by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
Are you free this afternoon? Pick me up at the office, any time after two, and I’m yours for the rest of the day.
He didn’t reply immediately, but she knew he often forgot to check his phone. An hour later, she checked again. Still nothing. She dialed the number. She was fairly sure he didn’t have training, but maybe he was busy with another engagement. His phone rang, but he didn’t pick up, which was unlike him. Maybe he’d left it in his locker at the club. She tried his flat, but the number went straight to voicemail, so she left a message. If he wasn’t around, then she might as well get on with her work. Maybe they could arrange an afternoon date later in the week, and she’d be glad to have gotten ahead.
Her phone didn’t ring until after two. She picked it up and tucked it under her ear while she began to close down her computer and clear her desk.
“Hey.”
“Is that Mrs. Renaud?” Not Emile, after all. The caller had a female voice she didn’t recognize.
“No, it’s…” She paused before she got to the ‘Ms. Chartley’ that was on her lips. Instinct told her that this wasn’t the moment for feminist principles. “Yes. Who is this? What’s happened?”
“I’m calling from the hospital. Your husband had an accident during training this morning. I’m afraid he’s unconscious.”
“Unconscious?” she repeated blankly. “What does that mean?” Is he in a coma?
“He had an injury to the head. He is in a stable condition. I think you should come to the hospital, Mrs. Renaud.”
It wasn’t possible. Not Emile. She took a deep breath. And another one. Her mouth was dry and her brain had slowed to snail’s pace. She couldn’t process what was happening, but somehow the words formed on her lips.
“Is he dying?”
She needed to know before she got to the hospital. She needed to prepare herself.
“He is in a stable condition. He is being closely monitored. We will know more later. Mrs. Renaud, do you have someone who can bring you to the hospital?”
“But I…” I’m not really his wife, she wanted to say. Friends with benefits. That’s all. But who else would they call? He didn’t have any close family, and none at all in the UK. Friends from the club, but they must know what was happening already.
She was his wife by law. That might not mean much, but it meant she had to be there. Just in case they needed someone to make decisions.
She could do this. She had to. Calm and unemotional, that would be the best way to cope. If only she could keep up that appearance on the outside, she’d be able to deal with the maelstrom of fear threatening to overwhelm her inside.
She closed her eyes for a moment to center herself. Kept her voice calm. “I’ll get a cab.”
She took down the details of the ward number and booked the cab. She looked in on her PA to say that she would be out for the rest of the day. Then she slung her laptop case over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase.
She’d heard the woman from the hospital say that Emile was unconscious, but she hadn’t been able to process it. He was such a vibrant person, so alive, even when he slept. How could he be unconscious? But as the taxi drew up outside the building, all of a sudden, it was real. Somewhere inside, Emile was lying in a bed, unresponsive and unaware. They hadn’t used the word ‘coma’, but it had caught hold in Theresa’s mind. Images of cool, dim rooms where everyone whispered and tiptoed around the body that lay like a corpse in the center.
Emile.
Emile was unconscious. She needed to be there to see for herself.
She paid off the driver and ran through to the reception area where they gave her directions to Emile’s ward. Theresa forced herself to stay calm and concentrate as she negotiated the maze of corridors and lifts. But when she saw the simple blue and white sign with the words ‘Intensive Care’, her heart stopped.
They’d put him in intensive care.
It was real, then, and serious. And suddenly, she didn’t want to know what they were going to tell her. She didn’t want them to confirm her worst fears. She clutched at her briefcase and took several deep breaths before she made herself keep going.
She rubbed sanitizing gel from the dispenser over her hands, then straightened her shoulders and pushed the door open. A nurse behind a desk looked up at her.
“Emile.” She cleared her throat. “Emile Renaud. He’s here?”
“Yes. Are you his wife?”
Theresa nodded, unable to speak.
“He’s in room four. You can go through.” The nurse pointed in the direction of a private room.
She had to know the worst. She stepped slowly towards the room. As she neared the door, it opened and a nurse came out.
“Is he…? Please, tell me…”
The nurse smiled. “He’s waiting for you.”
He was waiting for her?
“Emile?”
His left leg was in some kind of brace. There were bandages everywhere. His tanned skin had a sickly green hue, but his eyes gleamed when they saw her. He was okay. He was going to be okay. A great wave of relief rushed over her, leaving her weak. She leaned against the wall, dropped her bags, and just looked at him.
“You came, ma femme.” He might be smiling, but his voice was noticeably strained. There was pain in his face, and he barely moved without wincing.
“They said you were unconscious. Of course I came.” She hadn’t meant that to sound so harsh. “I wanted to come.”
She dropped her bags in the corner and moved a grey plastic chair near to his bed, so that she could sit beside him.
“I’m glad you did.” He nodded, then grimaced at the movement. She put out a hand to stroke his hair gently.
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure. We were doing a training exercise. I went to tackle Rafael, and then I woke up here.”
“Didn’t someone from the club come with you?” She’d been surprised to find him alone.
He waved a hand. “The coach was here with the team doctor. They left a few minutes ago.”
“So you’re fine?”
He looked at her and gestured towards his leg. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No. Right. But broken bones heal, don’t they? Your brain is fine?”
“Thérèse.” He closed his eyes, and his hands clutched into fists.
“Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?” What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t there someone here to help? She pushed her chair back, about to run for help.
“No.” He didn’t open his eyes, but he didn’t sound as though he was hurting. “Just think for a minute.”
“Okay. What am I thinking about?”
“My foot.”
“It’s broken?” She glanced at the contraption he was wearing. Not a traditional plaster cast, but clearly designed to hold it still.
“The first metatarsal. They put in a metal pin.”
She didn’t understand why that would make him so desperate. “So, you’ll be on crutches for a while?” Obviously, that would be frustrating for him.
“I’ll be out of the game for the rest of the season.”
Oh, hell. She should have thought of that. A proper footballer’s wife would have realized immediately. “I’m sorry.” But still, six months off work wasn’t the end of the world. Someone like Emile could surely find ways to fill that time with expensive, pointless timewasting. She could even help him fill the time more productively, if he wanted.
“Thanks.” He rolled his head to the other side, so she was left staring at his hair.
“Emile.” This was why she was the wrong person to be here. She didn’t understand this part of his life at all. She didn’t know any of the right things to say. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his arm.
“It doesn’t matter.” He sounded angry. Weary. She wished she knew how to comfort him.
“Clearly, it does. How long will you have to stay here?”
“They want to keep me in tonig
ht.”
“Do you need anything?” She might not know the right things to say, but practical help was something she could do.
“A time machine would be great.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Lucozade. Or grapes.”
“No, I don’t need anything. Can you stay for a bit?”
“All day, if you want.”
He turned to look at her again, noticing the briefcase she’d dumped on her way in. “Sorry for getting you out of work.”
“It’s fine. Actually, I…” Her lips twisted into a kind of smile. Her plans for the afternoon hadn’t involved this scenario.
“Actually you what?”
She shrugged. “Well, I’d sort of hoped to spend the afternoon with you anyway.”
His lips curled up into a smirk. “Had you, now?”
“I texted you. And called.”
“Skiving off work for an afternoon in bed with your husband? You naughty girl.” He reached out and squeezed her thigh. “I must have corrupted you.”
“I admit this wasn’t the sort of bed I had in mind. It’s not designed for two people.” It was barely big enough for Emile.
“Tell me what you had in mind,” he said. “I could do with something less miserable to think about.”
“I’m not going to sit here entertaining you with my sexual fantasies!”
“I knew you were a prude,” he murmured.
Theresa shook her head, but she was smiling. “Do you really want me to get you aroused when there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“Chérie,” he said with another smirk. “It’s my foot that’s injured, not my hand.”
She gasped. “You wouldn’t! What if someone came in?”
He winked. “I’d carry on if you would.”
“We are not doing this.”
He sighed dramatically. “Pity. What are we going to do then?”
“I don’t suppose you play Scrabble?
They didn’t play Scrabble. Even in pain, and frustrated by his injury, Emile was good company, teasing her and flirting outrageously with all the nurses who came to check on him. He refused point blank to eat the hospital food. Theresa took one tentative forkful to test it and had to force herself not to gag.
“I’ll go and get takeaway. What do you want?”
“Moules frites.”
“Excellent. And what would you like that I’m likely to be able to find?”
“Nothing. Pass me my phone.”
She handed it over and he scrolled through the numbers until he found what he wanted.
“Gérard? C’est Emile.”
His French was rapid and incomprehensible to Theresa. But when he put the phone down, he was smiling. “Moules frites for two. It’ll be delivered in an hour.”
“Wow. Flown in from Paris?”
“From Le Terroir. It’s the only decent French restaurant in London. Gérard is a friend.”
“What if I don’t like mussels?”
He grinned. “Who said you were invited?”
“Funny. And fortunately for you, seafood is my favorite thing.”
The moules were deliciously garlicky and fragranced with wine and herbs. Emile ate with his fingers, using the frites to soak up the juices from the mussel shells. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand to wipe the drips. Theresa passed him a napkin.
“Better?”
“Ah,” he sighed happily. “Maman used to bring me moules frites whenever I was sick. It was how I knew I was going to be all right again.”
“More?” She offered him the other portion.
“Don’t you want it?” She must be hungry, too. She’d been here since lunchtime.
“I have food at home. I’ll eat a few of the chips to keep me going.”
They shared the second portion, laughing when the both reached for the same skinny frite. Emile picked up the final mussel and offered it to Theresa.
“No, you have it.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re not turning into a lettuce girl, are you?”
“Lettuce girl?”
“You know, the sort of woman who never eats anything but lettuce, in case she might go up a dress size.”
She glanced at the empty boxes of food. “That was not lettuce.”
“No, but you hardly ate any of it.” Guiltily, he realized he should have slowed down, let her share more of it.
“I told you, I have food at home. You looked hungry.”
“I was,” he said.
“And besides, it’s none of your business what I eat.”
He slumped back on his pillow and stared up at the ceiling. “I forgot. Nothing’s my business, is it? Your clothes, your name, your food. You’re only my wife, after all.”
He heard her stacking up the boxes. “Not even that, most of the time.”
His eyes shot open. Was that what she thought? “You came to be at my bedside today. Isn’t that what wives do?”
She paused in her tidying up. “Yes. I suppose it is.” She dumped the boxes in the bin and sat down again.
“Why did you come?” She’d hated it, he could tell. Theresa wasn’t the kind of woman who instinctively knew how to care for someone in a crisis. She’d looked awkward every time the doctor had come in, and only by holding onto her wrist had he made sure she’d stay.
But she’d come when they called her, and surely that had to mean something? She couldn’t still be pretending that they didn’t have any feelings for each other.
“They phoned me.”
“Of course they phoned you,” he said patiently. “You’re listed as my next of kin.”
“Right, and you were unconscious. I had to come in case…in case.” Damn, her voice was shaking. She must have been terrified. “In case what, Thérèse?” He took hold of her hand and rubbed his thumb gently over her wrist.
“In case they needed someone to…make decisions.” She closed her eyes, and suddenly, he realized what she must have thought. They’d called her while he was still unconscious.
“Scary, huh?” Her fingers clutched at his. It was good to know that under all her bravado, she was as vulnerable as anyone else. But he wished she hadn’t been frightened like that.
“Yes.” Her voice was shaky. She cleared her throat and started again. “Yes. They said you were unconscious and in a stable condition. I thought… Well, I thought you were in a coma.”
“Head injuries are unpredictable.”
His thumb was still marking out patterns on her skin, reminding her that he was alive. Conscious. She didn’t have to be scared any more.
“I know.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I wanted you here.” And if that was breaking her no emotions rule, he didn’t care. Et merde, there were tears making her eyes shimmer. Emotions were already involved. Hers as well as his, whatever she thought.
“I didn’t think about this when we got married. I mean, I thought it would just be on paper and then it would be over.” She blinked back her tears. He put a thumb up to wipe away a stray drop as it trailed over her cheek.
“But now you think it’s more?”
“It is more.” So earnest. So sweet with it. “What if your injuries were more serious? What if you had brain damage? What if you had been in a coma? I’m your next of kin, Emile. I’d be the one deciding what happened.”
He squeezed her hand. After a moment, he said, “I trust you. But it goes both ways, you know.” She looked at him, uncomprehending. He smiled softly. “I don’t want to get that phone call about you, either.”
He held her gaze. Her eyes were almost green in this light. He loved how their gold-green-brown changed constantly.
She ducked her head. “You could call my parents.”
He sighed and slumped back against his pillows. She was right. It wasn’t the same. She had a family. Other people cared what happened to her. He wouldn’t be the one making those difficult choices for her.
“
I would. But still, chérie, I don’t want to visit you in the hospital.” Dieu, he didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m glad you’re going to be okay.”
He glanced down at his foot and his eyes narrowed. “I hope so.” But there were no guarantees. Even if it healed well, he might never be the same player. It happened all the time. Players came back from injury and never regained their form.
“Bones mend. Brains don’t always.”
“I should be glad of that.” Right now it was precious little comfort.
“You said you’d be out for the rest of the season. But you’ll be okay after that?”
“Probably. Hopefully. Six weeks of nothing.” He spat the word out disdainfully. “Then at least another six weeks of physio. That’s nearly March. I might get a game or two in April if I’m lucky.”
“Well, that’s not too bad.”
He glared at her. She really had no clue, did she? “That’s if I’m lucky. First metatarsals take longer. It could easily be six months or more.”
Six months to be back on his feet. Seven to the World Cup. He was crazy to think he still might have a chance of making it.
“Right. Six months. It’s not a life sentence.”
Easy for her to say. “You could entertain me.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “As if I haven’t anything better to do.”
He couldn’t take it anymore. If she was going to pretend she still didn’t care, he didn’t want her here. “Go on then, Ms. Hotshot Lawyer. Go and do your better things.”
“Fine. You’ll let me know when they’re letting you out of here?”
“Maybe. If you’re that interested.”
She leaned over so that her lips were just above his. “I’ll come and get you if you give me a goodnight kiss.”
His anger melted as his hands slid up into her hair, bringing her down so that his lips brushed hers. “Thank you for being here,” he muttered.
Despite his injuries, she was the one needing reassurance and comfort. He stroked her softly and whispered the same soothing nonsense his mother used to tell him when he was young and scared. He hoped it didn’t matter that he couldn’t find the English words for what he wanted to say. Like a child, she clung to him, as if she were drawing strength from his warmth and hardness. She laid her head on his chest, and he put his arm over her, holding her safe.
