by Rachel Lyndhurst; Carmen Falcone; Ros Clarke; Annie Seaton; Christine Bell
“Okay?” he asked, a little while later.
“Yes. Sorry.”
He shook his head. “You’re allowed to be human sometimes.”
She managed a weak smile. “It won’t happen again.”
He rubbed his knuckle over her cheek. “Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
Theresa texted Emile, as soon as she was woken by her alarm, to ask how he was feeling. She was somewhat surprised to find a reply waiting when she returned from the bathroom.
Fine. Can you come and get me now?
She checked the clock. Twenty past six.
No. Why aren’t you asleep?
A few seconds later he replied.
They woke me up to give me more pills.
She laughed.
When will the doctor see you?
No idea. Come anyway. Bring something edible.
She could just imagine Emile’s opinion of a hospital breakfast. Cold toast and cereal with instant coffee wouldn’t go down well.
I’ll be there in an hour with coffee.
She made a cup of tea, then phoned the office and left a message that she was taking the day off. It was a strange thing, having someone else that she was responsible for. Not responsible, she decided as she sipped the tea slowly. That was too strong a word for their situation. Emile was an adult. He was responsible for himself. But she had certain—was obligations the right word?—toward him. Legally speaking, anyway.
It wasn’t any legal obligation that had made her cry all over him yesterday. He’d been so kind, just holding her while she needed it. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that for her. But then she couldn’t remember the last time she’d needed it. She frowned. She’d been terrified when she’d had the phone call from the hospital. Terrified of her responsibility for Emile if he had been in a coma. More than that, she forced herself to admit, she’d been terrified for him. She hadn’t wanted him to suffer that. Well, she wouldn’t want anyone to suffer that. It was just that Emile was so much more than most people. Besides, she liked him. She… Okay, she cared about him. And she was married to him.
That was the stumbling block. She was married to him and she hardly knew him. He was fun to be with, and he could be incredibly kind, but they hadn’t promised any more than that. She hadn’t agreed to love or cherish him, and she certainly hadn’t promised to be at his bedside when he was knocked unconscious or broke his foot. And yet, she was his next of kin. She was the one the hospital had phoned and the one who would have had to make the difficult decisions if his injuries had been more severe.
She should never have done it.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Emile lifted his head and gave her a dirty look. “At this time in the morning?”
She handed him a cup of coffee and a paper bag containing a bacon sandwich.
“Of course. The brain works more efficiently first thing in the morning.”
He ignored her, opening the lid of the coffee and inhaling deeply. “Dieu, that smells good. You should try the stuff they bring me here. On second thought, don’t try it. It’s disgusting. Not even an English person could drink it.”
“We should never have married.”
Emile’s eyebrows rose to the ceiling. “You are only just thinking this now, chérie?”
“It was my fault. I hadn’t fully considered the implications of entering into a contract of such a personal nature.”
He took a cautious sip of the coffee, then a longer swig once he’d gauged the temperature. “You hadn’t fully considered what?”
“Being married. There are more obligations than I had anticipated. Yesterday, for instance.”
“You had to leave the office. I apologized for that.”
She waved his comment away. “Not that.”
“Today, then. Look, don’t worry. Rafael can come and get me. You go to work if you need to.”
“This isn’t about work.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sit down. Let me finish my coffee and eat my breakfast. And then you may tell me what is bothering you. Okay?”
She perched on the edge of the plastic chair and watched him eat the sandwich. When he’d crumpled up the empty bag and thrown it into the bin on the other side of the room, scoring a perfect goal, she moved her chair forward.
“It’s not appropriate for either of us to be listed as next of kin. If something happened so that I was no longer capable of making my own choices, you shouldn’t have that burden. I’m going to make sure that I carry a card stating that preference in case of emergency and tell my doctor. You should do the same.”
“I see.” He finished his coffee and aimed the cup at the bin.
“I’ll take that. It’ll drip everywhere if you throw it.” She went to take it from him, but Emile took hold of her wrist with his other hand.
“What’s really the matter, Thérèse?”
“I told you. We aren’t in a proper marriage and we oughtn’t to assume those responsibilities for each other.”
“And when you are not talking to me as a lawyer?” He raised an eyebrow and waited for her response.
She sat down again and wiped her hands on her jeans. She couldn’t look at him. “I screwed up.”
He didn’t say anything. Theresa looked up.
He was laughing.
He was laughing at her.
“Bravo, chérie.” He chucked the coffee cup into the bin. As she’d predicted, a shower of coffee droplets landed on the bed and the floor. “When was the last time you had to admit that to someone?”
“It’s not funny.”
He held his thumb and forefinger close together and winked at her. “It is a little bit funny, no?”
“No! Emile, we got married. To irritate my mother.”
“And to get me back in Gatz’s good books. And to stop Prada from stalking me. Which, by the way, is working perfectly. She hasn’t telephoned once.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. But we shouldn’t have done it.” Why couldn’t he see that?
“Of course not. Is this where I say I told you so?”
She pushed the chair back and began to pace around the room. “Probably. I know it was a crazy idea, but you were the one who took it seriously.”
He frowned, as if trying to remember. “Yes. I think you promised to get naked.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You don’t marry women just to get them naked. Besides, you’d already got me naked the night before.”
“I don’t think I remember that,” he said, with a wicked look. “Could you maybe give me a reminder?”
“No. Can’t you be serious for one minute?”
He shrugged. “Only if I have to.”
What on earth had put him in such a good mood? “You have to now. Look, we can’t get divorced until the end of a year. There’s no way around that. But we can end everything else. I’ll tell my parents we realized it was a huge mistake. We’ll send out a press release or something. There’s no reason to keep pretending we’re together.”
“So, what, you’re saying we can’t have sex anymore?”
She let out a long breath of frustration. “Can’t you think about anything except sex?”
“Not when I’m looking at you, no.” He winked.
“Sex doesn’t make a marriage, Emile.”
“No. But sex is definitely one of the things that’s allowed when you’re married. I checked.”
“We’re not married!” she blasted at him, just as the nurse opened the door.
Emile raised his eyebrows at her.
“Fine. Sorry. I’m sorry,” she added more calmly, addressing the nurse. “It’s been a difficult couple of days.”
“My wife has a syndrome,” Emile said in a stage whisper, pretending that she couldn’t hear him. “She is a compulsive liar. She can’t help it. You should always assume she means the opposite of what she says.”
“Thank you, darling,” she said through gr
itted teeth. “So kind of you to share that with everyone.”
The nurse looked from Emile to Theresa, then shook her head. “You two carry on with your bickering. Give me your arm, duck.”
Emile held out his arm while she checked his pulse and blood pressure. Theresa turned away to stare out of the window.
She waited until she heard the nurse leave. “A syndrome?” she said, with all the outrage she could muster.
He grinned. “You don’t want her to go running to the papers that our marriage is a sham, do you?”
She shook her head, laughing despite herself. He was outrageous, but she couldn’t stay cross at him. “You are shameless.”
“Come here.” He held out his hand to her. She crossed the room to sit beside the bed, but she didn’t take his hand, so he curled it around her shoulder instead. “Is it so very dreadful being married to me?”
“It’s not you,” she said. “It’s being married. It’s not what I was expecting.”
“No. For me as well.”
“I’m sorry.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
She looked up, startled.
He tilted his head. “It has its compensations, no?”
And when he curled his hand around her head and pulled her down for a long, sweet kiss, she had to admit he had a point.
An hour later, the doctor entered Emile’s room, swiftly followed by two other men who Emile introduced to her as the Woolwich manager and the team’s chief doctor.
“Chief doctor? You mean there’s more than one?”
Emile’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “It’s a very dangerous game, you know.”
“Evidently.”
The hospital doctor was checking his charts. “Any headaches? Lapses in memory? Problems with speech?”
“No,” Emile said.
“Well, no more than usual,” Theresa added.
The doctor smiled and continued his examination. “Vital signs all back to normal. What about the foot? How much pain?”
“It’s fine.”
Theresa rolled her eyes.
“On a scale of one to ten, how much does this hurt?”
She watched closely. Emile bit back most of a gasp but she could see the strain in his jaw. “Three,” he said.
“That’s at least a seven,” she interpreted for the doctor.
“I’m fine.”
“What if I do this?”
She couldn’t see what the doctor did to his foot, but judging from Emile’s reaction, it was bad.
“Good,” said the doctor. “No sign of nerve damage.”
“Excellent,” Emile said through gritted teeth. Theresa reached for his hand and was shocked by how tightly he gripped it. He was hurting a lot more than he was admitting.
“What’s the prognosis?” Gatz asked.
“Six weeks of complete rest, then we’ll start on physio and see how that goes. Another six weeks if we’re lucky.”
“And if not?”
The doctor shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“I’ll be back before the end of the season.”
The extra pressure on her hand as he spoke told her how much it had cost Emile to smile while he said it.
“We’ll see.” Gatz’s expression didn’t give anything away.
“He might struggle with balance,” the team doctor said. “First metatarsal isn’t the best.”
Gatz and the other doctor nodded.
“Why not?” Theresa asked since everyone but her seemed to know.
“The big toe is more important than most people realize, even just for walking.”
She nodded. That was going to be tough for Emile.
“I’m writing you a prescription for some better painkillers,” the doctor said to Emile. “Don’t try and be a hero. There aren’t any prizes for suffering needlessly. If it hurts, take the pills.”
Emile smiled briefly. “Sure.”
“I mean it. And when I say complete rest, I mean that, too.” He turned to Theresa. “He’ll need help around the house, especially while he’s getting used to the crutches.”
“You’ll have to help me shower, chérie.” Emile winked broadly at her.
“I think you’d better hire a professional for that.”
He roared with laughter. So did the doctors. Even the dour team manager produced a hint of a smile.
…
Several hours later, after more rounds of tests and an introduction to using crutches safely and responsibly, Emile was finally discharged. He’d been relieved when Theresa had offered to come home with him.
“Key?” She held out her hand when they stepped out of the elevator.
“Card in my pocket.”
She rolled her eyes but slid her hand down to fetch it out. She opened the door and held it for Emile to hop through.
“You should go to bed. You look exhausted.”
Emile had taken easily to the crutches, and the short walk to the lift from his room in the hospital had been no problem. He’d managed to produce a smile for the photographers lurking outside the hospital before Theresa had bundled him into the taxi. But now, after the journey in the back of the cab and another stretch on the crutches to his apartment, he was almost shaking with fatigue.
“I’ll be fine.” If he went to bed, Theresa might decide her presence was no longer necessary. She’d been freaked out this morning, with all that nonsense about the pre-nup and the divorce.
Theresa shrugged. “Suit yourself. But at least sit down before you fall over, okay?”
Too tired to think of a suitable riposte, Emile made his way slowly to the sofa and collapsed gratefully into its soft leather-covered cushions. He tossed his crutches down and carefully lifted his foot onto the coffee table. Bliss.
“Coffee? Since you’re not tired.”
He closed his eyes. “No coffee. Can you get a pillow for me?”
“You’d be more comfortable in bed, if you’re going to sleep.”
“I’m not. I just need something soft under my foot. And something half-decent to drink. There’s a bottle of claret in the kitchen. You can open that.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir.”
He opened his eyes to see her with her hands on her hips, pretending to be cross with him. Her eyes gave her away, though. He could see amusement there, not quite masking her concern. She cared about him, even though it would kill her to admit it. “Is something the matter, chérie?”
“Just wondering what your last slave died of.”
He shook his head sadly and sighed. “My wife refuses to care for me when I am injured.”
“I didn’t refuse. But it wouldn’t hurt you to use the magic word now and then.”
He frowned. “Abracadabra? If you’re expecting me to do conjuring tricks, chérie, I think you overestimate even my abilities.”
She laughed. “The magic word is ‘please’, Emile.”
“Aha.” His lips twitched, but he managed to suppress his grin. “That is what your mother taught you, no?”
“Well, I suppose so. It doesn’t matter. It’s just that I’m not really used to looking after people like this.” She waved a hand vaguely in the direction of his foot.
“And I am a bad patient. I understand. Please, I would very much like a pillow and a glass of wine. If it is not too much trouble.” He gave his most charming smile but spoiled it by winking outrageously at her.
“Much better.”
“And when you bring them, I shall give you a little reward.” He made a kissing mouth at her.
She narrowed her eyes at him but she relaxed her stance, and he could tell she wasn’t cross any more. She brought the pillow and arranged it under his foot, lifting his injured leg with surprising care and tenderness. She poured them both a glass of the claret and sat beside him on the sofa.
“Merci beaucoup.”
“Didn’t you promise a reward?”
“Ah, so I did.” He removed her glass
and put it with his on the side table. “Come here, ma belle.” He slid his hands into her hair, soft tendrils rather than gelled spikes today, and let his thumbs rest on her jaw. “Okay?”
Her face softened and her eyes gleamed for an instant with what he very much suspected were tears that she had forced back. She wouldn’t want to cry, and certainly not in front of him, his tough, little wife. One day, he’d find a way of getting her to admit her emotions with actual words, but for today he’d let her take the easier route.
“Okay.” She nodded.
“Good.” He took his time about kissing her, holding back until she gave a frustrated grunt and took over. It felt as though her kisses were punches, though whether she was angry with him or some unnamed enemy, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps she was angry with herself. She’d been holding everything in all day while the doctors stood around assessing him, so it was understandable that she needed to let it out somehow, and this was better than an actual fight.
She was tearing at his clothes, heedless of his bruises, ferocious in her grasp of him. Emile held on and let her do her worst. A few more scratches weren’t going to make any difference to him while he was lying around doing nothing for the next six weeks. He helped her drag his sweater over his head and then let her deal with the buttons on his shirt. She fumbled for a few seconds, then gave up and tugged it upward, too. The cuffs caught on his wrists, leaving his arms stranded over his head. Theresa barely glanced at them and evidently didn’t care enough to stop and free him. Emile leaned back more comfortably and watched her continue. She had him arching off the sofa when she bit at his nipples, then groaning in delicious agony when she swirled her tongue over them, soothing the hurt.
But without his hands he wasn’t enough of a sparring partner. She couldn’t maintain the battle single-handed, and so after a few minutes, her motions slowed and eventually, she sat back, breathing heavily. Emile brought his cuffed hands down and began to extricate himself from the fabric. Theresa reached over and helped him, slipping out the cufflinks from inside the turned-out sleeves. She placed them neatly on the coffee table, then leaned across him to pick up her wineglass.
