"Nice view, mate," one of them said when his mother opened to door to his apartment and he was rolled in. He did have a magnificent view, of the Thames, London stretching out in a one-eighty degree view and Canary Wharf in the distance. His apartment was awesome, chrome and glass—state of the art. It was completely open plan, except for the bathroom which was dark green marble, looking like a rainforest.
But there were two steps down from the door to the main section of the apartment, covered in the expensive Japanese carpet. He had to hold tight as the men worked his wheelchair down the steps. These steps trapped him in the apartment.
With help, Peter threw himself into his bed, feeling exhausted. His body really had taken a beating. As he turned himself over, breathing heavily, he noted that the wheelchair stayed, but the men left.
"It must be good to be home," his mother said chirpily, placing the blanket she'd been holding down on the table. "Now the agency has sent over some CVs. You're going to need help."
He knew this was beyond what his mother was capable of dealing with. He knew she hated anything to do with infirmary, and he could tell by her voice that she'd already booked her ticket back to LA. Not that he minded.
Closing his mind, he let the tiredness reign, stopping himself from trying to stay awake.
"There's this woman—twenty five years in the NHS," she started. The woman wrestler entered his mind and he mentally vomited. "A Scottish woman, an Iranian man. A man could be good, strong." Like hell, Peter thought.
"Who else?" he said through forced, breathy words.
"A New Zealander. She is qualified, but not much experience."
"The Kiwi," he said. Images of Alex floated through his mind.
"But she's the least experienced."
"I want her." With a groan he relented into sleep.
Chapter 3
* * *
Shay McPherson woke with a pounding headache. They'd been out last night, down at the pub in West Kensington. Groaning, she turned over. Someone was moving quietly in the room, shoving stuff in a bag with a slight wushing noise. Someone was preparing to go, probably the Portuguese girl and her boyfriend.
"Oh, my god, my head," Jess whined. "What did we do last night?" Shay heard Jess move in the bunk over her.
They'd picked a nice backpackers, which was neat and clean, and smelled like new paint. It was a short walk to the tube and there was a large Tesco down the road where they tended to buy their meals. They'd been in London for two weeks and it had been a blast so far. They'd both registered with recruitment agents, found their way around the tube and familiarised themselves with some of the pubs in the area.
Getting out of bed, Shay stepped past the Portuguese girl who was crouched on the floor, folding everything into her backpack. "Hi," she said awkwardly and grabbed her towel hanging over her open locker door.
The shower cleared her head, but Jess was still in bed when Shay got back. The Portuguese couple was gone and the room instantly felt cosier, just being the two of them. Shay's stomach growled in dismay.
"I need to eat something proper. Let's go to that breakfast place by the tube station." They'd found that place the first day they'd arrived. It had had the same décor since it opened some time in the seventies, but they served a good full English breakfast, and that is what Shay needed today.
"Can't we sleep some more?" Jess complained, turning over.
"No, I'm starving. Drag yourself out of bed and let's go. You'll feel better once you're moving."
The street around the tube station in West Kensington was busy even though the worst of the morning rush was over. The breakfast place had a spare table and they claimed it and ordered as soon as the waitress came over.
"What should we do today?" Shay asked. "Should we finally go have a look at the Tower? Or should we keep looking for a flat."
"I want to get a flat as soon as possible. The hostel is nice, but I still don't like sharing a room with strangers."
Shay didn't mind the hostel. There were interesting people every day, but saying that, the Portuguese man had been a bit of a snorer, and it was hard to put up with snoring when it came from someone you didn’t care about.
Shay's phone rang. "Shay McPherson," she said when she answered it.
"Hi Shay, this is Melissa from Resource Pool. We have an assignment for you. It's only short term, but it would be a good starting assignment, something you can prove yourself with. If this goes well, we can place you in on other assignments, maybe even look at permanent roles."
Shay couldn't help feel nerves creep up her spine. She was getting her first assignment. Things were rolling. "Cool," Shay said, casting Jess an excited look. "That's really awesome."
"Now, the job is a private one with a patient recovering from surgery after a car accident. It's only for three weeks. Are you interested?"
"Absolutely," Shay said while mouthing to Jess that it was about a job. Jess was leaning across the table trying to listen in.
"Alright, so it starts right away. Can you be there this afternoon?"
"Sure," Shay said, feeling astounded. "No interview?"
"No, apparently the client liked the look of your CV and chose you."
"Oh, okay. Wow. That's wonderful. I will be there."
"I'll email the details through and I'll be in touch later tomorrow to see that everything's okay. Bye now. Call me if there are any issues."
"Will do. Thanks again."
The recruitment lady hung up and Shay stared dumbfounded at Jess. "I have a job."
"Awesome," Jess said. "When?"
"Later today."
"I'll be on my own," Jess pouted.
"You're a big girl. At least we'll refill the coffers a bit."
"Guess, I'll keep looking for a place."
The client was in Southwark, which apparently sounded nothing like it was spelled. That was seemingly normal in England—strange pronunciations that dated back to the Middle Ages. Shay followed the direction her 'A to Z' provided until she reached a building and looked up at a monolith of glass and steel. This was it? Checking the address on the email she'd printed, she confirmed that the job was definitely in this building.
After wrangling with the security guard, she got into the elevator, then knocked on the correct door and heard a muffled 'get in'. The door was unlocked and she entered a room with an awe-inspiring view. The sun shone over London and she could see all of it.
"Excuse my manners if I don't get up," a voice said from over to the left.
Shay sought out the voice and saw a guy lying in bed—obviously this was the client. "Hi," she said. "I'm Shay."
The man stared at her and she moved closer. He was blond and attractive, lying in bed, under a sheet like some Cosmo photo-shoot. He was a bit older than the guys she usually went for. What are you, she wondered.
Looking closer, she could see the sharp edges of the external fixation along his thigh. The email she'd received was a little light on the details. "You've had a femoral shaft fracture," she stated.
"I've had a lot of things," the guy said, watching her. Peter was his name, or so the email had said. He wasn't like any patient she'd had before and she didn't really know what she'd just gotten herself into.
Shay smiled. "I'm the nurse."
"I figured. I'm a little disappointed with the uniform."
Shay looked down at her jeans. Was she supposed to wear something else? Look a little more professional perhaps? She flushed a bit, wondering if she'd screwed up.
She looked around the apartment which could have been something out of an architectural magazine. He was obviously wealthy to afford and apartment like this. It was far removed from tiny cupboards she and Jess were looking at.
"Is there anything else I should know about?" she said, feeling awkward.
Peter closed his eyes and looked away.
Okay, Shay said silently and looked around. "Is there anyone here?"
"No."
"You shouldn't be left on your
own."
"That's why you're here."
"Have you taken you medication?"
"Just this stuff over here," he said, pointing at the bedside table where a collection of white bottles stood.
Shay walked over, looking through the bottles. How long had he been alone? Surely he hadn't been dropped off to fend for himself. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes," he admitted like it was a weakness admitting that he needed something.
"Are you vegetarian or something?"
"Do I look like a vegetarian?"
Shay shrugged. "You never know." He did look like a body conscious kind of guy. From what she could see, he was fit and toned so he spent time doing some kind of exercise.
"I really do need to know if you have any dietary peculiarities. Particularly allergies."
"Nothing," he said.
Shay walked over to the kitchen and looked inside the fridge. There was nothing but Champagne. Seriously? She thought that was only in movies. She tried the cupboard, but there were only little coffee capsules. "You've got nothing in your kitchen."
"No," he said.
"Is there a supermarket nearby?"
"Don't really do supermarkets."
Shay rolled her eyes, still facing away from him. Again she wondered what type of person she'd just gotten herself involved with. Taking out her phone, she searched the internet for the nearest supermarket. "I'll have to go to get some supplies," she said, trying to think how she'd fit this onto her strained credit card. "Before I go, do you need to use the facilities? Or do you have a bedpan."
"Over my dead body will I use a bedpan. I’ll crawl to the bathroom if I have to."
Rolling the wheelchair over, she lifted the sheet to be confronted by a totally nude body—a very nice body, too, she noted before quickly dropping the sheet again. "You're naked."
"I am in my bed."
"If I'm going to help you in and out of bed all day, it might be good for you to wear something."
"I don't mind," he said, grinning, seemingly enjoying her discomfort.
Shay didn't know quite what to do for a second. She had to be professional. "Perhaps I can find something for you to wear. Wouldn't want you to get cold," she said and turned to what looked like the wardrobe. There was nothing but suits and sportswear inside. Not remotely cosy. Peter obviously wasn't a couch and ice-cream kind of guy. Nothing he had was going to fit over the external fixture. She would have to get something for him at the supermarket—something soft and stretchy.
After returning Peter to bed, having completed his visit to the bathroom, still wrapped in his sheet, she left the building to find a supermarket. Getting the name of the discharge nurse from Melissa the recruitment agent, she called and noted all the injuries he had. No one had bothered to mention that he was going back into surgery in a week.
Returning back, she presented the soft, grey lounge pants she'd bought to an unimpressed look from Peter. She'd bought a large size to accommodate the fixture running down his thigh.
"I'm not wearing that," he stated.
Really, Shay thought. He was going to be unreasonable about this? "You're recovering from pretty serious surgery; you're allowed to look less than spectacular. I suppose I could cut up one of your suits," she said, getting a narrowed look from Peter. She didn't know how much those suits were, but suspected it was an eye-watering amount.
Finally relenting, she pushed up the sheet and pulled the lounge pants up his legs, keeping the sheet in place to ensure his modesty. In reality, she suspected he couldn't care less and it was her modesty she was really protecting.
While she cooked, he turned on the TV facing the bed and the business news blared out across the apartment. Every so often she would look over at him as he'd pulled himself up on pillows to watch the TV, nude from the waist up, tanned and fit with his arms crossed in front of him. She should have gotten him a T-shirt as well.
Chapter 4
* * *
Peter sat propped on pillows watching the girl wander around his apartment. There was precious little else to do. He'd wanted to check emails, but he'd lost his phone in the crash and the girl refused to buy him another, stating that he needed to recuperate. He'd threatened to fire her, but she hadn't backed down. Turned out she was more staunch than she looked. She was pretty and young, but she didn't cower when he stared her down, which was interesting.
He was bored, bored, bored. Without work or sex, there really wasn't much to do. He hadn't realised how much his life revolved around those two things. That was how he wanted it and all he wanted to do was recover so he could get back to his life.
Shay McPherson was the kind of girl he wouldn't even look at normally. She didn't have the style or flair that was a prerequisite for the girls he spent his time with. Shay McPherson was your typical backpacker—cheap clothes, cheap booze and low-grade concerns. A friggin nurse, probably a left-wing greenie too, concerned with recycling and saving orphans.
She had a nice body from what he could see through her ill-fitting clothes, but his mind was more engaged on that front than his body. He hadn't had a hard-on since the accident, and he was really quite worried about it. The doctor had said all would be fine, but he wouldn't be reassured until he knew everything worked as it should.
"Do you want a coffee?" the girl asked.
He wanted to say no out of spite, but he really could use one. He grunted slightly in affirmation, but still hated being dependant on her.
She came over and joined him, sitting on the chair next to his bed as he lay there watching the news, which had now repeated onto its third cycle.
Her legs crossed, encaged in tight jeans with cheap Moroccan looking shoes, complete with gold embroidery and little baubles sewn into them. They looked like something she'd actually bought while travelling.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," she said and took a sip of her coffee.
Twenty-two, he repeated. Christ, she was young. He could barely remember twenty-two. He'd been cocky, fresh out of Oxford and just taking on his first job, intent on making a name for himself. He'd worked relentlessly since that time and had achieved exactly what he'd wanted to. He would only go higher from here, taking on his boss' job, then his boss' after that, buying an even nicer apartment than this. He had absolutely nothing in common with this girl. "How long have you been in London?"
"Two weeks."
She really was fresh off a plane.
"And where do you come from?"
"I was studying at the Auckland Uni medical school, but before that I grew up in Te Awamutu. It's a farming town. Tiny really."
"And is that what your parents did, farming?"
"It is."
A farm girl, even, Peter said and flopped his head back on his pillow with a chuckle.
"What about you?" she asked. "Are you from here?"
"Londoner, born and bred."
She held his eyes for a bit before looking away towards the TV again. "Where's your family?"
"My mother lives in LA. She was here, but she's left now."
A frown fleeted across her brow. "Are you done with that?" she asked, indicating his coffee cup.
"Yes."
Standing, she picked up his cup. "I have to go out and pick up some more medication. Do you want me to get anything?"
"No." There was nothing he needed, or there was, but he couldn't put a finger on what it was. Right now, he needed to sleep as tiredness was taking over again. It was surprising how devastating these injuries were on his body. His body had never been this compromised before. He was like an old man, sleeping every five minutes. Even his brain felt too tired to think properly.
He apartment was quiet when he woke and he felt a slight panic at being completely alone, unable to get up and around. He was dependent on the help of others and he hated it. Pushing himself up to sitting, he turned the TV on, not because he wanted to see anything; he just hated the quiet.
Normally, he spent remarkably little time on his
own as there was always something to do, someone to see—someone to beat. When he played sports, he threw himself into it, intent on winning, but now he couldn't. Even that had been stripped away. He had no power over his own life, his own body, and it felt like the world had forgotten him, moved on without looking back.
Finally, the lock turned and he heard the rustle of plastic bags. The girl’s form popped out of the hall and she walked over to the kitchen island, where she unpacked things into his fridge. It was strange seeing someone in his kitchen. Normally, women in his apartment were in his bed or out the door. Apparently, he had a fully functioning kitchen, although he was missing some crucial utensils, he'd been told.
Shay McPherson's food was simple. He'd never eaten mince nachos or chicken chasseur with mashed potatoes before, but it reminded him of rough French country cooking. Perhaps this was rough New Zealand country cooking—the French version's poor cousin. It didn't taste bad as such; its flavours were blunt, but hearty—not the refine flavours he was used to.
"How about after dinner we practice standing," she said with a cheery smile.
He hated being treated like an invalid; hated even more the fact that he was an invalid, but he didn't argue. After she'd cleared their plates away, he let her help him stand and wrap her arms around his waist when his legs shook. Like now, when he wanted something he had focused determination and all he wanted now was to heal, and if he had to embarrass himself by trying to stand, he would. What did he care if this girl saw him weak and shaking? She was nothing to him.
"You alright?" she asked.
"Fine." He wasn't fine; he was weak as a kitten. Already he had lost muscle tone and he was embarrassed about it. He stood as long as his legs would hold him.
"You're getting better," she said when he finally slumped down on the bed. It didn't feel like it and it sounded like something a teacher would say to the kid who finished last. He wished he could put this all behind him—be back to normal.
Shay's phone rang and she ran to the kitchen island to answer it.
The Gem (D'Arth Book 4) Page 2