her dining companion really was.
‘We’ll kick off with a bottle of Saint-Émilion,’ Giles told the waiter. ‘And I’ll have a lager too. Bring them both straight away, yeah?’
‘Please,’ Mavis prompted under her breath, marvelling at his lack of manners.
‘You.’ Giles clicked his fingers, and Flo realised he was doing it to attract her attention. ‘It’s bugging me now. Do you work in one of the pubs in Clifton?’
‘Me? No.’ Flo shook her head.
‘Are you in business banking?’
‘Of course she isn’t.’ Lena said it with a mixture of amusement and scorn. ‘I told you before, she wipes old people’s backsides for a living in a care home. Eurgh.’ She shuddered with revulsion. ‘I don’t know how people can bear to do that. Turns my stomach just to think of it.’
Next to Flo, Annie said, ‘Just as well we aren’t all as sensitive as you, then, isn’t it? There’s always going to be people whose backsides need wiping.’ Flashing Lena and
Giles a sunny smile, she added, ‘Could be you one day.’
Lena grimaced at the awfulness of this prospect. Giles said, ‘True, true, and good for you. We’re grateful to people like you for doing those sorts of jobs.’
‘I know.’ Annie nodded pleasantly, but there was an edge to her voice. ‘And aren’t we lucky? Sometimes our employers even pay us minimum wage.’
‘Mesdames? M’sieur? Ees everything all right?’ Having noticed the interaction between the tables, the maître d’ had materialised to ensure all was well.
‘Bof, ça va,’ Flo replied politely. ‘Ils manquent un peu de charme et des manières mais vous inquiétez pas, nous pouvons le surmonter. Il est simplement ignorant et condescendant; pourtant nous habituons aux personnes comme ça. Aussi nous avons presque fini notre dîner, vingt minutes de plus et nous allons partir.’
Basically, she’d told him all was well, they could easily cope with two people lacking in charm and manners, and in twenty minutes they’d be out of here anyway. Saying it fast hopefully meant Lena and Giles wouldn’t be able to work out what she’d said.
‘Ah, oui. Merci, madame, merci beaucoup. And I completely agree with you about the manners.’ The maître d’ smiled, tilted his head at Flo and moved away. He hadn’t indiscreetly said the final sentence in English, of course; he’d still been speaking French.
And the look on Lena and Giles’s faces was gratifying.
‘Are you French?’ Lena was now staring at Flo in disbelief.
‘No.’
‘So how do you know how to speak it?’
‘I learned at school. Then learned a bit more at university.’
Lena looked as if she’d swallowed a hedgehog.
‘And what did you just say to that bloke?’
‘Nothing much, just told him everything was fine and how much we were enjoying our evening. The food’s great here. Such a brilliant chef . . .’
Giles was still watching her, clearly puzzling over where he knew her from. Flo turned back to Bridget, Annie and Mavis, and the waiter approached Lena and Giles’s table with their menus.